by Satoru Yamamoto

The expansion of telework during the COVID-19 pandemic has provided an unexpected opportunity to advance migration from big cities to rural areas and to counteract the aging and shrinking populations in Japan’s countryside. The primary barrier to urban-rural migration is the lack of jobs in rural areas. Therefore, migration through telework or “telework migration” has been promoted as one of the national policies since the early 2000s. However, telework was limited before COVID-19, and the policy did not have a marked effect. Telework migration to rural areas only began to emerge in the early fall of 2020, and it was mainly people from Tokyo who relocated to the countryside. On the other hand, non-telework migration, which requires securing a job in a new location, had already been on the rise after the Great East Japan Earthquake in 2011. Currently, with the addition of telework migration, urban-rural migration has developed into a kind of boom. According to the Furusato Kaiki Shien Center [1], the number of consultation cases for migration in 2023 was approximately 59,300, a record high [2]. However, the main feature of urban-rural migration after COVID-19, apart from the increase in the number of migrants, is a qualitative change.

During COVID-19, I interviewed 16 migrants in Yamaguchi Prefecture. As a result, I could observe the differences in the motivations between non-telework migrants and telework migrants. First, I present three samples of non-telework migrants from Tokyo. A farmer in his thirties said: “I had a strong desire to escape somewhere completely different from where I had lived before and cut off my life to restart from scratch.” A museum concierge in her twenties told me: “I couldn’t see myself in this fast-paced life in Tokyo anymore. So I came here because I had a job I wanted to do.” And finally, a ceramic artist in his 50s stated: “I was not comfortable with a life that only took place in my imagination. I had a desire to live in reality, to experience life, and so I started training in pottery here.” These quotes show that non-telework migrants desire to reset their lives and achieve self-realization through work. This motivates their relocation. This is a trend that has started before the COVID-19 pandemic and continues.

Secondly, I present three samples of telework migrants whom I asked about their motivation to move to Yamaguchi Prefecture. They did not mention a desire or a resolution to reset their lives. A marketer in his twenties told me: “My work is no different from what I was doing in Tokyo. Therefore, my income hasn’t decreased. However, since moving here, my cost of living has decreased by 20%.” Another reason for the relocation of telework migrants is their family situation. An IT-engineer in his forties said: “My main reason is childcare. There are much better facilities in Tokyo than in Yamaguchi, but I’m sure, for children, the relaxed environment here is better.” And a consultant in his forties explained that he prefers a mobile lifestyle: “I don’t believe it is necessary to be rooted in a particular region. For me, it’s easier to feel like I’m living temporarily, like a long-term workcation.” Telework migrants migrate to rural areas where the cost of living is lower and keep their higher income from their jobs in the big city. It is a simple change of residence (hikkoshi) in search of a comfortable living environment and an ideal lifestyle. And some migrants have a more mobile sense of place than others.

While non-teleworking migrants tend to view migration as a particular life choice based on the decision to change their lifestyle and their job, teleworking migrants tend to view it as a familiar and rational life choice without a decision to radically change their lives. The main reason for this is that their place of work is not directly linked to the place of residence. One migration consultant described this qualitative change as “a situation in which the word ‘migration’ (ijū) no longer seems appropriate.” [3] Furthermore, one researcher pointed out that many traditional migration policies implemented by local governments no longer work [4]. Certainly, it is not easy for local governments to manage two types of migration with different motivations and forms of mobility in parallel. However, I am convinced that telework migration is essential for the preservation and revitalization of rural areas where attractive high-income jobs are scarce. Therefore, local governments must adapt to the qualitative change caused by the Covid-19 pandemic.

References:

[1] Furusato Kaiki Shien Center is an NPO that works with local governments to provide consultation and support for urban-rural migration: https://www.furusatokaiki.net/

[2] The Furusatokaiki Shien Center, News-Release, 27/02/2024,

https://www.furusatokaiki.net/wp/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/webnews_furusatokaiki_ranking_2023.pdf

[3] Based on an interview by the author, 08/07/2022.

[4] Kazuo, KASAMI. (2021): Urban-rural migration during COVID-19, Cabinet Office, 3^rd Roundtable Meeting of Experts on Urban Regeneration,

https://www.chisou.go.jp/tiiki/toshisaisei/yuushikisyakondankai/20210224/index.html

Satoru Yamamoto is researching urban-rural migration in Japan at the Graduate School of Economics at Yamaguchi University. After working in real estate development for approximately 30 years in big cities, he returned to his hometown, Yamaguchi City to join the Graduate School.

by Cornelia Reiher

Two of our field sites are known for porcelain. The porcelain industry in Arita has experienced a steady downward trend since the 1990s. Not only turnover, but also the number of workshops, retail stores and employees has fallen sharply (Arita-cho 2023: 9; Reiher 2010, 2014). Some kilns have closed and are empty or have been demolished. What remains are empty properties and lots of porcelain shards that can be found all over the city: in rivers, next to abandoned ascending kilns (noborigama) or where porcelain factories used to be. But it’s not just shards that are left over; large quantities of unsold products with flaws are also kept in warehouses, which are often on the verge of collapse themselves.

Recently, both locals and newcomers have started to reuse and upcycle porcelain shards and discarded porcelain. For example, a migrant potter who works in a kiln in Arita makes new products from older B-ware that have been stored in the forest for many years and are now cracked. The potter, who is very interested in sustainability, has tracked down these pieces and painted over the cracks with golden lines, in the style of kintsugi. She told me how shocked she was when she found out about the huge amounts of B-ware in the forests, and that she wondered why the kiln she works for was not doing anything with it. She thought it would be better to rediscover what was already there rather than keep making new things, and applied for funding to test and excavate the pieces to see if they were broken. After cleaning and firing 500 pieces, they are now sold as small flower vases. By upcycling porcelain, the potter created a popular new product that is also sold via the furusato nōzei system. This home-town tax payment is a system that allows people to transfer a portion of their residence tax from the municipality where they reside to one or more other municipalities in exchange for gifts like the upcycled flower vase.

But not all the porcelain products stored in Arita’s kilns are cracked or broken. Some kilns have gone bankrupt and unsold porcelain is taking up space. Others want to get rid of the old porcelain in order to reuse their storage space. With so much porcelain sitting around in many kilns, one company came up with the idea of selling old porcelain in a tsume hōdai style. The porcelain is lined up in boxes in an unused part of the kiln and customers fill baskets for 5,000 yen or 10,000 JPY. They can take as much porcelain as they can find and fit into the basket within an hour. This idea became a huge success, bringing a lot of money and attention to the kiln.

This so-called treasure hunt is even listed as a tourist attraction in the Lonely Planet travel guide and attracts Japanese and foreign tourists to the kiln. The kiln now also receives porcelain for the treasure hunt from other kilns that have been closed. When I visited the kiln after the travel ban to Japan was lifted, the place was busy with tourists from China and India. The person in charge also told me that people come very early to make sure there is still good porcelain available. Rummaging through the dusty boxes of porcelain was indeed a lot of fun. But beyond that, it is also a great opportunity to reuse old porcelain that can no longer be sold.

Initiatives such as the two described above are still rare and will not solve all the problems caused by the decline of the ceramics industry in Arita. There are still many unused kilns and unsold porcelain in the city. However, they are the first steps in rethinking the future of a traditional industry from a sustainability perspective, both in terms of environmental issues and the preservation of Arita’s cultural heritage. And they can be an inspiration for further projects, as new ideas are also emerging elsewhere in Arita. Recently, for example, jewelry made from porcelain shards has become very popular and is sold in a store in Arita, at the annual ceramics fair and online. It seems that the kilns in Arita are ready to incorporate sustainability, reuse and upcycling more into their future business strategies.

References:

Arita-chō (2023), Statistical Yearbook 2022, https://www.town.arita.lg.jp/site_files/file/2023/202306//6486cd3bc6adfLD3AXP72.pdf

Reiher, Cornelia (2014), Lokale Identität und ländliche Revitalisierung. Die japanische Keramikstadt Arita und die Grenzen der Globalisierung, Bielefeld: transcript.

Reiher, Cornelia (2010) „Selling tradition in Japanese rural tourism“, Orientwissenschaftliche Hefte 28, pp. 121–151.

by Megha Wadhwa

I was born and raised in New Delhi where I spent the first 24 years of my life. Later, I moved to Japan and stayed there for around 14 years. During my stay in Japan, I lived in Tokyo for most of the time and explored various neighbourhoods. Among these, Edogawa-ku became my familiar territory where I lived for around 10 years. However, my final year in Japan, I lived in Chigasaki, which is in Kanagawa-ken. Chigasaki offered a unique blend of rural and urban Japan which I had not anticipated but came to appreciate. Despite being around one hour train ride from Tokyo, Chigasaki had its own charm and made me feel somewhat detached from the bustling city life while still providing all the amenities one would expect from an urban environment. Before living in Chigasaki, I had never considered living outside of Tokyo. Interestingly, just a few months before my move, Chigasaki was recognized as the fifth ‘perfectly formed smaller city’ in the world by Lonely Planet, earning it the title of a rural refuge.

It was a significant shift for me as Chigasaki was the smallest city I had ever resided in. The timing of my move couldn’t have been more opportune, as shortly thereafter, the COVID-19 pandemic reshaped our lives, confining us to the sanctuary of our homes. While many around me grappled with the challenges of the pandemic, I found solace in my new surroundings, which were just a 20-minute bicycle ride away from a picturesque beach where I had the privilege of witnessing breath-taking sunsets against the backdrop of Mt. Fuji. This didn’t happen every evening, but often enough to appreciate its beauty and tranquillity. At first, I found it frustrating to endure the long train ride to Tokyo, especially during peak hours when the train was crowded. However, I discovered the advantage of using the Tokkaido Line from Chigasaki to Tokyo Station. When I had to travel during peak hours, I purchased a Green Car Ticket for around 6 Euros at the time on top of the regular ticket. This allowed me to reserve a seat with a table and enabled me to work to have a productive journey. Over time, I learned to appreciate my life in Chigasaki despite the long commute.

Apart from the long yet convenient commute and beautiful beach Chigasaki also offers delicious Japanese and international cuisines and most of them are not far from the station. I also discovered some local friendly bars – Bar Mikan being one of my favorites and I spent many weekend evenings during COVID-19 at this bar talking to the owner. On days I didn’t want to drink he’d make me delicious mocktails and we’d spent hours talking about films, Netflix series, COVID-19 restrictions, and politics. It was my experience in Chigasaki that led me to consider living in rural Japan. Despite always wanting to live in urban cities, the warmth I received in my Chigasaki neighbourhood created a desire for living in suburbs. However, life had different plans for me. Instead of moving to the suburbs in Japan, I ended up in a suburb in Germany.

In February 2021, my job brought me to Berlin. While searching online, I found a beautiful place in Berlin-Hermsdorf. At the time, it was the only option available, and I decided to book the place. On Google search, I discovered that the travel time on train from Hermsdorf to my workplace, was about the same as the travel time from Chigasaki to Yotsuya. However, what I didn’t realize during this google search was that the Tokkaido line and S-Bahn are not the same. I ended up traveling around 3 hours (door to door) both ways to work, dreaming of the Green Car and punctual trains almost every day. I stayed in this beautiful suburb area for almost 8 months. I enjoyed waking up to the early morning bird orchestra and breathing fresh air. The trekking spot which was only a few minutes’ walk was amazing, and my landlords were wonderful. Eventually, I found a place in the center of Berlin. My house hunt finally came to an end and so did my desire for rural living. I was a happy city girl yet again.

In 2023, I had an exciting opportunity to go back to Japan for a long visit of about 4.5 months. Once again, life presented me with a chance to escape the hustle and bustle of city life and experience the peace and tranquillity of rural Japan. A dear friend kindly offered me the use of their vacant house in Imaizumidai, Kamakura, which I eagerly accepted. Kamakura, with its lush surroundings and rich history, seemed like a hidden oasis to me. During my stay in Japan, I had only visited Kamakura for one day excursions. Unlike my previous residence in Chigasaki, where the train station was only a ten-minute bicycle ride away, reaching the station from Imaizumidai required a leisurely 25-minute journey, often requiring the use of an electric bicycle to navigate the steep roads. Additionally, the bus service was limited, with only a few buses per hour and would take to Ofuna train station in about 30 minutes. Although there were a few local grocery stores and a Lawson within a twenty-minute steep walk, the selection was limited, and the larger supermarkets were located closer to Ofuna. The neighborhood was friendly and welcoming, with residents who often relied on personal vehicles for their daily errands. In contrast, I found myself dependent on public transportation, navigating the intricate schedules and routes to fulfill my needs. Despite the logistical challenges, my time in Imaizumidai felt like a rejuvenating retreat – a sanctuary where I could immerse myself in writing and reflection. However, the idyllic setting didn’t shield me from trips to Tokyo for work or to Ofuna for grocery shopping – reminders of the interconnectedness of rural and urban life.

During my month-long stay in Kamakura in 2023, I gained profound insights into the nuances of rural living, both its enchanting beauty and the challenges that come with it. Despite exploring 24 prefectures of Japan as a tourist, the idea of residing in those areas had never crossed my mind before. However, my time in Chigasaki altered my perspective significantly. Through my experiences in suburban areas, I realized that life in the countryside happens at a natural pace, in contrast to the hectic rhythm of the cities. The tranquillity and simplicity of rural living offer a respite from the relentless hustle and bustle of city life. While my experiences came with their share of challenges, they also instilled within me a newfound inclination towards rural living. Despite the logistical hurdles, I find myself drawn to the prospect, provided I have access to transportation – a car and an electric bicycle, perhaps – which are essential for navigating the expansive landscapes and fostering a sense of independence. As I navigate life’s uncertainties, I remain open to the possibilities that lie ahead. Yet, at this juncture, my heart leans towards the serene embrace of rural spaces, where time slows down, and the essence of life reveals itself in its purest form.

Dr Megha Wadhwa is a migration researcher and a Japanese and Indian studies scholar. She is currently working in the research project “’Skill’ in the Migration Process of Foreign Workers in Asia” (BMBF) at Freie Universität Berlin. Megha is the author of Indian Migrants in Tokyo: A Study of Socio-Cultural, Religious and Working Worlds (Routledge 2021) and an ethnographic film maker. Her latest documentary is called ‘Finding their Niche’ (2022).

by Ken Victor Leonard Hijino

I now have a house in the countryside in Kyoto. Well, it’s kind of the countryside. The house which we bought earlier this year is only a thirty-minute drive from my university and still in the same ward of Kyoto city. It is a depopulating village of some 2,000 people with one convenience store (being the only store open after five pm) and a merged public elementary/junior high school trying to maintain pupil numbers to remain functioning. There used to be a JA which is now closed and a farmers’ market with a popular early Sunday market which draws crowds. Along with renowned Kyoto vegetables, including purple shiso, the village has famous temples and a nunnery with Heian lore, as well as some imperial family burial mounds.

Our new home is a fifty-year old traditional Japanese-style home with a rock garden. It was built and held by a family whose ancestors were so-called tera-zamurai serving a temple founded in Saicho’s time. The vista from our garden looks down a valley. You see a greenhouse, rice paddies, shiso farms and in the background, in cloudy mornings, black-and-white hills shrouded by mist à la suibokuga.  Behind the house, there is a parking lot attached to a local temple for tourists. And further back, densely packed fir forests line up, which were artificially planted decades ago and left unattended to spew dreaded pollen every spring. We moved to the village from our apartment in the city some five years ago, first renting in another of its eight neighbourhoods. Our family’s urban to semi-rural migration was driven for a desire for more space and the chance for our three children to live closer to nature. We were interested by the possibility of sending our kids to the local public school with less than 100 students from first to ninth grade with smaller class sizes and hopefully less stress. We were also inspired by reading blogs of in-migrants to the village, such as that of the lovely organic vegetable farmer couple with two children who became, by luck, our immediate neighbour. Equally important was the satoyama’s relatively uncluttered vistas. Thanks to strict building restrictions, this area has far fewer of the depressing suburbs and architectural eyesores that blight most of Japan. The village is zoned as both a fuchichiku (protecting the natural and traditional beauty of the landscape) and a shigaika choseikuiku (making it almost impossible to build any new buildings).

I remember a friend who visited us, after walking around the village on a magical spring day, who turned to me and simply said: “Ken, this place is just like Totoro’s world.” Indeed, I realized this from watching Miyazaki Hayao’s anime with my three children who have each demanded to see the movie multiple times. We don’t really know what the father who takes his two daughters to live in the rural idyll thinks of village life. But allow me to share some of my impressions since I moved to the countryside. To start out with, and this may be very much cliché, life in the village seems much more social than city life.  There is so much more interaction, whether you like it or not, with your immediate neighbours, local neighbourhood association, PTA and parents. These of course exist in the city too, but the smaller scale of everything somehow means you get acquainted with many more of these members and interact more frequently with these overlapping groups. Take a short promenade and you are likely to meet one or a few acquaintances. Not a week passes without somebody sharing with you the season’s vegetable or pickles. During weekends, kids from different houses migrate back and forth between family houses in a movable playdate with little coordination from parents. My wife seems to know the name of most of the kids in the elementary school, their parents, and what they do and where they live.

The village also has many traditional events from communal cleaning and weeding, matsuri, obon, etc. which are hard to avoid. I have done my share of going local too: from bruising my shoulders carrying mikoshi (after plied with drink); shuffling the post-harvest, eighth new-moon dance around a bonfire in the shrine grounds; to rolling cut-up daikon pieces like dice to ward off demons (so I was told). All things I would have never dreamed of doing in my previous city life. These are fascinating traditions and community-bonding events.  If you think life in the Japanese countryside is “living the quiet life in serene nature” you will be mistaken. You can choose to have far more solitude and privacy in the city.

It’s not just people, but nature that likes to share space with you. We had a masked palm civet – a kind of ferret – running around in our attic (which a local tried to help catch with a trap using convenience store fried chicken as bait – supposedly the convenience store chicken doesn’t rot as quickly as homemade ones so the trap can be used longer…).  I’ve almost run over a deer. Our dozen or so experimental blueberries and raspberries have been snapped up in their perfect ripeness by the local birds. And of course, the bugs: I don’t want to even recall the too many close encounters with millipedes. From October to March, the house is infiltrated by countless buzzy kamemushi beetles which burp or fart? (excuse me) cilantro-smelling gas when agitated. Five years in the countryside and, yes, I still don’t like bugs.

Another thing about village life is that it seems far less ecological than being in the city, ironically. We burn so much fossil fuel! Shame on us! First is the endless driving. As I heard somewhere, “rurality” can be measured by how many cars each household owns. We only own one, but most families have two or even three vehicles as getting around by bus is impractical.  You need to drive to work, shopping, any lessons for kids, even to take a walk (?!). And here I must confess that since there are no large, well-tended parks in the village, I occasionally drive down to the city to walk in a park to enjoy non-farming, non-fir tree forests, vegetation and lawns. Then there is all that fuel you need to keep from freezing in your under-insulated Japanese house.  A few moments after shutting off our air conditioners and kerosene stoves, temperatures drop, nose tips chill, and breathe turns white in our rented house.  Five years in the countryside and I have not gotten use to the sense of defeat thinking about the wastefulness of standard post-war Japanese housing stock insulation. Hopefully we will insulate our new place more effectively.

But despite the bugs, our shamefully un-eco lifestyle, and maybe some semi-inconveniences like not being able to get back home on public transport after 22:00 or no bars and restaurants open after 17:00 in the village, it is a peaceful place. There is plentiful space, clean air, water (we even have our own well), and quiet. Many of the locals and in-migrants are generous and inspiring people who have great pride and affection for the beauty and traditions of the place. Moving here has also been very, very interesting to think about themes like public support of in-migration, property ownership, and social cleavages in a small community. These topics I will address in the following blogs.

Ken Hijino is Professor at the Graduate School of Law at Kyoto University and specializes in party politics and local democracy. He is currently researching the politics of the periphery, focusing on municipal and prefectural level party organizations and campaigning on issues of urban-rural cleavage, depopulation, economic decline, and inter-regional competition and disparity.

by Cecilia Luzi

During my field research in Buzen and Hasami, I had the opportunity to live in so-called trial houses or otameshi jūtaku. In this blog post, I would like to talk about this form of support offered by local communities for people moving to the countryside and share my experiences of living in two trial houses. Among the many types of support that rural towns offer to potential migrants, trial houses are very interesting. These are usually former vacant properties that have been purchased by the municipality. These houses can be rented at a very reasonable price of 1000 yen per day for the entire house, with a maximum stay of 30 days. They are primarily aimed at people who are considering moving to the countryside and want to explore the area for more than just a day. The application process is straightforward: I simply downloaded a form from the town hall’s website, filled it out with the relevant personal information, and sent the application along with a copy of my passport to a designated email address. I then received a confirmation either by post or email, and on the day the rental started I visited the town hall to pay the full amount for the duration of my stay and collect the keys.

On the day I moved into the trial house in Buzen, an official from the city administration accompanied me to show me around. We were joined by a migrant woman with whom I had been in contact since my arrival and who had lived in the experimental house with her family two years previously. She gave us valuable advice, especially about coping with the cold temperatures in February.  “When we lived here, we only used one room for eating and sleeping for the whole family. That way you can keep all the heat in a smaller room,” she explained to me.  The house was very spacious, much to the delight of my son, who enjoyed the freedom to run and play hide and seek in the huge, empty rooms. The century-old house called Yamauchi No Ie, named after the Yamauchi neighborhood just a 15-minute drive from City Hall, was built in the style of a traditional kominka (Japanese country house), with a ground-level kitchen at the entrance and a raised part of the house. The high ceilings added to its charm, but the lack of insulation was a big challenge. The internet connection in the house was very fast and flawless. However, the futons provided by the municipal office were old and dusty, so I was suggested to rent them somewhere for my stay.

The trial house in Hasami was different. It was built in 1970 and offered a compact but comfortable space, with the exception of the bathroom, which was very old and somewhat difficult to clean. The house is located below a hill, right next to a large public park with cherry trees that were just starting to blossom when I arrived.  Inside, the decor resembled a modern apartment and the rooms were bright and spacious. When I arrived, I was accompanied by two officials from the town hall, who gave me a thorough overview of the house and made sure that everything was in order. As my four-week stay drew to a close, I left the house with a feeling of melancholy. Despite its modest size, I had quickly felt at home in the cozy ambience and would have loved to stay there until the end of my field research in Hasami!

When I first learned about the existence of trial houses in rural communities in Japan, I was really surprised. Having never seen something like it in Europe, I was immediately intrigued. The process of acquiring vacant properties, renovating them and making them available to migrants and travelers struck me as innovative. Trial houses offer individuals, especially families, the opportunity to experience rural life at an affordable price. In both towns, I met migrants who had taken advantage of the trial house service upon arrival and were very happy with the opportunity to live in an inexpensive but cozy space while exploring the area. However, I believe some changes could be made to improve the trial house system which is still relatively unknown. It seemed that only those who were in direct contact with the local government, such as chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai members or urban-rural migrants who applied for relocation support, were aware of this opportunity. Extending the length of stay, increasing the availability of trial houses and advertising their existence more systematically could be of invaluable help to urbanites wishing to familiarize themselves with the countryside and rural lifestyles before deciding to relocate long-term.

by Sarah Clay

Since the beginning of the 21st century, the Japanese government has encouraged rural areas to develop local brands as part of their revitalization strategies. To attract tourists and migrants from urban areas, rural municipalities and their residents receive support to develop products unique to that region. This resulted throughout Japan in an enormous increase in local products over the past two decades [1]. Some famous examples are the melons from Yūbari town, apples from Nagano, and wine from Yamanashi Prefecture. On the Miyako Islands, you can find all kinds of products made with local herbs and plants. Popular, for instance, is the sweet-scented getto tea, purifying noni soap, and Yarabu Oil that is made by the elderly on Ikema-Jima.But even more than local delicacies or beauty products, it is the sea and its unique color known as “Miyako Blue” that attracts Japanese tourists and migrants the most. In this blog post, I introduce two producers who have turned the sea into a commodity and developed a product that offers tourists and others new ways to experience the sea of Miyako.

The first product is not produced in Miyako, but sold in local stores and in the umi no eki of Irabu-jima. 35 Coffee (pronounced: san-go coffee, sango is the Japanese word for coral) is an Okinawan coffee brand that was founded in 2009. The special thing about the coffee is that the beans are slowly roasted at a temperature of around 200 degrees Celsius on coral fossils from the Okinawan Sea. According to the prefecture’s fishing law, it is strictly forbidden to collect corals or coral fossils. That is why 35 Coffee works with a company that has obtained a special license for this purpose. It is also forbidden to export coral from the prefecture, so 35 Coffee can only produce on the islands of Okinawa – which the company uses as a unique selling point. You can buy the coffee via the company’s website, in local stores and in the two 35 Coffee stores on Kokusai Dōri in Naha and in Okinawa World in Nanjo [2].

Besides using corals in the production process, 35 Coffee donates 3.5 percent of its profits to coral restoration projects. Their main partner is Okikai, a construction and real estate company that also specializes in coral transplantation. Coral transplantation has become a popular conservation method in Okinawa in recent years. First, a healthy host coral is taken from the ocean and divided into several pieces. These polyps are kept in a water tank and monitored until they reach a size when they can be planted back into the ocean [3]. Okikai does this in April and October, as the company realized that survival rates are highest during those months. 

Another product that is being sold on the Miyako Islands is the salt of the brand Kanashaya. Kanashaya means “lovable” in the Miyako language. The handmade salt is extracted directly from ocean water gathered at the Yabiji coral reef, a designated natural reserve that is located a little off shore of Ikema-jima. The producer of the salt, Bibi-san, started the Kanashaya project during the COVID-19 pandemic when she was in need of some extra income. The salt can be bought via her online shop and in local shops and restaurants on Miyako. It can be either used for consumption or mixed with water as a body scrub [4]. There are different variants of Kanashaya salt. The water of Yabiji is collected either during full moon or new moon, with the moon standing every month in a different star sign. As such, all the batches have a different energy that interacts with the energy of the user in unique ways. Salt created from water gathered during the new moon contains livelier energy, as the new moon is a phase of new beginnings. Full moon salt, on the other hand, can be used as a closure, to give gratitude to what came on your path, and to leave behind what is not useful anymore. Gathering the water is a spiritual process for Bibi-san, during which she stands directly in contact with the sea deity Kaijin-sama. During the boat ride to the Yabiji reef, Bibi-san prays to Kaijin-sama and sings the ancient Hifumi Norito prayer as a way to honor the gods.

When I visited Miyakojima, I was interested in how locals and migrants use the sea as inspiration to develop local products that together form the Miyako brand. Some products are small-scale, such as Bibi-san’s Kanashaya salt. Others have grown into big businesses, as the example of 35 Coffee shows. Some products take the bright color of the sea as a starting point, others its symbolism of freedom and purification, still others its spiritual energy. By highlighting the different characteristics of the sea, these products become symbols of the different relationships people have with the sea of Miyako and offer valuable insights into the stories surrounding the natural world of the islands.

References

[1] Rausch, Anthony. 2009. “Capitalizing on Creativity in Rural Areas: National and Local Branding in Japan.” Journal of Rural and Community Development, Vol. 4 No. 2, pp. 65–79.

[2] Website 35 Coffee: https://www.35coffee.com/

[3] See for an in-depth analysis of Okinawan coral gardening:  Claus, C. Anne. 2017. “The Social Life of Okinawan Corals.” Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture, Vol. 11 No. 2, pp. 157-174

[4] Website Kanashaya: https://bibirk.stores.jp/ and https://www.instagram.com/kanashaya/

by Cornelia Reiher

“What town has a waterfall behind the train station?” one of my research participants asked me proudly as we began our sightseeing tour of his favorite spots in Taketa in the spring of 2023. The impressive waterfall cascades down a rock face and springs from a source near an old shrine that was once the center of the town. He introduced me to the many streams, springs and hot springs in the area and took me to hidden springs, small ponds and waterfalls that I would never have found without his expertise as a local guide. If you spend a little time in Taketa and talk to locals and urban-rural migrants alike, at some point the topic of water comes up. The good quality of the water was mentioned by almost everyone, and some urban-rural migrants have moved to Taketa because of it. Fetching drinking water from the many springs in the area is an integral part of everyday life for many, and water has also become an important part of Taketa’s marketing strategy.

The motivations for moving to a particular rural location are unique to each urban-rural migrant, but many people I interviewed or who appear in online promotional videos for urban-rural migration cite nature as an important reason for their relocation. They moved to the countryside because they wanted to live closer to nature, raise their children in a safe and healthy environment or grow their own food. Fetching spring water (wakimizu) is mentioned in promotional materials and interviews alike as a feature of an idealized rural lifestyle surrounded by beautiful nature. In Taketa, many of the urban-rural migrants I interviewed told me that they moved here because of the good water quality, among other reasons. One migrant praised the beautiful mountains, rivers, sky and water. Another migrant said: “The water is simply wonderful.” (Interview with a female migrant, 2022). Return migrants emphasized that they returned because the food tastes better due to the good water quality, and migrants with children mentioned that they enjoy swimming in the clean water of the rivers. Some stressed that the hot springs in Taketa are better (in terms of water quality) and cheaper than in Oita-shi.

When I visited Taketa, I always found spring water in my accommodation and in restaurants.  Signs pointed out the name of the spring and the health benefits of drinking this particular spring water. My research participants took me to the numerous springs in the area to replenish their drinking water supplies. When we arrived with a trunk full of empty canisters or pet bottles, we parked next to other cars, often from other prefectures in Kyushu, but sometimes also from Honshu. My research participants proudly pointed out to me that people travel long distances to fetch the delicious spring water from Taketa. We had to queue at some springs to fill up our pet bottles, and some springs were completely deserted. Instead of fetching the water from the stream, the community set up taps to make fetching the spring water easier. While for some urban-rural migrants this practice of fetching water has become a routine that makes them feel closer to nature, for some locals it is an economic necessity and a way to save money on their water bill.

Water has also become an important tourist asset in Taketa. The tourism association has created a map of scenic springs. Local guides take tourists to waterfalls and hot springs and promote Taketa’s waterways. There are folk tales about water, such as the story about a dragon living by a waterfall. The dragon terrorized the area and had to be calmed with the head of a cow. After that, he apparently behaved himself. But water is not only important for people’s daily lives and local identity, maintaining its quality and keeping the waterways clean is also a challenge. When we visited different places in spring 2023, my local tour guide pointed out that there was not enough water in the ponds and streams and expressed his concern about how this would affect trees, wildlife and people.

In addition to these environmental challenges, the maintenance of the city’s water channels is becoming increasingly difficult due to the ageing population and the exodus of young people. Residents usually clean the canals together with their neighborhood association (jichikai). In some neighborhoods, only older people still take part in such activities because their children have moved away. In some cases, urban-rural migrants now help with the neighborhood association’s activities to maintain and clean the waterways. In this way, the circle is complete: the water has attracted people to Taketa and is now being maintained by them.

by Josko Kozic

For me, a PhD student of religious studies studying contemporary practiced Buddhism and sacred cultural heritage, the Tajima region including the town of Yabu in Hyōgo Prefecture is an important place for fieldwork. In addition, it is also my partner’s hometown, so every visit to his family is an opportunity to conduct additional field research and open up new adventures, encounters and perspectives. Today I would like to give you an example of how this charming town is being promoted through the efforts of local and international actors and highlight the important role of a Buddhist temple in creating community and creative exchange in the region.

In August 2023, I was kindly invited to an O-bon dance festival by the head Priest of Yabu’s Buddhist temple Nikkō-in. Priest Morita is a passionate music-lover who frequently invites musicians and orchestras from all over the world to Yabu for public music events. When I met him first in 2021, he kindly introduced me to his temple and an ancient statue of a rather rare and special Buddhist deity known by the name of Uhō bosatsu (“Rain blessing Boddhisatva”). This time, Priest Morita invited the famous singer Kawachiya Kikusuimaru, who sings so-called Kawachi Ondo folk songs, primarily incorporating topics such as street life, the working class, yakuza, rough language and Buraku communities as their main theme. The concert took place inside the outdoor part of Nikko-in temple and was held for several hours, beginning in late afternoon and lasting until early night. It was accompanied by Taiko drum and guitar players and got to its climax when all guests started to do an O-bon dance to the music, relaxing and enjoying themselves in the heat of the summer night, occasionally quenching their thirst with some freshly cut watermelon. The concert allowed the locals to gather and spent some carefree time in the wanton mood of a music concert held in a rather unusual location and also provided the opportunity for some exchange between me and Priest Morita.

But the event was also an opportunity to get to know a new friend I had made just before the concert: Cesar Romero, who works in the Trade and Tourism Department as the International Relations Coordinator for Yabu City. I met Cesar by chance at Yabu City Hall, right next to Yōka City Station (michi no eki), where I went to buy a small doll of the local mascot (yurukyara), called “Yappu”, and to get some fresh Sanshō pepper, which is famous nationwide for its luscious fragrance and can trace its reputation back to the Edo period. Cesar approached me and since then we kept in touch and decided to attend the concert at Nikko-in Temple together. Afterwards, he invited us to a newly opened izakaya in Yabu, which is run by young locals and uses regional ingredients for both traditional and fusion food and drinks. Cesar is of Canadian-Colombian descent but grew up in Japan, where he is now involved in numerous activities in Yabu and beyond. During our first conversation, I was very impressed to hear about his experiences working on projects such as harvesting yuzu and Sanshō pepper or organizing a lavish sake event at Yabu’s Akenobe mine.

Primarily, Cesar’s activities are aimed at making Yabu more open to inbound tourism by producing tourism material in English and advising the city on how to improve signage for international tourists. In addition, one of his tasks is to represent Yabu at international tourism conventions, where he encourages travel agencies from all over the world to promote tourism in Yabu. This also involves highlighting alternatives to mass tourism along the Golden Road and focusing on “slow tourism”. In addition, Cesar approaches local groups or members of the Regional Development Cooperation Corps (chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai) to develop possible activities for tourism. Another of Cesar’s tasks is to promote the internationalization of the city in order to make Yabu more foreigner-friendly and to inform residents about intercultural skills and the importance of multiculturalism. According to Cesar, the Yabu region lacks vitality and curiosity to try new things. He adds that the aging community is inevitably becoming more conservative and as a result, part of the community is seriously considering efforts to attract foreign tourists. Although Yabu has many assets that can be promoted abroad, such as Tajima beef, Yōka pork, Asakura Sanshō pepper and local sake, Cesar criticizes the lack of focus of Yabu’s outdated tourism model, which is heavily dependent on the weather, with winter being the busiest season. With warm winters like in 2023, many businesses would not be able to make a profit.

Reflecting on how much Priest Morita as a local and Cesar as a non-local, each separately or hand in hand, can influence social life and tourism in Yabu and surrounding areas, made me realize how social interaction within and beyond cultural and linguistic boundaries acts as an essential tool for rural revitalization engagement and efforts. Many thanks to Cesar Romero and Priest Morita for giving me such deep insights into a region that I consider my “second home!”

Josko Kozic is a PhD candidate at the Institute for Religious Studies at Heidelberg University and currently a visiting scholar at DIJ Tokyo, Nanzan Institute and Sophia University. His current project focuses on the interconnectedness of religious practices, their socio-economics and their politics in relation to cultural heritage efforts (including UNESCO). He specializes in the study of contemporary Shugendō practice, esoteric Buddhism and the iconography of Hindu-Buddhist heritage sites in South, Central and Southeast Asia.

by Cecilia Luzi

I had the opportunity to observe and compare two different communities and the different patterns of urban-rural migration in the bustling cafes of Hasami and the beautiful landscapes of Buzen. My goal was to learn more about the migrants’ perspective on rural life and to analyze the different factors that play a role in creating a sense of belonging. For many of the people I met, their journey was linked to a sincere desire to learn and adapt, which is crucial in fostering a sense of home in a new environment. Amidst this commitment, migrants bring with them a rich history of familial and individual relationships, personal aspirations and unique skills that infuse the process of building a new home with creativity.

Today, I would like to share with you the story of Rieko, a 43-year-old woman who moved with her two daughters to one of the municipalities in my fieldwork. Her husband commutes to the nearest big city and returns home on weekends. Rieko used to work as a freelance web writer and photographer, but now she works for a company promoting local tourism. She is a content creator, and her job allows her to explore local tales, legends, and myths, which she is passionate about. When I arrived, Rieko became my local guide, and we started a tradition where every two to three weeks, we would go on a ramen-and-jinja day. Rieko would drive me to hidden shrines and share their history with me. Afterwards, we would enjoy delicious ramen at nearby spots. Our last ramen-and-jinja day was on a sunny mid-February day in 2023. We headed to a ramen shop along the road that was mainly frequented by truckers, to enjoy a tonkotsu ramen. “It was the first place I tried when I first came down with my husband to visit the area in view of a future move. It’s the best tonkotsu ramen in all of Kyūshū!” Rieko confided. On that particular day, she led me to visit a shrine hidden under a cliff covered with vegetation, in the middle of rice fields. Rieko was a rich source of information about the place, and she insisted that it’s a shame these areas are not adequately promoted.

We discussed how people perceive these areas: “Not many people live in these areas. Outside of here, it’s difficult to make people understand where these towns are, and people have only a very vague idea of how life is in these areas, and this is true also for migrants or those who would like to come here. Once, talking to someone about my choice, they told me how nice it must be to live in a place in the middle of the mountains (note: the municipality has only a very small portion of mountainous terrain; the rest are hills that descend to the sea).” We laughed and Rieko confessed: “I didn’t really know what to respond.” Rieko has been making an effort to connect with her new home by learning about its history and geography. She uses various online sources and visits the local library to gather information. She has also tried to reach out to local amateur historians for more insights, but unfortunately, they were not very cooperative: “You know, it’s often older retired men, and either they aren’t very friendly, or sometimes conversations can get a bit awkward,” she once shared with me. When I visited her home for the first time, she proudly showed me a couple of old books on local history that she had recently acquired from a small museum a few months earlier. Besides her job, Rieko also has a blog where she shares her knowledge of the region’s rich history and legends, as well as her reviews of restaurants and cafes. Her unique perspective as a young woman from “outside” immersing herself in local history makes Rieko’s view on local geographical and historical landscapes refreshing.

Reiko’s personal journey as an urban-rural migrant is a good example of how people try to connect with their new place of residence through their work, lifestyle and interests. Before moving to the country, she had not expected to develop a passion for history. But this unexpected pursuit also proved beneficial for the local government. Rieko occasionally works with the Green Tourism Office to design new brochures and promotional leaflets. By increasing her commitment to her new life, she also became an asset to her new community.

Rieko’s story shows how a sense of belonging is built through a constant effort from migrants who want to feel at home in their new place of residence. Interestingly, this sense of belonging operates reciprocally: as Rieko attaches herself to the place by delving into its past and present, the place becomes a part of her identity. In return, she becomes an integral part of the local community by actively producing knowledge about it and through collaborating with the local government. Similar to many other urban-rural migrants, Rieko introduces the possibility of new ways of inhabiting this space through her presence, actions and perspectives on rural areas. This broadens the definition of what it means to be a local and creates a change in the way rural spaces are perceived and inhabited.

by Joy Hendry

In 2019, just before Japan closed to outside researchers for what must have seemed a cruelly long time to young scholars waiting to do their planned fieldwork, I was lucky enough to make a nostalgic visit to my own first fieldwork location. Thanks to the support of the Daiwa Anglo-Japanese Foundation, I donated some of the materials I had collected 43 years earlier, having decided they were better off in the village than gathering dust on my bookshelves. Moreover, my son and his partner were able to join me and make a documentary film about the visit, which I was delighted to discover could be enjoyed by many classes being taught remotely, also due to the pandemic.

The older villagers remembered the year I had spent as a doctoral student, for there were few foreigners in rural Japan at the time, and my husband and I were a rare sight. Later I took my children to visit, so the man filming them had also been there as a youngster, and of course, the youth group of that time were now running village affairs. They were incredibly welcoming, as they had always been, and the family who had been next-door neighbours to my husband and I opened their home to us, as they had done on several previous visits over the years. There has been reciprocity, of course, and I have just introduced their great granddaughter to the Hall in Oxford used in films of Hogwarts School of Harry Potter fame.

The village of 54 houses has shrunk slightly over the years, and a few newcomers have settled there, but the majority of residents are long-term, continuing families, though the younger generations have often found themselves homes separate from their elders. This is one of the changes since I first lived there, but there are still multiple generations working together on the growing of tea, first introduced as a pilot scheme a few years before I arrived, and chrysanthemums, which flourish in electrically lit greenhouses to allow them to flower for the New Year. These crops have largely replaced the papermaking which had been practiced in 30 houses in the past.

Other crafts I observed, such as bamboo work and lantern-making, have been replaced by businesses such as the supply of local stoneware, manufacture of vinyl bags, and a care home. One resident has a thriving carpentry business which is not new – he was trained in the community – and he was another visitor to Oxford, where he and his son built my university a small but charming Japanese room. His other son will carry on the trade, and between them these young men have added six children to the local school system, quite an achievement as Japan watches the birthrate plummet. A family which collected honey when I was first there has also grown the business and now exports it far and wide, again with generational continuity.

Another couple still thriving in the village invited all their grandchildren round to meet me on this visit. By chance their wedding had taken place during my first stay and their photograph appeared on the front of the book based on my doctoral research. Some of their relatives appeared on the cover of my second book so they laid both out for a family photograph along with albums of other events which have taken place over the years.

It has been a highlight of all my visits to Japan to return to this community, on one occasion with a BBC crew to make another educational film, always to find out how rural life was changing. Fewer people are to be found walking in the streets of the village – they drive out to their fields and greenhouses in their cars and farm vehicles, and there is no longer a village bath to bring everyone out of an evening. However, a splendid new village hall has been built, and it was used formally to receive the family trees and my diagram of how all the houses in the village were related, so there is clearly enough care and resource to give the community a good meeting place.

This visit was possibly my last, and during the pandemic I wrote a memoir of the experiences I have had there over the years, often wonderful, but sometimes frustrating, sad, and of course lonely. The book is called An Affair with a Village, for an anthropologist is always an outsider, marginal to “real life”. I started the book in 1976 so it was good to get it finished, and I hope it may inspire some of those setting out to start on such a career, even if their arrival was delayed, to build good relations with those who help them in Japan.

Joy Hendry is professor emerita of Oxford Brookes University where she taught the Anthropology of Japan for many years.