Ideology and Practice in Modern Japan (Nissan Institute Routledge Japanese Studies Series)

Ideology and practice in modern Japan

The Nissan Institute, Routledge Japanese Studies Series Editorial Board: J.A.A.Stockwin, Nissan Professor of Modern Japanese Studies, University of Oxford and Director, Nissan Institute of Japanese Studies Teigo Yoshida, formerly Professor of the University of Tokyo, and now Professor, The University of the Sacred Heart, Tokyo Frank Langdon, Professor, Institute of International Relations, University of British Columbia, Canada Alan Rix, Professor of Japanese, The University of Queensland Junji Banno, Professor, Institute of Social Science, University of Tokyo Other titles in the series: The Myth of Japanese Uniqueness, Peter Dale The Emperor’s Adviser: Saionji Kinmochi and pre-war Japanese Politics, Lesley Connors Japanese Religions, Brian Bocking Japan in World Politics, Reinhard Drifte A History of Japanese Economic Thought, Tessa Morris-Suzuki The Establishment of Constitutional Government in Japan, Junji Banno, translated by J.A.A.Stockwin Japan’s First Parliaments 1890–1910, R.H.P.Mason, Andrew Fraser, and Philip Mitchell Industrial Relations in Japan: the peripheral workforce, Norma Chalmers Banking Policy in Japan: American attempts at reform during the occupation, William Minoru Tsutsui Educational Reform in Contemporary Japan, Leonard Schoppa How the Japanese Learn to Work, Ronald Dore and Mari Sako Militarization in Contemporary Japan, Glenn Hook Japanese Economic Development, Penelope Francks Japan and Protection, Javed Maswood Japan’s Nuclear Development, Michael Donnelly The Soil, by Nagatsuka Takashi; a portrait of rural life in Meiji Japan, translated and introduced by Ann Waswo Biotechnology in Japan, Malcolm Brock Britain’s Educational Reform: a comparison with Japan, Michael Howarth Language and the Modern State: the reform of written Japanese, Nanette Twine Industrial Harmony in Modern Japan: the invention of a tradition, W.Dean Kinzley Japanese Science Fiction: a view of a changing society, Robert Matthew The Japanese Numbers Game: the use and understanding of numbers in modern Japan, Thomas Crump

Ideology and practice in modern Japan

Edited by Roger Goodman and Kirsten Refsing

London and New York

First published 1992 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2002. Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge a division of Routledge, Chapman and Hall, Inc. 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 © 1992 Roger Goodman and Kirsten Refsing All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Ideology and practice in modern Japan. I. Goodman, Roger, 1960– II. Refsing, Kirsten, 1948– 952.04 ISBN 0–415–06102–4 (Print Edition) Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Ideology and practice in modern Japan/edited by Roger Goodman and Kirsten Refsing. p. cm. —(The Nissan Institute/Routledge Japanese studies series) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–415–06102–4 (Print Edition) 1. Japan—Social conditions—1945—Congresses. 2. Japan— Civilization—1945—Congresses. 3. Japan—Social life and customs— 1945—Congresses. 4. National characteristics, Japanese—Congresses. I. Goodman, Roger, 1960–. II. Refsing, Kirsten. III. Series. HN723.5.I33 1992 306´.0952—dc20 91–27193 CIP ISBN 0–203–03528–3 Master e-book ISBN ISBN 0–203–21190–1 (Glassbook Format)

Contents

List of contributors

vii

A note to the reader

ix

General Editor’s preface

xi

Acknowledgements

xiii

Map of Japan

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1 Ideology and practice in Japan: Towards a theoretical approach Roger Goodman

1

2 Symbols of nationalism and Nihonjinron Harumi Befu

26

3 Rivers in Tokyo: A mesological glimpse Augustin Berque

47

4 Individualism and individuality: Entry into a social world Joy Hendry

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5 When blossoms fall: Japanese attitudes towards death and the otherworld: opinion polls 1953–87 Fleur Wöss

72

6 From farm to urban middle class: A case study of the role of education in the process of social mobility Regine Mathias

101

7 Japanese educational expansion: Quality or equality Kirsten Refsing

116

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8 A beacon for the twenty-first century: Confucianism after the Tokugawa era in Japan Jan van Bremen

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9 NHK comes to Kuzaki: Ideology, mythology and documentary film-making D.P.Martinez

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10 The discourse on Japan in the German press: Images of economic competition Rosemary Breger

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11 Confucianism and gender segregation in Japan and Korea Okpyo Moon

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12 Self-presentation and performance in the yakuza way of life: Fieldwork with a Japanese underworld group Jacob Raz

210

Index

235

Contributors

Dr Harumi BEFU is Professor of Anthropology at Stanford University, USA. He is author of Japan: An Anthropological Introduction (Harper & Row, 1971), and Ideorogii to shite no Nihon bunkaron (Shiso no kagakusha, 1990), and co-editor of The Challenge of Japan’s Internationalization (Kodansha International, 1983). Augustin BERQUE is Directeur d’études (Professor) at the Ecole des hautes études en sciences sociales in Paris, and presently head of the Centre de recherches sur le Japon contemporain. Personal field: cultural geography, Japanese studies. Among his recent publications are: Le Sauvage et l’artifice. Les Japonais devant la nature. Paris, Gallimard 1986; Nippon no fukei, Seio no keikan, soshite zokei no jidai (A Comparative History of Landscape in East Asia and Europe), Tokyo, Kodansha 1990; Médiance: De milieux en paysages, Montpellier, Reclus, 1990. Dr Rosemary Anne BREGER did her MA on ethnicity in social anthropology at the University of Cape Town and her PhD on group identities as expressed in collective images at Ruhr University Bochum, Department of Sociology. She is currently working on a biography of Isabella Bird. Dr Roger GOODMAN is currently Reader in Japanese Studies in the Contemporary Japan Centre and Department of Sociology at the University of Essex, UK. He is the author of Japan’s ‘International Youth’: The Emergence of a New Class of School Children (Oxford University Press, 1990). Dr Joy HENDRY is Reader at the Scottish Centre for Japanese Studies, University of Stirling, and Principal Lecturer in Social

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Anthropology at Oxford Polytechnic. She is the author of Marriage in Changing Japan (Tuttle, 1987), Becoming Japanese (Manchester University Press, 1986), and Understanding Japanese Society (Routledge, 1987). Dr D.P.MARTINEZ is currently a lecturer in Anthropology with special reference to Japan at the School for Oriental and African Studies, University of London. Among her recent publications are ‘Tourism and the Ama’ in Unwrapping Japan (Manchester University Press, 1990) and ‘The Dead: Shinto Aspects of Buddhist Ritual’ in JASO vol. 21:2. Dr Regine MATHIAS is currently Senior Lecturer for Japanese Social and Economic History at the Japanologisches Seminar, University of Bonn, Germany. She is co-author of Japans Wandel von der Agrar-zur Industriegesellschaft (Opladen, 1983). Dr Okpyo MOON is associate professor in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology, The Academy of Korean Studies. She is the author of From Paddyfield to Ski-slope: The Revitalization of Tradition in Japanese Village Life (Manchester University Press, 1989). Professor Jacob RAZ, previously associate professor in the Faculty of Visual and Performing Arts, Tel Aviv University, is currently at the Department of East Asian Studies, Hebrew University, Jerusalem. He is the author of Audience and Actors in Japanese Theatre (Brill, 1983). Dr Kirsten REFSING is associate professor of Japanese at the University of Copenhagen, Denmark. She is the author of The Ainu Language: The Morphology and Syntax of the Shizunai Dialect (Aarhus University Press, 1986). Dr Jan VAN BREMEN is currently at the Centre for Japanese and Korean Studies in the University of Leiden, active in the fields of Japanese anthropology and modern intellectual history. Dr Fleur WÖSS is assistant professor of Japanese studies at the University of Vienna. The author of several articles, she has translated Sanbaba by Ariyoshi Sawako into German (‘Die drei Alten’, Galrev Verlag, 1989). She is a co-editor of Nippons neue Frauen (Rowohlt, 1990).

A note to the reader

All Japanese and Korean names are given in the vernacular fashion with the family name first, except in the cases of Harumi Befu and Okpyo Moon, authors of chapters in this volume. Macrons have been used to identify long vowels in Japanese. The only exceptions to this rule are in well-known place names (which have long vowels in Japanese) such as Tokyo, Osaka and Kyoto. All monetary values are expressed in yen when discussing the financial situation in Japan since translations into other currencies are rendered almost meaningless by the rapidly changing exchange rates between countries. For the purpose of comparison, however, £1 was approximately ¥250 in late 1990; $1 approximately ¥140.

General Editor’s preface

Now that we are in the 1990s, most would agree that Japan is a nation of absolutely first rate significance. The successes of the Japanese economy and resourcefulness of her people have long been appreciated abroad. More and more people are also becoming aware of her increasing impact on the outside world in a widening variety of fields of endeavour. This tends to produce painful adjustment and uncomfortable reactions. It also leads to the formation of stereotypes and arguments based on outdated or ill-formed ideas. The Nissan Institute/Routledge Japanese Studies Series seeks to foster an informed and balanced—but not uncritical—understanding of Japan. One aim of the series is to show the depth and variety of Japanese institutions, practices and ideas. Another is, by using comparison, to see what lessons, positive and negative, can be drawn for other countries. There are many aspects of Japan which are little known outside that country but which deserve to be better understood. It was Ruth Benedict’s pioneering study of Japanese society at the time of the Pacific War, The Chrysanthemum and the Sword, that sharpened the perception of some in the west that to understand Japan’s international behaviour it was necessary to appreciate the dynamics of Japanese society. This collection of studies by scholars belonging to the Europe-based Japan Anthropology Workshop demonstrates that an impressive level of sophistication in the analysis of Japanese social behaviour has been achieved in the four decades since Benedict’s book was published. As the debate between a ‘learn from Japan’ and a revisionist ‘Japan-bashing’ school now graphically shows, controversy over the nature of Japanese society has not diminished. The book consolidates the fundamental perception that it is not sufficient to examine social behaviour as such, since ideologies

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of social behaviour may also play a crucial part in its formation and interpretation. The authors also succeed in demonstrating that multifaceted discussion of complex realities is far more convinc-ing than black and white stereotypes masquerading as serious analysis. J.A.A.Stockwin

Acknowledgements

This volume owes its origins to the fourth meeting of the Japan Anthropology Workshop which was held as one of the sessions of the Fifth Triennial European Association of Japanese Studies Conference in September 1988 at the University of Durham, England. The Workshop was greatly aided by the efforts of the President of the European Association of Japanese Studies at that time, Professor Ian Nish, as well as by the Convener of the session and Secretary of the Workshop, Dr Joy Hendry. The editors would like to thank a large number of people for their assistance in putting this collection together. Professor Arthur Stockwin at the Nissan Institute provided encouragement for the whole project. The Danish Research Council provided generous financial support which made publication possible. Sue Joshua and Caroline Wintersgill of Routledge are thanked for their interest and hard work in bringing the book to print. The Computer Services Department at Essex University were instrumental in converting as many of the authors’ discs as possible into a single format, while Geraldine Shanks, Penny Martin and Jackie Pearce efficiently typed up those which were beyond conversion and made corrections to the rest.

JAPAN

Chapter 1

Ideology and practice in Japan Towards a theoretical approach1 Roger Goodman

NATIONALITIES, ASSUMPTIONS AND METHODOLOGIES This volume is the third in a continuing series of publications from the Japan Anthropology Workshop, an organisation which prefers to go under the acronym JAWS. JAWS is an international organisation of over one hundred anthropologists—all specialising to some degree in the study of Japan—which meets every eighteen months to exchange ideas in an academic forum (see Hendry 1987; van Bremen 1989). The first two volumes contained chapters from sixteen and ten contributors respectively (see Hendry and Webber 1986; BenAri, Moeran and Valentine 1990), representing nine different countries of origin. This current collection of twelve chapters also represents no less than nine different countries. One of the most interesting facets of attending the JAWS meetings is to see how scholars from different societies approach the same subject—Japan. The question of different national approaches to the study of Japan is a difficult one. It is not always easy, as contributors to a volume edited by Befu and Kreiner (forthcoming) have pointed out, to isolate the individual national characteristics that play a part in formulating any scholarly account.2 This problem is illustrated in the biographies of some of the scholars whose work is contained in this volume. Harumi Befu, for example, is a Japanese American who received his education in both Japan and the United States; Moon Okpyo is a South Korean who undertook her doctoral studies in England;

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Rosemary Breger comes from Namibia and did her Ph.D. in West Germany. Jan van Bremen and Jacob Raz come from and now teach in Holland and Israel respectively, yet both of them received a significant proportion of their education in North America. D.P.Martinez was born in Spain, educated in the United States and teaches in Britain. In all such cases, one is left asking which has had the greatest influence on their work—their country of origin, their country of study or their country of residence? The significance of personal background can perhaps be seen most clearly in the chapter by Moon. Her study of the different usages of the ‘language of Confucianism’ —a concept which we will examine later—in Japan and South Korea shows that there are also important differences where many scholars have found similarities. It also demonstrates the dynamic, changing nature of a phenomenon that many appear to consider a conservative and unchangeable code. Few scholars have the background that enables Moon to discuss these differences not only in depth but also in an analytical framework which is indigenous to neither society.3 Similarly, when reading the chapters by Kirsten Refsing, Rosemary Breger and Harumi Befu it is important to remember that they are written in the context of Danish, German and American societies respectively. The importance which a Japanese American, Harumi Befu, attaches to respect for the national flag and the monarchy is interesting in comparison with British society where Union Jack underpants and grotesque puppets of the Royal Family are popular sources of humour. Just as a range of national origins is reflected in the chapters in this volume, so one can also see a number of differing methodological approaches to the understanding of Japanese society. Social anthropology is extraordinarily catholic in the range of methodologies it embraces. The most traditional approaches can be seen in the research undertaken by Joy Hendry, D.P.Martinez and Jacob Raz. All three draw on the participant observation approach generally associated with the name of Malinowski. Martinez lived in an ama community for over a year and participated in all their activities, including diving. Indeed, she herself became something of a local celebrity and was the subject of a television documentary. Raz, who not only observed but also, at times, participated in the (legal) activities of the yakuza group he was studying, was clearly aware of how his presence, initially at least, affected the behaviour of the yakuza. Rather than despair, however, at the impossibility of

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undertaking genuine observation research as a foreigner—one of the criticisms levelled against anthropologists of Japan by such as Mouer and Sugimoto (1986:167) —he cleverly incorporates into his account those performances undertaken especially for his benefit.4 Hendry’s work is based on participant observation over a sixmonth period as a mother of children in a private kindergarten. The high profile of Japanese mothers in the education of their children— at the primary level they often spend a considerable amount of time in school themselves—meant that, even as a foreigner, her presence probably affected the subject she was researching much less than might otherwise be expected. Regine Mathias’ account of social mobility in Japan during the early years of this century is based largely on extensive interviews with a single informant—reminiscent in style of Tessa Morris-Suzuki’s (1984) account of twentieth-century Japan based on a series of life histories. Most of the other chapters are, to a considerable extent, based on the analysis of written documents in circulation in Japan. It is this dimension—the long history of literacy—which renders the anthropology of Japan somewhat different from the more traditional studies of pre-literate or recently-literate societies. Fleur Wöss, for example, examines the published results of opinion polls taken over a twenty-five-year period concerning the views on death of different sections of Japanese society; van Bremen has picked up cheap paperback books and undertaken a close textual analysis of their contents for his discussion of the significance of Confucianism in contemporary Japan. Neither Wöss nor van Bremen discuss here how the texts were constructed, although they both show awareness of the significance of this aspect at the beginning of their chapters. Breger, in contrast, takes a detailed quantitative approach in order to demonstrate how the discourse about Japan in German newspapers is determined by the political leanings of different sections of the German media. Befu also draws on contemporary newspapers and journals, though this time from Japan, in order to try and gain a sense of the current debate concerning Japan’s role in the world. If, at times, his approach appears to be partial—Pyle (1982), for example, offers at least three other mainstream arguments to be found in the same literature5 — this is clearly a deliberate attempt to understand the function and source of a nationalistic viewpoint which he feels is gaining in significance and importance.

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Augustin Berque also makes use of a large range of data— including the view from his desk as he types his chapter—to expound on wider ideas of the relationship between nature and culture in modern Japan. Befu, Berque and, to some extent, van Bremen show how the apparently trivial ephemera of society can be central to the study of social anthropologists. Like a squirrel hoarding nuts, the anthropologist has a tendency to collect any data he or she comes across in case it should prove significant in later analysis. Finally, Refsing offers an account of Japanese education which is undertaken in a way that presents a mirror-image of the type of research undertaken by Hendry. Hendry works from the micro level to the macro, from her observations of children in a Japanese elementary school to concepts of individuality and individualism in wider Japanese society; Refsing works from the macro to the micro by examining education in Japan in the light of debate currently taking place in countries around the world on drastic reforms to their education systems.6

LEVELS OF INTELLECTUAL COHERENCE By this stage, the reader may well feel entitled to ask what is the rationale—apart from the fact that they all examine the subject of Japan—behind bringing together, in a single collection, chapters covering such a wide range of different backgrounds and methodological approaches. At one level, it can be argued that simply the fact that they all examine Japanese society is, in itself, of sufficient value to merit the collection. Anthropological research, particularly at the micro level, does much to undermine accounts of the ‘Japanese’ as if they all behaved and lived in exactly the same way. The chapters in this volume emphasise how crucial differences of class, age, gender and ethnicity are in determining the lifestyle and life chances of individuals in Japan. In the light of the heterogenous nature of Japanese society which is obvious in a reading of this volume, it may seem curious that anthropology as a discipline has been held responsible (see Mouer and Sugimoto 1986) for presenting an image of the Japanese as an homogeneous group.7 Nakane Chie’s Japanese Society (1973) has been particularly heavily criticised on this score (see Hata and Smith

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1983). The problem lies not in the primary level of anthropological data—the ethnographic material—but in the way it is used to make generalisations about Japanese society. One part of the problem of moving from the specific to the general in Japanese society lies in the fact that Japan has one of the highest literacy rates in the world. There is a danger, therefore, that attempts by anthropologists to explore the way Japanese see their world may, by publishing these theses, actually play a part in creating a particular worldview. Benedict’s (1946) tentative suggestion that, on a continuum between shame and guilt, Japanese culture tends towards the ‘shame’ model, or Nakane’s (1973) description of Japan as a ‘vertically-oriented’ society (tate shakai) have become so widely disseminated in Japanese society that they are often offered to new anthropologists entering the field by Japanese informants as an explanation of the way Japanese society works (see Dale 1988:4).8 It is clear that there will always be dangers inherent in moving from the specific to the general in a study of any complex, literate society, even if it is stressed that such general models are heuristic or, in a Weberian sense, ‘ideal types’. The anthropologist, however, has to attempt, at the very least, to try to gain some sense of what it is in Japan that makes an individual think of himself or herself as Japanese—as opposed, say, to identifying with a wider Asia— as well as what it is that they feel makes them a member of a specific group in Japan and what differentiates them from any other group in Japan. In an age of increasing interaction between Japanese and members of other societies, it may be particularly important to try and understand the assumptions of ‘Japaneseness’ that Japanese carry abroad with them. Not all Japanese, of course, accept all these ideas of ‘Japaneseness’ at face value; those whom van Wolferen (1989) calls ‘buffers’ —who serve to make contact with foreigners as smooth as possible—may be especially cynical, for example, about the ideas they pedal to explain trade problems in terms of cultural differences. In anthropological analysis there is a classic tripartite division between what people say they do, what they say that they ought to do, and what the anthropologist perceives them actually to be doing. Values or ideas about ‘Japaneseness’ serve as a model or image of ‘Japanese’ behaviour—what they think they ought to be doing—against which individual Japanese can judge their own behaviour. It will become clear, moreover, from the chapters in

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this volume that the way the Japanese think of themselves is as relevant to the anthropologist as the way they are perceived by others. It is at a broader level of analysis, however, that the greatest attempt has been made to produce an intellectual coherence in these chapters. The meetings of JAWS have concentrated on trying to make sense of human society in general in the light of an enhanced understanding of the particular case of Japan. As Hendry (in Hendry and Webber 1986:3) wrote in the introduction of the first JAWS volume, such meetings have two aims: To draw the attention of anthropologists to some of the insights that studies of Japan may bring to topics of current interest in the field; and to demonstrate to Japanese specialists the value of the contribution anthropologists may make to the general understanding of Japanese society. The theme which authors were asked to consider while writing their chapters for this volume was the significance of, and the relationship between, the concepts of ideology and practice in modern Japan. At the time there was no attempt to define how these terms should be used; authors were left to situate their material in the context of these ideas in any way they wished. It was believed that the authors all shared the same perception of the importance of the concepts of ideology and practice in Japan and accepted prima facie that these were useful and interesting ideas to pursue. It is, therefore, important to spell out some of these assumptions before examining the varying ways in which the writers actually approached the subject.

THE LANGUAGE OF IDEOLOGY AND PRACTICE IN JAPAN One of the first distinctions any anthropologist embarking on research in Japan learns to make is between tatemae and honne. Tatemae— and like all culturally relative terms it is difficult to render its meaning exactly in English—refers to an individual’s explicitly stated principle, objective or promise; honne refers to what that individual is really going to do, or wants to do.

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At one level, therefore, tatemae refers to the way individuals in Japan know they are expected to behave. This is normally expressed in terms of moral (sometimes Confucian) precepts and social obligations and expectations such as repaying social debts, loyalty in return for benevolence, respect for authority. Honne, on the other hand, refers to the way individuals actually want to behave—in terms of self-interest. Since, as the literature on Japan constantly stresses, self-interest (what Hendry describes in her chapter as ‘individualism’ rather than ‘individuality’) receives wide social disapproval, it is not surprising that one should present one’s actions in terms of tatemae even if one is determined to fulfil them in terms of honne.9 There are numerous other terms in Japanese which express much the same ideas as tatemae and honne. The psychologist Doi Takeo, indeed, uses one such pair—omote (meaning ‘front’) and ura (meaning ‘rear’) —as a shorthand for understanding the whole of Japanese society.10 Hendry (1989), in her study of wrapping in Japanese society, invokes the use of kao (face) and kokoro (mind or soul) to make the same distinction; she reveals how Japanese demonstrate their awareness of the distinction between tatemae and honne in the language that they use.11 The recognition of the difference between what one says one is doing and what one actually does is clearly of fundamental importance in Japanese society. It may not be too fanciful to suggest that the ability to distinguish between the two is one element of social maturity; certainly, little respect is attached to those who are prepared to upset the social harmony by bluntly speaking the truth. It was with such pairs of terms in mind—which might loosely be translated as ‘ideology’ (tatemae) and ‘practice’ (honne) —that participants were expected to write their chapters. It was felt that while many researchers have mentioned the distinction in their writing, few have explored it in any scientific depth. This may, in part, be because the distinction between ideology and practice is a difficult one to pin down in concrete rather than abstract terms. It is also, without doubt, related to the fact that the distinction has powerful emotive overtones for many non-Japanese in Japan who tend to describe it in terms of how it affects them rather than examining its function in Japanese society. Van Wolferen, a recent and widely-read critic of the ‘Japanese System’ (as he terms the society), describes Japanese society as based on ‘particularistic’ ethics as opposed to a system of ‘universalistic’ ethics in other societies. In

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Japan, he boldly states, there is the near absence of any idea that ‘there can be truths, rules, principles or morals that always apply, no matter what the circumstances’ (1989:9). Truth, he suggests (1989:8), is ‘socially constituted’. Van Wolferen complains (1989:10) that scholars of Japan have not made enough of this distinction: ‘Most authors, having dutifully mentioned that the Japanese continually adjust their beliefs to the situation they find themselves in, move on to other topics as though totally unaware of the momentousness of this observation.’ Benedict (1946) is among the few he excuses from this charge. In fact, the emotive nature of van Wolferen’s argument is reflected in the continual complaint of foreign businessmen in Japan that the Japanese are two-faced, that they say one thing and do another, that they are ‘dishonourable’.12 Curiously, some support for van Wolferen’s argument comes from disaffected Japanese academics such as Taira Koji whose left-wing interpretations of Japanese society clash with the generally more conservative accounts presented to the outside world. Taira (1988:24 ff.) suggests that particularistic—he uses the more neutral word ‘pragmatic’ —ethics are endemic not only to Japan but also to China and lead, in both societies, to a substantial latitude of deviousness and double-talk. At the level of the individual, he cites (1988:25) the phrase menju fukuhai (compliance on the surface, revolt beneath; or, smile on the face, resentment in the heart) as a ‘quid pro quo that the weak or the poor have secured in exchange for the deprivation of their human status by general society’. At the societal level, Taira invokes the concept of yoto kuniku (displaying a lamb’s head at the door, but selling dog meat inside) as another example of the mendacity of the Japanese people, giving the example of the loud claims made for life-time employment which omit reference to the much more extensive casual labour markets which allow the life-time system to survive.13 Analyses of the distinction between what people say they do, what they say they ought to do and what they actually do in Japanese society, therefore, have tended to tell us as much about the analysts— Japanese and non-Japanese alike—and their frustrations and beliefs, as about the Japanese themselves. Such analyses fail to answer how the ideology is created, disseminated and manipulated, or how the practice relates to it. Are there two ‘worlds’ —private and public— which are separate and unconnected, as Boling (1990:144), for

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example, has suggested; or does one determine the possibilities of action and speech within the other? How does the distinction between ideology and practice in Japan compare with that of other societies?

THE LANGUAGE OF IDEOLOGY AND PRACTICE IN THEORETICAL AND COMPARATIVE PERSPECTIVE Few of the authors in this volume—Martinez and Wöss excepted — make explicit their understanding of the terms ‘ideology’ and ‘practice’ in the wider sense. This may be because the authors assume that their usage is self-evident. The range of ways in which the terms have been used, however, suggest that this latter assumption, if it exists, is mistaken. It is the purpose of the rest of this introduction to situate the chapters in the context of these wider theoretical discussions about the nature of ideology in society. Few terms in the social science vocabulary can have deeper connotations than the term ‘ideology’. It is common when discussing the concept to trot out the famous sociological aphorism: ‘I have a social philosophy, you have political opinions, he has an ideology’ (see Geertz 1973:194; Whittemore 1986:20). Part of the problem with the term, as Geertz points out (1973: 194), is that it is itself ideologised. For some it concerns ‘false consciousness’ and a vehicle for the expression of the material interests of specific groups of people. This, of course, is a tradition linked with Marx that can also be found in the work of leading anthropologists such as Godelier (1982) and Gellner (1979). For others, ideology refers to any system of meaning or worldview—from religion to manners—that can be studied in the context of any particular society. Such an approach is perhaps most visible in contemporary anthropology in the work of Clifford Geertz (1973). Moreover, it is clear that there are at least two different aspects to ideology: function and content—what ideologies do and what they say. One can examine ideologies as systems for maintaining social solidarity, providing charters for social order or preventing social disintegration; alternatively one can examine how ideologies are symbolically represented. There are a number of different ideologies in Japanese society which can be seen either as a Japanese worldview or as a closed system adopted by groups within society for specific purposes. Moon, for example, points out that it has been common in recent

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times to explain the economic success of Japan and the nearby ‘Newly-Industrialised Countries’ (Taiwan, South Korea, Hong Kong and Singapore) in terms of a shared Confucian background that has proved particularly effective in mobilising an efficient workforce. This thesis, of course, raises numerous subsidiary questions—Foster-Carter (1988), for example, points out that for many years the ‘burden’ of Confucianism was used to explain why the same economies had failed to develop—but there is strong evidence to suggest that Confucianism now presents an ideology or world view along the same lines as Preston (1967), for example, talks about capitalism, socialism, communism and fascism presenting different ideological worldviews in western countries.14 As Moon’s chapter shows, however, Confucianism as an ideology is utilised in different ways in different societies. Rather than talk about Confucianism, therefore, one should talk about the ‘language of Confucianism’. This ‘language’ of Confucianism includes the idea that there are certain rules which define conduct between individuals. Juniors should show respect for their seniors which will be repaid by benevolence; loyalty will be returned with security. Relationships are hierarchically organised—no two individuals are exactly equal. Such relationships, however, are not the same in all Confucian societies. As McMullen (1987), among others, has pointed out, there is a major difference in terms of the idea of loyalty between Japanese Confucianism and the Chinese tradition from which it is derived. Whereas the moral code of Chinese Confucianism and neoConfucianism required that subjects saw it as their duty to rise up against corrupt or inept rulers, such an idea did not serve the purpose of the Tokugawa hegemons when they invoked the ‘language of Confucianism’. Indeed, in the potential conflict between loyalty to a father and to a ruler, they clearly meant their subjects to choose the latter. This example from the feudal period may appear of little significance in understanding contemporary Japan. Crawcour (1978), however, has suggested that in the modern period, too, Confucian ‘language’ was mobilised by those in power for their own ends. The employers’ organisations of the 1930s, faced by growing worker unrest, invoked the ‘tradition’ of Confucianism as an ideology of workplace practice wherein worker loyalty had always been repaid by employer benevolence. The comparison of this practice with descriptions of factories in the late Meiji and early Taisho periods provided by such as Hane (1982) gives the lie to it being, in any

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meaningful sense, a ‘traditional’ form of labour practice. This is just one of the many examples from Japanese history of what van Bremen calls the ‘distinct ideologies’ of Confucianism being mobilised by the ruling classes as a means of rationalising their rule by disguising it as the ‘natural state of things’.15 The ‘language of Confucianism’ is closely related to the Nihonjinron literature which is discussed by several of the authors in this volume. If, as Roth and Whittemore (1986:6) suggest, ‘ideology refers to the sociopolitical beliefs and aims characteristic of a nation or culture’, then Nihonjinron clearly constitutes an ideology described by some as ‘Japanism’. Nihonjinron literally means ‘theories of Japaneseness’ and refers to a genre of literature and stream of ideas which suggest that Japan is different from all other societies (see Dale 1986). Although there is evidence that a form of Nihonjinron existed in the Meiji period at the end of the nineteenth century (see Gluck 1985; Minami 1973), Befu argues that it has come to the fore in the post-war period only as a replacement for the militarist nationalism which had kept the country together in the 1930s and 1940s. Nihonjinron ideas essentially propose that the Japanese people, simply by the fact that they are born of two Japanese parents in Japan, share certain important characteristics which differentiate them from other people. The features which constitute this ‘unique Japaneseness’ include the ideas that the Japanese are a particularly homogeneous people, that they are naturally harmonious, and that the society is based on hierarchical interpersonal relations that involve respect for authority. For many Japanese, it has been argued, such ideas constitute their worldview. Throughout the 1980s, the Nihonjinron genre has increasingly become the focus of scholarly scrutiny with the suggestion by some (see Kawamura 1980; Dale 1986) that it represents the ideology of the ruling class in Japan—the leading industrialists, bureaucrats and politicians—who wish to promote a sense of nationalism that disguises internal inequalities of age, gender, geographical region and class, and encourages economic growth through propounding the idea that all will benefit equally from Japan’s new wealth. This idea, of course, is closely aligned to the Marxist concept of ‘false consciousness’ —the inability to recognise what is in their own best interests—of the majority of the society.16 Instead of identifying with class interests, individuals accept the ruling class ideology that Japan is essentially a classless, harmonious and

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‘unique’ society and they work for the good of the nation as a whole, thereby ensuring the maintenance of the status quo and legitimating the position of those in power (see Eccleston 1989 for a broader discussion of this idea). Befu, who has been one of the leading analysts of Nihonjinron, discusses in his chapter in this volume how other symbols of nationalism (of which he considers Nihonjinron one) have also become increasingly visible in Japan in recent years—including the national flag, national anthem and reverence for the emperor. His chapter raises several important questions about the nature of the relationship between ideology and practice. First, it is important to recognise the common occurrence of such symbols as the monarchy being used in attempts to create a sense of national identity. Cannadine (1983) gives a good account of this process in the case of the British monarchy in Hobsbawm and Ranger’s appropriately entitled volume, The Invention of Tradition. Thailand and South Korea appear to have even more in common with the Japanese example: all three countries deny a role for selfperceived minority groups in their emphasis on national identity; all three emphasise the uniqueness of their writing systems, language, religion—Shintoism, Confucianism and Buddhism in Japan, Korea and Thailand respectively—and the significance of their national flags and anthems.17 On the other hand, Befu shows in the example of the Okinawans that not all groups and individuals in society blindly accept the dominant ideology. This is a crucial point, since much of the critical literature on the Nihonjinron genre proposes too mechanistic a connection between the dissemination of the ideology and its acceptance. Here, indeed, lies one of the major problems with the Marxist idea of ‘false consciousness’, since it suggests that the rulers in a society can see what is in their own interests more clearly than those over whom they rule.18 Indeed, the ability of individuals to invest in themselves can clearly be seen in the area of Japanese education discussed in the chapters by Refsing and Mathias in this volume. Much is made of the ‘meritocratic’ nature of Japanese society and the fact that if an individual does well then he or she does so through his or her own efforts. Social status is largely determined by success in the education system. There is increasing evidence, however, that individuals with sufficient financial resources are able to manipulate the system, to make their chances ‘more equal than others’.

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Amano Ikuo, one of Japan’s leading educational sociologists, has discovered signs of growing educational inequality in recent years. He shows (Amano 1990) how an increasingly large proportion of entrants to Japan’s most prestigious university— Tokyo—come from a private school background. In particular, he emphasises the growing number of privileged students who have attended private six-year secondary schools as opposed to three years of junior high school followed by three years of senior high school. These private schools, which charge considerable fees and cater to the ‘professional classes’, not only offer a heightened possibility of educational success but also pass on what Bourdieu (1977) calls the ‘cultural capital’ of the elite to their students.19 Two other areas where financial investment can improve children’s chances in the education system are the special after-school cram institutions (juku) and the full-time cram institutions known as yobiko where students can retake the university entrance examinations. Tsukada (1988) shows that there is a close correlation between the amount of money invested in these institutions and the quality of the end product. Parents who can afford to send their children to more expensive institutions greatly improve those children’s educational chances. It is important to point out, moreover, that there are also significant differences in the experience within the education system of different ethnic and gender groups. These have been all but ignored by the authorities in Japan (see Rohlen 1981; Mizuno 1987; Shimahara 1984; Mitsui 1985). All these factors, which can be uncovered only through a detailed analysis of the practice of the education system, have to be borne in mind when examining the ideology of meritocracy in Japan and the other functions of education discussed by Refsing.20 Despite this evidence to the contrary, however, most Japanese continue to subscribe to the ideology of a meritocratic system while trying to maximise their own chances within it. In this context, ideology can be seen as the order created within society or, as Shils (1968) puts it, ‘the product of man’s need for imposing intellectual order on the world’; whereas practice is the way in which individuals behave within that imposed or self-imposed order. Ideology, therefore, is the way groups are defined and define themselves symbolically; practice is the way individuals act within that symbolically defined universe. It should be clear by now that in order to obtain a full picture of the way in which a society works, one needs to look at both what people say they do or ought to do and what they actually do.

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Individuals are multifaceted with both public and private sides. The fact that so many scholars have insisted on looking at only one side of the equation has led to serious imbalances in descriptions of societies. Both sides should be included in the same account; as Whittemore (1986:37) writes, we cannot escape from ideology, our only freedom is to make better or worse choices.21 The authors of the chapters in this volume have tended to start from an emic approach (which examines a society in the terms of those being studied) which they have then situated in a wider theoretical, etic, context (which allows comparison of their material with other societies). 22 The variety of these wider theoretical approaches is examined in the final section of this introduction. Moon and Hendry rely on a traditional British anthropological approach which emanates from the Oxford school of anthropology and the tradition of E.E.Evans-Pritchard. This is a theoretical view which traces its origins to work such as Radcliffe-Brown’s structuralfunctionalism in which societies are interpreted as a system of interlocking institutions where change in one area causes change in another. Where Evans-Pritchard and his followers differed from this earlier generation lay in the way that they did not simply examine the function of the different institutions but also looked at the meaning which was ascribed to them. They also introduced a historical element which explained how societies changed over time and interacted with other societies, as well as removing some of the stress on the ‘scientific’ nature of the discipline. Evans-Pritchard was also, significantly, sceptical about the implication in Radcliffe-Brown’s work that everything functions for the good of ‘society’, and he thus opened up the possibility of looking at how ideologies can be used differently by different members of society. Hendry shows how, in Japan, the institution of the school serves to attach significance to the important concepts of individuality and groupism. She shows how these values are not innately Japanese but created and negotiated and thereby susceptible to change. More importantly, she shows how any ideology contains within it its exact opposite. This is particularly important when discussing the Japanese ideology of group orientedness—the idea that Japanese somehow innately prefer to act in groups rather than as individuals. Some (Krauss et al. 1984; Eisenstadt and Ben-Ari 1990) indeed suggest that the Japanese ideology of groupism may in fact be so strong simply in order to resist a more ‘natural’ tendency towards individualism and individual conflict. Such an

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ideology, therefore, provides social cohesion in what would otherwise be a ‘naturally’ centripetal society, although it is unclear in these theses why, if groupism is not innate, then individualism should be. Some of the same theoretical concerns of Hendry’s work can be seen in the chapter by Moon: the ideology of the relationship between men and women in the Japanese countryside is not bound by immanent Japanese values but affected by important factors such as technological and economic change. As the practice has been forced to change, so the ideology has changed with it. Moon has broadened her argument in a recently-published monograph, From Paddy Field to Ski Slope (1989), where she shows that technological change can lead to the revitalisation of so-called ‘traditional’ household patterns as well as their breakdown. In the context of her chapter in this volume, which discusses the relationship between men and women in the economic sphere, it is important to point out that the ‘historical’ ideology was in fact much more egalitarian for most of the society than today. The bushido ethic largely based on the ‘language of Confucianism’ greatly influenced the lives of the upper classes in feudal (Tokugawa) Japan but was much less important in the lives of the remaining 94 per cent of the population. It was only the ‘samuraisation’ process—the dissemination of samurai ideology— in the early Meiji period which led to the spread throughout the society of the idea that women should be restricted to the domestic sphere.23 Like Moon, van Bremen also discusses the significance of Confucianism in contemporary Japan, but his theoretical approach is quite different and informed by a strong structuralist method that combines Durkheim with Lévi-Strauss as well as implicitly appearing to draw on Jung. He demonstrates how Confucian ‘heroes’ are archetypes of good and bad, presenting models for individuals to act on in their everyday lives; heroes represent certain ‘Japanese’ qualities which provide charters for the behaviour of all Japanese. The chapter by Martinez follows a related structuralist approach to that of van Bremen. She discusses the ‘rural mystique’ archetype which the Japanese broadcasting companies are so keen to capture and disseminate. She shows how the ‘rural mystique’ is exploited both by urban tourists and the supposedly rustic fishermen-divers; the idealised countryside image, as Martin Wiener (1981) has described in the case of Britain, is a common ‘utopia’ for people living in industrialised societies.

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Martinez’ chapter can be compared with Berque’s critique of westerners who think that the answer to the problems of modern society may have been found in a ‘mystical’ Japan. Berque offers a post-modernist analysis of the relationship between man and nature which places the individual in direct relation to his environment and ignores the classical intermediary, in anthropological study, of social institutions. This is an interesting departure which reflects the growing fascination with post-modern, post-Fordist 24 approaches to society in general; indeed, this is a debate which has recently reached the shores of Japan (see Miyoshi and Harootunian 1989). As the Marxist-inclined sociologist Sugimoto Yoshio has eloquently argued (1989), in several important ways Japan may not be a post-modernist society. Many of the elements of modern society which should have broken down in a postmodernist world remain defiantly in place in Japan: there are few signs of a fundamental collapse of the work ethic or any greater emphasis on a better quality of life; there is probably even less evidence of a more choice-oriented post-modernist style of learning; and as for the Japanese family, although it has clearly changed from extended to nuclear, there is little sign that the nuclear family itself is about to disintegrate. There is probably least evidence of all of the appearance of a genuinely multi-cultural society. Sugimoto wonders, however, whether in their dismissal of modern society there is not perhaps a tendency for post-modernist scholars to be attracted to pre-modern society. Berque certainly could not be accused of this. His argument does much to undermine those western post-modernist socio-ecologists who are attracted by the supposedly Oriental tradition of man living in harmony with his environment. Sugimoto concludes that Japan is a postindustrial society if not a post-modernist one; it is difficult to see how Berque could fail to come to the same conclusion if he decided to take his analysis further. Like van Bremen and Martinez, Breger also discusses the way in which ideology is disseminated through society. She is less interested in the power of the myth itself, but rather in the manner in which it is created and negotiated. Her use of the word ‘discourse’ in the title of her chapter points towards the influential discourse theorists such as Foucault who were so popular in the late 1970s. Discourse theorists emphasise the need to analyse systems of thought in terms of the language in which they are expressed, such as, for example, the language of Confucianism or Nihonjinron.

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Breger takes this further by discussing the relationship between power and information transmission. While the message that is being presented (such as the image of Japan) may be multivalent, or in Turner’s (1967) language ‘multivocal’, the value that is ascribed to it in any particular context is determined by the relative power and interests of the image producers. As Breger’s analysis demonstrates, media images may well tell as much, if not more, about the producers of the image as those who are the subject of the image. In short, perception is a social construction, not a natural given. Mathias also talks about the social creation of perception, and the maintenance of that perception in the face of contradictory evidence. How, for example, was the ideology of an educational meritocracy maintained in the Taisho and early Showa periods where there was the phenomenon of unemployed university graduates and academics? Mathias suggests that new myths of self-advancement through education came into being, centred not around those who went to university but on individuals further down the social scale who had more modest goals which could still be met through educational success. Raz’ chapter—like that by Martinez—discusses the manipulation and inversion of the dominant ideology by a sub-culture in Japan. The manner in which yakuza present themselves in Japan is clearly largely determined by the ideology of the mainstream society. Raz describes it as a mixture of inclusiveness and exclusiveness: the yakuza see themselves both as inside Japanese society (‘we are the true upholders of Japanese values’) and outside it (‘we are outlaws’). He skilfully draws on ideas from labelling theory (including labelling by self as well as others), semiotics and theatre studies in his discussion of the creation of ideology of, and by, the modernday yakuza. The use that Fleur Wöss makes of the term ‘ideology’ goes back to the fundamental dichotomy of the Enlightenment thinkers between religion and science. This is a distinction which has had a major influence on anthropology and sociology. She uses ideology in the sense of ideas which do not bear close scientific scrutiny and discusses Japanese views of death and the afterworld in this context. This distinction between ideology and science explains why so much effort is often expended to provide scientific support for certain ideologies. Wöss gives examples of scientists ‘proving’ the nature of the other-world; the science of superstition (such as

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seimeigaku, the science of numbers—see Lewis 1986; Crump 1986) is particularly popular in Japan. Perhaps most importantly, however, is the manner in which science is used in attempts to endorse more grandiose ideologies. In the realm of Nihonjinron, the work of Tsunoda (1985) —a neurophysiologist who has suggested that, due to linguistic influence, the hemispheres of the Japanese brain function in exactly the opposite manner to those of other people—has been used as evidence of Japanese uniqueness. The fact that such work is produced by scholars from top universities and published by reputable companies does much to enhance its ‘scientific’ status. The crucial point for anthropologists, however, is that ideologies, even if not seen as ‘real’, still have important functions and meaning in the context in which they appear. Such was the argument of Auguste Comte—one of the ‘fathers’ of sociology—who in opposition to the ‘scientists’ of the Enlightenment Period insisted on the value of studying ideology as a means of ordering society. The foregoing has presented just some of the examples of the ways in which the term ideology has been used in this volume. Despite the different backgrounds of, and methodologies employed by, individual authors, each contributes not only towards an understanding of different elements of Japan and Japanese society as a whole, but also to the manner in which ideas of ideology and practice function, and are used, in other societies throughout the world. Japan has often appeared to be considered too ‘different’ to be used in comparative anthropological analyses; in many introductory texts to anthropology, it is not mentioned at all. Anthropologists of other societies, however, can learn much by looking at Japan; Japan helps us examine not only taken-forgranted assumptions about other societies which we study, but also those assumptions we have about our own societies and ourselves.

NOTES 1 The author would like to thank David Gellner for his thought-provoking comments on an earlier draft of this introduction. 2 The Befu and Kreiner volume will include discussion of the different approaches to the study of Japan by scholars from France, Germany, Austria, Holland, India, South Korea, the Soviet Union, the UK, the USA and Japan itself.

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3 Such types of detailed case studies, as Moon herself points out, allow the study of Japan to break out of the narrow paradigm of a direct west vs. Japan perspective that has dominated the subject for so long by demonstrating the weakness of the assumption that if something is present in Japan and not in the west, then it is unique to Japan—and vice versa (see also Goodman 1984). 4 For discussion about the relationship between observer and observed in participant observation research, see the papers in Clifford and Marcus, eds, 1986. 5 Pyle (1982:242) calls these other approaches the ‘progressive’, the ‘liberalrealist’ and the ‘mercantilist’. 6 For overviews of these reform proposals in Japan, South Korea and England, see Goodman 1989; in the Soviet Union, see Muckle 1988. 7 For a vigorous defence of anthropology against these charges, see van Bremen 1986. 8 For a similar cautionary parable, this time from Africa, see Clifford (1986:116–17) where he comments that ‘Suddenly cultural data cease to move smoothly from oral performance into descriptive writing…. Both informant and researcher are readers and re-writers of a cultural invention.’ 9 It should be made clear, however, that the idea of honne need not necessarily refer to the individual looking after his or her own interests in a purely Hobbesian sense; indeed it may often refer to an individual identifying with the interests of their group rather than those of some wider social unit. For an excellent overview of the variety of meanings associated with the word ‘individual’ in western societies, see Lukes 1973. 10 This book, entitled in Japanese Omote to Ura, is translated into English as The Anatomy of Self: The Individual Versus Society (1986), which shows the problems of rendering such terms into another language. 11 The nature of the Japanese language is such that quite discrete language forms are used when talking to people of different relative social levels. It is the use of these different forms to which Hendry refers. The awareness of these distinctions is important in understanding the relationship between ideology and practice. As Friedman (1985:375–6) points out, ideology and practice have traditionally been discussed in terms of a dualism of mind and body which suggests that individuals are aware of the difference between the two levels. In recent years, however, some theorists have proposed that individuals do not always consciously distinguish one level from the other. ‘Praxis theory’, for example, puts forward the proposition that individuals first change or affect their environment, and then think about it; they are often not aware of working against any particular ideology. 12 One of the weaknesses inherent in this type of complaint—which has been made by westerners about all others from at least the nineteenth century—is its failure to recognise the ideological nature of the western belief in truth and honesty. As Goffman and the symbolic interactionist school have shown, westerners also adapt concepts to context, even if they are not always aware of so doing.

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13 For a graphic description of the casual labour market and its deprivations, see Kamata 1984. 14 Others have discussed ideology in terms of the role of government in the political, rather than, as Preston does, simply economic, life of the nation. One example is the American idea of individualism (see Kaplan 1986). National ideologies can also be a reflection of individual ‘charismatic’ leaders, such as Maoism in China (see Hsiung 1970), Peronism in Argentina, or Thatcherism in Britain. 15 Such an analysis, of course, need not be restricted only to Japanese society and the use of Confucianism for ideological purposes. Indeed, Marxist analysts of ideology tend to concentrate on bringing out such examples, such as examining the paternalism of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Church of England landlords. 16 Marx’s idea of the distinction between appearance and reality is actually considerably more sophisticated than the dominant ideology thesis at first appears. If applied to the contemporary Japanese scene, for example, it would include the idea that Japanese workers are aware of how their wage form may not constitute a fair return for what they produce, but are prepared to accept the wage in return for an improved quality of life, security and future benefits. 17 The fact that comparisons between Japan and other Asian countries are so seldom carried out exemplifies the political context in which all research is undertaken. Direct comparisons with South Korea and Japan, for example, are avoided not for academic but for historical and social reasons. For South Korean scholars, there is the legacy of Japan’s harsh colonisation of the country; in the case of Japanese researchers, it is a continuation of Fukuzawa Yukichi’s famous nineteenth-century plea for Japan to turn its back on Asia and set itself squarely in a western perspective (Datsu-A Ron). 18 The question that is normally asked in this context is how was it possible for Marx to escape his own class position in order to construct his theory. This is sometimes answered by the idea of the relative independence of intellectuals in the social order, but this appears to smack of special pleading. Much of the sociological and anthropological work on Japan during the 1980s has attempted to undermine the Nihonjinron models by concentrating on examples of conflict, coercion, self-interest and heterogeneity in Japanese society (see Sugimoto and Mouer 1989:1–35 for a good overview of this literature). 19 Amano (1990:6) calls this cultural capital (in Japanese) ‘school colour’ in the sense that while most Japanese schools try to stress equality by being as much like each other as possible, these private schools stress their differences. Holmes (1989), a British sociologist of education, offers a surprisingly naive account of these schools in the light of their obvious similarities with the British public school system. 20 See Apple and Weis (1983) for a discussion of the same questions in the study of education in general. 21 One must remember, however, that there are always a number of ideological systems within any one society. Just as Smith (1984) points

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out, for example, in his discussion of kinship ideology in Latin America, that one must not speak of ‘Latin American kinship’, but ‘kinship in Latin America’, so one must be equally aware of regional and local ideologies in Japan. The work by Hendry (1981) on marriage and kinship patterns in Japan shows that there is no single pattern of kinship ideology but numerous models depending on regional and class backgrounds. Further, along the same lines, Kamishima (1990) suggests that certain important ideologies in Japan pertain only to very small groups; the reason that individuals appear to accept a wider national ideology is simply to avoid conflict when they cannot even guess the ideological values of those with whom they come into contact. Mannheim (1936) talks about two levels of ideology—that of the individual and that of the state. One should also talk of intermediary levels that relate to the region and the group. 22 For a fuller discussion of the differences between emic and etic approaches to Japan, see Befu 1989 and Goodman 1990. 23 There are interesting and, as far as I know, unexplored similarities between the idea of ‘samuraisation’ and Srinivas’ (1967) notion of ‘Sanskritisation’. On the one hand, ‘Sanskritisation’, by which Srinivas means the adoption by lower castes of the practices of the Brahmin, has been useful for creating a greater sense of national consensus; on the other hand, Srinivas’ ethnography suggests that this was a process instigated by the lower castes themselves, rather than being instigated by the ruling class as was the case with ‘samuraisation’. 24 Few terms are used as freely in contemporary social theory as ‘postmodernism’ or ‘post-Fordism’ which often appear to have quite different meanings to different people. The terms are used here to signal theories which perceive an end to the mass-consumption, mass-regulated society (exemplified by the Ford factory-line) which will be replaced with more choice-oriented, individualistic social models.

REFERENCES Amano Ikuo (1990) ‘Shiken shakai no shintenkai (The new development of an examination society)’ in Amano Ikuo and Iwaki Hideo (eds) Hendo Suru Shakai no Kyoiku Seido (The Education System in a Changing Society), Vol. 2, Tokyo: Kyoiku Kaihatsu Kenkyusho. Apple, Michael W. and Weis, Lois (1983) ‘Ideology and Practice in Schooling: A Political and Conceptual Introduction’ in Michael Apple and Lois Weis (eds) Ideology and Practice in Schooling, Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Befu Harumi (1989) ‘The Emic-Etic Distinction and Its Significance for Japanese Studies’ in Sugimoto Yoshio and Ross E.Mouer (eds) Constructs for Understanding Japan, London and New York: Kegan Paul International. —— and Kreiner, Josef (eds) (forthcoming) Otherness of Japan: Historical and Cultural Influences on Japanese Studies in Ten Countries.

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Ben-Ari, Eyal, Moeran, Brian and Valentine, James (eds) (1990) Unwrapping Japan, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Benedict, Ruth (1946) The Chrysanthemum and the Sword: Patterns of Japanese Culture, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul (repr. 1977). Boling, Patricia (1990) ‘Private Interest and the Public Good in Japan’, The Pacific Review, 3, 2: 138–50. Bourdieu, Pierre (1977) Outline of a Theory of Practice, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cannadine, David (1983) ‘The Context, Performance and Meaning of Ritual: The British Monarchy and the “Invention of Tradition”, c. 1820–1977’ in Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds) The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Clifford, James (1986) ‘On Ethnographic Allegory’ in James Clifford and G.E.Marcus (eds) Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Clifford, James and Marcus, G.E. (eds) (1986) Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Crawcour, E.S. (1978) ‘The Japanese Employment System’, Journal of Japanese Studies, 4, 2: 225–45. Crump, Thomas (1986) ‘The Pythagorean View of Time and Space in Japan’ in Joy Hendry and Jonathan Webber (eds) Interpreting Japanese Society: Anthropological Approaches, Oxford: JASO. Dale, Peter N. (1986) The Myth of Japanese Uniqueness, London, Sydney and Oxford: Croom Helm and the Nissan Institute. —— (1988) ‘The Myth of Japanese Uniqueness Revisited’, Nissan Occasional Paper Series, Oxford, Nissan Institute: No. 9. Doi Takeo (1986) The Anatomy of Self: The Individual Versus Society, trans. Mark Harbison, Tokyo, New York and San Francisco: Kodansha International. Eccleston, Bernard (1989) State and Society in Post-War Japan, Cambridge: Polity Press. Eisenstadt, S.N. and Ben-Ari, Eyal (eds) (1990) Japanese Models of Conflict Resolution, London and New York: Kegan Paul International. Foster-Carter, Aidan (1988) ‘What “Confucian Ethic”? The Role of Cultural Factors in Korean Economic Development: Some Notes and Queries’, Papers of the 5th International Conference on Korean Studies: Korean Studies, Its Tasks and Perspectives, Vol. II, Songnam (Korea), The Academy of Korean Studies: 695–709. Friedman, Jonathan (1985) ‘Ideology’ in Adam Kuper and Jessica Kuper (eds) The Social Science Encyclopedia, London, Boston and Henley: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Geertz, Clifford (1973) The Interpretation of Cultures, New York: Basic Books Inc. Gellner, Ernest (1979) Spectacles and Predicaments: Essays in Social Theory, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gluck, Carol (1985) Japan’s Modern Myths: Ideology in the Late Meiji Period, Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press.

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Godelier, Maurice (1982) ‘The Ideal in the Real’ in Raphael Samuel and Gareth Stedman Jones (eds) Culture, Ideology and Politics: Essays for Eric Hobsbawm, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Goodman, Roger (1984) ‘Is there an “I” in Anthropology? Thoughts on Starting Fieldwork in Japan’, Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford, XV, 2: 157–68. —— (1989) ‘Who’s Looking At Whom? Japanese, Korean and English Educational Reform in Comparative Perspective’, Nissan Occasional Paper Series, Oxford, Nissan Institute: No. 11. (1990) ‘Sociology of the Japanese State, the State of Japanese Sociology: A Review of the 1980s’, Japan Forum, 2, 2: 273–84. Hane Mikiso (1982) Peasants, Rebels and Outcastes: The Underside of Modern Japan, New York: Pantheon Books. Hata Hiromi and Smith, Wendy A. (1983) ‘Nakane’s “Japanese Society” as Utopian Thought’, Journal of Contemporary Asia, 13, 3: 361–88. Hendry, Joy (1981) Marriage in Changing Japan: Community and Society, London: Croom Helm. —— (1987) ‘The Japan Anthropology Workshop’, Current Anthropology, 28, 4: 104–6. —— (1989) ‘To Wrap or Not to Wrap: Politeness and Penetration in Ethnographic Inquiry’, Man, 24, 4: 620–35. —— and Webber, Jonathan (eds) (1986) Interpreting Japanese Society: Anthropological Approaches, Oxford: JASO. Holmes, Brian (1989) ‘Japan: Private Education’ in Geoffrey Walford (ed.) Schools in Ten Countries: Policy and Practice, London and New York: Routledge. Hsiung, James Chieh (1970) Ideology and Practice: The Evolution of Chinese Communism, London: Pall Mall Press. Kamata Satoshi (1984) Japan in the Passing Lane: An Insider’s Account of Life in a Japanese Auto Factory, London: Unwin Paperbacks, Counterpoint. Kamishima Jiro (1990) ‘Society of Convergence: An Alternative for the Homogeneity Theory’, Japan Foundation Newsletter, XVII, 3: 1–6. Kaplan, Morton A. (1986) ‘Is There an American Ideology?’, in John K. Roth and Robert C.Whittemore (eds) Ideology and American Experience: Essays on Theory and Practice in the United States, Washington: The Washington Institute Press. Kawamura Nozomu (1980) ‘The Historical Background of Arguments Emphasizing the Uniqueness of Japanese Society’, Social Analysis, No. 5/6 [Special Issue: Japanese Society: Reappraisals and New Directions]: 44–62. Krauss, Ellis S., Rohlen, Thomas P. and Steinhoff, Patricia G. (eds) (1984) Conflict in Japan, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Lewis, David C. (1986) ‘“Years of Calamity”: Yakudoshi Observances in a City’ in Joy Hendry and Jonathan Webber (eds) Interpreting Japanese Society: Anthropological Approaches, Oxford: JASO. Lukes, Stephen (1973) Individualism, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. McMullen, I.J. (1987) ‘Rulers or Fathers? A Casuistical Problem in Early Modern Japanese Thought’, Past and Present, 116: 56–97.

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Mannheim, Karl (1936) Ideology and Utopia, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Minami Hiroshi (1973) ‘The Introspection Boom: Whither the National Character?’, Japan Interpreter, VIII, 2: 159–84. Mitsui Mariko (1985) ‘A Package for Sexism: Education in Japanese Senior High Schools’, Japan Christian Quarterly, LI, 1: 6–18. Miyoshi Masao and Harootunian, H.D. (eds) (1989) Post-Modernism and Japan, Durham and London: Duke University Press. Mizuno Takaaki (1987) ‘Ainu: The Invisible Minority’, Japan Quarterly, 34, 2: 143–8. Moon Okpyo (1989) From Paddy Field to Ski Slope: The Revitalisation of Tradition in Japanese Village Life, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Morris-Suzuki, Tessa (1984) Showa: An Inside History of Hirohito’s Japan, London: The Athlone Press. Mouer, Ross and Sugimoto Yoshio (1986) Images of Japanese Society: A Study in the Social Structure of Reality, London, New York, Sydney and Henley: Kegan Paul International. Muckle, James (1988) A Guide to the Soviet Curriculum: What the Russian Child is Taught in School, London, New York and Sydney: Croom Helm. Nakane Chie (1973) Japanese Society, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Preston, Nathaniel Stone (1967) Politics, Economics and Power: Ideology and Practice Under Capitalism, Socialism, Communism, and Fascism, London: Collier-Macmillan. Pyle, Kenneth B. (1982) ‘The Future of Japanese Nationality: An Essay in Contemporary History’, Journal of Japanese Studies, 8, 2: 223–63. Rohlen, Thomas P. (1981) ‘Education: Policies and Prospects’, in Lee Changsoo and George De Vos (eds), Koreans in Japan: Ethnic Conflict and Accommodation, Berkeley: University of California Press. Roth, John K. and Whittemore, Robert C. (1986) ‘Introduction: One, and Yet Many’ in John K.Roth and Robert C.Whittemore (eds) Ideology and American Experience: Essays on Theory and Practice in the United States, Washington: The Washington Institute Press. Shils, Edward (1968) ‘Ideology: The Concept and Function of Ideology’ in David L.Sills (ed.) International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, New York: The Macmillan Company and The Free Press: Vol. 7. Shimahara Nobuo (1984) ‘Toward the Equality of a Japanese Minority: The Case of Burakumin’, Comparative Education, 20, 3: 339–53. Smith, Raymond T. (1984) ‘Introduction’ in Raymond T.Smith (ed.) Kinship Ideology and Practice in Latin America, Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press. Srinivas, M.N. (1967) ‘The Cohesive Role of Sanscritisation’ in Philip Mason (ed.) India and Ceylon: Unity and Diversity, London: Oxford University Press. Sugimoto Yoshio (1989) ‘Taking the Sociological Pulse of Contemporary Japan’, Japan Foundation Public Lecture, Sixth Conference of the Japanese Studies Association, Sydney University. —— and Mouer, Ross E. (eds) (1989) Constructs for Understanding Japan, London and New York: Kegan Paul International.

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Taira Koji (1988) ‘Disadvantages of Success: Pains of Behavior Adjustment to Role Changes’ in David C.Evans and Louis Tremaine (eds) Proceedings of the Symposium on Japanese and Third-World Development, Richmond, Virginia. Tsukada Mamoru (1988) ‘Institutional Supplementary Education in Japan: The Yobiko and Ronin Student Adaptations’, Comparative Education, 24, 3: 285–303. Tsunoda Tadanobu (1985) The Japanese Brain: Uniqueness and Universality, trans. Oiwa Yoshinori, Tokyo: Taishukan Publishing Company. Turner, Victor (1967) The Forest of Symbols, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. van Bremen, Jan (1986) ‘The Post-1945 Anthropology of Japan’ in Joy Hendry and Jonathan Webber (eds) Interpreting Japanese Society, Oxford: JASO. —— (1989) ‘The Japan Anthropology Workshop’, Japan Forum, 1, 2: 291– 4. van Wolferen, Karel (1989) The Enigma of Japanese Power, London: Macmillan. Whittemore, Robert C. (1986) ‘The Philosophical Antecedents of American Ideology’ in John K.Roth and Robert C.Whittemore (eds) Ideology and American Experience: Essays on Theory and Practice in the United States, Washington: The Washington Institute Press. Wiener, Martin J. (1981) English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit 1850–1980, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books.

Chapter 2

Symbols of nationalism and Nihonjinron Harumi Befu

INTRODUCTION In 1947 Kiku to Katana, the Japanese translation of The Chrysanthemum and the Sword by Ruth Benedict (1946), was published in Japan. It became an instant bestseller, and has been on the shelves of bookstores in Japan ever since. By now the Japanese version has seen eight separate editions, and has been reprinted at least 144 times. It is quite proper to say that the postwar Nihonjinron—the search for Japan’s identity, and cultural uniqueness—was inaugurated by Benedict, and has increasingly enraptured the Japanese ever since. While there are many reasons for this boom, I would like to suggest one of them in this chapter, namely that the use of major symbols of national identity and pride was rendered problematic by the Second World War, and hence Nihonjinron moved into this relative ‘symbolic vacuum’.

INSTRUMENTS OF NATIONAL IDENTITY Cultural manifestations of nationalism come in a variety of forms: physical symbols, personages, rituals and discourses. Every nation uses these instruments as a way of creating a sense of national identity, reminding its citizens of the importance of patriotism and bolstering loyalty to the nation. The most obvious symbols of national identity

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are the national flag, the national anthem, the national emblem, and national monuments and rituals, which are all physical representations of national identity and national pride. These symbols acquire an aura of sacredness and inviolability and are designed to cause a surge of patriotic emotion when displayed in the proper place at the proper time. Every modern nation state has these symbols, and makes use of them at every available occasion to instil and reinforce sentiments of national unity and patriotism. They are a reminder of the importance of the nation which in theory both protects its people but, at the same time, can ask them to sacrifice themselves for it. These symbols, it is important to note, are a creation of the nation state. They did not simply ‘emerge’ from the grassroots, but were consciously created by the state to promote national integration and to represent it. Desecration of these symbols is thus an insult to the state if not an outright crime. Japan has had such symbols ever since it entered the modern period and began to have intercourse with western nations. To be counted among the ranks of western nations, Japan had to acquire the proper accoutrements of a modern nation, and these included national symbols. These symbols were used with near-universal acceptance until the end of the Second World War in 1945. The hypothesis I want to develop in this chapter is that the popularity of Nihonjinron in postwar Japan is a consequence of Japan’s inability to exploit effectively the most important symbols which express national identity and nationalism. By these symbols, I refer to the imperial institution, the ‘national’ flag, the ‘national’ anthem, the ‘national’ emblem, and national monuments and rituals. Let us examine each in turn. Imperial institution Royalty, if a nation has such, is one of the most obvious symbols of national identity. Most monarchies nowadays are stripped of real power, which makes them less problematic as a symbolic source of national unity. With power, royalty can be a target of criticism for potential or actual misuse of that power; without power, no one can blame royalty, who can simply enjoy the prestige and honour inherent in a venerable institution. Witness Denmark, whose queen is the pride of the nation; or Great Britain, whose queen is also an undisputed national symbol. This is not to say that there are not citizens who

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are indifferent or apathetic to royalty in these countries, but that there is little deep-seated resentment or outright opposition to the institution. Such is not the case with Japan. The emperor and the imperial institution are perhaps the most outstanding symbols of Japan as a political entity. Before 1868, when Japan launched its modernisation programme, the emperor occupied a relatively unimportant place in the minds of ordinary people. Many did not even know who the emperor was. One of the first tasks of the Meiji government was to ‘modernise’ the emperor and the imperial institution, which meant to make the emperor into a national symbol by Europeanising him (Fujitani 1988). The emperor was made to dress in western clothing reminiscent of European royalty, and was prominently displayed on all major occasions of national celebration. He was shown in western-style military uniform for the review of armed forces. Indeed, the emperor’s uniformed figure was seen increasingly frequently during the 1930s and early 1940s. As the emperor was the ultimate source of authority, all wars were, needless to say, fought under the imperial command and with his authorisation. It is this imperial involvement in past wars, especially the last world war, which rendered the emperor a tainted and ambiguous symbol. Apart from a small faction of ultra-right-wing reactionaries, Japanese agree now that war in general is bad and the last war in particular was a horrendous mistake. Although they have not agreed on whom to lay the blame and responsibility for the war, for many Japanese the emperor is at least in part implicated. This fact was dramatised at the death of Emperor Showa. Immediately upon his death, one of the critical issues on which the media focused was his responsibility for initiating, continuing and terminating the last war. The Japanese government, under the conservative Liberal Democratic Party, takes the position along with other conservatives that the emperor was not responsible for initiating the Second World War. The decision to start the war was made by politicians, and the emperor as a constitutional monarch had no choice but to accept this political decision. This is in fact the position the emperor himself took. The establishment view, however, gives credit to the emperor for terminating the war. According to this view, his intervention in this political decision was necessitated by the fact that the factions for continuing the war and for terminating it and surrendering were evenly split, thus forcing the emperor to make the decision. Being benevolent, he made the right decision for the people. Some

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Japanese, however, feel that such reasoning is not logically consistent (Kato 1976). If the emperor had the authority to make a political decision to end the war, they argue, he must have had the authority to make a political decision to initiate or not initiate the war as well. Moreover, wartime records are clear that the emperor rejoiced over Japan’s military victories, demonstrating his approval of the war effort. Guidelines for elementary and secondary school education issued in 1982 require students to ‘deepen their understanding, respect and love towards the emperor’. This was the first time since 1945 that government guidelines set forth requirements regarding education about the emperor. This 1982 directive was at least balanced with an instruction to teach students about popular sovereignty. In the 1989 guidelines, however, mention of popular sovereignty disappeared, while the requirement to learn about the emperor as the symbol of the Japanese nation remains. These guidelines are not accepted as a matter of course in schools; they are debated heatedly by teachers, school administrators and scholars of education who do not necessarily see the symbol of the emperor in modern Japan in an entirely positive light. The ill-feeling which many Japanese feel towards the emperor and the imperial institution he represents is poignantly expressed in the tragic experience of the Okinawans. The emotions Okinawans feel when they think about the past war is well expressed in the following excerpts from an article which Arasaki Moriteru, President of Okinawa University, wrote for the 10 January 1989 issue of the Mainichi Shinbun soon after the death of Emperor Hirohito. The English translation was provided by the Asia Foundation Translation Service Centre, and appeared in the 17 March 1989 issue of The Pacific Citizen: Japan is in mourning for the late Emperor Hirohito, but many Okinawans harbour mixed emotions about the monarch. In the second world war, Okinawa was the only major home island to experience ground fighting. Thousands of noncombatants committed suicide to avoid capture. In the bitter three-month battle 12,500 American and 110,000 Japanese military personnel, and 150,000 civilians were killed…. It was a shock to learn after the war that Hirohito could have prevented the invasion. In February 1945, with Allied Forces closing in, Prince Konoe Fumimaro, former prime

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minister and imperial confidant, urged Hirohito to end the war quickly. The monarch refused…. The fateful decision turned the Ryukyus into a killing ground. Although the occupation of Japan proper ended in 1952, the [Okinawa] prefecture remained under U.S. control until 1972. Japan agreed in 1952 to prolong American military control over Okinawa as a condition for regaining national sovereignty…. Today 75% of all US [military] installations [in Japan] are located in Okinawa…. Shortly after World War II, Hirohito toured Japan to emphasize that the people, not the emperor, were sovereign, a principle enshrined in the new [postwar] constitution. He did not go to Okinawa, however…. Nor did he visit the prefecture in 1972 to welcome Okinawa back into the national fold. An Okinawan tour [by the emperor] required elaborate planning to ensure the emperor’s safety…. In 1975, the crown prince and princess tested the water and found it dangerous. The visit sparked violent protests, including a firebomb attack on the royal couple. Another 12 years passed before Tokyo officials were ready to risk an imperial visit. In 1987, they announced that Hirohito, Crown Prince Akihito and his son, Prince Hiro, would attend the 42nd National Athletic Meet in Okinawa in October…. When the emperor fell ill and was hospitalised in September 1987, Akihito, the crown prince, the crown princess and Prince Hiro went, anyway. Many Ryukyuans protested the trip. The most famous incident occurred in Yomitan village, the site of a softball match. Chibana Shoichi, then 39, a supermarket owner and member of the village assembly, hauled down the Japanese flag at the opening ceremony and burned it. Hirohito’s death may signal the end of a distinctive Okinawan identity. With neonationalist sentiment on the rise, the end of Showa resembles the era’s chauvinistic beginning. Okinawans see themselves, first, used as a buffer between the rest of Japan and the Allied Forces at the end of the war. Second, they see themselves made into a sacrificial lamb which the emperor offered to the Allied Occupation to save the rest of Japan from prolonged occupation. Third and last, with most American military installations based in Okinawa, they see themselves used as a buffer between the USA and the communist bloc in the postwar cold war.

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Okinawans thus single themselves out as occupying a special and tragic place in contemporary Japanese history. Yet their suffering may be regarded as a heightened experience of what all Japanese feel—sufferings caused by the last war; the loss of loved ones in war and in the Allied bombings of the home islands; military occupation; and the entire Japanese island chain serving as a buffer between the United States and the communist bloc. The public pronouncement by the Mayor of Nagasaki in 1989, at the time when the emperor was gravely ill, that Emperor Hirohito was, in fact, responsible for the last war echoed the opinion of many Japanese both in and north of Okinawa. To be sure, since Nagasaki was atom-bombed in the last war, it, too, had a special place in the war, which gave the Nagasaki Mayor license for his pronouncement. But, again, the difference between Nagasaki and other areas of Japan is like the difference between Okinawa and the rest of Japan. Nagasaki and Hiroshima suffered more intensely what all other Japanese experienced; hence the pronouncement of the Mayor of Nagasaki rang true for Japanese elsewhere. The issue of the emperor’s responsibility in the Second World War had been brewing under the surface until his death on 7 January 1989. Immediately the issue surfaced and was much debated in the media, indicating the extent to which the Japanese public had previously been equivocal about the subject. On the day of his funeral on 24 February the Japan Communist Party boycotted the funeral. Socialists did attend, but only after objecting to the lack of a clear separation between the state and religion in the funeral. Many groups held meetings throughout the country to voice their objections to the use of state funds for the funeral and to discuss the emperor’s role in the last war. These considerations make it clear that the imperial institution in Japan is not a clear and unequivocal symbol of national unity. Rather it contains a dangerously divisive element. Thus we cannot equate the role of the imperial institution in Japan with the role of royalty in England, Norway or Denmark. In Norway, in the last war, when the issue of surrendering to the Nazis was raised by the government, the king threatened to abdicate his position if the country surrendered. Hirohito did not suggest a similar threat to the military when it deliberated the possibility of starting a war. The ‘mistake’ of the last emperor of leading his people into war is deeply felt by many Japanese, and this feeling is in part expressed in the extent to which they have overwhelmingly defended the ‘peace

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constitution’, of which Article Nine renounces war. It is well known and now widely acknowledged in Japan that the constitution was drafted by General Douglas McArthur’s staff and was forced upon the Japanese. In spite of such infelicitous origins, the majority of Japanese are, none the less, willing to defend the constitution, above all defend Article Nine, even though ultra-conservatives would like to see constitutional revision to allow Japan to take up arms legitimately. While not all those who are against war directly link this belief to the role of the emperor in the last war, many are convinced that there is a link. The ‘national’ flag If the imperial institution is in jeopardy as a symbol of national identity and unity, so are the Japanese flag, the ‘national’ anthem and the ‘national’ emblem. It is as well to remember, in understanding the controversy over the ‘national’ flag and the ‘national’ anthem, that their legal status is in question (Anzu 1972). There is nothing in the current constitution or the postwar statute book which specifies and defines the official flag or the official song of the Japanese state. It is only by convention carried over from before the war that the flag with a round red centre and white background—commonly called Hinomaru—is regarded as the national flag and the song which begins ‘Kimi ga yo wa…’ the national anthem. This fact gives critics of the use of Hinomaru and Kimigayo ammunition for fighting their use as official symbols. But the important point is that critics take advantage of this legal loophole because they are opposed to their use to begin with. Absence of consensus for the use of Hinomaru and Kimigayo, not their legal status, is at the bottom of the issue. Critics thus do not refer to Hinomaru as kokki (the national flag) nor Kimigayo as kokka (the national anthem). Before 16 August 1945 the Japanese flag was displayed on every occasion of national celebration, be it New Year’s Day, the emperor’s birthday or the Vernal Equinox. On these days, every house was required to display the Japanese flag, tied to a long bamboo post of about seven or eight feet. More importantly for our discussion, the flag was an integral part of the war effort. Whenever Japan won a war, be it the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–5 or the Russo-Japanese war of 1904–5, the flag was displayed to celebrate victory. Closer to modern times, during the Pacific War, too, the flag was an indispensable symbol when celebrating Japan’s military victories, such as the fall of

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Nanking or the takeover of Shanghai. Flags were displayed in front of houses; in victory marches, small flags were held by each marcher. The flag was indispensable for seeing new military recruits off to war. On the day a recruit was to leave home, neighbours gathered in front of his house, where the Japanese flag was displayed. The recruit, the head of the neighbourhood association and other public officials made speeches, and all shouted banzai for the send-off, while waving smaller flags. After the Second World War, display of the national flag was restricted, though not totally banned by the Occupation. Even after the Occupation, however, displaying the flag was such an anathema that for many years it was seldom displayed even on major national holidays (Anzu 1972). Even now many Japanese hesitate to display it in front of their homes for fear of being misidentified as ultraright-wing conservatives. Businesses, too, shy away from using the national flag. The appropriateness of displaying the flag is still widely debated in the media, since the use of the national flag has become associated with reactionary politics and right-wing hooliganism. A 1989 manual issued by the Ministry of Education specifies that the flag be raised and the national anthem sung at the ceremony for new students and at graduation; on other occasions the Ministry leaves the matter up to the discretion of school administrators. The fact that the Ministry had to issue a directive urging the use of the national flag and national anthem is a comment on the controversial nature of their use in Japan. It points to the fact that not all schools had been displaying the flag on these occasions. It also indicates a lack of consensus on the part of school officials as to when to display the national flag and sing the national anthem. During the stormy anti-security treaty demonstrations of 1960 and the equally turbulent anti-establishment movement of the late 1960s, demonstrators used anything but the national flag as the symbol of their cause. At the annual ‘Spring Offensive’ labour demonstrations, huge, over-size red banners dominate the scene, and the national flag, if ever carried, is buried under them. Thus it is not a surprise that a Korean youth should ask Chung In-Wha (1987), a reporter writing for Shokun, ‘Why do Japanese demonstrators carry red flags but not the national flag?’ The aforementioned flag-burning incident in Okinawa should be seen in its full context (Shimojima 1988). Towards the end of the Second World War, the Japanese army built an air strip in the village of Yomitan, where the flag burning took place. When Allied

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Forces began to land on Okinawa, this village was not spared. Villagers, 139 in number, fled to a nearby valley known as Chibirigama; some 82 of them killed one another to escape capture by the enemy. It is a story so painful and gruesome to recall that everyone in the village wanted to obliterate it from memory, and they had, until the incident was unearthed by a writer from north of Okinawa (Shimojima 1984). The blame for this tragedy, as far as the villagers are concerned, has to be laid with the wartime Japanese authorities, including the emperor. After the war, the American occupation moved into the village and established military facilities, the removal of which became the prime political issue for the village. After their removal, an athletics field was constructed on the site. The wartime and the postwar experiences of Okinawans, including those of Yomitan village, are well expressed by their treatment of the Japanese flag. According to a 1985 government survey, only 6 per cent of middle schools and no high schools in Okinawa raised the Japanese flag at their graduation ceremony (Noda 1988:158). This led to the issuance of ‘administrative guidance’ by the Prefectural Board of Education, addressed to school principals, which read in part: We ask you to provide strong guidance to ensure that students deepen their understanding of the educational significance of the national flag and the national anthem and to take positive steps to raise the national flag and sing the national anthem at school events. (Sekai 1988) Only under such pressure, including sanctions against those not following the guidance, 70 per cent of schools in Okinawa, including Yomitan High School, raised the flag at their graduation ceremony in 1986. In the following year, however, one female student pulled down the flag during the ceremony in protest ‘against the symbol of aggression which began the Second World War’. What happens when teachers fight against this pressure from the top? In 1986 twenty high school teachers who opposed this forcible adoption of the flag and anthem were penalised. In their appeal, the teachers’ union argued that since the law does not specify a national flag or a national anthem, there is no legal basis on which to enforce their adoption. ‘This attempt at forced

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adoption aims to foster loyalty to the state; the danger is that it may lead to another war’, observed Noda, writing for Shokun (1988). In December 1986, the village assembly of Yomitan passed a resolution opposing the government’s attempt to force people to accept the Japanese flag and anthem. In February of the following year, a citizens’ group in the village collected signatures from more than half the voters for a similar resolution. In March, Mayor Yamauchi of the village made a public statement as follows: A brute force is now attacking the citizens of this prefecture. It is…the second coming of the ideology of loyalty and patriotism, which should have been negated under the new postwar constitution. This is a return to the pre-war situation. Forty-two years have elapsed since the end of the war without the Japanese government apologising for or repenting their aggression towards Asian countries. In the meantime the government has ignored the issue of the responsibility for the war raised by the people, and has not taken steps with regard to legislation on the national flag and the national anthem. Moreover the government, without repenting the use of Hinomaru and Kimigayo, is forcing schools to adopt them through the procedure of ‘administrative guidance’. This is most regrettable. I am concerned about the dreadful results of administrative authority controlling fundamental human rights. (Noda 1988) When Yomitan was selected as the site of the softball game for the National Athletic Meeting in 1987, it was natural that the village assembly voted not to sing the national anthem and not to raise the Japanese flag for the occasion. But only four days before the event, the Softball Association president threatened to move the site of the game if the village did not agree to raise the flag. This was seen by many local residents as a clear attempt to take advantage of a sports event for political indoctrination. Chibana’s flag burning thus was not an isolated act carried out by an estranged villager. Instead, it expressed the widespread feeling not only of his fellow villagers, but of a large number of Okinawans and Japanese north of Okinawa. Burning a national flag is sacrilege;

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for that very reason, flag burning is a powerful means of communicating strong emotions of protest. In 1988, the flag issue continued to plague schools in Okinawa. At Urazoe Industrial High School, only about half of the graduating seniors rose to their feet when the flag was raised. At Nakanishi Middle School, graduating seniors initially boycotted the ceremony because the flag was being displayed. In short, in the absence of a national consensus on the use of national symbols, be it the emperor, the national flag, or the national anthem, the government is imposing nationalism upon students by forcing school officials to ‘demonstrate nationalism’ even though some may not be prepared to do so. The ‘national’ anthem Both the national anthem and the national emblem are integrally tied to the imperial institution. Herein lies the problem. The national anthem, which starts with the phrase ‘Kimi ga yo wa…’, celebrates the eternal existence of the imperial line. In 1989 the Ministry of Education issued an instructor’s manual which specified the term kimi, which has several dictionary meanings, including ‘you’ and ‘emperor’, to mean ‘the emperor’. The Ministry thus made explicit the imperial reference of the national anthem. According to Ministry guidelines, the national anthem ‘is a song which wishes our nation to prosper’. Here, ‘our nation’ and the emperor are treated synonymously. Professor Yamazumi Masaki of the Tokyo Metropolitan University, a critic of the mandatory use of the national flag and the national anthem, argues that students should be taught how the anthem was exploited before and during the last war (Yamazumi 1989). Given the above background, it is not surprising that in Okinawa Kimigayo is not welcome. Even after administrative guidance to show respect to the national anthem, half of the graduating students at Urazoe Industrial High School remained seated, instead of standing as expected, when Kimigayo was broadcast at the graduation ceremony in 1988. (Had the school abandoned any attempt to have students themselves sing Kimigayo?) According to a survey by the Okinawa Prefectural Board of Education, only at 3.4 per cent of elementary schools and 7.8 per cent of middle schools was Kimigayo sung at graduation ceremonies in 1988. At

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high school level, at only two schools was Kimigayo used at graduation and only taped recordings at that (Sekai 1988). What is noticeable here is that the percentage of schools adopting Kimigayo is much lower than that adopting Hinomaru. For example, 100 per cent of elementary schools adopted the use of the flag at graduation ceremonies in 1988, whereas Kimigayo was sung at only 3.4 per cent of these schools. The reasons why percentages are significantly lower for singing Kimigayo than for raising the Japanese flag are not hard to find. For one, singing requires active participation by students, whereas one need only passively observe a flag being raised. Students seem to be willing to be bystanders of nationalism, or at least prepared to tolerate it, but not to be active participants in it. For another reason, the narrative meaning of the flag—what the red and white colours signify—is rather muted. On the other hand, Kimigayo, of course, clearly informs singers in its verses of the centrality of the emperor for the Japanese nation. Resistance to actively singing a song whose words remind singers of hateful and dreadful wartime experiences is naturally higher than to passively observing a symbol whose meaning is hidden behind red and white colours. The ‘national’ emblem As the imperial institution is tainted, the national emblem, too, is necessarily implicated. For the national emblem—a stylised chrysanthemum flower—is the emblem of the imperial family. However, the burden of a simple emblem is certainly not as weighty as the person of the emperor or the imperial institution. Not much use is made of it in postwar Japan; and it creates little fuss. During the war, however, kiku no gomon, as the imperial emblem is called, was embossed on rifles issued to soldiers as a reminder that they belonged to the emperor and that soldiers were entrusted with them to fight in his name. It was also printed on the wrapper of cigarettes that soldiers received from time to time as a reward for fighting the imperial war. Such uses, of course, enhance the association of the emblem with war and serve as an unpleasant reminder. It is somewhat of a surprise, therefore, to find this emblem on the cover of the passport which every Japanese citizen travelling abroad carries. Do they no longer associate the emblem with the emperor? Or, if they do, do they not care?

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National monuments The use of national monuments, such as tombs of unknown soldiers, serves to create and reinforce patriotism. Although Japan does have such a tomb, like the soldiers entombed therein it is virtually unknown to the public. Much better known—in fact universally known in Japan—are Yasukuni jinja in Tokyo and the Gokoku jinja distributed throughout the country. The former enshrines the souls of all soldiers who died for the country in wars since around the Meiji Restoration, while the latter are for soldiers from the local provinces who so died. Yasukuni, of course, is of national significance whereas Gokoku jinja are only of local import. Until the end of the last war, Yasukuni jinja played a pivotal role in bolstering patriotism (Sugiyama 1986). It is of critical importance for us that the only significant criterion for being enshrined at Yasukuni is ‘to die in war for the emperor’. At present 2,453,199 souls are enshrined there (Oe 1984). Because Shintoism is a unique, indigenous religion, it was convenient for the Japanese government to exploit it for defining Japan’s national identity, as was done before and during the war. Elevating Shintoism from folk belief to state religion, and setting up the emperor as its centre piece, the Japanese state managed to create a unique religious basis for its nationalism. Yasukuni was easily integrated into the state Shinto theology, where the war dead became Shinto gods and spiritual protectors of the nation. Nationalism and militaristic jingoism thus became one in Yasukuni. Whereas the tombs of unknown soldiers in western countries are not explicitly religious, the Shinto character of Yasukuni renders a ready aura of sacredness. This religious basis made it convenient for drumming up patriotism, since patriotism —and nationalism, for that matter—is a form of civil religion (Hiro and Yamamoto 1986). Until the end of the war, Yasukuni and most other major Shinto shrines were supported by the state, and they in turn aided the state by supporting the nationalistic and imperial efforts of the country. After the Second World War, due to the constitutional separation of the state and religion, Yasukuni became a private religious corporation (National Diet Library, Research and Legislative Reference Department 1976). The problematic nature of Yasukuni lies in the fact that in spite of the constitutional requirement for total

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separation of state and religion, the conservative government wishes to use Yasukuni for its political goals, as was done before and during the last war (Eto and Kobori 1986; Kogawa 1988). Precisely because, however, Yasukuni Shrine memorialises and commemorates, nay even celebrates, those who died not only in war but for the cause of wars Japan fought—including the war criminals who were tried in the Tokyo war tribunal and hanged for ‘their crime against humanity’ —this shrine is problematic and controversial as a symbol of national unity. In fact, it is so problematic that every year as 15 August—the anniversary of the end of the last war when memorial services for the war dead are held—approaches, public debate is held (as surely as the return of the summer heat) as to whether high government officials—the prime minister and his cabinet members—would or should visit Yasukuni Shrine (Kamiya 1987). It was Prime Minister Yoshida Shigeru who, in October 1951, first visited Yasukuni as prime minister. His visit to Yasukuni was followed by succeeding prime ministers. No public debate ensued from their visits in these early years, possibly because they were not associated with any public event, such as the 15 August memorial for the war dead. On 15 August 1975, Prime Minister Miki visited Yasukuni ‘as a private citizen’. Since then virtually all prime ministers have done the same until Nakasone made his visit ‘in his public capacity’. In 1989 Prime Minister Kaifu decided not to visit Yasukuni on the occasion of the Memorial Day, ‘for personal reasons’; but the media speculated that this decision was in deference to China and Southeast Asian nations, who suffered through Japanese invasion and occupation during the Second World War and whose resentment towards Japan for its military role in the Pacific War is still strong. Sixteen out of the twenty cabinet members, however, visited the Yasukuni Shrine, fourteen of them ‘as private citizens’, in order to avoid the constitutional issue of the separation of the state and religion. Two ministers, however, were sufficiently hawkish to announce that their visits to Yasukuni were in the capacity of public officials. Objections to government officials’ visits to Yasukuni have been raised by many sectors of society, but in particular they have come from one most unexpected corner. On 15 August 1988, on the anniversary of the end of the Second World War, over a hundred relatives of the war dead enshrined at Yasukuni, organised by the National Alliance for Peace of Relatives of War Dead (Heiwa Izoku-

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kai Zenkoku Renraku-kai), marched in Tokyo with the slogan, ‘Don’t glorify war; Stop official visits to Yasukuni Shrine’. Even right-wing ultra-conservatives riding around in vans blaring out the national anthem were, according to newspapers, respectful of these marchers. In addition to the objections on constitutional basis, visits of government officials to Yasukuni are also opposed, as we saw, by Japan’s neighbours, who were victims of the last war. They, particularly China, see government officials’ visits to Yasukuni as Japan’s attempt to legitimate the war and acts done in the name of the war by the Japanese military, such as the Nanking Massacre. It is probably because of this problematic nature of Yasukuni that no foreign head of state ever visits it, whereas visits to the tombs of unknown soldiers in other countries are regularly scheduled events and a way of paying respect to the country visited. Thus three issues overlay one another with respect to Yasukuni Shrine. First, there is the popular disdain of Yasukuni as a symbol of the patriotism which led Japan to disaster and as a means to legitimate an illegitimate war. Second, there is the issue of the constitutional separation of religion and the state, which is covertly and overtly violated by government high officials visiting the shrine. Third, there is the delicate question of international politics, where Japan’s Asian neighbours who suffered untold sufferings in the last war watch with the eyes of a hawk for any signs of a resurgence of militarism in Japan (Futaba and Umehara 1976). Public rituals Public rituals are an effective means of fostering and bolstering nationalism. Every nation takes advantage of seasonal or cyclical rituals for this purpose. National rituals are important for calling forth a sense of belonging to a nation and oneness with the state. The coronation of a king or a queen (Cannadine 1983) is an obvious example of an occasion when a whole nation is expected to participate in the celebration of a national rite of passage. In the United States, the presidential inauguration, which takes place every four years, rivals a coronation if only in the amount of money spent. Anzac Day in Australia (Kapferer 1988), Remembrance Day and Independence Day in Israel (Handelman 1990) are also examples of rituals of national and nationalistic import.

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We saw above how the school graduation ceremony is being used by the Japanese government to promote patriotism, loyalty and nationalism through the forced adoption of the Japanese flag and the national anthem. As this case illustrates, in Japan, as long as state rituals are associated with the imperial institution, they create problems, are divisive and provoke anxiety. A good example is the funeral of the last emperor. As the visit by government officials to Yasukuni Shrine illustrates, debate about the appropriateness of Emperor Showa’s funeral is often couched in terms of the constitutional separation of the state and religion (Sasagawa 1989). In short, controversy was concerned with whether or not the funeral, which involved Shinto rites, could be sponsored by the government. As a result of this controversy, the funeral was divided into two parts, the first half being state-sponsored and entirely secular, and the second half involving Shinto rites and funded by the imperial household’s own budget. This government concession turned out to be pure tatemae, and only thinly disguised Shinto involvement in the funeral, for the two parts were indivisible, and all participants had to attend both. Members of the Japan Socialist Party, who wished to attend only the secular part, eventually had to attend from the beginning to the end. As for the coronation of the new emperor, citizens groups raised objections to the ceremony, held in November 1990. The National Conference to Guard against the Erosion of Separation of the State and Religion (Seikyo Bunri no Shingai o Kanshi suru Zenkoku Kaigi) passed a resolution objecting to the coronation and began signature drives in September 1989 to present to the parliament. While the issue in terms of tatemae is the constitutional requirement of separation of the state and religion, as a honne agenda, these groups are attempting to limit the role of the imperial institution in fostering a nationalistic and patriotic spirit in Japan.

CONCLUSION All these cases, whether it be Emperor Showa’s funeral, Emperor Akihito’s coronation, or government officials’ visits to Yasukuni, point to the equivocal and controversial nature of major national symbols and institutions for integrating the nation and defining the national identity.

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Japan lacks physical symbols of strong emotive content which unequivocally unify the country and are accepted universally. All the major symbols discussed inhere divisiveness. Problems arise with these symbols because what is symbolised by them is the legitimacy of war which Japanese reject and moreover renounce in their constitution. What they reject and renounce are the possibility of turning Japan into a battlefield and dying in the name of the emperor and the state, as well as the possibility of causing war either at home or abroad. Since all the major symbols of the nation are ‘tainted’ in this respect, and are deeply implicated in having legitimated the war efforts which most Japanese now reject, it is difficult to use these symbols as a means of unifying the country and calling forth people’s patriotism. Indeed, these symbols have the potential to cause the opposite effect of turning people against the state. It is in the absence of major symbols which can serve to define cultural identity, express national unity and demonstrate national pride that Nihonjinron comes in as a convenient substitute. Nihonjinron is not suggested here as a 100 per cent functional substitute, since Nihonjinron, as a discourse, lacks the strong emotional content which the national flag and other physical symbols have. Let us examine the relationship between the discourse of nationalism and national symbols, which form a continuum in terms of the amount of narrative content on the one hand and emotional content on the other. These two variables are negatively correlated. At one end are symbols with a minimum of descriptive or discursive contents, such as the flag; at the other end is the Nihonjinron literature, which defines in discourse national and cultural identity. Somewhere in the middle are national symbols with some discursive elements, such as the national anthem which in a few terse lines tries to inform of the distilled essence of nationalism. Rituals, though usually lacking in extensive narrative content, do provide some descriptive meaning in the speeches which usually go with them. Nihonjinron is strong precisely where symbols are weak, namely it gives explicit explanation as to what national identity consists of and why one should be proud of one’s nation. In so far as emotional commitment and hortative content are concerned, physical symbols, monuments and rituals are as strong as discourses are weak. They conjure up emotional identification with the nation and motivate citizens to be patriotic with few words or without words at all. Some discourses of nationalism, such as

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Hitler’s Mein Kampf, Mao’s Red Book, or Kokutai no Hongi can bring out emotion; but most of them lack the powerfully emotional force which symbolic forms of nationalism have. In the absence of major national and nationalistic symbols which unequivocally unify the Japanese nation, Nihonjinron, as a discourse on nationalism, can substitute to the extent that these symbols have discursive functions, both descriptive and hortative, and to the extent that Nihonjinron can arouse readers emotionally as physical symbols do. It is, in part, in this relative symbolic vacuum that Nihonjinron has entered the arena of nationalism as a means of defining Japan’s new identity, unblemished by past symbols. The convenience of Nihonjinron is that its contents can be readily altered. The Nihonjinron of the war years is not the same as that of the 1980s. Its contents have been altered. Yet discursive means of national identification live on, and have gained an importance they never had before. Flexibility allows different contents to be put into the discourse. In the history of Nihonjinron, from time to time, contents differed radically. In fact, they have turned around completely since the last war. The wartime Nihonjinron was, needless to say, dominated by state-sponsored, emperor-centered ideology, illustrated by the aforementioned Kokutai no Hongi drafted by the Ministry of Education. The postwar Nihonjinron, while still discoursing on Japan’s uniqueness, totally obliterated the imperial institution from its literature. This flexibility is absent in physical symbols. No doubt symbols need to be interpreted and can be given new meaning, and this is done discursively. However, interpretation of a flag or a monument cannot vary a great deal. It remains within fairly narrowly prescribed parameters, within which history can assign different meaning at different times. Moreover, even if the meaning is altered, the mental association of specific physical symbols with the past cannot be erased. This ‘substitution’ of nationalistic symbols with Nihonjinron in effect, while rejecting the ideology directly related to war, allows continuity of nationalistic ideology. What is common to the wartime Nihonjinron and the postwar neo-Nihonjinron is that both rely heavily on primordial sentiments inherent in the presumed ‘ethnic essence’ of the Japanese—blood, purity of race, language, mystique— which are the basic ‘stuff’ of Nihonjinron, pre- and post-war. For example, the idea of the Japanese people being homogeneous and

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Japanese culture being pure and unique was the very basis of the wartime nationalistic ideology, and is repeated in the post-war Nihonjinron. There are more concrete carryovers in the content of Nihonjinron from the wartime. For example, the familial basis of the society, argued by Murakami, Kumon and Sato (1979), in the postwar neoNihonjinron mirrors the wartime argument, with the emperor as the father figure of a nation conceived as a family, as Kawashima (1950, 1957) demonstrates so persuasively. The notion that Japanese spiritualism can win over western material-ism, used as propaganda during the last war to cover up for the paucity of war materials, is very much alive now. The notion that Japan is the best nation in the world, now prominently argued by ideologues of Nihonjinron, was, of course, part and parcel of the wartime Nihonjinron. What contemporary Nihonjinron basically does is to strip wartime Nihonjinron of its imperial elements, and re-dress it in a language which is devoid of war and militarism. This ‘symbolic vacuum’ hypothesis is not a complete and adequate explanation for the current popularity of Nihonjinron. I have discussed other reasons elsewhere (Befu 1980, 1983, 1984, 1987). Nor am I arguing that Nihonjinron entirely or adequately replaces symbols of nationalism in Japan. But much of the popularity of Nihonjinron can be explained by the fact that Japan is groping for more adequate, unifying symbols.

REFERENCES Anzu Motohiko (1972) Kokki no Rekishi [History of the National Flag], Tokyo: Ofusha. Befu Harumi (1980) ‘The group model of Japanese society: a critique’, Social Analysis, No. 5/6 (special issue: Japanese Society: Reappraisals and New Directions): 29–49. —— (1983) ‘Internationalization of Japan and Nihon bunkaron’, in Mannari Hiroshi and Harumi Befu (eds) The Challenge of Japan’s Internationalization: Organization and Culture, Nishinomiya and Tokyo: Kwansei Gakuin University and Kodansha International: 232–66. —— (1984) ‘Civilization and culture: Japan in search of identity’, Senri Ethnological Studies, No. 16 (special issue: Japanese civilization in the modern world: life and society, (eds) Umesao T., H.Befu and J.Kreiner): 59–75. —— (1987) Ideorogii to shite no Nihon Bunkaron [Nihonjinron as Ideology], Tokyo: Shiso no Kagakusha.

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Benedict, Ruth (1946) The Chrysanthemum and the Sword, Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Cannadine, David (1983) ‘The context, performance and meaning of ritual: The British monarchy and the “invention of tradition”, c. 1820–1977’ in Eric J.Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds) The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 101–64. Chung In-Wha (1987) ‘Soru no Atsui Natsu’ [A Hot Summer in Seoul], Shokun (September issue): 104–11. Eto Jun and Kobori Keichiro (eds) (1986) Yasukuni Ronshu [Essays on Yasukuni] Tokyo: Nihon Kyobunsha. Fujitani Takashi (1988) Japan’s Modern National Ceremonies: A Historical Ethnography, 1868–1912. Doctoral dissertation (History). Berkeley: University of California. Futaba Kenko and Umehara Masaki (eds) (1976) Tennosei to Yasukuni [The Emperor System and Yasukuni], Tokyo: Gendai Shokan. Handelman, Don (1990) Models and Mirrors: Towards an Anthropology of Public Events, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hiro Sachiya and Yamamoto Shichihei (1986) ‘Yasukuni Shrine and the Japanese Spirit World’, Japan Echo, Vol. XIII, No. 2: 73–80. Kamiya Antonio (1987) ‘Nationalism: Is Japan Turning to Right?’, Intersect, Vol. 3, No. 2: 6–7, 10–11. Kapferer, Bruce (1988) Legends of People, Myths of State, Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution. Kato Shuichi (1976) Nihonjin to wa Nanika [Who are the Japanese People?], Tokyo: Kodansha. Kawashima Takenori (1950) Nihon Shakai no Kazoku-teki Kosei [The Familistic Structure of Japanese Society], Tokyo: Nihon Hyoronsha. —— (1957) Ideorogii to shite no Kazoku Seido [The Family System as an Ideology], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Kogawa Tetsuo (1988) ‘Gaiatsu Seiji no Tasogare to Yasukuni’ [Dusk in pressure politics and Yasukuni], Sekai, October: 316–21. Murakami Yasusuke, Kumon Shunpei and Sato Seizaburo (1979) Bunmei to shite no Ie Shakai [Ie Society as a Civilization], Tokyo: Chuokoron sha. National Diet Library . Research and Legislative Reference Department (1976) Yasukuni Jinja Mondai Shiryoshu [Materials on the Yasukuni Shrine problem], Tokyo: National Diet Library. Noda Masaaki (1988) ‘Kanashii Shocho—Okinawa to Hinomaru’ [A sad symbol—Okinawa and the Japanese flag], Shokun, March: 252–76. Oe Shinobu (1984) Yasukuni Jinja [Yasukuni Shrine], Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Sasagawa Norikatsu (1989) ‘Gikai-sei Minshu Shugi to Shocho Tennosei’ [Parliamentary democracy and the symbolic emperor system], Sekai, January: 131–41. Sekai (1988) ‘Hinomaru “100%” no naka de’ [In the midst of 100% flag raising], Sekai, May: 208–9. Shimojima Tetsuro (1984) Painukaji no Fuku Hi—Okinawa Yomitan Mura Shudan Jiketsu [The day southerly wind blows—Mass suicide in Yomitan Village, Okinawa], Tokyo: Doshinsha.

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—— (1988) ‘Sanju-Hachi-Nen-Kan Bokura wa Nani o Shiteita no daro— “Hinomaru Yakisute Jiken” no Oku ni aru Mono’ [For 38 years what have we been doing? What is behind the ‘Japanese flag-burning incident’], Shokun, March: 241–51. Sugiyama Kyoshiro (1986) ‘Facts and Fallacies about Yasukuni Shrine’, Japan Echo, Vol. XIII, No. 2: 69–72. Yamazumi Masaki (1989) Asahi Shinbun, 8 June, US satellite edition.

Chapter 3

Rivers in Tokyo A mesological glimpse Augustin Berque

INTRODUCTION The theme of amenity—mainly embodied as urban amenities— will probably remain as a major ideological trend of the present fin de siècle in Japan, together with post-modernism. Both trends have in common a hedonistic exaltation of the senses. This is quite extraneous to instrumental rationality (Zweckrational) and the teleology of profit, which have dominated the evolution of Japanese cities since the High Growth era. Yet the question here is not to augur whether beauty and pleasure will take precedence over efficiency and benefit in Japanese town planning in the next millenium. What is at stake is the conceptual problem which amenity poses, in that it cannot be reduced to either a mere object or a mere subjective representation. Amenities are both material equipment and ways of perceiving this equipment. These two aspects are integrated, in reality, by dint of certain practices, which are proper to a given milieu, that is, historically and geographically defined. But the fact is that such integration proves quite often rebellious to modern analytical means (including both instrumental and conceptual ones), in as much as these means are based on the touchstone of modernity: the distinction between subject and object. Hence arises a disassociation between the approach of the engineer and that of the artist, the result of which is a juxtaposition or superposition of heterogeneous urban elements (e.g. a functional expressway stepping over a decorated Nihonbashi).

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It is here advocated that the amenity of a city cannot be properly dealt with if one does not conceive it in terms of mesological rationality. Such a rationality would acknowledge the ambivalence of any milieu—milieu being defined as the relationship of a society with space and nature—and, more precisely, the ambivalence of the sense of any milieu; a sense both physical and phenomenal, ecological and symbolical, which I have proposed to call mediance (Berque 1986). Mediance is both the objective tendency (the evolutional trend of a milieu), the sensus communis (overlapping the distinction between individual and group, mind and body, object and subject) and the subjective significance which are proper to a given milieu. Needless to say, such views could not have developed if not in the wake of concepts like Stimmung (Simmel 1913), ‘the social construction of reality’ (Berger and Luckmann 1966), habitus (Bourdieu 1980), and some other conceptions broadly related to phenomenology. But it must be added that mesology (understood as the study of milieux) is, by definition, more concerned with ecological facts than is ordinarily the case in such conceptions (which mainly deal with social and psychological facts). In this perspective, reality is not only a social construct, it is a medial construct: that is, something which arises from the interrelationship of culture and nature. The following is an attempt to show the mesological rationale of some urban realities in present-day Tokyo.

THE NATURAL AND THE ARTIFICIAL The Maison Franco-Japonaise (Nichi-Futsu Kaikan), at the top of the knoll of Surugadai, overlooks Kanda-gawa from a ground height of about 100 feet. The river flows at the bottom of a winding gorge, which, near Ochanomizu Bridge, bears the literary name of Meikei— the Vale of Tea—a double allusion to a classical Chinese landscape and to an episode of Shogun Hidetada’s reign (1605–23). The northern side of the gorge is afforested with various species of trees, and shrills all summer through with the chirrups of cicadas. Maples in autumn, tangerine trees in winter, cherry trees and rape for the springtime…the whole cycle of natural seasons is here more than represented: it is made sensible, and even pressing. Does not the river (kawa), to begin with, embody this presence of nature in the heart of

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the city? Of what use would it be, after all, to remind people that almost everything here is owed to the work of man—the groves (which were planted), the gorge (which was dug out at the beginning of Edo era), the river (which in spite of its name, Kanda-gawa, is but a canal which diverted the ancient Hirakawa)? As a matter of fact, this constructed nature does not only appear as natural to the eyes of the townspeople, that is on the plane of representations; it is also to some degree natural on an ecological plane, as a biotope, which, year after year, reconstitutes itself here and the spontaneity of which is vigorously asserted by the cicadas. Thus, at Ochanomizu, history reestablished nature and culture into a consubstantial relationship which man had only momentarily severed. An always moving relationship indeed, for the tension between its two terms never vanishes. Have the nuisances of the city polluted the Kanda, the rank and opaque waters of which do not sustain any other traffic than, from time to time, a rubbish barge? This ecological and economical distress is more than compensated by the romantic image which Minami Kosetsu’s hit song, Kanda-gawa, instituted in the early seventies. And this image is no decoy: it has, among hundreds of other factors, induced the present vogue of river amenities, and consequently a series of measures for making rivers healthier and more attractive, which have already borne quite appreciable ecological and aesthetic results. This is typically a mesological phenomenon: a spiral relationship in which metaphor and causality, the mythical and the physical, feed each other. For all that, is nature reduced to a mere ingredient in a process which would, anyway, be dominated in the last analysis by man’s action and passions? This would be too easily said. Society (at this juncture, the technical services of Tokyo municipal government) must in fact assign considerable means to the prevention of flood hazards, the potential scale of which is continuously rising because of ground impermeabilisation1 (which increases overland flow rates and consequently makes floods more sudden and more violent) and because of the building of houses in flood plains (which were traditionally avoided by human settlements). In both cases, the prime cause is indeed urbanisation, that is man’s action. But this action has released natural processes of an unexpected scale, in the face of which the countermeasures of society always remain one stage behind. For instance, a huge underground outlet is presently being bored under the northern side of Ochanomizu

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gorge. This will considerably alleviate upstream flood hazards. But if, technically speaking, such equipment is no problem for the present society, from the point of view of the budget, they are so unwieldy as to be constantly belated or reduced in size, which entails a chronic insufficiency when confronting an occasional outburst of natural forces. This example shows that it is society’s incapacity to control itself (that is to say, to regulate urbanisation) which prevents it from controlling nature. Thus is perpetuated the creative tension which, between the two theoretical poles of nature and culture, makes milieux historically evolve. The fact that, physically, nature is ceaselessly being transformed by man and thus, in principle, receding in front of culture, does not in the least belittle the fact that, mesologically, nature and culture indefinitely recompose each other into a new equilibrium.

SIGNIFICATION AND SENSE This perpetual recomposition implies two things. One is that—as we have just had a glimpse of—that which has been built by culture tends to return to nature in one way or another: through the inveterate nature of habits, the release of new natural processes, the regeneration of secondary biotopes, and so on. The other is that, on the plane of significance, society strives to retrieve nature through culture itself, that is by way of various representations of nature. From a medial point of view, such representations involve the risk of developing into self-sufficient rhetorical constructs, aloof and astray from any ecological or even technical sense; the result of which is an impairing of mediance—exactly the opposite of what environmental design should be seeking. The rivers of Tokyo show many instances of such a risk. This is the case of Kanda-gawa in its middle course, where it runs along the scarp of Mejiro-dai. The scarp has been designed into a park, Edogawa koen. This park bears witness to the well-known Japanese mastery of garden art, both in its formal composition and in the numerous historical allusions which refer this composition to the past of the city. An artificial brooklet evokes an ancient outlet of the river Kanda Josui which, among others, irrigated the famous garden Korakuen. Several placards copiously detail these historical memories. In short, diverse languages concur here in giving to the

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park an explicit significance, that of taking root in nature and history. But, in fact, this rhetoric is severed from the local mediance on two planes. First, a technical and hydrological plane: the Kanda, owing to flood prevention works, flows here at the bottom of a trench with vertical concrete walls nearly 30 feet high. Second, a socio-cultural plane: the park bears no relationship to an old sanctuary dedicated to the god of water, Sui-jinja, which was built there in Matsuo Basho’s time, when Kanda Josui was dug. The shrine and its remarkable site are neglected, and their approach is disfigured by some shanties and a small car park. Owing to this double discrepancy (both ecological and symbolical), the designers of Edogawa koen did not only fail to vivify the genius loci; their studied rhetoric only makes more evident a fundamental loss of sense—a mistranslation of mediance, as it were. It would not have been impossible, though, to find some ways to restore the link which had been lost, here, between the river and the city through something like a stepped bank. Further upstream, in Suginami ward, the Kanda shows another instance of this kind of disassociation. A double promenade has been designed, one on each side of the river: two asphalted tracks, with a metal guard rail to the waterside (or, more exactly, to the side of the concrete trench at the bottom of which runs the indigent low-water flow of the Kanda).2 This design only makes more tangible the mesological disparagement which has here disjoined technical constraints (that is the function of evacuating floods, which has imposed overdigging and facing the riverbed with concrete walls and base) from traditional representations and uses of the river. As a matter of fact, the disassociation—the loss of mediance—is less pronounced where such promenades have not been designed: houses and small gardens directly edge the river, and from place to place a futon aired on a balcony, or a branch of tangerine encroaching on the river wall, maintain between the city and the river a sensible continuity—which the aforementioned promenades, contrary to their explicit purpose, have served only to undo a little more. Be the matter technical, or aesthetical, or ecological, or related to any other of the multiple dimensions of a milieu, the first condition for making the most of a local mediance is to abstract as little as possible from its context the dimension one is working on; that is, to keep it in a certain relationship with the other dimensions of the concerned milieu. As the example of Edogawa koen suggested, this

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condition is particularly necessary when environmental design aims precisely at giving sense to a place; for, in such matters, there is nothing more insignificant than a significance not underlain with a certain emotion of the senses and, beyond, with a certain ecological functionality.

GARDENS AND LANDSCAPES Here arises another problem: to prevent environmental design degenerating into a purely formal game is one thing; but is not play, indeed, an outstanding means—for the child as well as for young animals—for learning the functions which are necessary to life, while sparing the substance of these functions, that is by simulating only their appearance? We also know the rising importance of simulation in our technological civilisation, be it for learning how to pilot a plane or for designing a road. Hence the following question: what happens to the sense of milieu, with its landscape expressions, when one crosses this technological tendency with the Japanese tradition of garden making, especially the tradition of mitate (landscape allusion, evocation of famous sceneries)? May we consider that in such case a formal elaboration (the garden) not only establishes the matrices of a virtual substance (nature) but, to some degree, even gives rise to this substance? From a positivistic point of view, such an eventuality cannot but be discarded as magic. From a mesological point of view, we have to understand how temporal forms (rituals, habits…) can commute into spatial forms (objects, environment…) and vice versa, as far as a given mediance establishes regular commutative patterns between the phenomenal matrices and the physical imprints of a landscape (i.e. regular sets of metonymies and metaphors between the material and immaterial traits of this landscape) (Berque 1987a; 1987b). One can, for example, raise such a question when seeing how Shakujii-gawa has been designed near Otonashibashi. The real course of the river has been diverted underground, leaving vacant the former riverbed, which has been arranged into the shape of a brooklet: half for dabbling in as in a real stream; half for appreciating various ancient-style decors (a bridge, a little boat, a tiny mill), like a fake river in a real garden. In front of such scenery, one may also think that everything here smacks of simulacrum and regret that it was not, rather, the real Shakujiigawa which had been more soberly and

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more ecologically reshaped. One may also think, when seeing swarms of children playing and splashing around here, that they are better than in front of the video. And lastly, one can reckon that they acquire in that way the aesthetic schemata which, all their life long, will make them feel for nature and be satisfied with it, where the stranger, formed after other matrices, will only long after the ‘true’ nature. Be that as it may, the first character of such an environmental design is its limitation. What is at hand is a garden, not a landscape. Landscaping the rivers of Tokyo, particularly the Sumida (which was once to Edo what the Seine is to Paris), is a demiurgic task, considering the sordid state into which it has degenerated from an aesthetical and ecological point of view. The Sumida cannot generally be seen from its banks, due to the concrete walls which have been built to provide against storm tides. Indeed it does not stink so violently as it used to do in the sixties, but its water is still far from alluring, either to the fish or to the promenader’s reverie. Seen from a boat it is but a dismal channel between two walls. Some beautifying is now being done, which endeavours to replace these walls with lower quays or more gently sloping levees, furnished with grass and reeds. For the moment, only a little part of the riverside (the approaches of Sakurabashi) has been reshaped that way. Several decades at least will be necessary for landscaping the whole course, because real estate structures—private property reaches the brink of the water —make it very difficult to acquire the land which is necessary for replacing ‘razor dikes’ (vertical concrete walls) with ‘superdikes’ (sloping levees, which take much more room). Here again, it is because society does not conveniently manage one of its institutions (the system of land tenure) that the city is abstracted from nature, or, in other words, that the separation between culture and nature which the razor dikes (among other factors) had produced is perpetuated, notwithstanding that these walls do not protect the city from natural hazards as well as large levees would. This example suggests, a contrario, that caring for mediance might be a wiser form of reason, on the whole, than the prevailing economic and instrumental rationality.3

NOTES 1

Due to the extension of roofs, roads, etc. which replace natural permeable ground.

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The insufficiency of the flow in low water is also due to urbanisation: soil impermeabilisation and underground conduits prevent ground water from being normally supplied. The fieldwork from which this chapter originates was done during the three year cooperative programme (1986–8) of which I was in charge at the Maison Franco-Japonaise, ‘La qualité de l’environnement urbain au Japan’. Other results and a synthesis of the programme have been published in A.Berque (ed.) (1987c).

REFERENCES AMR (Amenity Meeting Room) (1984) Amenity o kangaeru (Thinking about Amenity), Tokyo: Miraisha. Berger, Peter and Luckmann, Thomas (1966) The Social Construction of Reality (French transl.: La Construction sociale de la réalité, Paris: Méridiens). Berque, Augustin (1986) Le Sauvage et l’artifice. Les Japonais devant la nature, Gallimard, Paris (Japanese transl.: Fudo no Nihon, Chikuma, Tokyo, 1988). —— (ed.) (1987a) ‘Milieu et motivation paysagère’, L’Espace géographique, XVI: 241–50. —— (ed.) (1987b) La Qualité de la Ville. Urbanité francaise, urbanité nippone. Tokyo: Maison Franco-Japonaise. —— (ed.) (1987c) La Maîtraise de la Ville. Urbanité francaise, urbanité nippone, II. Paris: Editions de L’Ecole des hautes études en sciences sociales. Bourdieu, Pierre (1980) Le Sens pratique, Paris: Ed. de Minuit. Nihon Toshi Keikaku Gakkai (1987) Amenity toshi e no michi (The Road towards Amenity Cities), Tokyo: Gyosei. Simmel, Georg (1913) Philosophie der Landschaft, in: Das Individuum und die Freiheit, Wagenbach, Berlin 1 984: 130–9. Takahashi Yutaka (1988) Toshi to mizu (City and Water), Tokyo: Iwanami.

Chapter 4

Individualism and individuality Entry into a social world1 Joy Hendry

INTRODUCTION Individualism and individuality are notions sugared with a heady dose of western ‘freedom’ in a Japanese view. Alone, and without further modification, they probably stand for more ideology than any other western concepts which have been introduced into Japanese ways of thinking. Opposed to allegedly Japanese notions of ‘groupism’ and ‘collectivity’, they have been evoked to explain all manner of differences between ‘the Japanese’ and a wide variety of western peoples, often enough presented as virtually indistinguishable from each other. In recent years, attempts are being made in the rhetoric of educational reform to introduce more opportunities for Japanese children to develop their individual qualities, partly as a response to western criticism of the Japanese system, although the extent to which such words will bring about practical change is far from clear. This chapter will attempt to disentangle some of the rhetoric and practical application of notions of individualism and collectivity, both in Japan and, more briefly, elsewhere. It will examine in some detail the stage in the Japanese life cycle when such notions are formed, cognitively if not linguistically, and it will try to place the findings in a context of wider anthropological theory which should help to break down Japanese/western dichotomies. I hope to show that much of the ideology is based on fairly fundamental misinterpretations of the concepts under consideration, both by Japanese of the western notions, and by western commentators of the Japanese situation.

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In part, the exercise is a plea for a move away from the oversimple classification of Japanese society, as, for example, collectivistic, as opposed to individualistic; or a ‘consensus’ society, giving rise to ‘consensus studies’, which emphasise the high value attached to achieving a consensus for a decision, as opposed to ‘conflict studies’, which in reaction turn their attention to examples of discord.2 In any society, there will be both ways to express conflict and ways of dealing with it (cf. Roberts 1979). The argument will emphasise that in any society, too, there are constraints, and areas of freedom and choice, whichever of these is presented as the ideal. In other words, it will argue not only for the individuality of the Japanese in a society where an ideal is to subject that individuality to the needs of the group; it will also note in passing that those who place individual freedom on an ideal pedestal seek also to subject their individual wills to the constraints of interaction with others.

INDIVIDUALISM AND INDIVIDUALITY: A DISTINCTION Much ink has been spilled on the development of the individual, and on the corresponding notion of individualism, in the western world. For the purposes of this chapter, it is unnecessary to review the literature on this vast subject, but it is important to make a clear distinction between individualism, with its connotations of self-assertion and individual rights, and individuality, or the opportunity for an individual to develop his or her own particular talents or character. The former I see as having arisen in many societies in response to increasing complexity and anomie, not necessarily as a measure of the sophistication or civilisation of that society, as some would have it, but perhaps better described as a strategy for survival. The latter exists, not necessarily with the former, in any society which recognises individual differences and qualities. In the Japanese case, I hope to argue that the former is ideally quite unnecessary and superfluous, whereas the latter is by no means ignored. The Japanese language makes a clear distinction between the two concepts, the former (kojinshugi) a notion with negative connotations implying selfishness and immaturity, the latter (kosei) an idealised notion which is much drawn upon in advertising and

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modern literature. In this complex society, apparently with as much anonymity, if not anomie, as other complex societies throughout the world, there is evidently some mechanism for avoiding the need for selfish assertion. My research on the means and methods of child rearing has thrown considerable light on this seeming paradox. The following section will provide some ethnographic detail in preparation for further analysis.

A CHILD-CENTRED WORLD3 First of all, small children are made much of in Japan. The early years are thought to be so important that where possible babies are afforded the individual attentions of one adult for, if necessary, twenty-four hours a day. Highly educated mothers will give up their careers to dedicate themselves to a task which they see as ‘professional’, or a grandparent will be relieved from all other family duties to attend to the newest member. There are day nurseries, ready to care for children whose families are unable to cope, but they are thought to be less than ideal, at least for the early ‘suckling’ period.4 ‘The soul of the three-year-old lasts till a hundred’, runs the saying, and child specialists are fond of reminding parents that 80 per cent of a child’s brain cells are formed by that time. The newborn babe is like a white sheet, and adults should take care to make the right impressions upon it.5 During this early period, a child should be enveloped in a secure and harmonious environment. Ideally, it should remain in its own home in close contact with its caretakers, who should try to anticipate its every need. Many commentators have noted that Japanese babies are rarely left to cry, and even when they start to move around, they are usually accompanied as much as possible by adult caretakers. A tiny child is often strapped to someone’s back, or, more recently, front, for its naps, and an adult will usually lie down beside it at bedtime until it falls asleep. Where possible the child should not be crossed, and great efforts are made positively to divert a child from an activity which is dirty or dangerous, rather than issuing it with negative injunctions. There are, of course, lapses in the programme, as holes in the paper walls will attest, but on the whole Japanese caretakers are so successful at remaining positive with their small charges that western observers often describe these children as totally indulged. This, in

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my view, is a mistake, for much of the time children are being carefully trained and taught to carry out a whole range of mundane tasks, such as eating, washing, dressing and toilet training, in a way which their parents see as appropriate, by patient demonstration and repetition. If children fail at first to catch on to the task, they are simply encouraged to try again, and again, and again…until it becomes a routine for them.6 In this early stage a clear distinction is being taught between the uchi or inside of the house, together with the people who belong there, and the soto or outside world. In ritual ways, such as the removal of shoes and the pronunciation of fixed phrases,7 the spatial distinction is established, and human beings are assigned to inside and outside roles according to the way they are received and addressed. Efforts are made to associate the inside with security and safety. This is opposed to the outside, where danger may lurk, and caretakers build up the opposition by attributing any negative sanctions, or threats of the same, to outside agents such as demons, ghosts, big dogs, or even foreigners.8 All this individual attention is reflected in the expectation of adults that a child will learn early to reply to its personal name. Other members of the family tend to have an elusive knack of being absorbed by their roles, so that mothers and fathers even address themselves as such, as do grandparents. Children only a little older than the baby are addressed as ‘big brother’ and ‘big sister’, though their names may be included too, but the baby is addressed over and over by its name, its personal name, and it is a time of some rejoicing when it learns to reply ‘hai’ (yes) in recognition that this word applies to itself. As the child begins to play with other children, perhaps its cousins and neighbours, it begins to learn about interpersonal relations. It is always clear which children in a group are older and which younger, and the older ones are encouraged to give in to the younger ones as proof of their greater understanding and experience. This is the time when the child must learn not to be selfish (wagamama), and mothers reason with their children that they must ‘lend’ their toys to their friends. Children are encouraged to put themselves in the position of others and imagine how they would feel, and it is a measure of maturity, of being a big brother or sister, when a child can be benevolent towards another. The child thus learns to feel for others through understanding itself, and to mete out some of the indulgence it has itself received.

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For a few years, then, the child will play with siblings and neighbours, where possible outside as well as in, and small children are generally allowed to play in the neighbourhood from as early as two and a half years of age if the environment is relatively safe. On the whole in Japan, neighbours know one another, and they will watch informally over any children who happen to be in the near vicinity. Adults in passing cars will slow down for children playing, and shopkeepers will attend to them most graciously, even if they have only a few yen to spend. The child thus builds up a new set of ‘inside’ personal relations, neighbours who live nearby and who know well who they are.

AN INTRODUCTION TO GROUP IDENTITY Informal face-to-face interaction gives way at the age of four or five, at the latest, to the institutionalised group life of kindergarten or day nursery. The child now finds itself just one among up to forty peers, all equally entitled to the teacher’s attention. Here, too, efforts are made to create a congenial and harmonious environment, and children are expected to have fun and enjoy themselves. Many activities are carried out together, and there is much corporate and cooperative activity. Some children cry for a while and refuse to join in, but they find themselves left outside with little to do. The teacher is busy making life fun for the class as a whole and, though she will encourage a reluctant child to join in, she will make little fuss. The outsider is dubbed okashii (strange, peculiar) and other children may laugh at one who cries. This is consistent with a sanction threatened by mothers and other caretakers that people will laugh at a child who fails to comply. It also reinforces the notion that security and satisfaction is on the inside, joining in with the new uchi group of fellow kindergarteners, and few children stand outside for long.9 They soon realise that there is little choice about cooperating with the group, that the way to gain attention and benefit personally is to be an active participant. They thus learn to have an identity appropriate for group activities in which they subject their individual needs to those of the group as a whole. Contrary to the expectations of some western observers, however, this does not mean that they lose their individuality.

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First of all, for example, each child has its own personal belongings to take care of, similar to those of the others, but inscribed with its own name and subject to its own treatment. Each day, the teacher reads the register, calls each child’s name, and waits for the response, ‘hai’, just as before.10 On entering a child in kindergarten, parents fill in forms about their strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes, friends, siblings and a wealth of other details to help the teacher deal with each individual on the basis of full background knowledge. Messages are carried to and fro daily between the parents and the teacher about the child’s progress, and teachers usually visit the child’s home at least once during each academic year. Parents are also often issued with the names and addresses of all the other children in the class, and there are numerous occasions when the families have an opportunity to meet. The child thus finds itself one of a new uchi group of familiar faces, who gradually become extremely well known to one another, and who may well continue through nine years of compulsory schooling together, although in a big school they may not always remain in the same class. Alongside the group identity which they are learning, they also become well aware of the individual characteristics of their peers, and they learn to think of each other as they cooperate in group endeavour. Internal discipline is generally achieved through the encouragement of peer pressure, a teacher simply playing a pre-lunch tune over and over until the children seat themselves in the appropriate fashion. At first, the hungry ones bustle the others into place, but gradually the fear of keeping everyone waiting is an effective sanction, even for adults.11 Duties within the group usually rotate amongst the members so that each takes a turn to discipline the others, to serve them, and to represent them while the others cooperate, secure in the knowledge that their chance will come round. Thus roles which, taken out of context, could be seen as ‘superior’ or ‘inferior’ are experienced by all, as is the notion of role play itself. Competition within the class is kept to a minimum, with sports day featuring events where individuals run for their class or neighbourhood, and everyone returns home with a medal. Individual effort does not pass unnoticed, however, since children need to know each other’s skills in order to choose their representatives. It is to the benefit of the group as a whole to know and take advantage of each individual’s personal strengths.

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LIFE IN A FACE-TO-FACE GROUP Before a Japanese child even enters school, then, it has learnt how to live within various face-to-face groups: first in the family, next in the neighbourhood, then in the formal situation of the kindergarten or day nursery. It has learnt to pitch in and cooperate, to put its own will second to that of the group as a whole, but to think of the others in the group and take advantage of their skills and strengths as well as offering its own. In such a context there is ideally no need for the self-assertive side of individualism, for it is in the interest of each member of the group to care about the others, who are well known to them, and to encourage them to take advantage of their own individual qualities. It is thus quite possible, on the other hand, to develop a notion of individuality. These principles may well operate in any society which is able to maintain long-term face-to-face groups of interested individuals. I have argued elsewhere that Japan has managed to maintain face-toface groups in many areas of society, and it thus lends itself well to social anthropological analysis (Hendry 1986a: 10–13). In an introductory text to anthropology, Barber (1981) discusses one of the aspects of face-to-face groups, namely the maintenance of order through the use of diffuse sanctions. This is where members of a group put pressure on one another to conform to the norms of the group, since the whole group may suffer if an individual transgresses. She points out that the system works only if everyone identifies with the group and is closely involved in all its activities. She writes, ‘On the one hand it is entirely democratic and egalitarian, on the other it means that people have little choice and must take care to conform to precise expectations’ (1981:88). Barber is writing, in the main, about African societies, but I would like to suggest again that in many ways the benefits of small group interaction have in fact been skilfully maintained in large and important areas of the Japanese population, including some of the most technologically sophisticated. It might, at first sight, seem extraordinary to describe as ‘entirely democratic and egalitarian’ a society whose very language imprisons its members in constant expressions of hierarchy. The activities of the kindergarten class conform pretty closely, however, and the opportunity for advancement shared by peers is by no means confined to this limited age group. A good deal of interpersonal hierarchy in Japanese society generally is based on age and length of service, quite democratic

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principles since all grow up and grow old eventually. Within this formal hierarchical structure, it is my contention that individual characteristics are encouraged and developed, although individual glory may be somewhat subdued. Another characteristic of face-to-face society, where people spend a lot of time with others known well to them, is that of role play. De Vos and Wagatsuma have suggested that Japan’s overall stability, in spite of rapid change, ‘is due in no small part to the manner in which role behaviour within the family has remained relatively satisfying to individual Japanese’ (De Vos 1973:11–12). They advocate that role behaviour becomes a means of self-realisation as opposed to a western emphasis on the concept of a more independent individual. Be this as it may, role play may well contribute to the smooth running of interpersonal relations, particularly within a group context. In the kindergarten, for example, taking a turn at being on duty allows children to experience various roles. They have a turn at bossing the others around, and they have a turn at being bossed around; they have a turn at serving and a turn at being served. Cooperation is thus ensured, since all know that they will have to play each of the roles themselves at some point. This principle operates in other areas of Japanese society, too. In the village or neighbourhood, for example, the fact that houses take it in turns to collect the community funds ensures that most people not only pay, but even thank the person who has come to collect the money for their trouble. In hierarchical relations, too, one defers not to an individual who is intrinsically superior in some way, but to a superior role which one may be called upon to play oneself some day. It is also therefore possible for members of the same company who play hierarchically quite distant roles during the day to drink themselves into oblivion together in the evening. This is, in fact, one of the ways in which they come to know one another as individuals. The same principle was illustrated in a comment made about the psychological orientations of Japanese mother-child relations, suggesting that the mother is not concerned to maintain a superior role of final arbiter (as an American mother may be), but takes pains to develop in the child a conscience that voluntarily administers and controls itself: ‘Her desire is to build character rather than to enforce compliance through outwardly administered constraints’ (Lanham 1966:324). Role play suggests, however, that there is a person behind the mask who is acting out a part, and although there are arguments that in some small-scale societies an individual lives in a ‘multiplicity

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of roles’, rather than developing an individual personality, there is also another argument based on a public/ private distinction. This has been put forward by Charlotte Hardman writing about the Lohorung Rai of Eastern Nepal. She argues that although individuality is stressed in technological modern society, the line between public and private or formal and informal behaviour is not very clear so that a person is quite likely to take some of their public image into the private sphere: Whereas in the West, the clothes, behaviour, work-situation and character chosen by individuals within the public sphere tends to become their ‘image’ so that the individual public personality is carried over into the private sphere, for the Lohorung the public formal image is not chosen but is so well defined by society that it is totally separate from any personality or behaviour which is given free expression in private, intimate relationships. This freedom in informal situations allows for a striking range of personalities. (Hardman 1981:178). In Japan, too, there is a clear distinction between the public face and the private self behind it, between formal behaviour appropriate for particular situations and the informal behaviour allowed in more intimate circles, between uchi and soto, or the tatemae of role playing and the honne of the thoughts behind it. Here, too, public behaviour is often ‘not chosen’ but clearly defined; here, too, surely no one can deny, there is a striking range of individual personalities. Robert Smith has argued a rather similar point in his discussion about the idiosyncracies of personal names in Japan. He notes that ‘a great many personal names and a not inconsiderable number of family names can be rendered with assurance only by the individual, his or her kin and intimate friends’ (1985:88–9).

FREEDOM IN A JAPANESE VIEW Lack of choice was, of course, mentioned in the second half of Barber’s (1981) statement: ‘on the other [hand] it means that people have little choice and must take care to conform to precise expectations’. It will be evident to anyone with experience of Japan that it is important to conform to precise expectations, and many Japanese

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complain about their lack of choice. This is a matter quite closely related to ‘freedom’, that highly prized component of western ideology which would appear to be intrinsically bound up with the rights and dignity of the individual. According to Doi (1973), however, there is considerable difference between this western concept and the ancient Japanese concept of jiyu. Doi argues that the concept of freedom in Japan is a concept of freedom to depend on others, to amaeru, ultimately to behave as one pleases without consideration for others, which is quite different from the western notion of freedom to be independent of others. In the western view, too, the concept includes the idea of freedom to do as one pleases, but it is tempered in this case by the need to ensure that one’s behaviour does not impinge on the freedom of others.12 This distinction imbues the western concept with good qualities, he points out, whereas the traditional Japanese concept involved a trace of criticism, at least in ancient writing. The modern Japanese concept is thus ambiguous, containing elements of both, claims Doi (1973:85). It is seen as rather close to the concept of ‘selfishness’ or wagamama, which is precisely the word often quoted as synonymous with individualism in a Japanese sense. As we have already seen, this is something with which mothers and kindergartens are expected to deal. The word wagamama implies an untrained state, expected of babies and small children, but hardly of a mature adult. On this subject, Walter Edwards (1989:126) has recently made some interesting observations in pointing out that, in a Japanese view: Anyone who asserts he is his own man, complete in himself, is by definition wagamama—selfish, heedless of his interdependence with others, unwilling to recognise and accede to the constraints that social relations invariably entail. In short, like the child who thinks only of himself, he is immature. Edwards thus clearly points out that characteristics which make an American mature are precisely the same as those which are described as immature in Japan. He thus notes also that the classification of Japan as collectivistic and the west as individualistic is a way in which each nation is in fact ‘snubbing’ the other in their own terms.13 Edwards’ argument is part of a more complex interpretation of the trappings of a wedding celebration as a huge statement about the incompleteness of an individual, a demonstration that full

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maturity ‘is achieved only through full recognition and acceptance of the inevitable consequences of one’s incompleteness, of one’s interrelatedness with others’ (1989:129). He also makes an implicit point that Americans are perhaps indeed ‘selfish’ in failing to recognise this indebtedness to others (1989:134). Edwards is also aware of the danger, in focusing on a ritual, of losing sight of the differences between images and reality. He emphasises that as individuals, ‘the Japanese are indeed aware of the selves that stand apart from their social roles and give continuity to the “portfolio of identities” they hold in the larger society’ (1989:126). Robert Smith cites several examples of quite clear expressions of freedom and individuality in Japanese society. The first is in religious practice, relations with the ancestors in particular (Smith 1974:344; cf. Mouer and Sugimoto 1986:199–200), and others have noted the great variety available of responses to illness and misfortune (Ohnuki-Tierney 1984). Another example is in the development of literary, artistic and performing skills14 ‘to an extent not even remotely approached in the United States’ (Smith 1985:103; cf. Reischauer 1977:149–51), a third is how one ‘may legitimately indulge in self-reflection and introspection’ (Smith 1985:102). Smith confirms, nevertheless, that apart from a few noble heroes of non-conformity, the subjects of drama and popular literature, ‘ordinary mortals’ are daily encouraged to endure (gaman suru) and come to terms with the demands of society, ‘and thereby demonstrate neither submissiveness nor passivity, but true maturity’ (Smith 1985:98).

THE VIRTUES OF CHILDHOOD Doi’s argument about freedom is of course part of his wider argument about the importance of the notion of dependence (amae) in Japanese society. His overall argument leaves much to be desired, particularly where he claims that the notion of amae is unique to Japan and thereby explains the Japanese people, but he makes some interesting points. One is to emphasise the value of dependence, rather than independence, another aspect of the opposing values already discussed, and he illustrates the status accorded amae by citing the case of the emperor. The emperor is in a position to expect those around him to make all decisions, deal with problems and run the government, but he still retains

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superior status. He is in fact entirely dependent on those around, ‘no different from a babe in arms, yet his rank is the highest in the land, a fact which is surely proof of the respect accorded infantile dependence in Japan’ (1973:58). In fact it is necessary to temper one’s dependence and use amae carefully, as Doi himself concedes, noting that one should maintain control as a measure of selfhood. Japanese caretakers do emphasise the dangers of the outside world, and the importance of sticking close to them, while at least British and American ones would probably encourage a good deal more independence and adventurousness,15 but they also describe children who fail to learn certain tasks by expected ages as amaeteru. This is a compound verb (contraction of amaete iru), derived from the notion of amae, and like the adjectival form in the expression amaekko, suggests a connotation similar to the English notion of a child being ‘spoilt’. Nevertheless, Doi persists in his idea that ‘the essence of the Japanese experience lies in the period of infancy’ (1973:83). This idea is supported by some rather interesting evidence from studies of Japanese Americans. De Vos, for example, found some striking differences in psychological tests administered to Japanese Americans born in the USA and those who had grown up in Japan and then moved there (1973:xiii). Another study, comparing issei, nisei and sansei (first, second and third generation Japanese Americans, respectively) showed that while sansei were very much like their Caucasian counterparts in many respects, they still seemed to retain their dependency needs and their young mothers still practised many Japanese methods of childcare (Connor 1977:305–6). Mothers probably pass on rather unconsciously to their own children much of the treatment they received when they were small, thus making childcare an aspect of culture relatively impervious to change. Where infancy, itself, takes on the importance it appears to have in Japan it will become correspondingly difficult to change certain basic components of the society at large. I suggest not only that these components are some of the very ones which are incompatible with western individualism, but also that in Japan demands for individuality may be met in quite different ways: first with a strong early individual security, then with the mutual care encouraged in small, long-term face-to-face groups. As Bester, the translator, writes in the introduction to Doi’s book on amae, ‘where amae is so important to the individual, the organisation of society as

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a whole will take corresponding account of the individual’s needs’ (1973:9).

SUMMARY The argument is nicely expressed in a symbolic way by two writers whose observations of Japan were made rather casually. The first was an architect who visited Japan only briefly, but who took an interest in writings about Japanese buildings, particularly shrines and temples. Of these, she commented, it appears that more than elsewhere the buildings are seen not only as beautiful wholes, but made up of individually fashioned pieces of wood, each a work of art in its own right, yet harmonising one with the other to create the complete construction. The fact that each part of the building contributes to the whole does not detract from the individual existence of each, rather it enhances it since they may better be appreciated playing a part in the greater edifice. The second writer was an artist who visited Japan at the turn of the century and commented in a book of paintings by her father: It is in the children that the national artistic and poetic nature of the Japanese people most assuredly finds expression…when watching a group of children, maybe on a fête day, one instinctively compares them with a gallery of pictures, each of which is a masterpiece, painted by an artist whose individuality is clearly expressed therein. (Menpes 1901:137) Like the individually fashioned pieces of wood, and the small artistic masterpieces of the fête day, I would like to argue that personal individuality is and has been clearly evident in practice in Japanese society, whatever may be said at an ideological level. The recent rhetorical nods to western individuality may perhaps make little change, but they could be seen as an attempt to soften the snubbing. Meanwhile, the self-assertive aspect of western individualism, which perhaps correlates with anomie and externally enforced obedience in children, would still seem to have little place in Japan, at either an ideological or a practical level. It would take another chapter to prove it, but I suspect that an examination of American

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practice would show, too, that the ideology of individualism is in practice tempered by some fairly strong expressions of the human need to create bonds of dependence and indebtedness, or, as Plath puts it ‘ways by which we can continue to grow on one another’ (1980:227). This is reminiscent of Doi’s argument that the western concept of freedom ‘never existed outside the world of faith’ (1973:95). In general, anthropological theory has shown that in any society there are notions of the self (see, for example, Carrithers et al. 1985; Heelas and Lock 1981) and the notion of individuality as I have presented it here follows from this, whether it is made into an ideology or not. Where it is, there are also necessarily, for the notion of a society to exist, requirements for that individual to subject him or herself to the constraints of wider social relations. In any particular case the freedom of that individual will be defined according to the society concerned, perhaps freedom to fulfil moral capacities (Watson 1982). In any case individuality is of little avail if there is no surrounding society to appreciate it. As Raum pointed out many years ago in another study of childhood, ‘individuals realise themselves only in society’ (1940:386).

NOTES 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

This chapter is largely based on fieldwork supported by the Japan Foundation. A recent survey of some of the major works which purport to ‘explain’ Japanese society, many of them in these simplistic sorts of ways, is to be found in Kamishima 1990. Further detail on this subject is to be found in Hendry 1986b. About the self in the collectivity, for example, there is a section between pp. 171–4. The early period before a child is weaned is separated linguistically as the ‘suckling period’ (nyujiki). See, for example, the ideas of a former head of the Sony corporation, Ibuka Masaru, who points out all these things in a book entitled Yochien dewa Ososugiru (Kindergarten is too late). This process is characteristic of the Japanese ‘learning’ process more generally. Another example is to be found in Kamata’s (1983:42) description of ‘learning’ on a Toyota assembly line. For further details on the building up of this distinction, see Hendry 1984. As the Vogels commented in 1961, Japanese threats to remove a child from the house if it misbehaves is in contrast to the American punishment

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10

11

12

13

14

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where a child would be more likely to be kept in. Lee (1984) also discussed this opposition between inside and outside extensively. The popularity of an autobiographical book describing the childhood life of a girl who persisted in resisting the pressure to conform (Kuroyanagi 1981) would suggest, however, that many more may have resented the pressure. These customs contrast with those of many British kindergartens, where equipment is held in common for the whole class, and registers are only taken informally so that some children attend for weeks without learning the names of the others. On a kindergarten outing, this principle was well illustrated when a reminder from the headmistress that those who returned late for the bus would keep everyone waiting insured that every single member of the party of four busloads had returned to their seats by ten minutes before departure time! A good current example of the differences is to be found recently in the divergent attitudes to smoking in Japan and in several western countries. The anti-smoking lobby in the west has been so successful in defending the individual’s freedom from smoke that severe restrictions have been imposed on smokers, even in fairly intimate surroundings. In Japan, it is precisely in those intimate surroundings that Japanese smokers feel most free to impose their habit on their closest associates. This ‘snub’ is also accepted by some Japanese social scientists, of course, who subscribe to theories of modernisation which see cooperative behaviour, exemplified in Japanese communities, as a stage preceding one in which individualistic behaviour is predominant. Moon (1989:9 fn.5) not only lists some of these theorists, but also offers an excellent antidote in her study of one such community. There will, of course, be less freedom for many years in the artistic accomplishments being developed by members of the traditional Japanese iemoto, schools in which very precise skills are passed down from teacher to pupil. While out with my own small children in Japan, I noted often that I would translate the warnings of Japanese friends about ‘danger’ (abunai) as ‘be careful’ rather than as ‘that’s dangerous’.

REFERENCES Barber, C.R. (1981) Life Journeys: An Anthropological Primer, Exeter: Wheaton. Carrithers, Michael, Collins, Steven and Lukes, Steven (1985) The Category of the Person: Anthropology, Philosophy, History, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Connor, John (1977) Tradition and Change in Three Generations of Japanese Americans, Chicago: Nelson-Hall. De Vos, George (ed.) (1973) Socialization for Achievement, Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Doi Takeo (1973) The Anatomy of Dependence, trns. John Bester, Tokyo, New York and San Francisco: Kodansha International. Edwards, Walter (1989) Modern Japan Through Its Weddings: Gender, Person and Society in Ritual Perspective, Stanford, California: Stanford University Press. Hardman, Charlotte (1981) ‘The Psychology of Conformity and Selfexpression Among the Lohorung Rai of East Nepal’, in Paul Heelas and Andrew Lock (eds) (see below): 161–80. Heelas, Paul and Lock, Andrew (eds) (1981) Indigenous Psychologies: the Anthropology of the Self, London: Academic Press. Hendry, Joy (1984) ‘Shoes: the Early Learning of an Important Distinction in Japanese Society’, in Gordon Daniels, (ed.) Europe Interprets Japan, Tenterden, Kent: Norbury Publications. —— (1986a) ‘Introduction’ in Joy Hendry and Jonathan Webber (eds) Interpreting Japanese Society, Oxford Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford, Occasional Publication No. 5. —— (1986b) Becoming Japanese, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Ibuka Masaru (1976) Yochien dewa Ososugiru (Kindergarten is Too Late), Tokyo: Goma Books. Kamata Satoshi (1983) Japan in the Passing Lane (An Insider’s Account of Life in a Japanese Auto Factory), London: Allen and Unwin. Kamishima Jiro (1990) ‘Society of Convergence; An Alternative for the Homogeneity Theory’, Japan Foundation Newsletter, Vol. XVII, 3: 1–6. Kuroyanagi Tetsuko (1981) Madogiwa no Tottochan, Tokyo: Kodansha. Lanham, Betty (1966) ‘The Psychological Orientation of the Mother-Child Relationship’ Monumenta Nipponica, 21: 322–33 Lee O-Young (1984) Smaller is Better: Japan’s Mastery of the Miniature, Tokyo, New York and San Francisco: Kodansha International. Menpes, Mortimer (1901) Japan: A Record in Colour, trns. Dorothy Menpes, London: Adam Charles Black. Moon Okpyo (1989) From Paddy Field to Ski Slope: The Revitalisation of Tradition in Japanese Village Life, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Mouer, Ross and Sugimoto Yoshio (1986) Images of Japanese Society, London and New York: K.P.I. Ohnuki-Tierney Emiko (1984) Illness and Culture in Contemporary Japan: an Anthropological View, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Plath, David (1980) Long Engagements: Maturity in Modern Japan, Stanford, California: Stanford Press. Raum, O.F. (1940) Chaga Childhood, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Reischauer, Edwin O. (1977) The Japanese, Cambridge, Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press. Roberts, Simon (1979) Order and Dispute: an Introduction to Legal Anthropology, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Smith, Robert (1974) Ancestor Worship in Contemporary Japan, Stanford, California: Stanford University Press. —— (1985) Japanese Society: Tradition, Self and the Social Order, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Vogel, Ezra and Vogel, Suzanne H. (1961) ‘Family Security, Personal Immaturity and Emotional Health in a Japanese Sample’, Marriage and Family Living, Vol. 32: 161–6. Wagatsuma Hiroshi and De Vos, George A. (1984) Heritage of Endurance: Family Patterns and Delinquency Formation in Urban Japan, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Watson, David (1982) ‘Idealism and Education: T.H.Green and the Education of the Middle Class’, British Educational Research Journal, Vol. 8, 1: 73–83.

Chapter 5

When blossoms fall Japanese attitudes towards death and the otherworld: opinion polls 1953–87 Fleur Wöss

The term ‘ideology’ has been used in so many different senses that one might despair of using it in any precise manner at all. I will try to outline in the following paragraphs the meaning it has to me. The word ‘ideology’ was used in a pejorative way for the first time by Napoleon I, who made fun of a then-fashionable philosophical school of the Institut National de France. Its representatives were supposed to be, according to Napoleon, ‘men, too much wrapped up in their ideas and thoughts to perceive and understand the realities of life’ (Durant and Durant 1979:318). This usage of ‘ideology’ as mere fancy and as opposed to reality is in wide use nowadays and has gained general acceptance in most western countries: ideology is thus characterised by a perception of reality which is mainly determined by ideas and which is conceived as unreal from a different concept of reality (Dierse 1976:174). Recently philosophers and social scientists are showing increased interest in the problem of ideology. There exist several views as to the nature of ideology, but it is not my aim to delve into this debate. Common to most theories is the gap between ideology and science. Ideology can thus be, according to my understanding, a set of internalised values of a part of the society which do not bear closer scientific examination. The people believe in it firmly as being unshakable reality. If discrepancies between ideology and real actions of people (as defined by science) exist, they are largely ignored. Frequently an ideology is taken on by a group because of specific

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theoretical elements that are conducive to its interests (Berger and Luckmann 1971:141). Any part of the Nihonjinron genre, for example, would fall into this category of ideology. The Nihonjinron theories served very adequately to present to the world community the necessity of certain indispensable economic actions. Here the Japanese acted as part of the world community and the Nihonjinron theories presented a lovely picture to the outside (the Japanese were eager to counterbalance the image of mere ‘economic animals’) whilst acting as a stabiliser to the inside, providing the Japanese population with a self-image when the new situation of being in the limelight of the international stage could have shaken the foundations of society. The ideology of the uniqueness of Japanese culture is backed up by several Japanese scientists and is therefore seriously considered as more or less true by the general public. The prevailing ideology often suggests the choice of topic and how it should be treated. But this is often not perceived by the people concerned. It is easier to recognise a value as ideology from the distance of time or space. Therefore the critique of Nihonjinron has come mainly from non-Japanese. Thus on one hand ideology can be the set of values voiced on the surface whereas on the other hand the actual practice, the actions of the people, can differ widely. One area in the Nihonjinron literature seems to be left out nowadays. That is the Japanese ‘art’ of dying and death. One of the favourite topics before the Second World War, it served the interests of the warfaring state very well at that time. The incrimination of this topic resulted in a general restraint after the war about resuming statements about the specific Japanese attitude towards death. There are, however, people even nowadays who dig up the samurai tradition of ‘good death’ and present it as the general Japanese attitude. The Buddhist and Jungian scholar Mokusen Miyuki writes, for instance, in his article ‘Dying Isagi-yoku’: ‘I became aware of the uniqueness of the Japanese attitude toward death…and this realization led me to further consideration of the Japanese perception of death and dying because it seems so different from common Western attitudes’ (Mokusen 1978:37). Mokusen further points out that dying isagi-yoku is the Japanese approach to dying, which means ‘leaving no regrets’, ‘with a clear conscience’, ‘with no reluctance’. He proves his assumption by describing the reaction of a nisei-friend when he was informed of his approaching death: ‘He knew he was

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approaching death, and I found I could offer him no words of consolation. When we shook hands he said to me, “I am ready to go”.’ This calm attitude is shared, according to Mokusen, by other Japanese, like the famous scientist Kishimoto Hideo, who has written about his experiences of suffering from cancer and his thoughts on death; or Basho, the poet who stressed the necessity to think of every moment in life as if it were one’s last. Mokusen asks why it was so desirable for Kishimoto and for Basho to have a calm mind, undisturbed by the fear of death? He assumes, according to Kishimoto’s statements, that: The place occupied by death in the East and West differs because of the socio-cultural traditions involved. In the West death is outside of life as well as the negation of life, and people tend to make an issue of whether or not the dying person physically suffered. In the East death or dying is regarded as one’s last enterprise in life: death exists inside, or as a part of the journey of life. The concern is therefore not with physical pain or suffering, as in the West, but rather with the kind of attitude the person had when he or she met death. What is most important for the Easterner is the demonstration of control over the fear of death and this control is considered to be the result of a lifelong effort to keep the mind calm and serene in the face of any emotional experiences…. Thus, in death the Easterner is concerned with inner attitude, or readiness to confront the horror of death, and in conducting oneself well in these last moments of life. (Mokusen 1978:41) This ‘unique’ Japanese attitude—it cannot be all that unique because Mokusen himself cites European thinkers like Seneca or Montaigne who propagate the same attitude—comes in very handy when dying. It is ‘necessary’ for the sake of the state. Mokusen does not leave out the best-known stereotype of the dying Japanese, the kamikaze: The attitude that life should be like the flower blossoms on the trees that fall to the ground was embodied in the archetypal image that gripped the kamikaze pilots in World War II. A common expression in the Japanese language is ‘to make the flower of death bloom (shini-bana o sakaseru)’, and in the minds of the kamikaze warriors this archetype of death must have

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been activated and played an important role in giving meaning to their lives. (Mokusen 1978:43) Statements like these are individual opinions and not ideology. But they can be used very well to suit ideological interests, and there lies the danger. The archetypal image of falling blossoms did not ‘grip’ the kamikaze pilots by accident. Here the state played a vital role in reactivating for its own ends attitudes which were propagated by some philosophical and religious schools. Here lies the danger of ideology dealing with death and dying. This ideology can reactivate at any time ‘old traditional attitudes’ which are then used for concrete political purposes. European writers, on the other hand, often tend to idealise everything eastern and to present to their readers this ideal as a fact of everyday life: Finally the (Japanese) elderly is approaching death, which is in its way the summit of life like birth. Since man is reborn again —provided that he has not reached buddhahood—death is no real end, but is fulfilment of the present life and temporary union with the cosmic order. (Stucki 1978:261) This statement mystifies rather than gives an adequate impression of the present Japanese attitude towards death. I would, therefore, like to contribute to a better balanced understanding by viewing this subject from a different angle. I chose to analyse all questions dealing with attitudes towards death and dying in opinion polls of the last three decades. Although I am fully aware of the drawbacks of opinion polls, they do offer us a different approach to this problem. Opinion polls cannot be expected to yield an overall picture of a certain topic, but they can give us a glimpse into the different attitudes towards death and show which ones are dominant among certain sections of the Japanese population. Equally, it cannot be presumed that the choice of topic in opinion polls is led only by scientific interests. The fact that very seldom do questions concerning death occur in opinion polls shows that there is no great public interest in this topic (which might be reassuring for those who fear a revival of death ideology). On the following pages I would like to examine whether there is

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What comes to mind when you hear the word ‘death’? (Choose only one item)

Figure 5.1 Source: NHK yoron chosabu (1984: Appendix 90)

more to Japanese attitudes towards death than the falling cherry blossoms. I will present some opinion polls dealing with the nature of death and the belief in an afterlife and analyse them.

THE IMAGE OF DEATH In Japan the word ‘death’ has dark and somewhat negative connotations. Figure 5.1 shows a Japanese investigation of the associations connected with the word death (NHK yoron chosabu 1984). The question was: ‘What comes to your mind when you hear the word death?’ Only one out of five possible answers could be chosen: fear, uncertainty, void, farewell and nature. The suggested answers are quite different from what would be given in a western culture with a Christian tradition. The possibility of salvation, for example, is not included; and several other possibilities such as reincarnation or paradise are also missing. The question itself is therefore quite ‘this-worldly’ and related to a specific way of thinking.

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What comes to mind when you hear the word ‘death’? (Choose only one item)

Figure 5.2 Source: NHK yoron chosabu (1984: Appendix 90)

Let us look now at the results. Most of the people chose the answer ‘nature’, followed by ‘uncertainty’. The pronounced difference between men and women is striking. Men preferred the answer ‘nature’, an answer which is likely to be given from a philosophical point of view. Most interestingly, this answer is also reserved for the elderly people, as Figure 5.2 will show. Women, in contrast, have no such conspicuous preferences. ‘Nature’ is followed directly by ‘uncertainty’ and ‘farewell’. Figure 5.2 suggests that the image of death differs widely according to age. Young people admit to fearing death most. With increasing age, however, this association seems to decline in importance. The notion that death is part of the course of nature seems to appeal more to those over the age of forty. But even in old age the difference between men and women is significant: 70 per cent of the men but only 57 per cent of the women over seventy chose the answer ‘nature’. ‘Insecurity’ is a relatively stable association in all age groups, but it seems to be a little lower for

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the more elderly. Old age, therefore, can be characterised by a lesser degree of fear and uncertainty towards death. Old people acknowledge death as the inevitable presupposition of the natural course of life. The answer ‘void’ is, on the other hand— if chosen at all—a privilege of a younger way of thinking. Being the most abstract choice, it is appreciated only up to the age of twenty-five. By this age very few people nowadays have experienced the death of a beloved person. Between sixteen and twenty-five, death is rather encountered in novels, poems and as a philosophical, abstract idea. A more concrete aspect of death is the fact that it is a separation from life, a separation from loved ones. This social component of death, the ‘farewell’, is mostly felt by people between twenty and fifty years old, especially women. To sum up: ‘uncertainty’ is an answer independently chosen by every age group; death as a ‘void’ comes to the mind of only younger people, when death seems to be far away. Those in middle age think of death mainly as a farewell, and the fatalistic notion, that death is part of the course of nature, is reserved for people of advanced age.

DEATH AS DESTINY In Japan, as in various other cultures, the place of birth and of death is believed to be significant. Astrology, which is in fashion lately, also stresses the significance of the place and date of birth. It is, therefore, interesting to find out if, according to general Japanese belief, the place and date of birth and death is determined by destiny (see Figure 5.3). This was the question of investigation which also took into consideration the level of individual religiousness. The investigators thought it useful to distinguish between two kinds of religiousness. One group consisted of people where ‘real’ religiousness could be presumed. They had some kind of daily contact with religion such as daily prayers, ascetic practices, and religious reading or missionary work. The other group was called ‘utilitarians’, and used religious services only for their own immediate ends: talismans for traffic-security and success in business, fortune-telling and so on. Additionally these two groups

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Percentage of those who believe that ‘When and where one is born and dies has been determined by one’s destiny, and cannot be changed by human power’.

Figure 5.3 Source: Maruyama, Hayashi and Kamisasa (1981:38 and 40)

were separated by the terms ‘strong’ and ‘weak’ (Maruyama et al. 1981). It seems that the majority of Japanese (60–70 per cent) believe in the interference of destiny when it comes to the place of birth and death. It is apparently important for Japanese to know where somebody has died. This is documented not only by several stories handed down but also when Japanese die in a foreign country. When an airplane crash occurs somewhere in the world, it is mainly the Japanese relatives who visit the place of the accident. Figure 5.3 also shows something else. The distinction between religious faith and utilitarian faith is obviously not relevant. Regardless of whether or not their actions are religious in a way that is accepted as truly religious, almost three-quarters of

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religiously-inclined people believe in a predestined birth and death place.

IMPURITY OF DEATH The dead person and his or her surroundings are thought of as impure. The defilement is transferred to all objects and people coming into close contact with the dead. In ancient times it is reported that people cleansed themselves ritually after burial by taking a bath in a river; nowadays the house where death has taken place is ritually purified by scattering salt. During the past few decades, however, there have been quite a few changes in the way dead people are treated so that it may not be too far fetched to suggest that something has changed in feelings about the impurity of death. Take, for instance, the growing importance of institutions. The majority of Japanese die today in hospitals, whereas forty years ago the number amounted to less than 10 per cent. Death rarely occurs within one’s own four walls and may be seen as something outside everyday life. The handling of the corpse, which was undertaken in former times by neighbours and friends, is today the responsibility of the undertaking business. This is a direct consequence of the increasingly mobile religious population. Direct contact with the corpse can be totally avoided nowadays. Another development is the rapid change from burial to cremation. Buddhism was not able to convince the Japanese over 1500 years to cremate corpses. Industrialisation, on the other hand, has succeeded in about a hundred years to propel the cremation rate from about 25 per cent (1896) to over 90 per cent in the 1980s (in large cities it is practically 100 per cent). Fujii Masao, whose research focuses on burial rites and related topics, suggests that the association of death as impure must have weakened because of cremation. The corpse is removed very quickly by the fire, which is traditionally thought of as a cleansing agent. The decomposition of the corpse is therefore avoided. It is removed quickly leaving no traces of potential danger. Fujii concludes, therefore, that the fear of becoming defiled by death must have weakened in recent years (Fujii 1983:47). The traditional forty-nine days when sutras are read and the spirit of the dead is seen as especially dangerous has also been shortened,

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due to the scattering of families and the impossibility of taking more than a few days off work for the funeral. For most bereaved families the rituals are over either on the day of the funeral or a week after. The handling of the corpse has been transferred to strangers, the removal has become ‘cleaner’ and the rituals accompanying death have been reduced. Has this contributed to a weakened awareness of the impurity of death? Unfortunately, the eagerness of modern people, especially of the Japanese, to conduct opinion polls is only a recent phenomenon. We cannot therefore find evidence for this change of attitude in opinion polls. We can, how ever, find out about current feelings. Cleansing oneself ritually after a funeral from the impurity of death is done nowadays by scattering salt around the house. The question asked in Figure 5.4 was whether people would feel uncomfortable if they had forgotten to purify themselves ritually in this way. Twenty-five per cent said they would be very afraid in such a case and one-third admitted to feeling some fear. This suggests that the majority still believe to varying degrees in the impurity of death. This extends also to young people, the majority of whom felt uncomfortable if they had forgotten to scatter salt. Another way of determining the potentially contagious power of the dead is the belief that on tomobiki-days funerals should not be held, otherwise the dead person will ‘lead a friend’ (which is the literal meaning of tomobiki) with him away into death. If those questioned responded that they did not feel uncomfortable, they would—at least verbally—not be affected by the idea of the contagious power of the dead. Such was the case with only a quarter of respondents. Few Japanese are unimpressed by traditional beliefs about the dangerous potential of a dead person’s spirit (see Figure 5.4). The older the people, the greater the fear if a funeral is undertaken on an inauspicious day. Younger people chose the answer ‘I feel a little afraid’ rather than ‘I feel great fear’. Women are usually more prone to believe in the danger of a tomobiki-day than men. Only in old age is the proportion balanced. The outward attitude towards the dead person may have changed over time. Institutionalisation, the shortening of the rituals and cremation may have brought a weakened consciousness of the defilement of death. But at least the feelings concerning this defilement

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Percentage of those who respond ‘I feel great fear’ to the question ‘What are your feelings when a funeral is held on a tomobiki-day?’

Figure 5.4 Source: Tokei (1978:177)

are still strong nowadays. The majority of people feel uncomfortable about having forgotten to cleanse themselves after a funeral and 80 to 90 per cent feel at least a little afraid to attend a funeral on the inauspicious tomobiki-day.

FOREBODING OF DEATH One of the prevailing ideas concerning death is the belief in the separation of soul/spirit and body at the moment of death, and the continued existence of spirits and their influence on the world of the living. First I will take up the foreboding of death. Death can be announced by several omens. A possible omen is any deviation from the usual course of events. Extraordinary phenomena like the rotting of miso-bean curd or the cry of the cuckoo are indicators from nature informing man of an approaching death (Konno 1972a:783). The first documents listing possible omens of approaching death date back as far as the seventh century (Macé 1986:39–40). The foreboding of death is something which is experienced mainly by blood relatives or by very good friends. It is a sign

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that there is an extraordinary bond between the person experiencing the omen and the one whose death is foreseen. Very often this happens during a dream. The soul/spirit of a dying person is visiting the living relative or friend for a last farewell during his or her sleep. Such an experience is described in the biography of the politician Tanaka Shozo, who lived during the Meiji era. His friend Arai Osui (1846–1922) dreamed two nights before Shozo died that he saw Shozo walking slowly towards him along a river bank: ‘His footsteps were light and made no sound. I asked him, “How is your illness?” He smiled, and answered in his old voice, “I am well….”.’ Arai awoke, then fell asleep a second time, and saw the same dream again (Strong 1977:212). Several opinion polls verify that about 40 per cent of Japanese believe in a possible foreboding of death. Women are more inclined to this belief as are people from rural areas (compare Yomiuri 1981, 1986; Tokei 1978). Questions on the general belief of foreboding suggest that the idea of a ‘sixth sense’ is particularly popular among young people. Among older people, only women believe in forebodings (NHK yoron chosabu 1984: Appendix 93).

THE HITODAMA (SPIRIT CLOUD) Another idea related to the separation of soul/spirit and body just before, during and after death is the concept of hitodama, a word which may best be translated as ‘spirit cloud’. Hitodama is the soul of man, which can separate itself from time to time. Its appearance often resembles a mysterious cloud-like fire and is also reported to be similar to a shooting star, a ball of lightning or a swarm of insects, which floats in the air or hops over the ground. Just after death, it withdraws finally from the body of man. As with other phenomena of folk belief (take, for instance, the European belief that the frog can foresee future weather), natural scientists have supposed that there may be a scientific explanation for the spirit cloud. A professor of aeronautical engineering at Tokyo University, Yamana Masao, is said to have explained this phenomenon scientifically and his theory has been taken up by the mass media. This is probably the reason why

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the believer-pattern differs from the other questions. Whereas usually the believers tend to be women rather than men, older rather than younger, rural rather than townspeople, lowlyeducated rather than highly-educated, people believing in the hitodama are well-educated and are mainly young men. Welleducated young men seem to give more credit to ‘esoteric things’ like the soul and spirit when they think it is proven by science. 1

THE CONTINUED EXISTENCE OF A SOUL The presentiment of death and the hitodama are phenomena presupposing the possible separation of body and soul before death. A pillar of Japanese folk belief, however, is the belief in the separation of the soul/spirit at the moment of death and the continued existence of this soul/spirit. The soul/spirit (reikon) withdraws at the moment of death from the body and continues to live for a very long time if not for ever. The custom of recalling the withdrawing reikon immediately after death (tamayobi) by stepping on the roof, for instance, aims not only at undoing the fact of death but also at pacifying the reikon, and urging it to leave the living alone (Mogami 1972:799). The appeasing of the reikon begins at this point and will be finished only after years of punctiliously observed rituals. The continued existence of the reikon is a constant element of Japanese folk belief but is not explicitly taught as a part of any specific religious belief. It can, however, be deduced from burial customs and ritual practices following the funeral. It is possible, therefore, that fewer people would reply positively to the question in Figure 5.5 than would act according to this belief. About 40 per cent of respondents believe in the continued existence of the soul after death, a fact confirmed by other opinion polls. The ratio of people who cannot answer is quite high, which leaves only about 20 per cent who definitely do not believe in the continued existence of a reikon (Mainichi shinbunsha 1987:509). Figure 5.5 shows the differing answers according to age. Interestingly it is mainly the younger generation, especially young women, who think it likely that a reikon survives after death. We see an S-curve with its peak in teenage years, then falling until the age of forty to forty-nine, to rise again in old age. The predominance of women levels out in middle age, and afterwards

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Percentage who believe in the continued existence of the soul after death.

Figure 5.5 Source: NHK yoron chosabu (1984: Appendix 93)

there is little difference between the sexes. The high percentage of believers in the younger generation parallels the previous question (Figure 5.4), concerning supernatural abilities such as presentiments. There exist similar opinion polls which explain the immortality of the soul in Christian countries. Although the concept of the soul is, of course, very different in Christianity, Buddhism and Japanese folk belief, there are striking similarities in the readiness to believe in a soul, especially among younger people. It seems that young Japanese are the most believing age group when it comes to matters of the soul and spirit. Belief in a religion must be a serious factor when discussing ideas about the afterworld. It seems predictable that a religious person would be more inclined to believe in some form of continued existence after death than an atheist. In his survey of the religious attitudes of men between twenty and forty years old, Fernando Basabe divided his sample into three subgroups according to their religiousness. Two of the statements deal with different ideas of the afterlife:

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1) If a man dies, his spirit is born again into something else 2) If a man dies, his spirit always remains

Agree to the following statement: Believers Indifferent Negative 38.4% 14.2% 5.5% 45.7%

23.4%

5.5%

(Basabe 1968:130–1)

Believers are those who confessed to a specific religion and those who belong to no religious group, but have some sort of personal faith (about 18 per cent of those questioned). The indifferent group consists of people who have generally a positive attitude towards religion, but show no interest (about 60 per cent of those questioned). The negative group consists of those who have never acted in a religious way and who rejected the idea that ‘it would be better when there is religion in this world’ (about 22 per cent of those questioned). The two statements above both deal with continued existence after death, but they represent two entirely different concepts. The first one is the idea of reincarnation, the second one represents the Christian idea of the soul as well as the indigenous concept of growing into an ancestor or becoming a kami (god-like). The small difference between the proportions of answers to the first and the second concepts suggests that people are unsure in which form the soul continues to exist. Their ideas about life after death seem to be blurred. This tendency becomes even clearer when the group of believers is specified by religion. Forty per cent of Christians, for instance, agreed to the idea of reincarnation; 50 per cent chose the second statement. This ignorance of Christian dogma is astonishing considering that most Christian churches fight continually against the idea that man will be reborn. The only religious group of which members favoured the idea of reincarnation w a s t h e Sok a G a k k a i ( 5 0 p e r c e n t ) . T h e i r c o n c e p t o f reincarnation, however, is not the rebirth of an individual who remembers past incarnations. It is rather—according to the teachings of Soka Gakkai—the union of the reikon of the departed with the cosmos. In the following life the image of awakening from sleep is used (Basabe 1968:42–3). 2

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Percentage of those who believe in rebirth.

Figure 5.6 Source: Nihon midori no jujisha (1987:32)

Let us look at the generational differences again. The younger people are, the more likely they are inclined to believe in rebirth and in life after death (Figures 5.6 and 5.7). About as many young people who believe in the continued existence of the soul also believe in life after death, slightly fewer in rebirth. After the age of forty, disbelief in any kind of continued existence after death increases to around 70 per cent. There is a strong tendency among young people to believe in some kind of continued existence after death, but their ideas about it are, in general, not clear cut. Other surveys show that belief in the western paradise of Amida Buddha is nowadays not very attractive and the Christian heaven is unimaginable for all but Christians. Any concrete idea about paradise is held by only uneducated rural women over fifty years old. It seems that the imprecision of Buddhist and Shintoistic teachings concerning life after death is reflected by a general unwillingness to imagine a concrete world where the reikon goes after death.

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Percentage of those who believe

Figure 5.7 Source: Nihon midori no jujisha (1987:30)

CONTACT WITH THE REIKON Figure 5.8 deals with the possibility of talking to a dead person by means of a medium. The tradition of contacting spirits is old in Japan and is practised nowadays mainly in the northeast of Japan by female shamans called itako. They can not only tell the cause of a person’s death (they have even been used lately to solve criminal cases), but are able to interrogate the spirits about their well-being and can even foresee the future of bereaved family members. This aspect of spirit belief does not seem to be very popular among Japanese nowadays. Only very few of those interviewed in Tokyo believe for certain in the ability of itako to talk to a dead person’s reikon. The people in Yonezawa, a city with a population of about 100,000, not far from the centre of itako practice, are not as sceptical but still far from firmly believing in this sort of practice. One-third of Yonezawa people believed in it to some extent, while in Tokyo only 13 per cent took the fact into consideration. In Fernando Basabe’s survey among men between twenty and forty years old there were likewise under 10 per cent who believed in the possibility

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Responses to the statement ‘I have talked to the soul of a dead person with the assistance of an itako’.

Figure 5.8 Source: Tokei (1978:176)

of recalling a dead person’s reikon and talking to it (Basabe 1968:130). An opinion poll conducted throughout Japan in 1984 asked the following questions: Would you like to experience the following things? (Multiple choice possible) 1) To speak with a dead person’s soul/spirit (reikon) 13.5% 2) To be transformed into a supernatural being 8.6% 3) To receive a message from a kami-god or Buddha 11.4% 4) To feel one with nature or the cosmos 9.8% 5) To concentrate one’s mind in prayer or meditation and forget the self 9.2% 6) Don’t want to experience any of these things 56.6% 7) No answer 7.8% (Source: Yomiuri 1986:511)

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It would appear that not many people wish to experience supernatural things in general. The majority apparently do not want to come into close contact with either the cosmos or its spirits and gods. And for some Europeans and Americans it must be astonishing to hear that so few Japanese want the ‘typical eastern’ experience of losing themselves in meditation. One can say that although contact with reikon (kuchiyose) has a long tradition in Japan, only a few Japanese nowadays seem to believe in it. There is, however, at least according to Sasaki Kokan, a researcher of shamanism, a recent tendency for people in big cities like Tokyo to fall back upon the art of the itako. Some itako in city centres like Asakusa draw a huge urban clientele for their clairvoyance services. The belief in reikon is an ancient element in Japanese folk belief, but people nowadays are usually not inclined to believe in the possibility of coming into contact with them via the assistance of itako. Contact is instead restricted to a ritualised welcome at the time of obon, the annual observance festival for the family ancestors. This ritualised form of communication is accepted by three times as many men in Basabe’s survey as the idea of contact through itako (Basabe 1968:130). This is connected with the ancestor cult, which will be examined later.

SPIRITS: PROTECTION OR DANGER? Spirits are a constituent part of many stories and novels in Japan. Anyone who has read some Japanese literature will have noticed the existence of revengeful spirits in the Genji monogatari, will remember the Ugetsu monogatari, and will think of some of the collected stories of Lafcadio Hearn. Similar to the existence of the hitodama (spirit cloud), which can separate from the body during lifetime as well as appear after death, is the yurei-spirit, which is often pictured in woodblock prints and novels. The yurei-spirit can also either leave a living person’s body or be a dead person’s spirit which wanders about the places it loved most. It is often pictured in art as a figure with hair hanging over a bloody face. Usually, however, people see yurei appearing very similar to humans, clad as in real life. Very often the yurei is imagined as a child or an old man and is in general a man rather than a woman (Konno 1972b:771).

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Other wandering spirits are the so-called muenbotoke (literally ‘bodhisattvas without ties’). 3 These spirits are restless because their families have neglected to perform the ancestral rites to appease them. Others became muenbotoke because a life was not lived to the full (when the person had committed suicide or encountered death in some other unnatural way, or when the person died young, especially before being able to marry). They are often seen as identical to the vengeful spirits, onryo. Lately belief in muenbotoke and onryo has revived. After the Second World War there were big religious organisations such as Reiyukai and the Rissho koseikai which propagated the ancestor cult and the appeasement of restless spirits. They promised that by praying for the spirits people could find salvation and solutions to their immediate problems. Increased harmony in the other world will, according to their beliefs, positively influence this world, because the microcosms of this world are deeply connected to the macrocosm (Hardacre 1984:142–3). The newest religious organisations, the so-called ‘New New Religions’, to use the term introduced by Nishiyama Shigeru, a Japanese sociologist of religion, play on the idea of the restless spirits even more. The Mahikari Shukyo and the Agonshu are especially successful and both centre around this belief. The Agonshu plays particularly on the bad conscience of women who have had an abortion. The success of such religions during the past ten years and the popularity of ‘abortion temples’ suggest a strong revival of this kind of spirit belief. There are, however, unfortunately no detailed opinion polls on the subject. Nevertheless, there is an indication in an opinion poll from the 1960s concerning belief in the vengeful spirits, onryo, and the yureispirits. Yurei were not popular then. Only 7 per cent believed in them, whereas 19 per cent thought the existence of the vengeful ghosts (onryo) probable (Abe 1965:131). A different picture was presented recently, when teenagers were questioned about their beliefs. The overwhelming majority believes to some extent in yureispirits (77 per cent) and in the possibility of their curse (76 per cent) (Yomiuri shinbun 1988). But that is not all to be said about the spirits. There are not only vengeful ghosts, but also reikon which protect humans. Ancestors especially fall into this category. Which side of the spirit/ancestor-belief is stronger? Let us look at answers

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concerning different aspects of the spirits given in the middle of the 1980s. The following statements are often heard. If you agree with one or more of them, mark them please (multiple choice possible): 1) A dead person’s spirit protects us 33.7% 2) The spirit of a person who has died with hate in his heart keeps wandering about 18.1% 3) Descendants have no luck in life when they are pursued by the curse of an ancestor 16.3% 4) God (or gods) see through men 13.8% 5) One can forsee the death of a blood-relative 39.4% 6) For man there exists a life after death 26.8% 7) Don’t believe in any of these 29.9% 8) No answer 7.7% (Source: Yomiuri 1986:511)

This extract from a poll shows that nearly 20 per cent believe in restless spirits, but still more people (34 per cent) are ready to acknowledge spirits as possible protective powers. Protection extends, however, mainly to the spirits of family members. It is the ancestors who are thought to hold a protective hand over their descendants. This tie to one’s own ancestors is felt quite strongly.

I feel a strong tie towards my family ancestors

Please mark whether you agree or not: Agree Disagree Neither Don’t know 58.8% 30.9% 7.4% 2.8%

(Source: NHK hoso yoron chosasho 1979:591)

This information from another poll shows that almost 60 per cent feel a strong tie towards their ancestors. This is quite a high number. Whether there is a possible connection between a positive attitude towards religion in general and the feeling of strong ties to the ancestors can be verified by another survey (see Figure 5.9). As mentioned above, it does not apparently make much sense to classify religious acts by the categories ‘religious faith’ and ‘utilitarian faith’. Figure 5.9 again shows that there is not much difference between the two. It reveals, however, quite a strong correlation

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Percentages of those who agree with the following statement: ‘A person’s soul is always tied to the family even after death’.

Figure 5.9 Source: Maruyama, Hayashi and Kamisasa (1981:38 and 40)

between religious acts, whether religious or utilitarian, and the sense of some connection with one’s own ancestors. A basically religious attitude favours conscious ties with one’s ancestors. On the other hand this data suggests that religiously indifferent people still show significantly strong emotional ties to their ancestors. Close to 50 per cent of the people uninterested in religion believed in the continued existence of a soul tied to the family after death. When we recall the question concerning the continued existence of the soul (Figure 5.5) only one-third agreed to the more or less abstract notion of the possible existence of the soul after death. However, when it comes to one’s own family and ancestors, the readiness to believe in the continued existence of the soul is clearly much higher. It seems that belief in continuing family ties beyond death is still one of the pillars of Japanese religious sentiment. The emotional ties to ancestors are based on a long history of ancestor cult (which was incidentally not free from ‘ideology’ in the past). In the beginning I cited two authors talking about the Japanese attitude towards death. Lorenz Stucki proclaimed that the Japanese see death as the summit and the fulfilment of life. The idea of rebirth consoles the Japanese that death is not a real end, but a ‘temporary union with the cosmos’. Mokusen Miyuki, on the other

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hand, stressed the calm mind and the control of the self in confronting death. Death is supposed to be taken as the falling flower blossoms and to die is ‘to make the flower of death bloom’. If one keeps such statements in mind, the results of the above opinion polls look quite different. The idea of rebirth, which should console the Japanese according to Stucki, is quite weak, weaker than in some Christian countries. Very few Japanese seek unity with the cosmos during their lifetime. Hence the idea that death is a kind of summit is not conclusive. It may be true, as Mokusen points out, that Europeans are preoccupied with whether a dying person is suffering or not. But the fear of dying a slow and painful death is also so prominent in Japan that there exist special temples which promise an easy and painless death. These draw huge crowds of old women.4 Whether it is most important to preserve a calm mind when death is approaching is not a subject taken up by opinion polls. Preparation for death is, however, so neglected in Japan and the fact that death is approaching so well hidden from the dying that the ideal of a calm mind is ridiculous.5 There is, mainly among older Japanese, quite a strong tendency to perceive death as an inevitable fact. But even this is no indication that the Japanese would welcome death or be indifferent to it. Some beliefs connected to death, the reikon and the ancestors, are quite pronounced. The Japanese believe in general that destiny has a hand in death and more than one-third believe that approaching death can be foreseen by those close to the dying. The decision as to when and where one dies is made by an unspecified outside force. Belief in God or Buddha is not strong and no clear-cut ideas prevail about the form of existence after death. This does not mean, however, that death is for most Japanese the end. The majority believe that the reikon separates itself from the dead body and becomes a benevolent ancestor, provided that the proper rituals are conducted by family members. The connection with one’s ancestors is the most conspicuous attitude. One more result of this analysis leaps to the eye—the high percentage of young people believing in spirits. Three-quarters of teenagers believe in the existence of yurei-spirits, the same percentage in the curse of malevolent spirits in general; only young people imagine that the hitodama (spirit cloud) can be seen as the essence of man flying away. Twice as many young people as old believe in the continued existence of the soul after death, the same being the case

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with life after death. Almost half of the young respondents believe in rebirth whereas only 10 per cent of those over sixty do so. Additionally, it seems as if the proportion who believe in such things has increased in the past decade.6 There is now apparently a strong readiness among the young to delve into such questions. This trend is documented by the wide circulation of youth magazines like Mu and My Birthday, examining esoteric practices and astrology. The recently flourishing ‘New New Religions’, which serve a cocktail of Japanese indigenous traditions, western spiritualism and Indian Buddhism also draw their clientele mainly from among young people. It is quite difficult to attempt an interpretation as to why this development is taking place. It has to be seen as part of a general change in consciousness which the new prosperity has entailed. First of all, belief in natural science as an absolute value has been shaken. Previously, responsibility for defeat in the Second World War was partly ascribed to religion which was used for ideological indoctrination before the war. Science, on the other hand, was a tool to build up a strong Japan again and with it pride in being Japanese. Since the 1970s this has been achieved. At the same time, the Japanese, like other industrialised peoples, have realised the drawbacks of excessive technical development. Doubts about natural science as an absolute value orientation have caused a more favourable attitude towards religion in general. For most Japanese the primary necessities of life are nowadays fulfilled, allowing secondary ones to come to the fore. The wide attraction of books on anything about Japan shows the eagerness for self-reflection and the search for an identity separate from just material goods. Interest in religious things has risen at the same time, which is also reflected in the expanding religious book sales. Through economic success and their strong position within the world community, the Japanese have regained their pride and selfconfidence. This has brought about a renaissance of indigenous values, also furthered by the renewed interest of Europeans and Americans in Japanese traditions such as Zen, karate, judo, ikebana and so on. Traditional values like filial piety are regaining ground among the Japanese youth and are stimulating the attractiveness of religious ideas, previously dismissed as old-fashioned and feudal (NHK yoron chosabu 1984).

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The spirit-belief of the young is interpreted by Shiomi Toshiyuki, the author of the survey on spirit-belief among teenagers, as escape into an unreal world because adults have destroyed—by their education and guidance—the children’s inner cosmos. The teenagers are looking for something they can hold on to (Yomiuri shinbun 1988). The young are very susceptible to this change of consciousness. They increasingly doubt the almightiness of science and fall back upon magic practices and the belief in possible otherworldly forces. Spirits seem to be a familiar idea and they can imagine life after death. They fear death and feel respect for their ancestors. Their quest for a cosmos transcending the living human world ties up with a return to older strata of Japanese religious traditions. Death is for them neither a summit, nor falling blossoms, but a doorway to the spirit world.

NOTES 1 In general about 40 per cent of the Japanese believe in the existence of the hitodama, while another 40 per cent deny the existence of this phenomenon (Tokei: 1978:117 and Abe 1965:181). 2 An international comparison reveals interesting facts: the belief in reincarnation is no monopoly of eastern peoples. It compares the belief in rebirth in Japan, the country to which the west looks for wisdom about Buddhism, to European countries. The rate in Japan is no higher. In Germany, for instance, there are more people believing in reincarnation (25 per cent) than in Japan (Tokei 1969:4). 3 The translation ‘bodhisattva’ for the term hotoke must not be taken literally. The Japanese call all dead people hotoke. 4 For a more detailed description of this cult, see Wöss 1984. 5 Up to now, cancer patients were not told the name of their disease. A heated discussion among medical doctors over whether or not to tell patients is still under way. The word cancer is avoided if possible. It was, for instance, not until after the death of Hirohito, now ShowaTenno, that officials changed the name of his disease from ‘chronic inflammation of the pancreas’ to ‘cancer of the pancreas or the duodenum’. 6 For more detailed information see NHK yoron chosabu 1984, Tokei Suri 1982 and Hayashi 1988.

LIST OF OPINION POLLS USED

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Abe 1965 * 1,500 men and women over twenty in 130 communities from all over Japan (completion rate 84 per cent) ** June 1963 *** Random sampling, face-to-face interviews Basabe 1968 * 1,605 men aged between twenty and forty in 69 urban centres within the Kanto and Kansai areas (completion rate 81 per cent) ** June 1967 *** Mailed questionnaires and questionnaires distributed on visits Mainichi shinbunsha 1987 *3,000 men and women over twenty from all over Japan (completion rate 77 per cent) ** December 1985 *** Random sampling, face-to-face interviews Maruyama, Hayashi and Kamisasa 1981 * 499 valid answers from men and women over twenty in Tokyo ** 1978 *** Multivariate analysis NHK hoso yoron chosasho 1979 * 32,421 men and women over sixteen in all prefectures of Japan (completion rate 77 per cent) ** March and May 1978 *** Random sampling, face-to-face interviews NHK yoron chosabu 1984 *3,600 men and women over sixteen in 300 places all over Japan (completion rate 75 per cent) ** November 1981 *** Random sampling, face-to-face interviews Nihon midori no jujisha 1987 *5,000 men and women over twenty in all prefectures of Japan (completion rate 41 per cent) ** February 1987 *** Random sampling, mailed questionnaires Schmidtchen 1973

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* 3,118 Protestants (1956:1,095) and 2,543 Catholics (1956:818) over eighteen in the Federal Republic of Germany including West Berlin ** 1956 and 1964 *** Details in: IfD-opinion polls 093, 1082/86/87 Tokei 1978 * 900 men and women over twenty in Tokyo and 400 men and women in Yonezawa, Yamagata prefecture (completion rate 82 per cent) ** March 1976 *** Random sampling, face-to-face interviews Yomiuri 1981 * 2,176 men and women over twenty from all over Japan (completion rate 72 per cent) **July 1979 *** Random sampling, face-to-face interviews Yomiuri 1986 * 2,324 men and women over twenty from all over Japan (completion rate 77 per cent) ** July 1979 *** Random sampling, face-to-face interviews.

REFERENCES Abe Kitao (1965) ‘Shinpi no sekai. Reikon no sonzai o shinjiru ka’ (The world of mysticism. Is there a belief in a soul?), in Zennipponjin (The Japanese). Tokyo: Daiyamondosha: 125–45. Basabe, Fernando M. (1968) Religious Attitudes of Japanese Men, Tokyo and Rutland: Sophia University and Tuttle. Berger, Peter L. and Luckmann, Thomas (1971) The Social Construction of Reality, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Dierse, U. (1976) ‘Ideologie’ in Joachim Ritter and Karlfried Gründer (eds) Historisches Worterbuch der Philosophe, Vol. 4, Basel and Stuttgart: Schwabe and Co: 157–85. Durant, Will and Durant, Ariel (1979) Die französische Revolution und der Aufstief Napoleons. München: Südwest. Fujii Masao (1983) ‘Maintenance and Change in Japanese Traditional Funerals and Death-related Behaviour’, Japanese Journal of Religious Studies 10/1: 39–64. Hardacre, Helen (1984) Lay Buddhism in Contemporary Japan: Reiyukai kyodan, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

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Hayashi Chikio (1988) Nihonjin no kokoro hakaru (Measuring the hearts of the Japanese), Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha. Konno Ensuke (1972a) ‘Yocho’ (Presentiment) in Otsuka Minzoku Gakkai (ed.): Nihon minzoku jiten (Encyclopedia of Japanese folklore), Tokyo: Kobundo: 783. —— (1972b) ‘Yurei’ (Ghost appearance) in Otsuka Minzoku Gakkai (ed.): Nihon minzoku jiten (Encyclopedia of Japanese Folklore), Tokyo: Kobundo: 771. Macé, François (1986) La wort et les funérailles dans le Japan ancien, Tokyo: Kobundo: 783 Mainichi Shinbunsha (1987) ‘Kokoro no jidai. Zenkoku yoron chosa’ (The era of heart. Opinion poll by the Mainichi publishing house for the whole of Japan) in Naikaku Sori Daijin Kanbo Kohoshitsu (ed.): Showa 61 nenpan yoron chosa nenkan (Yearbook of Opinion Polls. 1986 Edition), Tokyo: 508–10. Maruyama Kumiko, Hayashi Fumi and Kamisasa Hisashi (1981) ‘A Multivariate Analysis of Japanese Attitudes toward Life and Death’, Behaviormetrika 10: 37–48. Mogami Takayoshi (1972) ‘Reikon’ (Soul) in Otsuka Minzoku Gakkai (ed.): Nihon minzoku jiten (Encyclopedia of Japanese folklore), Tokyo: Kobundo: 799–800. Mokusen Miyuki (1978) ‘Dying Isagi-yoku’, Journal of Humanistic Psychology 18/4: 35–44. NHK hoso yoron chosasho (1979) ‘Zenkoku kenmin ishiki chosa’ (Research on the consciousness of the Japanese prefectural populations) in Naikaku Sori Daijin Kanbo Kohoshitsu (ed.): Showa 54 nenpan yoron chosa nenkan (Yearbook of Opinion Polls. 1979 Edition). Tokyo: 585–591. NHK yoron chosabu (ed.) (1984) Nihonjin no shukyo ishiki (The religious consciousness of the Japanese). Tokyo: Nihon Hoso Shuppan Kyokai. Nihon midori no jujisha (1987) ‘Seimei’ ni kansuru yoron chosa hokokusho (Report on the opinion poll on ‘life’), Tokyo. Nomura Masataka et al. (1985) ‘Ajia ni okeru shiseikan no chigai’ (Differences in the view of life and death in Asia), Shi no rinsho 8: 1–2. Schmidtchen, Gerhard (1973) Protestanten und Katholiken, Soziologische Analyse konfessioneller Kultur, Bern and München: Francke. Strong, Kenneth (1977) Ox against the storm. A biography of Tanaka Shozo, Tenterden: Paul Norbury Publications. Stucki, Lorenz (1978) Japans Herzen denken anders. Die alternative Art modern zu sein. Was wir von der einzigen nicht-westlichen Industriegesellschaft lernen könnten, Bern und München: Scherz. Tokei—Tokei suri kenkyujo (1978) ‘Nihon no shukan, gyoji ni kansuru chosa’ (Research on Japanese folklore and festivals) in Naikaku Sori Daijin Kanbo Kohoshitsu (ed.): Showa 52 nenpan yoron chosa nenkan. (Yearbook of Opinion Polls. 1977 Edition). Tokyo: 174–9. Tokei suri—Tokei suri kenkyujo kokuminsei chosa iinkai (ed.) (1982) Dai yon Nihonjin no kokuminsei (Fourth opinion poll: The national character of the Japanese). Tokyo: Idemitsu shoten.

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Wöss, Fleur (1984) ‘Escape into death. Old people and their wish to die’ in Gordon Daniels (ed.): Europe Interprets Japan, Tenterden: Paul Norbury Publications: 222–9 and 271–2. Yomiuri shinbun (1988) ‘Okaruto bumu. Nezukoi higori shiko’ (The occult boom. The firmly rooted intention to be irrational), Yomiuri shinbun, November 6. Yomiuri Shinbunsha (1981) ‘Yomiuri zenkoku yoron chosa (54 nen 7 gatsu)’ (Opinion poll of the Yomiuri publishing house for the whole of Japan— in July 1979 ), Naikaku Sori Daijin Kanbo Kohoshitsu (ed.): Showa 55 nenpan yoron chosa nenkan (Yearbook of Opinion Polls. 1980 Edition), Tokyo: 545–554. —— (1986) ’Yomiuri zenkoku yoron chosa (59 nen 7 gatsu)’ (Opinion poll of the Yomiuri publishing house for the whole of Japan—in July 1984) in Naikaku Sori Daijin Kanbo Kohoshitsu (ed.): Showa 55 nenpan yoron chosa nenkan (Yearbook of Opinion Polls. 1980 Edition), Tokyo: 507– 12.

Chapter 6

From farm to urban middle class A case study of the role of education in the process of social mobility1 Regine Mathias

INTRODUCTION The so-called interwar period is regarded as a crucial period of economic and social change in Japan. Usually, this change is characterised by terms like industrialisation, urbanisation and the spread of education. The impact of these developments on the society as a whole did not become clearly visible before the years following the Russo-Japanese war; it wholly materialised during the boom years of the First World War, when regional and social mobility, especially the transfer of labour from agricultural to non-agricultural occupations—combined with a move from rural to urban areas— was accelerated by rapid economic growth. Many of those who went to the cities did so because of economic needs. By joining the urban labour force and working in factories and small shops they became part of the lower classes of urban society. However, some succeeded in moving up the social ladder and joined the urban new middle class, which took shape around the change from the Meiji to the Taisho Period, and became a distinguishable component of Japanese society in the 1920s and 1930s. Usually, careers were not as spectacular as described in the ‘from-rags-to riches’ stories of the Meiji period. Rather, a post as an elementary school teacher, as a lower- or middle-ranking official or as a clerk in a shop or a factory was quite an achievement for someone who had

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moved into town from the countryside. Some people, however, went one step further on the career ladder and succeeded in establishing themselves as members of the urban proprietary middle class. Ever since the Meiji period (1868–1914) education has been regarded as one of the major factors, if not the major factor, for social mobility in Japan. In order to utilise fully the intellectual resources of the country for the modernisation process, the leaders of the Meiji government promoted a school system which was to provide equal chances for all young people regardless of their social origins. In accordance with such goals, the ‘Government Order of Education’ (gakusei), promulgated in 1872, stated in its preface that ‘learning is the key to success in life and no man can afford to neglect it’ (cited in Passin 1965:210). Similar ideas can be found in the famous book Gakumon no Susume (An Encouragement of Learning, published in 1872), in which the educator Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835– 1901) also emphasised the importance of learning for all people, saying that ‘there are no innate status distinctions separating the noble and base, the rich and poor. It is only the person who has studied diligently who becomes noble and rich, while his opposite becomes base and poor’ (Dilworth and Hirano 1969:1). Books like Gakumon no Susume, which was a bestseller during the early half of the Meiji period, helped to spread the ideology that education was the key to social advancement, and that there existed equality in ability, in the sense that anyone could succeed if he (or she) made the effort. Neither the fact that the ideal of education as a resource of personal success was soon replaced by the ideal of education for the sake of the nation, nor the gradually widening gap between the ideology of self-advancement and the diminishing chances for it in reality after the turn of the century, could seriously shake the general belief in this ideology. Even nowadays education is seen as the main source of social advancement. Regarding the continuous influence of this ideology, it is generally taken for granted that there existed a high degree of correspondence between ideology and reality. If one looks, however, at social development in prewar Japan, one finds several periods in which academics experienced a high rate of unemployment and even severe economic hardship. The question, therefore, arises as to why and how this ideology was upheld even in times of a relative decline in the social status of academics, when ideology and reality differed quite considerably.

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In order to analyse the sources of social advancement in prewar Japan and the role which education played within this process, this chapter presents the life history of a female teacher, Takemura Shizue, who was born in a small village in Oita prefecture in 1900. Together with her husband, a teacher himself, she moved to Tokyo in the mid1920s. Ever since she has lived there with her family and still occupies the very house in Taito-ku which she and her husband had built in 1937. In the course of her life, Takemura Shizue experienced the whole process of advancing from countryside farming to a whitecollar occupation in the urban middle class. Her life story, therefore, provides us with basic evidence for social changes in prewar Japan. The author is perfectly aware of the problems connected with research centred on the life history of one individual. Since, however, existing research on the social history of teachers allows us to put Takemura Shizue’s life in a more general context, her life history can help us to understand the implications of the anonymous process of social change at the individual level. It can also provide us with valuable insight into not only individual motives, but also the preconditions necessary for social advancement in prewar Japan.

THE PRECONDITIONS: SOCIAL BACKGROUND, SCHOOL CAREER AND MARRIAGE Takemura Shizue was born on 8 May 1900, in Tateishi (Hayamigun, Oita-ken). Her parents were farmers; their living conditions are described by Shizue as ‘poor, but having always had enough to eat’. Nevertheless, the fact that her parents were able to support her with a monthly allowance of ¥12 during her years at normal school shows them not to have been among the poorest farmers in the village. Shizue had the advantage of being a younger sister and was allowed to move on to higher elementary school and finally persuaded her parents to let her go to normal school. After a year of preparation, she passed the examination in 1916 and entered the Oita Prefectural Normal School for Girls (Oita-ken Joshi Shihan Gakko). When Shizue entered Oita Normal School, the profession of an elementary school teacher had already been established as a possible career for women. However, farmers’ families especially were obviously still somewhat reluctant to send their daughters to secondary school at all, and in her village Shizue was clearly an exception.

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Takemura Shizue went to normal school because she wanted to become a teacher. She was fond of learning and did not want to spend her whole life farming. Instead, she wanted to help other people (‘mo chotto hito no tame ni naru yo na shigoto’) and to be of use to society (‘yo naka no tame ni tsukushitai’). Not being rich or— as Shizue put it—a bijin (beautiful woman) or a person of high rank, she thought the teaching profession might help her to become a person worthy of respect and love. These rather idealistic motives are quite consistent with the then common ideas of self-advancement (risshin, mi o tateru), in which learning was seen as the capital for rising in the world (Kinmonth 1981:55). It was not so much in the kind of aspirations which Shizue and the other students at normal schools differed from those aiming at a mainstream career in the national bureaucracy, but the scale of their goals. Driven by a strong will to succeed as well as by feelings of gratitude and filial piety (oyakoko) towards her parents who had allowed her to study, Shizue confined herself solely to her studies and rarely participated in the (limited) social life at school. ‘I thought it would be unexcusable not to study hard because my parents were working hard to support me.’ To show that she was worthy of her parents’ efforts, she had made up her mind to become the best student and, when she graduated in 1920, she actually came top of the class. Even though we may have to concede Shizue expecially strong ambition and will-power, her school career and her way of thinking were not exceptional among the students at the normal schools. Drawing upon several interviews with former (male?) students, Jinnouchi Yasuhiko (1981:156) characterises these students as follows: they come from average rural families, go through elementary and higher elementary school without any irregularities and obtain good grades. Denied of the possibility to go on to middle school, high school and university for personal or financial reasons, they remain buried in the countryside with a burning desire for selfadvancement. For these students normal school was often a compromise between their ambitions and the possibilities of fulfilling those ambitions. The rigid system of the normal schools, often compared to service in the army by former students, submitted the students to a strict schedule and left them little freedom. As life in the schools was based mainly upon traditional values, prospective teachers, besides obtaining all kinds of educational knowledge, were imbued with a

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strong sense of duty, punctuality, obedience and frugality. These attributes, paired with their zeal for learning and their desire to rise socially, were important preconditions for their advancement in society, as the example of Shizue and her husband shows. Shizue graduated in 1920 and soon started teaching at the higher elementary school in Tateishi, which she had attended as a pupil. At the same time, she began to study for another exam (chuto gakko kyoin menkyojo no monbusho kentei shiken), which would qualify her as a teacher at secondary school level. In 1922 she married an elementary school teacher. The marriage was arranged by the headmaster of her school, who happened to be a friend of her future husband. They married on 26 March and the very next day her husband left for Tokyo leaving his newly-wed wife behind. They had agreed on living separately for a couple of years because her husband wanted to take the exam for higher civil servants (koto shiken), for which he was going to prepare in Tokyo. Meanwhile Shizue could also continue with her studies for the secondary school teacher’s exam which she passed in 1923. In the same year she started teaching at a girls’ high school in Oita, earning ¥80 per month, which was quite a good salary. All this shows that Shizue was rather conservative as far as personal matters (like marriage and family) were concerned. With regard to her career, however, she was very ambitious and her husband clearly encouraged her, which was no matter of course in those days. Both aspired to self-advancement, hoping that professional achievements would help them to rise up in society. In 1925, Shizue followed her husband to Tokyo, where—three years after their marriage—they eventually started a normal family life. The decision to move to Tokyo was not on Shizue’s own initiative. But following her career-conscious husband— which she considered her duty as his wife—she became a member of the urban new middle class. Her further development shows that she was well prepared and quite capable of coping with this new situation.

CITY LIFE: FAMILY AND WORK One year after Shizue had come to Tokyo, her husband passed the difficult civil service exam in 1926. This examination qualified him for a career in the higher civil service, but he decided to remain in his teaching position, despite all the effort he had gone through to pass

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the examination. One reason for his decision was the fact that starting a career in the civil service, where he was a mere beginner, would have meant a considerable loss in income: not only would his salary have been lower, but his wife would have been forced to give up her work as well, because as a civil servant he would have been transferred to places all over Japan. It seems that meanwhile he had made up his mind to start a family and set down roots in Tokyo. Employment conditions in the civil service were not compatible with this. This decision, therefore, marks the real starting point of their city life. One year later, in 1927, their first son was born, followed by a daughter in 1931. Despite this, Shizue continued to work, mainly for economic reasons as she explained. This was not uncommon. In the interwar period (1919–37) female teachers amounted to 35 to 37 per cent of all elementary school teachers in Tokyo, and many of them were married. Among the twelve or thirteen female teachers at Shizue’s school in Tokyo only two were not married. For women with small children the school provided a kind of ‘nursing room’, where young mothers could suckle their babies, who were brought in by maids or babysitters several times a day. When Shizue was expecting her first child, the family moved closer to her school to enable her to continue with her work while caring for the baby. They also took in a young girl, who looked after the baby, but did not help her much with other housekeeping tasks. It has to be stressed that this girl was not a full-time maid, a luxury which they could not have afforded at that time, but a lowly-paid babysitter. This is important to note because employing full-time servants is often seen as one characteristic attribute of the middleclass household and, as will be shown later, the Takemura family did not yet belong to this social class. When Shizue came to Tokyo in 1925 she could not find employment at a girls’ high school, and therefore started teaching at an elementary school again. Her high qualifications helped her quickly to gain authority, and she soon obtained a senior position among the female teachers at Matsuba Elementary School. Her husband also gained from his ‘over-qualification’ by having passed the civil service examination. It not only strengthened his self-confidence in his various research and lecturing jobs, but also bettered his position vis-à-vis the educational authorities. It certainly was one of the main reasons why he was promoted to the position of headmaster at the extremely young age of forty-four in 1939.

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So, Shizue and her husband obviously had no difficulties settling into urban society. There may have been some help from former Oita fellow students, living in Tokyo—just as the Takemuras helped young people from the countryside later—but the main reasons for their smooth integration were their good qualifications and their constant efforts to advance in their professional careers as well as in society. While praising their success, one should not forget to look at the reverse side, too. Their advancement in urban society was by no means easy or free of costs. Both of them worked extremely hard and never allowed themselves much rest. Shizue’s husband went to school nearly every day, even on Sundays and holidays, and he did so all the more after having been promoted to the position of headmaster. Shizue recounts that if he took off one week during the summer vacations it was already considered a very long holiday. Since he also spent much time lecturing and participating in research groups, he had little time to spare for his family. Even though his wife was working too, he never helped her with the daily chores or looked after the children. So, it was Shizue who had to shoulder the double burden of working and housekeeping. She worked from early morning into the late evening, having absolutely no time for leisure. She never went with her husband to see a movie or a theatre performance, and had no time to read novels or other books for pleasure. She rarely found enough time to glance over the newspapers which they took regularly. Occasional outings on Sundays, when she took her children to nearby Ueno park for a picnic, was all she could think of when asked about her leisure time. As was quite common in white-collar families before the war, Shizue and her husband frequently received guests in their home who would sometimes stay overnight. But such parties were rather an extension of her husband’s working life than a pleasure, and for Shizue it always meant additional work. All this shows that most of the pleasures and amusements which are commonly associated with the so-called ‘Taisho culture’ (Taisho bunka) and seen as part of the urban life at that time did not exist for Shizue and her husband. Even though their combined income should have been high enough to allow them a more leisurely life, their aspirations and their pursuit of social advancement restricted them to a frugal lifestyle and drove them to work very hard. However, Shizue and her husband may not have regretted this very much. Their success later on amply rewarded them for all these efforts.

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CITY LIFE: ECONOMIC SITUATION When the Takemuras moved to Tokyo, the economic boom of the First World War had ended and the following depression(s) caused a rapid deterioration of conditions in the labour market in Tokyo and other cities. But as both Shizue and her husband were highly qualified, they soon found work, although, in the case of Shizue, not in a completely adequate position. Being teachers, Shizue and her husband were civil servants, receiving a fixed salary, which was low but rose steadily owing to regular promotions. Therefore their income was less affected by the economic crises of the 1920s and 1930s than, for example, the wages of factory workers. The development of their family income as shown in the following table clearly reflects the relative stability. When compared to their colleagues, the Takemuras were far better off, considering their total income, which ranged from ¥158 in 1923 to ¥265 in 1942. In 1922, for example, teachers earning up to ¥100 formed the lower income group, while those with ¥100 to ¥200 were the middle, and those with more than ¥200 the higher income group. In 1926, the dividing line between the lower and middle income group had moved up to ¥120, while the higher income group started at the level of ¥160 to ¥180 (Takemura 1988:77–82). Compared with these figures the Takemura family belonged to the middle group right from the beginning of their life in Tokyo. Thus, they did not have to start from the very bottom of the income scale. This is important to note, especially when considering the short period of only fifteen years—between their marriage in 1922 and their purchase of a house in 1937—in which they succeeded in establishing themselves in the urban proprietary middle class. Their favourable starting position was mostly due to Shizue’s income, which accounted for more than 40 per cent of their total income (see Table 6.1). Her husband later acknowledged this, when he said: ‘Looking back on our life I think that the fact that my wife was working as a teacher for fifteen, sixteen years, greatly helped us to establish a solid economic basis for our life’ (Takemura 1988:170). Even though the husband’s salary was average in the beginning and considerably above average later on—the average salary of male elementary school teachers in Tokyo was ¥85.8 in 1922; ¥89 in 1926; ¥88.4 in 1933; ¥87.3 in 1937 (Takemura 1988: 78, 80, 83) —his regular salary accounted for only 50 to 55 per cent of their family income. Ranking the Takemuras’ household only by his earning, they

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Table 6.1 Income of the Takemura family 1923–42 (in Yen) (calculated from Takemura 1988:168, tabl. 4.4)

*including allowances 1) figures from December 1931 do not show the temporary reduction in salaries which occurred in the middle of the year 2) sudden rise owing to additional income

would have to be placed in the upper part of the lowest income bracket or the lower part of the middle group respectively. Such an income was just sufficient to cover the necessary costs for daily life, providing almost no flexibility in the structure of expenditures (Takemura 1988:96, 105, 112). It thus becomes quite obvious that the regular salary of an elementary school teacher was at best sufficient to establish the respective family as a member of the new middle class, consisting of salaried employees and lower ranking officials. If, however, someone wanted to advance into the proprietary middle class, as the Takemuras eventually did, it needed additional income, which could be saved to accumulate the capital necessary to purchase property. If one considers these facts, it becomes obvious why there is such a gap between the frugal lifestyle described by Shizue, and their

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comparatively high income. Saving most of her earnings, they actually lived solely on her husband’s income most of the time. Out of his monthly earnings of ¥100–150, they not only paid the rent (¥30– 38), food and other daily necessities, but also sent money to his parents (¥15), for whom her husband, being the eldest son, was responsible. Having two children as well as having to employ a babysitter meant that there had to be a certain amount of living space, which in turn meant higher rent. By denying themselves nearly any convenience and pleasure, the Takemuras managed to save the incredibly high amount of ¥9,050, four times as high as their combined yearly income of 1925. This is a clear expression of how strongly they were determined to invest in their future, which for them meant eventually to buy land, build a house and thus become rooted in their urban environment.

CITY LIFE: HOUSING The gradual rise of the Takemura family in urban society is most clearly reflected in the changes in their housing conditions. When Shizue came to Tokyo in 1925, her husband gave up his lodging, and they moved into a house in Kojimachi. In the following year, when Shizue was expecting her first child, they looked for a house closer to her school, so that commuting would be easier for her while she cared for the baby. They found a rather small house in Shimoya-ku, Kamisansaki-minami-cho. It had three rooms: one sixtatami room and one three-tatami room on the ground floor and one six-tatami room upstairs, as well as a toilet. Other data on housing conditions in Tokyo in 1927 show that the size of the house as well as its rent of ¥30 seems to have been of average standard for a teacher’s dwelling (Takemura 1988: 162). There the Takemura family, now consisting of four people, including the babysitter, lived for four years. In 1931, when the family was to grow again because Shizue was expecting her second child, they moved to a larger house only a few blocks away in Shimizu-cho (today: Taito-ku, Ikenohata). It too was a rented house, but it had four rooms: one two-tatami, one fourand-a-half-tatami and one six-tatami room downstairs and one sixtatami room upstairs; there also was a small vestibule and a kitchen, a toilet, but no bathroom. Part of the house opened into a garden. The monthly rent of ¥38 was quite high compared to other rented

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houses, a fact which Takemura (1988:165) relates to the high quality of the respective residential area. According to his analysis the standard of this house was certainly above not only the average salaryreceiver’s house, but also the average teacher’s dwelling. Thus, as far as their housing conditions were concerned, the Takemuras had risen up to the higher income group of teachers in 1931. Better than their general lifestyle, which remained rather frugal, the housing situation of the Takemura family clearly depicts their social advancement, and shows that they were slowly approaching the living standard of the middle class. In accordance with other sources, Takemura (1988:121–3) has pointed out two major criteria for classifying a household as ‘urban middle class’: property and servants, or, to be more concrete, living in one’s own house and employing at least a maid. Both criteria were mostly fulfilled when the Takemuras moved into their own house in 1937. In that year they acquired 50 tsubo (c. 165 sq.m) of land in Shimizucho and built a relatively large house on it. They had to pay ¥6000 for the land and ¥2900 for the house. The two-storied wooden building had five rooms with altogether 32.5 tatami, a small vestibule, a kitchen, a toilet and a bathroom. It was equipped with running water, electricity and gas, which was also used as fuel for the heating installed in some rooms. This house differed from the rented dwellings the Takemuras had lived in so far not only in its size and better facilities, but also in two other important points: it had a bathroom (ofuro) and a western-style drawing room (osetsuma), where one received visitors who were not close friends of the family. These are characteristics commonly associated with the so-called ‘cultured dwellings’ (bunka jutaku) which became common among the middle class in Tokyo during the late Taisho and early Showa period. The internal structure of these houses greatly differed from the usual rented dwellings, reflecting the differences in the lifestyle of the inhabitants. The vestibule and the drawing room stress the importance attributed to receiving guests. For the average blue- or white-collar worker’s household it would have been impossible to reserve one or two rooms exclusively for the purpose of receiving guests. Also, rooms were arranged differently: in the middle-class house, all rooms could be reached separately from a (middle) corridor without having to pass through another room. The corridor usually also separated the maid’s room and the kitchen from the rooms

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occupied by the family. Except for the drawing room, all rooms were used in the Japanese way as multi-purpose rooms. The new house of the Takemuras met most of the aforementioned requirements and, therefore, has to be regarded as a typical middleclass dwelling. It symbolises better than anything else that the Takemura family had succeeded in establishing themselves as members of the proprietary urban middle class. All members of the family felt that moving into their own house had a major impact on their lifestyle. It even influenced their language, as Shizue’s son, Eiichi, reported. Asked whether he used to call his parents ‘okasan’ and ‘otosan’ (less formal) or ‘okasama’ and ‘otosama’ (formal), he answered: ‘When we moved into this house (i.e. their own house), we generally felt that our lifestyle had been upgraded, that we had advanced into a higher social class. Therefore, we gradually came to use words which were different from those used downtown. So, after we had moved here, I started calling my parents ‘otosama’ and ‘okasama’ Shizue added: ‘In the houses we had lived so far, the level was just different. If one used too formal words there, people would think …’, and her son continued: ‘There is the problem with the people in the neighbourhood. While living in these rented houses, one tends to use downtown words in order to avoid being called arrogant or conceited. But here, in this area, all the houses are separate houses, therefore even I (i.e. being ten years old when the family moved there) felt that our standard of living had been raised up.’ The new status of the family was strengthened when in 1939 Shizue’s husband was promoted to the position of the headmaster of his school. This position carried a prestige which placed these teachers—at least in the cities—on an equal footing with middle or even higher ranking civil servants. The picture of a not rich, but well-to-do middle-class family was complete when Shizue— for various reasons—gave up her work in 1942 and became a full-time housewife. But by that time the foundations of their urban middleclass life, which they had taken such great efforts to lay, were shaken by the damaging effects of the Second World War.

CONCLUSION In only one generation, Takemura Shizue and her husband accomplished a career which led them from the lower or lower-middle

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stratum of rural society into the urban new middle class, and finally into the urban proprietary middle class. This has to be regarded as an extraordinary achievement, since it usually takes two generations to accomplish such a change. Therefore, the careers of Shizue and her husband probably represented the upmost possibilities of social advancement for someone in their situation, that is to say someone stemming from a (more or less) poor rural family, seeking selfadvancement through learning. Analysing Shizue’s career, we should distinguish between two stages, the first of which was her change from agriculture to the white-collar occupation of a school teacher. This change was mainly brought about by education, which thus played the major role in laying the foundations for her further advancement. It also has to be noted that this first phase of Shizue’s career was accomplished while she was still in her native prefecture of Oita. Therefore, when she and her husband eventually migrated to Tokyo—changing from life in the countryside to a highly-developed urban environment—they had already acquired the qualifications which allowed them to establish themselves in the middle or even higher income stratum of the urban new middle class. While education was the most important factor for social mobility during the first phase, it was not sufficient, however, to bring about the second stage of the career: the rise from the new middle class to the proprietary middle class. At this stage, at least two other factors became effective: 1 Shizue’s comparatively high salary, which enlarged the flexible part of their household budget and gave them the possibility to save a large amount of money; and 2 certain personal attributes such as discipline, will-power, diligence, frugality and the preparedness to sacrifice one’s own wishes for the aspired goal; without these attributes the Takemuras would probably never have succeeded in accumulating the necessary capital for the purchase of their house in such a short time. One conclusion to be drawn from this example, therefore, is that even though education was the most important factor for social advancement, it was only in combination with other factors such as personal attributes and a sufficiently large income that education could become effective as a means for rising in society.

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But there is also another important aspect of this life history. The social advancement took place mainly in the late Taisho and early Showa period, a time commonly associated with stories of failure and frustration rather than success. It was a time when university students could not find employment after their graduation, and the slogan ‘daigaku o deta keredomo…’ (he has graduated from university but…) was very popular. At that time it seemed that education had ceased to be a guarantee for a good career. The examples of Shizue and her husband, however, show that social advancement through learning was still possible, though not necessarily by way of the university. So, while the wellknown self-advancement (risshin shusse) stories of the Meiji period, centring around university students, were belied by reality, there obviously developed a new kind of selfadvancement story, which was closer to reality: more modest in its goals, with protagonists belonging to the middle class rather than the national elite, but still upholding the ideal of ‘advancement through learning’. We could say that the stories of Shizue and others who succeeded, however few in numbers they might have been, helped to transmit this ideal to the next generation. This explains at least partly why the ideology of self-advancement through learning continued to be a strong motivating factor and driving force for social mobility in prewar (and, we could add, postwar) Japan despite the fact that many failed to reach that goal.

NOTE 1

The life story presented in this chapter is that of Takemura Shizue. The author met Takemura Shizue in 1987 and had two extensive interviews with her (16 June and 29 August 1987). During the second interview Shizue’s eldest son, Takemura Eiichi, was also present. The author is greatly indebted to both of them for their kind and forbearing cooperation. The author also gratefully acknowledges the help of Shizue’s grandson, Takemura Hideki, who not only introduced her to his grandmother, but also allowed her to use his unpublished M.A. thesis (Keio University 1988), which deals with the life history of Shizue’s husband (cited as Takemura 1988).

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REFERENCES Dilworth, David and Hirano Umeyo (eds) (1969) Fukuzawa Yukichi’s An Encouragement of Learning, Tokyo: Sophia University Press. Jinnouchi Yasuhiko (1981) ‘Meiji koki ni okeru shihan kyoiku no seidoka to shihan gakko nyugakusei no tokushitsu (The institutionalisation of normal schools in the late Meiji period and the characteristics of those entering them)’, in Ishitoya Tetsuo and Kadowaki Atsushi (eds) Nihon kyoin shakai shi kenkyu (Research on the social history of Japan’s teachers), Tokyo: Akishobo. Kinmonth, Earl H. (1981) The Self-Made Man in Meiji Japanese Thought: From Samurai to Salary Man, Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press. Passin, Herbert (1965) Society and Education in Japan, Tokyo, New York and San Francisco: Columbia University Press. Takemura Hideki (1988) Senkanki chiho shusshin kyoin no toshi teichaku katei to seikatsu—aru kyoin no seikatsu shi to shakaiteki haikei (The city dweller life and family of a teacher from Senkanki region—the life history and social background of one teacher), M.A. thesis, unpublished, Tokyo: Keio University. —— (1989) ‘Senkanki chiho kyoin no toshi ryunyu’ (The move to the city of a teacher from Senkanki region), Shakaigaku kenkyu-ka kiyo, no. 29: 53–63.

Chapter 7

Japanese educational expansion Quality or equality Kirsten Refsing

THE EGALITARIAN IDEAL There seems to be a general consensus in Japan that education is a good thing. The idea that too much education will produce rebellious citizens, conceited snobs, family quarrels and insurmountable generation gaps has not played a significant role in educational policy in Japan since the Meiji Restoration1 (Stone 1970) —although it may well have existed in popular opinion along with the idea that too much education is wasted on girls and turns them into bad wives. As in many other countries, Japan since the 1960s has witnessed a tremendous growth in demand for education, and education policy has generally supported the view that education is good and more education is better.2 In a society like Japan, which considers itself democratic and egalitarian, it follows that if education is a good, every citizen should have as free and open access to this good as the society can possibly provide. Basic education should be available for all children in order that they may learn to fulfil their role as citizens of a democracy and be able to make choices about their future; and advanced education should be provided for anybody who has the ability and the desire to take advantage of it. According to the democratic and egalitarian ideal, it becomes very important to ensure that all children, regardless of social circumstances, get a fair opportunity to prove their ability, fair conditions for making informed choices, and, of course, the economic means to follow up on those choices.

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EXPANSION IN THE EDUCATIONAL SYSTEM On the surface, Japan may appear to have come closer to this ideal than any other country in the world. Practically all children receive nine years of compulsory, unstreamed, elementary education, and the secondary schools every year accommodate more than 90 per cent of the relevant age group. The number of student places in the tertiary system is equally impressive: a little more than one-third of each graduating year are admitted to university or college (Basic Facts and Figures 1988:19). Japan’s more than 1000 tertiary institutions have a total enrolment of over two million students (Basic Facts and Figures: 1988: 18). These impressive figures are the result of a continuous expansion in the Japanese educational system since the Meiji Restoration in 1868. After the Second World War the expansion in the secondary and tertiary sectors of the educational system was explosive. In the twenty years between 1960 and 1980, the total number of students in universities and colleges almost tripled: from 626,420 people in 1960 to 1,835,310 in 1980 (Yano and Maruyama [1985] quoted in Bie, Segnen and Vangsnes 1988: 18). In the same period, the percentage of fifteen-year-olds entering high school went from approximately 50 per cent in a given year to almost all of them (Basic Facts and Figures 1988: 19).

THE NEED FOR BETTER-EDUCATED WORKERS The growth in the educational sector is usually explained by external factors related to supply and demand, such as the nation’s need for a better-educated labour force. With new technologies and the need to rebuild Japan from scratch after the war this explanation presumably holds true, but it is not without contradictions. How, for instance, can the idea of an increased demand for better-educated workers be reconciled with the attitude of Japanese employers in general? Most employers have never expected—and do not today expect—the educational system to provide their future employees with any great amount of education in terms of specialised skills or knowledge. Most employers not only expect, but even seem to prefer, to provide their newly recruited labour force with in-house, on-the-job training, which is especially geared to their particular line of work and their particular brand of ‘company spirit’.

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The Japanese employer does not look for specialised knowledge or well-defined skills when determining who to hire for job openings. Rather he looks for human qualities and social skills, such as discipline, obedience, endurance, diligence, and a capacity for hard work, for learning new things, for loyalty and for team-spirit. Such qualities are instilled in most Japanese through early socialisation in the family, in kindergarten, and in elementary school. Some high schools may develop these qualities further in their students by requiring intense study for the university entrance examinations, but others cater to a less ambitious clientele, and it is doubtful whether they contribute to the development of desirable qualities in the future workers. Likewise, the two or four years in college or university are often seen as a breathing space where few demands are made on the students and where the painfully acquired discipline of the earlier years is allowed to slip away for a while, ideally perhaps to be replaced by the more mature talents of reflection and scholarship (as opposed to cramming) and a more general experience of life.

DELAYED ENTRANCE INTO THE LABOUR MARKET The expansion in the Japanese educational system cannot be explained by the need for a better-educated labour force alone. Other aspects of supply and demand must be taken into account. All over the industrialised world, job openings for fifteen- to eighteen-yearolds have been decreasing during the past decades. In the Scandinavian countries, for instance, one can see a more or less conscious strategy for keeping unemployment down simply by delaying entrance into the labour market. This has probably functioned as an added incentive for unions to play an active role in promoting better educational opportunities for young people. The expansion in the educational system and the decrease in job openings for the fifteen- to eighteen-year-olds are two trends which support each other, and it seems to be impossible to establish one of them as the cause and the other as the effect. If more and more fifteen-year-olds stay in school, older people will do the jobs they would otherwise have done. If, on the other hand, for some reason employers begin to avoid fifteen-year-old applicants, the fifteen-yearolds will probably have school as their only alternative.

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Keeping children and young people in schools may be said to serve four different functions: education, socialisation, selection and ‘safekeeping’, i.e. school serves as a depository for the young until they are ready for the labour market, and especially until the labour market is ready for them. Ideally the educational system in Japan is supposed to provide all children with equal opportunities to succeed in Japanese society. The degree of success is determined only by the amount of effort put into studying by the child (and to some degree by his mother). Of course social circumstances, geographical factors and variations in basic ability are part of the Japanese reality just as in any other country, but they are rarely allowed to disturb the ideal picture. Nevertheless, schools in Japan can be seen to serve all of the aforementioned four functions. Since the beginning of the Meiji era, school has taken over much of the family’s role in the socialisation process, not least because the kind of socialisation needed to get along in today’s Japan can no longer be provided by the reduced family of absentee father, parttime mother and 0.75 siblings, which is becoming the norm. School also provides education by teaching the children basic academic skills, such as reading, writing, arithmetic, English, and a varying amount of facts about the world in which they live. Selection becomes the most important function from around the sixth grade, where children and their parents are forced to start planning a future educational course. From this point on, a succession of examinations will determine the child’s future range of choices and eventually place him or her irrevocably in the educational and social hierarchy. Finally, the depository function of Japanese schools has grown steadily in importance as the number of students staying in the school system beyond the compulsory nine years has increased to include almost everybody. When everybody goes to high school, regardless of ability and motivation, a certain percentage will necessarily be there because they have nothing better to do with themselves and because they want to do what everybody else does and what their parents expect.

DEMOGRAPHIC CHANGES AND THE ROLE OF THE MOTHER If we turn from the ‘external’ needs of society for better-educated workers and for delaying entrance into the work force, and look at

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the ‘internal’ needs of the people instead, we shall find several demographic features of postwar Japan which may help to explain the increased demand for more education. Since the Second World War the birthrate has dropped markedly (Japan Statistical Yearbook 1988:24–5), and in the same period the average life-expectancy has risen by about thirty years (Japan Statistical Yearbook 1988: 784). Put very simply, this means that the individual family has less children to support and more years in which they are able to go on supporting them. The average set of parents can now expect to be around long enough to see their children safely through a long period of education and also watch them settle down in society. The statistical possibility of living to enjoy the fruits of your investment in your children’s career is an added incentive for trying to secure them a good education. The drop in the average number of children per household has not significantly altered the image or the role of the Japanese mother. Although almost half of all Japanese women over the age of fifteen now participate in the labour force (Japan Statistical Yearbook 1988:71), the idea that the role of wife and mother is a woman’s natural destiny and should take precedence over everything else still persists. A large number of women leave the labour market when they are expecting their first child, only to reenter it after dedicating a certain number of years completely to child-rearing. At the time of re-entry into the labour market, the only jobs available will be poorly paid part-time positions with little or no prospects of providing anything remotely resembling a career. Mothering has remained the central purpose of women’s life in Japan, and a drop in the number of children to be reared will, therefore, tend to produce a sizeable increase in the amount of time and attention devoted to each child. This in turn may well create a greater reluctance to let go of the child, and in general Japanese children today are encouraged to ‘be children’ for much longer than before. Keeping the child in school for a larger number of years is a very effective means of postponing entrance into adulthood, and this period of postponement fits smoothly with the concept of ‘youth’ as an extra, intermediary stage between childhood and adult life. This stage, like the child stage, creates its own cultural norms and behavioural patterns, while at the same time forming a distinct consumer group so that commercial interests will help to reinforce its reality.3

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Increased motherly attention delays maturity and independence, and perhaps this affords some explanation of how the fifteen- to eighteen-year-olds disappeared from the labour market. Having shared their mother’s attention with very few siblings or even none at all, the fifteen-year-olds simply became too spoilt to be of use as workers in industry or trade. On the one hand, we have a labour market in a prosperous period with many changes and a demand for mature and responsible workers who can show independent initiative as well as cooperative spirit. On the other we have a generation of mothers who want to hang on to their few children for as long as possible, and of children who have been molly-coddled and consequently hesitate to step out into the adult world and manage on their own. Actually, when today’s youngsters are berated for their lack of backbone, discipline, motivation and loyalty the talk is generally not even about fifteen-year-olds, but rather about twenty-twoyear-old university graduates: They’re childish, they can’t speak properly, they have no manners, and when you tell them to write something, they turn out gibberish. They don’t have any initiative. They make no effort to help others with their work. They have no corporate loyalty. No matter how busy things get, they feel no qualms about taking time off. They cry easily. I think they have a screw loose somewhere. (Unnamed Japanese managers, quoted in Japan Echo, XIV, 1, 1987:67) Even with the increased attention given to each child in Japanese society today, there seems to be a discrepancy between the abundant supply of motherly service, skills and time on the one side, and the rather more scarce demand for this commodity from the dwindling number of children on the receiving end. The ‘education mama’ syndrome may well be seen as one of the negative effects of this discrepancy, and it is hardly going to disappear unless the maternal role is redefined and the surplus of ‘mother time’ is converted into new contributions to the labour market.

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EDUCATION AS AN INVESTMENT Of course the general thirst for education cannot be explained solely by the need for mothers to hang on to their maternal role for as long as possible. There is also a very real and concrete motive for investing energy and capital in securing the best possible education, namely the pay-off in terms of increased earning power and improved social status. The belief in education as the most effective means of securing upward social mobility is still very strong in Japan, despite the fact that it is gradually being undermined by reality. A rapidly expanding educational system will soon create a kind of vicious circle in the sense that it produces an upgrading of formal educational requirements for positions which formerly had lower requirements or none at all. Many positions which were formerly available to middle school graduates are now closed to them because employers can pick and choose from high school or even university graduates instead. In this way higher education gradually becomes a need instead of a choice, and the actual economic and social benefits reaped from acquiring higher education decrease markedly at the same time. In 1965, a high school graduate averaged an income which amounted to 70 per cent of that of a university graduate. In 1981 this percentage had risen to 81.6 per cent (Japan Times 1984).

RESPONSES TO THE DEMAND FOR MORE EDUCATION On the whole the Japanese educational system has been capable of an adequate response to the public demand for expansion. But this has not been as the result of any kind of overall planning or purpose, nor has the response been provided by the government or the central educational authorities. In 1950 national and public universities accommodated about half of all the students receiving a higher education, and the other half went to private institutions. In 1976 the balance had shifted so that only 24 per cent were enrolled in national and public universities, while 76 per cent attended private universities (James and Benjamin 1988:20). On the financial side, the public expenditure on education in proportion to other public expenses did not increase during the years of expansion (Japan Statistical Yearbook 1988:441). Thus the financial burden of the expansion has been borne by individuals who have paid private

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institutions for their education, rather than by the tax payers as a whole. The growth in the private sector has been largely unchecked. Since private institutions are financed primarily by their users, only the will and ability of these users to pay have set some economic limits. Central governmental control of the private institutions has been negligible, and government policy in this area is best described as laissez-faire. There have been no serious attempts to oversee and control the quality of the education provided, and existing rules about limitations on the size of the student body have generally been ignored. Most private universities admit between 10 to 40 per cent more students than they are supposed to according to regulations (Nishimura 1987:182), and the results show clearly in a comparison of student/teacher ratios in private and public universities. The average student/teacher ratio for all national and public universities is 8.9 to 1, while for private universities it is 24.3 to 1 (Ogose 1988:158). Moreover, there is great variation among private institutions and some institutions have much higher student/teacher ratios. Another effect of allowing expansion to occur mainly in the private sector is the dramatic increase in the number of ‘cheap’ student places in humanities and social sciences. By the end of the 1960s many private universities were in financial difficulties and had overextended themselves with loans. Campus unrest had put a temporary stop to any significant rise in tuition fees, so the situation was finally resolved by the government, which introduced a programme of limited financial support to the private universities. This provided the government with a tool for gaining control over the private institutions, but so far the tool seems to have been used only to put a temporary stop to expansion by making the private universities agree that no new universities should be opened, nor should existing ones be expanded, for a period stretching from 1975 to the mid-1980s, when the second wave of the postwar baby boom was expected to hit the higher educational system. The government did intend to make their support conditional upon the universities’ conforming to regulations concerning student enrolment. There has been no attempt, however, to enforce this condition except by calculating the amount given in support on the basis of the supposed number of new enrolments, and not on the basis of the actual number, which is still much larger (Ichikawa 1986).

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DISCREPANCIES BETWEEN SUPPLY AND DEMAND Despite the enormous expansion of the higher educational system, it still cannot fulfil the wishes of everyone who wants a higher education. Even though the total number of places for new students every year roughly corresponds to the number of high school graduates who wish to enter, approximately one-third of all applicants end up with a rejection slip (Japan Times Weekly 1987). This is partly due to the fact that the applicants’ ranks are swelled with last year’s failures and those of the year before, who are having their second or third try at the entrance examination. Another reason is that applicants sit for exams to only a few specific universities, and, if they fail, they will rather spend an extra year in preparation than settle for one of the less prestigious universities. Most of those who wish to go to university sooner or later go, when their ambitions begin to match reality; but they often do so with a sense of defeat and frustration at having had to settle for a lesser institution. ‘Equality and quality are counterpoint ambitions’ says Thomas Rohlen in his book, Japan’s High Schools (1983), and the qualitative differences among Japanese universities bear witness to this. All Japanese universities are placed in a qualitative hierarchy, which is clearly reflected in the hiring practices of both public and private enterprises. The graduates of the few universities at the top of the hierarchy are hired for all the worthwhile positions, and graduates of less prestigious universities must settle for much less attractive positions in minor firms. About one graduate in seven from Japan’s universities end up as manual workers (Ushiogi 1979). The competition to get in at the top of the university hierarchy is intense, and the contents of high school education in Japan are primarily defined by this competition. In order to respond adequately to the popular demand for ‘equal opportunity’ and ‘fair competition’, high school curricula are strictly standardised with no leeway for experimental teaching. Some high schools have earned a reputation for producing a large percentage of graduates who succeed in entering the best universities. After the student unrest in the late 1960s a law was passed in the Tokyo area to the effect that public high schools had to recruit their students from within a specified school district. The purpose of this law was to even out the qualitative differences between high schools caused by some high schools with good reputations recruiting all the best students. The law was not successful; the elite public high schools were replaced by private high schools,

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which were not affected by the law and could freely recruit pupils from all over the country. One of the more famous of such high schools is Nada High School in Kobe, which each year sends approximately one in two graduates to the absolute top of the university hierarchy, Tokyo University. One in two from Nada High School should be compared with the ratio for the whole country, where only one in 440 students end up at Tokyo University (Rohlen 1983:19). Private enterprise has fed on the competition for entrance into good schools, and Japan has a flourishing business of cram schools, preparatory schools, private tutoring, commercial test examinations, study guides, self-help teaching materials, and so on. Recently the percentage of high school drop outs has risen slightly as some of the brightest pupils have decided that their time is better spent on private cramming (Kitamura 1986:156) which, helped by this business, is estimated to have a yearly turnover in the vicinity of five billion dollars. The fierceness of the competition to gain entrance to a good university is exacerbated by the fact that the entrance examination will be the only chance one ever gets to secure ‘a good life’ for oneself and one’s future family. The Japanese labour market is generally not structured to accommodate people with unorthodox educational experience or unconventional careers. At eighteen one’s future will be decided once and for all, so it follows naturally that all education before the age of eighteen should be geared towards this goal. Those who cannot or do not wish to take part in the competition are losers to the world—and usually to themselves as well. There are in theory no acceptable alternatives to the elite track. This attitude is probably reinforced by the conviction that ‘equality’ means not only ‘equal opportunities’, but also ‘equal ability’. One survey has shown that while American mothers believe that their children’s success or failure in the educational system depends equally on ability, training and effort, Japanese mothers tend to believe that effort is the overwhelmingly decisive factor (Stevenson et al. 1986). Thus failure is considered to be due to insufficient effort, and there are no mitigating factors to help remove some of the guilt connected with failing.

EDUCATIONAL REFORMS? The emphasis on effort as the main determinant for educational success makes it possible to maintain the ideal model of a fair and

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egalitarian educational system in Japan. The model is further supported by the government’s insistence upon a centralised system, which prides itself on the fact that in any given day of the year, school children all over Japan are using the same or very similar textbooks. Countrywide, identical exams, identical curricula and books, and the fact that there is no streaming during the first compulsory nine years all help to reinforce the sense of ‘oneness’, of similarity and equality. The inequality becomes apparent, however, when one takes a look at the extra-school activities which play a decisive role in determining a child’s chances of getting on the elite track. The yearly costs of going to a juku (cram school) to prepare for college entrance exams average around ¥600,000, and some children enter such juku from the age of ten (Sakakibara 1988:6). Nevertheless, the fact that wellto-do fathers send proportionately more sons and daughters to better universities, and that it generally takes a doctor’s child to become a doctor, do not significantly influence the perception of the ideal model. The dominating position of the elite track, and the almost unanimous recognition of it as such, means in effect that everybody harbours a wish to be on it—or at least to join an educational institution which will strive towards as close a similarity to the elite track as possible. Practical, technical education holds little temptation, even for people whose abilities lie in this direction. To preserve a maximum of equality and fairness in the face of the university entrance examinations, all schools attempt to approximate the same ideals and goals, regardless of their students’ interests and abilities. Most Japanese, inside or outside the educational system, will readily agree that educational reform is sorely needed. However, in spite of the ardent debate about reforms which has been going on since the late 1960s, education still receives low priority among governmental matters. Some of the dissatisfaction engendered by the system’s gap between the ideal and the real seems to find an outlet in reform discussions and proposals,4 but actual changes are slow to materialise. After all, the system does work rather well for three out of the four aforementioned functions, namely socialisation, selection and safekeeping. The fourth function, education, may have become partly distorted in a number of schools, but this appears to be satisfactorily compensated for by on-the-job training. Prospective employers are probably well aware that they would encounter much harder problems if they had to cope with lack of discipline and endurance

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in their new recruits—or with employees of varied educational backgrounds. So in the midst of all the lamentations about the ills of the educational system, one must surmise that a substantial number of Japanese in influential positions are actually—secretly—quite satisfied with the way things are. Another, more conspicuous obstacle to reform lies in the extreme opposition of interests among various groups. The educational authorities and the Ministry of Education wish to solve most problems through greater centralisation, while the Japan Teachers’ Union, which is a strong and influential leftist organisation, violently opposes further centralisation and instead proposes decentralisation and greater freedom in the system as solutions to the same problems. No compromise seems possible between these two extremes. Caught between them are the parents and the pupils who wish to secure a place at the top of the system, yet at the same time decry the inhumanity of the competition. They will fight any reform proposal which might threaten to diminish or obscure their personal chances of getting to the top. Parents will panic at any suggestions to change the exam conditions here and now, because they fear that their children, who have studied with a view to the existing system, will be disadvantaged if they have to change horses in mid-stream.

NOTES 1 Except where minorities were concerned: the educational curriculum for Ainu children until 1922 excluded certain subjects (geography, history, science), presumably because they were thought to provide material for subversive thinking (Peng and Geiser 1977:187). 2 After the first decade of educational expansion, education specialists began to voice their doubts in the belief that education was unequivocally good, and pointed out that ‘overeducation’ can produce frustration and disillusionment when people fail to find the kind of employment to which they had expected their education to be a ticket (Dore 1976:4). This idea, however, has only very recently begun to be reflected in the educational policy of some western European countries, such as Britain and Denmark, and it does not seem to have had much impact on Japan’s educational policy so far. 3 In this connection it is noteworthy that the production of educational support material for young people competing for entrance into elite high schools and universities is one of the largest commercial interests for this age group. 4 Such as OECD 1971; Central Council on Education 1972; Japan Teachers’ Union 1973; Japan Committee for Economic Development

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1984; National Council on Educational Reform, 1987; see also Refsing 1989.

REFERENCES Basic Facts and Figures about the Educational System in Japan (1988), Tokyo: National Institute for Educational Research. Bie, K.N., Scgnen, R. and Vangsnes, S. (1988) Japan i kunnskapsfronten, Notat 4/88. Oslo: Norges allmennvitenskapelige forskningsråd. Central Council on Education (1972) Basic Guidelines for the Reform of Education, Tokyo: Ministry of Education. Cummings, W.K., Amano I. and Kitamura K. (eds) (1979) Changes in the Japanese University, New York: Praeger. Cummings, W.K. et al. (eds) (1986) Educational Policies in Crisis: Japanese and American Perspectives, New York: Praeger. Dore, Ronald (1976) The Diploma Disease, London: George Allen and Unwin. Ichikawa Shogo (1986) ‘Finance of Higher Education’, in W.K. Cummings et al. (eds) (op. cit.). James, E. and Benjamin, G. (1988) Public Policy and Private Education in Japan, London: The Macmillan Press. Japan Committee for Economic Development (1984) A Proposition from Businessmen for Educational Reform: In Pursuit of Creativity, Diversity and Internationality, Tokyo. Japan Echo (1987) ‘Five Admonitions to Japan Inc.’, Vol. XIV, No. 1: 57– 65. Japan Statistical Yearbook (1988), Tokyo: Statistics Bureau, Management and Coordination Agency. Japan Teachers’ Union (1973) How to Reform Japanese Education, Tokyo. Japan Times (1984) ‘Higher Education May Not Lead to Higher Income’, 28 September. Japan Times Weekly (1987) ‘Record 390.000 Take College Exams’, 14 February. Kitamura Kazuyuki (1986) ‘The Decline and Reform of Education in Japan: A Comparative Perspective’ in W.K.Cummings et al. (eds) (op. cit.). National Council on Educational Reform (1987) Fourth and Final Report on Educational Reform, Tokyo: Government of Japan. Nishimura Hidetoshi (1987) ‘Universities—Under Pressure to Change’, Japan Quarterly, XXXIV, 2: 179–84. OECD (1971) Reviews of National Policies for Education: Japan, Paris. Ogose Sunao (1988) ‘The Ossification of University Faculties’, Japan Quarterly, XXXV, April-June: 157–62. Peng, Fred C.C. and Geiser, Peter (1977 ) The Ainu: The Past in the Present, Hiroshima Bunka Hyoron Publishing Company. Refsing, Kirsten (1989 ) Japanese Education: Reform and Conflict, Working Paper 9, University of Stockholm.

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Rohlen, Thomas P. (1983 ) Japan’s High Schools, Berkeley: University of California . Sakakibara Junko (1988 ) ‘The Paper Elite’, Tokyo Journal, 7 : 6–27 . Stevenson H. , Azuma H. and Hakuta K. (eds) (1986 ) Child Development and Education in Japan, New York: N.Y.Freeman and Co. Stone, L. (1970 ) ‘Japan and England: A Comparative Study’, in P.W. Musgrave (ed.) Sociology, History, and Education, London: Methuen and Co. Ltd. Ushiogi Morikazu (1979 ) ‘The Japanese Student and the Labor Market’ in W.K.Cummings, et al. (eds) (op. cit.). Yano M. and Maruyama F. (1985 ) Prospects and Problems in Japanese Higher Education , Hiroshima : Hiroshima University, Research Institute for Higher Education .

Chapter 8

A beacon for the twenty-first century Confucianism after the Tokugawa era in Japan1 Jan van Bremen

TRADITIONS Confucianism deserves closer attention as a field of inquiry. A manysided phenomenon, this ‘family of doctrines’ has for a long time exercised a portentous influence in a number of Asian countries, including Japan. Although it may seem to have all but disappeared from Japan after the Tokugawa period (1600–1868), in fact its influence has remained strong in subsequent eras. Into the Heisei period of today, it has retained a prominent place in popular texts; I examine portrayals of Confucianism in popular historical literature and academic writings at a time at which, at the start of the 1990s, a novel about Confucius, Koshi by Inoue Yasushi (1989), tops the Japanese bestseller lists. In some detail, I consider a few portrayals of Confucianism in popular form found in the 1970s. The important point, however, is that these instances are not unusual, and that representations like these have been made continuously in postTokugawa Japan, and may well help to carry over Confucianism into the twenty-first century. Japanese history has unquestionably seen a growing dissemination of Confucianism over time as McMullen (1983:352) writes: In Japan Confucianism has exercised a formative influence especially in the areas of education and ethical and political

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thought and conduct, and assumed particular importance during the 6th to 9th centuries and during the Edo (1600–1868), Meiji (1868–1912), Taisho (1912–26), and early Showa (1926– ca 1945) periods. One could stretch that statement, and include late Showa and the present Heisei period. Not much is known about Confucianism in the post-Tokugawa period, exceptions being Smith and Warren 1973, Najita 1974 and van Bremen 1984. But the representations of Confucianism analysed in this chapter are clearly more than just reflections or remnants of the past. It is not by ‘tradition’ or ‘traditionalism’ (Bestor 1989a) alone that they have been created and recreated by people, over the approximately three generations since the end of the Tokugawa era in the second half of the nineteenth century to the present Heisei period in the last decade before the twenty-first century.2 I take post-Tokugawa written portrayals of Confucianism that are easily available in society to determine what is portrayed and how the portraits are construed. The political economy, the people who make and absorb these texts and those who further their production and dissemination are hardly discussed. I merely note that popular and academic texts about Confucianism have been recurrently produced since Tokugawa times in Japan. This fact, combined with the compelling nature of the representations, make Confucianism not only apparent in the present, but also a portent of the future. One may probe, through an examination of the popular representations of Confucianism widely found in society, how deep and wide Confucian influences reach into post-Tokugawa society. In this chapter, I analyse the portraitures made of Confucians as heroes in texts. I leave it to the examples to show who the people are who make them, which segments of the population are in contact with them, and in what manner. But why should an ethnologist examine such matters? The reasons lie in the nature of the representations. Confucianism has a long history in Japan, as a tradition originating abroad, but also as a family of doctrines, practices and schools modified or developed at home. The result is a great variety in behaviour and ideas and a considerable number of practitioners in different social locations. Amidst such confusions, ethnologists have found a few trails, some useful questions, and a few techniques to cope with these problems, as well as being able to offer fresh descriptions and explanations.

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Counselled then by anthropology, I trace the spread of Confucianism in post-Tokugawa Japan by concentrating on common descriptions and depictions. At the same time, I use the material in order to see if ethnological concepts, related to forms of representation and consciousness based in the study of traditional societies, are valid tools for the analysis of these phenomona in technologically advanced societies. Thus I use the notions of ‘hero’ and ‘trickster’ to describe and analyse these manifestations in post-Tokugawa texts. The occasion is opportune inasmuch as the popular representations show figures in the possession of qualities which have theoretical importance. The characters appear at decisive times and are endowed with an array of abilities of such extraordinary superiority that an ethnologist might be tempted to regard these apparitions as personifications of heroes and tricksters. The seemingly endless repetition and recitation of the same few characters and incidents support the impression that these are not primarily true representations of individuals and events. Hence, I understand these portraits as portrayals of primordial characters, and the narratives as collective representations. Anthropologists have gained experience studying ‘complex societies’, as they will be called (Appadurai 1986), if not before, then certainly since they began to do fieldwork in such societies in the 1930s. They started to go to rural and urban areas in large states to study diversified, literate and advanced civilisations (Mintz 1982), which included Mexico (Redfield 1953), Ireland (Arensberg 1937), China (Fei 1939) and Japan (Embree 1939). In the deceptively simple formulation by Ouwehand (1965:137), such ‘complex societies’ are cultures in which different traditions have come together and influenced each other. Japanese Confucianism in its many forms is an appropriate example. Students of ideas, like Dore (1962) or Gluck (1985), are well aware of the complexities hidden in notions like ‘thought’ and ‘ideology’. Redfield saw that in such orders as nations and states are found different people with different traditions and moral orders. He spoke of ‘little tradition’ when he meant the unsystematic or uncodified beliefs, values, lore, religion, arts, recreations and entertainments of the common people, while he called the sophisticated fine arts, reflective philosophy, orthodox theology and scholarly knowledge of an elite, ‘great tradition’ (Bestor 1989b:1). Although the dichotomy and the categories are simple, the observation remains valuable.

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Anthropological research in complex societies has grown and diversified since the 1930s. Fieldwork has intensified, new techniques have been devised and existing ones have been developed. Some contrived procedures for the study of cultures, inaccessible at the time, from a distance, such as Japan in the Second World War (Mead and Métraux 1953), while others have refined textual, historical and comparative analyses. Anthropologists have taken part in area studies and interdisciplinary research, while urban studies have been developing.3 Anthropologists have gained experience studying what Redfield (1953) has called ‘moral orders’, and learned to describe and sort all the kinds of beliefs, practices and incentives which people hold. Some moral codes exist in writing, some are only partly codified, while others are not written down at all. But moral orders are manifest in other ways, for example in various forms of representation, such as songs, stories and pictures. Typically, there are variations among the different segments of a society, and there is the tendency for local varieties to arise. For these and following reasons, it is unusually difficult to describe and analyse moral orders adequately. Through texts, informants and other materials one encounters orders more or less articulate, more or less plain, more or less enforced or observed unfettered. Moral orders are composed of different elements, and derive from great and little traditions, and a multitude of other sources besides. But there are further difficulties. It may be hard to reach the adept, to find the social and cultural foundations of the order, to determine the influence a doctrine has upon the conduct of people, or to grasp the nature of the representations, and to judge their roles in various historical processes. And even more is required. One has to consider linkages and continuities of ideas (Lovejoy 1948, 1970), and their pan-human forms (Needham 1972, 1978, 1987). Imperfections and malfunctions in the conceptual language of scholars are a problem (Lachenmeyer 1971; Blok 1975), as are quandaries caused by illogical demands, such as holism (Verrips 1988). But progress is made, and not least through the study of representations, their characteristics and the use of exemplars (Needham 1985). Much can be said for the practice of taking hold of significant entities, and concentrating on ethnological fields of study, such as moral orders and representations.4 The problems anthropologists encounter in the study of moral orders are met in various ways as the field is approached from different angles and with different tools. Some understand moral orders as

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dispositions and notions held by people in shifting social constellations as parts of different traditions and practices. Tambiah (1970) has called this the ‘kaleidoscopic view’. Ortner (1978) has stated that key anecdotes, events, performances, texts and symbols give good access to moral orders. Meanwhile, Needham (1985:117–48) has shown that individual and collective representations should not be understood as fashioned primarily by personal thought. Inasmuch as Confucianism has become diffused in Japan, approaches used by anthropologists in the study of common representations, which encompass the practices and ideals of a range of masters, followers and outsiders, become applicable and useful. But anthropologists depict and analyse differently moral orders, and their relationships to followers, other orders and the state. Some found orders isomorphical, accepted because compatible (Miyazaki 1988); others stressed the conflicts inside and among moral orders (Wertheim 1964; Turner 1969). Intellectual historians seem to discern ideological contradictions in Confucianism, not unlike Redfield’s (1953) contrasting ‘moral’ and ‘technical’ orders. And as Confucianism does contain a number of separate persuasions, some scholars stress tensions between utilitarian and idealistic tendencies in Confucianism (Najita 1974), while others plead for or against the rational or the religious core of the creed (Chang 1957–62; Yamashita 1971). Again, Confucianism has been appraised as a humane agent by some (Hucker 1966; Tu 1986; McMullen 1987), while it has been regarded as a force of perpetual bureaucracy and arbitrary rule by others (Balazs 1968). North American scholars have similarly seen antithetical forces at work. Schwartz (1959), for instance, spoke of ‘polarities’ in Confucianism, while Nivison (1960) perceived a polarity between ‘protest against conventions and conventions of protest’. Closer to the present, Najita (1974) maintained that conflicts recur in modern Japan between defenders of ‘pragmatic bureaucratism’ and followers of ‘intuitive idealism’, whereas Huber (1982: 123–5) speaks of ‘realism vs. heroism’, and differentiates between ‘romantic’ and ‘pragmatic’ loyalists among the Bakumatsu activists. In Japan, Sagara (1966) has argued that there were shifts over the Tokugawa period in the appreciation of behaviour by Confucians, a change from a preoccupation with formality and respect (kei) to a fixation upon spontaneity and sincerity (sei). In Europe, Boot (1985:12) has recognised these variations and regards both the utilitarian and the idealistic efforts to establish the millennium in

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this world as Confucian endeavours. A sociology of knowledge may explain some of the choices and interpretations made by these scholars. But the representations made and retained by the three successive generations of post-Tokugawa Japanese show that there are multi-valid images of Confucianism in society. Representations and interpretations are part of the husbandry of moral orders, and factors which need to be assessed in the study of the diffusion of Confucianism in post-Tokugawa society.

DISSEMINATION Popular portrayals of Neo-Confucianism and heroes of a Wang Yangming imprint have been made and circulated in Japan in texts since the Tokugawa period. There are numerous accounts, more or less factual, pertaining to a small number of persons and events from Japanese history. It is curious that only a few of what must literally have been hundreds of persons and incidents related to this strain of Confucianism are the subject of these portraits and narratives.5 With seemingly little variation, the same handful of characters appear and reappear, and the same themes and episodes are cited and recited. A better knowledge about such matters as the preference, selection, production, distribution and reception of these textual portrayals and their contents, and the reactions that they precipitate, would enhance our perception of Confucian influences and their spread in post-Tokugawa society. And the analysis could be used as a model to compare Japan with other countries in East Asia and, hence, be helpful to ascertain the forms, dissemination and position of Confucianism in this century in those societies.6 Studies of common images and collective representations uncover the trajectories over time, the niches in society, and the influences upon people by, and by people upon, the various moral codes that came to Japan or originated there. They give information about breaches, continuities and transformations, and divulge facts about supporters and opponents. Numerous studies have been made of Buddhism, Shintoism, new religions and other creeds, but numerous questions, often basic, still remain to be answered about Confucianism in Japan. To identify a text, a person or an incident as of Wang Yang-ming imprint, I follow Emile Durkheim’s (1895) simple but effective approach to a social fact. I call Yomeigaku anything which bears the name, including those who from a philosophical point of

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view may only assume the guise. I discuss not authenticity of creed, but the husbandry of doctrines. It is presupposed that believers and doctrines will be affected by many changing forces. Moral orders exert an influence, if anywhere, upon the perceptions and activities of people, who are first of all bound to their place, their affairs, their society, their culture, their time. Wang Yang-ming’s teachings instruct a follower to act instantly and spontaneously to repair disparities between ideals and reality, right and wrong, good and bad. Some people who accomplished this have been recast as idols, and their iconolaters have presented them as models of instruction and sources of inspiration to members of their generation. A closer study of the descriptions in texts of Wang Yang-ming doctrines and devotees, like those found and made in Japan, can make a small but perhaps new contribution. It shows what accounts of Confucianism spread among the population, while the strong influences which Confucian ideals and exemplars exert on some people in each generation may help to answer the question, why?7 Further, matters arise that have been explored insufficiently but which are pertinent in this context. The question arises, for instance, of how original and vernacular varieties of doctrines are related and associate over time. Generations will be brief and time move fast, and such vital intelligence about the kernels of social life, such as knowledge and moral order, should be gathered and known. Hopefully for the better, established concepts are re-examined and their applicability and effectiveness tested anew. Significantly, among them is the notion of ‘tradition’. What it means, describes or explains is unclear. But it seems to interface, in some form or other, in simple and complex societies, past, present and future, and delete, transform, conduct and spread social and cultural life over generations, space and time. One wonders next about related functions, such as ceremonies and rites, or emblemata and texts.8 Ethnology may be of help in describing and analysing the miscellaneous and many-sided thought and belief systems found in civilised orders, and in explaining some of the representations in which they are housed. Iconolatry is an example of a recurrent phenomenon in many of them, as are the exhortations to honour and impersonate an assortment of ‘leaders’, ‘heroes’ and ‘martyrs’. But at one and the same time as these figures act as icons, they double as tricksters. In either appearance, they will command people, attract,

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reward or devastate those who are enjoined by them, of their own volition or by force of circumstance. It is a mistake to think that such characters and realms of fright or delight appear only in primitive or traditional societies. Leaders, heroes, idols and stars of all kinds appear and reappear on a large scale among the contemporary citizenries of the ‘advanced’ world. They are similar to the ‘cultural heroes’ of traditional anthropology in that they are carriers of primary abilities and knowledge, or appear so to people. They establish aims and practices, and provide the mental, if not also the material, tools to achieve them. Wang Yang-ming adepts hold certain concepts and teachings that are moral imperatives to action, and means for self-realisation, selfassertion and rebellion. In China and Japan, some masters and some of their students and followers have taken to direct action to redress the ills of the hour, the regime, or to exercise their will or conscience. A few of them have been idolised as the frequent subjects of learned texts, and books and articles brought before the general public. The decision to call these choice representations ‘hallowed’, to speak of them as idols, icons or emblemata, and to refer to their enigma and charisma as heroes and tricksters, rests on ethnological considerations. It is supported by the fact that the three successive generations of post-Tokugawa Japanese appear to have seen and treated them as, on the one hand, personifications and paradigms of virtue, espousing courage, strength and uprighteousness and, on the other—testimony to their dual character—just as often as embodiments of recklessness, unpredictability and even madness. They have been hailed as leaders, guardians and champions of the people, but no less condemned as unpredictable, fanatical or insane adventurers (Ching 1971; Nakanishi 1987). The strengths and qualities which these figures possess make them super-human, and endow them with traits commonly found only in narratives and other representations of figures like heroes and tricksters. This indication, and the fact that they have inspired people for three generations with enthusiasm and dread, lends the theory weight. Primordial characters take shape across the range of human societies (Needham 1978), and ethnology may help to explain their forms and occurrence in contemporary social orders. Since the power of such icons is particularly acute in times of crises, and periods of change and chaos, such as ecological disasters, wars, revolutionary situations or zealous religious activities, their occurrence should be

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described and analysed attentively. They are, it appears, as much a part of a normal as an abnormal state of affairs.

EXHIBITS Popular representations of Wang Yang-ming Confucianism have appeared in print in Japan from the end of the Tokugawa period. I highlight material from the 1970s, and a few examples must serve to show their spread and allure. It should be pointed out, however, that for the entire post-Tokugawa period comparable documentation is not hard to find. In 1970, Mishima Yukio published Kodogaku nyumon, a collection of essays previously published in popular magazines. There are three parts to the collection, and Mishima explained (1971:250) that he wrote the first set of essays, collectively entitled Kodogaku nyumon, for young male readers. They were originally published in the magazine Pocket Panchi Oh!. The second series, Owari no bigaku, mirrors the first, but was meant for young females. These essays were first printed in Josei Jishin. The third part is a single essay, Kakumei Tetsugaku toshite no Yomeigaku (Wang Yang-ming Doctrine as a Revolutionary Philosophy) first published in the periodical Shokun!. Although this example may be the more relevant in the context of this chapter, Mishima (1969) also wrote about the Wang Yang-ming brand of Confucianism in one of his testamentary novels, in chapters 35 (prison) and 37 (courtroom) of Homba (Runaway Horses), the second volume of Hojo no Umi (The Sea of Fertility), a tetralogy published between 1968 and 1971. In his study of nationalism in Japan in the 1960s, Seifert (1977) has pointed to Hayashi Fusao as one of the leading exponents of populist nationalism in prewar and postwar Japan. Author of the Daitoa Senso Koteiron (An Affirmation of the War in Greater East Asia) (1975), a defence of the rights and plights of his country in post-Tokugawa history, Hayashi has also been appraised by Zahl (1983) as an influential man. Here the point is that Hayashi wrote a gargantuan work about Saigo Takamori. It comes to the length of twenty-two volumes, which sell in an inexpensive paperback edition.9 Books such as these disclose the existence of a popular literature about Wang Yang-ming Confucianism written, published and read in post-Tokugawa Japan. Educators have repeatedly commented on the influence of Wang Yang-ming Confucianism on the Japanese

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people, among them Inoue Tetsujiro (1901), Watsuji (1952) and Yamashita (1979). In 1894, the reformer Uchimura Kanzo (1861– 1930) wrote, originally in English, Representative Men of Japan. Uchimura wished to show that due to the influence of Wang Yangming philosophy, the Japanese people were not timid, afraid, conservative, reactionary or unprepared when confronted by the west, but ready to do battle and achieve modernisation. He placed two paragons of Yomeigaku, Nakae Toju, ‘a village teacher’, and Saigo Takamori, ‘a founder of new Japan’, among his five representative men (Uchimura 1971–3).10 I return later to Toju and Uchimura who feature in a lecture delivered late in the 1970s, when it was said that Uchimura should be praised as an early and worthy example of an internationally minded Japanese (Yamashita 1979:20–2). Late in the Taisho period, the educator and founder of the Dokai (The Society of the Way), Matsumura Kaiseki (1940), contended that eastern thought was superior to western thought in wisdom, knowledge, inspiration and morality. He held up Wang Yang-ming, and Bakumatsu loyalists and Meiji reformers said to be inspired by Yomeigaku, as encouragement to his contemporaries, and praised them for the moral instruction and spiritual sustenance which as exemplars they bequeath. The strength of an independent autochthonous spirit was perceived by foreign observers. Brinkley (1902:127–8), for instance, believed that Neo-Confucianism kept the Japanese elite from converting to Christianity, yet admired Wang Yang-ming and those who followed his teachings in Japan. But Yomeigaku did help Japanese convert to Christianity. Members of the ‘Kumamoto band’, for instance, turned Protestant against the wishes of their families in the early Meiji period. They justified their action by Wang Yang-ming’s doctrine of intuitive knowledge, as the right to their own conscience (Notehelfer 1963). On the other hand, it helped others to renounce Christianity. Some ten years after his conversion, Matsumura Kaiseki (1940) renounced Christianity on account of the superiority of eastern religion and thought. Many had similar ideas about the moral superiority of the east over the west, as portrayed by the slogan wakon yosai, ‘western technology; eastern ethics’, coined by Sakuma Shozan, an influential Wang Yang-ming scholar in Edo in the Bakumatsu period. Such opinions are found in the thought of some of the authors introduced in this chapter, and may point to a covert but persisting influence of Confucian ideas in post-Tokugawa society.

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Confucian influences did not disappear after the Meiji Restoration, nor after the Second World War. In the first decade after the war, Dore (1952) noted, for instance, that the ‘Outline of Ethical Practice for the Japanese People’, proposed in 1951 by the Ministry of Education to replace the Imperial Rescript on Education, was as Confucian a document as the one it sought to replace. Today, Dore (1987) and other scholars (Edwards 1989: 144–5) continue to perceive the influence of Confucianism on Japanese business, trade and industry. Confucianism is a viable choice among the moral orders that underpin society and the state in technologically advanced societies in East Asia. It is an alternative to egocentric and self-seeking social orders and ideologies (Tu 1986) —and it is local. It can be seen that the three generations of post-Tokugawa Japan have been exposed in some measure to Confucianism, if one traces the exposure of the public to Wang Yang-ming—and a number of his Chinese and Japanese followers—through accounts of their lives, teachings and deeds, in scholarly texts and anthologies, and in publications and broadcasts addressed to the general public and nonprofessionals. Once more it is worth noting that these publications show the proclivity, stronger in popular, but no less present in academic, works to present only a small number of individuals, incidents and themes. One of these individuals is Nakae Toju, regarded as the founder of Yomeigaku, early in the Edo period. Self-reliance is a theme associated with this man, as with other emissaries of the creed. It was noted above that Matsumura Kaiseki stressed self-help in Oyomei no Godo (The Path of Enlightenment of Wang Yang-ming) a speech delivered in 1926 to functionaries of the revenue office. The text was published as a pamphlet by the Dokai in 1929, and reprinted at least as late as 1940, from premises in the Shibuya ward of Tokyo. From these quarters, the Dokai has been publishing this text and others irregularly for over half of this century. A monthly magazine called Michi, pamphlets with the texts of lectures and speeches, and booklets have been printed and reprinted unchanged over this turbulent period of Japanese history. Unchanged, for example, remained volume one of the Dokai shishu, an anthology of poems selected, rendered into the vernacular, and explained by Matsumura Kaiseki. It first appeared in 1929. The ninth impression appeared in 1942, in an edition of 800 copies, and the tenth edition was reprinted in 1971, in a print run of 500 copies. The anthology contains poems by Wang Yangming, Yoshida Shoin, Saigo Nanshu (Takamori),

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Sakuma Shozan, Nakae Toju, and others. They are arranged in five groups, containing about twenty poems each, under the divisions shuyo (cultivation), airin (altruism), jinsei (life), jinbutsu (character) and fubutsu (nature) (Matsumura 1971). In 1979, in a lecture about Nakae Toju, Toju Sensei no Shiso, delivered before a public audience, Professor Yamashita Ryuji of Nagoya University, an outstanding educator and authority in the field of Yomeigaku, placed emphasis on the master’s self-reliance and autonomy. Yamashita (1979:2), born in Tokyo in 1924, encouraged the elder members of his audience to think back to the textbook Toju Sensei, compiled under order of the Ministry of Education, which they had to read in elementary school. He continued with an exposition of Toju’s thought and teachings and ended by telling the audience that Uchimura Kanzo (referred to above) was perhaps the first Japanese to introduce Nakae Toju to the outside world. In 1894 he was able to show that Toju was an educator and Japan a nation of learning—far from a backward nation (Yamashita 1979:20–2). The price of the leaflets which reproduce the texts of these public lectures is nominal and sometimes they can be had free of charge. But the circulation is small. They will reach only the audiences at the lectures, the members of the organising clubs or associations, and people in their immediate environment. But that is not inevitably true of commercial publications. Some achieve wide circulation, others sell well, and there are bestsellers among them. A good example from the 1970s is a book called Yomeigaku Nyumon (An Introduction to Wang Yang-ming’s Philosophy). It was written by Goto Motomi, a graduate in Chinese philosophy from Tokyo University, born in Tokyo in 1915. It is aimed at salariiman (salaried workers), and bears the subtitle, Mayoi o yurusanu kodo no tetsugaku! (A philosophy of deeds that does not allow indecision!). It was first published in July 1971 by the Seishun Shuppankai where it appeared as volume ninetynine in a diverse and inexpensive paperback series called Playbooks. In June 1974 it had reached its forty-third printing. Although I do not know how many copies were printed, it does mean that the book was reprinted more than once a month over these three successive years. It was available throughout at a price of about ¥550. Under the catchphrase Sono kodo wa ikite iru (Their activism is alive) Goto presents six men whom it is stressed were guided by Yomeigaku. He starts in the Bakumatsu period with Oshio Heihachiro (1793–1837), continues with Yoshida Shoin (1830–59), Ohashi

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Totsuan (1815–62) and Sakuma Shozan (1811–64), then continues into the Meiji period with Saigo Takamori (1828–77), and stops at the end of that era with Nogi Maresuke (1849–1912). The book exemplifies how certain Japanese are presented as great men, and archetypes of Wang Yang-ming philosophy. Tales like these have been recited to post-Tokugawa readers in popular texts again and again, just as their heroes have also been celebrated in works of a scholarly nature (Miyake 1893; Inoue 1901; Mio 1927; Yasuda 1942; Yamamoto 1946; Tanimitsu 1967; Yomeigaku taikei 1971–3; Onishi 1979; Yamashita 1984).11 Another book for the general public from the 1970s is entitled Nihon Bushidoshi. This history of the Japanese warrior code was written by Morikawa Tetsuro, journalist and writer, born in 1924, and published by the Nihon Bungeisha in March 1972 in a paperback edition. The third printing, released one and a half years later in November 1973, could be had at about ¥450. The book is rather similar in form and content to Goto’s Yomeigaku Nyumon. One chapter is called Meiji ishin e no energii (Energy directed towards the Meiji Restoration) and sub-titled Bakumatsu bushido to Yomeigaku (The warrior code and Wang Yang-ming philosophy in late Tokugawa). Morikawa suggests that Yomeigaku was a driving force for the activists of the Restoration period. His prime examples from the Edo period are Kumazawa Banzan and Yoshida Shoin, and from the Meiji period, Saigo Takamori. But this book ends in the late Showa period, with the coup d’état attempt of 25 November 1970 by Mishima Yukio. In historical accounts and novels, masters and incidents from the Wang Yangming tradition make up a notable group. Those chosen are often the same, and often those mentioned above. Two more cases may support this assertion. One is the veritable mound of writings produced in post-Tokugawa times about Oshio Heihachiro and his revolt in Osaka in February 1837. An early example is the story Oshio Heihachiro by Mori Ogai (1971). But Oshio has continued to inspire writers until today. An example from the seventies is the story told by Miyagi Kimiko, a historian born in Kyoto in 1937. It was published as Oshio Heihachiro by the Asahi Shinbunsha in 1977, in an edition costing ¥1200. Another specimen from that year is Sekka no Ran (The Ice-Flower Rebellion) by the novelist Okada Seizo (1977), published by the Chuokoronsha at ¥880. The continuing production and recitation of this literature made Najita (1970:155–6) assert that, ‘Oshio was

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a sage in his day, a hero for later generations…an idealized personality with a set of ethical precepts enticing even to men in the modern era’. The second instance is the stack of writings produced about Saigo Takamori. Ivan Morris (1975:221) wrote of the compositions about Saigo that appeared in the Meiji period: In the subsequent glorification of Saigo Takamori there are two principal lines of descent, one represented by people of strong nationalist or Japanist persuasion, who stressed his traditional samurai ethos and his intransigent attitude towards Korea, the other by liberals, democrats, and socialists, who responded to the hero’s bold confrontation with the conservative Establishment of his day. In the 1960s and 1970s, Hayashi Fusao authored the twenty-two volumes mentioned earlier, while Kaionji Chogoro, author of numerous lengthy and widely-read historical novels, published a three-volume work about Saigo. In an interview appended to the final volume, Tenmei no Maki, Kaionji (1969:386–8) remarked that readers in the 1960s should not imagine that all bakumatsu heroes were deeply steeped in Wang Yang-ming learning. What Confucianism they knew was mostly of Chu Hsi derivation, but they turned to Wang Yang-ming and Japanese masters to obtain a philosophy of action. It should be said that less famous characters, depicted closer to life, but in whose existence Yomeigaku played a part, are occasionally portrayed. Such Yomei adepts are more credible as persons. An instance is the historical tale Eiyuji (A Young Hero), published by Shiba Ryotaro in 1964, and his two-volume novel Toge (Mountain Pass), which appeared in 1968. Eiyuji is based on events in the Bakumatsu period that took place in Nagaoka-han. The protagonist is Kawai Tsugunosuke, who died of wounds sustained while fighting on the shogun’s side. Kawai is the hero of Toge, and portrayed as a Neo-Confucian of the Yomeigaku type. In the afterword to the novel, Shiba (1968 vol. II:343–46) said that he wanted to show the importance of Yomeigaku for the men in this period. Toge was reprinted forty times in the ten years between 1968 and 1979.

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CONCLUSIONS Popular strains of literature and academic writings should not be neglected in the study of Asian societies. The importance of texts was realised early in Holland by ethnologists, and an innovative use is still being made of them today (Oosten 1985). Early in the century, Schrieke (1916:xvii) declared in his doctoral dissertation that he was interested in Het Boek van Bonang mainly for the information it contained about the Islamisation of Java. Held’s dissertation of 1935, The Mahabharata: an Ethnological Study, is another instance of the ethnological use of a text. The epic was studied to help understand Hindu culture in Indonesia. In his obituary of Held, Mabuchi (1974, Vol. III:526–7) recalled that earlier scholars like Mauss and Durkheim had used texts also, and he commended ethnologists like Held and Rassers for applying new ethnological insights to their study. Recently, scholars of comparative literature like Claudine Salmon have studied literary migrations, and the influence of Chinese vernacular fiction on the literatures of other countries in East and Southeast Asia, from its inception in the seventeenth century to the present. Idema (1989: 584) remarks that these studies provide a good basis for ‘contrastive research’, that can help to bring out the national characteristics of the various non-Chinese literary genres, and the distinctive features of Chinese narrative. The assertion that Confucian influences, at least those of Wang Yang-ming extraction presented here, have persisted since the end of the Tokugawa period in Japan, and spread through portrayals and recitals in popular texts and literature, is supported by ample evidence. I have traced popular and academic recitations of teachings and portrayals of selected exemplars of Wang Yangming and his followers and their descendants in Japan over three generations, noting links with traditions of self-assertion and rebellion. But the selection of the heroes themselves remains a mystery. Why, for example, is there practically no popular literature about Kumazawa Banzan?12 Yet it is significant that much the same material is recited over and over again, and has remained enticing to people in the three successive generations of post-Tokugawa Japan. It affirms the tenacity of Yomeigaku. This enduring nature may be partly explained by the role Yomeigaku seems to play in the recurring conflicts between ideals and realities, generated repeatedly by force of historical circumstances, and social and symbolic structures in Japanese society. But it also reveals the power of icons and narratives to contain ideologies, spread

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them abroad, convey them over time. These representations of Confucian adepts and doctrines may help to trace the dissemination and reproduction of the Confucian legacy in post-Tokugawa society, and reveal their transmission through the three generations that have lived since the end of the Tokugawa period in Japan. The choice of heroes is not well explained, but the appearance of only a few, and mostly the same, paragons may be explained. The reiteration of a limited number of narratives, themes and heroes strengthens the assertion that these are archetypal representations. Lewis (1986) has noted the presence of religious powers of these kinds in contemporary Islamic civilisation and society. Asking what is the value of the popular literature to Confucianism, I surmise that it provides a measure of support. Henry de Montherlant was intrigued, at several points in his life, by links which he noted between genius and the commonplace. In his diary, he once likened masterpieces in literature to coins made of precious metal, and remarked that as such coins need a certain amount of lead to give them durability, a masterpiece needs its mediocre parts. Inserted by the writer consciously or unconsciously, people recognise and find themselves in these masterpieces and, at the same time, treasure and shelter, sometimes for generations, rare and vital attainments. Religious elements are manifest in the powers and enchantments of primordial characters, like the hero and trickster figures found in this analysis. ‘The truths of metaphysics are the truths of masks’, wrote Oscar Wilde in 1885 (1968:1078). ‘The Truth of Masks’, subtitled, ‘A Note on Illusion’, was followed in 1889 by ‘The Decay of Lying’ in which this gifted man said: Paradox though it may seem… Life imitates art far more than Art imitates life… Young men have committed suicide because Rolla did so, have died by their own hand because by his own hand Werther died. Think of what we owe to the imitation of Christ, of what we owe to the imitation of Caesar. (Wilde 1968:982–5) If this surface examination of common representations of Wang Yangming Confucianism attracts others to trace the fortunes of Confucian persuasions in Japan and elsewhere in Asia in countries with a Confucian tradition, it has served its purpose. As for the present, mortals set out Confucian beacons that may well reach generations alive in the twenty-first century.

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NOTES 1 An earlier version of this chapter was read at the workshop Kinsei shisoshi, convened by the Leiden Group of Japanese Studies under the Erasmus programme in Leiden, 11–14 June 1989. I thank participants for their criticism. 2 This is a rough estimate of three generations of forty years each, for the 130 years between 1860 and 1990. 3 Illustrations of these developments are found in Japanese studies and Japanese anthropology (van Bremen, 1988b, 1990). Other examples are the convergence of anthropologists from these areas on Indonesian studies (van Bremen 1988d). 4 Examples are found in Hendry’s (1989) study of wrapping, and Takahashi et al’s (1989) study of an ecological niche, Japanese whaling culture. I wrote down some epistemological reflections in van Bremen (1988a). 5 A plausible explanation for the standard classification of Confucianism into its number of schools, and the recognition of a standard number of prominent masters and master-student lines, is that they derive from authoritative Meiji works like those by Inoue Tetsujiro, if not also from late Tokugawa lexicons. 6 Okpyo Moon (in this volume), for example, stresses that in Japan women are far less under Confucian domination than women in Korea today. Tosa (1989:377–81) observed, if only in passing, that on the Korean island of Chindo, the Confucian elements, in the one mortuary rite associated with possession which he could study, were outweighed by the non-Confucian elements. In an essay about the symbolic expressions of Korean family cohesion, Walraven (1989:8) remarks that, at least in certain respects, Confucian and shamanist conceptions are quite similar. 7 Studies in English about post-Tokugawa cases are Najita 1971, Smith 1973, Morris 1975, ch. 9 and van Bremen 1984, chs. 3 and 4. 8 Rajendra Pradhan (1986) pointed out for Nepal that rituals are multicentered and traditions remade, while Miyazaki (1988) has argued for Java, and Bestor (1989a) for Japan, that ‘tradition’ is being constantly renewed. Theoretical discussions are found in Godelier 1973, Feuchtwang 1975 and Bloch 1977. 9 Taiwa: Nihonjinron is a record of seven conversations between Hayashi Fusao and Mishima Yukio that took place in the middle of the 1960s. They were first published in 1966 by Hayashi’s publisher, Bancho shobo, in Tokyo; the fourteenth edition came out in 1971, costing ¥480. 10 The others were Uesugi Yozan, ‘a feudal lord’; Ninomiya Sontoku, ‘a peasant saint’ (and a man of Confucian bent), and Nichiren, ‘a buddhist priest’. 11 The correspondence between popular and academic works is a question worth studying. Scholarly articles (for example Shimada 1943–4) about self-reliance and personal autonomy appear frequently, but one should study the drifts in interpretation. A study should be made of the Yomeigaku zasshi, and its producers and supporters.

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12 I.J.McMullen, personal communication, Leiden June 1989.

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Shimada Kenji (1943–1944) ‘Yomeigaku ni okeru ningen gainen jiga ishiki no tenkai to sono igi’ (The Development and Meaning of the Notion of Self in the Concept of Man in Wang Yang-ming Philosophy), Toyoshi 8/ 3 (1943):1–26; 8/5–6 (1944): 1–26. —— (1967) Shushigaku to yomeigaku (The Philosophy of Chu Hsi and the Philosophy of Wang Yang-ming), Tokyo: Iwanami shinsho. Slote, W.H. (ed.) (1986) The Psycho-cultural Dynamics of the Confucian Family: Past and Present, Seoul: International Cultural Society of Korea, ICSK Forum Series No. 8. Smith Jr., Warren W. (1973) (2nd edition) ( 1st edition 1959) Confucianism in Modern Japan: A Study in Conservatism in Japanese Intellectual History, Tokyo: Hokuseido Press. Song Whi-chil (1982) Yomeigaku as a Philosophy of Action in Tokugawa Japan: Oshio Heihachiro (1793–1837) and his Rebellion in 1837, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation (Political Science), University of Southern California. Takahashi J., Kalland, A., Moeran, B. and Bestor, T. (1989) ‘Japanese Whaling Culture’, Mast, 2, 2: 105–33. Tambiah S.J. (1970) Buddhism and the Spirit Cults in North-east Thailand, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tanimitsu Taka (1967) Oyomei (Wang Yang-ming), Chugoku jinbutsu sosho 7, Tokyo: Jinbutsu Oraisha. Titus, D. (1979) ‘Watsuji Tetsuro and the Intellectual Basis of Emperorism in Pre-war Japan: Some Initial Speculations’ in Proceedings of the British Association for Japanese Studies, Vol. 4, Part I: 122–30. Tosa Masaki (1989) ‘Hyoi no genzai. Kankoku Chindo ni okeru fuzoku girei no kijutsu to kaishaku’ (Ethnographic description and interpretation of shamanistic ritual on Chindo Island), Minzokugaku Kenkyu, 53, 4: 374–96. Tsuda Sokichi (1938) Jukyo no jissen dotoku (Practical Ethics in Confucianism), Tokyo: Iwanami shoten. Tu Wei-ming (1976) Neo-Confucian Thought in Action. Wang Yang-ming’s Youth (1472–1509), Berkeley: University of California Press. —— (1986) ‘An Inquiry on the Five Relationships in Confucian Humanism’ in W.H.Slote (ed.) The Psycho-Cultural Dynamics of the Confucian Family, Seoul: International Cultural Society of Korea: 175–96. Turner, Victor (1969) The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-structure, Chicago: Aldine Publishing Company. Uchimura Kanzo (1971–3) The Complete Works of Kanzo Uchimura, Volume 2, Yamamoto Taijiro and Muto Yoichi (comp.), Tokyo: Kyobunkan. van Bremen, Jan (1984) The Moral Imperative and Leverage for Rebellion: An Anthropological Study of Wang Yang-ming Doctrine in Japan, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation. —— (1988a) ‘The Religious Nature of Popular Confucianism in Japan’ in I.Nish (ed.) Contemporary European Writing on Japan: Scholarly Views from Eastern and Western Europe, Ashford: Paul Norbury: 164–8.

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(1988b) ‘Japanology, Anthropology and Japanese Studies in Europe’ J.W.M.Chapman (ed.) The European Association for Japanese Studies 1973–1988, The European Association for Japanese Studies: 57–64. —— (1988c) ‘Grains of Permanence: Japanese Collections and Cultural Anthropology in The Netherlands’, Andon, 8, 29: 75–8. —— (1988d) ‘ Indonesian Studies in Japanese Anthropology’ in Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, Deel 144, 2e and 3e aflevering: 248–58. ——(1990) ‘Anthropology and Japanese Studies’ in A.Boscaro, F.Gatti and M.Raveri (eds) Rethinking Japan, Volume III: Social Sciences, Ideology and Thought, Folkestone, Kent; Japan Library: 117–23; 363–5. Verrips, Jojada (1988) ‘Holisme en hybris’, Etnofoor, I, 1: 35–56. Walraven, B.C.A. (1989) ‘Symbolic Expressions of Family Cohesion in Korean Tradition’, Korea Journal, 29, 3: 4–11. Watsuji Tetsuro (1952) Nihon rinri shisoshi (The Philosophical History of Japanese Ethics), Tokyo: Iwanami shoten. Volume 2. Wertheim, W.F. (1964) ‘Society as a Composite of Conflicting Value Systems’ in East-West Parallels. Sociological Approaches to Modern Asia, The Hague: W. van Hoeve: Ch. 2. Wilde, Oscar (1968) Complete Works of Oscar Wilde, London: Collins. Yamamoto Shoichi (1946) (orig. 1943) Oyomei (Wang Yang-ming), Tokyo: Chubunkan shotenhan. Yamashita Ryuji (1971) Yomeigaku no kenkyu (Studies on Wang Yang-ming), Tokyo: Gendai seihosha. (Two volumes) —— (1975) ‘Nakae Toju’s Okina mondo and jitsugaku’, Nagoya Daigaku Bungakubu kenkyu ronshu, LXVI, 3: 21–39. —— (1979) ‘Toju sensei no shiso’ (The Thought of Master Toju), Katei kyoiku sosho, Vol. 11. ——(1984) Oyomei. Hyakushi sennan ni ikiru (Wang Yang-ming. Alive No Matter What), Chukoku no hito to shiso, Vol. 9, Tokyo: Shueisha. Yasuda Kiyoshi (1942) Oyomei (Wang Yang-ming), Kyoto: Kobundo. Yomeigaku Taikei (1971–3) Araki K., Okada T., Yamashita R. and Yamanoi Y. (eds), Tokyo: Meitoku shuppansha. Volumes I, II, III, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII and XIII. Zahl, K.F. (1983) Der Wandel des japanischen Geschichtsbildes nach dem Zweiten Weltkrieg, Hamburg: Mitteilungen des Instituts für Asienkunde Nummer 134.

Chapter 9

NHK comes to Kuzaki Ideology, mythology and documentary film-making1 D.P.Martinez

INTRODUCTION This chapter originally began as a description of the gap between the prescribed form of a ritual task (the ideal) and actual practice of it which I observed during my field work. The gap became visible when a television documentary was made of a thrice-yearly sacred ritual which was unique to the villagers of Kuzaki in Mie Prefecture, Japan. Perhaps I should note that I, the ethnographer, perceived that a conflict existed, for in working through the material, I realised that the question of a gap between ideal and practice was not important for the villagers. It was only in my mind that a problem existed, and I will expand on this later. Before doing so, however, two important and interrelated issues must be considered. Since this chapter is based on the making of a television documentary in Japan, the question of ideology in television is bound to come up. Thus, in order to understand the event which I will describe below, it is necessary to have a working definition of ideology, as well as a clear stance on how ideology and television are, or are not, related. Furthermore, once the question of ideology raises its head in the study of Japan one must consider the discourse called Nihonjinron or theories of Japaneseness. Although I initially had hoped to avoid the subject of Nihonjinron, I quickly came to the

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conclusion that I would be labelled as having discussed it whether or not I thought I was doing so. This chapter, then, is divided into four parts, the first of which will ask some questions about a complicated triad: whether Nihonjinron is an ideology; whether we can talk about television as a form of ideology; and whether, in the context of this chapter, the solution to both problems might not consist of doing away with the term ideology and talking only of myth-making. The second part of the article will introduce the village Kuzaki; the third will describe the day NHK came to Kuzaki; and the fourth will try to draw all these ideas and events together.

IDEOLOGY AS A SYMBOLIC SYSTEM In a short article entitled On the Proper Use of Ideologies (1977), Raymond Aron considers the problem of defining ‘ideology’ in view of the fact that the 1950s had been declared the ‘end of the ideological age’ by Edward Shils and other sociologists. Aron notes that in the 1930s ‘ideology’ designated a more or less systematic conception of political and historical reality and a programme of action derived from a mixture of facts and values. ‘Systematization was the keynote’ (1977:1). However, he goes on, ideology is not dead, but in its most recent sense is often taken to mean ‘all the ideas or cluster of ideas tied to a given social group, whose sociohistorical consciousness they reflect and whose claims they justify’ (1977:10). For Aron, the contrast is between the use of the term which once described systematised political programmes, such as fascism, with use of ideology to describe the less clearly defined worldview of American businessmen or journalists. One may still discern a political element in modern ideologies, but it is not as systematised as in the past. This change in the meaning of the term is reflected in the entry under ‘Ideology and the Social System’, in the International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences (vol. 7), in which four definitions are given; the first two are taken from Webster’s Dictionary and emphasise the construction of a politico-social programme—the second definition varying only in that it stresses the ‘factitious or hypothetical ideotional bases’ of ideology. The third definition is, of course, Marx’s, in which ideology consists of ideas which defend the status quo; the fourth avoids politics, being: the ‘selected or distorted ideas about a social system or a class of social systems when these

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ideas purport to be factual and also carry a more or less explicit evaluation of the “facts”’ (vol. 7:76). Interesting to note is that the same encyclopedia defines ideology, in an earlier entry, in a manner close to Aron’s: ‘one variant form of those comprehensive patterns of cognitive and moral beliefs about man, society, and the universe in relation to man and society which flourish in human societies’ (vol. 7:66). In view of the changing and, in some cases, still competing, definitions of ideology, the anthropologist Clifford Geertz argues that sociologists lack any proper mode of analysis for ideologies within a society. Most sociologists, he suggests, adhere to a definition which always carries negative connotations: ideologies as false or fictitious. However, as he notes in his article ‘Ideology as a Cultural System’, even morally loathsome ideological expressions may still catch most acutely the mood of a people or a group’ (1973:232). It is because ideologies have this ability that they are important to understand and analyse. Thus he proposes that ideology now be thought of as a cultural or symbolic system which is amenable to sociological and anthropological study. Geertz’s view corresponds, in my opinion, to the very last of the definitions given above: that is, that ideology can be analysed as one of the variant forms of a cultural system. If we turn now to the theories of Japaneseness called Nihonjinron, we find that various of the definitions of ideology have been applied to Nihonjinron at one time or another. In its 1930s nationalistic guise it was most definitely an ideology in both the Marxist and Aron sense; in its postwar guise it is, as Mouer and Sugimoto note, ‘in some contexts’ used as an ‘ideology to enhance the interests of those in control within Japan’ (1986:169), that is, it has the politico-social aspect which is intrinsic to several of the modern definitions of the term ‘ideology’. There are also writers who have taken a Geertzian approach and analysed Nihonjinron as a symbolic system; and what is interesting about these writers is that they often use the term ‘myth’ in association with Nihonjinron. I suspect that this conflation of the terms Nihonjinron, myth and ideology is not entirely accidental, that such a conflation of terms ‘speaks truer than we know’. The question is, of course, in what sense are these writers using the term ‘myth’? Frequently, as we shall see below, ‘myth’ is used as a pejorative term, asserting that the Nihonjinron discourse is a ‘narrative having fictitious elements’ (Shorter Oxford English

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Dictionary). There are, of course, various definitions of myth, including the standard anthropological definition that: Myths treat of origins but derive from transitions… [they] relate how one state of affairs became another…Myths are liminal phenomena: they are frequently told at a time or in a site that is ‘betwixt and between’. (International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, vol. 10:576) Such definitions seem to place myths firmly in the pre-literate and pre-industrial past, making it possible to declare that myths are prepolitical and associated with religion, while ideologies are modern, political and non-religious. This use of the terms ‘myth’, ‘mythology’ and ‘mythic’ to denigrate ideologies often ignores the fact that some myths, like ideologies, existed in order ‘to confirm, maintain the memory of, and provide authority for tribal customs and institutions’ (Kirk 1970:256). If we subtract the word ‘tribal’ from this quotation, we could be describing one of the functions of ideologies: to justify the claims of a given social group in a way that is often associated with the political. Perhaps it is time to ask if the separation of myth from ideology is valid at all. If we define ideology as a symbolic, cultural system, as does Geertz, and admit that myths can have politico-social aspects, is not the separation as artificial as the nineteenth-century separation between ‘our’ religion and ‘their’ superstition? A quick look at various analyses of Nihonjinron might make the point clearer. Mouer and Sugimoto, for example, themselves tend to avoid describing Nihonjinron as one coherent system of ideologies about the Japanese. They prefer to think of these theories as various, competing and best expressed by the term ‘images of Japanese society’. Dale (1986) is adamant in his use of the term ‘ideology’ when describing theories of Japaneseness, while his psychoanalytic analysis of Nihonjinron seems to be taking a page from Geertz. Thus, he treats it as a symbolic system which he entitles ‘the myth of Japanese uniqueness’. Roy Miller, in his polemical book on Nihonjinron theories of language, refuses to call the theories anything but myth and their proponents ‘myth-makers’ (1982). The historian Gluck is clear that many of the ideas to be found in modern Japan began as competing ideologies during the Meiji era (1868–1912), but now have become ‘Japan’s modern myths’ (1985).

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In their use of the term ‘myth’, Dale and Miller are clearly labelling Nihonjinron as an ideology full of fictitious elements. Gluck, on the other hand, seems to be more aware of the standard anthropological definition: for her, Japan’s modern myths have grown out of a meld of ideologies which were promulgated during a time of transition, and no one could have predicted the growth and changes in these myths. If, using the anthropological definition of myth, we place all theories of Nihonjinron within the category of explanations produced during times of transition (modernising/internationalising Japan); treating of origins (calling on a reconstructed, often mythic past); relating how one state of affairs became another (Japan’s success not as part of a global historical development, but as an outgrowth of Japanese uniqueness); and which can be used to maintain authority of a specific group, then it is possible to argue that, consciously or unconsciously, all the writers I have mentioned are using ‘myth’ in its correct sense. Thus, it seems that these analyses of ideology as a symbolic system lead one into the camp of myth. I would like to emphasise this apparently close relationship between ideology and its myths, ideology as mythic in the strict rather than pejorative sense, and Nihonjinron as a system which is often described as both, for it is important to my more central discussion of television, ideology and myth. I have cited the various definitions of ideology because when it comes to television it seems that the term is often used in its Marxist sense; that is, television is seen as an ideological tool which defends and upholds the status quo (cf McArthur 1978). From this point of view, television is constantly rewriting history and suppresses alternative views. That this concept is rather naive, assuming a direct relation between what is viewed on television and changes in human behaviour, might seem too bold a declaration by some. Yet even a quick perusal of the history of mass media research in the USA shows that most theorists of mass communication have had to move beyond this simplistic theory which posits a direct relationship between the viewer and television, thus undercutting the role of the medium as an ideological tool. It is perhaps pertinent, as well as ironic, to note that the best examples of the failure of television to succeed as an ideological tool come from Marxist countries, where years of concerted manipulation of the medium have failed to convert the masses into dedicated communists.

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The sociologists Lowery and de Fleur have examined the evolution of theories in mass communication research in an overview of seventy years of American research. They conclude (1983:385) with the problem that, despite the need for a general theory, the: Contribution of mass communication to our shared meanings is both complex and profound. These are not the kinds of effects and influences that are easily demonstrated by some quick laboratory experiment, or by a cleverly designed social survey. Indeed, there may be no existing research methodology that can be employed to test the assertions of the meaning theory in a definitive study. In other words, the functions of media portrayals are subtle, long-range, accumulative and nearly impossible to sort out from other kinds of communication processes. The Lowery and de Fleur argument appears a complex way of saying: we don’t know, just yet, how to analyse television and its effects properly. Yet, one or two sociologists have boldly taken a stance on the problem. Led by the Canadian sociologist/guru McLuhan, who declared that ‘electric simultaneity restores the conditions of oral tradition as never before’ (1975:56), two Englishmen have written about television programmes as folk epic or as myth. Martin Esslin lays stress on the role of the audience through television surveys, ratings and so on, in shaping long-running television programmes so that they move closer to being ‘the product of the imaginations, desires, fears and dreams of their audience’ (1975:194). Roger Silverstone, on the other hand, sees television as a medium closer to myth in the Lévi-Straussian sense: ‘It is neither langue nor parole, but…in its metalanguage, it is both at once…the final text is itself a product of the mutual constraints of history and structure; of present and past events rewritten to satisfy curiosity and emotion’ (1981:191). For Silverstone, then, television ‘is not therefore ideologically neutral…and it does confirm the present. The present consists in community…. Television does not deny history nor naturalise it, but makes it bearable’ for the community (1981:192). In defining television as a narrative form which can be analysed either as myth or folk epic, both men are following a trend which grew up in film analysis.2 I find their work particularly cogent in the light of the relationship between those being filmed in a documentary,

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the person(s) responsible for the filming and the audience who will finally watch the finished documentary. The very quick tour which I have taken through ideology and television has led us to define television as a medium which is not ideologically neutral, and yet is closer to being a mythology of the present than an ideological tool. Silverstone believes not in the simple Marxist relationship but in a structural one, and his description of television as myth which is not ideologically neutral —and perhaps no myth ever is—brings us back to the Geertzian definition of ideology, which posits ideologies as ‘maps of problematic social reality and matrices for the creation of collective conscience’ (Geertz 1973:220). In this sense, ideologies, like mythologies, are symbolic systems, which can be analysed as are any other symbolic systems. I want to push all of this a bit further and argue that if aspects of an ideology make it into television, they are—both because of their symbolic, and mythic nature, and because of the narrative nature of the medium itself— broken down into mythic form and thus subject to various interpretations. Or, to take the case of Nihonjinron, the myths which are encoded in the ideology are the only parts of it which are conducive to being televised, and thus we cannot speak of the ideology itself appearing on television, but only some of its component myths. In order to make this clear, I will now set the scene by introducing the village Kuzaki.

KUZAKI-CHO Kuzaki is in Mie-ken, Shima peninsula, and, according to Ise Shrine documents, had been part of the Ise Domain from the twelfth century. During the Tokugawa era, it was also part of the Toba Clan and for several centuries the villagers were under what one monograph on Kuzaki calls ‘a two-fold rule’ (Aichi Daigaku 1965). On the one hand, the village supplied dried strips of abalone3 (noshi awabi) to Ise Shrine as tribute (mitsugi). This designated the village a sacred guild (kambe) and meant that they were not paid for the lucrative abalone, rather they were exempt from paying taxes. On the other hand, Toba Clan did exert its pressure on the village both in the form of Coast Guard Service for village men and in its control of abalone prices. This ‘twofold rule’ of the village appears to have caused a certain amount of conflict (Aichi Daigaku 1965:16);

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however, the villagers, when recalling this past, do not remember the conflict with the Clan or the Shrine, but dwell on the honour which their position as sacred guild earned them. Several of Kuzaki’s rituals celebrate their association both with the warrior Toba Clan and with Ise Shrine. That the villagers should recall the past with nostalgia is understandable given the changes which have occurred in Kuzaki’s political structure since the Meiji Restoration. Just after the Restoration, Kuzaki was made part of a town (mura) composed of five neighbouring villages; this town was called Nagazaki. Long enmity between Kuzaki and its southern neighbour, the village Osatsu, made this arrangement a very unhappy one and it was a welcome solution when all five villages were incorporated into Toba city and made wards (cho) of the city in 1956. Thus it is, in a sense, incorrect to refer to Kuzaki as a village, yet I do so because the villagers still perceive themselves to be Kuzaki people and not Toba dwellers. The fact that they are administered by Toba and through next-door Osatsu-cho is rarely referred to, and most people think of the village Farming and Fishing Co-operative as the central governing body. Most important for village identity is the fact that even in this century, when it does not affect anyone’s tax status at all, Kuzaki still provides Ise Shrine with abalone. Thus, the work for the shrine along with the recollection of this ‘long and important association’ has become a marker of Kuzaki village identity.4 Currently, the village has 116 households with a total population of about 700 people. Of these households, twenty-three are engaged in full-time fishing, an additional fifty do small-scale fishing, nineteen own inns, two own bars, one runs a restaurant, and three own shops. All households do small-scale farming, all grow their own rice and every household has at least one diver (ama) who participates in the diving season. The female divers of the household are responsible for all the rituals which make diving safe and bountiful; the men who fish oversee fishing rituals; and the grandfathers (or elders) of each household are responsible for making noshi awabi. The whole village follows a yearly ritual calendar which has made some Japanese folklorists call Kuzaki ‘the most traditional village left in Japan’.5 It is, of course, this general designation of ‘most traditional’ which brings camera crews to Kuzaki, where they hope to film festivals and women diving; but in the case which I am about to describe, it was specifically the role of Kuzaki as the supplier of noshi awabi which was important to the documentary.

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MAKING NOSHI AWABI There are various village legends about the making of noshi awabi or ‘the food of the deities’ (kami sama no tabemono) as the villagers sometimes call it. The simplest tells of how the Princess Yamato came to Kuzaki 2000 years ago, saw some women diving and asked to taste what they brought up. The abalone they gave her to eat was so good that she asked for it to be brought as an offering to the sun goddess Amaterasu at Ise Shrine. There are variations on this legend; in some it is Princess Yamato’s visit which begins the giving of the tribute, in others it is an old man called Haku-Hatsu-daimyo who visits Kuzaki and suggests the tribute. Appearing in both these versions is the ama Oben who promises to make the abalone into noshi (dried abalone).6 My informants liked to point out that it was necessary to dry the shellfish since the trip to Ise from the village used to take three days and any fresh awabi would be spoilt by the time it arrived at the distant shrine. Some of the village grandmothers also pointed out the importance of the female diver Oben; originally, they would say, it was women who made noshi awabi, not men. One grandmother told me that it was in her grandmother’s time (circa Meiji Restoration) that this change occurred. The women then taught the men how to make noshi awabi. When I asked why, the reply was vague: the cooperative had decided this was best. Given that the village cooperative was not established until 1903, I suspect that at the time of the Restoration, the villagers stopped supplying Ise with abalone and that the practice was re-instated by the co-operative almost forty years later. The decision to give the task to men could lead us into a long discussion, but I note it here only in order to make clear that this ‘traditional’ practice has changed over the centuries. In fact, it was only in the 1930s that a local schoolteacher wrote Kuzaki Kambeshi, in which noshi awabi making is carefully described and illustrated with sketches; this text is now used as the guide for performing the sacred task. The noshi awabi is made in the following manner. Three times a year—in May, October and December on days of good weather— the women of Kuzaki dive in the sacred bay of Yoroizaki for abalone and sea snail (sazae). The abalone from these dives are kept in water until the next day, when the grandfathers begin to work on the shellfish. The day for the men begins early, at dawn, when they must appear on Yoroizaki beach where the village priest performs a

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purification ceremony for them (harai). For this, the grandfathers wear the white robes (hakui and hakama) which mark them as about to perform a sacred task. Once they are purified, the grandfathers change back into their daily work clothes and sit down to a long day of work in the small shrine on Yoroizaki point. This is a deviation from the guide on noshi awabi making: according to it, the men should wear their sacred robes all day. Next, the abalone are pried from their shells and repeatedly washed in sacred well water until the animal is rosy pink. Then, the grandfathers begin to cut the abalone into long strips which are hung to dry and, a month later, cut into smaller pieces which are strung on sacred rope to make the noshi awabi. I will not describe this process in detail; instead I want to focus on the grandfathers’ role. Throughout all this work, the grandfathers chat, joke and gossip. They frequently smoke cigarettes and sometimes nibble at the abalone—which they should not as it is now sacred—because it is considered to be a ‘healthy food’. The atmosphere is relaxed, but by this I do not mean to imply that the men’s attitude is irreverent; rather, it is a task so intrinsic to their role—as a grandfather and (implicitly) a village elder—that they do not approach it with great formality. During my field work I attended all the sessions of noshi awabi making, beginning with the 27 May 1984 which, coincidentally, was the day NHK7 came to film. On that day, I spent the first hour and a half with the grandfathers and then left for an hour to help at my household with net cleaning. When I returned at 9 a.m., I found the NHK crew at work. In my fieldnotes, I began this section with the remark ‘what a difference!’ The atmosphere had totally changed. (This next section is directly from my fieldnotes): First, five of the six grandfathers were asked to dress once more in the white hakui and hakama which they had worn that morning for the purification ritual. The sixth grandfather, the oldest, did not take part in any of this as he was in his late 80s and was not considered to be very photogenic. The director…supervised the rolling up of trouser legs, so they wouldn’t appear below the hakama; made the men change their shoes for tabi (white socks) and zori (straw sandals); had them remove watches, etc. In the midst of this arrived Yano-san, a priest from Ise Shrine who, as a hobby, has specialised in the fisheries of Japan. He was the adviser for the documentary.

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The grandfathers had to leave the shrine and were filmed walking up and into it once more. Then a long sequence of awabi preparation was filmed with the men forced to sit on their knees. They were asked to keep absolutely quiet. This went on until 11.30 a.m. when the men were to have lunch. Gratefully they changed back into their normal clothes and escaped the camera crew… After lunch, they had to change again and, by this time, there was an Asahi Shinbun reporter on the scene in order to write an article on the filming! The rest of the day went on this way, the NHK crew filming all the work and asking the men to remain in their uncomfortable positions. At 4 p.m. we broke up because the second half of filming would take place sometime when all the strips of abalone were dry and ready for the next stage. I could also go into the August filming, but the atmosphere was the same. Suffice it to say that the same occurred: the relaxed grandfathers were asked to dress again in their white robes, the oldest man was not allowed to participate, silence was demanded and the crew filmed the same things over and over again. This time, in the hot summer afternoon, the grandfathers rebelled and began to talk to each other, shouting questions to me across the camera. The excluded grandfather calmly walked in front of the cameras and pretended not to hear the director’s anguished shouts. For a long time before I wrote this chapter I thought it was the grandfathers’ rebellion which was the important point of this conflict between the ideal way in which noshi awabi should be made and the ‘practice’, the way in which it was actually made. I now feel that the most important aspect of this documentarymaking was not the conflict, but the initial acquiescence of the grandfathers. This is what I will discuss in the last section of this chapter.

MYTH-MAKING AND TELEVISION It is important to point out that there was no cynicism involved in the grandfathers’ behaviour. The fact that they normally did a sacred task without dressing up in the correct robes and the fact that they did their work in a comfortable, chatty way did not detract from their seriousness about the task. All the grandfathers, when asked, were proud of Kuzaki’s position as supplier of noshi awabi to Ise Shrine and they saw their work as important, but they were the first

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to admit that they were old and easily grew tired and cold (their ages ranged from 65 to 90). Because of this they preferred to wear their ordinary clothes; to break up the work with numerous snacks and lively gossip; and, most definitely, they preferred not to have to kneel because of the pain this caused in their ‘fisherman’s’ knees. Yet, at the same time, they were the first to stress the importance of doing everything in the right manner and to point out the long history of the practice of noshi awabi making. I should also note that the portrayal of the ideal manner in which noshi awabi should be made was not done on this occasion only; any time a photographer wanted to photograph the process, the grandfathers complied in exactly the same way as they did with the documentary director. The biggest difference, I was told, was in the amount of time the filming took. Much as they found the long session with the cameras exhausting and, ultimately, annoying, the grandfathers were more than pleased to be part of a documentary which was to show ‘how noshi awabi was really made’. Part of their pleasure was, clearly, that of being on television, and the importance of this should not be underestimated. In Japan the gap between the audience as watchers of television and the audience as the object of television is not very large. The combination of seven national stations, numerous local interest programmes, game shows which visit villages, singing contests which draw on the public for its contestants, and daily ‘vox pop’ interviews ensures that on any given day (to paraphrase Andy Warhol) some Japanese gets his or her chance at five minutes of fame. Kuzaki was no exception; during my fieldwork there were two documentaries, two local programmes and a television advertisement filmed in the village. In addition to this, and particularly important on the occasion of noshi awabi making, was the sense that the grandfathers were demonstrating to the outside world how Kuzaki was a unique place, part of traditional Japan and, thus, distinct from its neighbours, especially Osatsu. This very last sentence implies, of course, that the villagers took part in that search for the sources of a ‘unique traditional’ Japan which occupies much of television-filming, domestic tourism and nationalist literature. It is not this aspect of Nihonjinron that I want to explore here; what I think is important to emphasise is that while the director may have represented this ideological stance, the villagers’ view only partially coincided with hers. As I have mentioned, it was important for the villagers to establish their village identity, to deny that they were a ward similar to the other village-wards of Toba city.

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That this identity is founded on partial truths only—it denies a stormy past fraught with difficult relations with authorities—is not the main point either. The central issue is that two interpretations are necessary in order to understand the NHK filming: the first involves the director’s vision of a traditional past; and, the second, the villagers’ need to establish their identity. When we see this occurring on television, in a documentary which purposes to show the ‘truth’, ‘the reality’ of an uniquely Japanese event, we can also compare it to the same sort of documentary made in any other country. One example which immediately springs to mind is an American documentary entitled ‘You Mean There Are Still Cowboys?’ which was meant to be an honest look at the modern cowboys who still ride the range. Yet the programme was clearly fascinated with the myth of cowboys and the very cowboys themselves were aware of and trying to live up to the mythic image of the strong, silent hero. So too with the grandfathers in Kuzaki. Not one of them would have thought of protesting and telling the director: ‘But the way we really do this is relaxed and unencumbered by “traditional trappings”’ or ‘Really, the women used to do this’. To have done so would have been to deny the ‘traditional’ past which they, themselves, believed in and were proud to embody. It would also have contradicted the image which the director too held, an image which grew out of her knowledge of Japanese Shintoism and the advice of the Ise Priest helping with the programme. The filmcrew had come looking for traditional Japan, and the villagers were willing to provide it for them: not, as I have already mentioned, out of cynicism, but—as the American cowboys had done—in order to preserve a myth in which they themselves believed.8 Thus, I am not as interested in discussions of the theory of documentary film-making, or of the problem of ‘reality’ and film, as I am interested in the mythic aspect of film, especially television film. The relationship between the audience, film-maker and the people being filmed (who are, in this case, the audience as well) is crucial. This relationship is complex and two American film critics, Leonard Quart and Albert Auster (1984:2–3), have described it well: It is absurd to claim that the writers, directors and producers of film…have some mystical intuition into the zeitgeist. Nevertheless, the makers of films are touched by the same

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tensions and fantasies as everyone else, and their profits are usually dependent on their ability to guess or divine popular feelings and trends. So though no straight line can be drawn between the film industry and the popular mind, neither is it a mirror of public feeling and habits, nor can one make the vulgar, mechanistic connection which implies that the industry determines the social values and political opinions of a supine public. However, there is no question that films can both reflect and reinforce popular preconceptions. [my emphasis] In the course of making a documentary about the continuing traditions of ancient Japan, the Japanese director was working with Japanese men whose own preconceptions reflected what they felt about their village as well as the fact that they had spent hours in front of the television. In turn, the documentary about them would reinforce the preconceptions of anyone who happened to watch the programme and, if the viewers were part of a village in which a ‘tradition’ was still followed, they too might soon have a programme made about them in which they would try to conform to the popular perception of Japanese traditionalism. To pinpoint the ideology within this complex relationship is virtually impossible. We cannot, in this case, locate the sources of this modern symbolic nationalism: they appear to spring from all sides. Umberto Eco considers this problem in a short essay on the ‘uncontrollable plurality of messages’ found on radio and television (1986:148–9). Taking the example of an advertisement for a polo shirt, he asks: Where is the mass medium? Is it the newspaper advertisement, is it the TV broadcast, is it the polo shirt? Here we have not one but two, three, perhaps more mass media, acting through different channels. The media have multiplied…and at this point who is sending the message? The manufacturer of the polo shirt? Its wearer, the person who talks about it on the TV screen? Who is the producer of ideology? … There is no longer Authority, all on its own…. Power is elusive and there is no longer any telling where the ‘plan’ comes from. Because there is, of course, a plan, but it is no longer intentional and therefore it cannot be criticised with the traditional criticism or intentions. [my emphasis]

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We are in the area which Brian Moeran, in his discussion of television samurai programmes (1985), labels ‘confucian confusion’ —a mythical Japan where the images of the past and present are mixed to create sometimes confusing and conflicting images. This, I would like to point out, happens in most television in any country: in Britain we can find programmes depicting ‘traditional’ England, industrially depressed England, upperclass England, royal England (perhaps the subject of the most intense myth-making) and England, land of eccentrics. Does a single one of these documentaries give us more than a glimpse of ‘real’ England? The documentary made about all the Ise sacred guilds, of which the segment on Kuzaki was just one part, is an example of Japanese television myth-making. In their eagerness to be part of this process, as well as to remind themselves of their own traditions, the grandfathers of the village co-operated wholeheartedly. Thus practice was changed to fit an ideal which is described only in the village records and a recent record at that. The process was not forced on them from the outside, by the director, but began on the inside, springing from their own perceptions about what the ‘traditional’ past should look like. What does this tell us about the relationship between ideal and practice? Firstly, that it is not easy to draw a line between the two. Any one of my informants would have been uneasy with my doing so: the ideal was there to adhere to, it was just that sometimes it was easier not to. Secondly, this attitude towards the ideal is indicative of the constant negotiation between the ideal and its practice, a relationship in flux and influenced by a variety of factors. In this case, some of the factors included the search in modern Japan for a shared traditional past; the changes in Shinto practice outside the village as well as inside; the political changes which made Kuzaki so conscious of its village identity; and the villagers’ attitudes towards the media as well as those attitudes formed by the media—all the media. Given the complexity of this relationship, it becomes impossible to locate one coherent ideology: we can find only some symbolic, component elements of various myths which the actors, the director and the viewers interpreted according to their own experience, ideals and needs. We can even ask: where is the reality of the practice of noshi awabi-making located? Perhaps a suitable answer to the question would lie in describing the nineteenth-century Utamaro print which I saw in an Ise Shrine Museum. It was entitled ‘Noshi Awabi’ and

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depicted almost-naked women divers standing by the sea, cutting up abalone for noshi awabi. The tools used and the manner in which the abalone is being cut are perfectly accurate and the fact that women are doing the work is, according to Kuzaki grandmothers, also accurate. But did the ama ever stand around, after diving, almost naked, in order to make noshi awabi? Thus are we plunged back into the land of myth and image-making, from which, perhaps, there is no escape.

NOTES 1 The fieldwork upon which this chapter is based was made possible by two grants. The first was the Japanese Ministry of Education Monbusho Research Fellowship which, along with the Oxford-Tokyo University Student Exchange Programme, took me to Japan for eighteen months in 1984; and the second was the Oxford Institute of Social Anthropology Philip Bagby Studentship which allowed me to continue in Japan throughout the summer of 1985 and to return for two months in 1986. Thanks are also due to D.N.Gellner for numerous discussions on the question of ideology. 2 The list of such analyses is too numerous to cite, but among the more recent and fascinating is Twitchell’s structural analysis of horror films, Dreadful Pleasures (1985), whose bibliography is also very useful. 3 An ear shell, a sea ear, an ormer. 4 I have discussed the way in which Kuzaki attempts to maintain its identity in the face of increased tourism to the village in two articles (Martinez 1988a; 1989). Basically, although encouraging tourism, the villagers define the host-guest relationship in a very careful way and do not allow tourists access to any village rituals or festivals. 5 This is, perforce, a very brief outline of Kuzaki’s history and politics; a more detailed description can be found in my Ph.D thesis (Martinez 1988b). 6 Interesting to note is the fact that in the Princess Yamato version of this story, the ama Oben just introduces the princess to abalone, and it is the entire village which promises to supply Ise with dried abalone. In the Haku-Hatsu-daimyo version, only Oben’s household promises to pay this tribute to Ise. These different versions may be a symbolic representation of the tensions felt in the village under its ‘two-fold rule’. 7 Nihon Hoso Kyokai, the Japan Broadcasting Corporation which is similar to Britain’s BBC. 8 In his autobiography Timebends (1987:382) Arthur Miller describes his friendship with the two Nevada cowboys whom he used as the models for the main characters in his screenplay The Misfits:

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My two friends couldn’t understand why I thought it strange that men who had lived on horseback for years looked to the movies for their models and could imagine no finer fate than to be picked up for a film role. The movie cowboy was the real one, they the imitations. The final triumph of art, at least this kind of art, was to make a man feel less reality in himself than in an image.

REFERENCES Aichi Daigaku (1965) Ama no mura—Toba-shi Kuzaki-cho (An ama village —Toba-city, Kuzaki Ward), Toyohashi City: Aichi University. Aron, Raymond (1977) ‘On the proper use of Ideologies’ in Joseph BenDavid et al. (eds) Culture and its Creators, Essays in Honor of Edward Shils, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Dale, Peter N. (1986) The Myth of Japanese Uniqueness, Beckenham: Croom Helm. Eco, Umberto (1986) ‘The Multiplication of the Media’ in Travels in Hyperreality, Essays translated from the Italian by William Weaver, London: Picador. Esslin, Martin (1975) ‘The Television Series as Folk Epic’ in C.W.E. Bigsby (ed.), Superculture, American Popular Culture and Europe, London: Paul Elek. Geertz, Clifford (1973) ‘Ideology as a Cultural System’ in The Interpretation of Cultures, selected essays by Clifford Geertz, New York: Basic Books. Gluck, Carol (1985) Japan’s Modern Myths, Ideology in the late Meiji Period, Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences (1968), vols 7, 10, New York: The Macmillan Company and The Free Press. Kirk, G.S. (1970) Myth, its Meanings and Functions in Ancient and Other Societies, Berkeley, California: University of California Press. Kuzaki (n.d.) Kuzaki Kambeshi (Records of the Sacred Guild Kuzaki), unpublished historical records of Kuzaki Ward, Toba City, Mie Prefecture, Japan. Lowery, Shearon and de Fleur, Melvin L. (1983) Milestones in Mass Communication Research, Media Effects, London: Longman. McArthur, Colin (1978) Television and History, London: British Film Institute. McLuhan, Marshall (1975) ‘The Implications of Cultural Uniformity’ in C.W.E.Bigsby (ed.), Superculture, American Popular Culture and Europe, London: Paul Elek. Martinez, D.P. (1988a) ‘The Tourist as Deity, Ancient Continuities in Modern Japan’, unpublished paper presented at the first GAPP Conference on Tourism in England.

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—— (1988b) The Ama, Tradition and Change in A Japanese Diving Village, unpublished Ph.D thesis, Oxford University. ——(1989) ‘Tourism and the Ama’ in Eyal Ben-Ari, Brian Moeran and James Valentine (eds) Unwrapping Japan, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Miller, Arthur (1987) Timebends—a Life, London: Methuen. Miller, Roy Andrew (1982) Japan’s Modern Myth, the Language and Beyond, Tokyo: Weatherhill. Moeran, Brian (1985) ‘Confucian Confusion: the Good, the Bad and the Noodle Western’ in David Parkin (ed) The Anthropology of Evil, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Mouer, Ross and Sugimoto Yoshio (1986) Images of Japanese Society, a Study in the Structure of Social Reality, London: KPI. Quart, Leonard and Auster, Albert (1984) American Film and Society since 1945, London and Basingstoke: Macmillan. Silverstone, Roger (1981) The Message of Television, Myth and Narrative in Contemporary Culture, London: Heinemann. Twitchell, James B. (1985) Dreadful Pleasures, an Anatomy of Modern Honor, Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Chapter 10

The discourse on Japan in the German press Images of economic competition Rosemary Breger

INTRODUCTION Analyses of images of Japan have shown that a limited number of images are used repeatedly, but evaluated differently, according to contemporary politico-economic factors. These images are stereotyping, drawing boundaries between ingroup and outgroup, and involve group evaluation. Discourse analysis leads to the expectation that when discursive elements and context change, then the discourse will change, forming either new statements, or even a new discourse. Using discourse analysis, the German press image of Japan was examined to see to what extent these mechanisms of stereotyping, repetition and evaluation were operative. In addition, the reaction of Japanese nationals resident in Düsseldorf to this discourse was analysed to see to what degree they were aware of and accepted it, that is, how far these models of Japanese society concurred, and what factors could influence this. Areas of disagreement could pinpoint potential areas of conflict, thus revealing information about Japanese relationships with the local community, as well as their own self-image (Breger 1990). The methodology is described in the Appendix. Briefly, a computerbased content analysis of 776 articles on Japan from twenty-three German-language newspapers between 1980–5 was undertaken. A

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Figure 10.1 Japanese investment in West Germany 1955–85 Sources: (1) Zielke 1982; (2) JCC 1987; (3) Glambeck 1981; (4) Merz and Park 1986

random sample of 300 Japanese nationals living in Düsseldorf was sent a Japanese-language questionnaire, in which they were asked to rank their press image in accuracy from 1 (mostly accurate) to 4 (grossly inaccurate). Another question asked them to choose but not rank the five most important factors, out of a list of fourteen, for giving foreigners with little knowledge of Japan a basic understanding of the country. Briefly, Japan’s trade with Germany has followed the same pattern as with her other trade partners, with a steady increase of exports especially since the oil crises. At the same time, rising unemployment in Europe, including Germany, together with the failure to restructure old industries, has ensured that antagonism to Japanese economic competition has run high (Wilkinson 1983; Daniels and Drifte 1986). Figure 10.1 illustrates how Japanese investment in Germany, and specifically Düsseldorf (capital of North-Rhine Westphalia), has increased over the last thirty years.

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Figure 10.2 Japanese nationals in West Germany Source: JCC (1987)

The Japanese commercial presence in Düsseldorf must also be seen in relation to the high unemployment rate of this Bundesland. In 1985 it was 10.8 per cent. Japanese firms provided over 5800 jobs for Germans in 1986 (Japanese Chamber of Commerce 1986) and, therefore, German towns compete for Japanese investment. Figure 10.2 shows the increase in the number of Japanese nationals resident in Germany and Düsseldorf, which is directly related to increasing Japanese commercial expansion in Germany. About two-thirds of Japanese nationals living in Germany are higher employees of multinational Japanese companies, who remain in Germany for three to five years on average. More than half of the rest are small-scale ethnic entrepreneurs, who act as ethnic servicers, while the remainder live abroad for private reasons.

MEDIA DISCOURSE: POWER AND INFORMATION TRANSMISSION Discourse analysis regards media reports as social constructions, interpretations, following patterns of stratification, institutionalisation, conflict and power (Collins et al. 1986; Bourdieu 1986). The relationship between ‘reality’ and interpretations thereof is complex. The mass media (like all other discourse generators) claim to produce the ‘truth’; information is presented, and generally accepted by the readership, as being total coverage. That choice is involved at every level of data gathering and presentation is seldom made clear. The political direction of the newspaper, its self-imposed structural limitations, access to information, house style and presentation preferences all lead to what Thompson (1964) called a ritualised presentation of the world to the readership.

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Moreover, people see, read and remember selectively (Gluck 1985), especially regarding topics with apparently little bearing on their daily lives (Thompson 1964; Treinen 1981). When personal knowledge of and contact with a subject is limited, then the role of media discourse as the only or main source of information, behind which stands the legitimating authority of the profession and institutions, becomes central in constructing and maintaining stereotypes.

STEREOTYPING MECHANISMS Stereotyping is a major modality in collective image construction in general. Analyses of stereotype construction and maintenance using different theories indicate that similar mechanisms are repeatedly used. The newspaper images were examined to see to what extent the following mechanisms occurred. A central aspect of general symbolic efficacy is multivalency in meaning, or at least the ability to accommodate different emphases or interpretations. Therefore symbols can establish an efficacy enabling them to outlive any particular period or situation. Hereby logical consistency is not as important to symbolic efficacy as expressiveness (Turner 1969; Dower 1986). For example, Said (1978) discusses the multivalence of the concept ‘orient’. Gluck (1985) illustrates how repetition acts to support validity: the more often something is said by an ever-larger group, the more likely it is to be accepted as ‘true’. Therefore, recurrent images were central to my analysis, whereby it soon became apparent that recurrent images from other older discourses were included. Stereotyping groups involves three main overlapping mechanisms: boundary drawing between ingroup and outgroup; homogenising own and Other’s culture and people; and evaluation. Establishing to what extent these mechanisms were operative, especially in recurrent modalities, guided the analysis. Boundaries are drawn by emphasising the otherness of outgroupers, very often in terms of imposing a dichotomy between collective Self and Other, enunciated as the uniqueness of own or Other’s culture in polar opposites (Said 1978; Wilkinson 1983; Link 1985; Mouer and Sugimoto 1986). Homogenising a culture entails depicting it as undifferentiated, reifying cultural expressions into unchangeable primordials, and assuming the implicitly racist statement that its members are

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characterised by an identifiable, specific ‘national character’ (Barth 1969; Minear 1980; Dower 1986). Evaluation entails not only placing Other in a hierarchy legitimating differential access to resources, but also self-criticism. Foucault’s (1969) concept of grids of discursive specification provides the political and economic framework within which these mechanisms operate. Thus, Other is perceived in terms of Self’s own interests (Steadman 1969; Iriye 1975; Clapp and Halperin 1975; Thränhardt 1985; Merten 1986). These mechanisms were used in older discourses on Japan, but also in media discourse on foreigners in Germany. Thränhardt’s work illustrates particularly well the discursive construction of a hierarchy of ‘foreignness’ in the media, with Germans at the top. An interesting question was to see where Japan would be located in this hierarchy. Discursive coexistence: recurrent images of Japan Several different discourses on the Japanese have emerged since the sixteenth century, produced by different sources, and supported by different authoritative voices. In procedures of intervention, these discourses have influenced each other in a complex feedback system. They show continuities by sharing many themes and images, despite having been produced over a period of 400 or so years: In the collective European mind there has formed a limited stock of images both positive and negative on Japan and the Japanese from which, depending on the mood of the day, the relevant image can be recalled any number of times. (Wilkinson 1983:19) Examining these in detail revealed that they also used the discursive and stereotyping mechanisms outlined above; they tend to reproduce stereotypes reflecting collective ingroup interests. Fields of memory Three recurrent fields of memory exist from earlier discourses: setting Japan up as an ideal model using the evaluating mechanism; boundary creation by emphasising differences; and imposing a homogeneity on Japanese people and culture. Their statements and strategies overlap quite considerably. It was expected that these mechanisms would recur, in different evaluative contexts, in the press discourse.

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The idealisation statement has medieval origins, when Japan was represented as a paradise (Hijiya-Kirschnereit 1988). Xavier called the Japanese ‘the best race yet discovered’ (Cooper 1965: 60). It recurred in the romantic discourse of the nineteenth century (Schuster 1971; Lehmann 1978), and again in positive and negative forms in the twentieth century (Wilkinson 1983; Dower 1986). It set Japan up as model, which in its positive form (called the ‘superman’ image below) was a vehicle to criticise collective Self’s own shortcomings, while in its negative form it was a means of positive self-evaluation by illustrating what Self was not. Idealisation to this extent places the object either at the top of a value hierarchy, or right at the bottom, and, by the logic of stereotype dichotomisation, Self at the other end. This turned out to be the main modality used in the press discourse. The statement emphasising difference draws boundaries even more directly. It was also used by the Jesuits in the sixteenth century, and repeated in slightly differing forms up to the present. Its most pervasive modality is what Steadman called ‘the tyranny of the concept of Asia’ (1969), and Said ‘Orientalism’ (1978). Its main discursive element was the construction of the over-simplistic dichotomous pair of concepts of ‘west’ and ‘east’, which assumed: 1 an undifferentiated cultural (and racial) homogeneity of both geographical regions which by definition mutually exclude each other; 2 that cultural similarities and differences are bound to geographical regions; 3 that these are unchanging in time, or at least, the changes undergone are subordinate to maintaining the dichotomy; 4 that these are expressed through the implicitly racist concept of ‘national character’, which draws perceived group boundaries between ‘Them’ and ‘Us’ seemingly ordained by nature and therefore immutable or at least inevitable. Presenting the ‘east’ as exotic, mysterious and inscrutable perpetuates and mystifies this dichotomy of cultural worlds. Since this strategy has been used to various extents in all other discourses on Japan, it was hypothesised that this would form a central boundary-drawing mechanism in the press discourse.

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The concept of an undifferentiated cultural unity received its apotheosis in the nationalist ‘national family’ ideology, elements of which reappear in Nihonjinron and the group consensus model (Mouer and Sugimoto 1986). It is particularly interesting as a discursive statement, since it is used in both non-Japanese and Japanese images of Japan, and thus indicates where their models concur and thus reinforce each other. Comparison of media with self-images in my analysis was therefore directed to searching for points of concurrence and dissent: It was not that the Japanese people were, in actuality, homogeneous and harmonious, devoid of individuality and thoroughly subordinated to the group, but rather that the Japanese ruling groups were constantly exhorting them to become so…. In other words, what the vast majority of Westerners believed the Japanese to be coincided with what the Japanese ruling elites hoped they would become. (Dower 1986:31, my emphasis) The central statement of the ‘national family’ ideology was the cultural and racial homogeneity of all Japanese, based on the idea of the unique divine origins of the Japanese, with the Tenno as divine head of the nation. He was the father of the Japanese people as the embodiment of the nation’s godly founder, and therefore filial piety, meaning absolute obedience and submission, were due to him. This gave rise to an unique Japanese national spirit of ‘shining pureness’, a sense of national belonging and harmony of purpose (serving the country by knowing what one’s proper place and duties were), which made Japan unique and spiritually superior to other nations (see Gauntlett 1949; Smith 1973; Gluck 1985). Grids of specification of the contemporary image One of the most important factors in the postwar discourse on Japan has been Japan’s status as an increasingly powerful world economic power, ‘challenging the myths of Western and white supremacy’ (Dower 1986:316). Reactions to Japan since the late 1960s have often been dominated by the need to explain her economic success (Mouer and Sugimoto 1986); how the Other is perceived generally reflects Self’s own interests.

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This led to the expectation that economic competition and conflict would be reproduced in media images, whereby many old images would be refurbished, or the negative pole of a positive image would be used. Wilkinson (1983) and Yoshida (1980), for example, have documented how European media rhetoric has shown a high degree of antagonism and xenophobia, closely linked to Japan’s economic success, since the Second World War. The Japanese image in the European press Wilkinson (1983) and Mathias-Pauer (1984) showed that well-written factual reporting has always intermingled with more or less accurate reports which used the same sets of stereotyped images. Wilkinson (1983:25) emphasised that they are images from the past, portraying earlier and, therefore, probably no longer relevant situations, some indeed dating back to the first European encounters with Japan: Both sides tended to see the other in terms of past images, rather than in terms of present-day realities. For the Europeans, Japan was lost in a romantic Oriental haze from which she would burst forth now and again, usually as a threat. For the Japanese, Europe was wrapped in a cultural cloud, which would regularly evaporate into an unpleasant vapour.

Boundary-drawing and hierarchising images of threat and success Wilkinson (1983) showed how partial knowledge of prewar and no longer extant economic structures in Japan, plus a widespread ignorance of contemporary structures, combined with ‘yellow peril’ and samurai images, and supported by Japanese homogenising statements on group and national loyalty, together gave rise to the image of ‘Japan Incorporated’. This image of threatened self-interest has become one of the most symbolically powerful about Japan. It supposes that the big business elite and top government efficiently control all economic decisions, supported by a population of 100 million diligent slave-like workers, inculcated with a culturally rooted ethos of self-sacrifice and submission which enables them to forego any improvement in their own living standards, in order to win the Second World War half a century later—by economic domination.

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At the end of the 1970s, this image was gradually replaced by a call to ‘learn from Japan’ in order to beat her at her own game. All aspects of her business management, industrial production and culture were examined with increasing enthusiasm in the search for the ‘secrets of success’. By the beginning of the 1980s, Japan was being depicted as a society embodying a great deal of what was perceived to be lost or missing in Europe: business success, attachment to deep cultural roots, humane and considerate relationships in both public and private domains. What Dore (1984) called the ‘learn from Japan boom’ idealised isolated aspects of Japanese society, and critically compared these with their own societies, in the same way that this has been done since the sixteenth century. Japan was at the top of the culture hierarchy, Self at the bottom. The old strategies of ‘national character’, the ‘mystical strength of the east’, ‘Orient versus Occident’ were hereby reactivated. In addition, there was a new variation of an old image: the ‘superman’ image was applied to Japanese managers and their putatively different management techniques. This willingness to learn from Japan was a new feature in the discourse, signifying a new relationship: it was the first time that the elite of Europe and America seriously contemplated learning from an eastern country, accepting that they themselves were not necessarily the world’s unchallenged leaders.

THE JAPANESE IMAGE IN THE GERMAN PRESS 1980–5

Constructing the Discourse From the above discussion, it was hypothesised that the press discourse would be enunciated as homogenising stereotypes, thereby drawing group boundaries, and its images would come from older discourses. Economic competition would form the discursive grid of specification, indicated by topic delimitation or emphasis. Thränhardt’s analysis (1985) on foreigners in the media discourse showed that the political direction of newspapers influenced evaluation: conservative papers tended to sensationalise images with little self-criticism, whereas liberal and to a lesser extent middle papers were highly self-critical, but tended to romanticise and idealise images of foreigners. Therefore it had been expected that conservative papers

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would be highly critical of perceived economic competition, but not self-critical, whereas liberal papers, in accordance with their intellectual background, would be self-critical and depict foreigners more positively than conservative papers. As shown in Figure 10.3, business topics formed the main theme in all conservative paper reports (39.9 per cent), followed by politics (17.1 per cent). Liberal and middle papers gave most coverage to political issues (33.2 and 33.1 per cent, respectively). Despite these emphases, papers did report on a wide variety of themes, indicating that not only stereotyping was used.

Figure 10.3

Delimiting the image: topics

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Control of the discourse Who controls the discourse and how much the subject is allowed to speak for himself are central features of discourse construction (Foucault 1969). It was found that 4.3 per cent of all journalists (ten out of 231) wrote 32 per cent of all articles, so that there was a clear monopoly of control. These top ten journalists had all been to Tokyo, except for one, and some were Far East dpa (deutsche presse agentur) correspondents, which means that they wrote for several papers, but mostly of the same or similar political direction. Only three could speak, read or write Japanese, limiting, on the whole, their ability to check information. Moreover, only two newspapers included occasional articles by Japanese nationals, showing that there is a definite lack of the subject being allowed to speak for himself. Those that did were primarily members of the Japanese business elite. Presenting the image: attitude For almost all types of newspaper and theme, neutral articles predominated. These were not, however, image neutral. It turned out that the discursive images discussed below were the primary factor in assessing an article’s attitude. Figure 10.4 illustrates the overall attitudes for all topics in all papers. Conservative papers have four times more positive than negative articles, showing that although there is some criticism, on the whole they construct a positive image of Japan, with business articles forming the highest percentage of all positive articles (48.4 per cent), contrary to what was expected. Exactly the opposite was the case for liberal papers: they presented a negative image of Japan, with twice as many negative as positive articles, and with politics forming the highest proportion of all negative articles. Three enunciative modalities for economic issues were discernible. The smallest was more or less neutral reporting on deals and developments, without comment. The two larger modalities represented different focuses on the same image: one, centring on Japan, revolved around the reasons for Japan’s success, while the other concentrated on Germany and the reasons for Germany’s failure.

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Figure 10.4

Presenting the image: attitude

The conservative image: the ‘learn from Japan’ boom At the beginning of the period examined, following the then new ‘learn from Japan’ boom, all types of papers praised Japan’s economic achievements in ‘business’ articles. Later, however, this image was used mostly by conservative papers. The ‘secrets of success’ consisted of:

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1 specific boundary-drawing and homogenising cultural characteristics, the ‘national character’ mystique, particularly expressed in the ‘Japanese ethos’ of ‘harmony’, ‘self-discipline’, ‘loyalty’ and ‘reciprocity’; 2 the special Japanese way of life allowing these principles to be put into practice in non-egoistic, cooperating groups, characterised in business by benign paternalism and life-long employment; and 3 a set of pragmatic actions, putatively based on this ethos, such as ‘unique Japanese management techniques’. Locating the roots of success in culture implies that they are part of a general Japanese cultural heritage, available by birth to all Japanese without exception (so that all Japanese are, or should be, successful), and by definition, not available to non-Japanese. None of these statements is new: they all occur in different contexts in other discourses on Japan. Some of the ‘national character’ stereotypes, including the contemporary variation of the ‘superman’ image of Japanese managers, date to the sixteenth century (Xavier’s ‘the best race yet discovered’), whereas others, like the ‘group consensus’ image, ‘harmony’ and ‘loyalty’ date from the rise of Japanese nationalism. That the Japanese discourses of nationalism and Nihonjinron (roughly translatable as ‘the theory of Japaneseness’) both contain (or contained) similar statements acts to reinforce the authority of this image. This image thus imposes the old ‘orientalism’ dichotomy of ‘east’ versus ‘west’, with the new difference that ‘eastern spirituality’ or its ‘mystical source of strength’ are held to give rise to the material power—business success—that is normally attributed to the ‘west’ in this opposition. So the ‘east’ (Japan) has assumed the characteristics of both sides, while the ‘west’ seems to have lost its own characteristics. The other modality concentrated rather on Self, where Germany had gone wrong in losing its economic lead, the reciprocal side of the success question. This was done by using Japan as an ideal, and comparing her with Germany, and was enunciated as strong selfcriticism. Again, this modality has occurred since the Jesuit use of it to criticise the Reformation (Kreiner 1984a). The recurrent statements of why Germany has failed were: 1 her lack of knowledge about Japan and Japan’s markets, resulting from German arrogance in believing it is not necessary to learn about trade partners, leads to bad planning and wrong decisions

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(unlike Japan); 2 Germany uses out-dated management techniques that ignore the humanity of human resources (unlike Japan); 3 German prejudice against non-Germans or Asians is offensive, and prevents Germans from being favoured business partners. Title imagery directs the reader’s attention to the core of the message, evoking ideas of success and Japan as a model— ‘learn from Japan’, ‘the key to success’, ‘the secret of Japan’s success’, ‘loyalty to the firm more important than the letter of the contract’, ‘most important of all is the firm’s success’. In all 12.2 per cent evoked exoticising, boundary-drawing imagery— ‘continuous quest for peace and harmony’, ‘land of the gods’. Only 12.5 per cent of all conservative titles had imagery belonging to the negative image set of ‘Japan as threat’, such as ‘challenge’, ‘danger’. The discourse encourages the reader to learn from Japan, to take her as a model in order to improve Germany’s economic clout, that is learn from Japan to beat her at her own game. One is encouraged to emulate stereotyped Japanese worker values such as diligence, loyalty to the firm (the old samurai images), harmonious relations between worker and management, and accept the value of a philosophy which stresses that worker prosperity is dependent on company prosperity (‘national family’ imagery). Furthermore, the German government is urged to learn from the close alliance between Japanese government and industry. These would all clearly very much benefit capital interests. This new imagery is part of a new myth: the omniscience of Japanese management. Middle and liberal images: ‘Japan not as model’ and ‘Japan as threat’ Gradually, however, growing criticism appeared in the discourse of liberal and later middle papers, and was minimally echoed in conservative papers, directed just as much against the naivety of the perpetuators of the ‘Japan model’ image as against the image itself. Using techniques of repetition and symbol multivalence, this antistatement used the same homogenising images, interpreting them negatively, but not questioning their existence. Japan’s ‘diligent workers’ were described as ‘workaholics’, ‘loyalty’ became ‘submission’, ‘group orientation’ became ‘lack of individualism’ and the threatening rhetoric of ‘Japan Incorporated’ began to be used

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more frequently. Japan’s industrial success was presented as being made at the cost of work conditions, like long hours, little leave, and a poor pension system, and at the cost of quality of life. Japan was rejected as a model, and thus placed at the bottom of the hierarchy of rich nations, with Self near the top. At the same time, the set of images about the reasons for German failure started to include a new statement that it was not only Germany’s fault that she was not as successful as Japan (and in Japan), but Japan was also to blame. Japan deliberately hindered foreign success by: 1 2 3

dumping prices combined with avalanche-style export policies; tariff import restrictions; and non-tariff import restrictions.

Another recurrent liberal and middle theme is that through Japan’s export policy, the world economic order is being threatened; Japan is causing world destabilisation. The strategy behind this statement clearly puts the responsibility for declining market shares at the door of Other while Self is put in the role of victim. Title imagery unmistakably communicates this image: 16.6 per cent of all titles evoked aggression, such as ‘danger’, ‘Japan’s new vassals’ (the old military threats), ‘Japan pretends to be harmless’, ‘sinners’. Moreover, liberal papers used the greatest amount of all types of title imagery, with 24.2 per cent of all titles evoking many of the old exotic images— ‘myth’, ‘secret’, ‘inscrutable smile’. Exotic imagery reproduces boundaries, strongly suggesting that the subject cannot be understood, even if the reader wanted to, because it is too different; discussion is actually useless. It also reinforces any claim the subject makes regarding ethnic uniqueness and lack of understanding by outgroupers. This liberal discourse is heavily critical of conservatism in Japan, reflecting German domestic political conflict between capital and trade unionism. It is very similar to the image described by Wilkinson (1983) which pertained in Europe in the late 1970s. The images created by conservative and liberal papers of Japanese industry are different evaluations of the same behaviour: diligence against workaholism, loyalty against exploitation, harmony against weak trade unions, and government aid to industry against ‘Japan Incorporated’. This reflects their party political commitment: the

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conservatives as upholders of principles of neo-classical economics, the liberals as supporters of trade unionism. Politics: images of inefficiency and intrigue ‘Politics’ was seen by all types of papers very critically, involving consistent positive self-evaluation. No recurrent anti-statement was developed in the German press to counterbalance the sets of images used throughout the sample period. There were two negative recurrent sets of images under the topic ‘politics’. One presented Japan’s political system as non-democratic, determined by dark machinations behind the scenes, inefficiency, intrigue and corruption. On the one hand, politicians in general were depicted as weak and ineffectual, on the other, the power of Tanaka and Nakasone and other faction leaders was presented as near king-like. In fact, Tanaka was often called ‘the king-maker’ or ‘shadow shogun’. The image set of ‘Japan Incorporated’ was tightly bound to the presentation of politics, because it involves the idea of the business and political elite working hand-in-glove. The Lockheed scandal and Tanaka’s continued political power afterwards were taken as proof of this model, as was trade union weakness. The other image set concerned articles on the military, and used an explicitly or implicitly aggressive and threatening enunciative modality. Articles used enunciative forms that played on Japan’s role in the Second World War, implying that the threat still existed. This overlapped with the ‘Japan Inc.’ image set portraying how Japan was still intent on her war aim of world domination, but this time she would—probably—restrict herself to economic domination. Associated with the military discussions —Japan as an ally of the USA (Nakasone’s ‘unsinkable aircraft carrier’ speech) or not prepared to spend her own money on her defence force—was the explicit question of Japan’s international political role, or rather, the criticism that she lacked one to correspond with her economic power.

THE JAPANESE SELF-IMAGE There is widespread criticism of German media presentation by Germans, Japanese journalists and respondents (Yoshida 1980; Funyu 1982; Kreiner 1984b). That many elements of the discourse about

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Japan in the German press are misrepresented is typical of any discourse (Foucault 1969), and that the subject resents factual inaccuracies is to be expected. However, in reacting to a discourse, the articulate subject begins to create an anti-discourse, projecting an image it wants to be seen. The Japanese business elite have the status and resources to do this through, for example, public relations activities and the support of Japan Foundation projects. MathiasPauer (1984) related how Japan was predominantly represented as the ‘yellow peril’ in the German press at the time of the Treaty of Portsmouth (1905, which ended the Russo-Japanese War), and, to counteract this negative press image, sent a government official to Bonn to portray a more positive (official) image in the guise of private opinion. From this, it was assumed that the type of Japanese reaction to the press discourse would indicate the extent to which Japanese people accepted this image and which issues formed a basis of consensus or contention, indicating potential conflict. Definition of self-image boundaries Figure 10.5 illustrates which topics Japanese respondents themselves considered most important in constructing an image of Japan. It differs completely in choice and emphasis of topic from those in the German press, with economics and politics chosen as ninth and twelfth out of fourteen, respectively. Respondents see themselves according to this list as a modern, forward-looking people, with common roots in a long history and customs which have been influenced by Japan’s geography. Their choice should also be seen in the context of what they may perceive to be simply foreigners’ ignorance about Japan. Thus, discourse and embryonic anti-discourse are based on completely different concepts of what is important: the German primarily on Japan’s relationship to other countries (i.e. to Germany) in economics and politics; the Japanese on Japan alone. Both are thus preoccupied with Self in presenting images. Making history and culture dependent on geography constructs boundaries and emphasises uniqueness instead of similarities. This statement was a core statement of the nationalist ‘national family’ Nihonjinron and ‘orientalism’ image sets.

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Figure 10.5

Important issues for the Japanese in presenting Japan to foreigners

Reaction to the press image: an embryonic anti-discourse Figure 10.6 illustrates Japanese ratings of their perceptions of their images in the German press. It is immediately clear that they reject these almost totally, with vehement general comments such as ‘too one-sided’, ‘old fashioned’, ‘showed bias’, ‘deliberately false’, ‘embarrassingly ignorant’. Length of residence in Germany brought no difference in attitude, possibly because contact is mostly restricted to the Japanese business community, but both German-language proficiency and age correlated negatively with perceived accuracy, the younger and less proficient German speakers tending to perceive more accuracy. This is perhaps because, firstly, newcomers’ knowledge of German is too poor for them to understand clearly what they read in the papers, and secondly, they are very warmly

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Japanese reaction to the press image

welcomed by the German business elite, and project this upon other images. Respondents perceived and agreed with images emphasising the outstanding quality of Japanese goods and technological standards. They also agreed with praise of healthy export growth, and believed that it would do other countries good to copy at least Japanese diligence and labour-management relations so that they could overcome the ‘English sickness’ and not need to blame Japan for their own failure to compete successfully. This highly positive selfevaluation in economic terms is to be expected from managerial representatives of industry. They also accepted exoticising statements of Japanese uniqueness, and indeed helped perpetuate them by supporting Japanese government-sponsored programmes in Germany to forward international understanding which concentrate primarily on traditional arts. They rejected as very inaccurate the image of a protectionist Japan; that trade problems had anything to do with Japan and not with problems in German industry; and the criticism of the low quality of life, such as that Japanese are workaholics who are underpaid and live in small houses. To a large extent they concurred with the positive statements from the ‘Japan as model’ image set, but rejected the negative statements for business.

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Their own self-image has inconsistencies, on the one hand rejecting ‘workaholism’, while on the other recommending that other nations copy Japanese diligence; or recommending learning from the Japanese model but declaring that no other people can adopt this fully because it is Japanese and, therefore, culture bound. A fundamental tenet of the Japanese self-image and critique of the German press images is that Japan is not portrayed very accurately, and there is little understanding of Japan. This is a multifaceted reaction, involving personal experiences with Germans, Japanese problems in learning to cope in a new culture, as well as expressing their own convictions of cultural otherness or cultural uniqueness.

CONCLUSION The above analysis has shown that both the press images of Japan and the Japanese self-image on the whole use discursive mechanisms that are stereotyping, evaluative, hierarchising and reflect self-interests more than the Other they supposedly depict. Newspapers construct discourses on Japan that reflect their own political affiliations, propagating perceptions of Japan supporting their own values. Hence, conservative papers construct a positive image of Japan that supports the interests of established capital, whereas liberal papers, who see themselves as champions of trade unionism, propagate a negative image, criticising all forms of conservatism. However justified Japanese criticism of these images may be, the vehemence of their total rejection indicates that a boundary is being drawn between ingroupers who understand Japan (who are Japanese), and outsiders who do not. At the core of the Japanese reaction is the conviction that no one understands them: it is an expression of their own feeling of being different. Hijiya-Kirschnereit (1988) comments that to be perceived as completely different and incomparable not only stimulates national self-confidence, but also creates leeway for doing what one wants. These image sets share a number of recurrent central statements that all have long histories. The symbols used are capable of positive or negative interpretations. They concur in drawing boundaries between ingroup and outgroup, for different reasons, and in different modalities of dichotomisation and mystification. This dichotomy is reinforced by other discourses, such as the group consensus model,

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or Nihonjinron. These statements are that Japanese society is culturally and racially homogeneous and tightly knit, that it is unique, and therefore by definition different to ‘western’ cultures, leading to the concept of a unique Japanese national character. Images from the ‘Japan as model’ set portray these positively, using the enunciative modalities of self-criticism, idealising and aestheticising. Emphasising the difference between Self and Other belongs to their self-critical expressive form: without it, the argument would lose its sharpness. The ‘Japan Inc.’ images and the anti-statements to ‘Japan as model’ focus on the negative aspects of these statements, using the modalities of exoticisation and aggression to support their portrayals. Again, emphasising the difference between Self and Other is a central mechanism, in this case in order to evaluate Self positively by implying how different Self is from Other.

APPENDIX: METHODOLOGY For a full discussion of the methodology, see Breger 1990. In the content analysis for the present purpose, four variables—article topic, attitude of article, title imagery and political direction of newspaper— are discussed, concentrating on the topics ‘economics’ and ‘politics’ because they formed the largest topic groups in all types of paper. They would, therefore, necessarily be encountered by respondents. The table below lists the newspapers consulted, their political direction and distribution. Definitions: ‘conservative’, ‘middle’ and ‘liberal’ from national newspaper-cutting collections, Newspaper Research Institute and sources below. Attitude was assessed by calling all statements, adjectives and images admiring Japan ‘positive’; ‘negative’, those which insulted Japan, or saw her as a threat, or cause of Germany’s problems. The number of positive statements was subtracted from negative to give the end evaluation. This method gives a maximum number of neutral articles. Newspapers were classified as tending to be conservative (meaning not only upholding traditions and the existing status quo, but also oriented towards the policies of the right-wing parties, especially the Christian Democrats and Christian Socialists); in the political middle (not party oriented); or liberal (supporting the Social Democrats, or

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alternative). The experts running the two newspaper-cutting collections consulted, and the Institute for Newspaper Research, were asked to classify the newspapers in my sample, and these were compared with available classifications in the literature (Thomas 1980; Fischer 1981). There was no contradictory classification. Sources: Fischer 1981; Thomas 1980; Stamm 1985

Regarding the questionnaire, 93 out of 300 returned answers (a typical return for posted questionnaires). Of these returns, 88 per cent were from managers. Part of the questionnaire dealt with their

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views on the accuracy of Japan’s image in the German press for the topics trade, industry, culture, values, lifestyle, behaviour, politics and ‘other’. Another question asked them to list the five most important topics out of fourteen in giving foreigners with little knowledge of Japan an idea of what the country was like (see Figure 10.5).

REFERENCES Barth, Frederik (1969) Ethnic Groups and Boundaries, Oslo: Universitätsforlaget. Breger, Rosemary (1990) Myth and Stereotype. Images of Japan in the German Press and in Japanese Self-Presentation, Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Bourdieu, Pierre (1986) ‘The Production of Belief: Contribution to an Economy of Symbolic Goods’, in Richard Collins et al. (eds) Media, Culture and Society: A Critical Reader, London; Sage. Clapp, Priscilla and Halperin, Morton (1975) ‘U.S. Elite Images of Japan: The Postwar Period’, in Akira Iriye (ed.) Mutual Images: Essays in American-Japanese Relations, Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press. Collins, Richard et al. (eds), (1986) Media, Culture and Society: A Critical Reader, London: Sage. Cooper, Michael (1965) They Came to Japan: An Anthology of European Reports on Japan 1543–1640, Berkeley: University of California Press. Daniels, Gordon and Drifte, Reinhard (eds) (1986) Europe and Japan: Changing Relationships since 1945, Ashford: Paul Norbury. Dore, Ronald (1984) ‘The “Learn from Japan Boom”: Adopting and Adapting the Best’, Speaking of Japan, 5, 47: 16–25. Dower, John (1986) War Without Mercy: Race and Power in the Pacific War, London: Faber and Faber. Fischer, Hans-Dietrich (1981) Handbuch der politischen Presse in Deutschland 1480–1980, Düsseldorf: Droste. —— (ed.) (1982) Auslandskorrespondenten in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, Düsseldorf: Droste. Foucault, Michel (1969) The Archaeology of Knowledge, London: Tavistock. —— (1988) Power and Knowledge, n.p.: Harvester. Friese, Eberhard (1984) ‘Das Deutsche Japanbild 1944—Bemerkungen zum Problem zum auswärtigen Kulturpolitik während des Nationalsozialismus’ in Josef Kreiner (ed.) Deutschland-Japan: Historische Kontakt, Bonn: Bouvier. Funyu Motokazu (1982) Yomiuri Shinbun, in Hans-Dietrich Fischer, (ed.) Handbuch der politischen Presse in Deutschland 1480–1980, Düsseldorf: Droste. Gauntlett, John (transl.) (1949) Kokutai no Hongi: Cardinal Principles of the National Entity of Japan, Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press.

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Glambeck, Michael (1981) ‘Japans Wirtschaftszentrum am Rhein’, Unsere Wirtschaft, Vol. 4: 157–8. Gluck, Carol (1985) Japan’s Modern Myths: Ideology in the Late Meiji Period, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Hijiya-Kirschnereit, Irmela (1988) Das Ende der Exotik. Zur Japanischen Kultur und Gesellschaft der Gegenwart, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Iriye Akira (ed.) (1975) Mutual Images: Essays in American-Japanese Relations, Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press. Japanese Chamber of Commerce (JCC) (1987), Düsseldorf, MS . Kaempfer, Engelbert (1906, 1727) The History of Japan: Together with a Description of the Kingdom of Siam 1690–92, Vols. I-III, Glasgow: Maclehose. Kreiner, Josef (ed.) (1984a) Deutschland-Japan. Historische Kontakt, Bonn: Bouvier. —— (1984b) ‘Das Deutschland-Bild der Japaner und das Deutsche JapanBild’, in Kracht, Lewin and Müller, (eds) Japan und Deutschland im 20. Jahrhundert, Ostasien Inst. Ruhr University, Bochum, Wiesbaden, Harrassowitz. Lehmann, Jean-Pierre (1978) The Image of Japan: From Feudal Isolation to World Power 1850–1905, London: Allen & Unwin. Link, Jürgen (1985) ‘Multikulturen: auf verlorenem Posten gegen den Neonationalismus?’, Kulturrevolution Vol. 10: 6–12. Mathias-Pauer, Regine (1984) ‘Deutsche Meinungen zu Japan—von der Reichs gründung bis zum dritten Reich’ in Josef Kreiner (ed.) DeutschlandJapan Historische Kontakt. Bonn: Bouvier. Merten, Klaus (1986) Das Bild der Ausländer in der Deutschen Presse, Zentrum für Turkeistudien, Frankfurt: Dagyeli Verlag. Merz, Hans-Peter and Park Sung-Jo (1986) Japanisches Management in der BRD. Strukturen und Strategien, Berlin: Express. Minear, Richard (1980) ‘The Wartime Studies of Japanese National Character’, Japan Interpreter, XIII, 1: 36–59. Mouer, Ross and Sugimoto Yoshio (1986) Images of Japanese Society. A Study in the Social Construction of Reality, London: KPI. Said, Edward (1978) Orientalism, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Schuster, Ingrid (1971) China und Japan in der deutschen Literatur 1890– 1925, Bern: Francke. Smith, Warren (1973, 1959) Confucianism in Modern Japan: A Study of Conservatism in Japanese Intellectual History, Tokyo: Hokuseido. Stamm, Keith R. (1985) Newspaper Use and Community Ties: Towards a Dynamic Theory, Norwood, N.J.: Ablex Publishing Corp. Steadman, John (1969) The Myth of Asia, London: Macmillan. Thomas, Michael (ed.) (1980) Porträts der deutschen Presse. Politik und Profit, Berlin: Spiess. Thompson, Denys (1964) Discrimination and Popular Culture, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Thränhardt, Dietrich (1985) ‘Mythos des fremden—deutsche angst und deutsche lust’, Kulturrevolution, Vol. 10: 35–8.

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Treinen, Heiner (1981) ‘Museumspädagogik und Besucherverhalten. Eine empirische Untersuchung zur Benutzung und Wirkung von Ausstellungen’, SoWi, 10, 4: 213–8. Turner, Victor (1969) The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Wilkinson, Endymion (1983) Japan versus Europe: A History of Misunderstanding, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Yoshida Shingo (1980) ‘Das Japanbild in der deutschen Presse’, Z. Kulturaustausch Vol. 2: 175–7. Zielke, Erich (1982) Die Japaner in Düsseldorf. Manager-Mobilität— Voraussetzungen und Folgen eines Typs internationaler geographischer Mobilität, Düsseldorfer Geographische Schriften 19, Düsseldorf: Düsseldorf Geographische Press.

Chapter 11

Confucianism and gender segregation in Japan and Korea Okpyo Moon

INTRODUCTION In recent years, there have been a number of scholarly or journalistic attempts to relate the phenomenon of unusually successful industrialisation and economic development in Japan and other latedeveloping Asian countries, namely Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore and Korea, to the Confucian tradition which all of these countries are thought to share. As MacFarquhar (1985:1) puts it: The significance of coincidence is culture, the shared heritage of centuries of inculcation with Confucianism. That ideology is as important to the rise of the East Asian hyper-growth economies as the conjunction of Protestantism and the rise of capitalism in the west. Unfortunately, however, as Foster-Carter has rightly pointed out in a recent paper (Foster-Carter 1988), apart from the Japanese case (Morishima 1982; Smith 1984; Dore 1987), there has been little serious attempt to elaborate this line of argument in relation to the countries mentioned. One consequence of this neglect is the tendency to regard Confucianism or a Confucian heritage as something homologous everywhere across classes, ethnic differences and gender. Although it may be true that these societies share Confucian elements, further substantiation is needed to determine to what extent and in

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what ways Confucian norms affect them. A comparative perspective may prove to be helpful in this regard. This chapter will explain the different nature of Confucian impact upon ‘peasant’ lives in Japan and Korea. This difference is in some ways reflected in the ways women are incorporated into the development of a commercialised agricultural economy, thereby enhancing their status in the ‘public’ sphere. In relation to the issue mentioned above, this chapter will attempt a controlled comparison of gender relations in Japanese and Korean rural societies as they are affected by differences in their cultural historical background. Statistical and social structural comparison will precede such an analysis, since I believe it is only after such a task has been undertaken that any sort of ‘cultural’ explanation becomes meaningful.

DIFFERENT PATTERNS OF FEMALE ROLE-PROLIFERATION One of the most remarkable features accompanying economic development both in Japan and Korea is an increasing tendency for rural women to enter the agricultural labour force. Women’s greater participation in productive activities has mainly been to compensate for the labour shortage resulting from continuous rural-urban migration of the young. However, despite the general assumption that greater participation in the ‘public sphere’ will bring about an improvement in women’s status (cf. Rosaldo and Lamphere 1974), a number of significant differences can be noted in the relative status of Japanese and Korean farm women. In the case of Japan, as in the experience of many north European countries, the hypothesis about a positive correlation between economic development and women’s status seems to hold true. In the case of Korean villages, on the other hand, it appears that extensive female contribution to the extra-domestic agricultural production has not significantly changed their status. The question then is under what circumstances does economic development, or more specifically women’s role-proliferation that accompanies economic development and industrialisation, bring about concomitant improvements in their status. What are the social, structural and cultural factors involved? On the basis of first-hand as well as secondary data collected during the latter part of the 1970s and early 1980s from a number of Japanese and Korean villages, this chapter analyses differences in the patterns

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of women’s role-proliferation in the two societies and what implications these have for their status. As indicated above, women’s participation in productive activities has greatly increased both in Japan and Korea, though with different consequences for the traditional patterns of the sexual division of labour. In Japan, the tendency for the agricultural population increasingly to consist only of women and the old can be shown by the well-known expression san-chan nogyo (farming by grandfather, oji-chan; grandmother, oba-chan; and mother, oka-chan). This tendency is partly due to the migration of the young as mentioned before, but it is also due to the increase of part-time farmers or kengyo noka.1 Kengyo noka, meaning farm households with non-farm sources of cash income, have dramatically increased in Japan since the war, reaching more than 85 per cent of all farm households in the country by 1980 (Fukutake 1981:51). Those household members who have left farming are typically men in Japan.2 The implications for women’s lives of the increase of part-time farm households have been manifold. Firstly, as men are employed outside agriculture, women have emerged as principal managers of farming as the household occupation. They are in charge of most of the decision making related to the occupation, including crop selection, land allocation and dealings with the agricultural cooperative. Since crops tend to be diversified and cultivated smallscale to meet the demands of a one-person farming system, sales of produce are in many areas conducted through the agricultural cooperative and this has also become mainly women’s work, as has the purchase of farm equipment and household necessities through the cooperative credit facilities. Further, many farm women nowadays participate in village or hamlet meetings which concern agricultural affairs. This is partly due to the fact that men are mostly away working outside the village during the weekdays, but it is also because men are no longer the principal decision makers within the household with regard to these matters. Considering the fact that it used to be men who represented households at public meetings, this change, though still limited in scale, should be taken as one of the major innovations in Japanese village life. Finally, women’s new role as mediators in the adoption of new farm technology seems to have elevated, to a certain extent, their status within the household. Traditionally, in a peasant household, hierarchy by age and generation tends to be reinforced by the fact

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that it is always the more aged who possess the vital knowledge and experience necessary for carrying out the household occupation, and this knowledge and experience is transmitted from father to son, from the older generation to the younger (Shanin 1973). In ordinary Japanese farm households nowadays, although parents sometimes assist in the farming mainly carried out by the wife of the household head, technological innovation with regard to crops, fertilisers, herbicides and farm machinery has been so fundamental and rapid that the elders are often unable to keep up. Even the young people need constant retraining through the ubiquitous agricultural education programmes. As a result, the younger daughters-in-law are not only better informed but also often possess knowledge which is not known to their retiring parents. All these indicate one form of gender role change, that is, women penetrating the sphere which has traditionally been considered men’s: making decisions, representing the household to the outside, organising and supervising farm work, conducting sales and dealing with the cooperatives or village offices, and so forth. In addition to these new responsibilities, women seem to participate increasingly more these days in inter-household labour exchange both in relation to farm work and as part of the community obligations.3 Changes in the opposite direction, however, are less noticeable. Those tasks traditionally considered women’s work such as nursing, cooking, child-rearing, caring for the old and so forth are still mainly carried out by women. This suggests that Japanese village women’s roles have proliferated considerably in recent years; they have taken up new roles while continuing to perform their traditional ones. Nevertheless, in absolute terms, I would argue that contemporary Japanese village women’s work has been considerably reduced both in its physical intensity and length of time. Concerns about the excessive amount of labour undertaken by Japanese farm women were expressed as late as the 1960s (Yoden and Matsubara 1968:186). More recently, however, the reduction in family size as a result of both migration and lower fertility, the mechanisation of agriculture and of housekeeping facilities, and moreover the general economic prosperity enjoyed by modern-day farmers thanks to their supplementary cash income have all contributed towards the considerable reduction of the amount of women’s labour needed for farm and housework.

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In the case of a village where I worked in 1981–2 (cf. Moon 1989a), statistics show that the average family size has been reduced from 5.1 in 1960 to 3.5 in 1980, and more than 90 per cent of all the village households possess modern kitchen facilities equipped with piped water, self-drainage system, gas cooker, refrigerator and electric washing machine. All these, I believe, have contributed towards reducing considerably the effort and time needed to do the housework compared to the days when women had to prepare and serve food to a large family from a sunken stove-and-heater (irori) in the middle of ever-rising firewood smoke and had to weave the family clothing. Farm work itself is also much lighter these days (cf. Dore 1978:105– 6). In Korea, the picture is rather different. To start with, women’s housework does not yet seem to have been lightened to a similar extent. Although Lee and Kim (1977:340) attribute the ability of Korean farm women to participate so extensively in productive labour to changes in rural lifestyle resulting from economic development, modern kitchen facilities and other labour-saving household equipment do not seem to be as widespread as in Japanese villages (cf. Lee Mi-kyong 1983:184–5; Moon 1989b), and the belief that all the domestic tasks are women’s responsibility remains strong and deep-rooted. The average size of farming families, though reduced, is also reported to be considerably larger in the Korean case.4 Yet, women nowadays participate in productive labour to nearly the same extent as men (Kim Jhoo-sook 1982:63; Lee and Kim 1977: 340–3). They not only work on their own farm and as wage labourers on others; but they also participate extensively in inter-household labour exchanges. However, despite constant rural-urban migration of the young, due to the lack of non-agricultural employment opportunities in the countryside, Korean farm households still remain on the whole what may be termed in Japanese as sengyo noka or full-time farm households, where both husband and wife work on the farm without any meaningful source of supplementary cash income.5 When husband and wife work together on the farm, there is a tendency for traditional patriarchal control to persist despite the fact that the labour contributed by women is no less vital than that in Japanese-style kengyo noka. In Korean family farms, women’s independence and autonomy is much more limited both in conducting the farm work and in dealing with extra-domestic affairs such as participation in village meetings or in the marketing process; within

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the domestic context male dominance is more noticeable than in Japan (Kim Jin-myong 1984; Lee Mi-kyong 1983). The fact that women’s and men’s roles are not specifically separated in the area of manual farm work nowadays seems further to limit women’s autonomy. When women’s and men’s work was conducted separately in the past, women at least had a certain control over ‘female tasks’ whether it be farm work or household services. Nowadays, however, while the separation of spheres based on gender has become blurred, the volume of contact and cooperation between husband and wife as a single working unit has considerably increased, and this change seems to have the effect of reducing women’s former autonomy with regard to the management of the domestic sphere and female tasks. Finally, the fact that it is usually men who act as technological innovators in Korean full-time farm households reinforces gender inequality since it tends to widen the presumed differences in the quality of male and female labour in the form of unequal agricultural wages (Kim Jhoo-sook 1984:60; Lee Mi-kyong 1983: 198–9). Although wage differentials do exist between male and female workers in Japan, there are on the whole very few agricultural wage labourers in Japanese villages compared to Korea, and labour exchanges, whether on a monetary or non-monetary basis, are mostly carried out between women. In short, in the case of Korean farm women, while their roles have greatly proliferated and the amount of work increased, these developments have not obviously caused a concomitant change in their status. As indicated above, in some ways they have experienced a deterioration in their status with the introduction of new technology. In this regard, the Korean case indeed presents a picture of negative correlation between economic development and women’s status.6

SOCIAL STRUCTURE AND CULTURAL FACTORS AFFECTING WOMEN’S STATUS If we choose to view agricultural development in terms of the expansion of the capitalist relations of production, Korean and Japanese farms do not differ so much: both can be regarded as what Galeski (1971:115–16) termed ‘modern family farms’ which differ from more advanced ‘capitalist industrial farms’ in that labour is still recruited mainly from family members and in that ownership of the means of production and labour is not yet separated. This

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developmental stage, however, differs from that of the traditional ‘peasant family farm’ which is characterised by subsistence farming, limited technology, and the absence of non-farm sources of cash income. From this perspective, therefore, we may consider that Japanese farms are structurally very similar to Korean farms and they are only a slightly more advanced form of a ‘modern family farm’ in terms of the level of mechanisation and of cash crop production. May we conclude, then, that the lack of non-farm employment opportunities alone explains the relatively lower status of Korean farm women? In other words, if more economic opportunities are made available for men in the Korean countryside, will Korean farm women automatically gain the same extent of autonomy and independence as enjoyed by female ‘farm managers’ in contemporary Japan? Gallin’s discussion about another comparable situation from Hsin Hsing, Taiwan, indicates otherwise (Gallin 1984). According to Gallin, most married farm women emerged as principal farmers in Hsin Hsing during the 1960s and early 1970s since many middle-aged men left for non-farm employment while many unmarried young women were incorporated into the rural wage labour force. Nevertheless, she maintains that the women’s new role as principal managers of family farm work and their increased economic contribution has brought about little change in the traditional hierarchical structure between men and women both in domestic and extra-domestic spheres. Traditional male dominance is maintained within family life and while women do most of the actual productive work, the sales of the produce or dealings with the outside, whether it be the co-operative, middlemen or village offices, are mainly conducted by men as before. This phenomenon apparently reflects the persistence of the conceptual separation between male and female spheres, since dealings with the outside often involve contact with non-kin males which is still considered inappropriate for women in Hsin Hsing (Gallin 1984:393). Gallin’s study suggests that we should not always expect similar kinds of status improvement for women even when their structural position within the household economy is similar, and this in turn implies that the impact of women’s role-proliferation on their status may vary considerably in different cultural traditions. In other words, compared to the Japanese case, the less positive consequences of women’s economic participation upon their status in Korean villages may be interpreted as reflecting not only the differences in their

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structural position as ‘farm managers’ and ‘independent labourers’ respectively. It may also be understood as reflecting certain cultural differences in conceptualising women and women’s roles in the two societies. One of the cultural differences between Japan and Korea which I want to point out in relation to the present argument concerns the position of women as ‘Mistress of the House’ (shufu in Japan). This difference seems to reflect, more importantly, differences in the degree and extent of Confucian influence in the two societies. Within the domestic context, the three most important Confucian norms of social relationships seem to be hierarchy by age, hierarchy by gender and filial piety. However, in relation to women, gender hierarchy is central among the three, epitomised in the form of the ‘three obediences’, namely obedience to her father when young, obedience to her husband when married and finally obedience to her son in old age. According to the norm, therefore, a newly married-in young woman has the lowest position within the household since at this stage she is subjected to three different hierarchical principles simultaneously, namely old/young, male/female and insider/ outsider. As she grows older and becomes more firmly incorporated into her husband’s family by giving birth to a son, however, her position gradually improves since, although the male/female hierarchy persists, it is to some extent countervailed by the age hierarchy and filial piety (cf. Wolf 1972). Compared to China or Korea, however, the operation of these three Confucian principles—age hierarchy, gender hierarchy and filial piety—seems to be much less obvious in the workings of the Japanese households (ie) since authority relations in the latter are determined more by the positional status of individual members than by their kinship status or relative age. Similarly, the improvement of women’s position within the family during its developmental cycle is also much less consistent in Japan: for both men and women alike, once retired from formal household positions such as Head or Mistress, status falls accordingly regardless of age or parental status. Hence, a daughter-in-law, though younger in age and of inferior sex, while occupying the more central position within the household as the Mistress (shufu) may not necessarily be subordinated to her ‘retired’ father-in-law in important domestic decision making. In this regard, a woman’s position as the Mistress of the house in Japan contradicts not only the principle of persistent male/female hierarchy as expressed

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in the ‘three obediences’ but also the concept of filial piety: according to the Confucian teachings of filial piety, parents are entitled to continuous respect and obedience until they die and become ancestors, when their needs and concerns are taken care of by elaborate ancestral ceremonies.7 The relatively stronger position of the Japanese shufu implies that Confucian principles have penetrated to a much lesser extent into the workings of the Japanese ie compared to Chinese or Korean families. This difference is observable not only in the status of women as shufu but also in marriage rules where uxorilocal marriages are much more prevalent and considered less derogatory for men, the relative weakness of patrilineal ideology in the reckoning of descent and inheritance practices, and the less strict separation of male and female spheres.8 It is not possible to consider all these differences in detail here. I wish only to suggest that the relative strength of women’s position as shufu or the Mistress of the House in the traditional Japanese ie may partly explain how women could so easily emerge as autonomous managers of the household occupation, farming, in the absence of men. It is also possible to argue that this was especially easy in the case of farm women, since peasants in Japan were largely left outside the direct influence of Confucianism until the beginning of the Meiji period when the nationwide cultural integration modelled on the strongly Confucian samurai subculture began with the implementation of modern civil law and a universal educational system.9 The situation is quite different in Korea where the nationwide Confucianisation process began much earlier at the beginning of the Chosun period (1392–1910) (Deuchler 1977; Choi 1983) and where the peasants used to live in much closer contact with the ruling class, yangban. Unlike Japan, where it appears that the residential quarters of the samurai and peasants were quite separate under the feudal system, the Korean ruling class, the scholar-government official yangban, often lived among the peasants once they were out of official favour. Although they usually constituted separate yangban villages, these villages were often located adjacent to the commoner-peasant villages and people of these two classes were in frequent contact with each other as landlords and tenants or as fellow farmers in the case of the more impoverished yangban. In addition to the deliberate Confucianisation policy adopted by the central government from the beginning of the fifteenth century (cf. Wolf and Smith 1987),

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such social and physical proximity between yangban and peasants contributed significantly to a more thorough Confucianisation of the peasants in Korea. Even today, such Confucian beliefs as the importance of patrilineal descent, filial piety, women’s inferiority, or the value of obedience to authority and community harmony are reported to be most strongly held among farmers whether they are of yangban origin or not (Lee Man-kap 1973; Choi 1983; Lee Kwang-kyu 1975). These values are in fact so effectively internalised that it sometimes seems to limit women’s adaptability even to the available opportunities. For instance, according to Lee Mi-kyong (1983:199), the relatively low adaptability of Korean farm women towards new technology is not so much due to the deliberate intention on the part of men to exclude women from these opportunities as often assumed (Boserup 1970; Cho 1987) as to ‘voluntary’ avoidance on the part of women who consider the handling of machinery too complicated and hence not ‘proper’ for women to do. One may of course argue that this is a phenomenon resulting from the differential socialisation and education given to male and female children from a much earlier age.

CONCLUSION Emphasis on such Confucian values as community harmony or obedience to authority has also been very frequently mentioned in relation to the Japanese, and to this extent it may be argued that both Japan and Korea are under similar Confucian influence. In relation to the perception of gender relationships, however, there is a clear difference between the two countries and, as argued above, this seems especially so with regard to ‘peasant’ subcultures.10 In fact, as a female Korean ethnographer in a Japanese village in the early 1980s, I was most vividly struck by this difference and the same was also felt on the part of my informants in their response to my explanation of Korean culture, or rather, of the differences between the two societies on such topics as adoption practices, marriage payments and preparation, in-law relationships, and, particularly, sexual relationships in which, by a comparative standard at least, Japanese society is far more ‘permissive’ than Korean.

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It is my belief that the Confucian character of Japanese society has been overemphasised in the past. This tendency has its origin in several related factors. Firstly, those who have written about Japan in English have been mostly of western background. It is only natural for any ethnographer to notice the aspects which are most strikingly different from his or her own cultural practices, and this fact has tended to obscure subtle comparative differences between East Asian cultures with regard to the nature of Confucian influence. Secondly, partly due to the ideological influence of Nihonjinron (Befu 1987) which emphasises the homogeneity of Japanese culture, and partly due to the fact that Japan, especially after her post-Meiji cultural integration, is herself a notably malecentered society, sub-cultural differences have often been overlooked. And finally, in the study of gender relations, there has been another very powerful hindrance to the understanding of the reality of Japanese women: that is, the stereotypical image-making about Japanese women by western media as frail, submissive and mysterious beings. By examining the different responses of Japanese and Korean farm women towards economic development, this chapter has attempted to show that despite superficial resemblance on the ideological level as conditioned by Confucian influence, the positions of Japanese and Korean women differ significantly in practice. It has been argued that, being less restrained by Confucian norms and values, and especially by the idea of a sharp demarcation between male and female spheres as is found in Korea, it may have been considerably easier for Japanese women (and Japanese men to allow women) to attain independence and autonomy in the management of household occupations and in the course of this to be integrated fully into the developmental process. From a comparative perspective, it is also argued that ideological restraints derived from the same heritage are much stronger in Korean society due to different cultural historical backgrounds. These effectively limit women’s adaptability even to the available opportunities while men are able to consolidate their already superior status by quickly adjusting to the newly available technology, thereby in a way deepening existing male/female status differences.

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NOTES 1 Dr Janet Hunter, lecturer in socio-economic history of Japan at the LSE, pointed out to me that women’s participation in productive activities may not be a novel phenomenon in Japan since evidence indicates that it has been quite extensive since pre-war years. Nevertheless, as I will presently show, the acquirement of a new status as ‘farm managers’ and concomitant improvements in status both in domestic and extra-domestic affairs are without doubt recent phenomena. 2 According to Fukutake (1981), more than three-quarters of farm households in Japan do not have any male members engaged full-time in farming. 3 Since it has become much more difficult for men employed outside the village to exchange labour on a reciprocal basis than in the past, selfemployed women are more often asked to fill in each household’s share of community obligations (cf. Moon 1989a: ch. 3). 4 It has been reported that the national average size of Korean farm households has decreased from 6.2 in 1960 to 4.8 in 1980 (Kim Jhoosook 1984:47). 5 In 1982, sengyo noka comprised 81.4 per cent of all farm households in Korea (Kim Jhoo-sook 1984:48–9) while only 13 per cent in Japan in 1980 (Fukutake 1981:51). 6 Ester Boserup (1970) has argued that economic development and modernisation can accompany female status deterioration since it often engenders male/female inequality by incorporating only males into the new, commercialised economy with advanced technology while leaving women as primary producers of subsistence crops for village households, thereby intensifying public/domestic distinctions in general relationships. See also Beneria 1982. 7 Interested readers may find a more detailed explanation of this point in comparison with Korean ethnographic material in Moon (1989b), an article published in Japanese of which the present chapter is an abridged version. 8 In this connection, it is interesting to note that it was under Japanese rule that Korean farm women began to participate in the transplanting of paddies along with men, largely by government persuasion. Many informants say that, before then, although married women did farm work, their tasks were mainly confined to those that could be carried out within the domestic sphere. Even today, among Chinese farmers, the best candidate for marriage is not the one who is known to be a good farm worker but the one who is never seen outside. 9 According to Befu (1971:48–9), the Confucian concept of filial piety became a prevalent norm among the peasants after the Meiji period. Dore (1958) also discusses the Confucianisation process of distinctly non-Confucian peasant sub-culture during the Meiji period. 10 The adjective ‘peasant’ is used here not as a specific economic type, but in the sense of a ‘part-culture’ composed of the rural population. I have

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preferred the term ‘peasant’ to the term ‘rural’ since I believe the former conveys a sense of historical continuity.

REFERENCES Ahmed, Z. (1984) ‘Rural Women and Their Work: Dependence and Alternative for Change’, International Labour Review, 123 (1). Bachnik, J. (1983) ‘Recruitment Strategies for Household Succession: Rethinking Japanese Household Organisation’, Man, 18 (1): 160–82 Befu Harumi (1971) Japan: An Anthropological Introduction, San Francisco: Chandler. —— (1987) Ideorogiito shite no Nihon bunkaron, Tokyo: Shiso no Kagakusha. Beneria, L. (ed.) (1982) Women and Development, New York: Praeger. Boserup, E. (1970) Woman’s Role in Economic Development, New York: St Martin’s Press. Cho He-chung (1987) ‘Transformation of Gender Structure of Korea’s Choju Island: Forced Transition from Female Autonomy of Male Dominance’ (in Korean), Women’s Studies V (2), Seoul Women’s Development Institute, Korea: 99–139. Choi Jae-suk (1983) History of the Korean Family (in Korean), Seoul: Ilchisa. Croll, E. (1982) ‘The Sexual Division of Labour in Rural China’ in L. Beneria (ed.) Women and Development, New York: Praeger: 223–47. Deuchler, M. (1977) ‘The Tradition: Women during the Yi Dynasty’ in S.Martini (ed.) Virtues in Conflict: Tradition and the Korean Women Today, Seoul: Royal Asiatic Society: 1–47. Dore, Ronald (1958) City Life in Japan, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. —— (1978) Shinohata: A Portrait of a Japanese Village, London: Allen Lane. —— (1987) Taking Japan Seriously: A Confucian Perspective on Leading Economic Issues, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Foster-Carter, Aidan (1988) ‘What “Confucian Ethic”? The Role of Cultural Factors in Korean Economic Development: Some Notes and Queries’ in Papers of the 5th International Conference on Korean Studies: Korean Studies, Its Tasks and Perspectives, Vol. II, Songnam, Korea: The Academy of Korean Studies Press: 695–709. Fukutake T. (1981) Japanese Society Today (2nd edition), Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press. Galeski, B. (1971) ‘Social Organization and Rural Social Change’ in T. Shanin (ed.) Peasant and Peasant Societies, Harmondsworth: Penguin: 115–37. Gallin, R.S. (1984) ‘The Entry of Chinese Women into the Rural Labor Force: A Case Study from Taiwan’, Signs IX (3). Hendry, J. (1981) Marriage in Changing Japan, London: Croom Helm. —— (1987) Understanding Japanese Society, London: Croom Helm. Kim Jhoo-sook (1982) ‘Realities and Problems of Women’s Participation in Agricultural Production’ (in Korean), Rural Economy V (2), Seoul: Institute of Rural Economy.

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——(1984) ‘Study on the Development of Rural Women in Korea’ (in Korean), Women’s Studies II (3), Seoul: Women’s Development Institute, Korea: 43–73. Kim Jin-myong (1984) ‘Gender Segregation and the Sacred/Profane Dichotomy in Korean Rural Society’ (in Korean), Journal of Anthropology Vol. 7, Seoul: Seoul National University Press: 152–217. Lee Hyo-jae and Kim Jhoo-sook (1977) ‘Women’s Role in Rural Community Development’ (in Korean), Ehwa Women’s University Korean Culture Studies Series 30, Seoul. Lee Kwang-kyu (1975) Structure of the Korean Family (in Korean), Seoul: Ilchi-sa. Lee Man-kap (1973) Korean Rural Social Structure and its Changes (in Korean), Seoul: Seoul National University Press. Lee Mi-kyong (1983) ‘Rural Poverty and Rural Women’ (in Korean), Christian Research Institute of Social Problems (ed.) A Study of Poor Women in Korea, Seoul: 131–230. MacFarquhar, Roderick (1985) ‘The Post-Confucian Challenge’ in Past, Present and Future, Queenstown, MD: Aspen Institute for Humanistic Studies: 1–6. Moon Okpyo (1989a) From Paddy Field to Ski Slope: The Revitalisation of Tradition in Japanese Village Life, Manchester: Manchester University Press. —— (1989b) ‘Noson hatten to josei—Nihon to Kankoku no hikaku’ (Development of rural villages: a comparison between Japan and Korea), Minzokugaku Kenkyu Vol. 54, No. 3. Special Issue: 229–36. Morishima Michio (1982) Why has Japan ‘Succeeded’? Western Technology and the Japanese Ethos, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rosaldo, M.Z. and Lamphere, L. (eds) (1974) Women, Culture and Society, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Shanin, T. (1973) ‘The Nature and Logic of the Peasant Economy: A Generalisation’, Journal of Peasant Studies, I (1): 63–80. Smith, R. (1978) Kurusu: The Price of Progress in a Japanese Village, 1951– 75, Stanford: Stanford University Press. —— (1984) Japanese Society: Tradition, Self and The Social Order, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vogel, E. (1967) ‘Kinship Structure, Migration to the City and Modernization’ in R.P.Dore (ed.) Aspects of Social Change in Modern Japan, Chapter III:91–111, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Wolf, A. and Smith, R. (1987) ‘China, Korea and Japan’ in L.Kendall and G.Dix (eds) Religion and Ritual in Korean Society, Berkeley: University of California Press. Wolf, Margery (1972) Women and the Family in Rural Taiwan, Stanford: Stanford University Press. —— (1985) Revolution Postponed: Women in Contemporary China, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Yoden Hiromitsu and Matsubara Haruo (eds) (1968) Noson Shakaigaku, Tokyo: Kawashima Shoten.

Chapter 12

Self-presentation and performance in the yakuza way of life Fieldwork with a Japanese underworld group Jacob Raz

INTRODUCTION This chapter is part of an ongoing interdisciplinary study of itinerant societies in Japanese culture. The history of a culture—its society, politics, arts and legal system—is usually studied from the viewpoint of its sedentary societies. This study attempts to examine certain aspects of Japanese culture as viewed through the eyes of its itinerant members and thereby to discuss their relationship with the sedentary society. Japanese society is usually viewed as a sedentary society, which regards movement, travel and travellers with curious suspicion. However, Japanese history abounds with examples of itinerant groups: priests, nuns, performers, storytellers, merchants, artisans, peddlers, gangsters. It was often difficult to distinguish between these groups, since they used to act multifunctionally, with their spheres of activity often overlapping. My field work and research of itinerant societies (Raz 1984a; 1984b; 1989a) has shown that the functions and significance of these itinerant groups have been both varied and overlapping, according to the specific contexts in which they acted. On the other hand, regardless of the specific term by which a given group was called, a meta-significance has always been attributed to itinerant groups; this was directly related to the fact that they were itinerant, that is

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outsiders. Ambivalent attitudes on the part of the sedentary society, and the ambivalent self-defined identity and function of the itinerant groups, characterised the relationship between the two societies. However, whether active in the sacred or profane sphere, itinerant societies have been regarded, and have acted, as deviant groups. Tekiya groups, the object of this study, originated in the Edo period (1600–1868), or probably earlier, in networks of itinerant merchants and peddlers called yashi. Originally groups of medicine merchants, they later came to peddle a variety of goods, and engage in a variety of activities, from fortune-telling to entertainment and crime. Since the Meiji period these groups have been called tekiya, and to this day they form one of the two (the other is bakuto) main groups of yakuza, the Japanese underworld. Not all tekiya members engage in full-time peddling (or protection connected with peddling). In some (including my host) groups, no more than 20 per cent engage in peddling. Other income sources are from ‘classical’ yakuza activities such as protection, extortion, illegal gambling, prostitution and sometimes drugs. Modern yakuza also penetrate legal business, such as real estate and the construction business. Tekiya, as traditional itinerant vendors and outlaws, should teach us, then, a great deal about itinerant groups and their relationship with the sedentary society. Tekiya, and yakuza in general, have been charged by conventional society with images of both romance and terror; they have been either the chivalrous descendants of samurai, or murderous gangsters. In the first part of this chapter I offer certain theoretical considerations which led me in the analysis of my findings in the present research. The second part briefly describes the first stage of my fieldwork with my tekiya host group (October 1987–October 1988). In the third part I discuss one aspect of the tekiya-yakuza way of life: their presentation of the self in relation to both fellow yakuza and conventional society. In the last part I discuss several aspects of performance related to tekiya and their role in the Japanese festival, the matsuri. I regard these as preliminary observations which I hope will lead to further studies by both myself and others. There are many popular books and articles but very few serious studies of yakuza in Japan (Iwai 1963; KKK surveys, 1979–1988). Studies on tekiya are even fewer. Lack of cooperation on the yakuza side, and the ambivalent notion of ‘evil’ in general, and ‘deviancy’ in particular, have prevented Japanese scholars from thoroughly

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studying this society. Literature in English, too, is meagre: one book (Kaplan and Dubro 1986), one Ph.D. dissertation (Stark 1981), and a few articles. The latter are mostly introductory in nature (De Vos and Mizushima 1973a, 1973b; Lebra and Lebra 1974; Lebra, T.S. 1976).

THEORETICAL CONSIDERATIONS The yakuza world consists of two main groups—bakuto, the gamblers, and tekiya, the peddlers. These trade distinctions refer more to the traditional professions of the groups than to actual differences today, since the illegal activities of both groups often overlap. However, in structure, behaviour and self-image they are two distinct groups and the influence of traditions has remained strong. In yakuza terminology, bakuto are usually referred to as Ninkyo-do, the ‘Chivalry-way’, whereas tekiya are referred to as Shinno-do, the ‘Shinno-way’, after their patron god. Ninkyo-do, however, often refers to the yakuza world in general. Gambling, the traditional activity of bakuto, takes place in closed, concealed rooms, particularly since gambling was made illegal in Japan. The main activity of tekiya, on the other hand, takes place in the open: at festivals and fairs and on the streets. Peddling means, more than anything else, display, and the dominant instrument of tekiya has been rhetoric, elocution, speechcraft, or the announcing performances called tanka. Tekiya have to be good performers: they have to advertise their merchandise and sell it without delay; tomorrow they may be off to some other town. Often this merchandise is of low quality, or fake, which makes performance talent all the more important. Tekiya, then, are natural actors in the art of presentation. During the first meetings with my informants it was clear that there was a presentation of the self especially devised for me, the ‘ultimate stranger’. For example, I was often lectured on the difference between the American mafia and the yakuza, an issue rarely discussed with Japanese. For at least some of the leaders, it seemed that I could serve as a channel through which they could deliver a favourable image of yakuza to the ‘west’. This image had to do particularly with what O-oyabun (The Boss) and his close followers considered as the progressive philosophy of their group. Similarly, but in a much more cautious way, I might help in delivering a positive image of

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their world to the Japanese ‘straight’ society. (However, in any conversations about future publication of this study O-oyabun repeatedly encouraged me to write about everything, including the negative aspects of yakuza.) But after the first few encounters it was clear that performance was not mere posing for the foreign researcher; they soon ceased to pose for me. Yakuza are highly preoccupied with their sense of identity and image, and with the projection of this identity-image through intricate means of self-presentation, directed both to fellow yakuza and to conventional society. They are constantly active in signifying and transmitting their individual but mostly group-self; they are busy performing and demonstrating. These, I propose, are not merely outward expressions of some inner substance of identity, but a constant process of creating that identity, while simultaneously signifying and demonstrating it. Although by no means unique to yakuza, this process is certainly dominant with them: the mechanism of presentation of the self is also the process of creating and defining that self. Presentational behaviour (i.e. talk, gesture) is thus both in and about identity. Self-presentation helps organise the meaning and boundaries of the yakuza identity. Consequently such behaviour is not static but has emergent, ever-changing properties. There is no simple, one-way, signifier-signified relationship, since each elaborates the other. Identity shapes presentation, which, in turn, gives meaning to and shapes identity. Yakuza present themselves to fellow yakuza and to common Japanese in a variety of sign-sets which are both inclusive and exclusive. By the term inclusive I mean the signification of participation in the Japanese cultural system. It is in this way that yakuza present themselves as included in the mainstream of the Japanese entity. By the term exclusive I mean the signification of separation from that entity. This expresses the feeling of both being excluded from, and actively excluding, conventional Japanese society. Each sign-set (e.g. language) employs exclusive and inclusive expressions alternately, even in the same situation and for the same audience. The expressions are rarely ambiguous; mostly they are either inclusive or exclusive. Both poles, of course, are expressions of extremities and include inner contradictions. Eager expressions of inclusiveness (‘we are the guardians of Japanese values’) often denote the opposite: that the actor is a marginal element or an outsider. On the other hand, violent expressions of exclusiveness (‘“straight” Japanese hate us but we

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don’t care. We have our yakuza spirit’) often emphasise the wish to be recognised by the mainstream. Consequently, neither inclusiveness nor exclusiveness should be taken as absolute. Every professional or religious group tends to signify both its uniqueness and participation in the larger cultural system. Numerous groups in Japanese politics, arts, martial arts and religious (particularly Buddhist) spheres have created their own world of language, costume and ritual within Japanese society. The status of yakuza is different. Whereas the above groups usually signify their uniqueness mostly in contrast to other groups of the same trade, yakuza signification is mostly in opposition to the entire Japanese system. They are outlaws. Yakuza are also different on the inclusive side. In martial arts, for example, groups do not have to assert too strongly their participation in Japanese society. If they do, this participation is never questioned. This is not the case with yakuza. Being outlaws (and consisting of Koreans, Burakumin and socially pathological elements), any assertion of participation is problematic for both actor and recipient. Neither the identity of yakuza nor the presentation of that identity are homeostatic or consistent. As they constantly switch between inclusive and exclusive poles of action and presentation, we may call this way of operation a bistable system, to borrow the terminology of reversal theory (see Apter 1982). In bistability there are two preferred states between which the actor will choose to operate at any given moment in time. But there is another bistable state: that between signifier and signified (see Gandelman 1979), expressed in the aforementioned relationship between identity and signification of that identity. At times it is the identity that is emphasised. The sign (for example, gesture) is then ‘transparent’. We are directed by the actor to see the signified (identity) through the sign. Borrowing again from reversal theory, we may say that behaviour here is telic, that is to say, it is directed towards a purpose. At other times the sign is self-referring, and performance itself becomes the object. The famous ‘yakuza look’ is often self-referring, not signifying any content of identity, but, at most, ‘identity’ as such. Behaviour here is paratelic, playful, ‘here’ and ‘now’ oriented (see Apter 1982). Yakuza may often be seen ‘playing’ with their performance, with no apparent goal, such as showing rank to fellow yakuza, or intimidating common citizens, as may happen on ‘business’ occasions.

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Although not unique to yakuza, the bistable states as performed by yakuza are characterised by their extremity, and have to do with the acute feeling of being ‘others’ in Japanese society. Although indirectly referred to in the course of the chapter, I shall leave this interesting but complex issue for a different occasion. At this stage I should like to comment only that the labelling of the ‘other’ is mutual: both katagi (‘straight’) and yakuza label each other as ‘other’. Inclusive and exclusive expressions, including those analysed in this chapter, have to do, by definition, with the structured presence of the other. But whereas this other is usually a group that is placed at the margin or outside of society, this chapter observes the way this very other, in this case yakuza, views the centre as other, and thereby structures self-presentation in relation to it. It is conventional Japanese society that is the ‘other’ of the ‘self’ analysed here.

THE FIELDWORK The description below is of the first stage of my fieldwork with a tekiya group, between October 1987 and October 1988. The first successful contact with my host group was made in October 1987. After several failures to make contact through mutual friends and via introductions, I tried the direct way. At a certain festival in Tokyo I approached a yakuza underboss. After some warming up, I told him about my research, and then asked him to arrange a meeting with his oyabun (boss). After the initial surprise he agreed to arrange a meeting. The meeting was successful, and the oyabun promised full cooperation including introduction to his kobun (gang members), invitation to important events, and so on. He was as good as his word. O-oyabun is a Korean-born boss who, after five years of delicate negotiations, succeeded in 1983 in hammering out a peace treaty among all the yakuza gangs in the Kanto area, a feat that earned him the nickname ‘Kissinger of the yakuza’. He is regarded by both the yakuza world and the police as a highly progressive leader. During the first interviews O-oyabun was particularly eager to talk about ideology—the ‘Way of the Yakuza’, gang stipulations, the inner social organisation, the relationship with the katagi (‘straight’) society, and his ideas about the future life and ideology of the tekiya. At the same time he was very frank about the nature and details of his group’s

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activities. He also presented me with several documents, magazines and books published by his umbrella organisation.1 Numerous meetings followed the first: dozens of hours of video and sound recording, drinking and going out with various members, both senior and junior, and travels around the country. With time, these meetings became less formal, and my informants came to talk more of their personal feelings, their families, world views, and so on. I made a point of making contact with a wide variety, of all ages, ranks and origins (geographical, social and ethnic). I have met and interviewed dozens of yakuza, but intensive contacts are kept with six tekiya of different ranks, and with one bakuto oyabun. During the fieldwork, I was able to observe and participate in numerous activities, of which the following is a partial list: 1 Shobowari—place allocation gathering before a festival. Carefully performed by the representative of the local boss, shobawari carries both business and symbolic significance. A good stall location is a source of huge income. Stall locations also represent the hierarchy and power relations among the participating gangs. 2 Sakazuki (cup exchange) rituals. The most important ritual in the yakuza world. It expresses ‘yakuza spirit’ the determination of its members to strengthen the bonds of the organisation, and the complexity of rank and function relationship within the organisation. The ritual is highly theatrical, is solemnly performed, but is invariably followed by a boisterous feast, with the indispensable participation of geisha girls. 3 A symposium (‘The Yakuza and Human Rights’) organised by my host group, and later published in the group’s magazine. It followed a court decision which, in the yakuza view, violated their basic human rights. I was asked, and agreed, to participate in a five-person panel (giving me a free hand as to the opinions I might express). 4 Takamachi—travel by the tekiya peddlers following local festivals throughout the country. I travelled with a twelve-member group in Hokkaido for three weeks in August 1988, and then for shorter periods in other areas. The travels were excellent opportunities to observe the training and education of the novices, as well as intercity relations, the ‘behind-the-scenes’ of festivals, boss-subordinates relations, and so on. 5 Frequent visits to the group’s headquarters in Shinjuku, Tokyo, where I was able to meet the group’s leaders and regular members

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(members take turns in HQ activities), to read and receive important documents, and to observe the group’s network of communications. 6 Visits to members’ homes, where I was able to observe their family life, and to converse with them free from the pressure of other members’ watchful eyes, or the need to show off, or to conceal their identity in public. 7 Kasegi-komi or ‘live-in’ system of apprenticeship at the boss’s house. This system is presently disappearing, but I was able to observe two cases. The twelve-member group with which I travelled, when not on the move, lives together at the boss’s house in Tokyo, where the novices go through a ‘programme’ of trainingeducation. Apart from the professional training (the secrets of peddling, introduction to yakuza activities), they are educated in matters of behaviour and etiquette within the tekiya inner circles, within the yakuza society, and in the general Japanese society. 8 Informal meetings at the bars, pubs and clubs of the Shinjuku and Akasaka areas in Tokyo, frequented almost daily by the tekiyayakuza members, provided me with invaluable sources of information.

BISTABLE PRESENTATION OF THE SELF Yakuza present the yakuza-self in different ways. The items of presentation offered below vary from intangible matters such as ideology and language to such physical elements as costume and signboards. In relation to ideology in the framework of this chapter, I refer neither to the validity of facts behind ideology, nor to the sincerity of the speakers. The issue is only the image they attempt to create, that is, the presentation of the self. Ideology The traditional centre of tekiya (legitimate) activity is the matsuri, the festival. They thus participate in the very centre of religious and community life in Japan. Moreover, it is they who are responsible for creating the ‘atmosphere’ of the festival: the hurdy-gurdy of peddling, street shows, fortune-telling, colours and sounds that the Japanese so much associate with religious and community events.

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Tekiya thus view themselves as not only ‘part’ of, but ‘indispensable’ to, the ‘Japaneseness’ of this very Japanese event. In this, and other, expressions I found tekiya insisting on their place at the very heart of Japanese life. This is the first category to which I refer and which I term ‘ideology’. The abovementioned view is an example of the ‘inclusive’ face of their ideology. Along the same line of inclusive ideology is the pride that yakuza take in being the observers, perhaps the last ones, of Japanese traditional values. They often note that they maintain these values more than the ‘straight’ society. In their speech one can often hear expressions such as kao (face), hara (mind), gaman (perseverance, self-control), giri-ninjo (obligation-emotion), and kazoku seido (family system). Indeed, several aspects of their life, such as the oyabun-kobun system, rituals, genealogy, ranking and naming, are in fact extensions of the same notions and structures found in a milder form in the conventional society (see Becker 1973:175). Rationalisation of violence is a sophisticated case of inclusive ideology. Quite often I heard the argument that violence is a common feature of society; yakuza are not different. Nations, politicians, rich people, big business, everyone uses violence. ‘“Our” violence is more visible, less sophisticated, that is all.’ Violence is indeed justified in their case. Yakuza, they say, are weak. They consist of groups which are either discriminated minorities (Koreans, Burakumin), or socially pathological elements (juvenile delinquents). They are, then, the weakest, unarmed elements of society, which do not possess the devices by which the stronger elements defend themselves. Weakness and discrimination push them to violence as the only way to survive. At the same time, yakuza are proud of their unique ‘Yakuza Way’. Their exclusive worldview, morality and distinct way of life are repeatedly emphasised. They are proud of the term yakuza and detest the collective term boryokudan (gangsters). They refer to themselves as ‘outlaws’ (using the English word), tabinin and toseinin (wayfarers, wanderers), and elaborate on the freedom and pleasures of the life they lead, free of the constraints of conventional society. Language Concepts which are regarded as best expressing the ‘Japanese spirit’ appear in the yakuza speech more often than in conventional speech: face, loyalty, obligation, chivalry, the Japanese spirit (Yamato damashii).2 On the other hand, many words denote their distinct,

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exclusive world—yakuza, yakuza spirit (or morality), tabinin, toseinin, as opposed to katagi (the straight). Within the yakuza world they use exclusive terms distinguishing tekiya from bakuto groups: Shinno-do (the Shinno-way) as opposed to Ninkyo-do. The most exclusive element in the yakuza language is the ingo, or secret language. Common words are shortened, reversed or combined in special ways. Often new words are invented. Here, too, there are differences between tekiya and bakuto. For example, the territory of influence (turf) is called niwaba (garden, yard) by tekiya, and shima (island) by bakuto. These differences often reflect the respective ways of life of the two groups. Several conventional terms are sometimes used euphemistically. For example, kagyo and gyokai, which usually mean ‘business circles’, ‘the trade’, ‘our profession’, are used here to denote the yakuza world. Costume and appearance I shall refer to three types of costumes—the tattoo, the kimono, and the western suit.

The tattoo The tattoo is a symbolic costume. Originally used to label or stigmatise criminals, tattoos later came to be the trademark of labourers whose work involved exposing the body (porters, firemen). By the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries the tattoo came to be the exclusive trademark of the yakuza. The tattoo signifies (1) passing an initiation rite to enter the order; (2) proof of perseverance and manliness (by going through the painful process of tattooing); (3) the irreversibility of entering the world of yakuza; (4) the bearing on one’s body (preferably with pride) the trademark of the order. One is ready to show (and to show off) one’s affiliation. The tattoo is a self-inflicted stigma. One declares oneself an outlaw, an outsider. It is one of the most exclusive signs one can wear in modern Japan. Although covered by his clothes, yakuza may expose the tattoo on the beach, at the public bath and the hot-spring resort. The choice of design themes, however, expresses a Japanese (inclusive) spirit. The body is covered with figures from the mythical and theatrical traditions of Japan.

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The Japanese kimono The Japanese kimono is ostensibly an inclusive sign; few things are more Japanese than the kimono. Yakuza wear kimono on special occasions such as group rituals and important meetings, or for commemoration photos. Thus the kimono serves a dual purpose: being the national costume, it denotes belonging to the Japanese cultural milieu. Moreover, since it is rarely worn by the modern Japanese male, it further denotes the ‘Japaneseness’ of its wearers. But, by its very rarity it also signifies the opposite: it denotes exclusiveness. Exclusiveness is further emphasised by the context of its use, for it is in the most secretive and inner events that the kimono is worn. Thus, although as a unit of significance it is a declaration of affiliation to Japanese culture, in its context it declares the ‘outsiderness’ of its wearer.

The western suit Most modern Japanese men wear western suits in public, as do yakuza. It is mostly the leaders, and mostly on business and public occasions that they dress thus, and thereby nearly resemble any other Japanese. However, yakuza tend to wear flashy, striped silk suits, with colourful neckties. With the addition of expensive rings and sunglasses, and a close-cropped haircut, the end result is someone who does not look like a regular Japanese at all. On the contrary, he is conspicuously ‘other’. Exaggeration thus denotes not the acceptance of the item exaggerated, but its negation. By going to extremes one places oneself at the margin. By their appearance yakuza demonstrate wealth. Taking into account the origins of yakuza—juvenile delinquents or discriminated minorities—it is only natural that one of their most powerful aspirations is to demonstrate wealth and power. An indispensable part of the total appearance is the gait and stare: by their peculiar gait and stare, yakuza declare themselves as different, even before they signify anything more specific. It is an acquired appearance, and one can often observe youngsters actually ‘rehearsing’ it. The body posture, the gait and the stare denote withdrawal, defence, and threat. As one informant put it, Self (yakuza) says to Other (‘straight’): ‘You reject and threaten me, therefore I threaten you’.

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Organisation In structure, ideology, system of ranking, oyabun-kobun relationship, and other aspects, yakuza society resembles conventional Japanese society. Indeed, it seems to be a crystallised form of a system practised in a milder way in numerous organisations and schools of art within Japanese society. The paternalistic structure, the surrogate family, the badges bearing the gang logo, the system of ranking, the business cards, and numerous other signs of belonging, are shared by both the general and the yakuza society. This is clearly demonstrated in the ranking system. Ranks such as president, councillor, secretary general, chairman of executive committee, head of public relations section, head of youth section, and others are found in any large organisation in Japan. Even when taking into account that some of the titles are euphemistic or intended to cover up dubious activities, the system does offer a clue to understanding the structure of presentation of the self in the yakuza world. Ranking is most important in the yakuza organisation, as it is in other Japanese organisations. Members nervously check the order and naming of their rank, as it is published from time to time. It is promptly printed on their business cards to present in the same way and for the same purpose as in conventional society. If someone thinks he has been improperly ranked, he may have recourse to desperate or lethal thoughts, even considering leaving the organisation and becoming a lone wolf. Through the ranking system the yakuza present themselves as a normal organisation, albeit with a unique line of action. This is not a front for the police or income tax investigators. They believe it is the proper, and effective, way in which their world should be structured. Yakuza have created a mirror-structure of Japanese society, but what is reflected in this mirror is an extreme, crystallised, condensed image of society, rather than its exact imitation. Thus, even if it looks inclusive, it is not; even if it says ‘we are organised as our law abiding brothers’, in its condensation of the common image it says ‘but we are also different’. Here, again, exaggeration and magnification of a sign reverses its message. Thus, the more the yakuza magnify their inclusive signs of presentation, the more they enhance their exclusive features. The more they exaggerate their expressions of participation in the Japanese cultural system, the more they exclude themselves from it.

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Publications As mentioned above, my host group publishes a quarterly magazine. The magazine is not for sale, and is distributed only among group members, with several copies being sent to other groups. One copy of each issue is promptly sent to the police headquarters. A typical issue includes the following items: the oyabun’s foreword, usually about the philosophy of the organisation; essays about honour, loyalty, perseverance or relations with katag; photographs of recent rituals and parties of the organisation; in most issues there is a symposium of sorts, mostly about the more legitimate side of tekiya, street vending, with titles such as ‘The Future of Peddling’, ‘The Management of the Peddlers’ Trade Unions’; reports on various activities, such as treaties, visits and ‘diplomatic’ relations with other gangs; contents of nomination certificates; articles on the life of the old yashi groups in the Edo, Meiji or early Showa eras; various articles on practical matters such as how to prevent AIDS; finally, every issue carries, without fail, the grading of ranks of the gang. Every issue also carries a different image or illustration of the god Shinno, the patron god of tekiya. Front and back pages are illustrated with scenes of street life of the old yashi groups. Lately, warnings against the use of drugs are printed in large characters, which both indicates the policy of the organisation towards the drug issue, and reveals, at the same time, a possibly growing problem which has caused the editors to repeatedly print such warnings. The Anniversary Book—a book commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the gang—was published several years ago. Half of the book recounts the life of the group’s founder: his childhood, his life as a tekiya, his philosophy, his path to the position of oyabun, the way he led his group, and several incidents through which his life and worldview can be demonstrated. The second half of the book is a thorough study of the history of yashi, tekiya’s ancestor groups of itinerant peddlers. This includes a study of the origin of the patrongod of tekiya—Shinno. This part of the book offers a good introduction to pre-modern documents and illustrations which depict the organisation and way of life of the yashi groups. The Anniversary Book, too, is not for sale. It is sold or given only to members of the gang or fellow groups. This means that the image created in the book is not directed towards conventional society, but is intended to be an, as it were, educational book. It propagates the

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values of the gang through the life history of both its individual and group ancestors. Typically, however, the book denotes both inclusive and exclusive messages. At the end of the book we can find a festival calendar, with dates, places and the characteristics of each festival in which tekiya take part as vendors or performers. This calendar, along with the yashi history surveyed in the second half of the book, presents the point that tekiya are an indispensable part of Japanese culture. On the other hand, the events related in the first part emphasise the exclusive features of the gang—its value and penalty systems, and its relationship with conventional society. Signboards and business cards One of the most conspicuous forms of yakuza self-presentation is the kanban or signboard. As with other elements of yakuza selfpresentation, this open way of announcing the gang’s name, location and affiliation is most astonishing to foreign observers. The outright visibility contradicts the secrecy that is expected from an underworld organisation. Moreover, this visibility has been accepted, until recently, by both police and citizens. During the last few years, however, we have witnessed several movements among citizens to banish yakuza offices, or at least to remove their signboards from residential neighbourhoods. For yakuza, these moves border on violation of their basic human rights. However, the open display of signboards is no doubt the result of the acceptance of yakuza existence by both citizens and authorities. Conventional society was ready to include the outlaw, albeit in a limited way, in its cultural and environmental system. It is the conventional society that enabled yakuza to present itself in the open, by serving as an accepting recipient of yakuza’s signification process, thus establishing an agreement of mutual recognition. The business card is another device of open presentation. Each card announces the umbrella organisation, the direct branch, the rank of the card owner within his ‘house’, and the address and telephone number of the group’s office. Yakuza business cards are usually designed with bold, decorative, brush characters. The signboard and business card present more than net information. The signboard, for example, is taken metaphorically to be the face of the group. Thus, it is often said by yakuza bosses: ‘Do not stain the signboard with mud’. In other words, the signboard is,

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practically and metaphorically the device of self-presentation par excellence. In the way both devices are designed one can easily observe a dialectic orientation: it is the declaration of a secretive order as an open, legitimate order. In our terminology, it is the announcement of an exclusive order in typically inclusive terms. Rituals Yakuza rituals, too, send ambivalent messages. Of the three deities enshrined in the altar, one is exclusive (Shinno, tekiya’s patron god), and two are inclusive—Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess, and the emperor. Shinno is a foreign (Chinese) deity, whereas Amaterasu and the emperor are native Japanese, who are also the ultimate universal symbols of Japanese culture. In this way tekiya express their double identity as both an integral and outsider element of Japanese society. The worship of Amaterasu and the emperor is not unique to yakuza. Numerous deviant and itinerant groups of artisans, performers and outlaws in Japanese history have the tradition that their first ancestor was an emperor or of imperial descent (see Akasaka 1986; Raz 1984a and b). Summary The signification of self-presentation of yakuza, both towards fellow yakuza and towards conventional society, is only one aspect of the complex relationship between the two societies. Presentation, that is, communication, means that ‘self’ wants to say something to ‘other’. This fact in itself is something many yakuza seem to wish to deny. ‘We do not wish to be understood by katagi. We have nothing to say to them’, is a sentence I often heard. Nevertheless, whatever the intention, yakuza are extremely preoccupied with presentation. Obsessive posing for photographs is just one of numerous forms of yakuza posing. This, along with a rich variety of showing, showing off, declaring, declaiming and other forms of performing may denote a quest for communication with conventional society. In this chapter I maintain, however, that the message of this communication is twofold: it is both inclusive and exclusive. Yakuza declare themselves Japanese, very Japanese, while at the same time being both excluded from Japanese society, and excluding that society. Basically, however, these are not contradictory terms. These two faces of yakuza communication are the two faces of the same coin.

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REVERSE, DISBELIEF AND PERFORMANCE In the preceding sections I have tried to analyse the ways in which yakuza present themselves to fellow groups and to conventional Japanese society. I turn now to the specific performative roles of tekiya in the Japanese festival, the matsuri. Matsuri and reversal During the first days of 1988 I was invited by my host to visit the New Year’s festival at the Daishi Temple in Kawasaki. The festival drew more than three million worshippers in three days. This, of course, means big business for tekiya. My host invited me behind the scenes. As he went around to offer New Year’s greetings, he introduced me to his fellow tekiya: ‘This is my elder brother; this is my younger brother; this is my elder sister; this is my “equal” brother’. He was referring to the simulated family system of tekiya. Tekiya call fellow members ‘brothers’ and these are ‘elder’ or ‘younger’ depending on the rank relations inside the gang. ‘Equal’ brothers (in Japanese gobu-gobu, literally ‘fifty-fifty’) are of the same rank. ‘Elder sister’ refers to the oyabun’s wife. During festivals, and particularly at a big event such as the one at Kawasaki Daishi Temple, tekiya construct a huge complex of stalls, arranged in streets, alleys, and so on. Walking behind the scenes, listening to the conversations (‘How is the little one?’; ‘Look at the photo of my baby’; ‘Send my love to X’ etc.) and standing on the vendor’s side, one can observe not only the other side of matsuri, but also one of its central organising principles— that of reversal. Erecting this huge complex, tekiya form a community. It is a network of streets, alleys, ranks, kinship and intricate relationships. This network is as complex as any ‘regular’ community. The complexity is expressed in both spatial and relational aspects: in the (simulated) village arrangement and in the simulated family relationship. Groups of ‘outsiders’ come to visit this village. These are katagi, members of the conventional Japanese society. Their hosts are the tekiya. The visitors come to perform New Year’s prayers and to enjoy the atmosphere of the festival. They play, eat, gamble, watch street performances, buy presents and return to their homes. In the temporary structure of the festival, they are the itinerant and the tekiya the sedentary group. In short, functions are reversed. Inside this community, structures of thought and behaviour in relation to

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the ‘visitors’ are strikingly similar to those of sedentary villagers in relation to itinerant visitors. Tekiya regard and talk about them in exactly the same way that these citizens regard and talk about itinerant visitors who frequent their communities. Suspension of disbelief My hosts revealed to me some ‘secrets’ of their trade. They admitted that the goods they sell are often of low quality or even fake. Chicks are sprayed yellow to look attractive; customers are made to believe that the chicks are female (and can lay eggs); maize announced as coming from famous farms in Hokkaido is in fact bought at the neighbourhood supermarket; rootless bonsai are sold; the food is of low quality; medicines do not cure, and so on. These are old traditions. During and after the Second World War selling techniques such as doromanbai were practised. Doromanbai means ‘the muddy fountain-pen selling technique’. A boy holding fountain-pens smeared with mud would stand crying at a large railway station and tell a sympathetic crowd that his father used to work at a fountain-pen factory which had been air-raided and destroyed by the Americans. He managed to save a few pens from the ruins. Would they buy one so he can go back to his home town? This ‘genre’ was also called nakibai— ‘crying selling technique’. However, most of the tricks, as well as the quality of the goods, are well known to the festival public; not just once did I hear people admitting this. This means that no real cheating takes place. Consequently what attracted me here was not the vendors but the customers. They would not dare eat those yakisoba noodles at home, but they do eat them at the festival, in less than desirable hygienic conditions; they gather around dubious fortunetellers; they buy chicks they know will die in a few hours, or clothes that will not last through the next month (all in this consumer-conscious society and age); they try to shoot a target with a close-to-zero chance of hitting. Are they naive, or fools, or unaware of the tricks? Or do they want to be tricked? What is the frame of mind of the festival visitor? One feature is the willing suspension of disbelief as coined by Coleridge to describe the readiness of the theatre spectator to accept the unreal events on the stage, or the very fact that actor X is pretending to be character Y for several hours. He suspends his disbelief, that is, he gives the actor the credit, always limited by

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time and space constraints, that he is whoever and whatever he pretends to be. This is an agreed convention. Within an agreed time and space the partners of the arrangement agree to pretend and to believe in that pretence. During the event an alternative world is created. The matsuri is one such place: an area of encounter with alternative worlds. And for the opportunity temporarily to live in and touch an alternative world, one changes one’s behaviour, worldview, value system, human relations and quality standards. Occasionally, what occurs is not merely a change but a reverse. Japanese folk culture offers numerous examples where daily patterns of behaviour are partly or completely reversed (see Yamamoto 1978; Raz 1989a and b; Babcock 1978). The matsuri is a space in which alternative worlds may be encountered and partly or temporarily realised. Tekiya, dominant actors in the event, play the role of supplying that partial realisation of the alternative world. Firstly, they are (particularly the aforementioned takamachi) itinerant merchants, offering the mystery, information, technology, goods and stories of the outside world. This feature, it must be noted, was much more powerful in the past than it is today, with mass communication and mass transportation easily available to everyone, thus dulling the attraction as well as the function of itinerant groups. Secondly, tekiya offer the opportunity of an open encounter with outlaws. The outlaw is a popular hero of any popular culture, but is usually only presented in literature, films, and so on. In the festival the outlaw can be personally, but safely, encountered: he is behind the stall, and the encounter is limited to advertisement and bargaining. A mental partition is delicately but firmly established between customer and vendor. This, we may remember, is exactly what has always been done when encountering other figures who represent alternative worlds—saints (priestesses, the emperor) and theatre actors, to mention only two examples. In both, a partition is established which securely maintains a physical and mental distance between oneself and the representative of the other world. There is no real contact. The other remains an outsider, albeit a close one. This is the same with tekiya, a close but distant encounter. Thirdly, the visitor takes part in a performance, as both spectator and actor. I refer to two levels of performance. One is the frontal performance, the street and fair performances called misemono (takamono in the tekiya jargon); performances to haul in customers;

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performances, or live commercials, for advertising the goods, and so on. This kind of performance is gradually disappearing from the matsuri. The other level of performance is the synaesthetic event called matsuri, which consists of sounds, smells, colours, voices and performances of the first level. This level of performance contains the whole space of matsuri. Here visitors function as both spectators and actors. The ‘actors’ are the festival visitors, vendors, fortunetellers, performers, and so on. However, it is the vendors (in addition to the shrine or temple functionaries) who are the real producers of the event. It is they who arrange the frame and structure of performance. This broad definition recognises all acts of display, ‘traditional’ performance, and advertising as performative. In the matsuri, the frame of ‘performance’ is not the individual show of one unit (a single performer or a single group), but the whole complex in which the event takes place. The visitor-customer is both watching and being watched. The motivation of performance recipients at the matsuri is ambivalent. Are they interested in the goods, or in the performance? Do they pay for the wares or for the entertainment? The answer, I maintain, is both. It is both entertainment and praxis, with the former being dominant, and including the latter. The goods can be bought elsewhere and of a much better quality, but the matsuri performance is unique to this event. It cannot be found elsewhere. In other words, certain units of matsuri action (i.e. the stalls of toys, food, tee-shirts) are not unique to it, but their combination is. The matsuri performance, in contrast to the individual performance, is a structure whose inner relations obey the encompassing frame which is the matsuri. What we call the ‘atmosphere’ of the matsuri consists of the combination of the feast of senses, the taste of vulgarity and the coupling of the sacred and the profane. The commercial aspect of matsuri contradicts neither its sacred function nor its performative aspect. Commercial aspects of the matsuri rather obey the rules of its performative frame. Numerous performances in Japan originated in commercial and other activities of ‘praxis’, in which practical and performative aspects were indistinguishable. Tekiya, by dominating the matsuri stalls, came to be the protagonists of this performance event we call matsuri. Tekiya performances vary. One type is the misemono, the vulgar, circus-like shows in makeshift theatres. Another is the aforementioned tanka, announcements or advertisement performances, aimed at

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enticing the customers or selling them the goods. A third type is the performance of artisans (ame-zaiku, garasu-zaiku), whose attraction is no less in the performance of making the glutinous rice-jelly or glass wares than in the quality of the finished product. Customers are certain to gather around an artisan whom they can actually watch creating a doll, although another stall not far away may display the same, or even better merchandise, but with no performance. The direct selling techniques have been recognised lately by both conventional performers and scholars as ‘true’ performances. Artists such as Sakano Hiroshi have taken this art of selling and perfected it into pure stage art. Researchers of itinerant performances (Ozawa Shoichi, Takahashi Hideo and others) have published these selling texts in several books and records (Ozawa 1974a:81–6; Ozawa and Takahashi 1985). Several volumes of tekiya texts of tanka have been published by other editors (Muromachi 1984). We should remember, however, that these attractions of the tekiya are mainly in the eyes of the beholder. Tekiya regard the festival above all as a place to make a living. The peddlers behind the stalls are professional vendors, ex-convicts or unemployed, whose main concern is a day of good sales: ‘A place is life’. This is another aspect of reversal in the matsuri event: what is holiday for one group is entirely business for the other. What is sacred for one group, is entirely secular for the other. Nevertheless, it is the combination of practical and fantastic elements in the matsuri that imbues it with its lively and powerful force in the popular culture. And tekiya are, without doubt, among its leading actors.

CONCLUDING REMARKS As a researcher and a foreigner, my position during my fieldwork has been outside the complex relationship that exists between the outlaw and straight societies. I was neither tekiya’s ‘significant other’ nor a ‘hostile other’. I was an ultimate stranger. As mentioned above, this produced during the first stages of the study a process of self-presentation especially devised for me. They were eager to demonstrate the ‘Japaneseness’ of their world, automatically defining themselves as ‘Japanese’ talking to a foreigner. This approach changed later, as encounters became frequent and the walls of defences (on both sides) were pulled down. But naturally I never entirely ceased to be a stranger, at least in some respects.

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This granted me freedom. I was frequently told that I could write anything, since they know very well that their world consists of ‘bad’ as well as ‘good’ aspects. During my long conversations with my informants I often expressed my views and at times argued about what I was told. Sometimes this surprised my partners; a Japanese would never dare to say these things to them. But I was given the ‘licence of the fool’. I was told by some of my informants that they were grateful to me for coming to them free of the usual prejudices with which the regular Japanese regard them. However, no one can start a study of the yakuza free of prejudice. Having lived in Japan for many years, I could not have escaped the common stereotypes of the yakuza. These are deeply rooted in Japanese society, and are encouraged by most elements of the mass media. The stereotypes place yakuza at one of two extremes: they are either romantic knights, fighters of long-vanished values of valour and honour, ready to die for these values. Or they are blood-thirsty gangsters. Most publications on yakuza follow this pattern. Some journalists tend to flatter their informants, so that they can have continuous access to certain circles of yakuza. Consequently, the yakuza image is often depicted in an extremely flattering way. The other extreme is the description of yakuza as almost sub-human cruel creatures. Needless to say, neither is correct. The scholarly study of yakuza is not much better. Except for the aforementioned excellent study by Iwai Hiroaki (1963), and the surveys by the National Research Institute of Police Science, very few studies of the yakuza world have been conducted in Japan. Several works are pseudo-scientific and tend to romanticise rather than explore their subjects. Admittedly, yakuza are rarely cooperative (except with the aforementioned journalists). The cooperation with myself is due, no doubt, to the fact that I am a foreigner. My study of tekiya is part of a larger study I am conducting on itinerant societies in Japan, and tekiya (and yakuza in general) are natural targets. Through the study of itinerant groups one learns a great deal about deviancy, discrimination, attitudes towards strangers, and images of the outsider, and this pertains directly to the tekiya world. In addition, through the study of a ‘sub-culture’ one learns a great deal about the ‘high-culture’. It is only recently that foreign scholars have turned to popular culture, folk culture and deviant or sub-culture in Japan, as a way of understanding Japanese culture in its complexity. I have mentioned before that in the tekiya society I

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found many aspects that are in fact an extension of the same notions and structures found in milder forms in conventional society. In a way, their society is a mirror image of the general Japanese society. Therefore, one can learn a great deal about conventional society by examining both the conforming and the deviant aspects of the tekiya world. The dialectic link of the tekiya-yakuza world with the mainstream of Japanese culture may be illustrated by comparing it to the American mafia, the Cosa Nostra (or, for that matter, any ethnic organised-crime groups of Hispanic, Jewish, Irish, Vietnamese or Chinese ancestry). Although admittedly changing in character in recent years, the following is basically valid. The traditional cultural context which determines the mafia’s code of behaviour is dominantly foreign, that is to say, Sicilian-Italian. Members are Catholics. Ranking, language, terminology, food and family codes are derived from a context completely foreign to the American mainstream context. This does not mean that their codes of behaviour are entirely non-American; they have certainly adopted many aspects of the American way of life. However, the deep structure of their system has for a long time been unique, that is, exclusive, by definition of the group: they are an immigrant group, a more or less ethnically homogeneous minority, with a set of traditions from a specific cultural milieu in the Old World. The case of the yakuza is entirely different. Whatever their deviancy, the cultural context in which they act is wholly and purely Japanese. The deviant acts and groups’ codes all lie within, not without, the Japanese system, unlike the case with the American mafia in relation to the American system. This is true also of the many Korean and fewer Chinese yakuza members. They also act, and proudly so, within the Japanese cultural system. Tekiya, and yakuza in general, have been traditional wanderers. They are regarded, and still regard themselves, with pride, as tabinin, literally, ‘people who travel’. The first pages of the aforementioned monumental Ninkyo Daihyakka (Yakuza Encyclopedia), are dedicated to travel and travel books in the Edo period. By opening this representative book with such symbolic references, modern yakuza identify themselves with the way of life of the wanderer, although in a rather romantic way—the free wayfarer, not unlike the lonely hero of the Western movies, that honest outlaw who roams the lands of the Wild West, or, here, the roads and mountains of Japan.

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Today, most tekiya do not live as itinerant merchants and performers, although there are still numerous groups of takamachi tekiya. But even those working in the cities are active in spaces related to movement, that is, the streets. Their profession is still characterised by impermanence and movement, thus naturally attracting suspicion. Moreover, by calling themselves tabinin, they declare their affiliation to travel on the metaphoric level, even if they no longer wander. In other words, yakuza view themselves as spiritual wanderers, even when physically settled. This is directly related to the theme of my larger project. When looking for modern itinerant groups, I found that very few exist today as active groups. But in the tekiya world I found the characteristics of the typical wanderer, with all the concomitant complexity of relationship with the sedentary society. By excluding deviant elements while at the same time keeping them visible ‘normal’ society can easily define what is ‘right’ and what is ‘wrong’, what is ‘in’ and what is ‘out’. Excluding, of course, is not eliminating, although some people, particularly educational authorities, would like us to believe it so. The excluded elements lie hidden, only to surface whenever we need to face our alternative social or individual self. We need deviant elements in order both to deal with our deviant self and to re-examine and re-define our ‘normative’ self. The areas of encounter with these ‘other selves’ and the language of intercourse with them in the context of Japanese culture is one of my main study objects. In this chapter I have attempted to examine the processes of inclusion and exclusion as signified by the deviant. In order to understand the intercourse among the multiple social selves in all its complexity, one has to study the world of the deviant from within. For too long it has been studied from without.

NOTES 1 A quarterly magazine published by the group, Kagirinaki Zenshin (Endless Advance). The magazine is edited by Ikeda K., a top leader of the group; a book Odo no Fu (Records of the Cherry Way) by Ikeda K.; a book, Ninkyo Daihyakka (Yakuza Encyclopedia), edited by Fujita Goro; and several documents such as records of monthly meetings of intergang committees, certificates of nominations, notices on excommunications, and so on.

Self-presentation and performance

233

2 Gang members often remarked that O-oyabun, although not Japanese, has more Yamato damashii than the average Japanese. One of the reasons for the great admiration towards O-oyabun is, no doubt, the ‘Japanese’ way in which he handles yakuza matters.

REFERENCES Akasaka N. (1986) Ijinron joetsu (Introduction to the Theory of the Stranger), Tokyo: Sunagoya Shobo. Apter, M.J. (1982) The Experience of Motivation: The Theory of Psychological Reversals, London: Academic Press. —— Kerr, J.H. and Cowels, M. (eds) (1986) Progress in Reversal Theory, Amsterdam: North Holland Press (Elsevier). Babcock, B.A. (ed.) (1978) The Reversible World: Symbolic Inversion in Art and Society, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Becker, H.S. (1973) Outsiders: Studies in the Sociology of Deviance, New York and London: Macmillan. De Vos, G.A., and Mizushima K. (1973a) ‘Organization and Social Function of Japanese Gangs: Historical Development and Modern Parallels’ in G.A.De Vos, (ed.) Socialization for Achievement, Berkeley and London, University of California Press: 280–310. ——(1973b) ‘Criminality and Deviancy in Premodern Japan’ in De Vos (ed.), (op.cit.): 260–79. Fujita Goro (ed.) (1986) Ninkyo Daihyakka (Yakuza Encyclopedia), Tokyo: The Ninkyo Research Society. Gandelman, C. (1979) ‘The Metastability of Signs/Metastability as a Sign’, Semiotica, 28, 1/2: 83–105. Ikeda K. (1981) Odo no Fu (Records of the Cherry Way), Tokyo: S Publications. Iwai Hiroaki (1963) Byori shudan no kozo (The Structure of Pathological Groups), Tokyo: Seishin Shobo. Kagaku Keisatsu Kenkyusho (National Research Institute of Police Science) (1979–88), Surveys on Yakuza. Kaplan, D.E. and Dubro, A. (1986) Yakuza, London: Futura Publications. Lebra, T.S. (1976) ‘Organized Delinquency: Yakuza as a Cultural Model’ in T.S.Lebra, Japanese Patterns of Behaviour, Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii. Lebra, T.S. and Lebra W.P. (1974) ‘Delinquency and Social Change in Modern Japan’ in T.S.Lebra and W.P.Lebra (eds) Japanese Culture and Behaviour, Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii. Muromachi K. (1984) Yashi kojo shu (A Collection of Yashi Announcements), Tokyo: Sotakusha. Ozawa Shoichi (1974a) Nihon no horo-gei (Itinerant Performances of Japan), Tokyo: Bancho Shobo. —— (1974b) Nihon no horo-gei (Itinerant Performances of Japan), a record compilation, Tokyo: Victor Co.

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—— and Takahashi Hideo (eds) (1985) Taishu geino shiryo shusei (Compilation of Materials on Popular Performing Arts), Tokyo: San’ichi Shobo. Raz, J. (1984a) ‘Goze—A Disappearing Race of Japanese Balladeers’, Assaph, Studies in the Theatre, Sec. 4, No. 1: 105–21. —— (1984b) ‘Kuzunoha, the Devoted Fox-Wife: A Storyteller’s Version’, Journal of Asian Studies (Madras), 2, 1: 69–93. —— (1989a) ‘The Itinerant Japanese Storyteller: A Multivocal Function’, Assaph, Studies in the Theatre, Sec. 4, No. 5. —— (1989b) ‘Tento geino hikakugaku josetsu’ (Introduction to a Comparative Study of Performances of Inversion), Engeki gaku, No. 31, Waseda University, Tokyo. Stark, David Harold, (1981) The Yakuza: Japanese Crime Incorporated, Ph.D thesis, University of Michigan. Yamamoto Y. (1978) The Namahage, Philadelphia: ISHI Publication.

Index

abortion, 91 Africa, 61 afterlife, belief in, 76, 85–8 passim, 96 age differentiation: 4, 11, 62, 198–9, 203–4, 216; and image of Japan, 189; in labour market, 198; and urban/rural migration, 197–8; in religious beliefs, 77–8, 81, 84–8 passim, 92, 94–6 Agonshu, 91 agriculture: in Japan, 101, 103, 160, 197–206 passim; in Korea, 197, 200–1, 203, 204–5; in Taiwan, 202 Ainu, 127n Akihito, Crown Prince/Emperor, 30, 41 Allied Forces, 30, 34 Allied Occupation, 33, 34 ama (diving women), 2, 160–1, 168 amae (indulgence), 57, 58, 64, 65–7, 121 Amano Ikuo, 13 Amaterasu (Japanese Sun Goddess), 161, 224 America: 2, 125, 187; concept of individualism in, 64, 66, 68; Japanese in, 66; mass media in, 157, 165; worldviews in, 154, 179 ancestors: 65, 96, 204; worship of, 90–5 passim

anomie, 56, 68 apprenticeship, 217 Arai Osui, 83 Arasaki Moriteru, 29 Aron, Raymond, 154, 155 art: 132, 214; in Japan, 65, 167–8, 190 Asia: Confucianism in, 130, 135, 140, 146, 196, 206; Japanese aggression in, 35, 39, 40; literature of, 144; and ‘Orientalism’, 176; prejudice against, 184; see also individual countries astrology, 78, 95 Auster, Albert, 165 Bakumatsu period (1853–67): 140, 142, 143; loyalists in, 134, 139, 143 Barber, C.R., 61, 63–4 Basabe, Fernando M., 86, 89, 90 Basho Matsuo, 51, 74 Befu Harumi, 1, 2, 3, 11, 12 Benedict, Ruth, 5, 8, 26 Berque, Augustin, 4, 16, 17 Bester, John, 67 Boling, Patricia, 9 Boot, W.J., 134–5 boundaries: between ingroup and outgroup, 171, 174, 175–6, 190– 1, 213; drawing of, 178–9, 184, 185, 188

236

Index

Bourdieu, Pierre, 13 Breger, Rosemary, 1, 2, 3, 17 Brinkley, F., 139 Britain: attitudes to monarchy in, 2, 27, 31; childrearing in, 66; educational policy in, 19n, 128n; idealised image of, 16, 167 Buddhism: 12, 80, 85, 88, 94, 95, 135; see also Zen Buddhism Burakumin (Japanese ‘untouchables’), 214, 218 bushido (samurai ideology), see samurai

196–206; in Korea, 2, 10, 12, 146n, 196–206 consensus, in Japan: 32, 33, 36, 55– 6, 116, 187; group model of, 177, 183, 191 Constitution, Japanese, 31–2, 35, 40–2 passim co-operation, in Japan, 59, 60, 62, 121, 183 coronation, 40–1 costume, 161–3, 214, 219–20 cowboys, 165 Crawcour, E.S., 10

Cannadine, David, 12 capitalism, 10, 196, 201 children, in Japan, 57–60, 62, 64, 66, 120–1, 199 China: 8, 207n, 224, 232; Confucianism in, 137, 140, 203, 204; Japanese aggression against, 33, 39, 40; studies of, 132, 144 Chosun period (Korea), 204 Christianity: 77, 85–6, 94, 139; Catholic, 231; Jesuit, 176, 184; Protestant, 139, 196 Chung In Wha, 33 class: 4, 11–12, 15, 21n, 177, 196; in Korea, 204–5; mobility, 3, 101–14, 122 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 227 commerce, 172, 178–81 passim, 183, 190 competitiveness, in Japan, 60, 124–7 ‘complex society’, 5, 56–7, 132, 136 Comte, Auguste, 18 conflict: in Japan, 159, 163, 218; with Japan, 171, 177, 187; studies of, 15, 21n, 56 conformity, in Japan, 61, 63–4, 65, 68 Confucius, 130 ‘Confucianisation process’: 204–5, 207n; see also ‘samuraisation process’ Confucianism: in China, 137, 140, 203, 204; in Japan, 2, 3, 7, 10– 11, 12, 15–16, 17, 130–46, 167,

Dale, Peter N., 156 day nurseries, 57, 59–61 death, 3, 72–96 de Fleur, Melvin L., 158 democracy, in Japan, 116, 186 demographic change, in Japan, 120– 1, 123, 199 Denmark, 2, 27, 31, 128n destiny/fate, belief in, 78–80, 83, 94 deviancy, in Japan, 210, 211, 224, 231–3 De Vos, George, 62, 66 diligence, in Japan, 114, 184–6, 189, 190 discipline, in Japan: 61; of small children, 58, 60; see also selfdiscipline discourse theory: 17, 171, 173; see also Foucault, Michel diving women, see ama Doi Takeo, 7, 64, 66–8 Dokai (The Society of the Way), 139, 140 Dore, Ronald, 132, 140, 179 Durkheim, Emile, 15, 135, 144 Eco, Umberto, 166 Edo period (1600–1868): 130, 159; Confucianism in, 10, 15, 134, 140, 142; yakuza in, 210–11, 222, 232 education, in Japan: 3, 4, 5, 12–13, 29, 101–14, 116–27, 204–5; equality in, 116–27; expenditure

Index

on, 123; government policy on, 122–4, 126–7; informal sector of, 13, 125–6; private, 13, 122–3, 125; reform of, 4, 125, 126–7; and religious beliefs, 84, 88; see also day nurseries, kindergarten, meritocracy, Ministry of Education, schools, teachers, university Edwards, Walter, 64–5 Emperor, see Tenno endurance/perseverance in Japanese society, see gaman Esslin, Martin, 158 ethnicity: 4, 13, 196, 216; see also minority groups ethnography, 5, 153, 206 ethnology, 131–2, 133, 137, 144 etic/emic approach, 14 Europe: images of Japan in, 175, 178–9, 186; unemployment in, 172; views on death in, 75; women in, 197; see also individual countries Evans-Pritchard, E.E., 14 factories, in Japan, 11, 101 family, in Japan: 94, 105–6; change in structure of, 16, 120; influence of Confucianism on, 203–4; socialisation by, 57–60, 62, 118, 120–1; see also mothersfascism, 10, 154 festivals, see matsuri feudal period, see Edo period filial piety, 96, 104, 177, 203–4, 205 First World War, 101, 108 folk-beliefs, in Japan, 80–5 passim, 88–92 passim, 94–5 Foster-Carter, Aidan, 10, 196 Foucault, Michel, 17, 174–5 front/back dichotomy, see omote/ura Fujii Masao, 80–1 Fukuzawa Yukichi, 20n, 102 Galeski, B., 201 Gallin, R.S., 202

237

gaman (endurance/perseverance) in Japanese society, 65, 118, 119, 127, 218, 219, 222 gardens, Japanese, 50–3 Geertz, Clifford, 9, 155, 156, 159 geisha, 216 Gellner, Ernest, 9 gender differentiation: 4, 11, 13, 15; in education, 103; in labour market, 106–9 passim, 160–1, 196–206; in religious beliefs, 77– 8, 81–5 passim, 88, 94 Genji Monogatari (Tale of Genji), 90 Germany: 2, 3, 96n, 171–91; Japanese in, 171–3, 189–90 giri-ninjo (obligation), 7, 218 Gluck, Carol, 132, 156, 174 Godelier, Maurice, 9 Gokoku Jinja, 38 Goto Motomi, 141–2 government, Japanese: 35, 38–40 passim, 184, 186; officials, 11, 39–41 passim, 106–7 groupism, in Japan: 67, 183, 219– 20; as an ideology, 15, 55–6, 65, 177, 178, 185; socialisation for, 59–63 Hane Mikiso, 11 Hardman, Charlotte, 63 harmony, in Japan: 7, 177, 205; as an ideology, 11–12, 183–4, 186; socialisation for, 57, 59 Hayashi Fusao, 138, 143 Hearn, Lafcadio, 90 Heisei period (1989–), 130 Held, G.J., 144 Hendry, Joy, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 14 ‘heroes’, cultural, 131–2, 137–8, 143–6 passim, 228, 232 Hidetada (Shogun), 48 hierarchy: 5, 119, 173–4, 178–9, 185, 190; institutional, 124–5, 216; interpersonal, 10, 11, 60, 61–2, 66, 198, 202–4, 215, 218, 221, 226, 231 Hijiya-Kirschnereit, Irmela, 191 Hinduism, 144

238

Index

Hinomaru (national flag), 2, 12, 26, 32–7, 41, 42, 43 Hirohito, Emperor Showa, 28–32, 34, 41, 97n Hironomiya, Prince, 30 Hiroshima, 31 Hitler, Adolf, 43 hitodama (spirit cloud), see spirits, belief in Hobsbawm, Eric, 12 Hokkaido, 216 Holland, 144 homogeneity: 174, 175, 179, 183, 185, 232; in Japanese society, 4– 5, 11, 44, 176, 177, 178, 191, 206 Hong Kong, 10, 196 honour, 222, 230 household, in Japan, see ie housing, in Japan, 110–12 Huber, Thomas M., 134 Idema, W.L., 144 identity: group, 165, 167, 213, 214, 224; national, 12, 26–7, 38, 41– 3, 95–6 ideology/practice: 6, 18, 67–8, 75, 153, 165, 167, 173; and Confucianism, 10–11, 140, 145, 196–206; and death, 75; definitions of, 9, 11, 13–14, 18, 72–3, 154–5, 159; in education, 13, 17, 102, 114, 127; language of, 6–7; and nationalism, 35, 43– 4, 177; and Nihonjinron, 43–4, 206; in rituals, 65, 163; of subculture (yakuza), 17–18, 215, 217–18, 221; as a symbolic system, 154–9 ie (household), 204 illness, 65 images of Japan: 59, 74, 171–91, 206, 230; see also ‘Orientalism’, Nihonjinron Imperial institution: 27–32, 36, 37, 41, 43; see also Tenno, Hirohito, Akihito Imperial Rescript on Education, 140

inclusiveness/exclusiveness, see uchi/ soto income, in Japan, 106, 108, 109, 110, 114, 122, 198, 202, 211, 216 individuality/individualism, in Japan, 4, 7, 15, 55–68, 140, 177 Indonesia, 144, 146n indulgence, see amae industrialisation, 80, 101, 196, 197 industry, 11, 140, 179, 184, 190 Inoue Tetsujiro, 139 Inoue Yasushi, 130 inside/outside, see uchi/soto interwar period, 101, 105–14 passim Ireland, 132 Ise Jinja, 159, 160, 162, 163, 167, 168 Islam, 144, 145 Italy, 231 itinerant groups, 210–11, 224, 226, 227, 231, 232 Iwai Hiroaki, 231 Japan Anthropology Workshop (JAWS), 1, 6 Japan Communist Party, 31 Japanese language: 12, 61; as an ideology, 156, 218–19; variety in, 112, 214 ‘Japaneseness’: 5, 217, 220, 231; see also Nihonjinron ‘Japanese spirit’, see Yamato damashii Japan Socialist Party, 31, 41 Japan Teachers’ Union, 127 Japan/west dichotomies: 55, 139, 183, 191; in attitudes to death, 74, 77, 85, 94; and concept of individual, 55–68; in education, 125; see also images of Japan, ‘Orientalism’ Java, 144, 146n jinja (shrines): 38–40, 51, 161–2; see also Gokoku Jinja, Ise Jinja, Yasukuni Jinja Jinnouchi Yasuhiko, 104 juku (cram schools), 13, 125, 126

Index

Jung, Carl Gustav, 16 Kaifu Toshiki, 39 Kaionji Chogoro, 143 kamikaze, 74–5 Kawai Tsugunosuke, 143 Kawasaki, 225 Kawashima Takenori, 44 Kim Jhoo-sook, 200 Kimigayo (national anthem), 12, 26– 7, 32–7, 41, 42 kindergarten, in Japan, 3, 59–62, 64, 118 kinship: 21n, 203–4; fictive, 218, 221, 225–6 Kishimoto Hideo, 74 Kokutai no Hongi, 43 Konoe Fumimaro, Prince, 29 Korea: 20n, 143, 196–206; Confucianism in, 2, 10, 12, 146n, 196–206 Koreans in Japan, 214, 215, 218, 232 Kreiner, Josef, 1 ‘Kumamoto band’, 139 Kumazawa Banzan, 142, 144 Kumon Shunpei, 44 labour market, in Japan: 101; education of workers for, 117– 22, 125, 127; management of, 179, 183–4, 189; values of, 10– 11, 16, 178, 183–6, 190; women in, 120, 196–206 language, see discourse theory, Japanese language Lee Hyo-jae, 200 Lee Mi-kyong, 205 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 15, 158 Lewis, I.M., 145 Liberal Democratic Party, 28 life-cycle, in Japan, 55, 120–1, 203– 4 life-histories, 3, 101–14, 223 liminality, 155 literature: 3; Confucian, 130–46; nationalist, 43, 164; yakuza, 222–3, 229; see also Nihonjinron

239

Lockheed scandal, 186 Lowery, Shearon, 157 ‘loyalty’, in Japan: 7, 10; in Japanese workplace, 118, 121, 184–6; and nationalism, 26, 35, 41, 178, 183; among yakuza, 218, 222 Mabuchi T., 144 MacFarquhar, Roderick, 196 mafia, 212, 231–2 Mahikari Shukyo, 91 Maison Franco-Japonaise (NichiFutsu Kaikan), 48, 54n Malinowski, Bronislaw, 2 Mao Tse Tung, 43 marriage, 105, 204 Martinez, D.P., 2, 9, 16, 17 marxism, 9, 12, 20–21n, 154, 155, 157, 158–9 mass media, 3, 16, 17, 153–64; newspapers, 3, 171–91, 230–1; television, 153, 157–9, 162–7 Mathias, Regine, 3, 12, 17, 178, 187 Mathias-Pauer, Regine, see Mathias, Regine Matsumura Kaiseki, 139, 140 matsuri (festivals): 212, 215, 216, 217, 223, 225–31; see also New Year, obon Mauss, Marcel, 144 McArthur, Douglas, 32 McLuhan, Marshall, 158 McMullen, I.J., 10, 130 Meiji period (1868–1912): 101; Confucianism in, 15, 130, 139, 140, 142, 143, 204; education in, 102, 114, 119; ideology in, 11, 28, 139, 156; yakuza in, 222 Meiji Restoration (1868), 116, 117, 140, 159, 161 meritocracy, in Japanese education, 13, 17, 102, 119 methodological approaches: 2–4; see also participant observation, structuralism Mexico, 132 Mie prefecture, 153, 159–65 migration, rural-urban, 105, 113, 197, 198, 199, 200

240

Index

Miki Takeo, 39 militarism, in Japan, 11, 40, 44 military, Japanese, 186 Miller, Roy Andrew, 156 Minami Kosetsu, 49 Ministry of Education, Japanese, 35, 36, 43, 127, 140, 141 minority groups: 12, 218, 220, 231– 2; see also Ainu, Burakumin, Koreans in Japan, Okinawans Mishima Yukio, 138, 142 Miyagi Kimiko, 143 Moeran, Brian, 167 Mokusen Miyuki, 73–5, 94 monarchy: 2, 12, 27, 31; see also Imperial institution, Tenno Montaigne, Michel Eyquem de, 74 Montherlant, Henry de, 145 Moon Okpyo, 1, 2, 10, 14, 15 Mori Ogai, 142 Morikawa Tetsuro, 142 Morris, Ivan, 143 Morris-Suzuki, Tessa, 3 mothers, Japanese; and education system, 3, 106, 120–2, 125; and relationship with children, 62–4, 66; and socialisation of children, 57–60, 120–2 Mouer, Ross, 3, 155, 156 Murakami Yasusuke, 44 myth, 17, 153–68, 177, 184 Nada High School, 125 Nagasaki, 31 Najita T., 131, 134, 143 Nakae Toju, 139, 140, 141 Nakane Chie, 4–5 Nakanishi Middle School, 36 Nakasone Yasuhiro, 39, 187 naming, in Japan, 63 Nanking, 33, 40 Napoleon I, 72 National Alliance for Peace of Relatives of War, 40 national anthem, see Kimigayo national approaches to study of Japan, 1–2, 18 ‘national character’ studies, 174, 176, 179, 183, 191

national emblem, 27, 32, 36, 37 ‘national family’ ideology, 176–7, 184, 188 national flag, see Hinomaru nationalism, in Japan: before 1945, 28, 138, 155, 183; from 1945, 4, 11, 26–44, 138, 155, 164, 166, 183, 188; in Meiji period, 143; see also ‘national family’ ideology, ‘national character’ studies national monuments: 27, 38–40; see also Gokoku Jinja, Yasukuni Jinja National Research Institute of Police Science, 231 nature/culture relationship, in Japan, 4, 16, 47–53, 77–8, 83, 176 Needham, Rodney, 134 Nepal, 63, 146n New Year, 32, 225–6 NHK (Nihon Hoso Kyokai), 162, 163, 165 Nihonjinron, 11–12, 17, 18, 26–44, 73, 153, 155–7, 159, 164, 177, 183, 188, 191, 206 Ninkyo-do (The Chivalry Way), 212, 219 Nishiyama Shigeru, 91 Nivison, D.S., 134 Noda Masaaki, 35 Nogi Maresuke, 142 Norway, 31 obedience, in Japanese society, 104, 118, 177, 203–4, 205 obligation, see giri-ninjo obon (festival for ancestors), 90 Ohashi Totsuan, 142 Oita prefecture, 102–5, 113 Okada Seizo, 143 Okinawa: 30–1, 33–7; Board of Education, 34, 36; schools in, 34–7; University, 29 Okinawans, 12, 29, 30–1, 34 omote/ura: 7; see also ideology/ practice opinion polls, 3, 72–96

Index

‘Orientalism’: 174, 176, 178, 179, 183, 186–7, 188, 190, 191; see also images of Japan Ortner, S.B., 133–4 Osaka, 142 Oshio Heihachiro, 142, 143 Ouwehand, C., 132 Pacific War: 32–3, 39; see also Second World War participant observation, 2, 3, 19n, 216–17 paternalism, in Japanese society, 7, 10–11, 183, 221 patriarchy: in Japan, 203–4, 206; in Korea, 200, 204–5, 206 Plath, David, 68 police, in Japan: 221, 223; see also National Research Institute of Police Science political parties: 28, 31, 41; and politicians, 11, 40 politics: 187; and ideology, 11, 75, 130, 154–6, 186, 214; and media, 173, 179, 181, 186–8, 190 post-modernism, 16–17, 47 Preston, Nathaniel Stone, 10 priests, 161, 162, 165 private/public, see uchi/soto purity/impurity, 80–1, 161–2 Pyle, Kenneth B., 3 Quart, Leonard, 165 Radcliffe-Brown, A.R., 14 Ranger, Terence, 12 Rassers, W.H., 144 Raum, O.F., 68 Raz, Jacob, 1, 2, 3, 17–18 rebirth, belief in, 86–8, 94, 95 Redfield, R., 132 Refsing, Kirsten, 2, 4, 12, 13 regionalism, in Japan, 12, 21n, 176, 216 reikon (soul), see spirits, belief in Reiyukai, 91

241

religion: 132, 145; and ideology, 18, 156; in Japan, 12, 65, 214; Japanese beliefs about, 72–96; new religions, 135; ‘new new religions’, 91, 95; and separation from state, 38–42 passim; see also Buddhism, Christianity, Confucianism, Hinduism, Islam, Shintoism respect, in Japan, 7, 10, 11, 134, 204 reversal theory, 214, 226, 227, 230 Rissho Koseikai, 91 rituals, in Japan: 214; burial, 80–2, 84; everyday, 58; fishing, 153, 159, 160; initiation, 219; nationalist, 26, 27; public, 40–1; purification, 161–2; wedding, 65; yakuza, 216, 218, 220, 222, 224 Rohlen, Thomas, 124 roles: 58, 62–3, 65, 116; elders, 160–5, 167, 198; housewives, 113, 203–4; female proliferation of, 197–201, 202–3; see also gender differentiation, mothers Roth, John K., 11 rural/urban differences, in Japan, 83, 88, 101–14 passim, 197–206 passim Russo-Japanese War, 32, 187 sacred/profane, 229, 230 Sagara Toru, 134 Said, Edward, 174, 176 Saigo Takamori, 138, 139, 141, 142, 143 Sakano Hiroshi, 229 Sakuma Shozan, 139–40, 141, 142 Salmon, Claudine, 144 samurai: 204; ideology of, 15, 73, 142, 143; images of, 167, 178, 184, 211 ‘samuraisation process’, 20 Sasaki Kokan, 90 Sato Seizaburo, 44 Scandinavia: 118; see also Denmark, Norway

242

Index

schools in Japan: 3, 15–16, 61, 104, 107, 119, 120, 125–6; elementary, 4, 103, 106, 109, 117–18; high, 105, 117–18, 124– 5; normal, 103–5; officials, 33, 34; in Okinawa, 34–7; see also education, individual schools Schrieke, B.J.O., 144 Schwartz, B., 134 Second World War: 28–34 passim, 38, 39, 40, 73–5, 95, 113, 133, 178, 186, 226; see also Pacific War Seifert, W., 138 self-discipline, in Japan, 118, 121, 127, 183 self/other dichotomy: 68, 171–91 passim, 210–33 passim; see also uchi/soto selfishness, see wagamama Seneca, 74 servants, 106, 111 shamanism, 88–90, 146n Shiba Ryotaro, 143 Shils, Edward, 154 Shinno-do (The Shinno-Way), 212, 219, 222, 223, 224 Shintoism: 12; practice of, 88, 161– 2, 165, 167; and relationship with state, 38, 41; studies of, 135; see also priests, shrines Shiomi Toshiyuki, 96 Showa Emperor, see Hirohito Showa period (1926–89), 17, 111, 114, 130, 142, 222 shrines, see jinja signifier/signified, 213, 214 Silverstone, Roger, 158–9 Singapore, 10, 196 Sino-Japanese War, 32 Smith, Robert, 63, 65 Smith, Warren W. Jnr., 131 socialisation: 63, 68, 119, 127; in Japanese family, 57–60, 118; in Japanese kindergarten, 62–3, 118; in Japanese schools, 118– 19; in Korea, 205; see also education Soka Gakkai, 87–8

spirits, belief in, 83–96 status: and Japanese education system, 13, 102, 112–13, 122; of women in Japan, 197, 198–9, 201–5, 206; of women in Korea, 197, 201–5, 206; of yakuza, 214 Steadman, John, 176 stereotyping, see images of Japan ‘stranger’: 58, 81; anthropologist as, 212, 230–1 structuralism, 16 Stucki, Lorenz, 94 Sugimoto Yoshio, 3, 16–17, 155, 156 suicide, 29, 91 symbols: analysis of, 167, 174, 185, 191; Confucian ‘heroes’ as, 134, 136–8, 145; and ideology, 154–9; of nationalism, 12, 26–44, 166, 178; of yakuza, 219, 232 Taira Koji, 8 Taisho period (1912–26): 11, 107, 111, 130; social mobility in, 17, 101, 114 Taiwan, 10, 196, 202 Takemura Shizue, 102–14 Tambiah, S.J., 133 Tanaka Kakuei, 186 Tanaka Shozo, 83 tatemae/honne (stated intention/real intention): 6–7, 41, 63; see also ideology/practice teachers, in Japan: 34–5, 101, 103– 14, 123; see also Japan Teachers’ Union Tenno (Emperor): 12, 27–32, 34, 36–8, 41, 66, 97n, 177, 224, 228; see also Akihito, Hirohito Thailand, 12 Thompson, Denys, 173 Thränhardt, Dietrich, 179 Toba clan, 159 Tokugawa period (1600–1868), see Edo period Tokyo: education in, 105–6, 109, 125; housing conditions in, 110, 111; income groups in, 108, 109, 113; mesology of, 47–53; parks

Index

in, 51; religious beliefs in, 90; rivers in, 48–53; yakuza in, 215, 216–17 Tokyo University, 13, 84, 125, 141 tourism, 16, 164, 168n tradition, in Japan: in art, 190; and Confucianism, 10–11, 130–5; as ideology, 75, 136; invention of, 12, 160–1, 164–7; and yakuza, 212, 218, 224, 226, 232 ‘trickster’, 132, 137, 145 Tsukada Mamoru, 13 Tsunoda Tadanobu, 18 Turner, Victor, 17 Uchimura Kanzo, 139, 141 uchi/soto (inside/outside; private/ public): 174–5, 186; at family level, 58–60, 66, 203; at group level, 210–33; at individual level, 9, 14, 63; at national level, 73, 171, 191; at village level, 167; see also ideology/practice, self/other dichotomy Ugetsu Monogatari, 90 unemployment: in Europe, 118, 172; in Japan, 102, 114, 230 unions: 35, 118, 186, 222; ‘Spring Offensive’ of, 33; see also Japan Teachers’ Union ‘uniqueness’: 174, 188, 213, 232; of Japanese society, 12, 18, 43, 44, 65, 73, 74, 156–7, 164, 177, 183, 186, 191, 214 university, in Japan: 13, 29, 36, 84, 114, 117–18, 122–6 passim, 141; see also individual universities Urazoe Industrial High School, 36 urbanisation, 49, 101–14, 133 Utamaro, 167–8 Van Bremen, Jan, 1, 3, 4, 15–16, 17 Van Wolferen, Karel, 5, 8 wagamama (selfishness), 58, 64 Wagatsuma Hiroshi, 62 wakon yosai (Japanese spirit, western technology), 139–40

243

Wang Yang-ming Confucianism, see Yomeigaku war, see First World War, National Alliance for Peace of Relatives of War, Pacific War, Russo-Japanese War, Second World War, SinoJapanese War Watsuji Tetsuro, 139 Weber, Max, 5 west, the, see Japan/west dichotomies, images of Japan, individual countries Whittemore, Robert C., 11, 14 Wiener, Martin, J., 16 Wilde, Oscar, 145 Wilkinson, Endymion, 178, 186 women, in Japan, see gender differentiation, mothers, roles Wöss, Fleur, 3, 9, 18 Xavier, Francis, 176 yakuza (Japanese underworld), 2, 17–18, 210–33 Yamana Masao, 84 Yamashita Ryuji, 139, 141 Yamato damashii (Japanese spirit), 219, 233n Yamato, Princess, 161–2 Yamazumi Masaki, 36 Yasukuni Jinja, 38–40, 41 yobiko (preparatory school), 13, 126 Yomeigaku (Wang Yang-ming Confucianism), 135–46 Yomitan village, 30, 34–5 Yonezawa city, 89 Yoshida Shigeru, 39 Yoshida Shingo, 178 Yoshida Shoin, 141, 142 youth, in Japan: attitudes of, 120–1; delinquents, 218, 220; and religious beliefs, 92, 95, 96 yurei (ghost of ancestors), see spirits, belief in Zen Buddhism, 96