Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

JAPAN AND RUSSIA THREE CENTURIES OF MUTUAL IMAGES

JAPAN AND RUSSIA THREE CENTURIES OF MUTUAL IMAGES

Edited by

YULIA MIKHAILOVA Hiroshima City University and

M. WILLIAM STEELE International Christian University

JAPAN AND RUSSIA THREE CENTURIES OF MUTUAL IMAGES

Edited by Yulia Mikhailova and M. William Steele First published 2008 by GLOBAL ORIENTAL LTD PO Box 219 Folkestone Kent CT20 2WP UK www.globaloriental.co.uk © Global Oriental Ltd 2008 ISBN 978-1-905246-42-7 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted 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 prior permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A CIP catalogue entry for this book is available from the British Library

Set in Stone Serif 9/10.5pt by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Manchester Printed and bound in England by Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wilts

Contents

Acknowledgements List of Contributors List of Illustrations Note on Conventions Introduction M. WILLIAM STEELE and YULIA MIKHAILOVA 1. Changing Japanese-Russian Images in the Edo Period MICHIKO IKUTA

vii viii xi xiii 1

11

2. Japonisme in Russia in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries 32 ELENA DIAKONOVA 3. Japan’s ‘Fifteen Minutes of Glory’: Managing World Opinion during the War with Russia, 1904–1905 ROTEM KOWNER 4. Japan’s Place in Russian and Soviet National Identity: From Port Arthur to Khalkhin-gol YULIA MIKHAILOVA 5. Memory and Identity: Japanese POWs in the Soviet Union SERGEI KUZNETSOV and YULIA MIKHAILOVA 6. Constructing the Screen Image of an Ideal Partner IRINA MELNIKOVA

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71 91 112

7. Disintegration of the Soviet Union as Seen in Japanese Political Cartoons KENJI INOUE and SERGEI TOLSTOGUZOV

134

8. Images in Tinted Mirrors: Japanese-Russian Perceptions in Provincial Japan TSUNEO AKAHA and ANNA VASSILIEVA

153

vi

Contents

9. Images at an Impasse: Anime and Manga in Contemporary Russia YULIA MIKHAILOVA and EVGENII TORCHINOV

175

10. Strategies of Representation: Japanese Politicians on Russian Internet and Television LEONID SMORGUNOV

192

Bibliography Index

208 230

Acknowledgements

T

he idea to look at relations between Japan and Russia through visual representations was first suggested to Yulia Mikhailova in 1997 by her father, Dmitrii Khrenkov, who, as a journalist active through much of the twentieth century, understood keenly the power of visual images in shaping perceptions of the contemporary world. Research on the role played by images in Russo-Japanese relations was supported by Hiroshima City University between the years 1998 and 2000 and two international symposiums on the topic were held. These meetings brought together researchers from Russia and Japan and formed the kernel of this book, although not all contributors were ‘on board’ at that time. A panel on the topic of images and Russo-Japanese relations held at the European Association for Japanese Studies conference in Warsaw in 2003 brought M. William Steele into the project, first as discussant and later as co-editor. Finally, a four-year grant from the Japanese Society for the Promotion of Science allowed the contributors to hold regular meetings, exchange ideas, secure documents and finalize plans for this book. The editors are indebted to many people for intellectual inspiration, support and various suggestions, especially to Hirai Tomoyoshi, Phillip West, Christine Guth, Konstantin Sarkisov, Igor Saveliev, Nina Lipilina, Natalia Rudakova, Elena Barkhatova, Joan Bridgewood, Evgenii Kovrigin and Carol Rinnert. Our particular gratitude goes to Paul Norbury who patiently waited several years until all the elements of this volume were finally ready for publication.

List of Contributors

Tsuneo Akaha is Professor of International Policy Studies and Director of the Center for East Asian Studies at the Monterey Institute of International Studies, Monterey, California. His recent books include Crossing National Borders: Human Migration Issues in Northeast Asia (2005) and Crossing Borders: Migrants in Northeast Asia (in Japanese, 2006). He is currently researching the impact of the Russian presence in Japan, China and Mongolia, as well as nationalism and regionalism in North East Asia. Elena Diakonova is a leading researcher at the Institute of Oriental and Classical Studies, Russian State University for the Humanities, Moscow. She specializes in Japanese culture and art history. She published, in cooperation with Konstantin Azadovsky, Balmont in Japan (in Russian, 1989), and together with Vladimir Braginsky published Images of Nusantara in Russian Literature (in English, 1999). She has also translated Japanese classics into Russian, including the O-Kagami (2000), and has written several articles on Japonisme in Russia. Michiko Ikuta is Professor of Russian History at Osaka University. Her research interests are Russo-Japanese cultural relations including the Russian Diaspora in Manchuria. Among her recent books are The Kiss of Daikokuya Kodayu: Intercultural Communication and Mutual Images (in Japanese, 1997), Archival Materials on N.A. Nevsky (in Japanese, 2003) and Russian-Japanese Relations in Bakumatsu Period Seen Through Diplomatic Rituals (in Japanese, 2008). Inoue Kenji is Professor Emeritus of Hiroshima University and former correspondent of Jiji Tsushinsha Information Company in Moscow. He has published numerous articles on Soviet dissidents and ethnic movements in the New Independent States. Rotem Kowner is Professor of Japanese history and culture at the University of Haifa, Israel. His recent works include the Historical Dictionary of the Russo-Japanese War (2007), the edited volumes Rethinking the Russo-Japanese War: Centennial Perspectives (2007) and The

List of Contributors

ix

Impact of the Russo-Japanese War (2007). He is currently working on a book on the role of racial and bodily images in shaping Meiji Japan. Sergei Kuznetsov is Dean and Professor of History at Irkutsk State University, Russia. His is the author of Japanese Prisoners of War in Siberia published in Russian in 1997 and in Japanese in 2000. His numerous articles on the topic of Japanese POWs have been published in Russian, English, Japanese, Mongolian and other languages. He is continuing research on this topic. Irina Melnikova is Professor at the Institute for Languages and Culture at Doshisha University, Japan. She has published translations into Russian of Sarashina Nikki (1999), Ihara Saikaku’s The Life of an Amorous Man (1998) and works of Nagai Kafu. Recently, she has been researching cinema representations of Russian-Japanese cultural encounters and has published ‘Representation of Soviet-Japanese Encounter in Co-production Feature Films’, parts 1–2 (in English, 2002) and ‘The Harbin Nightingale and Moscow Madmen-Jazz: Film, Music and Cultural Identity’ (in Russian, 2006). Yulia Mikhailova is Professor in the Faculty of International Studies, Hiroshima City University, Japan, and a specialist in modern Japanese history and Russo-Japanese relations. She is the author of Motoori Norinaga: His Work and Life (in Russian, 1988) and Social and Political Perspectives in Japan from the 1860s to the 1880s (in Russian, 1991). She has published numerous articles in English, Russian, Hebrew and Japanese about the role of visual media in shaping images and on other aspects of relations between Japan and Russia. Leonid Smorgunov is Chair of the Political Governance Department at the Faculty of Philosophy, St Petersburg State University, Russia. He has published numerous books, among them Comparative Politics: Theory and Methodology of the Measurement of Democracy (1999), Main Trends in Contemporary Political Philosophy (1998), a textbook on State Governance and Politics. Political Science (1996, first edition) and Contemporary Comparative Political Science (2002) (all in Russian). M. William Steele is Dean of the College of Liberal Arts and Professor of Japanese History at the International Christian University, Tokyo, Japan. He is a specialist on Japanese social and political history in the late nineteenth century. His Alternative Narratives in Modern Japanese History (in English, 2003) includes several chapters that make use of broadsides, satirical cartoons, and woodblock prints in understanding the social history of late nineteenth-century Japan. Sergei Tolstoguzov is Lecturer at Hiroshima University and Hiroshima City University, Japan, and a specialist in the comparative history of Japan and Russia. He is the author of The Tokugawa Shogunate in the First Half of the Nineteenth Century and Tempo Reforms (in Russian, 1999) and several articles on the relationship between financial crises and

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List of Contributors

revolution. His current research includes the role of cartoons in the media coverage of important social transformations. Anna Vassilieva is Professor and Programme Head of Russian Studies at the Monterey Institute of International Studies, Monterey, California. She is co-author with Tsuneo Akaha of Crossing National Borders: Human Migration Issues in Northeast Asia (in English, 2005) and Crossing Borders: Migrants in North-East Asia (in Japanese, 2006). Her Russian translation of Vartan Gregorian’s The Road to Home: My Life and Times was published in Moscow in 2008. She is currently researching the impact of the Russian presence in Japan, China and Mongolia, as well as nationalism in North East Asia. Evgenii Torchinov, before his untimely death in 2002, was Professor and Chair of Oriental Philosophy and Cultural Studies at the Faculty of Philosophy, St Petersburg State University. He is a specialist on Chinese religious and philosophical traditions, including Taoism and Buddhism. His publications in Russian include Taoism, Its Historical and Religious Description (first edition in 1993, second edition in 1998), Religions of the World: Experience of the Transcendental (1997), and Philosophy of Chinese Buddhism: An Anthology of Texts (2001). He was also interested in contemporary Japanese religions and culture and published ‘Japanese Manga in Russia: A Beginning of the Future?’ (2001).

List of Illustrations

1. First Japanese printed map of the world representing all countries and peoples, 1645. 2. Kodayu and Isokichi greeting bakufu officials in European dress, 1795. 3. Exhibition of Koichi’s belongings held in Nagoya, 1795. 4. Celebration of the New Year held at the Shirando Academy, 1795. 5. Dmitrii Shabalin. Negotiations at Akkeshi between Russians and Japanese, 1779. 6. Daikokuya Kodayu in Japanese dress and with chonmage, around 1791. 7. D. Telezius. Japanese Faces, 1814. 8. Vadim Falileev. The Return to the Sheksna, 1909. 9. Ivan Bilibin. The Wave, 1905. 10. Georgii Narbut. The Net, 1910. 11. Georgii Narbut. The Bear, 1910. 12. Georgii Narbut. Toys, 1911. 13. A postcard sarcastically representing a belligerent Japan. Issued by Union Postale Universelle, early 1904. 14. Nogi’s Feast, 1904. 15. Admiral Togo Heihachiro, 1904. 16. Western Journalists in Tokyo cover the Russo-Japanese War, 1904. 17. Wounded Russian Soldiers, 1904. 18. Hirose’s Funeral, 1904. 19. On the War of Russia with Japan, Russian ‘popular print’, 1904. 20. The Enemy is Terrible but God is Benevolent, Russian ‘popular print’, 1904. 21. In the ‘First Class’ Salon. Budilnik, no 31, 1905. 22. ‘Celebrations’ in Honour of a Japanese Prisoner of War. Budilnik, no. 37, 1904. 23. Kukryniksy. Border Post. Postcard, 1938. 24. Kukryniksy. Soviet Gateway. Postcard, 1938. 25. Saito Kiyoshi. White Road of Despair, 1982. 26. Yoshida Isamu. One Day’s Ration, 1955. 27. Ozuka Isamu. A Shelf with Silkworms (Labor Camp no. 11 in Irkutsk), 1978.

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28. Ishimaru Kanji in the role of Kokonoe Hidetaka in the drama Foreign Hills, 2005. 29. Colonel Ushijima and a Russian Old Believer. A still from the film Volochaevka Days, 1937. 30. Taro and Katherine. A still from the film Ten Thousand Boys, 1961. 31. Scene symbolizing a new stage in Soviet-Japanese relations. A still from the film Little Figutive, 1966. 32. A still from the film Moscow, My Love, 1975. 33. A still from the film Melodies of the White Night, 1976. 34. A still from the film Way to Medals. 1979. 35. Yamada Shin, Futile Remorse: ‘What Was That 74 Years Voyage All About . . .?’ Asahi Shinbun, 27 August 1991. 36. Yamada Shin, ‘Joint Dwelling, We Are Sorry, But!’ Asahi Shinbun, 10 December 1991. 37. Yamada Shin, ‘Well, Friend, Don’t You Either Have a Place to Go? Come Here and Warm up’, Asahi Shinbun, 14 December 1991. 38. Kojima Ko, ‘Gorbi and 11 Men’, Asahi Shinbun, 23 December 1991. 39. Hari Sunao, ‘Homeless’, Asahi Shinbun, 24 December 1991. 40. Hari Sunao, ‘Nuclear Button over to Yeltsin’, Asahi Shinbun, 26 December 1991. 41. Felix Torchinov. Vampires. Characters invented for the game ‘Vampires: the Masquerade’, 2001. 42. Bogdan Kulikovskii. Nika as a shojo, 2002. 43. Bogdan Kulikovskii. Nika and Her Friends Fighting with Evil Forces, 2002. 44. Bogdan Kulikovskii. Goshi Brothers, 2000. 45. Alexander Mozhaiskii, Japanese Delegation at Negotiations on Trade Treaty with Adjutant-General Putiatin, Shimoda, 1854. 46. President Boris Yeltsin on a Visit in Japan, 19 April 1998. 47. Mori Yoshiro, 7 July 2000. 48. President Putin visits a judo hall in Tokyo, 5 September 2000. 49. Prime Minister Koizumi Junichiro Facing the Cabinet Meeting, 1 November 2002. 50. Sergei Stepanov, ‘Perhaps, You Also Want the Kuril Islands Back?’ 2002.

NOTE ON CONVENTIONS As commonly accepted in academic writing on Japan in English, Japanese names are given with family name preceding personal name except when referring to Japanese authors who usually write in English, including the authors of chapters in this book. Romanization of Japanese words is given according to the modified Hepburn system; long vowels in Japanese words are indicated by macrons with the exception of common nouns and place names widely used in English, such as Tokyo and Kyoto. Russian words are transliterated using the Library of Congress system, except for well-known names such as Tolstoy, Gorky and Yeltsin with fixed spellings. Titles of Japanese and Russian books, articles, and captions of illustrations, cartoons and film clips are translated directly into English. Romanization of the original title and caption is noted in the references and in the bibliography. Translations of captions are given directly in the text when no references exist. Italics are used for non-English words with the exception of common words such as perestroika, glasnost, anime and manga that have become accepted into the English language. Internet sites are indicated with the latest access date; it should be noted that some sites, especially news sources, are no longer accessible.

Introduction M. WILLIAM STEELE AND YULIA MIKHAILOVA

T

he year 2006 marked the fiftieth anniversary of a joint declaration signed by Japan and the then Soviet Union normalizing bilateral ties, but stopping short of signing an official peace treaty. The year 2005 marked other anniversaries: the 150th anniversary of a treaty of commerce and friendship between Russia and Japan, the 100th anniversary of the Treaty of Portsmouth that brought the RussoJapanese War to an end, and the sixtieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War. The visit by the then Russian President Vladimir Putin to Japan in November 2005 failed to take advantage of the symbolism of these events. Are Japan and Russia destined to remain ‘distant neighbours’, unable to come to terms with the history of their interactions and unable to imagine a future based on mutual understanding? Surely, the time has come to re-vision the history of Russian-Japanese relations. This book is concerned with the role played by representations and visual images in Russian-Japanese relations over the past three hundred years. Representation is a relatively new word in the historian’s vocabulary. Instead of the concrete and factual, scholars interested in understanding the past are turning to thought and images. Iconography has taken its place alongside the written word as a primary source for historical analysis. Indeed, some of the new histories place great importance on visual sources. According to Michael Ann Holly, ‘the sources of the historian’s work are to be found in just about every place but the archives’.1 Contemporary trends in historical enquiry are less concerned about the distinction between fact and fiction or between reality and imagination. Literature, indeed fiction, can illustrate the past in ways that fact cannot. In the hands of a new generation of visually-oriented historians, high art (painting) and low art (cartoons), drawings, sculpture, architecture, advertising, photo-journalism, propaganda, film and photography also inform us about the past in ways that conventional

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

history committed to working with the written word little dreamed possible. Of course the use of visual materials does not mean that we can forget about the documents in the archives. The two go together and can be used in innovative ways to present new visions of the past. The chapters in this book are united by the notion that visual information can and often does take precedence over words in imparting meaning. The visual, moreover, has an unusual capacity to mould public minds, and as such plays a powerful role in reflecting and creating images of ‘self’ and ‘other’. What is seen by the eye appeals not only to the rational mind, but to the emotional self, and in cases of multiple recurrences encourages the creation of identifying icons. Research in iconography and iconology persuasively demonstrates that testimony presented by visual representations is indispensable in the study of stereotypes of ‘others’ because ‘where writers can hide their attitudes behind an impersonal description, artists are forced by the medium in which they work [italics added] to take up a clear position, representing individuals from other cultures as either like or unlike themselves’.2 At the same time, visual images are illusive and may be subject to multiple interpretations. For example, the concept of ‘gaze’ introduced by Jacque Lacan alerts us to the necessity of considering conscious and unconscious intentions of image creators and the differences in ways people perceive them. Graphic and other visual representations have a life of their own, influencing the mind of their beholders, and often not in conformity with the intentions of their creators. Moreover, visual narratives tend to hide the diversity of reality and contribute to the creation of stereotypes. Recently, the study of images has become an important part of the study of Japanese international relations. Stimulated by the problem of identity formation and perception of ‘others’, especially by the seminal work of Akira Iriye, scholars have produced a substantial body of research analysing images of Japan held by people in the United States, Britain, Germany and other European countries. While some of these works tend to simply catalogue images and stereotypes of Japan existing in the West, others attempt to deconstruct them from the viewpoint of the Orientalist, post-colonialist and other modes of discourse or analyse them in the framework of mass-communication theory.3 Russian scholars also began to address the topic of images as they relate to Russian-Japanese relations. The book by Vassilii Molodiakov examines the ‘yellow peril’ image of Japan held by some Russian thinkers and writers at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth.4 Boris Akunin, a popular writer with a background in Japanese studies, describes a variety of negative associations the Japanese bring to the Russian mind,5 while Barbara Heldt accentuates the ambivalence of those images.6 Semyon Verbitsky uses a collection of opinions on Japan expressed by journalists and members of the Soviet and Russian political and academic elite in order to explain what he calls ‘misperceptions’ of Japan conditioned by ‘an ideological press and strict censorship’.7 Conversely, recent opinion polls conducted by the All-Russian

Introduction

3

Central Institute of Public Opinion demonstrate that Russians in general hold a rather positive image of Japan.8 An acute interest in the perceptions of other countries exists in Japan. Newspaper and broadcasting companies regularly conduct surveys which serve as the foundation for subsequent research. According to recent polls, for example, America and China, joined by countries of Southeast Asia, feature most prominently as areas deemed important for Japan, with the United States enjoying the highest results. Russia and the former Soviet Union consistently rank at the bottom on the scale of preferences. Hasegawa Tsuyoshi attributes this to the success the United States has made in ‘diverting the antagonism of Japanese nationalism from itself to the Soviet Union’.9 At the same time Wada Haruki, Akizuki Toshiyuki and some other scholars have noted that throughout history, the image of Russia in Japan had various permutations, ranging from that of enemy, to teacher and friend.10 By highlighting the emotional and often unconscious power of visual images, we hope to refine the results of these polls. Further, by demonstrating the historicity of images and delineating the context of their creation, we may be able to better appreciate how different understandings of ‘self’ and ‘other’ came into being. ‘A picture is worth a thousand words.’ This tired maxim provides the basis for much new scholarship on images, placing primacy on modes of seeing and on the enigma of visual experience. Stimulated by this paradigm shift from the discursive to the figural, the various essays in this volume take advantage, wherever possible, of visual representations, including illustrations and artwork of various forms, propaganda posters, postcards and newspaper cartoons, films and more recent mass media represented by television, manga and anime, and the internet, as well as direct visual perceptions of people and objects of other cultures. As can be expected, the study of visual materials presents unique challenges. Hyden White, one of the few historians to raise philosophical and methodological issues related to the study of visual sources, points out: ‘Modern historians ought to be aware that the analysis of visual images requires a manner of “reading” quite different from that developed for the study of written documents.’11 New sorts of questions need to be raised. How do different cultures observe, understand and represent each other? A key objective of this book is to ask what images, especially visual images, Japanese and Russian people hold of each other. How have some images changed and other images persisted? How have mutual representations changed during the long history of cultural encounters between Japan and Russia? What role do more recent memories, deriving from the hot fires of war in 1945 and the Cold War years of the mid-to-late twentieth century, play in the current relationship? In what ways has the past been manipulated to serve the present? And finally, what can be done to improve mutual images: is a shared vision of the past possible? On the one hand, the study of mutual images is the study of the ‘other’. But at the same time, contact between cultures necessarily involves a selective understanding of the ‘self’. Indeed, how one culture

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

observes another culture may tell us more about the observer than the observed. In other words, an implicit ethnography, a mental framework, exists on both sides of the encounter. One of the goals of this collection of essays is to recognize the existence of this mental framework and seek to understand its functioning. In doing so, our hope is that the book will demonstrate how mutual images, in particular visual materials, have served as an important reference point in the construction of Japanese and Russian national, social and cultural identities – a fact that has not been particularly well understood so far. It is also about strategies of representation. How does one culture turn the strange into the familiar, the different into the recognizable, the unintelligible into the understood? And how does the process of cultural representation contribute to intellectual changes within both cultures? Visions of otherness are not culturally determined, but exist as the product of historical change. Mutual images derive from prior understandings of ‘self’ and ‘other’ and these understandings change over time. The study of images is a messy and confusing process: images contribute to interactions which in turn transform images. Nonetheless, the study of the construction and deconstruction of visual representations is important; by doing so we hope to reveal some of the hidden mechanisms that have contributed to the processes of identity formation in Japan and Russia in over the past three hundred years. There are, of course, limitations to ‘imagining’ the past. Images, including photographs, are not innocent. They contain the biases of their creator and of their audience, and these have to be recognized. Images are mediated representations of reality. Historians, moreover, need to ask the same questions of these visual sources as they do of their texts. Visual sources must be treated with respect – and suspicion. What information do they reveal? Why was the image produced? Images have histories and must be placed in context. What, if any, political purposes were involved in the creation of images? And for whom was the image produced and by whom was it consumed? What meanings do images have for the people who saw them at the time of their creation? Who looked at them and how were they received? Finally, we must realize that images may be revealing precisely for what they leave out – what is left un-seen as well as what is seen. Such omissions can be revealing about the values of a time and place. In other words, we must approach visual sources, just as we do textual sources, as critical historians, in order to use them to re-see and re-vision the past. The essay by Michiko Ikuta points to the centrality of physical manifestations of Japanese castaways in Russia and of Russians in Japan in the exchange of old images for new. In the eighteenth century, physical stature, clothing, hairstyle and gesture served as main markers of ethnic identities and acted as channels of information even when words were lacking.12 In particular, visual images of Japanese castaways dressed in European clothing and following the prescriptions of European etiquette were instrumental in changing the Japanese image of Russia from a ‘land

Introduction

5

of red barbarians’ to a full-fledged member of the European community. Likewise, in St Petersburg, manifestations of the same castaways in traditional Japanese dress, but speaking fluent Russian, came to symbolize ‘exotic Japan’ but also presaged the outstanding abilities of the Japanese people. Ikuta’s analysis of early Russian perceptions of Japan highlights the peculiarities of Russian Orientalism and shows the origins of core stereotypes about Japan. In the late nineteenth century, many European artists, weary of traditional formulas, turned to the newly-discovered art of Japan as a source of inspiration.13 The Japonisme movement in Russia is the subject of Elena Diakonova’s chapter. She attempts to show how Russian attraction to Japanese art differed from that of the French and other Europeans who saw the Oriental Japanese as complete outsiders or ‘others’. Russians, according to Diakonova, deemed themselves, sometimes at least, as a part of the Orient, and therefore their interest in Japanese art was simultaneously an attempt to reveal Oriental aspects of Russian national identity. It seems more than simply coincidental that the most interesting works inspired by the encounter with Japanese art, such as those of Georgii Narbut, Ivan Bilibin or Vadim Falileev, can be seen equally as representations of Russian nativism. However, this fascination with Japan in the artistic field was short-lived and, as Diakonova concludes, had to compete with conflicting images of Japan inspired by the realities of war between Japan and Russia in the early years of the twentieth century. Mass media played a major role in the ways images of the ‘other’ were constructed, represented and disseminated. Initially, catchpenny prints, broadsheets and postcards contributed to the emergence of national stereotypes, but the development of printing technologies and mass education in the second half of the nineteenth century revolutionized the spread of information. Newspapers and magazines for the general public, in Russia, Japan and the West, often included illustrations and cartoons. The chapter by Rotem Kowner shows how Japan attempted to manipulate world opinion during the Russo-Japanese War (1904–5) by courting the press and making skilful use of visual materials. He attributes the success of the Japanese propaganda to a combination of several factors: battlefield victories, humane treatment of its prisoners and a general suspicion of Russia in world opinion. As a result, Japan emerged from the war ennobled: its military strength was coupled with images of bravery and humaneness. However, as Kowner points out, these glory days were shortlived. Military might could just as easily inspire fear as it could respect. Japan first attracted the attention of the Russian public en masse due to ‘popular prints’ and cartoons that appeared during the Russo-Japanese War.14 Publishers of ‘popular prints’ cared first and foremost about profits and reproduced images of foreign ‘others’ and Russian ‘selves’ that could easily sell. The national aspirations of journalists often coincided with official propaganda. This does not mean, however, that the public was easily swayed. Yulia Mikhailova’s essay, ‘Japan’s Place in Russian and Soviet

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

National Identity’, compares the effects of anti-Japanese propaganda on images of Japan that appeared in Russia during the Russo-Japanese War and in the Soviet Union of the 1930s. She argues that the presence of the Far East in the geographical consciousness of the Russians or lack of it, the degree of the unity of the population and its loyalty to the government, as well as the outcome of military conflicts themselves were factors that influenced the formation of images of Japan. Thus, anti-Japanese nationalistic propaganda spread by Russian ‘popular prints’ during the war with Japan was inefficient and led, in the end, to rejection by the people of their own government, rather than to hatred of the Japanese. It was only in the Soviet totalitarian state of the 1930s that propaganda succeeded in fomenting deep-seated animosity against Japan. Kowner indicated that one way Japan used to enhance its image as a civilized state was the humane treatment of war prisoners. Nothing could be more contrary than the treatment afforded Japanese POWs in Soviet labour camps after the end of the Second World War. They were subject to harsh living and working conditions and some were not released until 1956, more than ten years after the end of the war. The personal experiences of these POWs, detailed in textual and visual sources, became a major source of negative stereotypes about the Soviet Union in postwar Japan. The chapter by Sergei Kuznetsov and Yulia Mikhailova, ‘Memory and Identity – Japanese POWs in the Soviet Union’, deals with visual representations of the memory of this horrific experience, looking at drawings, paintings, and cartoon illustrations, and other works of art created by the POWs after their return to Japanese soil. It demonstrates how works of art, museum exhibitions, and theatre performances have functioned in transforming the traumatic experiences of POWs into Japanese collective memory. Accommodating the needs of public discourse and attempts by POWs to make sense of their experience and fit into the postwar society, the representations highlight negative aspects of their experience, erasing some positive memories. The chapter’s conclusion is provocative: the images began to take on a life of their own, while with the passage of time former POWs became nostalgic about life in Russia in their younger years, often remembering it in ‘rosy colours’. Irina Melnikova shows how the Japanese and Soviet film industry in the 1960s and 1970s imagined an ideal partnership between the two countries. Her chapter, entitled ‘Constructing the Screen Image of an Ideal Partner’, analyses the attempt to coordinate mass media, the film industry, and the artistic demands of film directors to produce a series of films that suggest a model of friendly relations between the Soviet Union and Japan. The chapter shows the fine line that exists between propaganda and art; the joint production films were designed to appeal to a mass audience in both countries, and therefore sought to visibly portray aspects of the two countries that audiences could accept without surprise. Access to materials in the archives of the State Cinematography Committee and Maxim Gorky Studio in Moscow enabled Melnikova to

Introduction

7

unravel the dynamics of script-writing, film-production processes and intentions of each party hidden behind the silver screen. In the end, the dream of partnership failed to materialize and later joint-production films conveyed instead ideas of competition between the two countries. Keeping in mind that all cinematography in the Soviet Union was state sponsored, these films present a vision of Soviet-Japanese relations that existed at the official Soviet level, although it was shared by groups of artists and thinkers in both countries. Gorbachev’s commitment to perestroika and glasnost in the late 1980s initiated a series of dramatic events that spelled the end of the Soviet Union. On 26 December 1991, the Soviet flag was lowered over the Kremlin for the last time. Kenji Inoue and Sergei Tolstoguzov have examined Japanese reactions in newspapers to the collapse of the Soviet Union. Their findings show that while newspaper articles tended to address the historical significance of events, cartoons displayed much more inertia in representations, despite the dramatic changes that were actually taking place. Being illustrative in nature and concentrating on details, the cartoons repeated familiar stereotypes perpetuating either the image of a weak Russia (symbolized by Gorbachev) or of a frightening Russia (symbolized by Yeltsin). Most interestingly, they demonstrated that Russian weakness could cause feelings of sympathy. Japanese images of the new Russia were thus based on existing stereotypes. Such is the stubborn nature of images and stereotypes, but also revealed is the conservative nature of the genre of political cartoons in Japan. Nonetheless, images remain a patchwork and by no means represent a uniform national view. The chapter by Tsuneo Akaha and Anna Vassilieva attempts to give some attention to regional variations of images. Basing their conclusions on a survey of actual encounters (or lack thereof) between Japanese and Russian ‘neighbours’ in provincial cities along the Sea of Japan (regions that have a history of RussianJapanese contact), the authors attempt to analyse how Russians and Japanese ‘see’ each other in real-life situations. In other words, instead of seeing each other and creating images of each other through illustrations or the mass media, Akaha and Vassilieva are concerned to show how people create images through actual visual encounters. The rather sad but important conclusion they reach concerns the difficulties in overcoming stereotypes; direct encounters do not automatically produce better understanding. Evgenii Torchinov and Yulia Mikhailova reach a similar and somewhat distressing conclusion. In the 1990s, when the new Russian state began to open up to a global media, groups of newly-liberated youth became fans of Japanese popular culture, especially anime and manga. This chapter, entitled ‘Images at an Impasse’, focuses on the activities of RAnMa (Russian Anime and Manga Club). It questions Russian youth interest in anime and manga and explores their fascination with Japan in general. The chapter argues that in this age of global mass media and communications, Russian otaku have ironically perpetuated core

8

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

stereotypes of Japan: change is underfoot, but Japan remains for them fantastic, exotic and, hence, distant. Finally, Leonid Smorgunov shows how images are manipulated by mass media and outlines three strategies of image creation. He argues that the increased importance of television and the internet as sources of information and a concordant decrease in the role of state-sponsored ideology has opened possibilities for the construction of a new space for political engagement, so that, for example, images of politicians that appear on television contain both aspects of performance and political discourse. These images are not fixed, but change according to the news frame in which they are placed. Moreover, frames for manipulation of public opinion are not strict, allowing television viewers or internet users to form their own opinions. In this sense, images of the ‘other’ (and of course images of ‘self’) are constructions that result from negotiations between the makers of the image and their consumers. According to Smorgunov, Russian television no longer presents Japanese politicians as an exotic or estranged ‘other’, but rather aims to establish a dialogue. This observation is significant as images, especially visual images, disseminated by mass media have become, in the early years of the twentyfirst century, no less important than the activities of political leaders themselves in developing relations between countries or, on the contrary, in becoming obstacles to this development. Visual representations pack power either by representing the officially sponsored imagery or working against it. Throughout history, images have played a role, sometimes constructive, sometimes destructive, in how nations relate to each other. The conclusions of many chapters in this volume note the difficulty in creating a shared understanding of past and present; images, as the recent rumpus caused by insensitive political cartoons of the Prophet Mohammed reminds us, have the power to divide as well as to unite. All authors stress the need to place visual sources within a particular time and place, releasing them from restrictive bonds of collective memory that supports some core stereotypes and defies history. Will it be possible for Japan to shed its exotic exterior or Russia to rid itself of the image of a bungling bear? Sadly, in the early years of the twenty-first century, time-worn images still define the parameters of Russian-Japanese relations. Smorgunov points to more constructive possibilities. The media can manipulate images that engage rather than simply enchant their viewers. Moreover, as the chapters on anime and manga and POWs hint, the more benign power of popular culture has replaced political propaganda. In any case, strategies of representation matter. One image may be manipulated in multiple ways. The advance of new forms of mass visual media has opened up new possibilities of looking at ‘self’ and ‘other’. This book is an attempt to re-vision the kaleidoscope of images that have governed Japanese and Russian relations over the past three hundred years; it also seeks strategies that envision new ways in which these close neighbours can see each other.

Introduction

9

NOTES 1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

Michael Ann Holly, Past Looking: The Historical Imagination and the Rhetoric of the Image, (Illinois: Cornell University Press, 1996), p. 184. Quoted in Nicolas Kenny, ‘Reading between the Brushstrokes: Art as a Primary Source in History’, available online: www.library.umaine.edu/khronikos/docs/papers/archive/ kenny.pdf (accessed 29 December 2006). P. Burke, Eyewitnessing: The Uses of Images as Historical Evidence, (London: Reaktion Books, 2001), p. 124. Akira Iriye (ed.), Mutual Images: Essays in Japanese-American Relations, (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1975); Richard H. Minear, ‘Orientalism and the Study of Japan’, Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 39, 1980 , no. 3, pp. 507– 17; John Dower, War Without Mercy: Race and Power in the Pacific War, (London: Faber and Faber, 1986); Ian Littlewood, The Idea of Japan: Western Images, Western Myths, (London: Secker and Warburg, 1996); Phil Hammond et. al., Cultural Difference, Media Memories: Anglo-American Images of Japan, (London: Cassell), 1997; Endymion Wilkinson, Japan Versus the West. Image and Reality, (London: Penguin Books, 1991); P.L. Pham, ‘On the Edge of the Orient: English Representations of Japan, circa 1895–1910’, Japanese Studies, vol. 19, 1999, no. 2, pp. 163–82; Catherine A. Luther, Press Images, National Identity, and Foreign Policy. A Case Study of U.S.-Japan Relations from 1955–1995, (New York and London: Routledge, 2001); David Wells (ed. and transl.), Russian Views of Japan, 1792–1913. An Anthology of Travel Writing, (Abingdon, New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2004). Vassilii Molodiakov, Obraz Iaponii (The Image of Japan), (Moscow: Institut Vostokovedeniya RAN, 1996). Georgii Chkhartishvili, ‘Obraz Iapontsa v russkoi literature’ (The Image of the Japanese in Russian Literature), Znamya, 1996, no. 9, pp. 188–200. Barbara Heldt, ‘ “Japanese” in Russian Literature: Transforming Identities’, in J. T. Rimer (ed.), A Hidden Fire. Russian and Japanese Cultural Encounters, 1868– 1926, (Stanford: Stanford University Press, California and Woodrow Wilson Center Press: Washington, D.C., 1995). Semyon Verbitsky, ‘Factors Shaping the Formation of Views on Japan in the USSR in the Postwar Period’, in G. Rozman (ed.), Japan and Russia. The Tortuous Path to Normalization, 1949–1999, (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000), pp. 261–79. According to the survey conducted in August 2005, 37 percent of Russians like Japan, 48 percent feel interest towards Japan and 32 percent trust Japan; see Roshia ni okeru taiNichi yoron chosa (Russian Opinion Surveys on Japan) http://www.mofa.go.jp/mofa.area/russia/yoron05/index.html (accessed 10 January 2007). Tsuyoshi Hasegawa, ‘Japanese Perceptions of Russia in the Post-War Period’, in G. Rozman (ed.), Japan and Russia. The Tortuous Path to Normalization, 1949– 1999, pp. 281–320. Wada Haruki, ‘Predstavleniia o Rossii v Iaponii’ (Views on Russia in Japan: Teacher, Enemy and Brother-in-Sufferings), in Rossiia i Iaponiia v issledovaniiakh sovetskikh i iaponskikh uchonykh (Japan and Russia in the Works of Soviet and

10

11

12

13

14

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images Japanese Scholars), (Moscow: Nauka, 1986); Akizuki Toshiyuki, Edo jidai ni okeru Nihonjin no Roshia kan (Japanese Views on Russia in the Edo Period), in Nihon to Roshia (Iaponiia i: Rossiia), (Tokyo: Nauka, 1990), pp. 1–12. Hayden White, ‘Historiography and Historiophoty’, American Historical Review, 1988, no. 5, p. 1193. Michael Emmison, Philip Smith, Researching the Visual, (London, New Delhi: Sage Publications, 2000), p. xi. Max Osborne, Geschichte der Kunst: eine kurzgefasste Darstellung ihrer Hauptepoche, Berlin: Ullstein, 1909. Mikhailova, Yulia, ‘Laughter in Russo-Japanese Relations: Comic Pictures of the Russo-Japanese War’, in Asian Cultural Studies 27, 2001, pp. 59–76.

1

Changing Japanese-Russian Images in the Edo Period MICHIKO IKUTA

INTRODUCTION

C

astaways played an important role in the formation of mutual images between Japan and Russia, especially Daikokuya Kodayu, the captain of the Shinsho-maru shipwrecked in 1783. Although some castaways made their way to Russia before Kodayu, he was the first to return safely to Japan and bring back first-hand information about Russia. For Russia, Kodayu’s stay and the dispatch of a mission to Japan to convey the shipwrecked Japanese home was also an epochal event. It offered an opportunity to study the Japanese language, conduct negotiations with the Japanese and observe Japanese life-styles. For most of the Edo period (1603–1867), when Russian-Japanese contacts began, the Tokugawa government or bakufu maintained only limited contact with foreign countries. Even the shogun and other ranking members of the regime could not travel overseas, so it may seem ironic that the pioneering role in opening communications with outside peoples fell to poor shipwrecked sailors who arrived on foreign shores by accident. Beginning in the 1630s, the bakufu strictly supervised relations with a limited number of foreign countries and established a monopoly over information about the outside world. In particular, contact existed with the Dutch and the Chinese in Nagasaki, with the Koreans in Tsushima, with the Ainu in Matsumae and with the Ryukyu kingdom through the good offices of Satsuma. What makes the case of the castaways important is the fact that they crossed borders at a time when it was otherwise impossible to come into direct personal contact with foreign nationals. Through their writings, their artifacts, their body language and personal appearance, these men served as unique sources of information about the ‘other’.

12

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

This paper will trace the footprints of historical and cultural contacts between Japan and Russia and examine the mutual perceptions that resulted from those contacts, concentrating on Daikokuya Kodayu whose role in Russian-Japanese relations can hardly be overestimated. Although the history of contacts between Japan and Russia in the Edo period is well known and some works on Japanese perceptions of Russia exist, the chapter draws attention to the importance of first-hand observation and visual sources in spreading information about unknown peoples and lands.1 It also demonstrates that in the eighteenth century, physical stature, clothing, hairstyles and gestures served as prime markers of ethnic identity. They acted as channels of information when the mouth was closed; communication between strangers depended instead upon eye contact and body language. JAPANESE IMAGES OF RUSSIA BEFORE KODAYU

According to Kondo Juzo (Seisai), the term Mosukobiia (the name for Russia current in the early Edo period) was first introduced in Japan through Records about Foreign Countries (1623), a text on world geography compiled in kanbun by Julio Alleni, an Italian missionary in China in the late Ming period.2 It contained, for example, the following description: ‘Mosukobiia is a large country situated in the north-western part of Asia, it is also called Mosuko. It stretches from east to west for 15,000 ri (1 ri = 3.93 km), from south to north for 8,000 . . . Militarily it is very strong and it always absorbs surrounding lands.’3 In other words, Russia was portrayed as an aggressive country with a strong military force. The first Japanese printed map of the world coupled with illustrations of men and women who inhabited various countries was published in Nagasaki in 1645.4 The map achieved wide circulation within Japan, and showed the location of Russia, labelled Mosukohiia or Mosukobiia. It depicted representative men and women of this land dressed in what was thought to be typical costume (Pl. 1). This early map is good evidence of the development of a multicultural worldview among the Japanese. The peoples represented the known (and unknown) world and included Asians (Koreans, Chinese and various peoples from Southeast Asia), Europeans (the Dutch, Portuguese and English), peoples from India and from Russia, and also some real strangers, representing the land of the giants and the land of the dwarfs. Nishikawa Joken’s book on world geography published in 1695 was the first major description of foreign countries by a Japanese writer. His description of Russia was as follows: ‘Mosukobiia is situated 4,000 ri from Japan in the sea and it is well protected by guards. The people there resemble the Mugars. It is a warm country, and one may name amber, the five grains, silver and the leather of domestic animals among its products.’5 Nishikawa’s text only mentioned the geographical location of Russia and its major products. Besides, the information was imprecise. Russia was called a warm country in defiance of its northern climate. Later, in a

Changing Japanese-Russian Images in the Edo Period

13

revised version compiled in 1708, Nishikawa changed this information and noted that Russia ‘is located 14,000 ri from Japan’ and that it ‘is a very cold country situated to the East of Holland’.6 In 1720, in another book Nishikawa included illustrations of men and women of Mosukobiia in ethnic dress,7 but the information differed little from that given in earlier publications. As important as words, maps and images in disseminating knowledge about unfamiliar lands were artifacts, material goods and products of foreign origin. According to some sources, the products of Russia, mainly leather and leather goods, were already being sold in Japanese markets in the seventeenth century. They may have been brought to Japan by the Dutch or entered the country from the north via trade with the Ainu. Money purses made from Russian leather were widespread in Japan to the extent that the word mosukobiia was used primarily to refer to leather goods. Just as in the West, Japan was associated with lacquerware and China with fine porcelain, Russia in Japan was known more for its leather than for its people or its geography. In the early nineteenth century, a well known scholar in Dutch studies, Otsuki Gentaku (1757–1827), described the situation in the following way: ‘From the former times Western ships brought to Japan leather from this land [Russia] and among the people this product came to be called musukobiia. In this way, many people thought that it was just the name of a leather product and did not know that it was a geographical name.’8 At the same time, it is likely that Russia and its people did not exist in the consciousness of the Japanese because people in Japan could not see Russians in everyday life. Two sections of the Illustrated Japanese-Chinese Encyclopedia of Three Elements (1712) dealt with ‘foreign lands’ and ‘alien barbarians’, but nothing was written about Russia in what was otherwise a fairly complete summary of the Japanese world view in the middle of the Edo period.9 A wide variety of peoples, some nearby in Asia, others at some distance to the West, and still others who inhabited imaginary lands, but all who were nonetheless real peoples in the minds of the inhabitants of Edo, were represented there. Illustrations in the encyclopedia portrayed the Chinese, Koreans, Dutch and English together with people with holes in their breasts, ones without bellies or with beaks and wings and so on. But amongst that menagerie of peoples, strangely, the Russians were not to be found. Thus, at the beginning of the eighteenth century, some details about Russia and its people reached Japan as part of a growing mastery of world geography, but such information only slowly penetrated the consciousness of ordinary Japanese. For the most part, Russian-Japanese contacts developed on the basis of trade goods such as musukobiia leather, but even then few people realized that this was a Russian product. In 1771, an incident took place that suddenly elevated Japanese interest in Russia.10 That year Maurice Beniovskii (1746–86) commandeered a Russian battleship and sent a letter to the head of the Dutch factory in Nagasaki warning of Russia’s intention to attack Japan. Beniovskii was

14

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

born in Hungary but later joined the Poles and fought for the independence of Poland from Russian rule. He was captured and exiled to Kamchatka, but managed to escape. He seized a Russian warship and set out on a voyage of discovery, which took him to Japan, Taiwan and Macao. In fact, his warning was pure fabrication. The bakufu kept secret the contents of Beniovskii’s letter, but through interpreters from the Dutch its message became known to scholars. The news had a great impact on Japanese society and became known as the ‘warning of Beniovskii’, causing many government officials and intellectuals to look more seriously at Japan’s neighbour in the north. From the second half of the sixteenth century, Russia began to move into Siberia and assumed control over Kamchatka early in the middle of the seventeenth century. Russian explorers and hunters in search of otters and other sea animals moved along the Chishima (Kuril) islands and soon appeared in the waters near Japan. In 1739, an expedition headed by Captain Martin Spanberg, in search of a route to Japan, appeared in Sendai bay and came into contact with the Japanese.11 This event became known as the ‘Black ships of the Genbun era (1736–41)’. Because of conflicting hunting interests near Hokkaido, numerous clashes between the Russians and Ainu took place, the most serious being the 1721 uprising of the Ainu on Uruppu (Urup) in which twenty Russians were killed. Gradually, as a result of three factors – Russia’s move southwards to Matsumae, information from Nagasaki about Russia, i.e. ‘Beniovskii’s warning’, and the development of Dutch studies in general – awareness of Russia began to grow in Japan. Apart from Julio Alleni and Nishikawa Joken’s books mentioned above, Japanese intellectuals took advantage of the Geography written by Johan Hübner (first published in 1693 in German and translated into Japanese from Dutch in 1769)12 and Records on Russia by Jakob Broedelet (1744).13 A number of books and translations based on these tracts were written. Stimulated by the warning of Beniovskii, Kudo Heiske (1734–1800) published Report on the Land of Red Barbarians and produced the first serious study on Russia and its foreign policy.14 He argued that the purpose of Russia’s move to the south was its willingness to trade with Japan – a country which, in the mind of the Russians, produced much gold, silver and copper – but that Russia had no intentions to invade Japan. He also maintained that the Dutch had invented groundless rumours about Russia because they were apprehensive about the competition that would result from Russian-Japanese trade. Moreover, Kudo spoke in favour of trade with Russia and claimed that profits gained in this way should be spent for the development of Ezo (Hokkaido). Around 1783, he presented the work to the most powerful man in the bakufu, Tanuma Okitsugu, an official known for his interest in commercial development and expanding foreign trade. On the other hand, in 1786 Hayashi Shihei published Illustrated Survey of Three Countries which referred to the Beniovskii incident and

Changing Japanese-Russian Images in the Edo Period

15

warned that the purpose of Russia’s move south was not trade, but the acquisition of territory.15 In his work Discussion of the Military Problems of a Maritime Nation, published the following year, he again warned about the menace coming from Russia and argued for the necessity to defend Japan’s northern borders.16 Thus, in the late eighteenth century Russia entered the consciousness of Japanese intellectuals largely as a northern threat. At that time neither the geographical name of Russia, nor a transcription of its name were fixed in Japanese syllabary (katakana) or in Chinese characters (kanji). Information from Chinese books intermingled with transliterations borrowed from books in Dutch. In 1722, Peter the Great changed the name of the country now known as Russia from Moscoviia to the Russian Empire, consequently, around the world, the name Russia came into common use. Following the incident of the ‘Black ships of Genbun era’ in the late 1730s, a number of Russian ships began to appear in the seas adjacent to Japan. At that time the terms ‘red people’ (akahito) or ‘red barbarians’ (akaezo) were used to refer to the Russians, based on the visual image of men dressed in red uniforms and perhaps due to the colour of their faces and hair. Besides, the term Oroshiia, which resembled the Russian pronunciation of the word Russia, was introduced in Japan. In the early 1780s, Kudo Heisuke expressed doubt about the difference between the name Mosukobiia, which entered Japan through Nagasaki, and Oroshiia which appeared in Japan via Matsumae and made it clear that in reality the country called Oroshiia was the same as Musukobiia. He wrote: I interrogated men of knowledge as to whether ‘Oroshiia’ existed among the countries of the world, but no one knew about such a country. When I compared stories from Nagasaki and stories from Matsumae and examined them with the help of Dutch books, the following became clear. ‘Oroshiia’ is the general name for ‘Mosukobiia’ and her vassal countries. Islands inhabited by ‘red barbarians’ [to the north of Japan] are also obedient. Government officials of ‘Mosukobiia’ reside there, and when asked about their country’s name, they say ‘Oroshiia’.17

As demonstrated above, the Beniovskii incident inspired anti-Russian feelings, but on the other hand, it was combined with progress in Dutch studies and in turn stimulated the further development of Russian studies. In the 1780s, Kudo Heiske and Hayashi Shihei compiled major works on Russia and gave birth to two competing images of Russia – a potential trade partner and a military threat. The ordinary people of Japan referred to the Russians as akaezo (red barbarians), akahito (red people), okuezo (remote barbarians).18 Images of Russians held by ordinary people may also be found in Sugae Masumi’s Sack of Rumours (1789): The land of the red people is far away. If one goes to the northwest from this island of Ainu, Russia will be near Holland. The Russians are very

16

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images frightening and they often intrude into the island of Ainu. Presently the island of Sea Otters [present-day Urup] has been taken by the Russians.19

Russians were perceived as red aliens, frightening and aggressive in nature. Some information demonstrating how the Russians were seen by Japanese women and children may be found in the works of Otsuki Gentaku. In his work Strange Stories about the World he wrote: People in Matsumae pointing at Russians called them ‘red barbarians’ or ‘red people’. . . (Because of this name, women and children thought that Russians were terrifying devils. Originally the land of Ezo [barbarians] was understood as something which existed beyond the human world, so when they heard that ‘red people’ and ‘red ezo’ [barbarians] lived far away [from the human world], there were those who wondered in fear if Russians were like the red devils depicted in pictures of hell.)20

Such perceptions became fixed in the consciousness of the Japanese at the early stage of their acquaintance with Russia. Even after more concrete and detailed, if not more accurate, images of Russians became available, it was difficult for the Japanese to go beyond the ‘image of people in red dress’. The sense of danger emanating from Russia was exaggerated and Japanese women and children came to think of the Russians akin to beasts or red devils living in hell. THE RETURN OF DAIKOKUYA KODAYU

During Kodayu’s stay in Russia (1783–92) some major changes took place in bakufu policy. Tanuma Okitsugu, a bakufu councillor who followed recommendations by Kudo Heisuke to undertake an exploration of Ezo, fell from power. The survey of Ezo was stopped and plans to colonize the northern island were suspended. In the sixth month of 1792, the publication of Discussion of the Military Problems of a Maritime Nation was banned for causing undue popular unrest, and its author, Hayashi Shihei, was placed under house arrest. However, as if in response to Hayashi’s apprehensions, three months later Russian ‘black ships’, under the command of naval Lieutenant Adam Laxman, appeared off the coast of Hokkaido with Kodayu and other castaways on board, hoping to restore the men to their homeland and initiate trade negotiations. This plan was not without merit. Face-to-face communications with representatives of the Russian mission coupled with detailed information on Russia provided by Kodayu challenged the image of Russia that had been constructed under Dutch influence. Direct contact resulted in the creation of more positive images. The Russian embassy that brought along Kodayu and others was forced to remain in Japan for about ten months. During that time close contact between people of the two countries took place. The Japanese compiled

Changing Japanese-Russian Images in the Edo Period

17

dictionaries and word lists. They also borrowed maps from the Russians and copied them. The Russians did the same with Japanese maps of Hokkaido and Karafuto. Besides, many illustrations were drawn, and records of questions put to the Russians and impressions of the castaways were written down. Among them was Dreams about Russia which contained eight pictures, among them six of Russian men.21 For example, in one of those pictures a Russian captain was portrayed playing with a dog and a Russian official was depicted in a relaxed atmosphere. It seems that the author intended to show real people in ordinary life. A characteristic feature of the portraits is a striking similarity displayed between the faces of the Russians and the Japanese, as if to stress their common human features. In contrast with some of the devilish portraits of Commodore Perry who came to Uraga in 1853, these pictures did not exaggerate the foreignness of the Russians. Instead, the prints left an image of the Russians as a people not much different from the Japanese. Behind it stood the fact that the purpose of Laxman’s visit was the return of castaways, an action intended to demonstrate the goodwill of Russia towards Japan. Also during the stay, warm human relations began to develop between the two peoples, helping to contribute to a perception of the Russians as a ‘normal’ people. In the process of direct communications, it became clear that previous images were distorted. For example, Laxman recorded a conversation with Tanabe Yasuzo, an official with whom he met: Because the Dutch were very self-confident, from former times they spread stories stating that whoever entered Russia, regardless of belief or nationality, was treated with cruelty or in an uncivilized way . . . All things brought by the Dutch to Japan are also available in Russia. Apart from the fact that Russia is much closer to Japan than remote Holland, the two countries do not differ at all, and this very fact is not pleasant for the Dutch.22

Representatives of the Japanese government also had contacts with the Russians. During the negotiations between envoys of the bakufu and members of the Russian embassy a problem pertaining to matters of protocol occurred. In fact, it was a significant matter that touched upon the prestige of the two countries. The Japanese demanded that the Russians should enter houses barefooted and fall prostrate before the Japanese, but the Russians refused. As Laxman explained: Even in relations between ordinary people and their superiors, the Russians do not have such servile practices as to fall prostrate by bowing down with one’s head to the earth or to sit straight on the floor. In Europe, even kings do not wish their subjects to fall prostrate before them, as this posture is reserved for showing respect to God.23

When the Dutch visited Edo the head of the Dutch mission fell prostrate before the shogun, but during negotiations with the Russians each

18

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

side behaved according to their own ritual code. Under prevailing circumstances of limited foreign contact, Holland was a trading partner but did not enjoy equal relations with Japan. Visits by the head of the Dutch factory to Edo were actually visual performances staged according to the position of each country within the framework of an established relationship. The Russians, therefore, ran into trouble when they sought to establish equal relations with Japan. On the one hand, they did not want to give up Russian ways of ritual performance; neither did they wish to push the Japanese to behave in the Russian way. This exchange over diplomatic customs and practices enhanced Japanese awareness of Russia and of the behaviour of foreign peoples in general. After the Russian embassy returned home, Kodayu and his compatriot Isokichi were taken to Edo, where they were received by bakufu officials and carefully interrogated. During the audience they were ordered to wear Russian dress. But the foreign behaviour expected of Kodayu and Isokichi did not stop at clothing; their body behaviour was also foreign. The two greeted bakufu officials and bowed standing (Pl. 2) and during the interview they were allowed to sit on folding chairs. In front were bakufu bureaucrats sitting in Japanese fashion and dressed in formal attire. The position of the two men sitting on folding chairs could indeed be higher than those who sat in Japanese fashion. However, the veranda was high, so that the castaways on chairs were placed on a lower level than the officials. It is also interesting to note that the castaways wore shoes. Other Japanese in the picture maintained the posture demanded by careful observance of established formalities and rituals. On the veranda to the right of Kodayu and Isokichi was a small room separated by a bamboo screen. Shogun Ienari sat there observing the interrogation of the castaways, unbeknownst to the two men. Thus, Kodayu and Isokichi expressed themselves not only through words, but also through dress and body language. Kodayu’s description of Russia and other foreign cultures appeared in many books. Among them, the most famous are: A Brief Account of a Northern Country and A Record of the Shogunal Viewing of the Castaways compiled by Katsuragawa Hoshu, a scholar of Dutch studies.24 From the Japanese viewpoint, the foreign world was strange, difficult to imagine and understand. Some scholars did not trust Kodayu. For example, Shiba Kokan and Kitamura Nobuyo condemned Kodayu’s observations as ‘lies’ and ‘fabrications’. However, at the same time many people in Japan who saw the objects that the castaways brought back with them began to think of Russians as normal human beings. The belongings of one castaway, Koichi, who tragically died in Nemuro, were put on public exhibition (Pl. 3). To some extent, views on Russia held by ordinary people can be grasped from the commentaries that Kodayu’s relatives attached to the exhibits. For example, they noted that in Russia neither seppuku nor decapitation was common as punishment; instead, criminals ‘were whipped on their bare back’.25 In comparison with Japanese practices of seppuku and decapitation, punishment

Changing Japanese-Russian Images in the Edo Period

19

in Russia seemed more rational and less cruel. However, Kodayu did not mention the fact that whipping often resulted in death, nor that such a method of punishment did not apply to the nobility. Nevertheless, by muting those facts Russia was presented to the Japanese as a country much to be admired. Japanese scholars came to view Russia as a country of benevolent government, especially after hearing of the policies of Empress Catherine. For example, in Secret Plan of Governance, written in 1798, Honda Toshiaki came to see Russian expansion, formerly viewed as a threat, as ‘a sign of great benevolence’.26 The popularity of Catherine, as the ‘ideal empress’, was high and her portraits were admired by some Japanese. Nikolai Rezanov, who brought castaways from Sendai in 1804 in another ill-fated attempt to open trade relations with Japan, recalled in his travel diaries that Nagasaki interpreters held portraits of Empress Catherine in high esteem. There were also women in Japan who admired Russian-style marriage. Kudo Heisuke’s daughter was Tadano Makuzu.27 Under the patriarchal system of Japan she was expected to marry and sacrifice herself for the sake of her family. Makuzu is known to have said that she ‘envied the regulations of Russia’ according to which couples gave a pledge before a priest to live as companions and could expect heavy punishment for ‘infidelity’.28 Makuzu saw here the model of an ideal marriage based on mutual respect. An idealized Russia was the subject of much adoration. The image of the country changed from one of threat to admiration. However, both images were allowed to co-exist because information about Russia was scarce. Peter the Great was regarded as ‘the father of prosperity’ for his role in laying the foundations for Russian wealth and power; Catherine, who allowed Kodayu to return to Japan, was seen as a ‘heroine of great love and compassion without equal’. However, new threatening images emerged at the same time. For example, Koga Doan, a Confucian scholar serving the bafuku, noted that ‘in Russia heroes appeared one after another and gradually invaded the territories of neighbouring lands up to the borders of Ezo. Japan thus stands in great danger. It is not good for Japan that so many heroes exist in Russia. On the contrary, we can only hope for the birth of less brilliant people.’29 After the Russian mission appeared in Japan in 1792, Russia became an object of much concern and research in state-sponsored institutions. Not only did the volume of studies on Russia increase, but qualitative changes also took place. In comparison with the initial works on Russia that appeared after the Beniovskii incident, in which information was derived second-hand from Dutch or Chinese sources, scholars were able to make use of the experience of people who had seen Russia with their own eyes and were able to read texts written in Russian. The terms used to refer to Russia also changed. Before Kodayu, Russia was described as a place that existed ‘outside’ the arena of civilization: akaezo (red barbarians) and okuezo (remote barbarians). Thanks to

20

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

Kodayu, who associated with members of the Russian nobility, Russia no longer was seen as an extension of Ezo and came to be perceived as a member of the European community. Because he had come to personify European culture, Kodayu was invited as the main guest of a party held at the Shirando Academy to celebrate the year 1795.30 The event is depicted in A Picture of the New Years’ Party at the Shirando Academy (Pl.4). In the centre of the picture is Kodayu, seated in the place of honour (in front of the tokonoma alcove). He holds a paper in which two words are written in Russian. Isokichi is the only one of twenty-nine guests shown in European dress; he is seated on a chair in the right-hand corner. In a sense, the picture confirms that Russia was no longer perceived as a land of ‘red barbarians’ but as an integral part of the civilized West. On the whole, the return of Kodayu and Isokichi caused the image of Russia to undergo great changes. Testimony by first-hand observers, the books and other artifacts brought in directly from Russia, as well as direct communication with members of the Russian mission to Japan diversified earlier images of Russia. The northern menace could also be seen as would-be trade partner, a country blessed with heroic leaders worthy of adoration, but at the same time posing a military threat. As the nineteenth century progressed, other events substantiated the conflicting images and in turn created a new role for Russia as a model of reform and national strengthening. PERCEPTIONS OF JAPAN IN RUSSIA BEFORE KODAYU

Europeans first learned about Japan from the writings of Marco Polo.31 The Venetian merchant did not visit Japan, but gained information about it during his long stay in China. He gave birth to the image of Japan as an independent country blessed with an abundance of gold and other treasures. His observations were reproduced in various European books on Japan. During the reign of Ivan the Fourth (1533–84), Russians crossed the Volga, took possession of new territories, and continued moving eastwards until they reached the Sea of Okhotsk. Incidentally, this coincided with the policy of the Tokugawa government to limit contact with Western countries. Accordingly, Russian expansion and Japanese contraction determined the basic framework for interaction between the two countries during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The title of the first book written in a Slavic language in which the name of Japan appeared was Slavic Grammar by Ivan Uzhevich (1643).32 Japan appeared there as a grammatical example of a noun in the feminine gender; understanding that it was the name of a real country was weak. Japan was represented on a Russian map for the first time in Cosmography.33 The book was based on a revised version of a Cosmographic Atlas compiled by the Dutch geographer Gerardus Merkator.34 It contained a chapter entitled ‘Japan or the Islands of Japan’ and pointed to the fact that Japan consisted of three islands, that in the east it was close to New Spain [America], in the north to Scythia and Tartary, adjacent to China in

Changing Japanese-Russian Images in the Edo Period

21

the west and washed by seas in the south. This demonstrates how obscure Japan’s real geography was at that time. Following the example of Marco Polo, Japan was called a ‘Golden Island’ and described as a country ‘abundant with gold, pearls, jewels and various other resources’. The Japanese were characterized as ‘smart, pious, quick in learning’, but ‘cruel by nature’.35 Besides, readers were introduced to information about the climate, geography, system of government and various other aspects of Japan. As an atlas, inaccurate and full of omissions, Cosmography nonetheless raised Russian consciousness about its eastern neighbour. In 1675, when the Moscow government sent Nikolai Spafarii as ambassador to China and gave him instructions, Japan was discussed in the following terms: A very large island called Iaponiia stretches into the ocean to the east of China, seven hundred Russian miles from the Chinese shores. This island has more treasures than China itself. Gold, silver, iron ore and other precious things may be found there. The customs of the Japanese and their characters resemble those of the Chinese, but the people are cruel and they punished many Jesuits who came there as missionaries.36

Thus, repressions against the Christians were known even in Russia which gave birth to the image of ‘Japanese brutality’. On his return to Russia in 1678, Spafarii submitted his reports for publication. In the chapter about a ‘prosperous and great’ island called Japan, he wrote that the island country was separated from China by a voyage of two days and nights. He also mentioned that since the time when the Portuguese had arrived in Japan, Christianity became so widespread that ‘no place without the followers of Jesuits existed on the famous island of Japan’.37 Later, this image was combined with the longing embraced by Russian peasants for free and vast lands and gave birth to a myth that Japan was the place of ‘white waters’, a sort of utopian kingdom that appeared in folk legends popular among the Russian old-believers.38 As noted above, the notion of Japan’s geographic location was rather weak. It was thought to be located near the estuary of the Amur River. In the 1650s, Russian settlements were established in Irkutsk and in Nerchinsk. However, because of the Nerchinsk Treaty signed with Qing China in 1689, Russia lost control over the Amur region and had to aim its trade and expansion policy more to the north, in the direction of Kamchatka. Eventually, the Russians reached Japan from Kamchatka in the early eighteenth century by moving south along the Kuril Islands. Until that time, the Russians imagined Japan through written reports and objects of art that reached Russia by way of other countries. In particular, the image of Japan as a rich country was supported by ‘things Japanese’, such as porcelain, pottery and lacquerware brought to Russia from Holland. At the same time, a number of Japanese castaways found themselves in Russia, providing new and more accurate sources of information.

22

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

According to Russian records, the first shipwrecked Japanese, often associated with initiating Russian interest in Japan, was Denbei. Vladimir Atlasov, the head of a squad of Cossacks who gained control over Kamchatka, encountered Denbei there in 1697 and they spent approximately two years together. Denbei learned some Russian and Atlasov took him to Moscow in 1702. Atlasov wrongly thought that Denbei came from a country called Uzaka which was part of the Indian Empire. That happened because Denbei had told details about his voyage from Osaka to Edo, and Atlasov mistook Edo for India, well-known to Russians, while Uzaka was in fact Osaka. Atlasov noted of Denbei’s personality that ‘the man was very courteous and reasonable’.39 A Narration by Denbei (Skaska Denbeia) recorded by the Department of Siberian Affairs in Moscow in 1702 was the first information about Japan received directly from a native speaker. Denbei answered various questions on Japanese geography, customs, religion and so on. He declared that Japan was a country rich in gold and silver, with a developed economy and large population. He also told the Russians that his country had cannons. The Russians came to believe that Japan was a developed country and a desirable trading partner. As to Japan’s foreign policy, Denbei only mentioned that the Japanese did not go overseas for trade and that foreigners, for purposes of trade, came to Nagasaki. The rulers of Russia already had the image of Japan as a ‘closed country’, but Denbei’s testimony gave some hope that trade relations might be possible. Knowledge of the profitable Dutch trade with Japan made some Russians seek to establish commercial relations with Japan. Peter the Great, who interviewed Denbei in the village of Preobrazhenskoe near Moscow in 1702, was so interested in what he learned that he ordered Denbei to teach the Japanese language to Russian children. So, in 1705 Denbei was appointed teacher in the first Japanese language school outside of Japan. As Russian officials were thus able to obtain concrete information about Japan, rapprochement began to emerge as a goal of Russian foreign policy. In more general terms as well, Denbei’s narrative gave the Russians their first glimpse into Japanese society and culture. In 1733, Empress Anna interviewed two shipwrecked Japanese sailors, Soza and Gonza, seeking to gather data on Japan. She ordered them to teach Japanese language for the purpose of future relations with Japan. The two Japanese were baptized into the Orthodox faith and began to study Russian at the Aleksandro-Nevskii Monastery in Petersburg. They also taught Japanese. In 1736, a Japanese language school affiliated to the Russian Academy of Sciences was opened. Soza died the same year, but Gonza continued teaching and even compiled (together with a Russian librarian named Andrei Bogdanov) a textbook, a dictionary and a phrase book.40 Even after Gonza’s death, Russian interest in Japan did not wane and the school continued to function for another twenty-five years. In 1734, the first book about Japan, Description of Japan, was published in Russia.41 It was a translation based on two books written by Jean

Changing Japanese-Russian Images in the Edo Period

23

Baptiste Tavernier and François Caron.42 The second part of the book contained a history of repressions against Christians in Japan, complete with vivid descriptions of torture and punishment. This book confirmed and added to a pre-existing image of the Japanese as a cruel people. However, in order to trade with Japan it was first necessary to find it. As mentioned above, a squad led by Captain Martin Spanberg reached Japan in 1739. The Russians presented the Japanese with some textiles and glass beads and received in return rice, vegetables, tobacco and fish. The Russians stayed on their ships, and the Japanese sailed out to meet them. Around the same time, another explorer, the Englishman William Walton who was captain of the Sviatoi Gavriil, landed in Japan and gained a brief look into the Japanese life. Walton’s journal described Japan in the following terms: ‘This land is abundant in gold, pearls, grapes and rice.’43 In this way the long-cherished desire to find a route to Japan was finally realized. For the management of its eastern regions Russia needed the delivery of foodstuffs and the construction of ships and houses in the Far East. The delivery of all the necessary goods from Europe via Siberia was time-consuming and expensive, so trade with Japan became an urgent task for the Russian state. In 1739, Spanberg and Walton reached the shores of Japan and saw the ‘real’ Japanese with their own eyes. However, two years later, Spanberg tried once again to find Japan, but failed. Japan, as noted by S. Znamenskii, became simply a mirage.44 Only frequent appearances of Japanese castaways on Russian soil seemed to confirm that Japan was more than mere fantasy. In 1743, a new school of Japanese language was established in Yakutsk, but in 1754, it was amalgamated with the one in St Petersburg becoming a part of the Navigation School in Irkutsk, the main city in Siberia. The reason for this transfer may be explained by aspirations of Irkutsk merchants, active in newly-acquired territories in Kamchatka, the Aleutian Islands and Alaska, to pursue trade internationally, including Japan. People with a knowledge of Japanese could become go-betweens in this trade. Approximately thirty years after the voyage of Spanberg and Walton, in 1766, Russian expeditions appeared on the Kuril Islands of Etorofu and Uruppu. In 1771, Beniovskii reached Japan and published his notes in several European languages. Thus, a ‘real’ Japan came into being and the location of its islands was confirmed. Nonetheless, the nature of the Japanese people who inhabited those islands remained imaginary. In 1778, two merchants, Ivan Antipin and Dmitrii Shabalin, headed a mission to Akkeshi where they met with Matsumae authorities to request the opening of commercial ties with Russia. The following year the lord of Matsumae rejected their demand. The Akkeshi negotiations were depicted by Shabalin (Pl. 5). The Russians reached the shore on three baidars (small boats made of the skin of sea animals) and put up a tent. On the illustration the state flag of Russia is shown fluttering over the boats, as twenty-six Russians go out to meet the Japanese envoys. Three

24

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

of them are standing in the front line. The Russians have taken off their hats as a sign of respect to their Japanese hosts. The Japanese delegation on the beach consists of men dressed in Japanese clothes, the front parts of their heads shaved and their hair is made up in chonmage fashion. The senior Japanese official wears a bamboo hat. He is followed by a soldier in wooden clogs and foot soldiers carrying lances, bows, arrows and guns. Behind them are foot soldiers carrying large chests on poles. Finally, twenty Ainu are shown in the background, barefooted with long hair and carrying something wrapped in reeds. The Russians, Japanese and Ainu are all presented as having the same stature. Ethnicity is signified by hairstyle, clothing and footwear. However, three of the Japanese who come out to meet the Russians are barefooted. They perform rituals according to the etiquette demanded by their ethnicity. In contrast to the Russians who took off their hats, the senior Japanese official wears a bamboo hat. The Russian author of the picture took special note of that fact: ‘All Russians observed etiquette having taken off their hats, but the Japanese proceeded without doing so.’45 PERCEPTIONS OF JAPAN AND THE JAPANESE AFTER KODAYU

Kodayu happened to be in Russia during the reign of Catherine II (1762– 96). This was the time when the Russian government lost its enthusiasm for establishing contact with Japan, however, at the end of the eighteenth century the Russian-American Company was established with the obvious goal to expand foreign trade. In 1775, ten years prior to Kodayu’s stay in Russia, the Pugachev uprising was suppressed. This was followed by several wars with Turkey and Sweden, involving the annexation of the Crimea and partition of Poland. During such momentous events, any importance attached to Japan seemed irrelevant. Local authorities and merchants of Siberia, however, remained anxious about Japan. Trade with Japan could solve the problem of food supply and create a new market for Russian furs and other products. During his stay in Russia, Kodayu informed Russian authorities about the state system of Japan, its geographical conditions, customs, language and so on. He also recounted Japanese views of Europe, and Laxman replied as follows: The Japanese avoided Europeans for many years, but the conduct of the Dutch who stayed in Japan for two hundred years was good, so the Japanese stopped hating them. In comparison with what existed 104 years earlier, at the time of Kaempfer, ornaments and other clothing items became more splendid and the necessity for imports has increased. No other country in the world has such good conditions as Russia, which faces the Pacific Ocean, to establish relations with Japan including trade. Japan and Russia are close to each other, and travel expenses in comparison with other countries are low, so the advantages of trade should be great.46

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In 1793, the Edo government issued Laxman a permit to enter Nagasaki, but the Russians understood this as permission to trade. The translation into Russian was as follows: ‘On condition of respecting the laws of our country and following our instructions in various matters, we give to Adam Laxman a permit for navigation.’47 The translation was not completely without grounds, as the Japanese text also included official notification that Russian vessels could enter the port of Nagasaki. In Russia, this reinforced the image of Japan as a neighbouring country and trade partner. Kodayu, who was literate both in Japanese and in Russian, made a significant contribution to the study of the Japanese language in Russia. Before Kodayu arrived, besides the manuals compiled by Gonza, the Russians had dictionaries compiled by Andrei Tatarinov48 and Petr Palas49 and notes on a journey in Russia by Johan Gotlieb Georgi.50 An authority in comparative linguistics of the time, F.I. Iankovich de Mirievo, wrote the following about Kodayu in his Comparative Dictionary of All Languages and Dialects Organized in Alphabetic Order: ‘A Japanese merchant Kodayu, from the town of Shiraka in Ise Province, who stayed in St Petersburg in 1791, indicated the correct pronunciation of Japanese words and their transcription’.51 Kodayu not only helped with the correct pronunciation and transcription of Japanese words, but brought many books in Japanese to Russia and thus contributed to an increased Russian awareness of Japan. Kodayu paid much attention to his clothing. He brought to St Petersburg a set of ceremonial Japanese kimono. The dress was reported to be a success at masquerades in the Russian capital. Dressed in kimono, Kodayu lectured on Japan to students in St Petersburg. The figure of Kodayu with chonmage and in kimono can be seen on a picture which is now preserved in Goettingen University (Pl. 6). This representation became so deeply ingrained in the mind of the Petersburg aristocracy that the shipwrecked sailors from Sendai were requested to wear Japanese clothes and to make their hair in the Japanese style for their audience with Tsar Alexander I. According to some rumours, a Japanese man named Jirokichi from a vessel the Choja-maru was ascertained to be a Japanese on the grounds that his forehead was shaved. This stereotypical image of Japanese was later confirmed by the drawings of Aleksei Vysheslavtsev and D. Telezius who visited Japan in the nineteenth century (Pl. 7).52 Items left by Kodayu – an inkstone, inkstick fan, lacquer bowl, string of beads, bell, glass paperweight, a Japanese tray – are now exhibited in the Kunst-Kamera in St Petersburg. These material objects played a role in helping Russians to understand the life, habits and activities of the Japanese. Not only did Kodayu personify the image of Japan, but he contributed to the resumption of commercial negotiations between the two countries. His return to Japan was used as a pretext to send a mission. This new stage in Russian-Japanese relations was initiated by what may be called diplomacy conducted by castaways.

26

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

Two other castaways Shozo and Shinzo remained in Russia and became teachers of Japanese in Irkutsk. It is well known that Shinzo was consulted in writing books about Japan and in this way contributed to the knowledge of his native land. He also left a textbook on Japanese language which contained chapters on the study of hiragana, katakana and Chinese characters, as well as some data on Japanese geography and economy. Due to the good offices of the castaways, by the end of the eighteenth century the teaching of the Japanese language was transferred from the Navigation School to a gymnasium, a higher level educational institution, where more advanced instruction was possible.53 In general, the contribution of castaways to the development of Russian-Japanese relations was significant. However, the information brought to Russia about Japan did not circulate broadly. By contrast, in Japan, people were thirsty for the news about foreign lands; news about Russia brought by the castaways was printed and widely read. Diaries written by Russians who stayed in Japan and had direct communication with the Japanese did, however, have some impact on the formation of Russian images of Japan. The diary of Adam Laxman, for example, included much about Japan and was published in 1804 in the journal Drug prosveshcheniia and reprinted in other publications.54 A book by Ivan Kruzenshtern and yet another one by Georg H. von Langsdorff, both written after the second mission to Japan in 1804–5 headed by Nikolai Rezanov, also carried revealing details about Japan. 55 However, the greatest impact on the construction of an image of Japan, not only in Russia but around the world, was a book by Vassilii Golovnin who stayed for two years and three months imprisoned in Matsumae.56 Even its long title [Narrative of Captain Golovnin about His Adventures in Japanese Captivity during the Years 1811, 1812 and 1813: Supplanted by His Remarks on the Country and the People] is revealing. Golovnin portrayed the Japanese as a peace-loving people whose level of education was unsurpassed in the world. He pointed out that their extraordinary love of ritual derived from sophisticated cultural accomplishments. The book was translated into English, German, French, Dutch and other languages and significantly challenged European perceptions of Japan; in particular, the image of the Japanese as a cruel people nearly disappeared. It was under the influence of Golovnin that Archbishop Nikolai Kasatkin sought to spread the Orthodox faith to Japan. CONCLUSION

The Japanese learned about Russia later than other European countries, at the very end of the so-called Christian century (1549–1640), and it took time before awareness of this northern neighbour came to be implanted into the Japanese geographic imagination. Nevertheless, perceptions of Russia in Japan were to some extent defined by a general image of Western countries, especially represented by the

Changing Japanese-Russian Images in the Edo Period

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Dutch. These images fluctuated over time, sometimes implying criticism and denial of the West as a realm lacking Confucian morality, sometimes accepting Western technical achievements, and sometimes recognizing the advantages of European civilization on the whole. The difference in attitudes depended upon the political climate, individual predilections of scholars, or the impact of face-to-face encounters between peoples. However, in contrast to Holland and other Western countries, perceived in terms of their religious and intellectual challenge, Russia was often portrayed as a potential intruder. This image was confirmed by rumours of Russia’s expansive policy and clashes with the Ainu. Nonetheless, these apprehensions did not prevent the Japanese from making pragmatic use of information coming from Russia, and even from heaping praise on some features of its political and social life. Kodayu’s return to Japan, together with the visual representations he produced, were decisive in making Japan recognize Russia as an integral part of the European world. Moreover, awareness of Russia contributed to a more general understanding in Japan of the commonalities and differences among the various peoples of the world, and in turn helped people in Japan discover their own ethnic and national identity. Russian images of Japan contained much in common with images constructed in other Western countries, if only because much of the information on Japan reached Russia via Europe. Members of the political and intellectual elite in the Russian capital tended to emphasize the exotic nature of Japan and thereby exaggerated cultural differences. Kodayu was thus simultaneously treated as an object of curiosity and respect. However, there were other Russian views of Japan, as can be seen in the illustration of trade negotiations between Japanese and Russian merchants drawn by Shabalin. For those living in the Russian Far East, accustomed to dealing with Asian peoples, trade with Japan was rather a matter of course. These images depicted the Japanese as ‘ordinary’ people, open and curious about the outside world, while representations of the northern part of Japan were not much different from the Russian Far East. Still, despite the role played by Kodayu and other pioneers in creating direct channels of communication between Japan and Russia, stubborn myths and stereotypes continued to grip the minds of the two peoples. Many Russians, well into the twentieth century, romanticized Japan as an ideal land, while some clung to images of the Japanese as cruel and inhumane. And even more frustrating are Japanese negative images of Russia – uncivilized, untrustworthy, and bent on territorial conquest – that persist to the present day. Kodayu opened doors of communication between neighbours and succeeded in improving the way Russians and Japanese could actually see one another, but we must still appreciate a much more complex kaleidoscope of images if we are to build on his legacy.

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images NOTES

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George A. Lensen, The Russian Push toward Japan. Russo-Japanese Relations, 1697–1875, (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1959); Wada Haruki, Kaikoku Nichi-Ro kosho (Russian-Japanese Negotiations on Opening the Country), (Tokyo: Nihon Hoso Kyokai, 1995); Akizuki Toshiyuki, ‘Edo jidai ni okeru Nihonjin no Roshia kan’ (Japanese Views on Russia in the Edo Period), Nihon to Roshia, (Tokyo: Nauka, 1990); Esfir Fainberg, Russko-iaponskie otnosheniia v 1697–1875 gg. (Russian-Japanese Relations in 1697–1875), (Moscow: Izdatelstvo vostochnoi lit-ry, 1960); K.E. Cherevko, Zarozhdenie russko-iaponskikh otnoshenii, XVII–XIX veka (The Beginning of Russian-Japanese Relations, the 17th and the 19th centuries), (Moscow: Nauka, 1999); L. M. Ermakova, Vesti o Iapan-ostrove v starodavnei Rossii i drugoe (The Tidings about ‘the Isle of Japan’ in the Old Day Russia and Other Things), (Moscow: Iazyki slavianskoi kultury, 2005). Kondo Seisai, Henyo bunkai zuko (Considerations in Illustrations about Countries in the Periphery), Kondo Seisai zenshu, vol. 1, (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankokai, 1905), p. 110. Julio Alleni, Shokuho gaiki (Records about Foreign Countries), 1623. Manuscript in possession of Kyoto University Library. Bankoku sozu jinbutsuzu (Pictures of All the Countries and Peoples), 1645. Printed edition in possession of Shimonoseki City Chofu Museum. Nishikawa Joken, Kai tsushoko (On Trade between Civilized Peoples and Barbarians), 1695. Manuscript in possession of Kyoto University Library. Nishikawa Joken, Zoho kai tsushoko (On Trade between Civilized Peoples and Barbarians. Revised and enlarged edition), Nihon keizai sosho, vol. 5, (Tokyo: Nihon Keizai Sosho Kankokai, 1914), p. 284. Nishikawa Joken, Shijunikoku jinbutsu zue (Pictures of People from Forty Two Countries), 1720. Manuscript in possession of Kyoto University Library. Otsuki Gentaku, Hokuhen tanji (Explanations on the Northern Periphery), Hokumon sosho, vol. 6, (Tokyo: Kokusho Kankokai, 1972), p. 217. Terashima Ryoan, Wakan sansai zue (Illustrated Japanese-Chinese Encyclopedia of the Three Elements), Translation and commentary by Shimada Isao, Takeshima Atsuo, Higuchi Motomi, part 3, (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1986). See Mizuguchi Shigeo, Numata Jiro, Beniofusukii kokaiki (Records of a Voyage by Beniovskii), (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1970). Kizaki Ryohei, ‘Genbun no kurofune ni tsuite no Nihon-gawa shiryo’ (Japanese Materials on Black Ships of Genbun Era), Kadai shigaku, vol. 6, Kagoshima, 1973, pp. 183–215. Johann Hübner, Kurze Fragen aus der alten und neuen Geographie, Leipzig, 1693, translated into Japanese from a Dutch version: Johann Hübner, Algemeen geographie, Amsterdam, 1722. Jakob Broedelet, Oude en nieuwe staat van’t Russische of Moskovische Keiserrykh . . ., Utredht, 1744. Kudo Heisuke, Akaezo fusetsu ko (Report on the Land of the Red Barbarians), in Hoppo mikokai komonjo shusei (Collection of Unpublished Materials about the North), vol. 3, (Tokyo: Sobunsha, 1978).

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Hayashi Shihei, Sangoku tsuran zusetsu (Illustrated Survey of Three Countries), Hoppo mikokai komonjo shusei, vol. 3, (Tokyo: Sobunsha, 1978). Hayashi Shihei, Kaikoku heidan (Discussion of the Military Problems of a Maritime Nation), Nihon kaibo shiryo sosho (Collection of Materials Concerning Maritime Defence of Japan), vol. 1, (Tokyo: Toyodo, 1943). Kudo Heisuke, Akaezo fusetsu ko, p. 31. The terms ezo and emisi, both meaning ‘barbarians’, also referred to Ainu. Sugae Masumi, Sugae Masumi zuihitsu shu (Collection of Essays by Sugae Masumi), Uchida Takeshi (ed.), (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1965), p. 166. Otsuki Gentaku, Kankai ibun, honbun to kenkyu (Strange Stories about the World. Text and Studies), Shimura Hiroyuki (ed.), introduction by Sugimoto Tsutomu, (Tokyo: Yasaka Shobo, 1986), p. 14. ‘Oroshiia koku suimudan’, (Dreams about Russia), Facsimile edition in Pamiatniki literatury vostoka (Monuments of Oriental Literature), Texts, Small series, XI, (Moscow: Vostochnaia literatura, 1961). A.K. Laxman, ‘Zhurnal moreplavaniia v Iaponiiu’ (A Journal of a Voyage to Japan), Istoricheskii arkhiv, no. 4, 1961, p. 124. Ibid., pp. 139–40. Katsuragawa Hoshu, Hokusa bunryaku (A Brief Account of a Northern Country), revised by Kamei Takayoshi, (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990); Katsuragawa Hoshu, Hyomin goran-no ki (A Record of the Shogunal Viewing of the Castaways), Ishii Kendo korekushon, Edo hyoryuki soshu, vol. 3, (Tokyo: Nihon Hyoronsha, 1992). Koriki Tanenobu, ‘Enkoan Gasshu Rokuhen. Eiin to honnkoku’. (Collection of Works of Enkoan. Part six. Copies and Reprints), Nagoya shiritsu hakubutsukan kenkyu kiyo, no. 11, 1987, p. 9. Honda Toshiaki, Keisei hisaku (Secret Plan of Governance), Nihon shiso taikei, vol. 44, (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1970), p. 70. On Tadano Makuzu in English see: Bettina Gramlich-Oka, ‘Tadano Makuzu and Her Hitori Kangae’, Monumenta Nipponica, 2001, vol. 56, no. 1, pp. 1–20. Tadano Makuzu, Hitori kangae (Thoughts of One Person), Sugiura Akihira, Bessho Yoichi (eds), Edoki no kaimei shiso (Enlightenment Thought in the Edo Period) (Tokyo, Shakai Hyoronsha, 1990), p. 39. Akizuki Toshiyuki, ‘Edo jidai ni okeru Nihonjin no Roshia kan’, pp. 4–5. For an analysis of this unique gathering and the painting that commemorates it, see Reinier H. Hesselink, ‘A Dutch New Year at the Shirando Academy’, Monumenta Nipponica, vol. 50, No. 2 (Summer 1995) pp. 189–234. Maruko Poro, Toho kenbunroku (Accounts on Eastern Countries), Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1970. Ostensibly the book was written in 1298 and first published in French. Ivan Uzhevich, Grammatika slovianska (Slavic Grammar) 1, (Kiev, 1970). Kosmografiia 1670. Kniga, glagolemaia Kosmografiia, sirech opisanie sego sveta zemel i gosudarstv velikikh [s predisloviem Nikolaia Charykova] (Cosmography 1670, The Book Called Cosmography is a Description of All the World, Lands and Big States [with Introduction of Ivan Charykin], (Spb.: Tipografiia V.S.Balasheva, 1878–81).

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48

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images Gerardus Mercator, Atlas sive cosmographicae meditationes de fabricat figura, (Daisburg, Clevorum, 1595). Kosmografiia 1670, pp. 379–88. S. Znamenskii, V poiskakh Iaponii. Iz istorii russkikh geograficheskikh otkrytii i morekhodstva v Tikhom okeane (From the History of Russian Geographical Discoveries and Navigation in the Pacific Ocean), (Blagoveshchensk: ‘Knizhnoe delo’), 1929, p. 22. Nikolai Spafarii, Opisanie pervyia chasti vselennyia, imenuemoi Aziia v nei zhe sostoit Kitaiskoie gosudarstvo s prochimi ego gorody i provintsii. Tserkovno-slavyanskii tekst po rukopisi, prinadlezhashchei F.T. Vasilievu. (Description of the First Part of the World Called Asia where the Chinese State with its Cities and Provinces is Located. Church Slavonic Text Based on the Manuscript Belonging to F.T. Vasiliev), (Kazan: Tipografiia universiteta, 1910), p. 199. Nakamura Yoshikazu, Seinaru Roshia o motomete (In Search of Sacred Russia), (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1990). N.N. Ogloblin, ‘Pervyi iaponets v Rossii, 1701–1705’ (The First Japanese in Russia, 1701–1705), Russkaia starina, 1891, vol. 72, no. 10, p. 12. Gonza, Novyi leksikon slaveno-iaponskii (Gonza’s New Slavic-Japanese Dictionary), Murayama Shichiro (ed.), (Tokyo: Nauka, 1985). Opisanie o Iapone, soderzhashchee v sebe tri chasti, to est: izvestie o Iapone i o vine goneniia na khristian, istoriiu o gonenii khristian v Iapone i posledovanie stranstvovaniia Genrika Gagenara, kotoroe ispravnoiu landkartoiu i izriadnymi figurami ukrasheno (Description of Japan, Containing Three Parts, i.e. Information on Japan and Causes of Persecutions of Christians in Japan and Subsequent Travels of Genric Gagenar Illustrated in Maps and Drawings), (Spb., Akademiia Nauk, 1734). Jean Baptista Tavernier, Kurtzen Begriff Unterschiedener und Sonderbahrer Beschreibungen, Davon er in der Beschreibung seiner orientalischen Reisen keine Meldung gethan, I, . . . Ein Bericht von Japan, Genff, 1681; Fr. Caron, Rechte Beschryvingen van hel machtigh Koninghrijck van Jappan, door den Heer Philipps Lucas, ende door de Her Caron, Gravenhage, 1661. S. Znamenskii, V poiskakh Iaponii: iz istorii russkih geograficheskih otkrytii i morehodstva v Tikhom okeane, p. 99. S. Znamenskii, Ibid., p. 127. A.S. Polonskii, Kurily, Zapiski Russkogo Geograficheskogo Obshchestva po otdeleniiu etnografii (The Kuril Islands. Notes of the Russian Geographic Society, Ethnography Section), (Spb.: Tipogragiya Maikova, 1871), p. 94. A.K. Laxman, ‘Zhurnal moreplavaniia v Iaponiiu’, Istoricheskii arkhiv, 1961, no. 4, 131–132. ‘List o pozvolennom vkhode v nangasakskuiu gavan’ (A Document with a Permission to Enter Nagasaki Harbour), in Arkhiv kniazia Vorontsova (Archive by Prince Vorontsov, Spb., 1870), p. 414. Andrei Tatarinov, ‘Leksikon’ russko-iaponskii Andreia Tatarinova (Russian Japanese Dictionary by Andrei Tatarinov), O.P. Petrova (ed.), (Moskwa: Izdatelstvo vostochnoi literatury, 1962). Petr Shimonovich Palas, Sravnitelnye slovari vseh iazykov i narechii, sobrannye desnitseiu vsevysochaishei osoby [Ekateriny II], (Comparative Dictionaries of

Changing Japanese-Russian Images in the Edo Period

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51

52

53

54

55

56

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All Languages and Dialects Collected under the Order of Her Highness [Catherine II]), Otdelenie I, part 1–2, Spb.: Pechatano v tipografii u Shnora, 1787–89. Iogann Gotlib Georgi, Opisanie vseh v Rossiiskom gosudarstve obitaiushchikh narodov, tak zhe ikh zhiteiskikh obriadov, ver, obyknovenii, zhilishch, odezhd i prochikh dostoprimechatelnostei (Description of All Peoples Inhabiting the Russian State, as well as of Their Life Rituals, Religions, Customs, Dwellings, Clothes and Other Peculiarities), part 1–3, (Spb.: Izhdiveniem knigoprodavtsa K.V. Millera, 1776–77). F.I. Iankovich de Mirievo, Sravnitelnyi slovar vsekh iazykov i narechii po azbuchnomu poriadku raspolozhennyi (Comparative Dictionary of All Languages and Dialects Organized in Alphabetic Order), (Spb., 1791–94), vol. 4, p. 3. A. Vysheslavtsev, Ocherki perom i karandashom (Sketches by Pen and Pencil), (SPB: Tipografia morskogo ministerstva, 1862). V.N. Goreglyad, Japanese Sailors in Russia during the Period of Seclusion, International Center for Japanese Studies, (Kyoto, 2001), p. 38. ‘O pervom rossiiskom posolstve v Iaponiiu pod nachalstvom Laxmana’ (On the First Russian Embassy to Japan Headed by Laxman), Drug prosveshcheniia, 1804, no. 12, pp. 249–70; Izvestiia o pervom rossiiskom posolstve v Iaponiiu pod nachalstvom poruchika Laxmana (Notes on the First Russian Embassy to Japan Headed by Lieutenant Laxman), Moscow, 1805; ‘Puteshestviia Laxmana v Iaponiiu [Zapiska]’, (Travels of Laxman to Japan [A Note]), Russkii arkhiv, 1865, no. 5. pp. 563–66. I. Kruzenshtern, Puteshestvie vokrug sveta v 1803, 4, 5 i 1806 godakh, po poveleniiu ego imperatorskogo velichestva Aleksandra Pervogo, na korabliakh Nadezhda i Neva, (Voyage around the World in 1803, 4, 5 and 1806 Done under the Order of His Imperial Majesty Alexander the First on Ships Nadezhda and Neva), (SPB: Morskaiai Tipografiia, parts 1–3, 1812); Georg H. von Langsdorff, Voyages and Travels in Various Parts of the World during the Years 1803, 1804, 1805, 1806 and 1807 (London: Printed for Henry Colbuen, 1814). V.M. Golovnin, Zapiski flota kapitana Golovnina o prikliucheniiakh ego v plenu u iapontsev v 1811, 1812 i 1813 godakh S priobshcheniem zamechanii ego o iaponskom gosudarstve i narode (Narrative of Captain Golovnin about His Adventures in Japanese Captivity during the Years 1811, 1812 and 1813. Supplanted by His Remarks on the Country and the People), parts 1–3, (Spb.: Morskaia tipografiia, 1816).

2

Japonisme in Russia in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries ELENA DIAKONOVA

Gold flows into steel, East into West (Valery Briusov, The Diadochs)

INTRODUCTION

E

astern motifs permeate the entire body of Russian culture. These motifs not only transform many works of Russian literature into Oriental novelettes and stories, poems and ballads; they make chinaware manufactured in Russia look like the celebrated work of Chinese and Japanese masters; they add a touch of the Arabic or Siamese to the interiors of the homes and palaces of the nobility. Indeed, the East reaches into the very heart of Russia’s poetic vision, transmitting artistic forms, and intruding into the meditation of its poets and artists: It was your lynx eyes, Asia, That spied out something in me, That teased something more hidden . . .1 Anna Akhmatova

The Orient finds its way into verses about the essence of poetry, as Boris Pasternak wrote about Pushkin’s Prophet in his poem Prophet, – poetry is like a planetary night spread out from Morocco to the Ganges.2 By the nineteenth century, Russia came to think of itself as a bridge connecting East and West. The way to the East, or to be more precise, the way of Russian cognition of the East led directly from the ‘bridge of Russia’ into the depth of Asia. However, the path was not a straight

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one: knowledge of the East was drawn from both Eastern and Western sources. Russian fascination with the East has ancient roots, beginning with the old Russian ‘Alexandrias’ (Romances of Alexander the Great), a cycle of literary works on India, and descriptions of voyages to the Holy Land, continuing with Oriental themes and motifs in the classics of the ‘Golden’ (mid-nineteenth century) and ‘Silver’ (fin de siècle) Ages, and finding a way into works of more recent Soviet times. Even now new interpretations of Oriental themes can be found in the post-modern Russian art and literature. Works of Russian literature, dealing with images of the Ancient East and Palestine, of the Islamic world (the Arab countries, Persia, Turkey) and India, of China and Japan, are numerous.3 Oriental motifs are represented in all forms of art and literature. The ‘universal responsiveness’ of the Russian soul, proclaimed by Fyodor Dostoyevsky in his famous ‘Pushkin Speech’, is associated with the greatest virtue of Russian culture – its ability to feel deeply the essence of other cultures and ‘be reincarnated in them’. This chapter concentrates on the ‘Silver Age’ of Russian culture, or the period between the 1880s and the end of the 1920s and looks particularly at the influx of artistic motifs from Japan. This period follows the initial years of encounter with Japan as described in Michiko Ikuta’s chapter, but predates academic studies of Japan and Japanese culture. During this time images of Japan gradually entered and became ingrained in Russian art and literature. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Russians came to understand Japan on different levels (high culture/low culture) and in different genres, forming a bright and expressive, albeit somewhat blurry, picture. That image was incorporated into classical Russian literature and the writers of the Russian fin de siècle accepted and transformed it still further. It thus emerged like a photograph in various stages of development. Starting from the classical period onwards, the image of Japan was enriched, not only by works of Western writers and scholars, but also, as Ikuta has shown, by the personal experience of Russian travellers. JAPONISME IN RUSSIA

Things Japanese (such as chinaware, kimono, fans, lacquerware, etc.), brought from Japan to Russia often via Europe, were important in helping to identify the land of Japan, but also because they contributed to orientalizing motifs in Russian art and literature. These things Japanese become the ‘load of spices’ (as the poet Maximilian Voloshin put it) badly needed by Russian artists to create a new poetic language and a new sphere of sentiment.4 Images of Japan observed throughout the history of Russian literature have certain recurrent motifs and themes in common handed down by generations of Russian artists. They form an organic part of the Russian vision of the Orient as a promised land, a paradise lost, an ‘India of the

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Spirit’. The ‘archetypal’ motifs of the Orient first emerged in the works of ancient Russian literature (from the fifteenth to the eighteenth centuries) and were later augmented, gradually becoming more complex. Despite growing military tensions between the two countries, Japan, in the eyes of many Russian observers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, was a land given up totally to art and artistry. This image of Japan blended easily with a typically Russian (though of course not confined to Russia) view of the East as a realm of idyllic and happy people, and was confirmed by contemporary Western (French, German, American, and, to a lesser degree, British) admiration of Japanese art. Following the footsteps of their European colleagues, Russian artists introduced ‘visual images’ of Japan – fans, dolls, woodblock prints, chinaware, kimono – into their paintings, illustrations and other works of art. Sometimes, they confused Japanese and Chinese artefacts, but the fashion for things Japanese turned everything into Japonisme, a term that was introduced by the French art critic Philippe Burty and defined as ‘the study of the art and genius of Japan’.5 The craze for ‘things Japanese’ in France began in the late 1860s; the unexpected discovery of Hokusai’s Manga posed serious and exciting challenges for the artists throughout Europe, and through these channels, artists in Russia as well.6 Japanese trends in painting influenced Russian painters indirectly, via Europe, although their ‘Japaneseness’ was not always recognized. Russian artists admired the work of fashionable European graphic artists who were influenced by Japanese woodblock prints. Mediating artists included Aubrey Beardsley, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Claude Monet, Edgar Degas, and other so-called impressionist painters. The Japanese influence on these artists has been analysed by art historians including Kobayashi Taichiro and Siegfried Wichmann.7 Exhibitions of Japanese artists organized by Sergey Kitaev (1864–1927) in the final years of the nineteenth and in the early twentieth century became an important step in placing Russia in direct artistic contact with Japan. He was responsible for giving the Russian public their first glimpse at the full range of the Japanese artistic tradition. His first exhibition was held at the Academy of Arts, St Petersburg (1–5 December 1896); a second exhibition followed at the History Museum, Moscow (3–23 February 1897); and his final exhibition took place in 1905 in St Petersburg, in the midst of the Russo-Japanese War.8 Newspapers reporting on the exhibitions presented a virtual kaleidoscope of contradictory images, but nonetheless played an important role in shaping Russian understanding of Japanese art. Apart from exhibitions based on his own extensive collection of Edo period woodblock prints, Kitaev began what may be called a ‘Japanese exhibition boom’ in Russia: Japanese prints from the collections of Prince Sergei Shcherbatov and Vladimir von Meck were exhibited during the winter of 1901–2; a major display of woodblock prints owned (and offered for sale) by the Japanese art dealer Hasegawa9 was held in 1905; and an exhibition of Chinese and Japanese objects of art, industry, and everyday life from Nikolai Kalabashkin’s collection took place in 1906.

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Compared with French and American collectors of Japanese art, until recently little was known about Sergei Kitaev. An article published in 1994 by V. G. Voronova (then curator of Japanese art at the Pushkin Fine Arts Museum in Moscow) was the first study about him and his passion for Japanese art.10 Kitaev was born in the city of Riazan in 1864. He graduated from the Higher Naval School in St Petersburg. Beginning in the summer of 1885, he travelled extensively, spending three years and six months in Japan. In 1916, he left Russia together with his family to undergo medical treatment for a serious illness. In 1918, after the Russian revolution, he returned to Japan, settling in Yokohama, where he lived through the Great Kanto Earthquake. He died in Tokyo in 1927.11 When he returned to Russia from his voyages in 1896, he wrote to Ivan Tsvetaev, the founder of the Fine Arts Museum in Moscow and President of the Russian Academy of the Arts, proposing to hold an exhibition of Japanese art, noting that he had collected some 250 Japanese paintings, several hundred studies and sketches, and several thousand woodblock prints. He noted that his collection represented all schools of Japanese graphic art, and therefore would give the public a good introduction to the essence of Japanese art. The issue of buying the collection, which Kitaev kept in his house in St Petersburg, was frequently discussed by prominent Russian scholars such as Sergei Oldenburg, Sergei Yeliseev and members of the purchasing committee of the Fine Arts Museum in Moscow, but the records of his collection remained lost, only to be found in the 1990s. Kitaev’s exhibitions provoked much interest and he himself contributed to propagating Japanese art by writing a guidebook to the exhibitions and giving lectures. According to press accounts, his collection consisted of scrolls, paintings, drawings, sketches and studies (shitae), engravings, albums, nishiki-e (colour woodblock prints heavily decorated), as well as watercolours and photographs made by Kitaev himself. St Petersburg and Moscow periodicals gave the exhibitions extensive coverage, becoming a regular column in some papers. Thus, in 1896, N. A. Alexandrov and a certain ‘Mr V. F.’ published in the leading papers of the time, Birzhevye vedomosti and Novoe vremia, articles covering the first exhibition of Japanese art. Other newspapers (Moskovskii Listok, Syn Otechestva, Moskovskie vedomosti, Russkie vedomosti) published accounts of the exhibitions as well. These publications took the lead in interpreting Japanese art, making comments on different approaches to drawing, use of colour and other comparisons with the European tradition. They included information on individual painting schools, for example, on the school of Hokusai (‘the Japanese Doré’ [Gustave Dore, 1832–83], as he was called) or on Kawanabe Kyosai and his ‘strange images’. JAPAN AND THE SEARCH FOR UTOPIA

An 1896 article in Birzhevye vedomosti by N. A. Alexandrov, under the headline of The Genius of Children (The Japanese Art Exhibition), abounds

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

with expressions such as ‘remarkably feminine taste’, ‘delicate, slight features’, ‘soft outline’, ‘strong impressionability’, ‘power of expression and subtle observation’, ‘expressiveness of movements and their typical nature’.12 According to Alexandrov, these features attested to the ‘infantile genius’ of the Japanese people. Aside from a common Western yearning for the natural and nature ‘unspoilt by civilization’ (cf. Gauguin’s life and work on Tahiti), there also was an echo of theosophy, holding that artistic insight was the attribute of a ‘future race’, individual representatives of which were sent to live among the ‘old’. Accordingly, it was the ‘infantile genius’ of the Japanese that was praised. ‘We are attracted to the young because we lapse into [second] childhood with old age’, wrote Andrei Belyi in his Arabesques.13 Moreover, nostalgia emerged as the main reaction to the onslaught of modernity in Europe and America. Art and architecture favoured the gothic and medieval; the age of the machine was countered by movements to revive arts and crafts (in Russia, note the examples of the Abramtsevo and Talashkino estates).14 The nostalgic impulse included a powerful Orientalism. The perspicacious Andrey Belyi wrote: ‘As soon as Japanese painting began to sing for the Goncourt brothers, Edouard Manet revived it in his work; then the works of [Louis] Gonse, [Michel] Revon, [Michael ] Tomkinson15 and others dealing with Japan appeared, while Audrey Beardsley [1872–98] re-created our age in Japan-inspired works to bring it closer to Watteau.’16 Then follows a transparent analogy in which yearning for the Japanese melds with a revival of the work of the French artist Antoine Watteau (1684–1721): ‘A magical land melting into azure turned out to be the colour range [of the painter]; a land where the sky is one with the ground.’17 Japan was perceived as a dreamland in which the past is reborn in the future, and the future lives in the past, thus eliminating the present. Therefore, the symbolic Embarquement pour Cythère by Watteau (incidentally, Watteau was acquainted with Chinese art from the Versailles collections of Louis XIV) served as a new inspiration for creative work. The Ancien Régime was revived as Utopia. MASTERING JAPANESE TECHNIQUES

The first work on Japanese engravings appeared in Russia in 1903, one year before the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War. That was Japanese Colour Woodblock Prints by Igor Grabar (1871–1960).18 Mstislav Dobuzhinsky (1875–1967), a friend of Grabar, wrote: ‘Grabar acquainted me with Japanese woodblock prints, of which he has a large and very fine collection; it was then that the Japanese art “shocked” me for the first time.’19 Another passage: I also owe to Grabar my first acquaintance with Japanese art; while in Munich, I saw at his [house] woodblock prints by Hokusai, Hiroshige and Utamaro. In 1902, a small cheerful Japanese named Hasegawa

Japonisme in Russia

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appeared in St Petersburg. He spoke Russian a little and visited many artists bringing excellent Japanese engravings with him, which were easily sold as his prices were fairly low. That was three years before the war with Japan, so that later many people recalling Hasegawa thought him a spy or some sort of officer in the Japanese general staff, perhaps even a general! For my part, I could not afford to spend much money, so I bought a few woodcuts and a book by Hokusai entitled Manga. I was especially struck by Hiroshige, his unexpected composition and the decorative quality of his landscapes. His choice of angle and the ‘section of nature’ was a great discovery for me.20

Dobuzhinskii confessed: ‘I liked to choose a viewpoint of my own so that the [resultant] composition would be striking, unusual; in that, I had the constant example of Hiroshige before my eyes.’21 The Russian ‘World of Art’ movement in the early twentieth century, fascinated by traditional folk art and the eighteenth-century rococo, also expressed an interest in Japan. A magazine, Mir iskusstva (World of Art) founded in 1899 in St Petersberg, served as the forum for a group of artists who sought to counter the influence of modern industrial society on artistic creativity. As one of the co-founders of the movement, Alexandre Benois, wrote in My Reminiscences: . . . [T]heir [Japanese] marvellous art and their entire delightful culture are what my friends and I came to like so much in the past few years. Many of us liked it so much that we sought to acquire a collection of Japanese prints; Hokusai, Hiroshige, Kunnoshi [Kuniyoshi], Utamaro became our favourite figures.22

A mutual friend of Dobuzhinskii and Benois, Prince Sergey Shcherbatov (1875–1962), himself a painter and collector, recalled his initial fascination with Japan: The cult of Chinese and Japanese art which, owing to the Goncourt brothers, had Paris and the entire West in its grip, had not reached Russia by that time yet [1890s] . . . During my stay in Munich, Grabar and I became engrossed in collecting Japanese woodblock prints . . . What wonderful times those were, how much youthful enthusiasm and pure joy [we felt] when we managed to acquire a marvellous Utamaro, Hiroshige, Hokusai, etc. What masters those were, what subtle composition, what taste! I used to spend hours on end in my favourite shop, with an amiable Japanese producing from his folders more and more new wonders ‘for the connoisseurs’ he had kept hidden. I recall the peculiar exotic smell of that fabulous shop, the long moustache of the old Japanese and his mysterious voice as he half-whispered in [my] ear, ‘I’ve got something really special for you,’ producing from his treasury some particularly exquisite woodblock prints. The public was shown simpler, more vulgar prints.23

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

Shcherbatov continued buying woodcuts in Paris and Berlin. Alexander Benois remembered him saying: ‘It is only with a poignant feeling that I can recall one of them, a portrait of a woman against a silver background, displaying the unsurpassed finesse of Utamaro.’24 Anna P. Ostroumova-Lebedeva (1871–1955) was one of the first Russian painters to take advantage of Japanese artistic techniques. Under her tutelage, the Russian woodcut emerged as a distinct type of easel painting in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. She was a great admirer of the classic Japanese woodblock print and applied what she learned in her black-and-white and colour views of St Petersburg, which even today are among the best known representations of that city. In her autobiography, she described the impression that the Japanese art exhibition of 1896 made on her: I had no knowledge of Japanese art before. I would sit at the exhibition for many hours, drawn by the impossible fascination of shapes and colours. The works of art were hung on display boards, uncovered by glass, in huge numbers, nearly reaching the floor . . . I was struck by clear-cut realism side by side with stylization and generalization, by the world of fantasy and mysticism, . . . [by] their ability to commit transient, momentary phenomena of the surrounding nature to paper.25

Ostroumova-Lebedeva mastered the lessons of Japanese art in earnest only later, in the Paris studio of the English painter James Whistler who had been profoundly influenced by the Japanese art tradition. Her blackand-white ‘winter’ landscapes and views of St Petersburg were created under the influence of the Japanese ukiyo-e woodcuts, primarily Hiroshige. For example, at her Imitation of Hiroshige, a landscape woodblock print where the Japanese artist’s experience is seen from a different angle.26 Vadim Falileev (1879–1950), an artist born in St Petersburg but later active in Italy, was one of the first to follow Ostroumova-Lebedeva in using Japanese colour woodblock techniques. He became interested in woodblock printing in 1905, when he started studying Italian and Japanese engravings at the Hermitage. ‘Only Japanese woodblock prints taught me polychrome technique,’27 he wrote. He also examined collections of engravings in Berlin, Munich and Vienna. In Paris, he studied at the department of prints of the Bibliothèque Nationale. Falileev also experienced the influence of the ‘World of Art’; his works are sharply graphic, ornamental and exquisite. He wrote about ‘the visual wonders of the Orient that were revealed’ to him. He is mostly famous for his dynamic, passionate engravings showing the river Volga: Wind, Thunderstorm (Veter, Groza, 1905), Raft in the Rain (Plot vo vremia dozhdya, 1909), The Volga in Flood (Razliv na Volge, 1916), as well as for his Italian drawings, such as The Wave. Capri (Volna. Kapri, 1911). All these and other works of Falileev demonstrate Japanese artistic influence as regards composition, colour saturation, precise expressiveness and a

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small number of techniques used. Return to the Sheksna (Vozvraschenie na Sheksnu, 1909, Pl. 8) betrays the obvious influence of Japanese woodcut artists, especially Hiroshige, as can be seen in the contrast between the orange-red sails and the blue-green water. Using a few simple methods, the artist is able to impart sensations of peace and quiet. The inner kinship of this work, in both its spiritual content and colour rendering, to the Japanese woodcut is striking. Pavel Kuznetsov (1878–1968) is another artist well known for his passion for Oriental motifs, although he was mainly concerned with Central Asia, especially Bukhara and Turkestan. One remarkable work, however, betrays Japanese influence. His Still Life with Japanese Woodblock Print (Naturmort s iaponskoi graviuroi), painted at the end of 1912 and at the beginning of 1913, in the prime of his career, is one of his ‘standalone’ works that was not part of any cycle. To solve the mystery of the presence of a Japanese motif in Kuznetsov’s work, one has to understand the cultural context in which the still life in question was painted.28 Having absorbed the poetics and symbolism of colours developed by the Symbolists (among others, by Andrei Belyi), Kuznetsov combined the colour range of Symbolist poetry with the traditional colour schemata of Central Asian pottery and architectural décor. In addition, he was caught up in the craze that painters and poets had for Japanese art. His Still Life with a Japanese Woodblock Print represents both Kuznetsov’s discovery of Japanese art and his interpretation of it. His choice of Utamaro as part of his own painting is neither accidental nor whimsical but a sign of the times. Without imitating Utamaro, he attempted a painted interpretation. Kuznetsov’s path from Symbolism to the Orient is, in a way, his own version of visual symbolism. The critic A. A. Rusakova writes, for instance: ‘Still Life is a case of a twentieth-century artist interpreting an image that was created long before him, when one culture sought to interpret another.’ 29 At the same time, this researcher described the work as a ‘harmonious spiritual concord of two different artistic systems’. She wonders if Kuznetsov intended to simply portray a woodblock print or Japanese art in its entirety. The picture in question is painted in two colours: yellow and blue, i.e. ‘in gold and azure’, the favourite colour combination of the Symbolists present in all experiments of Andrei Belyi, Alexander Block and Valerii Briusov. The origins of this bi-coloured combination are in the poetry of the Romantics and Symbolists who published their works in the Golden Fleece (Zolotoe runo) magazine issued during 1906–9; the name of the first Symbolist exhibition opened on 18 March 1907 was ‘Blue Rose’;30 the poet Nikolai Gumiliov referred to ‘the golden lightning of Romanticism’. The renowned art critic Natalia Nikolaeva compares Kuznetsov’s Still Life to a woodblock print by Paul Gauguin of the same name, portraying the head of an actor of the Kabuki theatre, which Kuznetsov probably saw in Paris during a 1906 exhibition.31 The work of the painter Viktor Borisov-Musatov (1870–1905) earned him, like Bonnard in France before him, the nickname ‘Japanese’. His

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

work also must be seen as part of a general enthusiasm for the Japanese woodblock print, a passion imported from Europe – from Paris in the case of painters and from Munich in the case of graphic artists. While in Paris, Borisov-Musatov, like everyone else, became immersed in the atmosphere of the craze for ‘things Japanese’. An unexpected Japanese theme can be found in the work of the avantgarde photographer Alexander Rodchenko (1891–1956), a close associate of the poet Vladimir Maiakovskii and the Futurists. His photo compositions, especially those illustrating works by Maiakovskii, exerted a serious influence on the current view of the world in the early twentieth century. Completely different from his photos is the picture Woman in Kimono (Dama v Kimono, 1915), where Rodchenko introduced a Japanese motif and the influence of the Viennese ‘Sezession’ (especially that of Gustav Klimt) can be seen. IVAN BILIBIN AND GEORGII NARBUT

As we have seen, artists connected with the ‘World of Art’ movement were eager to learn Japanese artistic techniques, even during the height of war with their Asian neighbour. Two ‘World of Art’ members, Ivan Bilibin (1876–1942) and his disciple, Georgii (Yegor) Narbut (1886– 1920), particularly stand out for their skill in combining Russian and Japanese motifs to produce creative new trends in Russian art circles. Narbut worked in St Petersburg, the cultural centre of Russia, but his work displayed a good knowledge of traditional Ukrainian arts and crafts. Critics attribute Narbut’s genius to his Ukrainian origin and note that all his works are full of a Ukrainian elemental force. Having never received a proper artistic education, he was a naturally gifted artist belonging to an old Ukrainian family that fell into total decline. Georgii Narbut’s brother, Vladimir, became a St Petersburg poet of note, much valued, among others, by Anna Akhmatova. Books with illustrations by Narbut are now bibliographical rarities well-known primarily among specialists. Narbut’s teacher, the renowned painter Ivan Bilibin, wrote about his pupil: ‘Narbut is a genius of huge, practically immeasurable proportions . . . I think him the greatest, the most prominent of Russian graphic artists.’32 From his childhood Narbut was impressed by old Russian books, especially the Ostromir manuscript of the Gospels (Ostromirovo Evangelie) from which he copied samples of old script. He loved Russian fairy tales, and could scrutinize flowers, herbs, butterflies and grasshoppers for hours. Bilibin’s engravings in Mir Iskusstva magazine and his illustrations of fairy-stories fascinated the young artist with their amazing precision of line and artistic effects derived from observing naturally occurring colour-and-shade combinations. Bilibin’s technique was to Narbut the height of perfection. He was fascinated with Bilibin’s imagery, which included toadstools, fly agarics, water-lilies, cornflowers, chamomiles and various herbs drawn with

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botanical accuracy combined with stylized folk embroidery-like ornaments. Narbut did not realize then that Bilibin was reflecting the influence of the world of the Japanese woodblock print, especially works by Hokusai and Hiroshige. As for Bilibin, he was so captivated by Japanese art during those years that one of his disciples, R. R. O’ConnellMikhailovskaia (a student at the School of the Imperial Society for the Promotion of the Arts where the ‘World of Art’ members, including Bilibin, were teaching) wrote: I.Ia. [Bilibin] often brought engravings or prints to the art school. He showed us Japanese woodblock prints by Hiroshige, Utamaro and Hokusai. Among them were the views of Mount Fuji by Hokusai, his series of thirty-six and one hundred drawings; as a result, that volcanic mountain became as familiar to us as Aiu-Dag and Ai-Petri in the Crimea.33

Bilibin’s fascination with Hokusai manifested itself in his illustrations to the Tale of Tsar Saltan by A. S. Pushkin (1905, Pl. 9): we see here the transformed Under the Wave off Kanagawa (Kanagawa no namiura) by Hokusai or his other great wave scene from the series One Hundred Views of Mt Fuji (Fugaku hyakkei) modified ‘Russian-style’ to match Pushkin’s poetic lines: ‘Clouds racing in the sky, the tub in waves tossing high . . .’ Hokusai’s Wave equally held attraction for other Russian artists and architects who used it, ‘quoting’ and modifying its visual idea in their works. Bilibin returned to the wave motif more than once, for instance, in his picture Sindbad the Seaman (Sindbad morehod, 1932). Vadim Falileev was another graphic artist who produced a Russian variation of the Japanese wave in his pictures mentioned above. Another of the impressive ‘waves’ in Russian art of the early twentieth century, again inspired by Hokusai, is the marble sculpture of ‘The Wave’ (1900), made by Fiodor Shekhtel, a Russian architect of the Art Deco era. According to Dobuzhinskii, it was under the influence of Bilibin that Narbut began studying prototypes, inducing an earnest interest in Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528) and Japanese masters of the woodcut. Bilibin invited Narbut to live in his house and took a near paternal interest in his work. He recommended him to Nikolai K. Rerikh, then the head of the School of the Society for the Promotion of the Arts, also an admirer and connoisseur of old Russian art. Besides, Narbut made friends with Mstislav Dobuzhinskii, an expert and collector of Japanese woodblock prints. Narbut abandoned the style of his mentor but adhered to the Russian lubok (popular print or broadside) technique, absorbing other models as well, including the refined graphic manner of Audrey Beardsley. He was especially concerned to illustrate childhood memories and impressions. Here for inspiration he drew heavily on Japanese woodblock prints from Kitaev’s exhibitions and from collections owned by his friends (Bilibin, Dobuzhinskii, Grabar) or known to him from his study at Munich. A

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Japanese flavour was thus added to his earlier commitment to the ‘graphical creatures of nature’ (Narbut’s own wording), herbs, flowers, butterflies’ (Pl. 10). Narbut’s illustrated tale, Little Tower-Chamber. The Spider (Teremok. Mizgir’), is at once his most ‘Japanese’ work and most devoted to childhood memories.34 The cover shows an eerie skull – an object used in Ukrainian villages as a protective charm and hung over the roof of sheds, barns, etc. – framed by horse-tails and butterflies, bees and bumble-bees rendered with entomological precision. Such a cover was bound to cause a philosophical mood in the reader, introducing the ‘sinister theme’ so typical of the fin de siècle art. The visual attraction of the skull and cobwebs and the unorthodox composition were enhanced by the colour fills and flat manner characteristic of Japanese prints. The composition is magnificent; almost symmetrical, but skilfully animated by artfully introduced asymmetry. The colour schema of the cover completely imitates the manner of a woodcut. The onlooker’s viewpoint is that of a mosquito looking at the world around it – upwards. At the same time, it introduces the haiku world where things lose their proportions, seemingly getting closer to the observer and becoming larger. Critics wrote that ‘the tales chosen by Narbut sent his fancy flying to the farm of his childhood where he discovered a Japan of his own, like an Englishman who beheld it on the banks of the Thames’.35 Opening this small volume, the reader is immediately presented with a ‘Japanese’ winter landscape with a huge mosquito hovering beneath inspired by Japanese engravings and looking as if it is taken from the pages of Hokusai’s Manga (which has crabs rendered in a similar manner) sharing the same page. A critic noted that ‘this landscape can be regarded as a visual dedication to Japanese artists’.36 The ‘sinister theme’ is also present in the illustration of a black bear with halberd that resembles the drawings of frogs in the famous animal cartoons (dobutsu giga) of the very end of Heian epoch and the beginning of Kamakura period; the ‘Japanese sky’ and the ‘Japanese rain’ are obvious borrowings from the woodblock prints by Hiroshige and Hokusai (Pl. 11). The same ‘Japanese sky’ and ‘Japanese rain’ can be seen in another book illustrated by Narbut, The Toys (Igrushki, 1911, Pl. 12): a lady carrying an umbrella and leading a small dog (which looks like a Vyatka toy) walks across a green meadow with gingerbread-looking houses and church in the background with rain pouring from the thunderclouds in the sky. The rain motif is set by a line from the song ‘Oh, You Rain, Rain’. We see here an amazing harmonious combination of the two supposedly opposite styles: the purely Russian Viatka lubok and the Japanese woodcut. Indeed, Narbut’s fairy-story drawings derive from various sources: Russian and Ukrainian popular prints (lubok), German engraving (e.g. Dürer), Japanese woodblock prints, especially Hokusai and Hiroshige (it is to the woodcut that Narbut owes the unerring precision of his lines, as if cut by chisel). It is impossible to overlook the influence of the Secession and Art Nouveau movements, as well as that of the general

Japonisme in Russia

43

atmosphere created by the ‘World of Art’, primarily Bilibin. The Japanese ‘strand’ was organically woven into the texture of pictures illustrating Russian fairy stories, enhancing the general style rather than contradicting it, infusing a new hybrid element into the totality of Russian art. CONCLUSION

This chapter presented a mosaic which forms a pattern of sorts defining the nation through a characteristic process of adaptation and localization of alien cultures, including ‘things Japanese’. Intrinsic stimuli for the impressive cultural adaptation of Oriental exoticism during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the so-called Silver Age, existed deep within the history of Russia and its contacts with the Islamic world, India, Southeast Asia, China and Japan. In this context it is easy to understand why the Russian poet of the Silver Age, Marina Tsvetaeva, called the capital of Russia ‘Buddhist Moscow’, a perfect metaphor for the bewildering diversity of the city. This Russian tradition of adaptation and modification of outside cultural influence is vividly portrayed in the work of Pavel Kuznetsov, especially his Still Life with Japanese Woodblock Print where, as discussed above, ties between a Russian ‘context’ and Japanese ‘core’ define the essence of a new artistic reality. There are many examples of such cultural hybridity at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries as we have seen in the illustrations by Bilibin and the creative works of Narbut. At work here is the persistence of Russian folk elements, the traditional component of the synthesis between East and West that determines the originality of Russian character and therefore the humanitarian value of its experience. Russian interest in Asia, and Japan in particular, dramatically increased as a result of rising political, economic, and military friction in the late nineteenth century, reaching a crescendo during and after the RussoJapanese War of 1904–5. This was a time when naval officers, travellers and adventurers, missionaries, officials, collectors of exotic objects, and finally artists and poets (for example, the Symbolist poet Konstantin Balmont travelled to Japan in 1916) happened to be in Japan because of war or out of their own curiosity. The beginning of the twentieth century also saw the emergence of Russian academic works on Japan, including grammars, dictionaries, and translations from Japanese literature (many translated from French, German and English). Japanese art, religion (especially Buddhism) and literature became objects of serious study. Names such as Evgenii Spalvin, Nikolai Konrad, Nikolai Nevskii, Evgenii Polivanov, and Anna Gluskina, were first representatives of an emerging academic tradition, based largely on a philological approach. Japan, thus, remained an enigma beset by multiple images and modes of understanding. Alongside the real politics of diplomacy and war, and the cold eyes of the scholar, eager to apply academic tools to an understanding of ‘things Japanese’, artists were hard at work to establish a romantic and

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

symbolist vision of Japan as fairy-tale, as dreamland, as a utopia of cultural creativity – a vision that has endured in the Russian psyche to the present day. NOTES 1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9 10 11

12

13

Anna Akhmatova, Bez nazvaniia (Untitled, 1945), in Anna Akhmatova, Stikhotvoreniia i poemy, (Verses and Poems), V. M. Zhirmunskii (ed.), (Leningrad: Sovetskii pisatel’, 1976), p. 221. Boris Pasternak, ‘Prorok’ (Prophet), in Boris Pasternak, Stihotvoreniia i poemy. Perevody (Verses and Poems. Translations), (Moscow: Pravda, 1990), p. 74. A collection of works inspired by the East has recently been published. See Vostochnye motivy: stikhotvoreniia i poemy (Oriental Motifs: Verses and Poems), P.A. Grintser (ed.), L.Ye. Cherkasskii and V.S. Muraviev (comp.), (Moscow: Nauka, 1985). For an extensive bibliography see: P.I. Tartakovskii, Russkaia poeziia i Vostok, 1800–1950; Opyt bibliografii (Russian Poetry and the East, 1800– 1950; A Bibliography), (Moscow: Nauka, 1975). Maximilian Voloshin (1877–1932) was a poet and artist influenced by the Parnassian School and French symbolists, as well as the Japanese art. He settled in Koktebel, in Crimea, where his house became the pivot of intellectual life, attracting many artistic personalities of the ‘Silver Age’. Now this is the only surviving house of the ‘Silver Age’ in Russia. Ayako Ono, Japonisme in Britain. Whistler, Menpes, Henry, Hornel and Nineteenth Century Japan, (London, New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), p. 1. N. S. Nikolaeva, Iaponiia – Evropa. Dialog v iskusstve, seredina XVI – nachalo XIX v. (Japan–Europe. Dialogue in Art, from the Middle of the 16th Century Till the Beginning of the 19th Century), (Moscow: Izobrazitelnoye iskusstvo, 1996), p. 370; on perception of Hokusai in France see: Shigemi Inaga, ‘The Making of Hokusai’s Reputation in the Context of Japonisme’, Japan Review. Journal of the International Research Center for Japanese Studies, no, 15, 2003, pp. 77–100. Kobayashi Taichiro, Hokusai to Doga (Hokusai and Degas), (Osaka: Zenkoku Shobo, 1946); Siegfried Wichmann, Japonisme: The Japanese Influence on Western Art in the 19th and 20th Centuries, (New York: Harmony Books, 1980). V. G. Voronova, ‘Sergei Nikolayevich Kitaev i ego iaponskaia kollektsiia’ (Sergei Nikolaevich Kitaev and His Japanese Collection), in: Chastnoe kollektsionirovanie v Rossii: materialy konferentsii ‘Vipperovskie chteniia’, Issue 27, 1994, pp. 160–65. It was impossible to ascertain the personal name of this art dealer. V.G. Veronova, ‘Sergei Nikolaevich Kitaev i ego iaponskaia kollectsiia. Katsu Ishigaki, ‘Seragei Kitaefu to daini no Kokyo Nichon’, (Sergei Kitaev and His Second Motherland Japan), in Mitsuo Naganawa and Kazuhiko Sawada (eds), Ikyo ni ikiru. Rainichi Roshiajin no sokuseki (Living in a Foreign Country. Footprints of Russians in Japan), (Yokohama: Seibunsha, 2001), pp. 105–20. N. Alexandrov, ‘Genialnye deti [Iaponskaia khudozhestvennaia vystavka]’ (The Genius of Children [The Japanese Art Exhibition]), Birzhevye vedomosti, December 15/17, 1896, no. 346, p. 3. Andrei Belyi, Arabeski (Arabesque), (Moscow: Musaget, 1911), p. 62.

Japonisme in Russia 14

15

16 17 18

19 20

21 22

23

24 25

26

27

28

29 30

45

Abramtsevo is a beautiful Russian countryside estate with out-buildings and gardens founded in the middle of the eighteenth century. From 1843 it belonged to a prominent Russian writer Sergei Aksakov, ‘the singer of the beauty of Russian province’. Aksakov was one of the most educated men of his time, many well-known writers, artists and critics came to Abramtsevo, which flourished for many years. In 1878, the Abramtsevo Artistic Circle was founded; the members of the circle – artists, actors, composers, architects, designers and artisans – created what was called the New Russian Style in arts and crafts. Talashkino is the name of a village not far from Smolensk city in the central part of Russia. It consisted of an old country house with a large park, which belonged to the artist and collector M.K. Tenisheva. She founded an artistic manufactory where objects of everyday life, such as embroidery, pottery, ceramics, furniture, etc. were produced. The tradition of Russian art was combined with the principles of Art Deco. Many artists, sculptors, composers, Paolo Trubetskoi and Igor Stravinskii among them, often visited Talashkino. Louis Gonse (1846–1921) – prominent collector and art critic, author of L’Art Japonais (1883); Michel Revon is known for his Etude sur Hokusai published in 1896; Michael Tomkinson (1841–1921) – entrepreneur and art collector, author of A Japanese Collection, 2 Volumes, 1898. Andrei Belyi, Arabeski, p. 52. Ibid., p. 53. Igor Grabar, Iaponskaia tsvetnaia graviura na dereve (Japanese Colour Woodblock Prints), ([Spb.]: Izd. Kn. S.A. Scherbatova i V.V. f[on] Mekk, [1903]). Igor Grabar, Iaponskaia tsvetnaia graviura na dereve, p. 27. M.V. Dobuzhinskii, Vospominaniia (Reminiscences), (Moscow: Nauka, 1987), p. 164. M.V. Dobuzhinskii, Vospominaniia, p. 192. A. Benois, Moi vospominaniia (My Reminiscences), vol. 1, (Moscow: Nauka, 1990), p. 369. The words by Shcherbatov are recalled by Alexander Benois, in A. Benois, Moi vospominaniia, p. 269. A. Benois, Moi vospominaniia, p. 370. A. P. Ostroumova-Lebedeva, Avtobiograficheskie zapiski 1900–1916 (Autobiographical Notes 1900–1916), (Leningrad and Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1945), pp. 38, 39. Grafika O.P. Ostroumovoi-Lebedevoi: Graviury i akvareli (Graphic Works of A.P. Ostroumova-Lebedeva, Engravings and Watercolors), Compiled by M.F. Kiseliov, Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1984), p. 67. V. D. Falileev, Ofort i graviura reztsom (Etchings and Engravings by Chisel), (Moscow and Leningrad: Gosizdat, 1925), p. 18. E. Lvova, ‘Natiurmort s iaponskoi graviuroi’ Pavla Kuznetsova’ (Still Life with Japanese Woodcut by Pavel Kuznetsov), Voprosy iskusstvovedeniia, 2–3, 1993, pp. 87–95. A. A. Rusakova, Pavel Kuznetsov, (Leningrad: Iskusstvo, 1977), p. 159. The exhibition ‘Blue Rose’ was sponsored by a patron of literature and art Fiodor Riabushinski. Prominent artists like Kazemir Malevich, Natalia

46

31 32 33

34 35 36

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images Goncharova, Mikhail Larionov have participated in this famous exhibition, which was held in the house of Russian chinaware factory-owner Kuznetsov. N. S. Nikolaeva, Iaponiia – Evropa. Dialog v iskusstve, p. 370. See P. Beletskii, Georgii Ivanovich Narbut, (Leningrad: Iskusstvo, 1985), p. 31. Quoted in: G. V. Golynets and S. V. Golynets, Ivan Iakovlevich Bilibin, (Moscow: Izobrazitelnoe iskusstvo, 1972), p. 68. P. Beletskii, Grigorii Ivanovich Narbut, p. 30. P. Beletskii, Grigorii Ivanovich Narbut, p. 32. Ibid., p. 31.

3

Japan’s ‘Fifteen Minutes of Glory’: Managing World Opinion during the War with Russia, 1904–5 ROTEM KOWNER

INTRODUCTION

O

f all the major conflicts in which Japan participated in modern times, the Russo-Japanese War marks the apex of its international image. Only against tsarist Russia did Japan appeal to both its Asian neighbours and a majority of the Western nations. During this nineteenmonth conflict, Japan’s image as a backward Asian nation evaporated, supplanted by the vision of a determined and advanced martial nation. Japanese soldiers were depicted abroad as valiant and physically attractive, and their monarch lofty and benevolent. Alas, these images would never recur. While regarded as David fighting the ursine Russian Goliath in the early stages of the war, in its aftermath Japan was recognized as a regional power on an equal and occasionally superior footing to that of Western powers in the arena. In retrospect, it was perhaps an inevitable juncture in the rapid transformation of the image of the Japanese from benign, somewhat feminine children to yellow brutes – an image that receded only in the wake of the Pacific War. The war was indeed a unique moment in Japan’s struggle to enhance its international image. A decade earlier, during the war against China (1894–5), Japan was considered a dwarf fighting a giant, but its rival, in fact, was a collapsing Asian nation unfit for a modern military clash. Chinese weakness harmed Japanese efforts at image improvement as much as the combat behaviour of the Japanese themselves. The atrocities Japanese troops committed on the local population and the garrison of the Manchurian town of Lushun (Port Arthur) in November 1894 sullied the military credit the nation had gained.1 Finally, Japan’s capitulation to

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

the Russo-Franco-German collaboration (known as the Three Power Intervention) sealed the common assessment by Western military experts that China’s weakness rather than Japan’s strength determined the outcome.2 Four decades later, the rise of ultranationalism in Tokyo, coupled with fears of further Japanese expansion, demolished what remained of a positive image associated with Japan. During the so-called Fifteen Year War (1931–45), Japan was thoroughly demonized in East Asia, by China in particular, and by most of its former Western allies.3 The positive images Japan won in its war against tsarist Russia were fairly true to reality. Japanese forces were victorious in every single campaign of the war, and their conduct was by and large proper (adhering strictly to the Geneva Convention of 1864 and the Hague convention of 1899) and humane (as far as the fighting allowed). Yet this behaviour alone does not account for the positive images. Reality contains many facets, but the desired concentration on positive facets, especially in wartime, requires favourable circumstances, skilful public relations and a willing audience. This chapter explores foreign images of the Japanese military during the Russo-Japanese War, examines the circumstances surrounding those images and the way Japan manipulated them, and seeks to explain the Japanese success in creating positive images of its military and of nation as a whole in the world opinion.4 THE CIVILIZED SUPERMAN: THE EMERGENCE OF FAVOURABLE IMAGES OF JAPAN

In the early months of 1904, the Japanese soldier became, at least momentarily, the emblem of an imaginary Oriental knight. It was, in fact, the only time in modern history that portrayals of masculine and aggressive Japanese were accepted, even with a certain enthusiasm, by an applauding Western audience. In the years before the war, Western media and popular culture depicted the Japanese military with contempt mixed with sarcasm (Pl. 13). Frequently, the very sight of Japanese soldiers evoked laughter among Western observers. They were dressed, many thought, in ill-fitting uniforms, and behaved in a way that some interpreted as feminine and childish.5 The British writer and poet of imperialism, Rudyard Kipling, who visited Japan in 1889 and 1892, might be representative of Western criticism of the Japanese Army during the late nineteenth century. Attentively observing Japanese military personnel on several occasions, Kipling felt that the delicate fans and tea-sets he noticed in an army barracks in Osaka ‘do not go with one’s notion of a barrack’. While admitting that the Japanese soldier ‘makes a trim little blue-jacket’, he concluded that ‘he does not understand soldiering’.6 Impressions aside, in reality the Japanese military advanced dramatically towards the end of the nineteenth century. As Japanese victories in the war with China were known, Sir Henry Norman, a British military expert who had visited Tokyo in the early 1890s, wrote that Japan had not been taken seriously prior to the war.7 National images change

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slowly, however, and many military observers stationed in Tokyo at the turn of the century, such as Georges de Man of the Belgian Embassy and the Russian military attaché Colonel G. M. Vannovskii, remained unconvinced.8 As late as November 1902, de Man sent his government a lengthy report on the Japanese army, criticizing the level of studies at the Japanese military academy and emphasized the soldiers’ docility and indiscipline.9 The poor image of the short and undernourished soldiers changed rapidly following some initial reports of Japanese successes against the Russians. Nothing could be more effective in changing Western images of Japan than victory in war. In attempting to account for the Japanese success, Westerners emphasized initially the strong character of the ordinary soldier. The British military attaché, Captain James Bruce Jardine, for example, argued that ‘the main quality that makes the Japanese infantryman what he is is the quality that enabled the cavalryman to prove himself superior to the Cossack. We call it “bravery”, which is but a feeble translation or equivalent for Yamato damashii.’10 The British army officer Lieutenant-General Ian Hamilton, who served as senior military observer on the Japanese side, did not differ in his assessment. ‘When war was declared,’ he wrote in May 1904, ‘the Japanese were formidable enough in all conscience. They were brave, disciplined, enthusiastic, efficiently officered, honestly administered.’11 Within five months of the outbreak of the war, the willingness of Japanese to sacrifice their lives, and their courage in the face of death, appeared on American screens. Entitled Capture and Execution of Spies by the Russians, the film was produced by the Edison Company and the Klein Optical Company. It depicted two Japanese spies who were sent to blow up Russian railway tracks under the disguise of coolies. Captured and sentenced to death, they give three cheers for the emperor before the shooting squad.12 In addition to their combat skills, Japanese soldiers were singled out for other, more spiritual traits. Hamilton focused on their modesty, ‘a trait which above all others has won my profound and unstinted respect. Never has there been so much as a tinge of exultation . . . about the officers.’13 Frederick Arthur McKenzie, the ‘special correspondent’ of the British Daily Mail, stressed education: ‘The Japanese soldier is, as a rule, it must be remembered, an educated man. He reads diligently, and follows the movement of the world after the same fashion as does the smartest bombardier in Dover Castle.’14 With the incessant victories the Japanese soldier started to appear larger than life. ‘When one considers the burrows, warrens, trenches, redoubts and forts the Japanese had to subdue,’ war correspondent Frederick McCormick wrote, ‘their efforts seem the achievements of demigods, or like the achievements of the gods they revere.’15 For McCormick, even the mere sight of a Japanese prisoner brought down the road by Russian soldiers was thrilling: the prisoner was ‘like a man resting – a model for a sculptor – erect, elastic, a king beside the slaves around him’.16

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

It is remarkable how success and new status, together with shared political ends, could ameliorate even the low image of the Japanese physical features, at least in the eyes of observers from friendly nations. The enthusiastic reports of Western correspondents who covered the war on the Japanese side rarely dealt directly with the Japanese body. Yet the accumulated stereotypes they referred to left no doubt, marking a shift in this problematic domain. In retrospect, an intermediate image was produced: not yet the savage, violent body that it slowly evolved into by the heyday of Japanese imperialism, but no longer the feminine and childlike body as it had been regarded before the war.17 Many Western observers of the Russo-Japanese War referred to the physique of the fighting men. In a few months of fighting the Japanese seemed to have become taller, stronger and better nourished. Hamilton acknowledged this phenomenon soon after the Japanese takeover of the Russian position on Round Top Hill. ‘The whole of the First Army Headquarters,’ he averred, ‘look taller and bigger men, as if a great weight had suddenly been rolled off their shoulders.’18 Even characteristics that had been considered inferior were now seen in a different light. ‘They are wonderful little men,’ enthused veteran war correspondent Frederick Villiers, who reported for the Illustrated London News, ‘these Japs with their moon faces, snub noses, beautiful, strong, white teeth, and the pluck of the very devil.’19 His impression of the Japanese serving in the navy was similar: ‘I have been on British warships while in action, or on the verge of meeting the foe, but I never saw any decks more trim, and the men and officers neater and smarter, than the crowd on the [Japanese flagship] Mikasa.’20 The observers tended to overstate Japanese physical capabilities. They mentioned mainly physical endurance, a feature that Westerners had referred to since their discovery of Japan.21 ‘Both sides were brave to a very high degree,’ McKenzie reported from this ‘athletic meeting’. ‘Both showed their ability to endure great exertion and severe physical discomfort over a sustained period. Here, the Japanese came out ahead. The Japanese soldier can stand prolonged exertion as can no other soldier I know.’22 Similarly, the French physician Jean-Jacques Matignon, who joined the Japanese army in Manchuria, was dazzled by the Japanese reaction to pain: ‘The men stand the pain. They never complain, not because they do not feel it but because they were trained to withstand it silently.’23 At this historical juncture a diet of rice appeared advantageous. ‘The Japanese soldier can live for days on rice,’ contended the British Army Captain Francis Roger Sedgwick, ‘. . . No European troops, however, could march and fight on such a diet.’24 Lloyd Griscom, the American minister in Tokyo, also thought that rice was at the base of Japanese behaviour and endurance. ‘Physically,’ the reports stressed, the soldiers ‘were like athletes unused to luxuries. Men who had spent their lives toiling in the fields on a diet of rice found it no hardship to plod along all day with heavy packs on their backs. The Japanese were probably the greatest marchers in the world.’25

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Observing the individual combat performance caused AshmeadBartlett to contemplate the link between civilization and the body. ‘Few will deny,’ he argued, ‘that the improvements, or the so-called improvements, of civilization have a disastrous effect on the physique and stamina of a nation; and as a race declines physically, so also does it decline in courage, determination and warlike prowess.’ Yet this process did not affect the Japanese. They were ‘undoubtedly the finest race physically that exists’.26 During the war Western journalists depicted the formerly almost anonymous Japanese political and military leadership in complimentary, and more importantly in human colours. Wright, who was uniquely situated to observe the Japanese naval operations first hand for seven months, is a good example of this new tone. At the Tokyo Club, he wrote soon after the war, ‘one meets most of the Japanese politicians and officials, who are as fine-looking and well tailored a lot of gentlemen as it is possible to see everywhere.’ ‘Everywhere’, for Wright, was definitely situated in the West, and the brave and well dressed Japanese were at last made honorary white men. Wright never noticed feminine, childish, or ridiculously dressed men, nor did he ever depict the Japanese he encountered as yellow-skinned or possessing typical ‘Asiatic’ features. On the contrary, the naval officers he met were as impressive as any European aristocrat: ‘Vice-Admiral Saito [Saito Makoto], the Vice Minister, is a good specimen of a Japanese sailor, big and burly and with a kindly face. He might easily have been mistaken for a sun-tanned British Admiral. . . .Vice Admiral Ijuin [Goro]. . . looked not unlike the great Prussian general Von Moltke.’ He depicted those officers without any of the amusement so typical of Western observers just few years earlier.27 Of all Japanese personalities, General Nogi Maresuke, commander of the Third Army and the hero of the bloody siege of Port Arthur, seems to have won the greatest adulation (Pl. 14). ‘It was easy to see,’ Ashmead-Bartlett noted, ‘what a superior type of man he was.’28 The British journalist was fascinated by Nogi’s appearance but felt a comparison to a well-known figure in the West was indispensable for his depiction: ‘The shape of his head, the keen eyes, and the square-cut beard, give him very much the appearance of General Ulysses Grant.’29 The American correspondent of the San Francisco Chronicle, Richard Barry, expressed a similar view after meeting the Spartan-like bearded Nogi: ‘How handsome he was – and how simple and friendly, how easily pleased, how innately courteous!’30 Wright’s depiction of Admiral Togo Heihachiro, commander-in-chief of the Combined Fleet and hero of the naval battle of Tsushima, whom Wright met three times, demonstrates how a common-looking Japanese could be portrayed in a human and warm manner lacking any racial nuance. Admiral Togo , he wrote, ‘is a short, well built man with rather a slight stoop. The eyes are brilliant and black, like those of all Japanese . . . He has a large head, which is a good shape and shows strongly defined bumps . . .’31 (Pl. 15).

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In this historic moment of grace and supportive atmosphere, even Emperor Meiji was brought into the limelight. Before the war ended the war correspondent James Miller quickly assembled a collection of news and data on the warring parties into a thick book he entitled Thrilling Stories of the Russo-Japanese War. He dedicated the first chapter to the ‘Mikado’ who was portrayed as having a ‘pleasant appearance,’ and tall stature (‘almost six feet’), much above previous estimations.32 Reading the ensuing delineation of the fifty-two-year-old emperor one may think of a movie star, totally different from any previous portrait of a Japanese. ‘He is muscular and well-proportioned,’ wrote Miller, ‘he has a broad, high forehead, and judged by the most exacting standard of manly beauty, he is a handsome sovereign.’33 THE CONSTRUCTION OF AN IMAGE

The positive images of Japan during the war with Russia were indeed different from its image in the West before the war, as well as three decades later, and particularly during the Pacific War. It was the outcome of unique circumstances, which materialized only once in the modern history of Japan. The factors that shaped the Japanese image at this period were the explicit support of the British and American press, the negative image of Japan’s enemy, and the initial perception of Japan as the underdog or as an innocuous entity. No less important were concentrated Japanese efforts to appeal to Western public opinion by dealing humanely with the defeated enemy and by publicizing this attitude overseas. Finally, military success itself is usually a better predictor of positive images than failure. The following section explores these factors and assesses their importance. Military success seems to be an important factor in changing national images. Banal as it may sound, Japan’s military victory over an awesome European power was probably the most important factor in changing its image. Neither chivalrous behaviour nor a sophisticated public relations campaign could counterbalance loss on the battlefield. Keen observers of Japan and its place in the international arena before 1904 were not oblivious to the need for one crucial victory over a Western power. Three years before the war, Frank Brinkley, an English Yokohama-based newspaper owner, reflected on the gradual image shift of the Japanese. He felt that Japanese were not considered as children as in the past, and that ‘a pleasant alternation has gradually been affected in the foreigner’s methods’. As for the motives of the change, Brinkley had a definite answer: . . . they know that the world never took any respectful notice of them until they showed themselves capable of winning battles. At first they imagined that they might efface the Oriental stigma by living up to civilized standards. But the success they had attained was scarcely perceptible when suddenly their victorious war with China seemed to win for them more esteem in half a year then their peaceful industry has won for them in half a century.34

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The extent to which Japanese motives for initiating hostilities against China in July 1894 were associated with an image change may remain obscure. Brinkley, nonetheless, hit the essence of Western stereotypes rather than Japanese sentiments. Certainly, the Japanese were also concerned by conflicting images. Still, Brinkley was writing after a war with an Asian neighbour. After the Sino-Japanese War Japan was told again and again, and in 1901 it was still ‘perpetually told’, that its victory over China ‘proved nothing about her competence to stand in the lists of the West’. Brinkley went on to predict that Japan ‘will complete the proof, or try to complete it. Nothing is more certain, nothing more apparent to all that have watched her closely.’35 Three years later, as the war with Russia broke out, Mori Ogai, the influential novelist who during the war commanded the medical corps of the Second Army, touched on the same dilemma more acidly. ‘Win the war,’ he protested, ‘and Japan will be denounced as a yellow peril; lose it, and she will be branded a barbaric state.’36 As a characteristic outcome of cognitive dissonance, even the mere resolution to go to war made the Japanese feel stronger. Their steadfast spirit was evident to foreign observers as well. On the eve of the war McKenzie professed that early ideas regarding Japan had to disappear fast: ‘This was no child nation, wandering heedlessly through sunny paths, but a great, grim, determined people, on the eve of what all knew would be a long, hard, life-and-death struggle.’37 International circumstances also play an important role in shaping images. The setting of a war does not always allow the belligerents to succeed in appeals for approval by international public opinion, either because they are diplomatically isolated in the first place or because their cause is perceived as extremely unjust. During the Pacific War, Japan fought most of the major Western states and its thrust was perceived as an imperialistic enterprise treacherously initiated and brutally fought. In the Russo-Japanese War, however, public opinion in the West, and certainly in Asia, was largely on Japan’s side, or at least not against it. As a whole, in 1904 Japan viewed the West as its audience and reference group, whereas four decades later it regarded fellow Asians, whom it somewhat despised, as the audience in its struggle against the West. Furthermore, during the Russo-Japanese War, Japan still sought admission to the ‘club’ of the developed and civilized nations, and therefore behaved in accordance with its most stringent perceived requirements. Three decades later, however, it was a disappointed and embittered ‘honorary member’ of that ‘club’, convinced of its inability to join it as an equal member. International circumstances were reflected not only in Japan’s willingness to adhere to international codes of conduct in battle but also in a desire to exploit them for purposes of image change. Prior to the RussoJapanese War, Japan adopted the obligations determined in the first Geneva Convention (1864), the Brussels Declaration (1874), and the Hague Convention (1899) dealing with land warfare and human rights of POWs. Japan followed these rules closely and looked for witnesses to

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testify to its adherence.38 Unlike the Pacific War, few civilians were involved on either side in the Russo-Japanese War. Moreover, although each army numbered about one million soldiers, the Russo-Japanese War cannot be defined as total war, and it was unquestionably far from the scale – in duration, manpower involved, or human suffering – witnessed during the Pacific War. These circumstance enabled Japan to treat its enemy soldiers, in physical and spiritual terms alike, better than during the total wars it waged in later years. In turn, this humane treatment was instrumental in appealing to world opinion, as much as it facilitated rapid reconciliation with Russia after the war. Fighting an unpopular enemy is another important factor in ameliorating national images. The Japanese media and public considered Russia a European power, and the Russian people members of the ‘white’ race. In American and (Western) European eyes, however, Russia was considered more a foster fragment of the civilized Western sphere. It was frequently regarded as a semi-Asian nation; some held Russia, not Japan, to be the real ‘yellow peril’, a future barbaric menace to harmony and peace in the West.39 Some Anglo-Saxon support for Japan stemmed from sheer antagonism to Russia, as unsurprisingly the war marked the nadir of Anglo-Russian relations in the two decades prior to the First World War. At the turn of the century the rivalry between these two empires (known as ‘the Great Game’) stretched over several geographical sites in Asia, culminating in strife in China and British fears of Russian intervention in India. Russia, in turn, was upset by the Anglo-Japanese Alliance of 1902, and in the months preceding the war repeatedly rejected British offers of a general bilateral agreement between the two countries. Although London attempted to maintain, at least officially, an evenhanded policy regarding the two warring parties, the general public was overtly pro-Japanese. At the beginning of 1904, Anglo-Russian relations deteriorated because of Russian resentment for Britain’s actions in Tibet and its support for Japan. Eight months into the war the most severe crisis between the two nations occurred, when the Russian Baltic Fleet sank a British trawler on its passage through the Dogger Bank en route to East Asia, mistaking it for a Japanese torpedo boat.40 The United States was less involved in the diplomatic discord in northeast Asia. The Americans, nonetheless, had nurtured a negative view of Russia, a position that had become increasingly evident since 1880 because of its aggressive expansion in the Far East, the reported cruelties of Russian despotism, and the persecution of Jews. In the year before the war American public opinion against Russia further deteriorated because of the Kishinev Pogrom of April 1903.41 American approval for Japan continued through the first year of the war and anyone with animosity for Russia gave support to its rival. George Kennan, a leading expert on Russia and a confidant of Theodore Roosevelt, was a notable figure in shaping the American public image of the tsarist regime as dark and despotic. In his writings prior to and during the war he depicted Russia as a ‘police state’ and Japan as a civilized nation equal in many aspects to the United States.42

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The stream of reports from correspondents who reached the war arena via the more convenient route over the Pacific to Japan – and thus were exposed mostly to the Japanese side – enhanced the initial prejudice against Russia. Although American officials were considered by both Russians and Japanese as the most trusted non-partisans, many private individuals and institutions in the United States did not hesitate to express their sympathy for one of the two parties, with a clear inclination to Japan. Jews were among the most ardent supporters of Japan, either in writing for its cause or financially, especially following a wave of pogroms across Russia during the war.43 No wonder, then, that while the Japanese soldier was glorified, harsh criticism was hurled at the Russians who were ascribed the very characteristics attributed to their enemy before the war. The American naval attaché in Russia, Newton McCully, for instance, concluded that the root of all the disasters Russia had suffered was to be found in the character of its people. Against a backdrop of Japanese stoic behaviour in wartime, Russian socalled manly behaviour was characterized, McCully felt, by ‘the occasional hysterical excesses of women or seventeen-year-old boys’.44 The hostile mood against Russia, mixed with admiration and support for Japan and its cause, can be discerned more easily in the conduct of individuals. Two personalities may serve as brief case studies for this thesis: American President Theodore Roosevelt and Jewish-American financier Jacob H. Schiff. Long before the war Roosevelt had been intrigued by the issue of race and manifested a peculiar mixture of ‘racial progressiveness’ and a belief in white superiority. Although he determined Caucasians as having the best civilization, he admitted the Japanese to the circle of ‘civilized nations’. Japanese representatives, such as a fellow Harvard alumnus, Kaneko Kentaro, cultivated the president’s interest in Japan, emphasizing the mutual interests of the two nations in Asia and providing him with reading materials about Japanese culture.45 Schiff, the president of the New York banking firm of Kuhn, Loeb & Co., helped Japan by joining an international syndicate and thus enabled the Japanese government to raise more than half of its foreign loans at the time of the war. Schiff’s support for Japan did not stem from interest or adoration of its culture. Unlike Roosevelt, he explained his actions as arising from antagonism to tsarist Russia, which persecuted the Jews. Specifically, he wished the Japanese to defeat the Russians and cause the demise of the tsarist regime.46 Schiff’s proclaimed motives have been questioned recently, and it is possible that he had, indeed, additional economic and political motives. Nevertheless, it is evident that had Schiff been pro-Russian he would not have assisted Japan.47 Japan’s organized courting of Western public opinion contributed much to its war efforts. Although Russia’s international image in 1904 was ebbing, it faced a non-European and non-Christian rival. Japan, despite its modernization and celebrated aesthetic sensibilities, was Asian and in contemporary Western eyes associated with the other, the less developed and the racially inferior world.48 It was axiomatic that Western

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public opinion would support the colonial powers in their struggle with non-European (‘non-white’) opponents. Dividing the world into ‘us’ and ‘them’, Westerners displayed little concern over the fate, for example, of the Muslim peoples that Russian forces subjugated in central Asia during the latter half of the nineteenth century. In the six years before the Russo-Japanese War, and particularly during the war, Japan laboured more than ever before to recreate its image. Whereas domestically efforts to shape national images began with the Meiji Restoration of 1868, full-scale efforts internationally began only after the Sino-Japanese War. During that war Japanese oligarchs realized that their nation was failing to make full use of its military success to improve its image overseas. Not only was the heroic victory over China dismissed, but the massacre at Port Arthur endangered existing images of Japan as a civilized nation. Moreover, the association of Japan with the ‘yellow peril’ discourse jeopardized all efforts at modernization; it marked Japan as an unworthy member of the civilized world as well as a threat to the West. Consequently, Japan took an active role in the shaping of its image regarding its national status in general and its war activities in particular. First, it aimed to reshape conventional views of Japan as weak, feminine and semi-civilized, and to rid itself of the unequal treaties, thereby facilitating acceptance into the circle of ‘civilized’ nations. Second, Japanese leaders aimed to mitigate criticism of military misconduct during the Sino-Japanese War, as well as the broader concern in the West about its territorial aspirations in northeast Asia. The campaign of ‘selling’ Japan, as Robert Valliant termed it, began in 1898 when a small group of officials of the Foreign Ministry conducted a systematic survey of public opinion on Japan in the foreign press. The unexpected leakage of news regarding the massacre in Port Arthur was significant testimony to the role of the Western press in fixing Japan’s image, but also an example of how uncontrolled media might prevent a nation from turning its military superiority on the battlefield into diplomatic triumph. A further incentive was launched two years later, during the Boxer Rebellion of 1900–1, when the Japanese government was perplexed by the suspicious press coverage its military expedition to Beijing had received. As a result, it established a network in Europe to gather any utterance by the press on Japan and to promulgate an official line. As conflict with Russia worsened, the cabinet met on 30 December 1903 to discuss ways to prevent the clamour of the ‘yellow peril’ rising again in the West.49 Accordingly, the government decided to keep China out of the conflict, and two months later appointed two special envoys to coordinate public relations activities in the West. It was a productive decision. The envoys, Suematsu Kencho in Europe and Kaneko Kentaro in the United States, had respectively studied at Cambridge and Harvard, had a network of connections and spoke English well. Practically, they were to put a positive face on Japanese actions, meeting with correspondents and politicians and writing promotional articles. Suematsu, the son-in-law of

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Japan’s leading statesman Ito Hirobumi and previously a home minister, may serve as a case study for the Japanese efforts to sway foreign public opinion during the war. One of the objectives of his specific mission was to ‘manipulate the British Press’, with an emphasis on the right of Japan to act in self-defence. Unsurprisingly, his instructions were to prevent an anti-Japanese union in Europe based on racial fears: The so-called doctrine of the ‘yellow peril’ readily moves the hearts of Western peoples and is nowadays popular on the continent. If we do not combat this doctrine with all our power, there is a danger that European countries will actually join together against us. By attacking the ‘yellow peril’ doctrine in all quarters, we shall prevent the combined interference of various European powers.50

Japanese efforts in Western capitals soon leaned heavily on an information-gathering network established by the Foreign Ministry. Part of the daily assignments of diplomats stationed in legations overseas was to scan the main newspapers in their respective spheres, occasionally with the help of translators, and assess their importance. They attended parties sponsored by the government or legations of the great powers, and exchanged information with foreign diplomats and leading figures of the host country’s government. When the war broke out this intimate knowledge of Western media and the circles of decision-makers proved instrumental in influencing their views, presenting Japan’s cause and keeping them supplied with materials working for Japan’s benefit.51 During the war, the dilemma Mori Ogai pointed out was resolved without further ado. Winning the war appeared much more important than any other goal, but it was also instrumental in bettering Japan’s international image. In the meantime, the oligarchs found that catering to world opinion was not an easy task, especially not at home. Japan entertained members of the foreign press in Tokyo, and worse, assured their safety at the front. A month after the outbreak of the war, a total of fifty-three British, American, French and German correspondents had assembled in the Japanese capital looking forward to joining Japanese forces at the front (Pl. 16). In the following months the number of foreign correspondents increased dramatically. Reporting from the Russian side necessitated a long and exhausting trip across Siberia, whereas the Japanese side was more accessible from either Europe or the United States and it was not under siege.52 The correspondents, many of them celebrated military reporters, were welcomed warmly with parties and banquets. Behind the scenes, however, Japanese authorities were concerned that foreigners might disclose military secrets and were determined to keep them far as possible from the combat zone, with a control perhaps tighter than in any conflict before.53 After prolonged pressure and protest from the correspondents, their newspapers and Japanese representatives overseas, anxious about the deteriorating image of their nation, Japanese authorities yielded.

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Gradually, small numbers of correspondents were allowed to approach the front. The treatment of correspondents was undoubtedly the weak point in Japan’s handling of its image, and some of its impatient visitors became anti-Japanese in due course. Although the Japanese apologized for inconveniences caused, they constantly censored the dispatches, insisted on vetting subjects and phrasing and prevented them from getting too close to the front by land or sea.54 The ambivalence and reluctance of the Japanese government regarding the presence of military correspondents at the front were to be repeated, even more markedly, with Western military observers. As soon as the war broke out, many Western and a few non-Western governments inundated the Japanese Foreign Office with requests to allow a few of their military officers to observe the war from the Japanese side. These requests were forwarded to the Japanese War Office or offices within the Japanese Army and Navy, and after some hesitation on 19 February 1904, permission was granted to dispatch military observers. Nonetheless, during the early stages of the war, Japanese military authorities did their utmost to reject the observers’ requests to go to the front and kept them busy in various social engagements in Tokyo. The Japanese, like the Russians, were not keen to show observers what they considered ‘their’ war, even if for political reasons they had to put up with them.55 Japanese authorities were particularly loath to host foreign representatives who came for the sole purpose of improving their own military establishments through an experience which Japanese troops were to acquire by blood. Indeed, abundant military reports published after the Russo-Japanese War indicate that Western military establishments viewed the conflict as an exceptional opportunity to examine the clash of two advanced, large-scale, and, most importantly, equal armies and fleets. For this reason, the Japanese were reluctant to tell the observers anything about the progress of events, and faced difficulties even with their British allies, since the latter expected better treatment from the Japanese than the other Western observers. The Japanese government, however, was reluctant to provide such preferential treatment, at least publicly, for fear of creating the impression that their war effort was being directed by the British. By April 1904, some thirty-four frustrated foreign officers, anxious to leave Tokyo for the front, were nonetheless put off with various assurances.56 The heavy curtain of secrecy and censorship regarding all military affairs baffled most military observers. The exception was the British, who seemed to enjoy a somewhat less suspicious welcome.57 As resentment grew, the Japanese sent an initial group of observers along with a number of correspondents to the First Army of Kuroki soon after its landing.58 The military observers did not fare much better than their civilian compatriots who served the written media; they too had to wear foreign clothes and were strictly limited in their movements, unable to move without an escort.59 The restrictions, censorship, latent hostility and physical separation, presumably due to different nutrition, did much to

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alienate some of the observers and led a few even to protest officially.60 The Japanese clearly felt a certain dissonance regarding the observers, who on the one hand gathered classified information about the Japanese military strength and weakness, but on the other hand could contribute to Japan’s image by despatching their impressions back in their respective countries. Often, a hostile attitude to the foreign ‘shadows’ dominated, which was reflected in antagonism and even a threatening demeanour by the Japanese rank and file. With the Japanese, the observers often sensed a certain measure of mutual racial antagonism, which was liable to be exposed during the war. In one rare incident the Japanese exposed some of their true feelings about the presence of the foreign observers. During his stay with the First Army staff, a German captain, Max Hoffman, became infuriated about the travel restrictions imposed on him. When he was forbidden to move to a better observation place, he shouted at his hosts: ‘You are yellow; you are not civilized if you do not let me go to that hill.’ The most senior Japanese officer present, General Fujii, replied: ‘We, Japanese, are paying for this military information with our blood and we don’t propose to share it with others.’61 Still, many of the upper echelons of the military were aware of the importance of the observers and did much to maintain cordial ties with them.62 General Nogi, for instance, was more aware of this need than other senior commanders. During the siege of Port Arthur he was in close contact with a selected number of military observers and war correspondents, and after the fall of the fort he invited the observers attached to the First and Second Armies to an inspection tour and banquet served with European wines. He also arranged a number of lectures on the siege and allowed his guests to examine the fortifications by themselves.63 When presenting Japan’s cause to foreign visitors, Japanese representatives constantly stressed cultural differences. They were conscious of the importance of the observers as messengers of Japan overseas, but were unaware of their domestic importance. In a period when Japanese still wished to emulate Western military conventions, their presence at the front had a positive effect. That is, the mere sight of non-partisan foreigners prevented local atrocities and encouraged civilized behaviour. For the sake of public relations, the Japanese also granted approval to a number of American women missionaries and nurses to assist in the war effort by making ‘comfort bags’, bringing flowers to the wounded and visiting hospitals. Their help, suggests historian Joseph Henning, struck a chord at home, as many Americans were interested in the missionaries’ reports and impressions. Being aware of the role missionaries in general played in American society, Japanese officials and clergymen encouraged them to promote the view that the war was not a religious or a racial conflict. These pro-Japanese missionaries were in fact instrumental in attenuating Russia’s religious affinity with the Americans. They stressed the differences between the Russian Orthodox Church and the Christianity of the ‘progressive nations in the West’, as well as the lack of freedom of

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thought and religious practice in Russia. Japan, by contrast, although a non-Christian state once depicted as ‘heathen’, was now presented as ‘Christianity’s proxy in Northeast Asia.’64 The approval granted to Christian activists to aid Japan’s war efforts was not immediate due to prevalent suspicions of foreign and Christian organizations as serving as agents of hostile powers. The Japanese chapter of the YMCA had attempted for more than a decade prior to the war to convince the authorities that it was a sufficiently Japanese organization. Finally, in August 1904, the YMCA chapter received permission to approach the front, partly due to expectations of positive press coverage in the United States. Its members pitched comfort tents for soldiers in Manchuria, and in the autumn it also landed in Korea. Eventually, the need to prove their allegiance to the nationalistic cause of Japan made foreign and local YMCA activists more fervent than others in their support for the war, but temporarily, at least, they helped modify the Japanese image as an alien, non-Christian entity.65 Another means of shaping foreign public opinion was the Japanese Red Cross, established eighteen years before the war. Although the act of establishing the Red Cross movement in Japan was seen partly as a form of gaining cultural legitimization, it gradually became a symbol of Japanese humanitarian efforts. The Japanese Red Cross was highly organized and in 1903 its membership was the largest in the world, employing thousands of young women dressed in Western-style nurses’ uniforms.66 The Japanese organization hosted groups of volunteer nurses from the United States, Great Britain, France and Germany, thereby helping to shape the image of Japan as a civilized, Christian-like nation. In sum, the activities of the Japanese Red Cross Society during the RussoJapanese War were instrumental in making Japan less alien in foreign eyes, and confirmed its sincere desire for modernization and emulation of the supposedly humane qualities of the West. Ultimately, the reports on the society abroad helped to shatter some inherent Western notions about humane behaviour being exclusive to Christian nations alone. Many military observers praised the Japanese for their care of injured Russian soldiers and prisoners. Furthermore, admiring reports by visiting American medical personnel, notably Dr Anita McGee, prompted Roosevelt in 1905 to sign into law a bill that empowered the government to reorganize and revitalize the American Red Cross Society.67 Japanese conscious stress on bravery and humaneness was another element in its image transformation. The Japanese government’s active management of its national image had two, ostensibly contradictory, goals. On the one hand it sought to stress the heroic combat behaviour of the Japanese troops at the front and on the other hand the humane treatment of wounded enemy soldiers and prisoners of war in the rear. Bravery, organization and humaneness were traits associated at that time with modern advanced nations and masculine societies, whereas combat cowardice, disorganization and inhumanity were associated with backward societies and a primitive form of life.68 Those in charge of the campaign

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found it easy to locate instances of heroic and humane behaviour. Indeed, victory in battle, and Japan had many such victories during 1904–5, yielded countless instances of bravery and created a large number of prisoners, to whom humane treatment was provided. This is easily said, but as is well known, victorious nations do not necessarily insist upon humane behaviour. Neither triumphant Germany in 1939–42 nor Japan in 1941–42 cared much about the wellbeing of vanquished enemy soldiers. Evidently, Japanese behaviour in 1904–5 was based on a thoughtful decision-making process and logistic preparations before the war. With the outbreak of the war, the Japanese government issued explicit regulations regarding the humane treatment of enemy prisoners, and established a POW Information Bureau in the Ministry of the Army.69 During the war Japan held 79,454 Russian prisoners, of whom the vast majority where kept in prison camps in the Japanese archipelago. Military authorities followed rules strictly, and both Russian POWs and foreign reporters testified during and after the war to the considerate and humane manner in which the Japanese treated their captured enemy.70 Foreign correspondents were impressed by this attitude and noted it did not change even when a squadron of three Russian warships of the Vladivostok Independent Cruiser Squadron was causing havoc to Japanese shipping in the vicinity of its archipelago. In one of their attacks the Russian warships sank the transport Hitachi Maru carrying troops to the battlefield. A funeral for the 631 soldiers who perished was held in Tokyo, attended by an immense crowd. Almost on the same day 601 prisoners captured from one of the attacking cruisers sunk in battle arrived in Japan without any harm or public resentment.71 The Japanese exploited well their good treatment of the enemy prisoners and were more than willing to open some of their twenty-nine prison camps for inspection by foreign representatives, notably the camp in the remote town of Matsuyama where 4,043 prisoners were kept (as of 30 April 1904).72 Foreign visitors to the camp attributed the fine spirit of the prisoners to humane Japanese treatment and described the Russian prisoners as cheerful and happy.73 Testimonies of Russian prisoners indicate that the conditions in Matsuyama were not just a show for visitors. The prisoners had expected cruelty, but ‘were astonished to find themselves surrounded by what they were pleased to call paradise’. Many of them attested that ‘they had never fared better in their lives’, though not necessarily their spirit was high (Pl. 17).74 The images of the heroic and manly behaviour of the Japanese soldiers were reinforced by reports from the front; victories were soon attributed to the long legacy of military sacrifice. Following the Meiji Restoration, the Japanese army began to modernize and the samurai tradition was abandoned. Towards the end of the century, however, Japan began to look for its spiritual origins under the slogan of wakon yosai (Japanese spirit, Western technique). The Japanese military also sought out its own traditional concepts of bravery. Officers were armed with factory-made

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and somewhat symbolic swords, and the rank and file, mostly of peasant origin, were lectured on samurai traditions and values. In the 1880s, the military began to use bushido (lit., ‘the way of the warrior’) as an embodiment of patriotism and devotion to the emperor. The term received some recognition in the West following the publication of Nitobe Inazo’s book Bushido: The Soul of Japan in 1899. Nitobe saw it as a means of halting the materialistic trend engulfing Japan. But five years later, when the war broke out, the term was suddenly perceived as a key to understanding Japanese success in the battlefield. The book became a bestseller in the West, and was read by many influential figures, including the American president, Theodore Roosevelt.75 More than for external consumption, in the last three decades of the Meiji era military circles in Japan sought to reshape traditional standards of combat heroism for internal reasons. Despite its militant tradition, mobilizing the masses for war was a new aspect of modernization that Japan had to emulate from the West. Soon after the restoration, many objected to the conscription of men not belonging to the samurai class. While government leaders decided on general conscription, in 1873 the question of how to turn the peasants into soldiers remained open. For the immediate necessity of creating a modern army and navy, the oligarchs relied on the guidance of foreign military experts, but for longterm spiritual transformation it counted on native resources. Using the education system as a primary vehicle for indoctrination, the government educated the younger generation in nationalism and patriotic behaviour through the promotion of idealized images of agile soldiers willing to sacrifice their lives for the emperor and the nation.76 During the war, the government exploited the myth of ‘the patriotic soldier’, as historian Naoko Shimazu has described, emphasizing ‘an honourable war death’. Curiously, few people in Japan opposed this and similar myths publicly, despite the heavy casualties and the feeling that they distorted reality.77 Indeed, over-eagerness was not the wish of the government.78 More than anything, the public supported the war stoically and with much conformism. For the first time in the modern era, ordinary Japanese felt that the war was fully their war, rather than the possession of the government or the samurai class; in this sense, the process of spiritual indoctrination was almost complete. During the war indoctrination of the ideals of bravery and sacrifice were intensified. Military authorities urgently required role models for soldiers to worship and thereby sharpen earlier messages of heroism. In 1904, they devised the title gunshin (lit.: war god), which was to be granted to extremely heroic figures who perished in combat. The title was mentioned for the first time in a newspaper article on 30 March 1904, following an announcement by the Imperial General Headquarters. It referred to Lieutenant Commander Hirose Takeo of the Imperial Japanese Navy, who had sacrificed his life in an attempt to rescue a subordinate during the second attempt at the naval blockade of Port Arthur four days earlier. The choice of Hirose was far from fortuitous. He was selected for this act of

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sacrifice, rather than for an act of killing the enemy, but also for his physical and spiritual state, as well as for his pre-war cosmopolitan experience.79 All in all, Hirose provided tangible and sophisticated content for the role model wartime Japan needed. Accordingly, his ‘public funeral’ (koso) thirteen days later turned into one of the major events Tokyo witnessed during the war (Pl. 18). A procession passed through the centre of Tokyo and was attended by leading navy and army officers, members of the imperial family, thousands of schoolchildren, and no less important, by hundreds of foreign dignitaries and correspondents headed by the British Minister Sir Claude Macdonald. The title gunshin was made to stand in the top of a hierarchy of exemplary heroic figures, and was awarded only once more during the war. This time it went to a member of the Imperial Japanese Army, Major Tachibana Shuta, who died in the battle of Liaoyang. These two extreme models of heroism, one from each branch of the Japanese military, remained symbols of self-sacrifice until Japan’s defeat in 1945. The funeral of Hirose and his consequent hagiography is only one of countless examples of image management, consciously undertaken by the Japanese authorities during the war. Local newspapers, and of course foreign correspondents and observers, were fed incessantly with sensational stories of heroism, humaneness and human determination. By contrast, reports of insubordination and cowardice were suppressed, usually by the authorities, but occasionally also by the same correspondents, who wished to maintain the coherence of the stereotypes they had created earlier.80 The emphasis on bravery and humaneness also spread to the thriving industry of war pictures (senso-ga), as several scholars have previously pointed out.81 While motivated by profit, the millions of nishiki-e prints sold during the war depicted faithfully the government line and served as an important tool for propaganda, both at home and abroad. Although presented as live reports from the front, most of the prints were made by artists who never left their studios. Invariably, they all concentrated on depicting scenes of Japanese heroism and sacrifice. Their message was not unique, as any war propaganda shows, but in comparison with prints a decade earlier during the war with China, they portrayed the Russians as a strong and worthy enemy. Another medium for promulgating the messages of bravery and humaneness was the cinema. It was a novel medium and highly effective. For the first time, Japanese spectators were able to watch local films depicting the heroic behaviour of their troops at the front. Similar to later war films, Japanese directors did not emphasize extreme heroism, but ‘ordinary’ behaviour intertwined with ultimate sacrifice. One of those seminal films portrayed the war chronicle of Second Lieutenant Wakamiya until his death in the battle of Liaoyang, a film shown commercially throughout the country.82 American films followed suit with a visible inclination to the Japanese angle. The most notable example is Biograph’s The Hero of Liao-Yang (1904), which depicted the story of a young Japanese officer before and during the war. The film’s climax is

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the mission the protagonist is given to carry a crucial message to the commander of the Second Army. Wounded and captured by the Cossacks, he nonetheless manages to devour the paper upon which the dispatch is written. Ultimately, he escapes, and in the midst of terrific cannonading and shells bursting about in every direction, he hands his despatch to the officer commanding.83 CODA: THE IMPORTANCE OF INTERNATIONAL OPINION

Image management by the Japanese authorities during the war with Russia was highly successful. Within a period of nineteen months Japan turned, in the eyes of the powers, its neighbours and in its own eyes in particular, from a peripheral and exotic country to a modern nation fighting for a just cause. This favourable image facilitated military, diplomatic and financial support. Post-1905, Japan was regarded as a strong nation, certainly the strongest land power in East Asia, and one of the five strongest naval powers in the world. Domestically this image, as much as the victory itself, caused many Japanese intellectuals to believe that the Meiji dream had been realized. In the next several years Japan definitely benefited from this image; in a series of bilateral agreements it gained significant economic and territorial advantages on the Asian continent.84 Arguing against any attempt to assist Korean independence, American minister Horace Allen, for example, wrote to Washington soon after the war: I am no pro-Japanese enthusiast, as you know, but neither am I opposed to any civilized race taking over the management of these kindly Asiatics for the good of the people and the suppression of oppressive officials, the establishment of order and the development of commerce.85

The fruits of victory did not last long; military images soon generated new fears of an expansionist Japan. Over the next four decades heroism and sacrifice were championed while the more humane aspects of Japan’s military tradition were neglected. During the war with Russia, however, Japan won not only its ‘fifteen minutes of glory’, (paraphrasing Andy Warhol’s notion of a sudden but temporary state of celebrity),86 but also a singular opportunity to enhance its standing among the nations of the world. Japan was probably entitled to it, but international circumstances, as well as a well-honed propaganda machine, were instrumental in creating new positive images of Japan. NOTES 1

On the effect of the massacre of Port Arthur on the Japanese image, see Jeffery M. Dorwart, ‘James Creelman, The New York World and the Port Arthur Massacre’, Journalism Quarterly 51, 1973, pp. 697–701; Otani Masaru, ‘Ryojun gyakusatsu jiken to kokusai seiron o megutte’ (The Port Arthur Massacre and International Opinion), Rekishi Hyoron 8, 1994, pp. 44–9; Tan’o Yasunari and

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3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14 15

16 17

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Kawada Akihisa, Imeji no naka no senso: Nis-Shin Nichi-Ro kara reisen made (Wars within Images: From the Sino-Japanese and Russo-Japanese Wars to the Cold War), (Tokyo: Iwanami, 1996). On the Russian success in the triple intervention, see Ian Nish, ‘Japan and European Brinkmanship’, in Collected Writings of Ian Nish, 2 vols., (Richmond: Japan Library, 2002), vol. 1, pp. 64–71. For Japan’s negative image during the Pacific War, see John W. Dower, War without Mercy: Race and Power In the Pacific War, (New York: Pantheon Books, 1986); Nancy Brcak and John R. Pavia, ‘Racism in Japanese and U.S. Wartime Propaganda’, The Historian 56, 1994, pp. 671–684; James Weingartner, ‘War Against Subhumans: Comparisons between the German War against the Soviet Union and the American War against Japan, 1941–1945’, The Historian 58, 1996, pp. 557–573. Theoretically, the aggregate of individual attitudes or beliefs held by the global adult population, ‘world opinion’ (or ‘world public opinion’) is certainly a rather abstract and fluid concept. It probably applies more aptly to a limited number of influential media sources and politicians in a selected number of countries and occasionally it materializes to political and other sorts of pressures and influence. On the image of Japanese military before the war see Rotem Kowner, ‘Nicholas II and the Japanese Body: Images and Decision Making on the Eve of the RussoJapanese War’, The Psychohistory Review 26, 1998, pp. 211–252. Rudyard Kipling, From Sea to Sea, and Other Sketches: Letters of Travel, (London: Macmillan, 1900), vol. 1, p. 356. Henry Norman, The People and Politics of the Far East, (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1895), p. 37. On Vannovskii’s assessment of the Japanese military capacity, see Alex Marshall, ‘Russian Military Intelligence, 1905–1917: The Untold Story Behind Tsarist Russia in the First World War’, War in History 11, 2004, pp. 393–423. Excerpt from a dispatch of Georges de Man to de Favereau, No. 224/37, 5 November 1902, in Lensen, George Alexander (ed.). The d’Anethan Dispatches from Japan, 1894–1910, (Tokyo: Sophia University Press, 1967), pp. 157–8. A report by Captain J. B. Jardine, in Great Britain, War Office. The RussoJapanese War: Reports from British Officers Attached to the Japanese Forces in the Field, 3 vols., (General Staff, 1907), vol. 2, p. 540. Diary excerpt from 27 May 1904, in Ian Hamilton, A Staff Officer’s Scrap-Book during the Russo-Japanese War, 2 vols. (Edward Arnold, 1905), vol. 1, p. 133. Daisuke Miyao, ‘Doubleness: American Images of Japanese Men in Silent Spy Films’, The Japanese Journal of American Studies 9 (1998), pp. 69–95. Diary excerpt from 3 August 1904, in Hamilton, A Staff Officer’s Scrap-Book, vol. 2, p. 21. Frederick Arthur McKenzie, From Tokyo to Tiflis (Hurst-Blackett, 1905), p. 146. Frederick McCormick, The Tragedy of Russia in Pacific Asia, vols. 1–2, (The Outing Publishing Co., 1907), vol. 2, p. 324. McCormick, The Tragedy, vol. 2, p. 207. On the strengthening of masculine self-images in Japan after the RussoJapanese War, see Jason G. Karlin, ‘The Gender of Nationalism: Competing Masculinities in Meiji Japan’, Journal of Japanese Studies 28, 2002, pp. 75–77.

66 18

19

20 21

22 23

24

25 26

27

28 29 30 31 32

33

34

35 36

37 38

39

Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images Diary excerpt from 13 October 1904, in Ian Hamilton, A Staff Officer’s ScrapBook, vol. 2, p. 253. Frederic Villiers, Port Arthur: Three Months with the Besiegers (Longmans, Green & Co., 1905), p. 164. Ibid., p. 68. For earlier reports on Japanese physical endurance see, for example, William Heine, With Perry to Japan: A Memoir by William Heine (University of Hawai’i Press, 1990), p. 133; William Eleroy Curtis, The Yankees of the East: Sketches of Modern Japan. 2 vols. (Stone & Kimball, 1896), vol. 1, p. 195. McKenzie, From Tokyo to Tiflis, p. 223. Jean-Jacques Matignon, Enseignements Médicaux de la Guerre Russo-Japonaise (A. Maloine, 1907), p. 149. Fred R. Sedgwick, The Russo-Japanese War on Land: A Brief Account of the Strategy and Grand Tactics of the War (Forster Groom & Co., 1908), p. 134. Lloyd C. Griscom, Diplomatically Speaking (Little, Brown, 1940), p. 249. Ashmead-Bartlett attributed the ‘superior physique’ of the Japanese to the most frugal manner and simplicity of their life, which ‘has made them a hardy people, able to meet the greatest trials and privations with indifference’. Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett, Port Arthur: The Siege and Capitulation (William Blackwood & Sons, 1906), p. 485. Seppings H. C. Wright, With Togo: The Story of Seven Months’ Active Service Under His Command (Hurst and Blackett, 1905), p. 10. See also Ian Hamilton, A Staff Officer’s Scrap-Book, vol. 1, p. 28, 67, vol. 2, p. 156. Ashmead-Bartlett, Port Arthur, p. 115. Ibid. Richard Barry, Port Arthur: A Monster Heroism (Moffat, Yard & Co., 1905), p. 145. Wright, With Togo, p. 57. For earlier depiction of the Emperor, see William Gray Dixon, The Land of the Morning (James Gammell, 1882), p. 391. James Martin Miller, Thrilling Stories of the Russo-Japanese War (Unknown, 1905), p. 20. Frank Brinkley, Japan: Its History, Arts, and Literature, 8 vols., (J. B. Millet Co., 1901–1902), vol. 1, pp. 15–16. Brinkley, Japan, vol. 1, p. 19. In Mori Ogai, Uta Nikki (Shunyodo, 1907), cited in Jean Pierre Lehmann, The Image of Japan: From Feudal Isolation to World Power, 1850–1905 (George Allen & Unwin, 1978), p. 179. McKenzie, From Tokyo to Tiflis, 2. Ikuhiko Hata, ‘From Considertion to Contempt: The Changing Nature of Japanese Military and Popular Perceptions of Prisoners of War through the Ages.’ In Bob Moore and Kent Fedorowich (eds), Prisoners of War and Their Captors in World War II (Berg, 1996), pp. 253–254. See Richard Austin Thompson, ‘The Yellow Peril, 1890–1924.’ Ph.D. dissertation, 1957 (Reprinted by Arno Press, 1978); Heinz Gollwitzer. Die gelbe Gefahr, Geschichte eines Schlagworts, Studien zum imperialistischen Denken (Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1962).

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41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

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Keith Neilson, Britain and the Last Tsar: British Policy and Russia, 1894–1917 (Clarendon Press, 1995), pp. 238–64. A number of historians dealing with the Russian-American relations in this period argue that the American administration exploited the Kishinev Pogrom as part of its pressure against Russian policy in Manchuria. See, example, Raymond A. Esthus, Theodore Roosevelt and Japan (University of Washington Press, 1966), p. 10; Howard K. Beale, Theodore Roosevelt and the Rise of America to World Power (John Hopkins University Press, 1966), p. 179. See, for example, George Kennan, ‘Which is the civilized power?’ Outlook 9 (October 1904): 515–523. Cf. Frederick F. Travis, George Kennan and the American-Russian Relationship, 1865–1924 (Ohio University Press, 1990). See Thomas A. Bailey, America Faces Russia (Cornell University Press, 1950), pp. 176–97; Norman E. Saul, Concord and Conflict: The United States and Russia, 1867–1914 (University Press of Kansas, 1996), pp. 421–507; Ben-Ami Shillony, ‘The Jewish Response to the War’, in R. Kowner (ed.), Rethinking the RussoJapanese War, vol. I (Global Oriental, 2007), pp. 393–400. Newton A. McCully, The McCully Report: The Russo-Japanese War, 1904–05 (Naval Institute Press, 1977), p. 253. George Sinkler, The Racial Attitudes of American Presidents (Doubleday & Co., 1971), pp. 389–398; Esthus, Theodore Roosevelt and Japan; Joseph M. Henning, ‘Race, Religion, and Civilization: The United States and Japan.’ Ph.D. Dissertation (American University, 1998), pp. 308–14. Cyrus Adler, Jacob H. Schiff: His Life and Letters, 2 vols. (Doubleday, Doran, 1928), vol. 1, pp. 217–8, vol. 2, pp. 121–2; Gary Dean Best, ‘Financing a foreign War: Jacob H. Schiff and Japan, 1904–05’, American Jewish Historical Quarterly 61, 1972, pp. 313–24. Daniel Gutwein, ‘The Russian Background of Jacob H. Schiff’s Financial Support of Japan during the War’, in Kowner (ed.), Rethinking the Russo-Japanese War, vol. I (Global Oriental, 2007), pp. 123–38. On the consolidation of Japan’s racial position in Western eyes before the Russo-Japanese War, see Rotem Kowner, ‘Lighter than Yellow, but Not Enough: Western Discourse on the Japanese “Race” ’, 1854–1904’, The Historical Journal 43, 2000, pp. 103–131. Robert B. Valliant, ‘The Selling of Japan: Japanese Manipulation of Western Opinion, 1900–1905.’ Monumenta Nipponica 29, 1974, pp. 415–438; Rotem Kowner, ‘Becoming an Honorary Civilized Nation: The Russo-Japanese War and Western Perceptions of Japan’, The Historian 64, 2001, pp. 19–38. Nihon gaiko bunsho 37/38, Nichi-Ro senso, v, no. 459, cited in Ian Nish, The Anglo-Japanese Alliance (Athlone, 1966), p. 285. Ian Nish, Japanese Foreign Policy, 1869–1942, p. 45, pp. 270–272; Chiharu Inaba and Rotem Kowner, ‘The secret factor: Japanese network of intelligence gathering on Russia during the War’, in Kowner (ed.), Rethinking the Russo-Japanese War, vol. I (Global Oriental, 2007), pp. 78–92. On the war correspondents, see Philip Towle, ‘British War Correspondents and the War’, in Kowner (ed.), Rethinking the Russo-Japanese War, vol. I (Global Oriental, 2007), pp. 319–31.

68 53

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56

57 58

59 60 61

62

63 64

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images See, for example, Jack London, ‘Japanese Officers Consider Everything a Military Secret’, San Francisco Examiner (26 June 1904), p. 41. Robert B. Valliant, The Selling of Japan, pp. 431–38; Stewart Lone, ‘Remapping Japanese Militarism: Provincial Society at War, 1904–1905’, Japanese Studies 25 (2005), pp. 53–63. For the strict list of regulations given to foreign correspondents, see ‘Regulations for press correspondents, the First Army headquarters’, in King Hendricks and Irving Shepard, Jack London Reports, (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1970), pp. 25–6. On the observers, see Philip Towle, ‘British observers of the Russo-Japanese War’, in Stewart Lone and Philip Towle (eds), Aspects of the Russo-Japanese War (Suntory & Toyota International Centres for Economics and Related Disciplines, 1998), pp. 23–34. The British officers were the largest delegation with ten members; Germany with five; France the United States with four; Spain, Austria-Hungary, and Switzerland with two; Italy, Turkey, Sweden, Chile, and Argentina with one each. In John Thomas Greenwood, ‘The American Observers of the Russo-Japanese War (1904– 1905).’ Ph.D. Dissertation (Kansas State University, 1971), p. 247. See Griscom, Diplomatically Speaking, p. 196. Charles B. Davis, Adventures and Letters of Richard Harding Davis (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1917). Griscom, Diplomatically Speaking, p. 249. See Greenwood, The American Observers, pp. 261–2, 359–60. Frederick Palmer, With My Own Eyes: A Personal Story of Battle Years (BobbsMerrill, 1932), p. 247. For the attitudes of the rank and file, see Edward M. Coffman, The Hilt of the Sword: The Career of Peyton C. March (The University of Wisconsin Press, 1966), pp. 27–8. Hamilton, A Staff Officer’s Scrap-Book, vol. 1, p. 306. Henning, Race, Religion, and Civilization, p. 327, Henning, ‘White Persons and Semi-Mongols: The Russo-Japanese War and U.S. Discourses on Race and Religion’, in R. Kowner (ed.), The Impact of the Russo-Japanese War (Routledge, 2007), pp. 153–66; Kogoro Takahira, ‘Why Japan Resists Russia’, North American Review 178 (March 1904), pp. 321–7; H. Stewart Alonzo, ‘Baron Kaneko on the Yellow Peril,’ New York Times (February 21, 1904), p. 27; John Thares Davidaan, A World of Crisis and Progress (Leigh University Press, 1998). See Davidaan, A World of Crisis. On the effect of missionary activity in East Asian on the U.S. policy in this region, see also a case study by James Reed, ‘The Missionary Mind and American East Asian Policy, 1911–1915 (Harvard University Press, 1983). Olive Checkland, Humanitarianism and the Emperor’s Japan, 1877–1977 (St. Martin’s Press, 1994), pp. 8–10. Nagao Ariga, The Red Cross Society of Japan; Its Organization and Activity in Time of Peace and War (S.F. Myerson Printing, 1904). On the masculanization of the Japanese society during Meiji era, see Jason G. Karlin, ‘The Gender of Nationalism: Competing Masculinities in Meiji Japan’, pp. 41–77. Hata I., From Consideration to Contempt.

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71 72

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On the Japanese attitude to Russian POWs, see Rotem Kowner, ‘Japan’s Enlightened War: Military Conduct and Attitudes to the Enemy during the Russo-Japanese War’, in B. Edström (ed.), The Japanese and Europe (Richmond: Japan Library, 2000), pp. 134–151. Lensen, The d’Anethan Dispatches. On Matsuyama, see Saikami Tokio, Matsuyama shuyojo: Horyo to Nihonjin (Matsuyama Prisoner Camp: POWs and the Japanese), (Tokyo: Chuo Koronsha 1969); Matsuyama Daigaku (ed.), Matsuyama no kioku: Nichi-Ro senso 100 nen to Roshiahei horyo (The Memory of Matsuyama: The Centennial of the RussoJapanese War and the Russian POWs), (Seibunsha, 2004). Louis Livingstone Seaman, From Tokio through Manchuria with the Japanese (D. Appleton & Co., 1905), p. 62; Ethel McCaul, Under the Care of the Japanese War Office (Cassell, 1904), p. 201. Seaman, From Tokio: pp. 62–3, 60. On Nitobe and the book, see John Howes (ed.), Nitobe Inazo: Japan’s Bridge Across the Pacific (Westview, 1995). For an illuminating study on the militarization of school songs since the early 1890s, see Ury Epstein, ‘School Songs, the War and Nationalist Indoctrination in Japan’, in Kowner (ed.), Rethinking the Russo-Japanese War, vol. I (Global Oriental, 2007), pp. 185–201. For attitude of Japanese rank and file to death during the war, see Naoko Shimazu, ‘The myth of the “patriotic soldier”: Japanese attitudes towards death in the Russo-Japanese War.’ War & Society 19, 2001, pp. 69–89. Steve Rabson, ‘Yosano Akiko on War: To Give One’s Life or Not – A Question of Which War’, Journal of the Association of Teachers of Japan 25, 1991, pp. 45–74. For example, Stewart Lone, ‘Remapping Japanese Militarism: Provincial Society at War, 1904–1905’, Japanese Studies 25, 2005, 53–63, Shalmit Bejarano, ‘The Widow’s Tears and the Soldier’s Dream: Gender and Japanese Wartime Visual Culture’, in Kowner (ed.), Rethinking the Russo-Japanese War, vol. I, Centennial Perspectives (Global Oriental, 2007), pp. 159–84. For the considerations of selecting Hirose, see Naoko Shimazu, ‘The Making of a Heroic War Myth in the Russo-Japanese War’, Waseda Journal of Asian Studies 25, 2004, pp. 91–5. For cases of low morale and insubordination in the Japanese forces during the war, see Oe Shinobu (ed.) Nichi-Ro senso no gunjishiteki kenkyu (Chuo Koronsha, 1988), pp. 168–170. On the production and content of war pictures (prints and Western-style paintings) in Japan during 1904–05, see Shumpei Okamoto, Impressions of the Front: Woodcuts of the Sino-Japanese War, 1894–95 (Philadelphia Museum of Art, 1983); Julia Meech-Pekarik, The World of Meiji Print: Impressions of a New Civilization (Weatherhill, 1986); Elizabeth de Sabato Swinton, In Battle’s Light: Woodblock Prints of Japan’s Early Modern Wars (Worcester Art Museum, 1991); Elizabeth de Sabato Swinton ‘Russo-Japanese War Triptychs: Chastising a Powerful Enemy’, in J. Thomas Rimer (ed.), A Hidden Fire: Russian and Japanese Cultural Encounters, 1868–1926 (Stanford University Press, 1995), pp. 114–132; Tan’o and Kawada, Imeji no naka no senso, pp. 17–21; Bejarano, The Widow’s Tears.

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images See Lone, Remapping Japanese Militarism. Cited in Gregory A. Waller, ‘Narrating the New Japan: Biograph’s the Hero of Liao-yang (1904)’, Screen 47, 2006, p. 52. On the social and political consequences of the war, see Rotem Kowner, ‘The War as a Turning Point in Modern Japanese History’, in Kowner (ed.), The Impact of the Russo-Japanese War, pp. 29–46. Cited in Peter Duus, The Abacus and the Sword (University of California Press 1995), p. 189. In 1968, Andy Warhol stated that ‘In the future, everyone will be world-famous for fifteen minutes.’ The statement resulted in the coining of the expression ‘fifteen minutes of fame’, that is, a fleeting condition of celebrity that attaches to an object of media attention. See Andy Warhol’s Exposure Catalogue of his photographs exhibited in Stockholm, Sweden, 1968. See also American Heritage Dictionary of American Quotations, Selected and annotated by Margaret Miner and Hugh Rawson (Penguin Reference, 1999), p. 479.

4

Japan’s Place in Russian and Soviet National Identity: From Port Arthur to Khalkhin-gol YULIA MIKHAILOVA

INTRODUCTION

T

he end of the Cold War reshaped state borders and created new interest in the problem of national identity.1 Recent studies have shown how textual and visual materials can determine notions of geographical space. Consciousness of place relates to national identity and in turn to geopolitical visions.2 In Russia, the relationship between national identity and geographical space is of particular concern. It took centuries before the vast territories to the west, south and east of the area around Moscow came to be viewed as essential to the Russian state, only to reclaim their separate identity in the 1990s. The construction of Russian geographical consciousness involved the inclusion of ethnic groups and interaction with neighbouring states and peoples, Japan and the Japanese among them. The diplomatic history of Russian-Japanese relations has been well studied, but the relationship between geographical consciousness, the formation of Russian national identity and the impact this has had on Russian and later Soviet images of Japan remains to be explored.3 This chapter seeks to compare anti-Japanese propaganda in Russia during the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5 with ‘patriotic’ propaganda launched in the Soviet Union in the 1930s. Images of Japan and the Japanese spread by propaganda depended not only on political events, but also upon the position of the Far East in the geographical consciousness of the Russian / Soviet people. In the case of the Russo-Japanese War, propaganda, built on ideas that were often abstract and alien to the general populace, failed to arouse widespread animosity towards Japan.

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In contrast, Soviet propaganda was more effective in constructing a negative image of the Japanese because hostility towards the enemy was associated with the necessity to protect ‘one’s own land’. The chapter reconsiders the role played by geographical consciousness in Russian imaging of the Japanese and the impact it has had on relations between the two countries. In particular, it attempts to deconstruct Stalin’s September 1945 statement that Soviet occupation of Southern Sakhalin and the Kuril Islands represented revenge for Russia’s defeat in the RussoJapanese War. The conclusion shows that this thinking was based on negative images of Japan produced by Stalin’s own propaganda machine rather than by events that had taken place forty years earlier. The analysis is based on visual and verbal materials taken from Russian and Soviet journals and magazines published for the general public, such as Letopis voiny s Iaponiei, Vestnik Evropy, Russkoe bogatstvo, Obrazovanie, Mir bozhii, Voina s Iaponiei, Niva, Strekoza, Budilnik, Krokodil, special publications designed for the army (Vestnik russkogo soldata, Krasnoarmeets i krasnoflotets), popular prints of the Russo-Japanese War and Russian and Soviet postcards.4 For the Soviet period, materials from fiction are also included. THE HOLY WAR AND THE YELLOW PERIL

The first Japanese shells to strike Russian ships at Port Arthur and Chemulpo had immediate repercussions in Russian popular media. Thousands of coloured prints soon appeared in even the most remote corners of Russia, surpassing newspapers and official notices as primary sources of information about the war with Japan. Before people had time to understand who was fighting with whom and why, popular prints gave peasants and townspeople their first glimpse of Japanese in blue and green uniforms, portrayed often as tiny weaklings about to be smashed to bits by burley Russian Cossacks and smart-looking sailors. ‘Popular prints’ (narodnye kartiny) were broadsheets printed on cheap, low-quality paper. They imitated the style of lubki prints that first appeared in Russia at the end of the seventeenth century as a sort of folk art produced in monasteries.5 By the end of the nineteenth century, however, lubki only pretended to follow this tradition. In reality, they were produced by professional publishers and were subject to censorship.6 In 1904, the Committee on Press Matters was under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Home Affairs headed by Viacheslav Pleve, well known for his nationalistic views. The anonymous authors of lubki and their publishers saw the war with Japan as an opportunity to make profits through the sale of patriotic literature. Not a single lubki print was withdrawn from publication. At the same time, foreign cartoons exerted an influence on lubki, altering their style of representation and, simultaneously, the way they conveyed political comment and patriotic concern. Some of the ‘popular prints’ were realistic in nature, but the majority were allegoric and satirical, often relying on humour for effect. The

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allegoric and satirical prints provide good information about images of ‘self’ and the Japanese ‘other’. Allegorical prints conveyed images of war, taking advantage of symbols derived from Russian history and the Orthodox faith to strengthen national sentiment and evoke antiJapanese feelings. From the time of Peter the Great (1672–1725) Russia’s self-image was that of a great military power, enhanced in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as a result of successful campaigns against the Turks and armies of Napoleon. The Patriotic War of 1812 was important in the development of Russian national consciousness. Russia showed itself to be the only European state able to defeat the mighty Napoleon. Although Russia lost the Crimean War of 1853–56, its heroic defence of Sebastopol, and the very fact that Russia had taken on the combined forces of France, England, Turkey and Sardinia promoted images of Russian courage, fortitude and endurance. The Russo-Turkish War of 1877–78 was deemed a ‘holy war’, in that Russia had defended the cause of all Slavic peoples against the ‘unfaithful’ Turks.7 The evolution of a Russian self-image helps to explain the contents and the character of allegoric prints that appeared at the time of the Russo-Japanese War. One such print was entitled On the War of Russia with Japan (Pl. 19). The print deserves careful attention since it projected commonly-held understandings of the war with Japan. On the right side of the picture is a woman dressed in medieval military attire and clothing associated with the Russian tsars, standing on what may be assumed to be the shores of Port Arthur. Her mantle and skirt are heavily decorated with the double eagle – the coat-of-arms of the Russian Empire. Another double eagle is sitting on her shoulder. An icon, representing the Orthodox faith, is fixed to her breast. She holds an olive branch, a symbol of peace. A white angel, another peace symbol, is floating over her head. Her sword is sheathed; her posture projects dignity and pride. On the left is a dragon-like monster. It bares sharp teeth and its awful jaw disgorges lightning. It has huge claws and wings of enormous size. Flames are raging in the rear. This image has its roots in Christian representations of the enemy as the devil or some terrible serpentine creature.8 As a symbol of evil, it may be seen in Russian icons of St George killing the snake, in the monument to Peter the Great, the Bronze Horseman, in St Petersburg, as well as in portrayals of Japan and China as the ‘yellow peril’.9 In this print, the woman symbolizes Russia as the herald of peace while the dragon-like monster represents the aggressive intentions of Japan. The central message is that Christianity and Russia’s glorious martial past will ensure victory. The text emphasizes the moral superiority of Russia, blaming Japan for treacherous behaviour. The resulting image of Japan as an evil and deceitful country was repeated in various prints, cartoons and articles. Vladimir Apushkin, a journalist who reported on the war, would later write critically about the ‘blind reliance on providence and strange confidence that . . . no one would dare to fight against Holy Russia’. He noted that Russia seemed captivated by the proud verses of Fiodor Tiutchev:

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images Let disbelievers not believe in Holy Russia, Let only Russia believe in itself.10

Tiutchev’s poem conveys well the essence of Russia’s self-image. In vilifying Japan, satirical prints used images from the ‘world of laughter’ familiar to ordinary Russians. Larger-than-life figures of Russian Cossacks and sailors were shown beating or kicking or otherwise doing physical harm to the small and ugly Japanese enemy. Admiral Togo, Marquis Ito and ordinary Japanese soldiers were shown cringing and crying out in pain. The physical weakness of the Japanese was emphasized and their height, skin colour and facial features held up to ridicule. Quite typical in this regard is the print The Enemy is Terrible but God is Benevolent (Pl. 20). The huge figure of a Russian in boots, mittens and a fur-cap is striding across the Sea of Japan – one boot in Korea, another close to Japan, with Manchuria left behind. Hapless Japanese ships are overturned as the Russian giant stirs up the sea. The Japanese flee in fear; America, England and China are taken aback by the massive Russian advance. The contrast between the Russian giant and the miniature Japanese is striking. Like Gulliver among the Lilliputians, the Russian holds a fistful of Japanese, another bunch is stuck into his sash, while still another peers out from the top of his boot. The text sports a series of derogatory verses criticizing the ‘yellow-skinned’, ‘slanted-eyed’, ‘foul’ and ‘snub-nosed’ Japanese. One can only wonder why these tiny people were so feared, or why divine intervention was necessary to ensure their defeat. The lubki prints sought to denigrate the enemy and praise the prowess and power of the Russians, but they relied on primitive visual and verbal resources. Educated and intelligent Russians dismissed the lubki publications, finding them vulgar, racist in content and lacking in wit. For example, Ivan Belokonskii published a series of articles in Obrazovanie which analysed some of the prints in detail. He noted that all ‘lubki publications were based on praise of rude, physical force, which by itself was treated as the Alpha and Omega of happiness’. The Japanese foe was dismissed because ‘he was small in stature and lacked the brawn necessary to break jawbones or otherwise strike with a cudgel or inflict pain with a whip. Intellect, knowledge, culture and notions of human rights counted for nothing. The only thing that mattered was brute force, big fists and ability to swing a cudgel.’11 However, poking fun at the Japanese in this way opened the door to self-mockery: why was it that the burley Cossacks could not defeat Japanese dwarfs? Physical and military strength played a substantial role in Russian identity, but this correlated all too easily with a deficiency in intellectual ability. In this sense, lubki prints could easily prove offensive and dampen rather than heighten enthusiasm for the war. On the other hand, the combination of bright colours, use of standard iconography, and familiar jokes made the pictures attractive. Belokonskii noted that lubki pictures quickly spread around the country and reached

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even remote villages. This does not mean that people believed what they read. There is little information on the reaction of ordinary people to those publications, but it is reasonable to suggest that belief required confirmation from other sources. Rumours and gossip, for example, played an important role in the life of the common folk.12 Information about the situation at the front reached village and town taverns through a variety of sources: from returning soldiers, injured in battle, or through the clandestine activities of political critics of the government. The rumour mill had little praise for the actions of the Russian army and navy. Stories circulated that General Kuropatkin brought wagons filled with candles and icons into Manchuria instead of guns and bullets, or that General Stoessel was a traitor who surrendered Port Arthur to the Japanese. The popular word was also that the Japanese were brave and worthy warriors. Lubki propaganda aimed to denigrate the enemy, but by the fall of 1904 their claims rang hollow and publication ceased. Although lubki failed to mobilize people in support of the war effort, they nonetheless created stereotypical images of the Japanese which continued to inhabit the Russian national consciousness. If the target of lubki propaganda was mainly illiterate peasants, more sophisticated cartoons in satirical magazines, such as Budilnik and Strekoza, were designed for educated city dwellers. The drawings were of high quality and included witty jokes. Authors shared ideas current in Russia and Europe, relying on a widespread racial discourse and warnings over the Japanese ‘yellow peril’, and sought to mobilize people for a war between two irreconcilable races. ‘Japan,’ wrote one author, ‘is representative of the idea of Pan-Mongolism – the unification of the people of that stock against the white race . . . Russia alone blocks the realization of the Japanese government’s plans . . . Russia must be ever vigilant to preserve European interests from the encroachment of the yellow race.’13 Strikingly racist was a lecture given by Ivan Sikorskii, Professor of Kiev St Vladimir University, a recognized psychiatrist and neurologist, whose scholarly works were acknowledged internationally. In tune with the racist theories popular in Europe at the time, he proclaimed the ‘superiority of the white race’, including its ability to undertake ‘intensive intellectual work’ and demonstrate ‘high spiritual consciousness’, ‘qualities especially characteristic of the Slavs’.14 He denigrated the yellow race for its ‘failure to pursue knowledge’, for fanaticism, insidiousness and impudence and even declared that the present war ‘was an important biological event’ in the sense that ‘the Russian mission was to purge the Mongol stock’.15 His lecture was then published in a pamphlet form. Cartoonists were quick to take up the topic of the ‘yellow peril’, seeking to ‘warn the European powers’ of Japanese treachery. The Europeans were reminded that Russia served as a protective barrier against the ‘yellow peril’. One cartoon represented Japan as a witch with a yellow face, hands and hair frightening the ‘ladies of the European community’ with a potion in a pot labelled ‘yellow peril’. The caption warned: ‘Beware, dear Europeans, don’t get “burned” against this hot

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pot!’16 Another, again titled ‘The Yellow Peril’, portrayed Japan as an ugly bloodthirsty monster with horns and fangs rushing from the Land of the Rising Sun across Russia into Europe. In yet another cartoon the frightened figure of Europe was hiding behind a tall Russian Cossack as he fended off an attack by a Japanese soldier.17 Nonetheless, the spectre of the ‘yellow peril’ may not have been persuasive, especially to the Russians east of the Volga who had a long history of contact with Asians through intermarriage and years of interaction. This racial construction of an image of the enemy did not resonate well with the Eurasian part of Russian national identity. Indeed, as many Russians felt betrayed by the same Western countries the propagandists claimed to protect, it may well have been easier to exploit anti-Western sentiment. American and English support for Japan was well known and many cartoons claimed that if it were not for Western support, the Russians could have quickly defeated Japan. The magazine Budilnik depicted a Russian epic warrior using his sword to cut off the head of a dragon, obviously Japan, only to realize that it had three more heads – American, English and Chinese.18 Another cartoon in the same magazine showed a European lady scrubbing a yellow dog in a tub. The caption noted: ‘You can’t wash a yellow male-dog and make it into a white one.’19 The Russian word for male-dog (kobel) has strong negative connotations, referring to a man unable to control his lust. The cartoon thus criticizes Japanese aggression and lampoons its futile attempt to become civilized. Hinting at an international conspiracy against Russia, cartoonists and publishers sought to explain Russia’s failures at the front. Another concern of the cartoonists was Japan’s financial woes. The mounting costs of war in fact did pressure the Japanese government to seek a negotiated peace. One cartoon, for example, portrayed a hairy, ape-like samurai using his sword to destroy a precious vase representing ‘popular welfare’. Other cartoons depicted the Japanese begging for money from their English and American friends, or Japan’s ‘budget’ bursting like a soap-bubble, or Japanese at home starving from hunger. However, it is doubtful that these representations were able to inspire enthusiasm for the war against Japan. Indeed, Russians suffered from similar financial woes leading to popular demonstrations against the state in January 1905. The propaganda campaign floundered with a number of images that could be interpreted in multiple ways. In the Western mind, Japan was often associated with exotic geisha entertainers. This imagery had positive connotations indicating an artistic bent, but could also be used to describe Japan as feminine, weak and requiring the guidance of a masculine West. Moreover, geisha could symbolize a frivolous and even deceitful woman. In 1904, with the war well underway, one illustrated comic published in the Strekoza magazine ridiculed a Mr Dum-dum who sought the hand of the charming geisha Sea Star. He tried to please her with flowers, only to have the flower-pot flung at him.20 The story poked fun at the Anglo-Japanese Alliance, warning the English that they would

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be the next to suffer from Japanese deceit. As Japanese victory in war appeared possible, the geisha took on a new image. Ms Sea Star represented Japan as a ‘yellow parvenue’, boldly seating herself in the ‘first’ class salon, replacing Russia. During the Portsmouth negotiations, a cartoon published in Budilnik portrayed the Western powers (minus Russia) looking in amazement – and not without fear – at the geisha in their company (Pl. 21). The author of the cartoon was not ridiculing Japan so much as the Westerners and Russians. This self-mocking can be seen clearly in another cartoon that showed a Japanese prisoner-of-war in the company of Russians (Pl. 22). In this picture, only the Japanese is represented as a human; the Russians are depicted as goats and sheep drinking champagne in the POW’s honour, thus expressing a new (but blind) adoration of Japan. BEYOND SATIRE

The war did not evoke much excitement in Russia. At the beginning, several patriotic demonstrations expressed support for the war and loyalty to the tsar. However, a series of defeats, the death of Admiral Stepan Makarov (2 April) and the protracted siege of Port Arthur ending in its fall on 2 January 1905, changed the mood. Magazines published articles, pictures and photographs strikingly different from the cartoons and popular prints described above. For example, an illustrated weekly of military events Voina s Iaponiei, published for the ordinary public (it had a low price of 5 kopeks), gave the following account of the Battle of Shaolinzu (26–27 August): With a sinking heart I followed the bursts of Japanese shells by which they attempted to detect our batteries. Thank God, I saw the shells missing their marks. . . . Suddenly, a shell hit home, followed by a second, then a third and finally the entire battery disappeared from sight shrouded by the smoke of innumerable Japanese shells. I could hardly restrain myself from bursting into tears, as it seemed to me that not a single human being could remain alive there.21

Many accounts conveyed the cruelty and horror of war, along with the exertion of fighting. At the same time, the Japanese came to be characterized as courageous, brave and experienced warriors. The portraits drawn by Russian artists represented the Japanese as tall, portly and even handsome. Admiral Togo standing on the deck of a ship looked the part of a wise Oriental saint. General Nogi resembled Napoleon in a posture filled with dignity and self-assurance. Similar to the Western representations of Japanese discussed by Kowner earlier in this book, war pictures by Viktor Mazurovskii and Nikolai Samokish depicted the Japanese as expert cavalrymen, excelling in the use of technology and even getting the upper hand over the Russians in bayonet attacks, considered by Russians among their best

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skills. Some pictures showed clean and well-organized Japanese hospitals where physicians and nurses took care of Russian POWs. To be sure, there were patriots and heroes in Russia, but most accounts of the war were filled with descriptions that conveyed the depressed spirit of soldiers and officers, their fatigue and apathy, and lack of fighting spirit. The war stories were hardly lively or cheerful. Commanders looked sluggish and soldiers languorous, suffering from hunger and dressed in tattered uniforms. Despite attempts of nationalists to persuade the public that the war was ‘a real crusade against enemies of the Orthodox faith and the whole of Christendom’, and the activities of anti-Japanese lubki propaganda artists, people were not easily mobilized for the war effort. The reality was that no one could understand the purpose of the war. Even semi-official publications such as Letopis voiny s Iaponiei, published by the Headquarters of the Army, had to admit that ‘the course, the development and the very policy of the war remained somewhat mysterious to the public. Soldiers perceived it as a war for “rented land”.’22 One author in Letopis appealed to the army chaplains claiming it to be their duty to explain the holy character of the war.23 Recruits, he lamented, only understood that they were being sent away from their villages to be slaughtered by the Japanese. Officers did not lack the notion of military honour, but the war was associated in their minds with the ‘private’ machinations of the imperial family and their irresponsible adventures. It is important to emphasize that the theatre of war was far from central Russia. Distance not only complicated the transportation of troops and ammunition; the fact that the Far East was not yet incorporated into the geographical consciousness of the Russian people made it difficult to fight, and perhaps die, for Manchuria. To many, this made no sense at all. The slow process of Russian settlement in the Far East began only after signing of the Peking Treaty with China in 1860, accompanied by numerous hardships caused by sporadic clashes with the Manchu and difficulties in supplying provisions. The construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway, which began in 1891, was an important turning point for Russian penetration into the region. In 1900, the Russians brought troops into Manchuria to help suppress the Boxer Rebellion. It was at this point that supporters of Russia’s advance into the Far East, including Prince Esper Ukhtomskii and the pro-government newspaper press, began to advocate use of the term Zheltorossiia (Yellow Russia).24 Nevertheless, during the fifty-plus years of Russian colonization of the Maritime Province and other territories adjacent to the Amur, a huge area amounting to more than one million square verst,25 few people took up the call to move east. By 1904, the population was less than one person per 4 square verst and amounted to 175,000 people.26 The government attempted to induce people to move by promising various advantages, such as the allocation of 100 desiatina27 of land per family, exemption from taxes and army service. However, even the Cossacks, usually the

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first to develop new lands in Russia, were unwilling to move to the Far East. Peasants in the Far East were correspondingly lethargic. One critic of the time noted that ‘nowhere was misery and homelessness more obvious [than in the region adjacent to the Amur]’.28 Indeed, it was difficult for people from the central parts of Russia to adjust to the harsh climate and living conditions in the Far East. Methods of farming were unfamiliar; they required new knowledge and skills and there were few opportunities to engage in other activities. It was difficult for Russians to compete with Chinese traders with no agricultural or industrial development. As late as 1917, the majority of agricultural products were imported from Manchuria.29 Given the absolute levels of poverty and failure to develop even to the point of self sufficiency, there was little impetus to defend the region or to promote pride of place. The only Russian territory directly affected by the Russo-Japanese War was Sakhalin, but the island had no positive associations in the Russian mind. Sakhalin had been used as a penal colony and writers such as Anton Chekhov or Vlas Doroshevich have given it a terrible and depressing reputation.30 Free peasants rarely lived in Sakhalin, and not only because of the bad climatic conditions, but because their harvest was often stolen by bandits. It was a true hell for the people who moved there. Thus, when Japan seized Sakhalin in July 1905, newspapers and magazines firmly rejected the assertions of ‘patriots’ who insisted on continuing the war. The liberal magazine Vestnik Evropy wrote: In order to offer such heroic measures as to fight for the motherland to the last drop of blood, the enemy should at least have advanced into the boundaries of the European Russia and threatened its centre. No one hesitates about the readiness of the Russian people to fight for the defence of the motherland from a real menace. But it would be difficult to expect self-sacrifice for that ‘convict prison’ island of Sakhalin or even for Vladivostok.31

Indeed, some Russians even expressed their hope that Japan would turn Sakhalin into a place of prosperity.32 In the year 1905, patriotism called not for the protection of some ‘remote and alien territory that had nothing in common with the economic life of the country, but for the mobilization of all creative forces for the fight against the backwardness of Russia’.33 Thus, in the mind of many Russians the war came to be associated with betrayal of Russian interests, though the humiliation of defeat remained deeply hidden in the national consciousness only to be recalled some forty years later. FOSTERING SOVIET PATRIOTISM

Immediately after the Russian Revolution of 1917, Japan was counted among the enemies of Soviet state. The anti-Bolshevik intervention of

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the Japanese army into Siberia lasted two years longer than the intervention of other powers.34 During that time several attempts to establish an anti-Bolshevik government in Siberia were undertaken with Japanese help. The very scale of the intervention, some 70,000 Japanese soldiers, operating in the vast reaches of Siberia, from Vladivostok to Zabaikalie and Sakhalin, and the ferocity of killing that took place, left an indelible mark in the memory of both the Japanese and the Russians. In stark contrast with the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5, the Japanese not only intruded deep into Russian territory, but confronted their northern neighbour along ideological lines.35 Nonetheless, as soon as Japan withdrew its troops from Siberia and the Far East and worked to conclude a peace treaty, Soviet newspapers and magazines sought to create a positive image of the country. This was achieved by manipulating existing images, attempting to bring Japan closer to ideals of ‘the first state of the proletariat’. For example, the press deemed cherry blossoms and geisha to be artefacts of a bygone era, stressing instead the realities of Japan as a strong industrial state. The assumption behind that image was that industrial Japan with abundant factories and a large and growing labour force was a potential ally of the Soviet Union.36 The Japanese national character was described as ‘cheerful’ and ‘frugal’. The first was associated with ‘indifference towards religion’, coinciding with the official Soviet anti-religious stance, while the ideal of frugality matched the harsh realities of Soviet life. Newspapers and magazines carried news of a delegation of Japanese railwaymen or of a group of Japanese pilots on a visit in Moscow, emphasizing the possibility of rapprochement between the two countries.37 Some articles even maintained that before the introduction of things Western, women in Japan enjoyed equality, much like their Soviet counterparts. These short articles were accompanied by photographs intended to augment the veracity of the stories. The conclusion of the 1925 Basic Treaty with Japan was treated in the Soviet mass media as an event of historical importance; hopes were expressed that the treaty would serve as a ‘blow against other imperialistic powers’. Some articles on Japan were naïve. For example, the future ‘founding father’ of Japanese studies in the Soviet Union, Nikolai I. Konrad, suggested that the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923 represented a chance for Japan to give up ‘the spirit of profit, characteristic of the Americans, and develop other features of the human soul well represented by Russian literary thought’.38 However, beginning from the early 1930s, those positive images of Japan underwent substantial change. The First Five-Year Plan (introduced in April 1929), followed by a Second Five-Year Plan (1932), sought to transform the Soviet Union into an industrial power. Soviet economic planners set goals for the development of Siberia and the Far East (thereby making Soviet industry less vulnerable from its European foes). New plants were built, many people, including peasants, were forced to move from the West to the East, and propaganda was faced with the task

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of convincing people that they were working for their own benefit, i.e. for the ‘state of workers’. Attachment to new places of living had also to be achieved. Propaganda means were various, but there was, as Victoria Bonnell has noted, ‘a privileging of the eye’.39 Posters, illustrated magazines, photographs and cinema played a central role. It became important to demonstrate the vast size of Russia, and show that many ethnicities could enjoy the advantages of socialism. For example, in the 1920s, schematic maps of the Soviet Union, published in a magazine for schoolchildren Pioner (Pioneer), focused on the European part of Russia with the eastern boundary drawn around the middle of Siberia.40 However, maps published in the 1930s clearly included Sakhalin, Kamchatka and Primorie.41 They were heavily marked with symbols of plants, electric power stations, oil derricks, railways and schools to demonstrate the achievements of industrialization. Posters designed by avant-garde artists, such as the Stenberg brothers or Gustav Klutsis, often depicted railways running across Siberia or airplanes flying high above the vast expanse of the country. Inspired by a belief in modernity, artists concentrated on representations of the speed and power of trains and airplanes as carriers of Soviet civilization.42 Songs with lines such as ‘we conquer space and time, we are the owners of the land’ or ‘we are born to master expanse and space’ were repeated with depth of feeling. Magazines for children organized competitions for the best description of one’s region. Those descriptions usually included a depiction of landscape, natural resources and economic activities of local people. Siberia and the Far East often appeared among them.43 Literature for children referred to the discovery of new lands, and to this end the Far East offered an excellent opportunity. Stories and novels emphasized the historical bonds between the Far East and Russia, noting the pioneering role played by Russian travellers and explorers in their discovery. Such was, for example, the novel by Aleksander Zonin, The Captain of ‘the Diana’,44 which consisted of an abridged and much modified version of the famous book by Vassilii Golovnin.45 In contrast to Golovnin, who depicted the Japanese as an educated and enlightened people, praised their patience and politeness and even noted that the Japanese had sufficient reasons to be apprehensive of Russian territorial designs,46 the Soviet writer presented the Japanese as treacherous, vengeful, hateful and dangerous. Depiction of partisans fighting against the ‘whites’ and the Japanese in the Far East during the Civil War following the Bolshevik revolution was another device to bring the region closer to Soviet hearts. Songs, poems and novels repeated stories of how the partisans sacrificed their lives for the victory of socialism.47 The story of Sergei Lazo allegedly burned alive in a locomotive furnace by the Japanese was known to every Soviet schoolboy or schoolgirl.48 The Defeat, a classic of Soviet literature by Aleksandr Fadeev published in 1927, was set in the Ussuri forest. Although the Japanese were not prominent in the novel, it was

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nevertheless made obvious that they were enemies of the ‘proletariat cause’. Another classic, the novel Courage by Vera Ketlinskaia (1938) was dedicated to the first builders of Komsomolsk-na-Amure and described how they overcame enormous hardships and privations in the achievement of the goal. In the mid-1930s, Pioner carried, on a regular basis, a column entitled ‘Building a City in the Far East’, which also praised the heroic work of the builders of that city. In this way by constructing a new historical memory and glorifying contemporary achievements, Siberia and the Far East came to be associated with the notion of motherland. CONSTRUCTING THE JAPANESE ENEMY

In order to stimulate industrial production and national unity, the government constantly returned to the necessity of protecting the country from its enemies. The construction of an ‘image of the enemy’ thus became an essential part of Soviet propaganda. The situation in the Far East was favourable for choosing Japan as its main target. In the early 1930s, Japan had abandoned a peace-oriented international policy in favour of outright military action. It took over Manchuria and set up the puppet state of Manchukuo, suddenly producing a 5,000-kilometre border between Japanese and Soviet interests. Old geopolitical rivalries were reinforced by ideological concerns and a series of overtly anti-Soviet articles in the Japanese press. The question of war against the Soviet Union was hotly debated in the Japanese government and military circles and Soviet leaders made this known to the public. When, in 1932, War Minister Araki Sadao demanded that Japan initiate a preventive war against the Soviets, his views were publicized in the Soviet Union in a book by O. Tanin and E. Iogan.49 A 1933 pamphlet by Hirata Shinsaku that argued for war with the Soviet Union was translated into Russian and reprinted in Moscow in 1934. Among the goals of war against the Soviet Union, for example, were several plans to take over Vladivostok; assurance was given that it would capitulate, just like Port Arthur had thirty years earlier.50 In the second half of the 1930s, border clashes between the Soviet Union and Japan became a frequent reality.51 Among them, the twoweek confrontation at Lake Khasan (Chokoho Incident) in July-August 1938 and the four-month war on the border between Manchuria and Mongolia (Nomonhan Incident, 1939) were the most severe.52 Both resulted in Soviet victories and created good grounds to glorify Soviet superiority and construct the image of Japan as an ‘official’ enemy of the Soviet Union. Graphic media played an important role in the construction of this image.53 Some Soviet artists, such as Boris Efimov or Kukryniksy,54 developed iconographic images of the enemy using a sharp satirical style. Their works were often issued as postcards in editions of 50,000 copies or printed in satirical magazines and newspapers. Red Army soldiers also

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tried their skills in graphic art imitating more well-known masters. Reportedly, Stalin personally intervened in the art of the political cartoon, suggesting a storyline or amplifying details.55 The times required an enemy, whose outward appearance would betray a villainous and brutal psychology. In thus knowing the enemy, Soviet citizens could be assured of themselves and their mission in the world. Artists created two competing images of Japan: one of an aggressive and martial state, the other of a weak and defeated country. Aggression was symbolized by a corpulent male figure dressed in uniform decorated with numerous military awards. The Japanese often had faces of fat salivating bulldogs with protruding upper teeth and vicious eyes encircled by horn-rimmed glasses. Sometimes the face was modelled on Tojo Hideki, a feature similar to American propaganda cartoons of the Second World War.56 Body corpulence and salivating emphasized greed and aggression. One cartoon in Krokodil, the main satirical magazine of the time, portrayed a stout Japanese soldier with a huge stone on his back walking along a board thrown across a precipice. The stone symbolized Japan’s territorial acquisitions, a burden too heavy to sustain. The soldier is sweating heavily and the board is about to crack, throwing him inevitably into the precipice.57 In this way the cartoon suggested that Japan will be punished for its territorial ambitions. Other iconographic representations of Japanese aggression portrayed the Japanese as puny men with spindly legs, hardly able to stand up in their huge boots. Their wide-open mouths reveal shark-like teeth; their animal-like claws are busy grabbing up neighbouring lands. The representation made Japan appear to be a small country with enormous territorial ambitions.58 In contrast to American wartime cartoons that frequently depicted the Japanese soldier as a superman or monstrous gorilla, Soviet propaganda, echoing the lubki of the Russo-Japanese War, tended to emphasize Japanese weakness. When size was a factor, the Japanese were represented as losers. Demonization of the enemy was practically absent; the Japanese were ridiculed and downgraded as an object of laughter. Soviet cartoons did not frighten, but rather aimed to heap contempt and disdain on the Japanese. They were often dehumanized, made to look like rats, dogs or other animals, a device common to other propaganda traditions. Soviet cartoonists also depicted the Japanese as broken mechanical toys, thereby emphasizing their inability to think, as well as their frailty – toys could be easily crushed, especially by Soviet boots. One cartoon represented a samurai crashing his forehead against the Soviet border post; his body is compressed, legs fly apart, sword twisted, and his military cap and medals fall off. At the bottom of the border post we see a smashed body of another samurai, while the caption declares: ‘This is the common fate of everyone who dares approach the Soviet border’ (Pl. 23). Another typical image of the Japanese concentrated on their psychological weakness. Pictures and stories portrayed the defeated enemy

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constantly crying, emotionally depressed and frightened, making it obvious that Yamato damashii, the spiritual cornerstone of the Japanese army, was easily overwhelmed by the superiority of Soviet weaponry, morality and spirit. Some cartoons depicted the Japanese together with fascists dazzled by the streaks of light emanating from the Kremlin with the red star and the words ‘Stalin Constitution’ at the top.59 It was common to use artistic perspective in such a way as to diminish the size of the enemy and aggrandize the Soviet hero. Larger-than-life figures of Soviet soldiers, holding rifles or red banners were depicted standing on top of a mountain, while the Japanese with frightened faces and transformed into a herd of non-human creatures were scattered at its bottom. The mountain could be interpreted literally as Zaozernaia Hill near Lake Khasan, where a military confrontation had taken place, or figuratively, indicated the triumph of the Soviet state over Japan. This style of representation inherited much from the lubok pictures of the Russo-Japanese War, but images of brave Cossacks and smart sailors were not simply replaced by the Red Army. Instead of glorifying crude physical force, ideological connotations were added to visual materials of the 1930s – the futility of Japanese aggression was attributed to the capitalist nature of the state, while the victory of Soviet peaceful intentions derived from its commitment to international socialism. Soviet victories over Japan in the 1930s were interpreted as revenge for defeat in the Russo-Japanese War. In this case, too, the supremacy of the Soviet Union contrasted with the failure of the tsarist regime: victory depended supremely upon ideology. One cartoon showed an injured Japanese soldier sitting at a school-desk with two sheets of paper in front of him: ‘Lesson no. 1 – Siberia, 1922; Lesson no. 2 – Lake Khasan, 1938’.60 This picture was part of an illustration to a poem that praised the victories of the Red Army during the Civil War and poked fun at the Japanese who had ‘forgotten’ how they had been pushed out of Soviet Russia in 1922, reminding them that the Soviet border is well protected and ‘locked’. Another cartoon showed groups of Japanese and Soviet soldiers standing before a map, and the message ran: ‘Thirty-five years ago: we [the Japanese] marked [on the map] Mukden, Port Arthur, Tsushima. The present: we [the Russians] mark Volochaevka, Spask, Khasan.’61 The Japanese were represented as fat dogs, whereas the Soviets were given typical Slavic features complete with the so-called ‘open face’, symbolizing honesty, sincerity and courage. Ideological markers of the Soviet state, such as the hammer and sickle, red banners and the red star, were also used. Colour symbolism was important. Anything red was by definition heroic and was associated with the Soviet Union, while black and green had negative connotations attached to Japan. A major difference with earlier Russo-Japanese War propaganda lies in the representation of Soviet territory and borders. Land figured prominently in nearly all cartoons of the 1930s, contrasting sharply with earlier pictures that focused on water. According to Yurii Lotman, Russians identified themselves as a continental power, giving water

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negative associations as something alien, evil or even dangerous.62 Land, to the contrary, produced warm and familiar connotations. This symbolism may well be seen in depictions of Soviet victories in territorial clashes with Japan. One postcard featured the Soviet border as a high iron fence locked by a big red lock inscribed with the hammer and sickle symbol (Pl. 24). The Japanese were represented as ugly rats (one modelled on Tojo, another, probably, on general Nogi, a hero of the Russo-Japanese War) attempting to penetrate Soviet territory from under the gates, only to be repelled by Soviet border guards armed with rifles and bayonets. Soviet political cartoons of the 1930s glorified the superiority of Soviet power and Soviet spirit over the capitalist state of Japan. The cartoons also betrayed racial connotations; in this sense Russian ethnocentrism served to strengthen Soviet nationalism, while an obsession with land demonstrated that such nationalism was based on geographical consciousness. According to the Soviet Commissar of Defence, Kliment E. Voroshilov, significance of the Soviet victory at Lake Khasan demonstrated that the Red Army was capable of standing up against the well-experienced regular army of a capitalist state.63 However, the victory had wider consequences. It was the first time that the Soviet Union was able to test a new identity constructed around the basis of the ideological and military superiority of socialism over capitalism. Japan was destined to become the enemy against which the success of the Soviet state would be measured. CONCLUSION

War and military conflict often contribute to visceral images of an enemy deserving to be annihilated. John Dower has shown how racial images created by Japanese and Americans contributed to a ‘war without mercy’.64 However, when people feel themselves members of one national community and nationalist sentiment is on the rise, the effects of wartime propaganda may depend on the extent to which the war is perceived as corresponding to national interests. This chapter has sought to test this assumption by comparing propaganda, especially visual representations of the enemy ‘other’ during the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5, with visual and textual materials emanating from Soviet-Japanese military clashes in the 1930s. Despite antiJapanese propaganda, the Russo-Japanese War did not, in the end, result in widespread Russian antipathy towards Japan. There was no one clear visual representation of Japan during the Russo-Japanese War. Images fluctuated widely; Japan was feared as the source of the ‘yellow peril’, but at the same time it was the land of ‘yellow weaklings’, or represented by the exotic but untrustworthy image of the geisha. Each image was ambiguous. The ‘yellow peril’ was a threat, but directed primarily at Europe; representations of the Japanese as puny people challenged

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Russia’s self-image as a strong state; the geisha imbued not only negative, but positive connotations. This ambiguity was fuelled by a fundamental lack of popular commitment to the war, caused primarily by an unwillingness to fight for territory not yet recognized as vital to Russian national interests. Thirty years later, Japan was unquestionably represented as an aggressor and a country inferior to the Soviet Union in all respects. The visual imagery of the 1930s showed the world to be unambiguously divided into a negative ‘capitalist other’ and a positive ‘socialist self’. This division was represented by the image of gates and borders, producing a clear identification of ‘our land’. This discourse was fundamental to Soviet ideology and was represented in cartoons, postcards and magazine illustrations, demonstrating a superabundant concern with the issue of land. Major changes had taken place in the perception of the Far East, integrating this territory into the Russian national consciousness. This was sustained by the ‘great move to the East’ in the 1930s and successful propaganda campaigns which created historical memory and glorified Soviet achievements in the region. Propaganda showing an ambitious Japan, posed at the borders of the ‘sacred Soviet motherland’, served not only to transform Japan into a national enemy, but also to heighten Soviet national identity. The subtle linkage between national identity, geographical consciousness, historical memory and the image of Japanthe-enemy helps to explain why territorial issues with Japan remain sensitive to Russian people. NOTES 1

2

3

4

This chapter builds on my previous articles, such as ‘Images of Enemy and Self: Russian “Popular Prints” of the Russo-Japanese War’, Acta Slavica Iaponica, vol. XVI, 1998, pp. 30–53; ‘Laughter in Russo-Japanese Relations: Comic Pictures of the Russo-Japanese War’, Asian Cultural Studies, International Christian University Publications 3-a, Tokyo: International Christian University, 2001, vol. 27, pp. 59–76; ‘Japan’s Place in Russian and Soviet National Identity – from Port Arthur to Khalkhin-gol’, Japanese Slavic and East European Studies, vol. 23, 2002, pp. 1–32. David Hoosen (ed.), Geography and National Identity, (Oxford UK and Cambridge MA: Blackwell, 1994); Mark Bassin, Imperial Vision: Nationalist Imagination and Geographical Expansion in the Russian Far East, 1840–1865, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); Gertjan Dijkink (ed.), National Identity and Geographical Visions, (London and New York: Routledge, 1996). George Alexander Lensen, The Russian Push toward Japan: Russo-Japanese Relations, 1697–1875, (New York: Octagon Books, 1971); David Schimmelpenninck van de Oye, Toward the Rising Sun: Russian Ideologies of Empire and the Path to War with Japan, (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2001). For popular prints, postcards and magazine cartoons of the Russo-Japanese War see http://www.intl.hiroshima-cu.ac.jp/~yulia/visual.htm; see also website constructed by John Dower and Shigeru Miyagawa, Asia Rising: Japanese Postcards of

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the Russo-Japanese War, 1904–5: http://ocw.mit.edu/ans7870/21f/21f.027j/ asia_rising/index.html; see also http://www.postcardman.net/russia_war.html The term lubok (sing.), lubki (pl.) comes from the word lub (bast) which was at first used for their production. Sometimes the terms ‘popular prints’ and lubki are used as synonyms. I. D. Sytin, A. V. Holmushin, and A. A. Kasatkin were among the few famous publishers, but there were dozens of less well known ones in Moscow and St Petersburg alone. The use of a lithograph press allowed them to make thousands of copies a day and publications were quickly distributed around the country by peddlers. On I. D. Sytin see: A. Ruud, Russian Entrepreneur: Publisher Ivan Sytin of Moscow, (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1990). Stephen Norris, A War of Images: Russian Popular Prints, Wartime Culture, and National Identity, 1812–1945, (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2006), pp. 80–106. Victoria E. Bonnell, Iconography of Power. Soviet Political Posters under Lenin and Stalin, (Berkley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1997), p. 194. For example, see an anti-Chinese cartoon ‘The First Duty’ published in Puck, vol. XLVII, no. 1223, 1900, reproduced in Philip P. Choy, Lorraine Dong, Marlon K. Holm, Coming Man: 19th Century American Perceptions of the Chinese, (Hong Kong: Joint Publishing, 1994), p. 69. V.A. Apushkin, Russko-iaponskaia voina 1905–1905 gg. s risunkami i planami (Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5 with drawings and plans), (Moscow: tipografiia russkogo t-va, 1910), pp. 7–8. I.P. Belokonskii, ‘Lubochnaia literature o iapono-russkoi voine’ (Lubki Literature on Russo-Japanese War), Obrazovanie, no. 5, p. 86. I am indebted to the insight about the role of rumours in peasant society to Stephen M. Norris, Professor of Miami University of Ohio. L. Voronov, Borba zheltoi i beloi rasy (The Struggle of the Yellow and White Race), (Moscow: Universitetskaia tipografiia, 1904), p. 78. I.A. Sikorskii, Kharakteristika triokh osnovnykh chelovecheskikh ras – chernoi, zheltoi i beloi, v sviazi s voprosami russko-iaponskoi voiny (Characteristic of Three Main Human Races – Black, Yellow and White in Relation to Russo-Japanese War), (Kiev, 1904), p. 7. Ibid., p. 11. ‘Preduprezhdenie’ (A Warning), Budilnik, 1904, no. 38, front cover. This cartoon was published in the newspaper Nashe vremia in 1904 [date unknown]; see an album of newspaper clippings related to the Russo-Japanese War, Collection of the Section of Prints, Russian National Library. [N.G.], Na Dalnem Vostoke (At the Far East), Budilnik, 1905, no. 11, front cover. [U.] Sviridenko, ‘V prachechnoi evropeiskoi tsivilizatsii’ (In the Laundry of European Civilization, Budilnik, 1904, no. 10, frontcover. ‘Svatovstvo anglichanina k iaponskoi neveste’ (Matchmaking of an Englishman to a Japanese Bride), Strekoza, 1904, no. 31, pp. 8–9. ‘Shturm Port-Artura’ (Assault of Port Authur), Voina s Iaponiei. Ezhenedelnyi illustrirovannyi zhurnal voennykh sobytii, 1904, no. 30, c. 11. L. Vozhin, ‘Voprosy voiny v pechati i obshchestve’ (Questions of War in Press and Public), Letopis voiny s Iaponiei, 1904, no. 35, p. 662.

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images ‘Besporiadki zapasnykh’ (Disturbances in Depot Battalions), Letopis voiny s Iaponiei, 1905, no. 35, p. 665. The term was made according to the pattern of such words as Bellorussiia (White Russia) and Mallorossiia (Small Russia or the Ukraine). It was well used in the nationalistic newspaper Novoe vremia. Measure of length; 1 verst = 3,500 feet (= approx. 1 km). A. Bogdanovich, ‘Kriticheskie zametki’ (Critical Notes), Mir bozhii, 1905, no. 3, p. 8. Measure of area; 1 desiatina = 2.7 acres (= approx. 1 hectare). P.M. Golovachov, Rossiia na Dal’nem Vostoke (Russia at the Far East), (Spb.: E.D. Kuskova, 1904). A. Bogdanovich, ‘Kriticheskie zametki’, p. 8. Anton P. Chekhov visited Sakhalin in 1890 and in 1893 published the book Ostrov Sakhalin (The Island of Sakhalin). It shocked Russian society to the extent that the government had to revise laws pertaining to this penal colony. Vlas M. Doroshevich, visited Sakhalin in 1897 and also published a book, Sakhalin, which exposed the awful conditions of life there. ‘Khronika. Inostrannoe obozrenie’, (News Items. Foreign Observation), Vestnik Evropy, 1905, no. 8, p. 786. S. Iuzhakov, ‘Politika’ (Politics), Russkoe bogatstvo, 1905, no. 8, p. 185. A. Bogdanovich, ‘Kriticheskie zametki’, p. 12. On intervention into Siberia see: Hara Teruyuki, Shiberia shuppei (Intervention into Siberia), (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 1989). The materials from central newspapers and journals of the time, which were available to the present author, do not contain any information about the attitudes of the central authorities of the Soviet Russia towards the Japanese. From 1920 to 1922 a Far Eastern Republic functioned as a buffer state between Soviet Russia and Japan. ‘Sovremennaia Iaponiia’ (Contemporary Japan), Krasnaia panorama, 1923, no. 11, c. 15. ‘Iaponskie letchiki – vestniki sblizheniia’ (Japanese Pilots – Heralds of Rapprochement), Krasnaia panorama, 1925, no. 37, p. 5; ‘Iaponskaia zheleznodorozhnaia delegatsiia’ (Japanese Railway Delegation), Krasnaia panorama, 1925, no. 43, p. 3. N.I. Konrad, ‘Amerikanizatsiia ili russifikatsiia Iaponii’ (Americanization or Russification of Japan), Krasnaia panorama, 1923, no. 2, c. 10. Victoria E. Bonnell, Iconography of Power, p. 3. Pioner, no. 9, 1925, frontcover; ‘Chem my bogaty’ (What Makes Us Rich), Pioner, no. 17, 1925, pp. 12–13. ‘Bolshevistskaia geografiia’ (Bolshevik Geography), Pioner, 1933, no. 21–22, pp. 12–13. See: Gustav Klutsis, Poster ‘Razvitie transporta odna iz vazhneishikh zadach vypolneniia piatiletnego plana’ (Development of Transport Stands among the Most Important Goals of the Five Year Plan), 1929; Vladimir and Georgii Stenberg, Poster for a documentary ‘Turkshib’, 1929. For interpretation of those posters see, for example: Tetsudo to Kaiga. Railways in Art; Inventing the Modern, (Sei Nihon Shinbunsha, 2003), p. 133; Unno Hiroshi, ‘Roshia

Japan’s Place in Russian and Soviet National Identity

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44

45

46

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49

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Avangyarudo futatabi’ (Reviewing the Russian Avant-Garde), in The Stenberg Brothers and Russian Avant-Garde by The Riki Matsumoto Collection, (Tokyo Metropolitan Teien Art Museum, 2001), pp. 17–22. For example, see: ‘Na Ozere Khasan’ (At Lake Khasan), Pioner, 1938, no. 8, p. 1; Nina Onegina, ‘Ia byla u ozera Khasan’ (I Was at Lake Khasan), Pioner, 1938, p. 5. A. Zonin, ‘Kapitan Diany’ (The Captain of ‘Diana’), Pioner, 1939, no. 4–5; M. Muratov, Dva puteshestviia kapitana Beringa (Two Journeys of Captain Bering), (Moscow-Leningrad: Detgiz, 1937); V.K. Arseniev, V debriakh Ussuriiskogo kraia (In the Depths of the Ussuri Region), (Vladivostok: Knizhnoe delo, 1926 and 1928), V.K. Arseniev, Dersu Uzala, (Dersu Uzala), (the 2nd edition for teenagers, Moscow: Detgiz, 1934). V.M. Golovnin, Zapiski flota kapitana Golovnina o priklyucheniiakh ego v plenu u iapontsev v 1811, 1812 i 1813 godakh. S priobshcheniem zamechanir ego on iaponskom gosudarstve inerode (Narrative of Captain Golovnin about His Adventure in Japanese Captivity, during the Years 1811, 1812 and 1813: Supplanted by His Remarks on the Japanese Country and People), parts 1–3, (Spb., Morsk ain tipografia His Remarks, 1816). He meant here a raid on Sakhalin and Kunashir by Khvostov and Davydov, initiated by N. Rezanov as a revenge for the Japanese rejection of his demand to open trade with Russia. The Russian government did not sanction this raid. The imprisonment of Golovnin was Japan’s revenge for the attacks of Khvostov and Davydov. Such was a popular song by P. Parfionov, Over Valleys and Hills. See P. Parfionov, ‘Po dolinam i po vzgoriiam. Kak sozdavalas pesnia (Over the Valleys and Hills. How the Song Was Created), Krasnoarmeets i krasnoflotets, 1934, no. 21, p. 13. Recently, a Russian historian B. Slavinskii discovered materials which demonstrated that S. Lazo and others were burned not by the Japanese, but by the ‘whites’; paper delivered at the 2001 Winter Symposium, Slavic Centre, Hokkaido University. O. Tanin is a pen-name of Oskar Sergeevich Tarhkanov, a scholar of history and economy of the Far East; E. Iogan is a pen-name of Evgenii Shigizmundovich Iolk, a specialist in Chinese and Japanese studies. Araki, Sadao, Showa Nihon no shimei (Japan’s Mission in Showa Era), (Shakai Kyoiku Kyokai, Minshu Bunko Dairokujuhen: 1932); published in Russian as a supplement in the book by O. Tanin, E. Iohan, Voenno-fashistskoe dvizhenie v Iaponii (Military and Fascist Movement in Japan), (Moscow: Partizdat, 1933), pp. 252–62. Hirata, Shinsaku, Warera moshi tatakawaba (If We Fight), (Dai Nihon Yubenkai Kodansha: 1933); for Russian translation see Hirata Shinsaku, ‘Kak my budem voevat?’ (How Shall We Fight?), Iaponiia. Sbornik statei i materialov (Japan. A Collection of Articles and Materials), (Leningrad: Partizdat, 1934), pp. 291–315. The number of border violations reported for the period 1932–39 numbered well over 1,000, see S.D. Goldman, The Forgotten War: The Soviet Union and Japan, 1937–1939, (University Microfilms International, 1970), p. 41. On the events at Lake Khasan see Alvin D. Coox, The Anatomy of a Small War, (Westport, London: Greenwood Press, 1977); A.P. Derevianko, Pogranichnyi konflikt v raione ozera Khasan (Border Conflict in the Area of Lake Khasan),

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images Vladivostok: Ussuri, 1998. On Nomonhan see Alvin D. Coox, Nomonhan: Japan against Russia, 1939, (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1985). There are quite a few studies of Soviet posters, however, small graphic forms, such as postcards or illustrations in political propaganda magazines, have received less attention by scholars. On posters, see Stephen White, The Bolshevik Poster, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988); Victoria E. Bonnell, Iconography of Power. A pen-name for a group of Soviet graphic artists M.V. Kupriianov (1903–91), P.N. Krylov (1902–90) and N.A. Sokolov (1903–2000) who worked in the genre of political cartoons. Sergei Borisov, ‘Istoricheskii chelovek’ (A Historic Personality), Vecherniaia Moskva, 8 September 2000, p. 8. Cf. Pl. 13, in John Dower, War without Mercy: Race and Power in the Pacific War, (London: Faber and Faber, 1986), p. 189. Kukryniksy, ‘Trudnosti vorovskoi professii’ (Hardships of Thievish Profession), Krokodil, 1938, no. 29, p. 19. Interestingly, a book by Samuil Marshak, a classic of Soviet literature for children, which depicted Japan as a shark, was translated into English and published in the United States in 1942. Samuil Marshak, Akula, Giena i Volk (Shark, Hyena and Wolf), (Moskwa and Leningrad: Detgiz, 1938). L. Gench, ‘Kak trudno ukrytsha ot etogo iarkogo sveta . . .’ (It is Difficult to Hide Oneself from This Bright Light . . .), Krokodil, no. 31, 1938, Frontcover. Ian Ganshin, ‘Rasskaz o stranakh, armiiakh i litsakh, chuzhim dobrom mechtavshikh pozhivitsha’ (A Story about Countries, Armies and People Enriching Themselves at Others Expense), Krasnoarmeets, 1939, no. 3, pp. 54–55. L. Gench, ‘Tridtsat piat let nazad. Teper’ (Thirty-five Years Ago. Nowadays), Krokodil, 1939, no. 3, p. 3. Volochaevka and Spask were famous in the Soviet Union as places where Bolshevik partisans crushed the Japanese army during the Japanese intervention of 1918–22. This idea was developed by Y. Lotman with regard to the semiotics of St Petersburg, see Yurii Lotman, Izbrannye stati (Selected Works), vol. 2, (Tallin: ‘Aleksandra’, 1992), p. 10. K.E. Voroshilov, Rech na 18 sezde VKP(b) (Speech at the 18th Congress of VKP(b)), Moscow: Gospolitizdat, 1939, pp. 22–23. John Dower, War Without Mercy.

5

Memory and Identity: Japanese POWs in the Soviet Union SERGEI KUZNETSOV AND YULIA MIKHAILOVA

INTRODUCTION

I

n August–September 1945, the Soviet Union detained over 600,000 Japanese soldiers and civilians and placed them in labour camps throughout the Russian Far East, all the way west to the Ural Mountains. As a result of negotiations between the Soviet Union and the United States, their repatriation back to the Japanese homeland began in December 1946. One remarkable part of their stories which has been largely ignored in war narratives is the fact that more than 4,000 of the prisoners were accused of being war criminals and only released from their imprisonment in 1956. The issue of Japanese POWs and their internment in the Soviet Union has featured prominently in the history of Russian-Japanese relations. It is the subject of much controversy and the cause for longstanding discontent. It is also a major historical factor that feeds the dark image of the Soviet Union in postwar Japan, although, as we will see below, some POWs were friendly towards the country of their imprisonment.1 Taking into consideration a recent plethora of academic publications and the appearance of several reflections on the POW experience, both in Japan and in Russia, it is now possible to examine the representation of imprisonment and its relation to memory and identity in contemporary Japan.2 This chapter seeks to demonstrate the role visual media, in particular paintings, museum exhibitions and theatre performances, has played in transforming the traumatic experiences of POWs into Japanese collective memory. It seeks further to explore the relationship between the POW experience and the evolving image of Japan’s northern neighbour. The chapter proceeds from the assumption that visual means of representation are not only historical sources, but also persuasive ‘memory sites’,

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especially so in the case of pictures drawn by former detainees from memory only. Those ‘memory sites’ work as ‘a kind of history-telling’, demonstrating both ‘what happened and how it is passed down to us’.3 Others have said that people who experience trauma such as war will only see their narratives enter the public realm ‘if their vision meets with compatible social or political objectives and inclinations among other important social groups’.4 This paper argues that POW memories and related ‘memory sites’ must be selected in order to reconcile individual and group identities with the requirements of the Cold War and, sometimes, with the interests of various local agencies, such as the Maizuru Repatriation Memorial Museum. In recent years, moreover, the issue has become connected to themes in popular culture, which speak more about Japanese reflections on themselves and reconsideration of war than they do about Japanese images of Russia. ARTISTS AND THEIR WORKS

Imprisonment in Soviet labour camps engendered many works of art demonstrating the cruelty, pain and hardships endured. These graphic works are diverse in their manner of expression, including abstract artwork by Onosato Toshinobu or Miyazaki Susumu, realistic works, which comprise the majority of pictures, and drawings in manga style. The authors working in the latter genre believe that it is this popular art form that best appeals to people today.5 Numerous individual exhibitions were held from the 1960s up to the 1990s. Kazuki Yasuo (1911–74), one of the most famous postwar Japanese artists painting in oils, first exhibited his Siberia Series at the Ginza Matsuya Gallery in 1967 and in 1969 was awarded the First Big Prize in Japanese painting.6 Now, more than thirty years after the artist’s death, his pictures are still considered important. In August 2005, a retrospective exhibition of his works was held in Hiroshima in commemoration of the sixtieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War. In 1973, the Ginza Saegusa Gallery organized the first presentation of Araki Chuzaburo’s works; it was followed by seven consecutive exhibitions, which produced the album Spring Won’t Come to Soldier Kitamoto, published in 1982.7 Sato Churo, for whom making simple wooden carvings was a way to preserve his human identity in the labour camp, grew into an internationally acknowledged artist and member of the De Saint Luke Academy in Rome. Onosato Toshinobu began his artistic activity in the 1950s and exhibited many works in Japan, the United States, Italy and other countries, gaining international fame. His bright and colourful pictures do not seem to concentrate on the topic of imprisonment as such, but critics note that only a person who has lived through many hardships can reveal such bursting energy overcoming death.8 Tanaka Buichiro became well known as an illustrator of the magazine Shosetsu Shincho. After his death in 1973, several of his works were included in the series Back to the Motherland (3). Siberia Nightmare, and other of his

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albums were published in 1981 and 1982. In 1981, a major exhibition of his works was held at the Ginza Yoseido Gallery. Two hundred paintings by Haneda Mitsuo completed between 1977 and 1984 were compiled into an album under the title Pictures on Imprisonment in Siberia. Other examples can be provided; the above, however, should suffice to demonstrate that works by POWs were widely displayed and received acknowledgement by the professional community of artists. Major group exhibitions were organized in 1985 in Okayama and in 1988 at the Tokyo Shinjuku Cultural Centre. An important exhibition was held at Maizuru Repatriation Memorial Museum in commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the war. In addition to 178 works by Japanese painters and sculptors, this exhibition contained 400 photographs from Soviet archives. A special fund, ‘Praying for Peace’, was established under the auspices of the Prime Minister’s Office in 1988 to promote individual or collective exhibitions of works by former POWs. LIFE IN LABOUR CAMPS

It is usually acknowledged that three things – cold climate, lack of food and hard work – were the main causes of sufferings for POWs. How are these issues represented in graphic work and sculpture? Many labour camps were located in the northern or northeastern regions of the Soviet Union where temperatures in the winter fell to as low as minus fifty degrees Celsius. In pictures, the sensation of freezing cold is often conveyed through stooping figures of men dressed in clumsy quilted jackets, fur caps and felt boots slowly moving along a road covered with snow, their bodies pierced by the wind (Pl. 25). This sensation is also expressed through gloomy winter landscapes of forests or mountains, which looked, according to the words of one artist, like ‘white skeletons stretched on earth’, and through the shabby buildings of the labour camps sunk in snow. Snow seemed to be everywhere – around the camps, the workshops, and, importantly, in the souls of the people themselves. The stooping figures seem to cry out that death may be a better option than life; in fact, many died from frostbite. Burial practices in labour camps were void of any humanity. The dead were treated as mere objects: naked corpses were wrapped in a single cloth and buried together, while the names of individuals were often not written at all. The Japanese recalled afterwards that they lacked the strength to dig a deep grave in the frozen ground. Many pictures show bodies lying on the snow uncovered. It is not difficult to imagine that people only shivered with horror after a single glance at those pictures. No wonder that the majority of the Japanese even today associate Russia first with a dreadfully cold climate. Malnutrition and, hence, permanent hunger were other causes of suffering and high mortality among POWs. According to numerous reminiscences, during the first and coldest winter, prisoners in many labour camps received daily only 100 grams of bread or rice and

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80 grams of thin soup.9 Delivery of foodstuffs to the remote camps was irregular and supplies designated for POWs were often misappropriated by labour-camp commands. The economic situation in the Soviet Union in the immediate postwar period was difficult and the majority of the local population also lived in want. An expressive painting by Yoshida Isamu, One Day’s Ration (Pl. 26), shows Japanese prisoners with wide-open hungry eyes, holding a slice of bread or a mess tin half-filled with soup. The composition is dominated by a dark purple colour that seems to turn human figures into ghosts. The painting is so impressive that it was chosen for the cover of the Shinjuku Peace Memorial Museum pamphlet. The theme of hunger is embodied in other pictures, such as At the Edge of Hunger by the same author, showing two men desperately trying to eat what is left in an empty can, or in Sato Kiyomizu’s Prisoner Who Survived Two Winters, which depicts the emaciated body of a man with protruding clavicles. Horiuchi Taizo created his bronze sculpture Young Prisoner (1968) out of a thin piece of bronze as if purposely designed as wire to represent the slim figure of a prisoner who had lost his flesh. He is holding an empty bowl and a spoon, begging for food. Ironically, he has an old Red Army cap on his head which can be seen as the embodiment of the Soviet system. Undernourishment was keenly felt by prisoners of labour camps. In museum exhibitions and graphic narrations, this theme has appeared prominently since the 1970s. Among the most telling exhibits in Maizuru museum are samples of black bread, o-nigiri, made of sorghum or millet, and mess tins with thin soup. Perhaps because people in early postwar Japanese society also suffered from lack of food, it was only after Japan’s affluence that representation of hunger and the suffering associated with it became a prominent topic, giving birth to the image of the Soviet Union as a poor and wretched country. The main goal of imprisonment was to use Japanese slave labour for the reconstruction of the Soviet economy ruined by war and in particular the building of the second Trans-Siberian Railway in the Russian Far East. In conditions of severe cold and malnutrition, POWs were forced to work at least twelve hours a day or longer. The Japanese worked in many branches of industry such as the felling and milling of wood, mining, railway construction, salt extraction and other tasks demanding manual labour. Everywhere they were forced to perform to norms set by camp officers; underperformance meant a decrease of food rations or other deprivations. The Russian word norma (quota of work) was engraved in the memory of former prisoners to the extent that it came to be perceived as an embodiment of the Soviet system itself. One picture, for example, depicted a horse dragging a cart filled with wood, while the caption said: ‘The horse also has its norm.’ Living conditions in labour camps were far worse that those stipulated by the Hague Convention for the treatment of POWs. The Japanese lived in shabby barracks where winter night temperatures fell below zero.

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During the first two years many camps had no electricity or running water. Washing in a shower was allowed only twice a month; fleas, lice and other blood-sucking insects were to be found everywhere in the camps. Many pictures show barracks with two-storied plank-beds filled with bodies of people snuggled closely to each other, looking more like ants, silkworms or cockroaches than human beings (Pl. 27). In daily life the Japanese were subject to various humiliating procedures such as forced sterilization, intrusive medical examinations, confiscation of belongings, morning and evening roll calls and other methods of control. Some pictures show how the physical conditions of prisoners were assessed. They were forced to take off all their clothes and remain standing in fundoshi, their back turned to the doctor, usually a woman. It was her job to pinch the skin on the prisoner’s buttocks. If no slackness of skin was observed, the man was allocated to group number one, certified capable of the most demanding work. Those with higher levels of slackness were required to do work in the kitchen or cleaning the camp grounds. One former prisoner recalled the medical examination and said it was just like ‘buying cows or horses; we were treated totally the same as slaves’.10 Many paintings concentrate on the tired bodies of the prisoners, and faces, when depicted, seem gloomy with eyes closed and mouths shut. The message was clear: these people can no longer communicate; they are indifferent to life and to each other. Every picture, in fact, portrays the dehumanization of people forced to stay in physically unbearable conditions of captivity without any hope to return home. This is well conveyed by Kazuki Yasuo’s Roll Call. The canvas is divided into two parts. The right part represents a group of prisoners as one black crowd of people lacking any personal features, but possessed by a single wish to ‘return home, to Tokyo’. The left part shows a checkpoint, passing through which led to recovery of humanity and sense of self. To that end, the artist signed his name on the painting along with the date of his return to Japan.11 Bodies are not only important loci of identity; they also become memory sites, reflecting individual and group identities.12 In this sense, pictures with bodies of Japanese POWs subject to harsh conditions in the Soviet labour camps could be viewed as one single narrative on the harm caused to the Japanese body. It is not strange that the people who saw those paintings would think badly of the country responsible for such bodily harm. However, how do these negative images relate to the warm attitudes many former POWs in fact feel towards the Soviet people? A DIFFERENT VIEW

For all detainees the years of imprisonment were a real-life tragedy. Paradoxically, however, many recall this period of hardships in their lives with nostalgia or at times even with affection. They are no friends of the Soviet system, but a substantial number of former POWs have been, for some years, the core of various friendship societies with the USSR and

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now with Russia that were established throughout Japan. In their presentations and publications, the former POWs emphasize that they make a distinction between the official Soviet policy that held them in prison and the attitude of common Russian people. In some accounts one can read comments on the Soviet political system. For example, Yoshida Yukio wrote: At first we knew very little about the USSR. As soon as we realized that nothing happens in the Soviet Union without orders from the top, we realized that the people in the USSR were forced to implicitly obey government and local authorities . . . The very character of the Russians seems to derive from such a political system. That is why Russian people are very patient and forbearing, able to overcome various hardships. What a great people!13

In his reminiscences, Komori Atsuo, a POW from Osaka, observed that he ‘has met many Russian intellectuals who had been exiled to Siberia as political prisoners. In private, they were very open-hearted and compassionate towards the Japanese.’14 Whereas the Japanese spoke badly of camp authorities, ‘nachalniki’, they highly appreciated the local people from Siberian towns and villages as well as their Russian co-workers. The ex-POW accounts often contain episodes such as the following: ‘Nina Alexandrovna, a medical officer, defended us firmly and resolutely. Until our death we will not be able to forget her eloquence, reliability and kind heart.’15 Another account also conveys the sympathetic attitude of the Russian people: ‘ “Ah, Japanese! You are hungry, aren’t you? Here, eat!” said one Russian woman and gave me some black bread. With inconsolable distress as well as gratitude for the human sympathy and kindness of her heart I simply bowed my head and received the bread.’16 An ex-POW Takeda Shiro recalled: At first I did not have an opportunity to meet Russians. I had an idea that Russians in this cold country were a very brutal people. When we were working together in the same shop, I came to realize that Russians are fine people. I have a high opinion of Russians for their warm-heartedness and kindness. . . . They shared food and tobacco with us, although they did not have much of those things themselves. This gave me many good impressions.17

The Japanese observed that Russians as a rule wore very poor and plain clothes, although they admitted that those clothes were better adapted to winter. A former POW, Nasu Atsuo, was surprised when he met a sort of a gentleman, as he wrote in his memoirs, dressed in a regular European suit. The man turned out to be an engineer from Leningrad. As time passed, the Japanese began to understand that many Russians were, like themselves, victims of the Soviet political system. One POW referred to the words of a Russian woman who noticed that all people in

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the Soviet Union could be classified into three categories – those who were in prison at the moment, those who had been and those who would be there.18 Sato Kiyoshi, who drew a sympathetic portrait of a Russian prisoner named Ivanov, noted that the Japanese at least could dream of a day they would return home. For the Russians there was no place to go – that was their homeland.19 Saito Kunio vividly represented in his manga the attitudes of ordinary Russians towards Stalin. One day, he wanted to use some newsprint to roll up a cigarette, but saw Stalin’s portrait there. ‘What a great man!’ he said. However, to his great surprise a Russian girl, Marusha, who stood nearby, said: ‘This is not a human being, this is a devil!’20 She tore the newspaper into pieces, spat and trampled on it, asking the Japanese to do the same. Life in the camps depended on the wardens. Their constituency was peculiar, many of them coming from the ranks of soldiers who had committed minor crimes, ex-POWs, or suspected criminals released from special Secret Police camps in Finland. After a special check they were dispatched to serve in the camps of the GULAG and the Central Administrative Board on POWs and Internees. Many of them lacked culture and were poorly educated. Unlimited power over people enabled them to indulge in excessive cruelty. Some of the detainees’ memory has very selectively retained images of camp wardens, especially those who treated the prisoners humanely: At work our mood depended heavily on the wardens; their behaviour conditioned our performance. When the warden Tokarev was on duty, our performance was noticeably better. His love of reading set him apart from other wardens. He entertained respect among both the Japanese and Russians. Tokarev seemed to be quite an aged man, and probably thanks to his age he treated POWs well, understood and sympathized with us. This shows how important the position and the behaviour of the head wardens were.21

Some POWs were quite notable for their aspiration to use their forced residence in Russia to get to know the country. Quite a number learned Russian because they were in close contact with Russians at work and in private life for several years of imprisonment. For some of them Russian even became a profession. Takahashi Taizo, for example, wrote that he began learning Russian in the camp every day for two hours after work. People kept telling him that if he became ‘red’ the family would turn away from him. But he was learning Russian because he did not want to waste his time in the camp, thinking that to know things is better than not.22 Many became interested in Russian culture and literature. Takasugi Ichiro, due to his previous knowledge of Russian, had access to various documents and the possibility to make short trips outside the camp, which enabled him to talk to Russians and observe their daily life.

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As the circle of his Russian acquaintances widened, he came to clearly realize that the Soviet reality had nothing to do with the sickly-sweet and hypocritical flyers and brochures that the propaganda was constantly supplying.23 According to Kato Kyuzo, any real-life situation, however hard, remains in one’s memory with both its good and bad sides. The years of imprisonment left in him not only bitterness but also a number of warm memories about nature in Siberia and its people. He writes: When I was young I spent five long years in Siberia. However, nothing is for no reason in this life; this hard time of imprisonment too can be looked at from different angles. From the years of imprisonment I learned quite a bit about Siberia. The more I thought about that, the more I felt a desire to study Siberia.24

Kato has become a scholar on the ancient cultures of peoples of Soviet and Central Asia, the author of books on the history of Siberia and Central Asia, and of a bestseller about an outstanding Russian Japanologist, Nikolai Nevskii, one more victim of the Soviet system. Siberia has remained forever not only in his memory but has also become the focus of his scholarly writing. It is true that the POWs cursed the Soviet state system but felt good about the Russian people who were, indeed, the same victims of the totalitarian system. But it is also true that people always want to make sense of their former experience, however bitter it may have been. Several years of life in the Soviet camps opened opportunities to learn more about another world for those who wanted to learn and to use this knowledge in their subsequent lives. Besides, for the majority of the captives the years of imprisonment fell during their youth, a period of life that encourages particular nostalgia which later helped sweep bad memories away. WHAT THE CANVAS CONCEALS

To say that cold, malnutrition and hard work were the major factors of POW anguish conceals another part of the story. In fact, there were large differences in the living and working conditions of officers and ordinary soldiers. Although Japanese Imperial Army ranks were technically abolished in 1946, former officers maintained their leadership positions in the camps, having declared that the ‘Japanese army would remain intact until they were discharged by the Department of War’.25 Captains, lieutenants and sergeants became heads of working battalions and usually managed to avoid work, whereas the ‘norms’ had to be filled by the lower-ranking men. The latter also had to do all sorts of chores – from washing clothes of their superiors to cleaning toilets, while officers used their authority to appropriate better food. Wages were also distributed according to rank. The former officers of the Kwantung Army urged soldiers to perform daily

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worship in the direction of the Imperial Palace (yohai), to observe saluting and use honorific names. Therefore, young soldiers suffered more from the lack of food, the additional work burden and humiliating treatment on behalf of their Japanese superiors. In other words, some of the conditions of camp life were aggravated by relations among the Japanese themselves. According to reminiscences by former POWs, this disparity pushed the younger and more oppressed soldiers to join the ranks of so-called ‘democratic groups’ created by the Soviet authorities, seeking to spread socialist ideas and criticize capitalism. Members of those groups received additional food and softer jobs; indeed, many hoped that cooperation with the Soviets would help them return home earlier. Japanese authors usually deny that members of these ‘democratic groups’ sincerely believed in the ideas promoted by the Soviets, claiming that issues of simple survival were at stake, but the very fact that some Japanese collaborated created an atmosphere of suspicion, fear and mistrust. As Iwao Peter Sano noted, ‘a psychological dimension was added to the hardships of our lives’.26 However, such conflicts among the POWs, the struggles along ideological lines and the brain-washing by camp guards are seldom reflected in artistic works. Repatriation from the Soviet Union was another ordeal. Japan, occupied by the Allied Powers, the Japanese government was prevented from negotiating directly with the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union, moreover, adopted delaying tactics.27 From the end of 1945 until 1948 the movement for repatriation gained some momentum, with bereaved families taking an active role, but as soon as detainees from other countries returned, the movement lost its vigour. The general public soon became indifferent to the problem of war prisoners. No one wanted to be reminded of the past associated with the POWs. As Wakatsuki notes, even the Asahi Shinbun in 1950 declared that the people of Japan ‘think now only of their personal matters; they do not bother about others, i.e. those who are overseas. This is nothing else but insensitivity the Japanese acquired after war.’28 The press was reserved in covering the POW issue – afraid to criticize the Soviet Union. Newspaper articles confined themselves to coverage of the repatriation ceremonies at Maizuru. A good example is an article released on the occasion of the first group returning from the Soviet Union in December 1946. It attempted to appease the public (and the Soviet Union) by describing the food rations, working conditions and treatment at the hands of the Russians as not bad and even noted that ‘[our compatriots] want to cooperate with the Soviet Union and play their role in the fulfilment of the new five-year plan’.29 Although, as will be described below, the Maizuru Repatriation Memorial Museum sought to present repatriation as a great patriotic endeavour, the process was not free from controversy. Returning POWs from the Soviet Union had a rather ambiguous standing in Japanese society. As Igarashi points out, their experience did not suit the political

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agenda of the nationalist camp, embarrassed by the humiliating reminder of Japan’s past, but it likewise disturbed the communist opposition who denounced their testimonies as anti-communist propaganda.30 At the same time, former POWs were suspected in having become ‘red’. Therefore, descriptions of the groups that returned between 1948 and 1950 given by the Asahi Shinbun accentuated the need to integrate the repatriates into Japanese society. It soon became evident that many of them refused to obey the rules they were expected to follow upon their return (such as registration, disinfection, etc.). They praised life in the Soviet Union, muting the negative aspects of their own existence there, sang proletarian songs and even organized several demonstrations in Kyoto and Tokyo, expressing their sympathy for the Soviet Union and the Japan Communist Party.31 Newspaper articles published at that time called for the unity of the Japanese people. For example, the Asahi Shinbun wrote in June 1949: When [repatriates] stepped on the soil of their homeland, a wave of shouts of joy and deep emotions spread all at once from among representatives of the many prefectures and districts and the crowd of family members who stood along the road.

Such words as ‘big chorus boiling with delight’ and ‘overflowing crowd’ were used to reinforce the feeling of unity. Slogans such as gokuro sama were put on the roofs of dormitories, while the wharves were decorated with Hinomaru flags sent by the prince of blood, symbolizing in this way that the POWs returned back into the family headed by the imperial house.32 The same article contrasted the deserts of Central Asia and snowfields of Siberia, on the one hand, and the green hills of the motherland, which could bring relief and comfort to the tired bodies and souls, on the other. It emphasized that immediately after landing, the repatriates took baths, changed clothes and could have a rest enjoying hot green tea, the smell of newly made tatami and breathing in refreshing air. In fact, there were objective difficulties for the repatriates to integrate smoothly into society. Japan was going through a difficult period of restructuring its economy. The black market thrived, the rate of unemployment was high, and private enterprises could not adapt well to the situation; many families experienced anxiety over their future. Journalists called upon the people and the government to help the repatriates who were the worst victims of war, ‘not limiting this help to serving tea’, and simultaneously urging former POWs to contribute, with their ‘four years’ experience acquired in the foreign land’, to society at large. Confidence was expressed that as soon as the repatriates saw the situation at home with their own eyes (and not through Soviet propaganda), and started living with their families, they would naturally calm down. On the other hand, the repatriates were often treated with suspicion and refused employment.

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At the same time, the American occupation forces never forgot to emphasize the relationship between the Soviet Union and the politically disruptive activities of the repatriates. An article sent to the Asahi Shinbun from Washington maintained: The Soviet Union actively plans to instigate inside Japan a movement to make the nation communist. Two thousand Japanese prisoners who returned home singing communist songs on arrival are the most obvious proof of this. Another 95,000 people whom the Soviet side promised to return this year definitely received sufficient ideological education.33

American occupation authorities were worried by the spread of socialist ideas in Japan and by the increase in influence of the Japan Communist Party. That was actually one of the reasons behind the socalled reverse course; the initial policy that placed primacy on peace and democracy was transformed into making Japan America’s ally in the new Cold War. The economic restructuring plans led to suppression of the nascent labour movement; communists, socialists and other left-wing thinkers and activists including labour leaders were portrayed by the media as ‘troublemakers’ and ‘adherents of forcible revolution’. Consequently, many Japanese returnees who said positive things about the Soviet Union came to be viewed with suspicion. On the other side, as pacifist ideas became strong in Japan and postwar hardships were not yet forgotten, the return of the group of ‘war criminals’ in December 1956 offered a possibility to express some negative reaction towards those who were involved in initiating the war. This time newspapers ironically wrote that on arrival in Maizuru, the old generals turned in the direction of the imperial palace, bowed their heads, and sang the Kimigayo in chorus. Shrewd journalists did not miss a chance to notice that military men should be ashamed of their disgraceful surrender to the Soviets and spending idly in camps those years when all the people of Japan endured enormous sufferings.34 The diversity of experiences, the variety of attitudes towards the former soldiers, and the real difficulties of integration into society urged the POWs to create a narrative that would be plausible to everyone. In doing so they appealed to the most common human feeling: compassion. Not all POWs were eager to share their experiences in the labour camps, even with members of their families. However, the graphic works that gave expression to their sufferings broadened the universal appeal of their narratives. The call for compassion echoed the gratitude the POWs felt towards ordinary Russians who had sympathized with them. Moreover, the depiction of sufferings and hardships allowed the former detainees to be proud as human beings for overcoming extreme difficulties and thus be strong in helping to create a new Japan. As Ishikawa Shiro, president of the trade company ‘Iskra’ noted, Siberian camps became a real school of life: ‘It toughened my character and taught me

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how to survive under any conditions.’ Ishikawa’s argument was shared by many. At the same time, the powerful graphic narratives softened the suspicion that the former POWs had not shared in domestic post-war hardships. It also linked their imprisonment with the barbarous and tyrannical system of the Soviet Union and with the privations and hardships of the people who lived there. The effect was to confirm earlier stereotypes of Russia as a country of poverty and oppression and helped to tarnish another image of the Soviet Union – that of a country of great achievement, which was popular among the Japanese left.35 Opinion surveys conducted in Japan in the 1970s demonstrated that the Soviet Union was associated with words which seem to have derived from the experience of POWs, among them ‘authority-based political system, communism, terror of Stalin era, hypocrisy, believers in power, cunning fellows, . . . society with a low level of consumption, . . . repressions, . . . poor people, strong power, . . . concentration camps, . . . police system, country of work norms and many prisoners’. The Soviet Union was also characterized by the following attributes: ‘black, dark, poor, inconvenient, . . . cold, grey, backward, inflexible, oppressive and bureaucratic’.36 That negative image definitely matched the ideological and social requirements of the times. It represented Japan as a victim of Soviet aggression and the antithesis of peace-loving Japan. This image of the Soviet enemy helped Japan to recover from defeat, win back independence, rebuild the economy and reinstate Japan into the international community.37 Since Japan relied on the United States for economic assistance, and since Asian countries still remembered Japan for its military past, the Soviet Union proved a useful foil for national regeneration. In this sense, the POW experience in Soviet labour camps provided a contrast between an anguished past and hopes for a bright and peaceful future without mentioning Japan’s own role in the war. It also stressed a contrast between the affluence of the new Japan, constructed with the help of the United States, and the economic backwardness of the Soviet Union. In other words, the experience of the past and memories of it served present goals by approving Japan’s role as an American ally in the Cold War and reassuring the Japanese people that they had chosen the right path to success. The good feelings many former prisoners felt about Russia, despite the hardships they experienced, were simply muted in the social discourse. This also helps to explain why former POWs spoke more favourably about their Russian experience in private publications or conversations rather than in official discourse. MUSEUM NARRATIVES

The negative image of the Soviet Union was reinforced through other strategies of representation, museums among them. History museums, relying on artifacts to explain a particular vision of history, present a special challenge for both exhibitors, whose intentions they must

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project, and visitors, with whom the exhibitors must communicate.38 How was this challenge realized in museums devoted to the topic of POWs? Of central concern is the Maizuru Repatriation Memorial Museum, which opened in 1988 – at a time when the war seemed forgotten and Japan enjoyed peace and prosperity. During the first eighteen years of its existence it has been visited by 2,858,233 people with the highest level of attendance falling in the period from 1991 to 1995. Those five years preceded the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War, athough it is difficult to say if the museum was visited for commemorative purposes. The economy still allowed people to spend time in leisure activities. Visitors often went to Maizuru in May, during the so-called Golden Week. The city is located on the Sea of Japan, far from the usual tourist sites. The port town was chosen for the museum because of Maizuru’s role in the repatriation. The museum itself was the joint result of the ‘strong wish’ expressed by the repatriates’ association ‘Tomo no kai’ and the initiative of Maizuru city authorities. It was renewed in 1994 using the services of a consulting company that completely overhauled the exhibition space. In addition, exhibits from the Maizuru museum are used by the Shiki Theatre Company during its performances on warrelated topics, placed on display in the foyer. Finally, in 2000 a Peace Memorial Museum, containing a special exhibition on POWs detained in the Soviet Union was opened in Shinjuku in central Tokyo. The specific goal of the Maizuru Repatriation Memorial Museum is to show the historical role played by the city in repatriation and to remind people the price that was paid for peace.39 Like all historical museums, the Maizuru museum also assumes its responsibility to contribute to public knowledge. Relics occupy a central position in the exhibition. Visitors can see mess tins, flasks, self-made spoons and needles, quilted jackets, boots, fur caps, pencils, notebooks and many other things used by POWs. Pictures drawn by repatriates also comprise part of the exhibition. Altogether they tell the familiar story of cold weather, malnutrition, hard labour and poor living conditions in Siberia. Items of everyday life and photographs provide a glimpse into the reality of everyday life in the camps. Many of the objects on display are original pieces donated to the museum when it was established. This part of the exhibition yields to the wishes of the POWs to retell their bitter experience and their ability to survive through great hardships. With a view to making the museum more attractive and realistic, plaster casts and other models are used. They reproduce, for an example, a compartment of a barrack where POWs are shown slicing bread, carefully weighing every slice. A miniature model of a labour camp and living barracks are displayed. The diminutive size of these models makes them look more like toys than exhibits designed to make people think about the past, despite signs that proclaim: ‘unless you experience it yourself, you cannot know’. As if to rectify this omission, the Peace Memorial Museum in Shinjuku invites visitors to put on quilted jackets, boots and

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fur caps and pose for a souvenir photograph. This presents the bitter experience of the past in a form more palatable to younger generations, though at the same time turns it into entertainment. Interestingly, the Peace Memorial Museum is visited primarily by schoolchildren in their teens who do not associate the Soviet Union, where the POWs were imprisoned, with contemporary Russia.40 Moreover, the museum exposition mixes three groups of people who suffered as a result of overseas wartime experience: 1) civilians who worked for the army but did not receive sufficient compensation (onkyu kekkakusha), 2) Japanese who remained imprisoned in Soviet and Mongolian labour camps after the end of the war (sengo kyosei yokuryusha), and 3) civilians who returned to Japan after the end of the war (hikiagesha). No clear explanation is given why each group happened to be overseas during the war years, thus leaving the visitors with a truncated narrative of Japanese military and colonial ventures. In fact, those who created the museum are groups of civilians who had worked for the army overseas (onkyu kekkakusha), but the exhibition simply states that they left their families in Japan and dedicated their lives to their country without any mention of Japan’s colonial policy. As noted above, public reaction towards the repatriates was diverse; the Maizuru museum, however, conceals these differences. Explanatory notes introduce women’s associations that prepared hot green tea, cooked rice and sweet potatoes, and visited the sick in hospitals. Mention is made that families from throughout Japan sent clothes, newspapers, magazines and letters of sympathy. Children in local schools gave concerts and sang folk songs. Institutions for support were established in Maizuru to assist in finding jobs and housing. Photographs concentrate on crowds of people in the port and along the streets greeting repatriates with Hinomaru flags and signs proclaiming: ‘Father from Siberia! Return healthy! We are waiting for you.’ An explanation ends with the following words: ‘All citizens unanimously encouraged the repatriates. In this way institutions, organizations and citizens cooperated together, giving all their efforts to repatriates for thirteen years.’41 In other words, the Maizuru museum portrays repatriation as one great national endeavour in which this city played the leading role, and this message has become, understandably, important in creating the city’s identity. The delight that greeted the repatriates is contrasted with the grief of those families whose members did not return. In numerous songs, as well as in theatre and television productions, women, mothers and wives alike, were shown waiting at the wharf for their loved ones who did not return; they were known as ganpeki no haha (mother on the wharf) and ganpeki no tsuma (wife on the wharf). Originally, Ganpeki no haha was a song that appeared in 1954; it told a story about a mother who spent several years on a wharf in Maizuru, waiting for her son’s return from Siberia and whispering the words moshiya, moshiya (maybe by chance, just maybe . . .). The song was performed by popular singers Kikuchi Akiko and Futaba Yuriko and broadcast over the radio. Later, Teichiku

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Record Company produced several recordings and in 1976 a television drama on the subject was released. The prototype of Ganpeki no haha was Hashino Ise, a woman from Tokyo, who refused to believe that her son had died, even after the official death notice was delivered to her. She died in 1981 without ever seeing the return of her son. In fact, it turned out that he was living in Shanghai, refusing to return to Japan. In the song and in the drama, however, he was represented as a prisoner in Siberia. Since then, every time a newspaper reports a similar case, notwithstanding the country of residence of the former Japanese military men, the Ganpeki no haha theme is revived.42 It looked as if the Soviet Union was the only country responsible for the mothers’ loss, while Japan’s own militarism was simply ignored. At the same time, the popularity of the song, of course, added to Maizuru’s fame. When the visitors pass through the museum, an old gramophone plays the melody of Ganpeki no haha and light flashes over posters with advertisements for the 1950s records. The visitors experience a feeling of entering into a past time and place and grieve together with the heroes of the narration. The museum seeks to preserve the memory of those who suffered, and encourages visitors to reflect upon this tragic historical experience in the hope that such events should never happen again. However, as with many other museums concerned with war, ironically the very use of reproduction technologies seems to mean that the tragedy of the past may be easily reproduced, over and over again.43 CONTEMPORARY POPULAR CULTURE

Memories of war have shifted in Japan over the past sixty years. Once pushed into the depths of consciousness in order to be forgotten or regarded as a ‘necessary condition for Japan’s present-day prosperity’,44 the war now is the subject of much debate, especially in connection with Yasukuni Shrine visits, comfort women, textbooks and the teaching of history issues and overall a re-discovery of Japan’s colonial past.45 Moreover, interest in the topic of war is also fed by concerns associated with contemporary issues, such as terrorism, North Korean abductions, wars in the Middle East, and with the more general philosophical problem of the meaning of life itself. The Second World War attracts popular attention through drama and music. Interestingly, the issue of Japanese POWs in Siberia has recently been specifically raised in at least two popular theatre performances – a musical, Foreign Hills, and a drama, Letter from Klavdia. Foreign Hills is one piece of a trilogy on Showa history composed by Asari Keita and staged by the Shiki Theatre Company. As Asari Keita writes, it would be a simplification to call his works anti-war plays discussing whether war is good or bad.46 Rather he addresses the problem of behaviour and responsibility of a person challenged by a necessity to make a choice between war and peace, friendship and betrayal, love to a woman and one’s own land.

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Originally, Foreign Hills was a song that POWs composed in one of the Soviet labour camps. It was first performed on the radio by a former prisoner of war, Nakamura Kozo, on 1 August 1948 in the NHK programme ‘Amateur Voices’. Reportedly, Masuda Koji wrote the lyrics in one of the labour camps near Vladivostok, while another prisoner, Yoshida Tadashi, scribbled them on a cement sack. Yoshida was also the author of the melody. The touching words and melody immediately captured the sympathy of the Japanese public, and the song quickly spread around the country. Yoshida himself performed it later in one of the nightclubs of Tokyo and even received the National Honour Award for it. The theme of imprisonment in Soviet labour camps frames the whole performance and becomes the impetus for rethinking the past. The main hero of the play is Kokonoe Hidetaka, a character based on Konoe Fumitaka, the son of Konoe Fumimaro, Japan’s prime minister between 1938 and 1941. The father resigned his post when Japan declared war against the United States and committed suicide in December 1945, three months after Japan’s surrender. Many think that he could have done more to prevent the war. In the play, Hidetaka studies in New York and enjoys the pleasures of the West. One day he meets a Chinese girl Airen, also living in America, who is betrothed to the son of one of Chiang Kai-shek’s associates. The two fall in love, but soon find that their love is threatened by impending war between Japan and China. They desperately try to urge leaders of the two countries to work towards peace, but Airen, betrayed by a friend, is murdered, while Hidetaka is drafted into the army as punishment for his peaceful intentions. After Japan’s defeat, he is taken into Soviet captivity where he remains for ten years. Hidetaka is pushed to cooperate with the Soviets, but firmly rejects the offer and chooses death rather than betrayal of his motherland. Hidetaka is represented as a man of strong character who managed to preserve his dignity in a time of great turbulence; he can be seen as a person who exerted himself to the fullest (Pl. 28); his example is both criticism of his father’s indecisiveness and failure to stand up to the military, and reproach of youth in Japan today who are socially and politically passive. How is imprisonment in a Soviet labour camp to be interpreted? No doubt, it is the final challenge for Hidetaka. This is the point that brings him to the extreme of suffering, and it is here that he is forced to confront the final choice between life and death. In the play, Hidetaka, honest and noble representative of Japan, rejects overtures from the Soviet Union. One can see here a contrast between life in bright and exciting America and imprisonment in a grey and dull labour camp, identifying the Soviet Union with barbarity and hardship; the Soviet Union retains its negative image. Nonetheless, the Japanese are also called not to forget their responsibility for tragedy of war. Iokibe Makoto, a specialist on Japan-American relations, suggested in the 2006 pamphlet on Shiki Theatre Company that Japan itself became ‘Foreign Hills’ to those who were imprisoned in Siberia.47 In other words, he asserts that the Japanese became victims of Soviet labour camps because of the

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imprudent and pernicious policy of the Japanese government. The audience will be invited to make up their own minds concerning the message of this important play. Letter from Klavdia is a play on the fate of a Japanese man, Hachiya Yasaburo, who spent ten years in a Soviet labour camp, having been falsely accused of being a Japanese spy. He was forbidden to return to Japan even after his release from the camp and managed to survive only with the help of a simple Russian woman, Klavdia, herself a victim of Stalinism. She alone believed in Yasaburo’s innocence. The two lived together for more than thirty years in an atmosphere of constant surveillance by Soviet authorities. However, when perestroika began in the 1980s, and the Soviet Union became more open to the outside world, Klavdia, knowing Yasaburo’s desire to see his family in Japan, determined to write a letter to the Japanese Consulate in Khabarovsk, explaining the true story of Yasaburo’s life. The letter helped him return to Japan and reunite with his former wife who was waiting for him during all those years. The play is based on a real story widely dramatized on television both in Japan and in Russia. The programmes emphasized that the three – Klavdia, Yasaburo and his Japanese wife Hisako – remained, to the present day, on friendly terms. Read in this way, the play may be interpreted as an attempt to show that whatever bitter experiences Japan and Russia may have had in the past, hatred and anguish can be overcome in the minds of ordinary people. Memories linger; however, the past is not simply a repository of memories, but may become a source of revitalizing power. Curiously, it is the Russian woman, Klavdia, who is the moving force behind all the positive changes in Yasaburo’s life. She is strong and active, while Yasaburo is passive, which may be natural for his position as a captive and a foreigner under suspicion. If the image of Klavdia were to take on national overtones, the play can serve to emphasize the good wishes and energy emanating from Russia. CONCLUSION

This chapter has examined how Japanese POWs, detained in the Soviet Union for up to thirteen years after the end of the Second World War in 1945, made sense of their experience. Their memory played a major role in creating a post-war identity for Japan and in determining Japanese images of its northern neighbour. It demonstrated first how painting and other artistic creations served as an important means of self-expression for men who were imprisoned in Soviet labour camps. Through art they conveyed their dramatic experiences to society in general. These art works have become memory sites created by eyewitnesses and are persuasive in representing the victimization of the Japanese by the Soviet Union. In this sense, POW paintings contributed to the construction of a negative image of the Soviet Union (and to a lesser extent, of presentday Russia), thus reinforcing a history of negative images as described in earlier chapters of this book.

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The tragic narrative of victimization at the hands of cruel Soviet prison wardens reached new levels of intensity as Japan entered a stage of rapid economic growth in the 1970s. By contrasting the brutality and backwardness of the Soviet Union with a peaceful and affluent Japan, the visual works helped the Japanese people articulate a new postwar national identity and rescue themselves from a sense of war guilt. At the same time, paintings by former prisoners of war also served the ideological goal of supporting the Japan-US Alliance which helped Japan on the path to prosperity. Whereas newspapers and other sources were outspoken about the differences that existed among various groups of POWs and other repatriates, the visual narrative concealed these differences by concentrating on victimization. In fact, the paintings were clearly intended to arouse high levels of national compassion. The same need for compassion may also explain the good memories many former detainees have of their Russian experience. Promoted through various exhibitions and publications, these paintings turned into a visual narrative of Japan’s supreme national tragedy. For this reason some positive attitudes POWs felt towards the Russian people failed to find a space in social discourse. Museums dedicated to the topic of imprisonment in the Soviet Union reproduce narratives created by eyewitnesses. However, being memory sites of the second order, they are selective in representing history and in constructing memory. Their narrative must not only enlighten, but also entertain the public and be made compatible with the interests of support groups. Thus, the Maizuru museum highlights the city welcoming the POWs home, presenting it as a process void of tensions. By successfully using various techniques of representation, museums also ‘play’ on feelings of compassion towards the bereaved families, reinforcing negative perceptions of the Soviet Union. Graphic narratives, emphasizing the dark side of the POW experience, often portray the prisoners as deprived of human features. Involuntarily, this representation obscured the vital energy the detainees had acquired due to their struggle for survival in the labour camps. Popular culture in present-day Japan, however, exhibits new interest in Soviet labour camps that has little to do with former representations. Instead it serves the needs of some Japanese intellectuals seeking a new way of articulating their identity and expresses the urge to reassess Japan’s military past. This search freed the image of former POWs from a passive stance and showed them as people of strong will and energy. Popular cultural expressions in song and drama confirm that now, similar to the beginning of the twentieth century, Russia plays a role in shaping identities in Japanese society. As we will see in the chapter by Mikhailova and Torchinov, Japan plays a similar role in contemporary Russia. Above all, the story about Japanese prisoners in Soviet labour camps retold by various means of artistic expression proves the close connection between identity, memory and representation. It demonstrates that visions of memory are subject to changes in identity and social

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requirements of the time. In turn, they influence underlying images and themes in history. NOTES 1

2

3

4

5

6 7

8

9 10

11

12

Shimizu Hayao, Naze Nihonjin wa Soren ga kirai ka (Why Do the Japanese Hate the Soviet Union?), (Tokyo: Yamate Shobo, 1979); Hasegawa Tsuyoshi, ‘Japanese Perceptions of the Soviet Union: 1960–1985’, Acta Slavica Iaponika, 1987, no. 5, pp. 37–70. Sergei Kuznetsov, Iapontsy v sibirskom plenu (Japanese in Siberia Imprisonment), (Irkutsk, 1999) (Japanese translation: Shiberia no Nihonjin horyotati – Roshigawa kara mita [Tokyo]: Shueisha); Elena Katasonova, Iaponskie voennoplennye v SSSR. Bolshaia igra velikihk derzhav (Japanese Prisoners in the USSR. Big Game of Great Powers), (Moscow: Institut Vostokovedeniia RAN, Izdatelstvo Kraft, 2003); V. P. Galitskii, ‘Arkhivy o lageriakh iaponskikh voennoplennykh v SSSR’ (Archival Files on Japanese POW Camps in the USSR), Problemy Dalnego Vostoka, 1990, no. 6, pp. 115–23; O.D. Bazarov, S.I. Kuznetsov, V sibirskom plenu (In Siberia Imprisonment), (Ulan-Ude: ONT ‘Sibir’ Publishing House, 1994); E.Y. Bondarenko, ‘Zhestokii russkii plen?’ (Severe Imprisonment in Russia?), Problemy Dalnego Vostoka, 1989, no 3, pp. 204–206; Nagase Ryoji ‘Shiberia yokuryu kenkyusho o honyakushite’ (Translating Research Works on Siberia Imprisonment), Slavic Research Center, Occasional Papers, 2002, no 81, pp. 56–59; Sengo kyosei yokuryusha (Postwar Prisoners of Concentration Camps), Sengo kyosei yokuryushi hensan iinkaishu, vols. 1–8, (Tokyo: Heiwa Kinen Jigyo Tokubestu Kikin, 2005). James E. Young, At Memory’s Edge, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2000, p. 11. Joanne Bourke, ‘Introduction. “Remembering” War’, Journal of Contemporary History, 2004, vol. 39 (4), pp. 473–85. Saito Kunio, Manga Shiberia yokuryu monogatari (A Story of Imprisonment in Siberia in Manga), vols. 1–2, (Tokyo: Kojinsha, 1991). The prize was awarded by Zaidankai Shincho Bungei Shinkokai. Araki Chuzaburo, Kitamoto ittohei ni haru wa konai. Shiberia no ki (Spring Won’t Come to Soldier Kitamoto. Notes on Siberia), (Tokyo: Kojinsha, 1982). ‘Iro to katachi to seimeiryoku. Onosato Toshinobu shi ni kiku’ (Colour, Form and Living Force. On the Death of Onosato Toshinobu), Sekai, 1966, no. 2, pp. 220–25. Sergei Kuznetsov, Iapontsy v sibirskom plenu, pp. 112–13. Shinagawa Taiichi, Watashi-no Shiberia yokuryuki. Kotta taichi ni (Notes on My Imprisonment in Siberia. In the Frozen Land), (Hiroshima: Otowa Insatsu, 2005), p. 63. Shiberia yokuryu gaten (Exhibition of Pictures on Imprisonment in Siberia), Saito Kiyoshi (compiler), Kanezawa Kusahiko (ed.), (Maizuru: Maizuru Hikiage Kinenkan, 1995), p. 31. Yoshikuni Igarashi, Bodies of Memory. Narratives of War in Postwar Japanese Culture, 1945–1970, (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2000), p. 13.

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33

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Yoshida Yukio, Tri goda v sovetskom plenu. Skazanie byvshego voennoplennogo serzhanta iaponskoi armii (Three Years in the Japanese Captivity. A Story Told by an Ex-POW Corporal of the Japanese Army), ([Zelenogorsk], 2000), p. 22. Heiwa no ishizue. Shiberia kyosei yokuryusha ga kataritsugu roku (The Basis for Peace. Records of Stories Told by Prisoners of Concentration Camps in Siberia), vol. 4, (Tokyo: Hewa Kinen Jigyo Tokubestu Kikin, 1991), p. 180. Toguchi Yoshitaro, Pechalnye iaponskie voennoplennye byli v SSSR. Boevye druzia plachut pod myorzloi zemlioi (Sad Japanese POWs were in the USSR. Combat Friends Weep from under the Frozen Land), A collection of paintings, ([Tokyo, Toguchi Yoshitaro], 1995), p. 65. Ibid. Personal interview conducted by Sergei Kuznetsov with Takeda Shiro in October 1993. Sato Kiyoshi, Shiberia ryoshu no inori (Prayers of Siberian Prisoners), (Tokyo: Tairyusha, 1986), p. 163. Ibid., p. 166. Saito Kunio, Manga Shiberia yokuryu monogatari (A Story of Imprisonment in Siberia), (Tokyo: Kojinsha, 1991), vol. 1, p. 134–35. Kato Kyuzo, Sibir v serdtse iapontsa (Siberia in the Heart of a Japanese), (Novoshibirsk: Nauka, 1992), p. 67. Heiwa-no ishizue, p. 47. Takasugi Ichiro, ‘Vo tme pod severnym siianiem’ (In the Dark under the Northern Lights), Znakomtes, Iaponiya, 1993, no. 2, p. 96. Kato Kyuzo, Sibir v serdtse iapontsa, p. 95. Wakatsuki Yasuo, Shiberia horyo shuyojo (Camps of Siberian Prisoners), second edition, (Tokyo: Meiseki Shoten), 1999, p. 158. Iwao Peter Sano, One Thousand Days in Siberia, (Lincoln and London: University of Nevraska Press, 1997), p. 173. On negotiations between the Soviet Union and the United States see E.L. Katasonova, Iaposkie voennoplennye v SSSR. Bolshaya igra velikikh derzhav. Wakatsuki, Yasuo, Shiberia horyo shuyojo, p. 396. ‘Kazoku yo, goanshin’ (Families, Do Not Worry), Asahi Shinbun, 9 December, 1946, p. 2. Yoshikuni Igarashi, ‘Belated Homecomings: Japanese Prisoners of War in Siberia and Their Return to Postwar Japan’, in Prisoners of War, Prisoners of Peace. Captivity, Homecoming and Memories in World War II, eds. Bob Moore & Barbara Hately-Broad, (Oxford, New York: Berg, 2005), pp. 105–22. ‘Takaraka ni “rodoka”’ (Singing Proletariat Songs in a Loud Voice), Asahi Shinbun, 29 June 1949, p. 1. ‘Kokoku no tsuchi o fumu’ (Stepping on the Soil of Homeland), Asahi Shinbun, 28 June 1949, p. 1. ‘Nihon kyosanka hakaru Soren’ (The Soviet Union Planning to Turn Japan to Communism), Asahi Shinbun, 30 June 1949, p. 5. ‘Kikoku no yorokobi ni waku Maizuru’ (Maizuru Welled up with Joy about Repatriation), Asahi Shinbun, 26 December 1956, p. 5.

Memory and Identity: Japanese POWs in the Soviet Union 35

36 37

38

39

40

41 42

43

44

45

46

47

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Togawa Tsuguo, ‘The Japanese View on Russia Before and After the Meiji Restoration’, Roshia to Nihon 2, (Tokyo: Waseda Daigaku Insatsujo, 1990), pp. 32–47; Shimizu Hayao, Naze Nihonjin wa Soren ga kirai ka, pp. 146–48. Shimizu Hayao, Naze Nihonjin wa Soren ga kirai ka, pp. 17–18. Tsuyoshi Hasegawa, ‘Japanese Perceptions of the Soviet Union and Russia,’ in Gilbert Rozman, ed., Japan and Russia: The Tortuous Path towards Normalization, 1949–1999, (St. Martin’s Press, 2000), p. 303. Kojima Michihiro, Rekishi tenji no meseji: Rekihaku kokusai shinpojiumu ‘Rekishi tenji o kangaeru – minzoku, senso, kyoiku’ (Message of Historical Representations: Rekihaku International Symposium ‘History and Representation in Museum Exhibition – Ethnicity, War and Education’), (Tokyo: Am Promotion, 2004), p. 354. Hahanaru minato Maizuru (The Mother Port of Maizuru), (Maizuru: Maizuru Hikiage Kinenkan, 2000), p. 42. Personal interview conducted by Yulia Mikhailova with the museum curator on 4 December 2005. Hahanaru minato Maizuru, p. 34. ‘Ganpeki no haha ni senshi tsuchi mujo’ (Cruelty in Notification of Mother Standing on a Wharf about the Death [of Her Son] in Battle), Asahi Shinbun, 10 April 1982, p. 12. Lisa Yoneyama, ‘Postmodernism and the Symbols of History: The Relationship between Collection, Display, and Materials in the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and the Museum of Kamigata Performing Arts’, in Tadao Umesao, Angus Lockyer, Kenji Koshida (eds), Japanese Civilization in the Modern World, XVII. Collection and Representation, (Senri Ethnological Series, 2001), p. 145. Yoshikuni Igarashi, Bodies of Memory. Narratives of War in Postwar Japanese Culture, 1945–1970, p. 165. See, for example: Sandra Wilson, ‘Bridging the Gaps: New Views on Japanese Colonialism, 1931–1945’, Japanese Studies, 2005, vol. 25, no. 3, pp. 287–99; Arai Shinichi, ‘Gakutohei no senso taiken to “kindai no yugami”’ (War Experience of Student Soldiers and ‘Distortion of Modernity’), Rekishi hyoron, 2005, no 5, pp. 2–13; Harry Wray, ‘Ideology in Search of Supporting History: A Content Analysis of the Controversial Japanese History Textbook Atarashii Rekishi Kyokasho’, Asian Cultural Studies, 14, Special Issue, International Christian University Publications 3-A, 2005, pp. 23–57. Asari Keita, ‘Kataritsugu Nihon no rekishi’ (Japanese History Passed down from Generation to Generation), Gekidanshiki originaru myujikaru. Showa no rekishi sanbusaku (Original Musicals of Shiki Theater Company. Three Works on Showa History), (Yokohama: Gekidan Shiki, 2005), p. 4. Iokibe Makoto, ‘Ano senso wa nan datta noka – “Myujikaru Ikoku no oka” o chushin ni’ (What Was That War about? – The Case of the Musical ‘Foreign Hills’), Gekidanshiki originaru myujikaru, Showa no rekishi sanbusaku, p. 47.

6

Constructing the Screen Image of an Ideal Partner IRINA MELNIKOVA

INTRODUCTION

C

inema combines mass media, art and industry. Since its inception at the turn of the twentieth century, cinema also has been cosmopolitan. Film-makers from different national and cultural backgrounds have worked together in commercial and artistic spheres in an attempt to screen the collective dream of how individuals could or should live together in peace. Beginning in the 1960s, Japanese and Soviet filmmakers took advantage of this potential in more than a dozen joint projects, including feature films, documentaries and animations. This chapter focuses on feature films celebrating Soviet-Japanese rapprochement, including Ten Thousand Boys (1961), The Little Fugitive (1966), Moscow, My Love (1975) and The Melody of the White Night (1976).1 I examine here changes in representing the Soviet-Japanese partnership and argue that the films, taken together, provide a certain historical mapping of Soviet-Japanese mutual perceptions, symbolically represented by culturally and politically sanctioned narratives and visual images. Certain images predominate: adopting an orphan into a new international family, ‘musical harmony’, international (and interracial) romance, and team competition – all of them used to create a new basis for friendship between the Soviet Union and Japan. The role of co-production features in mutual visualization changed radically in the 1980s with the advent of perestroika, the growth of mutual contact at the grassroots level, and the new dominance of television, home videos and the internet. After the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 and the termination of a state-owned (and controlled) cinema, modes of cooperation in film-making changed. In place of scrupulously measured parity in ‘the right to represent’, cooperation

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between Japanese and Russian film-makers gradually conformed to international cooperative film-making practices. Up to perestroika it was impossible for a foreign company to make a film about Russia on Russian location or to recruit Russian cinematographers without the permission and supervision of the highest bodies of power in the Soviet Union.2 On the other hand, Soviet film-makers had no freedom to film beyond the borders of their country. At that time a special kind of international cooperation in film-making was established. In Russian it was called sovmestnyi film, which literally means ‘joint production’. More than fifty joint films with various countries of the world (India, Italy, Norway, Poland, USA, etc.) were made during the period between Stalin’s death in 1953 and the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991. The very fact of shooting a co-production film with some foreign country was itself a political gesture indicating a certain measure of rapprochement. The first Soviet-Japanese co-production was made in 1966 to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the restoration of diplomatic relations. Two Soviet-Japanese co-productions date back to the second half of the 1970s and are closely linked to détente. The last Soviet-Japanese joint feature film was released in 1989, again in a period of easing global tensions. Although film cannot be contained by ideology, a move towards rapprochement characterized the overall tone of all SovietJapanese co-productions. As far as I am aware, these co-productions have not been studied or even seriously considered by film critics or scholars. Fortunately, the process of planning and shooting the co-productions is well documented in the Soviet archives, allowing me to focus on the transformation of an initial idea and speculate on the underlying ideological and psychological motives. I have used production materials (including drafts of the film scripts) from the Soviet studios and from the Russian State Archives of Literature and Art, especially files of the State Cinematography Committee (the supreme authority over the state-owned cinema in the Soviet Union). I also interviewed three Russian and two Japanese cinematographers who worked on the Soviet-Japanese co-productions. Despite the availability of sources, methodological problems abound. In fact, all of the collaborative efforts necessary to produce a cooperative work of art cannot be reconstructed; it is impossible for researchers to restore in full scale the process of reconciliation of interests and ideals of the different sides, the more so when an international team is at work. At best, I can speculate on the nature of historical dynamics in the screen representation of the Soviet-Japanese partnership during the past four decades relying on my personal impressions as an informed and motivated spectator. JAPANESE-RUSSIAN CINE-CONTACTS IN HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE

Russians and Japanese had an opportunity to see each other on the screen even at the dawn of the cinema as mass media. In Japan at the

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time of Russo-Japanese War (1904–5), the enormous impact of war documentaries and filmed outdoor reenactments of battles gave cinema a privileged position among all media in the eyes of the new nation-state.3 After the war, the cinema served to produce different images of Japan’s northern neighbour. The impact of Russian literature and drama on Westernized theatre in early twentieth-century Japan is well documented.4 It is thus no surprise that the first film version of a novel in Japan was Katiusha (1914), based on Leo Tolstoy’s Resurrection and its stage version performed at the Geijutsuza theatre.5 The play, the film and the sound recording of ‘Katiusha’s Song’ made the image of Katiusha popular throughout Japan. The hit song composed by Nakayama Shinpei sold over 20,000 records, an amazing number considering the infancy of the recording industry. All contributed towards an enduring image of Russians who love to sing and dance. In the 1920s and 1930s, the image of Russia focused on a country of music, ballet and theatre. Japanese intellectuals and professional cinematographers appreciated the artistic films of Sergei Eisenstein and Vsevolod Pudovkin; and, of course, there were the proponents of Marxism and socialism and members of the Prokino movement who carefully studied rare Soviet films, translated Russian books on film theory and passionately worked to create Japanese proletarian cinema.6 In the 1920s and early 1930s, Japanese lovers of European art could not only attend performances by visiting Russian orchestras, opera and ballet companies, and theatrical groups, but meet with Russian musicians and artists personally, not only in Japan, but also in Manchuria and China. Russian émigré teachers of music and art gained a high reputation and were responsible for another enduring image – that of ‘the Russian teacher of music and art’. To give one example, in 1920 the Russian émigré actress Anna Slavina taught Western dance and manners to the first class of pupils at the Shochiku Film Company’s Acting School. Her daughter Ekaterina became the first European actress to play leading roles in Japanese motion pictures.7 The Ekaterina Slavina films do not survive, but in Hikari ni Tatsu Onna (1920) she played the part of a Russian émigré girl, singing in an opera theatre in Asakusa. Both director of the film Ushihara Kiyohiko and assistant director Shimazu Yasujiro worked with Russians in their later films. Shimazu shot My Nightingale (1943) in Manchuria about a Russian opera singer and his Japanese pupil and Ushihara was the first Japanese producer who expressed interest in co-producing a movie with the Soviet Union in the postwar period.8 After the establishment of diplomatic relations between Japan and the Soviet Union in January 1925, it became possible for Japanese intellectuals to seek direct guidance from Russian teachers; at that time the Soviet Union appeared to be a paradise of free modern art. Two stage directors, Sano Seki (1905–66) and Hijikata Yoshi (1898–1959) studied between 1933 and 1937 in Moscow;9 the film director Kamei Fumio was trained at the Leningrad Institute of Art Studies between 1928 and

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1931.10 Kinugasa Teinosuke, the future director of the first SovietJapanese joint movie, travelled to Moscow in 1928 on a kind of pilgrimage to meet with Eisenstein and Pudovkin before proceeding to Berlin to nurture his interest in expressionism.11 During the 1930s, the political atmosphere in both Japan and the Soviet Union began to change. By the end of the decade, the two countries were in open military conflict and it was no longer possible for Japanese students to study in Moscow. In the summer of 1937 Sano Seki and Hijikata Yoshi were exiled from the Soviet Union. In 1938 Sugimoto Ryokichi, a theatre director, playwright and translator of Russian literature, was sentenced to death as a spy. He had defected in January 1938 with the popular film actress Okada Yoshiko (1902–92) to the Soviet Union to study under Meyerhold and was immediately arrested by the Soviet frontier guards. Okada Yoshiko spent ten years in Stalin’s prisons and labour camps, but managed to survive. In the 1950s she worked as a Japanese-speaking expert at Radio Moscow and as stage director at one of the Moscow theatres.12 In the 1960s she became co-director of Ten Thousand Boys (see below), the first Soviet film to treat the Japanese in a friendly light. From the middle of the 1930s to the beginning of the war with Nazi Germany in June 1941, the aggressive nature of Japanese imperialism was a commonplace theme in Soviet feature films. Images of cunning and cruel Japanese military officers or spies were intended to provoke a patriotic response among the viewers.13 The Volochaevka Days (1937) by Grigorii and Sergei Vasiliev is representative of this genre. The film took the Siberian Intervention and civil war in the Russian Far East as its theme and drew a versatile portrait of the Japanese enemy in the person of Colonel Ushijima. According to the principle of the international solidarity of proletariat, the film also featured a Japanese deserter who chose to fight with Communist partisans against the Japanese. Both roles were played in yellow face; the intelligent and refined Ushijima, lover of Russian literature, and manipulator of newsreels for propaganda purposes, however, was a much more interesting figure than the colourless deserter (Pl. 29). In 1947, soon after the war and during the period of the Allied Occupation, the Soviet Union began to release films in Japan. Although the number of films shown was modest, pro-Soviet journals and newspapers discussed Soviet cinema and published related materials; one major history of Soviet cinema appeared in 1952.14 After the restoration of Soviet-Japanese diplomatic relations in 1956, cultural exchanges between the two countries resumed. Guest performances by Soviet ballet troupes, circuses and orchestras created a sensation in Japan in the end of the 1950s.15 Japanese film-makers were able to show their movies at Moscow international film festivals, which became regular after 1959, winning prizes on each occasion.16 Very soon (beginning in 1960), Japanese film festivals in the Soviet Union and similar festivals of Soviet films in Japan became regular celebrations of mutual cultural interest.

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The beginning of the 1960s marked a dramatic shift in Soviet-Japanese relations. Riots in Tokyo against ratification of the U.S.-Japan Mutual Security Treaty in May 1960, resulting in the cancellation of President Eisenhower’s visit to Japan, were followed by massive (five million workers) labour strikes in the summer, giving the Soviet Union some hope for Japanese ‘neutrality’ in the Cold War. We have unique cinematic evidence of this warming of relations. THE SONG OF FRIENDSHIP

In 1961, the Moscow Film Studio named after Maxim Gorky released one movie which, while not a formal co-production, could not have been made without Russians and Japanese working together. The script was authored by Agnia Barto, an author of books for children and an influential figure in public organizations such as The Union of Soviet Writers and The Union of the International Friendship Societies. Agnia Barto had visited Japan in 1959 with a Soviet cultural delegation. Barto’s film script was entitled Ten Thousand and One Boys and represented Japan as one of many partners in the global anti-war movement; thus, the Japanese boy Taro was ‘one of the ten thousand boys’ loving peace (the film was eventually renamed Ten Thousand Boys). The film’s musical track was highlighted by a specially written theme song that likened the peace movement with the popular children’s game of rolling a hoop. A yellow hoop, looking like a little yellow sun from a child’s drawing, moved around the globe pushed by black, white and yellow children until it came to Japan. The story of the film is as follows. Taro (played by the Tajic boy Ravshan Agzamov) is an eleven-year-old Japanese orphan living in a small seaside village. He bears a striking resemblance to the deceased son of an elderly couple, Michiko and Ryu, who live nearby. They lost their son in Hiroshima, and actively take part in anti-war demonstrations. Michiko (played by Okada Yoshiko who also directed the film) intends to visit Moscow as a member of the Democratic Women’s Congress. Meanwhile, Taro makes friends with a Russian violinist touring Japan. The violinist teaches Taro a song about friendship among children all over the world (the song about the yellow hoop) and gives him a signed photo taken with his daughter. Taro confesses that he does not like girls and asks instead for a photo of a Soviet boy who might become his pen-pal. The violinist speaks about Taro on Soviet radio and thousands of Russian children write letters to him. To answer all the letters, Taro needs money. His skilful rendition of ‘the song of friendship’ lands him a job as a singer and entertainer in a bar owned by an American. The greedy American mistress, who was a cabaret dancer in her younger days, wants Taro to sing ‘newer and more popular songs’ (jazz is playing in the background). The American cabaret owner even throws away the letters Taro received from the Soviet pen-pals, but with the help of Katherine, the daughter of the American mistress, and some friends who take part in anti-war demonstrations, Taro not only

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regains the letters but a new loving family. All the letters are answered and delivered to Moscow by the members of the Democratic Women’s Congress. The last scene of the film shows barefoot Japanese children playing on improvised musical instruments (frying pans, wooden barrels, baby rattles) and in the background ‘the song of friendship’ is sung in Japanese (with a strong Russian accent). Michiko, who is standing on board a vessel about to sail to the Soviet Union, looks tenderly at Taro and says to her companion: ‘This is my son, ten thousand boys helped me to find him.’ Ten Thousand Boys was a movie intended for children, the new postwar generation innocent of stereotypical images of foreign enemies. The only negative figure in the film, the American mistress, is not entirely a villain; she is rather funny, and her daughter Katherine (played by nonRussian Jenny Desire in accented Russian) was in fact Taro’s closest friend. Watching the peace march with people holding giant photos of Hiroshima victims, the girl is puzzled why so many people were killed by the ‘American bomb’. The postwar generation is not charged with the responsibility for past atrocities, entrusted instead with the task ‘to preserve peace’. The film attempted to project an image of Japan as ‘a country of unique culture’. The stage director did his best to transform the Georgian town Batumi into a Japanese seaside village. Japan was also shown to be a peace-loving country, despite the American presence. Such was the clichéd image of Japan constructed by Soviet mass media in the 1960s.17 At the same time, Ten Thousand Boys adopted an ironic posture towards Soviet propaganda, with phrases such as ‘fetters of imperialism’ and ‘struggle for peace’ given exaggerated treatment. For instance, all foreign contacts of Soviet people in the film required supervision by the so-called House of Friendship. Even children knew that the House of Friendship is a place to make speeches. Thus, when Taro fails to reply to the pen-pal letters, the Soviet children parody their elders by going to the House of Friendship to state their grievances. Young Soviet artists and thinkers in the 1960s typically looked at Soviet realities with some suspicion and this attitude is obvious in Ten Thousand Boys. The satire in Ten Thousand Boys was deliberate. Foreign locations were presented in terms of qualities lacking at home. The Japanese boy and the American girl are energetic, resourceful and lively; they are even more attractive than Soviet children. Katherine is depicted as a cute girl who manages to cure Taro of his boyish ‘anti-feminism’ and the film, in fact, tells the story of these two children rather than illustrate the ideal of Soviet-Japanese friendship. We can suppose that for the little spectators it was more real to know that boys and girls of their age can make friends than to speculate about the politics of the JapaneseAmerican alliance (Pl. 30). This unconventional form of representation did not escape the eyes of the more mature members of the audience. During a discussion of the film held at Maxim Gorky Film Studio on 29 October 1961, scriptwriter

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Valentin Yezhov noted that in Japan, children could live their lives, whereas in the Soviet Union, children were required to ‘struggle for peace’: ‘It turns out that the life of our children is very boring, and the life of the Japanese boy is full of fun and adventure.’18 Japan was represented to postwar Soviet children as a beautiful country and its people friendly and polite – the Japanese boy Taro was shown beginning each day saying ‘good morning’ to the photos of his Soviet pen-pals. The only way to communicate with Japanese children, however, was by sending a photo. All contacts required the permission of elders and special authorities (House of Friendship). Russians in Japan, the violinist Borisov, for example, can communicate only with those Japanese ‘struggling for peace’ or with children. Although he is a professional musician, his role is to teach ‘a song of friendship’ and not to play classical music. Japanese can visit Russia only to pursue political activities (Congress of Democratic Women). Nonetheless, the Soviet Studio needed the help of real Japanese partners in order to produce a film about Japan. Boris Buneev, who codirected the film with Okada Yoshiko, later recalled that the production of the film was scheduled to coincide with a proposed visit of the Zenshinza theatre troupe in 1961, hoping that members of the Zenshinza could add a Japanese touch to the film.19 Founded in 1931 as a troupe of reformed Kabuki, the troupe was leftist in orientation and notorious for the fact that seventy-one of its members joined the Communist Party in 1949. After many rounds of negotiations, the Japanese government determined the need for more politically neutral representation; in the end the Kabukiza troupe was chosen to make its second trip to the Soviet Union, its first trip having been in 1928.20 Consequently, Japanese parts in Ten Thousand Boys were played by members of the Japanese community in Moscow (students, journalists), and by Soviet actors of Asian origin (Uzbeks, Tajiks, Kazakhs). Japanese living in Moscow were invited to take part in the project and many contributed costumes, stage props and other items from Japan, wrote slogans and signboards and added Japanese dubbing. The level of friendly non-governmental cooperation by Russians and Japanese in producing the film was unusual in its day, and would not be repeated for many years. THE TEACHER AND THE PUPIL

The first attempt at full-scale Soviet-Japanese partnership in film-making was Little Fugitive, released in 1966. The film is the best documented coproduction in the Japan related archives of the State Cinematography Committee and Maxim Gorky Film Studio (the same studio that produced Ten Thousand Boys).21 The preliminary agreement for the joint production by Maxim Gorky Film Studio and Daiei Company was signed on 25 September 1965. Both sides agreed to bear 50 percent of project costs, involving no currency exchange. Distribution rights were granted to each side. Similar conditions for co-production projects with two

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other free-market economies (France and Italy) had already been approved in the middle of the 1960s. The producer of Little Fugitive on the Japanese side was Nagata Masaichi, the president of the Daiei Film Company and member of the Japanese Diet. He met with the Soviet delegation during the Second Festival of Soviet Films in Tokyo (November 1964) and explicitly expressed an interest in projects corresponding to the ‘latest developments, friendly contacts between Soviet and Japanese young people, tours of the Soviet ballet and circus troupes and sport celebrities in Japan’.22 Nagata was also the head of the newly established Committee for Japanese Film Export Promotion (Nihon Eiga Yushutsu Shinko Kyokai). The Committee was established in 1966, with Little Fugitive as its initial object of investment. The film was granted a subsidy of 160 million yen. This fact indicates great expectations for Soviet-Japanese rapprochement. The year 1966 began with the opening of a commercial air route between Moscow and Tokyo. This was followed by a Soviet-Japanese economic conference on development projects in Siberia. In the summer of 1966, Andrei Gromyko became the first Soviet Foreign Minister to pay an official visit to Japan. Finally, in December, the Yomiuri published a frontpage series on the life of young people in the Soviet Union.23 The joint production of Little Fugitive can be seen as one more way to improve cultural and economic relations between the two countries. Since the movie was meant to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the restoration of Soviet-Japanese diplomatic relations, it necessarily had to be politically neutral.24 The project was state-sponsored and supervised on both sides and considerations of national prestige were supremely important. Both the Soviets and the Japanese proposed several script synopses for the film.25 One of the Soviet texts concerned a real person, the young violinist Sato Yoko (1949-), who travelled to Moscow when she was only eleven years old, to study under the violinist Leonid Kogan and at the time when the first Soviet-Japanese co-production was conceived she was a pupil at a music school affiliated to the Moscow Conservatory.26 Another script followed the example of Sulamith Messerer who taught ballet in Japan in the Tchaikovsky Tokyo Ballet School in 1960. The Soviet side obviously preferred to represent the Soviet Union as teacher. Japanese screenwriters based their texts on the popularity of Soviet classical music and circus troupes, the strong reputation of Soviet medical care and humanitarian stories of Soviet and Japanese sailors helping each other after a shipwreck. A story-line proposed by Oguni Hideo, the scriptwriter for many of Akira Kurosawa’s masterpieces, was chosen as the starting point for the script which would be completed by Soviet and Japanese screenwriters working together. Oguni’s story was titled The Teacher and the Pupil, but in fact rejected the ‘Russian teacher and Japanese pupil’ motif. The script portrayed Noda Nobuyuki, an unsuccessful violin teacher, who finally met a gifted pupil, a dumb orphan boy named Kawano Ken. His amazing progress prompted the

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teacher to write a letter to violinist David Oistrakh in Moscow (Oistrakh, who visited Japan in 1955, was extremely popular there).27 Ken went to Moscow to study under Oistrakh; the climax of the story was his return to Japan, where he plays solo with both of his teachers sitting side by side in the auditorium listening to his performance. The part of the script depicting Ken’s life in the Soviet Union was to be written by playwright Emil Braginskii, the author of many popular comedies, and the young Andrei Bitov, now a major author of novels and essays. Oguni Hideo’s original script underwent significant changes in the course of the production. Several ideas from other Japanese drafts, including Soviet circus scenes and hospital life, were later incorporated into the story-line. Whether a result of Soviet-Japanese negotiations or not, the part of Ken was redefined from an outcast (dumb, orphan) to an ordinary boy. Noda, the violin teacher, became Ken’s only relative, his irresponsible drunkard uncle, and Ken’s departure from Japan was transformed into a search for his lost father. Ken’s defection to the Soviet Union was obviously a delicate issue and the subject of much discussion. The title of the Russian version of the script was Ten Thousand Kilometres, somehow reverberating with Ten Thousand Boys. The Japanese side proposed another title, but this too provoked controversy. Chiisai tobosha, translated into Russian as ‘Little Fugitive’, literally means ‘Little Deserter’, and we can guess that defection from his motherland posed an ethical problem. As can be seen from archival documents, the Japanese side wanted to present the boy’s journey through Siberia as a struggle to find his father, a Japanese POW. Oguni Hideo, the scriptwriter, insisted that the boy should be constantly chased by the Soviet police (militia) but every time somehow manages to escape. The Soviet scriptwriters, on the other hand, tried to make the boy’s father a Hiroshima survivor receiving medical care in the Soviet Union, and offered a rather unusual interpretation of the policemen’s inability to capture the boy: ‘The police allows the boy to escape, feeling sympathy with his noble impulse.’28 In the final version, Ken, after many adventures in Siberia, comes to Leningrad and Moscow and learns that his father has died. With the help of the famous circus clown Yurii Nikulin, whom he befriended in Japan during a tour of the Soviet circus, he enters a music school affiliated to the Moscow Conservatory. The encounter between Ken and Nikulin is shown not only in realistic scenes of mutual attraction between child and clown, but also as a kind of pantomime that can be interpreted as an allegory of misunderstanding between Russia and Japan and its subsequent ‘resolution’. The big, clumsy Russian clown takes the Japanese boy’s small violin to play some music, but breaks it. The boy’s eyes are full of tears, but in the next shot the child is astride the clown’s shoulders, playing the well-known Sakura melody (Pl. 31). Except for this symbolic hint, nothing is told about past clashes. We never know why the boy’s father was in the Soviet Union or the cause of

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his death. There is, however, one episode in the movie that shows what crossing the border into the Soviet Union without permission really meant in the context of a classical Soviet film. When Ken seeks refuge from rain in a hunter’s hut in the Siberian taiga, he is found there by a young hunter named Vaska. Seeing Vaska’s gun, Ken picks up a log to protect himself. After a while, we see the boys absolutely naked, having taken off their clothes for drying, and peacefully drinking tea and sharing bread. The episode can be seen as a parody of several Soviet novels and films of 1930s, where a Japanese spy or plotter who secretly came from Manchuria often hid himself in a hunter’s hut. In the Little Fugitive this stereotype is abandoned. Distrust and suspicion fade away, replaced by humanitarian principles: to feed the hungry, to protect the weak, to restore broken family ties. This basic humanitarianism can be seen especially in relations between ordinary people. The boy’s journey along the Great Siberian Railway is shown as a sequence of funny and touching meetings with different people, who are happy to protect and to help him. The atmosphere of warm human brotherhood is equally characteristic in the narrow streets and cheap restaurants of a Japanese city and in large and small towns in the Soviet Union. Even the authorities in both countries (frontier guards, police) are represented as people of compassion for their fellow human beings. The image of ‘the other’ in the film is idealized no less than the image of ‘the self’. Soviet society as portrayed in the film is free of problems, but the Japanese location is more ambivalent. When the hero defects, Japan is in a state of social decay: children work to help their parents and unhappy adults drink too much. The film, however, is far from social critique; a nostalgic and sympathetic veil is cast over the past. The simple melody that little Ken and his uncle played to entertain guests in a restaurant made the boy happy. Later, when Ken returns to Japan as a member of the Soviet Symphony Orchestra, instead of a chubby cheerful boy we see a handsome youth with sad, even tragic looks; he no longer smiles. Ken’s skilful violin playing is shown on TV, and he becomes popular; but Ken’s triumphant performance does not seem to have made him happy. The boy’s uncle is even reluctant to meet with the nephew, rankled by guilt for the ordeal Ken has had to suffer in a foreign country (the supposed ordeal is left to the imagination of the spectators); in the film Ken appears to spend happy days in the Soviet Union. When Ken returns to Japan ten years later, all problems seem to have been solved: Ken’s friend, who once sold flowers on the street, now has a flower shop of her own, orphans live in a beautiful orphanage, and the uncle has recovered from his alcohol addiction. The final part of the film ascribes the representation of ‘unhappy Japan’ to the past (presumably the 1950s), and the final minutes of the film emphasize the beauty of the Japanese landscape, replete with scenes of children playing in a gardenlike environment. The message is clear: Japan will become a country with a bright future for its children. The personal story of Ken has an open

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ending: will he live in Japan or in the Soviet Union? The possibility of a cosmopolitan identity is not articulated. In the 1960s, it was clear that the Soviet side singled out Japanese children as ideal partners in cultural exchange. The patronizing attitude of the Soviet Union towards Japan as shown in the film further emphasized the role of the child-hero. The Japanese side accepted this representation with some reservations. Two years later, for example, a Japanese-French production, Farewell, Jazz Band in Moscow (1968), gave Japan the role of ‘the teacher of music’. The film was based on a best-selling novel by Itsuki Hiroyuki, and, despite its Russian theme, eschewed Soviet assistance. Moscow scenes were shot in Paris and the roles of Russians in the film were played by various European actors. The central ‘hero’ of the film was played by the musician and actor Kayama Yuzo. The story revolved around his efforts to teach jazz not only to the American GI (bound for Vietnam), but also to Soviet bureaucrats and to a group of young Soviet non-conformists. The Japanese artist was able to give the young Moscow jazz musicians an impressive lesson on spontaneity, sincerity and unselfishness. When released, Little Fugitive was more popular in the Soviet Union than in Japan (in 1967, for example, it won the Moscow International Film Festival Award). Even today, the film is a useful tool for RussianJapanese cultural exchange. The first retrospective showing of the films of Kinugasa Teinosuke in Moscow (2004) and St Petersburg (2006) sponsored by The Japan Foundation served to revitalize images of the 1966 film. The film has become imprinted in the collective memory of Russian spectators in the context of Kinugasa Teinosuke’s oeuvre and wider context of the Japanese film history, and as such has become an integral part of the discourse on ‘Japanese traces in Russian cinema’.29 TRUE LOVE OR ADULTERY? MOSCOW, MY LOVE AND MELODY OF THE WHITE NIGHT

The second half of the 1970s, when four joint-production feature films – Moscow, My Love, Melody of the White Night, Dersu Uzala and The Way to Medals – were released, was obviously a significant period in JapaneseSoviet cine-contacts. It comes as a surprise, therefore, to learn that these films were released at a time of strained political and diplomatic relations. Indeed, one expert has called this period ‘the lowest ebb in bilateral relations between these neighbouring countries’.30 On the screen, however, Soviet-Japanese relations seem to take the form of a passionate love affair. Why should this be? The problem lies in the time required to produce and distribute the films and in the phenomenon of the durability of cinematic images. It is also closely connected to the commercial core of joint filmmaking. When a period of diplomatic rapprochement came to an end in the mid-1970s, the cinematic myth of Soviet-Japanese romance remained. The initial idea for the second Soviet-Japanese production, Moscow, My Love (in Japanese, Mosukuwa waga ai) was broached in 1969; the film,

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however, did not appear until 1975. Producer Otsuka Kano proposed to tell the story of a Japanese ballerina coming to Moscow to study ballet and dying from leukaemia inherited from her parents who were in Hiroshima on 6 August 1945. Otsuka’s script combined the well-honed theme of Russian-Japanese collaboration in the sphere of fine arts with the politically evocative theme of the second generation Hiroshima hibakusha. Otsuka Kano was close to the Japanese Socialist Party which at that time was trying to establish special relations with the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Initial negotiations took place between Nikkatsu and the Maxim Gorky Film Studio for the new co-production project, but Nikkatsu backed out in August 1969, pleading financial difficulties.31 Negotiations to co-produce Moscow, My Love were renewed only in January 1973. This time Otsuka received the support of the Toho Company; and the same time, the partnership of the Soviet Union’s largest film studio, Mosfilm, was secured. According to the contract, seventy per cent of the expenses were to be borne by the Soviet side. Soviet Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko’s visit to Japan in January 1972 initiated what has been called ‘smile diplomacy’ between Japan and the USSR, producing favourable conditions for Japanese-Soviet coproductions. The prospect that Prime Minister Tanaka Kakuei would visit Moscow in the autumn of 1973 was the cause for additional warmth in relations between the two countries. Those aspirations for diplomatic rapprochement were symbolically mirrored in the scenario for the new film, completed in May 1973 by a team of Soviet and Japanese scriptwriters (Kashikura Tashiyuki, Eduard Radzinskii, Aleksander Mitta). Their text was significantly different from the one proposed by Otsuka Kano in 1969. In a new version, Japanese ballerina Yuriko falls in love with Russian sculptor Volodia, overcoming an earlier attraction to Tetsuya, a Japanese journalist. The international romance motif was exceptional for Soviet co-productions with capitalist countries; until then only partners from the socialist camp were symbolically represented as lovers. Definitely love was in the air of SovietJapanese relations in 1973. In the 1973 scenario, Yuriko is happy in Moscow, rehearsing for her role in Giselle to be performed at the Bolshoi Theatre (it was agreed that Yuriko would be played by Kurihara Komaki, an actress who had studied ballet under Russian teachers before she chose an acting career). Yuriko is befriended by Russian dancers and artists, and falls in love with one of them, the young and handsome sculptor Volodia. Tragically, Yuriko comes down with leukaemia, having inherited the disease from her mother who was a hibakusha. Yuriko’s only relative, her uncle Nogawa, is the Moscow representative of a Japanese trading company (in the 1969 script he was a former Japanese POW). His attempts at support are overshadowed by the actions taken by Soviet doctors and nurses, who give Yuriko indispensable professional and spiritual help. During a short period of remission, Tetsuya, a former boyfriend, comes to Moscow to see

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her. The young journalist is made to represent the Japanese male, both jealous and struggling to overcome his own egoism. When Tetsuya learns about Volodia, he takes Yuriko to a sea resort where Volodia is decorating a new town with his sculptures, so that Yuriko can meet with her beloved and tell him of her fate. The ensuing love scene on the seashore forms the climax of the story (Pl. 32). In spite of the efforts of Soviet and Japanese doctors, every day Yuriko’s condition worsens. She becomes thin and pale and eventually looses her sight, just like Giselle, the ballet heroine. In the end Tetsuya, walking along the streets of Hiroshima, informs the audience of her tragic death, but adds: ‘I think she was happy.’ The film concludes on an optimistic note with scenes of young girls of different nationalities and ethnicities taking their first ballet steps. The theme of interethnic and interracial romance did not receive unanimous approval. Sovexportfilm, the Soviet organization involved in the distribution of Soviet pictures abroad and regulation of the international activities of Soviet film-makers, sent a letter to the director of Mosfilm complaining that the romance between Yuriko and Volodia was ‘extremely improbable’. It recommended that the conclusion of the film should not be constructed around Yuriko’s death, but rather her departure for Japan with her Japanese boyfriend.32 This advice was ignored but the scenario was modified to become less political and more commercial. Instead of dealing with the atomic bomb or with Japanese-Soviet solidarity in the struggle for peace, Moscow, My Love dealt with the issue of interracial romance in much the same way as a long line of melodramas produced in Europe and the United States. The film can also be seen as a travelogue showing popular Moscow tourist spots to potential Japanese visitors. On the other hand, with no Russian heroes on Japanese location, the landscape there remained exotic. Yuriko, the Japanese heroine, symbolized Japan: fascinating and beautiful even in pain; patient and hard working, sincere and emotional. Her gender requires her to be subordinate to male heroes: Yuriko is disciplined and guided in Moscow by a series of male figures: the ballet teacher, the stage director, the physician and even the Japanese friend Tetsuya. Alexander Mitta, director of the film, told the author in a private interview (19 December 2001) that he knew from the very beginning that the new co-production would be a melodrama. Indian and Mexican melodramas were, at the time, popular with audiences in the Soviet Union, but film-makers there were prohibited from making these sorts of films. Moscow, My Love, because of its status as a co-production project, offered Soviet film-makers a chance to produce a melodrama that could expect good box-office returns. The film was a compromise between ideology and economical interests taking advantage of clichéd images of how Russians and Japanese saw each other and it proved to be commercially successful both in Japan and USSR.33 Japan was represented by Tokyo highways and many-storied concrete buildings, by children in colourful kimonos, by cheerful young people in Shibuya and, in contrast, by the

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A-bomb Dome in the centre of Hiroshima. Moscow was represented by the world of classical ballet, by May Day demonstrations, shots of the exterior of famous sites in Moscow and the interior of a sculptor’s studio and a hospital. Moscow, My Love combined elements from both Japanese and Soviet cinematic conventions. For Japanese spectators, the film fitted neatly with the theme of the ‘A-bomb Maidens’ (young female victims afflicted with a bomb-related illness).34 The Soviet audience viewed the film as one more touching story of a foreigner escaping social or racial oppression to discover a new meaning in life and a new family in the paradise of socialism. For example, there is the scene in which Yuriko, marching with other participants in the May Day demonstrations, suddenly feels release from her loneliness and distress. This scene, that immediately precedes her fateful meeting with Volodia, is a clear reference to an earlier Soviet classic, The Circus (1936) that featured an American actress and her black child who both found happiness in Moscow. The attempt to represent a Soviet-Japanese partnership necessarily sought to combine two different traditions; in the end, however, Japanese and Soviet audiences each saw the film through their own cultural lens. Although the Japanese side expressed a wish to show the everyday life of the Japanese heroine in Moscow, as well as the lives of ordinary Russians (it was even suggested that Volodia should not be a sculptor, because that made him different from the average Soviet youth), in fact no private dwellings were shown.35 We may assume that artistic considerations (seeking, for example, to elevate the theme of pure love) were not the only reasons behind minimizing the realities of Moscow life in the 1970s. Moreover, if we imagine how disturbing it was for Soviet ideological censors of the time to see a hero in love with a non-Soviet girl, we can better understand why Volodia is made to seem so passive and dependent. In fact, it was Tetsuya who pushed Yuriko into Volodia’s embrace, thus freeing the Soviet hero from the ‘sin’ of actively pursuing the love of the Japanese heroine. Japan, symbolically represented by the actress Kurihara Komaki, and Russia, represented by the blue-eyed Oleg Vidov, love each other, but their romance is tragic. The obstacle to their happiness is the tragic legacy of world war: the consequences of the atomic bomb dropped by Americans on Hiroshima. Thus, the third party, the United States, is invisibly present, but never named. The melodramatic story of tragic love, familiar to moviegoers all over the world, camouflaged political and ideological concerns. The film was made at a moment of easing tensions between the two superpowers; indeed, soon after the release, work began on the first Soviet-American co-production, The Blue Bird, based on a play by Maurice Maeterlinck. Although the title Moscow, My Love alludes to the renowned French new-wave feature Hiroshima Mon Amour by Alain Resnais, stylistically there is nothing in common between the two films. The next SovietJapanese joint production undertaken immediately after Moscow, My

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Love, however, was consciously modelled after Resnais’ film. The new production was set in Leningrad (now St Petersburg), the old capital of Russia associated with classical Russian literature and music. The script for Melody of the White Night (in Japanese Byakuya no shirabe, in Russian Melodiia beloi nochi) was written by the young Soviet film director Sergei Soloviov and Kashikura Tashiyuki, who took part in the scriptwriting for Moscow, My Love. Soloviov, who had distinguished himself with successful film versions of Russian classics, was also codirector of the film, alongside his Japanese partner, Kiyoshi Nishimura. Kurihara Komaki and Yurii Solomin, who had recently starred in Kurosawa Akira’s Dersu Uzala, played the leading roles, both of them already well known as the ‘faces of Soviet-Japanese rapprochement’ but also tremendously popular in domestic productions. The project was realized by the Mosfilm studio and Toho Company with the same conditions as Moscow, My Love (seventy percent of expenses borne by the Soviet partner, thirty percent by the Japanese partner). In Melody of the White Night, a Japanese pianist Yuko arrives in Leningrad where she meets Ilia, a Russian composer, and his friends. Ilia is an orphan who lost all his relatives during the siege of Leningrad and who, along with other children from the orphanage, was adopted by their music teacher. What we know about Ilia’s deceased wife is that she was in poor health since her childhood as a result of the Leningrad famine of 1941–43 and died giving birth to their son Aliosha, now ten. Ilia and Yuko fall in love but the union has no future because Yuko is married and there was no question of leaving her husband. She, like Ilia, was an orphan and her husband was more than a spouse. A year later, the two meet in Kyoto. By this time Yuko’s husband has died, but feelings of obligation and guilt form an insurmountable psychological barrier to their love. There are significant differences between these two films that depict Russian-Japanese romance. Representation of the Soviet Union and Japan, Moscow and Tokyo, in Moscow, My Love underlines similarities in the dynamic urban environment and optimism of the young generation in both countries. This can be seen as a metaphor for overcoming the Cold War schemes that divided the world into two polar systems. The film gave no hint of possible psychological problems or cultural misunderstandings that might arrive between Yuriko and Volodia. Melody of the White Night, on the other hand, stresses differences between Leningrad and Kyoto, the former capitals of the two countries. The ethno-cultural difference is accentuated and aestheticized, but while the Japanese heroine smoothly enters the frames of beautifully-taken Leningrad scenes, the Russian hero seems completely out of place in the narrow streets of the old Kyoto. Leningrad is represented by the sphere of refined arts: the Hermitage museum, majestic buildings, an artist’s studio and a country house full of antiques. It is cosmopolitan in nature. The city is shown mostly at night, when it is empty, as if uninhabited, and we see Yuko only in the company of Ilia and his relatives. His entire family is willing to embrace Yuko; this might symbolize the same willingness of

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the figurative family of Soviet people, but the visual imagery of the film gives no such implication. All members of Ilia’s family can rather be seen as remnants of ‘old Russia’ with its traditional refined culture. In fact, what we do not see in the film is ‘the Soviet realm’ – it is sleeping during the white night. On the other hand, the Japanese location of the movie is densely populated and the heroine is shown as a member of her community. The Russian traveller Ilia in his formal jacket with a big canvas (a portrait of Yuko) in his hands is a stranger in the old district of Kyoto, where people know each other and leave their homes scantily clad, as if the territory adjoining one’s home is one’s own. Adolescent girls look at Ilia from an open window and laugh. Ilia in Kyoto is no longer a romantic hero, and he can never become part of Yuko’s life in Japan. He seems even more alien to Yuko in the scene that takes place during the Bon festival where the father of Yuko’s deceased husband is introduced as a Buddhist monk (Pl. 33). Melody of the White Night was released only two years after Moscow, My Love but is significantly different in mood. The film obviously reflected tensions in Soviet-Japanese relations that occurred in 1976. In a special letter to the Mosfilm Studio, the Soviet State Cinematography Committee, perhaps in response to the Belenko Incident, claimed ‘the impossibility of the union of a Soviet composer and a Japanese pianist’.36 And of course marriage did not take place, but the Japanese film magazine Kinema junpo severely criticized Melody of the White Night, pointing to an overly-dominant Soviet perspective and predicting that ‘the masochistic relationship’ that leaves the heroine with her music but without her lover would never be accepted by Japanese female viewers. The films of the 1960s carried a positive message: partnership between Japan and the Soviet Union was possible and fruitful, although limited to certain individuals and mainly in the area of the arts. In the 1970s, however, even that narrow partnership was tragically doomed to failure despite mutual attraction. Ilia and Yuko’s love story had no happy end. Since this film, Japanese and Russian cinematography has not produced any symbolic romance between the two countries. If the movies of the 1960s and 1970s represented a partnership between Japan and Russia limited to the sphere of culture, later co-productions stressed the image of rivalry and competition, both in sports and in the economic sphere. The co-production of 1979, The Way to Medals (in Russian Put k Medaliam, in Japanese Yomigaeru majo), a feature film about the players of the Japanese and Soviet national women’s volleyball teams made in connection with the Moscow Olympic Games of 1980, was not widely distributed because the Moscow games were boycotted by many countries, including Japan. The very method of film shooting shows that by 1979 Soviet-Japanese cooperation in film-making had been reduced to a minimum; the film was made by weaving together two independently shot movies about two young volleyball players, Tania and Megumi, into one oeuvre illustrating the differences between the two countries.

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Even A Step (1989) directed by Alexander Mitta, whose Moscow, My Love was the most commercially successful Soviet-Japanese joint production in the 1970s, and again starring Kurihara Komaki, emphasized the enduring and irreconcilable interests that divided Japanese and Soviet business circles. The story, set in the early 1960s, revolves around attempts to import Soviet vaccine into Japan to help save the lives of Japanese children. Meticulously demonstrating large and small obstacles (including transportation and packaging problems) standing in the way of what should be a routine transaction, the film revealed the deep cultural and social problems that existed between the Soviet Union and Japan as trade partners. Fortunately, in the film the goodwill of the heroes helped to overcome all difficulties. The movie was released in Japan under the title Mirai e no dengon (The Message to the Future) and is remembered largely because Kurihara Komaki initiated a campaign to raise money for the Soviet victims, especially children of Chernobyl, linking the movie release in Japan with philanthropic activities. CONCLUSION

The Soviet-Japanese joint production films constitute a unique source to analyse interactions between political events and strategies of media representation. The films themselves reflect particular moments in the diplomatic relations between the two countries, but their impact on popular consciousness (how one people view another) was not momentary. The Soviet-Japanese co-productions tended to be genre films, but they combined film traditions unique to each country. In the 1960s, when images of the Soviet-Japanese partnership were initially constructed, the attempt was to overcome a history of mutual hostility and hatred. As one strategy, children were used as mediators between the two countries. Notions of childlike innocence coupled with the need for instruction and patronage helped to construct a hierarchy of cultural dominance which itself contradicted the goal to project images of partnership and parity. An important symbolic image persistent in the co-productions was that of the orphan who could be adopted into a new family. At the same time the orphan hero is marginal to society, being free from family ties. In fact, all of the leading Japanese characters in the films lack biological parents. The ‘hero-mediator’ roles given to the Japanese were further marginalized through their status as musicians and artists, living in the realm of pure art; or they were depicted as victims of leukaemia or some other debilitating disease. In sum, Soviet-Japanese encounters were interpreted on both sides as something rare and viable only at the individual level, and taking place at the margins of society. The real economic partnership which ensued in the 1960s and 1970s never became visible. The films of the 1970s use adult heroes to embody a Soviet-Japanese partnership, symbolically represented as romance. But romance never resulted in marriage. The reasons for this tragic outcome derive from the

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past, particularly the legacy of the Second World War. Ethno-cultural differences camouflage sociopolitical reasons that ultimately frustrate attempts at Soviet-Japanese reunion. Pierre Sorlin, a specialist on the socio-cultural and historical reading of film, identifies the visible, as that which film-makers consider easily presentable and which viewers can easily perceive. He notes that cinema ‘reveals sensitive areas, what we call fixations, that is, questions, expectations, uneasinesses, all of which are apparently secondary, but the importance of which emerges from their systematic reappearance in films’.37 A major motif in the Soviet-Japanese co-productions involved interaction in the sphere of the arts. The ideal partner was a performer. Representation of hero-mediators as people of artistic professions gave them an ambiguous high status and marginality, but also stressed their social function to perform and to represent. As Homi Bhabha puts it, performance and creativity offer spaces where one can explore the ‘inter’ or ‘inbetweenness’ of culture and cultural identity.38 Both purely domestic films and co-productions about ‘the ideal partner’ helped to construct an image favourable to the conduct of cultural interactions between the Soviet Union and Japan, at least for the Soviet people. A public opinion survey conducted in 1998 showed that for the majority of Russian respondents, the image of Japan was associated with film producers and stars such as Kurosawa Akira and Kurihara Komaki, both of whom took part in the co-production projects of the 1970s, whereas for the Japanese respondents, the image of Russia was embodied by politicians (Boris Yeltsin, Mikhail Gorbachev).39 On the other hand, there are things that remain invisible in the Soviet-Japanese co-productions; a shared past hid as much as it revealed. The films seemingly erased memory of those many emigrants in both countries, the former POWs, the Japanese left, the Russians and Japanese who lived and worked side by side in Manchuria and many other witnesses who sought to bring about a real partnership between the two countries. NOTES 1

2

3

4

Assuming that the impact of co-productions on mutual perceptions may be of special importance at a time when direct contact between the Russians and Japanese were limited, I leave out several films made on the verge of perestroika by Soviet cinematographers in Japan (The Step, 1989) or by Japanese directors on Russian location (Under the Aurora, 1990, Dreams about Russia, 1993, and others). The case of Kurosawa Akira who shot Dersu Uzala (1974) in the Soviet Union was a rare exception and deserves special analysis. Mark Abe, Japanese Documentary Film: the Meiji Era through Hiroshima, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003), p. 5. Brian Powell, Japan’s Modern Theatre: A Century of Change and Continuity, (London: Japan Library, 2002).

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Sato Tadao, Nihon eigashi (The History of Japanese Film), vol. 1, (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1995), pp. 149–151. Abe, Japanese Documentary Film, pp. 19–47; Namiki Shinsaku, Nihon Puroretaria Eiga Domei (Purokino) Zenshi (The History of Prokino, The Japanese Proletarian Film League), (Tokyo: Godo Shuppansha, 1986), pp. 56–73. Sawada Kazuhiko, ‘Joyu Surabina bojo no tabiji – Rai Nichi hakukei Roshiajin kenkyu’ (The Life Journey of Actresses Slavina, Mother and Daughter: A Study of White Russians in Japan), Saitama Daigaku Kiyo, vol. 32, no. 1, 1996, pp. 77– 95. The film My Nightingale was never shown in Manchuria or Japan until 1986, because it was labelled by the Kwangtung Army ideological authorities as ‘running counter to national policy’. The film was rediscovered in Japan in 1984 and released in video-format. It is available with Japanese subtitles (the original language is Russian, but occasionally Japanese heroes speak in Japanese). The production of the film involving Russian emigrants could be justified only with the aims of propaganda among the Russian population of Manchuria and China. The political message of the film is rather straightforward: only the Japanese can bring peace to the multinational population of Manchuria and protect high art. On the other hand, among those people who conceived and shot the film was the famous leftist critic Iwasaki Akira and many of those indebted to Russian teachers: the leading actress Ri Ko-Ran (Yamaguchi Yoshiko) took vocal lessons from Russian opera singers, composer Hattori Ichiro was the pupil of Russian émigré conductor Emmanuel Metter. See: Irina Melnikova, ‘The Harbin Nightingale and Moscow Madmen-Jazz: Film, Music and Cultural Identity’, part 1, Doshisha Studies in Language and Culture, 8 (4), 2006, pp. 691–718. As for Ushihara Kiyohiko, in 1959 the Soviet authorities favourably accepted his idea to make a joint production and in 1960 ordered the preparation of a scenario based on Golovnin’s diary of his 1811–13 captivity in Japan, but the project was never realized. It seems that at that moment both countries were much more interested in the then present and future status of their relations (RGALI 2944. 1. 124, p. 20). (In this article I use the English transliteration of the Russian abbreviation for The Russian State Archives of Literature and Art: RGALI. I give codes of files, preserved in RGALI without their titles, usually very long and confusing.) Both Sano Seki and Hijikata Yoshi came to Moscow to study under Vsevolod Meyerhold and occasionally published in Soviet papers and journals on topics relating to Japanese theatre and film. See: Sano, Seki, ‘Samurai na ekrane’ (Samurai on Screen), Iskusstvo kino, 1935, no. 1, pp. 85–87. In 1937, after a massive purge of foreigners, they were exiled from the Soviet Union. Sano (forced to part with his Russian family) went to Paris and then to Mexico where he lived the remainder of his life and became ‘the father of Mexican drama art’. See Fujita Fujio, Biba eru teaturo (Viva el Teatro), Orijin Shuppan Senta, 1989. Hijikata Yoshi, who came to Moscow in 1933 with his wife and sons, returned to Japan in 1937 where he was imprisoned until the end of the war. See: Hijikata Yoshi, Enshutsusha no michi (The Way of the Stage Director), (Tokyo: Miraisha, 1969); Hijikata Umeko, Hijikata Umeko jiden (The Autobiogaphy of Hijikata Umeko), (Tokyo: Hayakawa Shobo, 1976).

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Abe, Japanese Documentary Film, p. 149. Kinugasa’s film, Crossroads (Jujiro, 1928), was the first Japanese film to have a major European release (under the title Shadows of Yoshiwara), but the film was not shown in the Soviet Union where Japanese films were never presented to the public until the end of the 1950s. Kinugasa happened to visit Moscow in 1928 at the time when the Japanese Kabuki theatre gave its guest performance (the first one in a foreign country). See Kinugasa Teinosuke, Waga eiga no seishun (The Young Days of Japanese Cinema), (Tokyo: Chuokoronsha, 1977), p. 105–112. S. Eisenstein saw one of the performances together with Kinugasa and was greatly impressed. He wrote on the principles of Japanese stage and film art in an afterword to the major book in Russian on the Japanese Cinema. See N. Kaufman, Iaponskoe kino (The Japanese Cinema), (Moscow: Tea-kino-pechat, 1929). See: Okada Yoshiko, Kuinaki inochi o (Life without Regret), (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Senta, 1999); Okada Yoshiko, Kokoro ni nokoru hitobito (The People who Live in My Heart), (Tokyo: Hayakawa Shobo, 1983); Nagoshi Kenro, Kuremurin himitsu bunsho wa kataru: yami no Nis-Sokankeishi (Kremlin Secret Documents Narrate: The Dark History of Soviet-Japanese Relations), (Tokyo, Chuo Koronsha, 1994), pp. 3–72. I have found nine Soviet feature films and one animated film depicting the Japanese as an enemy which was shot in the Soviet Union during the period between 1935 and 1946. The film by Alexander Dovzhenko, Aerograd (1935), shot under Stalin’s orders was a pioneer of this genre. See Irina Melnikova, ‘The Japanese Theme in the Soviet Defence Films in the 1930s’, Japanese Slavic and East European Studies, vol. 23, 2002, pp. 57–80. About Soviet films shown during the Occupation period see Tanikawa Takeshi, Amerika eiga to senryo seisaku (American Cinema and Occupation Policy), (Kyoto: Kyoto Daigaku Gakujutsu Shuppankai, 2002), p. 387–92. I also wish to thank Professor Yoshida Noriaki (Rikkyo University) for his assistance. He is currently working with Soviet-related materials in the Gordon W. Prange Collection. See Guide to the Gordon W. Prange Magazine Collection, University of Maryland Libraries, (New York: Norman Ross Pub., 2001). In 1952, Kamei Fumio and Hijikata Keita, the son of already mentioned Hijikata Yoshi (see note 9), published an informative history of the Soviet Cinema, although most of the films described had not been seen in Japan: Kamei Fumio, Hijikata Keita, Sobieto eigashi (The History of Soviet Cinema), (Tokyo: Hakusuisha, 1952). See also Kyoko Hirano, Mr. Smith Goes to Tokyo: Japanese Cinema under the American Occupation, (Smithsonian Books, 1994). Oshima Mikio, Kyogeki nareri yobiya: Jin Akira no seikatsu (The Business of Selling Air: The Life of Promoter Jin Akira), (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2004), pp. 371–373; Hanya Shiro, ‘Kokko kaifuku zengo no Nis-So bunka koryu: 1954–61, Borushoi bare to kabuki’ (Soviet-Japanese Cultural Exchange before and after Diplomatic Normalization: 1954–61, The Bolshoi Ballet and Kabuki), Shiso, no. 987, 2006, pp. 32–39. Tanaka Junichiro, Nihon eiga hattatsu shi (The History of Japanese Film Industry), vols. 1–5. See especially index of volume 5 of this series: Eizo jidai no torai sakuin (Foreign Film Circulation in the Age of Visual Images; Index), (Tokyo: Chuo Koronsha, 1976), p. 380.

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Verbitsky, Semyon, ‘Perceptions of Japan in the USSR during the Cold War and Perestroika’, in Misperceptions between Japan and Russia: The Carl Beck Papers in Russian and East European Studies, no. 1503, 2000, p. 17. RGALI: 2468. 3. 81. 21. Private conversation on 18 November 2001 at Boris Buneev’s Moscow apartment. See Kabuki Sobieto o iku (Kabuki Goes to the Soviet Union), (Tokyo: Engeki Shuppansha, 1962). RGALI: 2468. 6. 230–235, 240. RGALI: 2944. 13. 336, p. 8. ‘Soren no gendaikko’ (The Soviet Modern Youngsters), Instalments 1–6, Yomiuri Shinbun, Evening edition, 16 December 1966; 17 December 1966; 19 December 1966; 21 December 1966; 22 December 1966; 23 December 1966. In the archive files of the film there is a letter, dated 2 March 1966, from the Soviet Ambassador in Japan V. Vinogradov, on the necessity to release the movie by October 1966. See RGALI 2944. 13. 922. In fact, the premier in Japan took place on 14 December 1966, and in Russia it was even later, 3 February 1967. RGALI: 2944. 13. 606. Sato Yoko was not unique in having got her musical training in the USSR in the 1960s. Virtually at the same time as Sato Yoko, another famous Japanese violinist Maehashi Teiko (1943-) who got her first violin lessons in Japan from the Russian émigré musician, Anna Ono, became a student of the Leningrad Conservatory. Both Sato and Maehashi made successful international careers. Hanya, ‘Kokko kaifuku zengo no Nis-So bunka koryu: 1954–61, Borushoi bare to Kabuki’, p. 34. RGALI: 2944. 13. 606, p. 63. Naum Kleiman, ‘Glaza Kawarazaki’ (The Eyes of Kawarazaki), Kinovedcheskie zapiski, 2006, no. 75, pp. 62–77. Kimura Hiroshi, ‘Japan-Soviet Political Relations from 1976–1983,’ in Japan and Russia: The Tortuous Path to Normalization, 1949–1999, Gilbert Rozman (ed.), (New York: St. Martins Press, 2000), p. 87. RGALI: 2944.13.1542.116. It is probable that reasons other than economics made realization of the project impossible in 1969, but I am unable to find supporting evidence. ‘Mosfilm’ Studio Production Files, ‘Moskva Lyubov Moia’: Delo Filma (Moscow, My Love: Production Files), vol. 1, p. 12. According to official data, Moscow, My Love was seen in the Soviet Union by 29.2 million spectators. See Kinovedcheskiie zapiski, 1991, no.11, p. 11–15. Morioka Todeschini Maya, ‘ “Death and the Maiden”: Female Hibakusha as Cultural Heroines, and the Politics of A-bomb Memory,’ in Mick Broderick (ed.), Hibakusha Cinema: Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the Nuclear Image in Japanese Film, (London: Kegan Paul International, 1996), pp. 222–52. ‘Mosfilm’ Studio Production Files, Moskva Lyubov Moya: Delo Filma (Moscow, My Love: Production Files), vol.1, p. 41. See RGALI: 2944.4.3735. The ‘Belenko Incident’ occurred on 6 September 1976. Soviet Air Force pilot Lt Belenko landed a MiG-25 jet fighter at Hakodate and requested political asylum from the United States.

Constructing the Screen Image of an Ideal Partner 37 38

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Sorlin Pierre, Sociologie du cinema, (Paris: Auber Montaigne, 1977), p. 242. Bhabha Homi, The Third Space, in J. Rutherford (ed.), Identity: Community, Culture, Difference, (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1990), p. 207. ‘Nichi-Ro seron chosa’ (Japanese and Soviet Public Opinion Survey), Asahi Shinbun, morning edition, 7 November 1998.

7

Disintegration of the Soviet Union as Seen in Japanese Political Cartoons INOUE KENJI AND SERGEI TOLSTOGUZOV

INTRODUCTION

J

apanese political cartoons have, since their initial popularity in the late nineteenth century, played a significant role in shaping debate on domestic politics and foreign relations. The development of modern political cartoons coincided with the rise of the Japanese empire and wars with China (1894–95) and later with Russia (1904–5). On the one hand, the cartoons were powerful forces of propaganda, helping to boost Japanese national sentiment; on the other hand, the satirical and often humorous illustrations served as one of the few avenues open for political critique. Cartoons also were instrumental in creating images, often in the form of enduring stereotypes of foreign countries, which in turn helped to define Japanese national identity. Yulia Mikhailova, for example, has written on the role of political cartoons at the time of the Russo-Japanese War.1 Throughout the twentieth century, political cartoons not only reflected popular opinion, but served to form it, influencing the way readers viewed events. Although some critics claim that the spread of television and the internet has minimized the role of political cartoons or that contemporary life is too complex to be conveyed in simple black and white illustrations, others, to the contrary, maintain that it is the very scarcity of graphic resources that allows a cartoonist to condense various events into an impressive symbol that remains in the memory of people.2 The example of the furore caused by several anti-Islamic cartoons in 2006 gives strong evidence for the continuing power of the political cartoon, for better or worse.3

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It is difficult to imagine a contemporary newspaper completely void of cartoons. Some newspapers, such as the Asahi Shinbun in Japan, consider publication of cartoons to be one of the mainstays of its editorial policy. For thirty-eight years, between 1954 and 1992, the Asahi Shinbun had a special illustrated column providing satirical insight into contemporary society (shakai gihyo) usually drawn by Yokoyama Taizo and published once a week. In addition, cartoons by Yamada Shin, Hari Sunao, Kojima Ko and other artists appear on the second page of the newspaper in nearly every issue. The political cartoons are placed next to the editorial, although the editorial itself may not address the same topic. The Asahi Shinbun is also noted for its strong coverage of foreign affairs. It maintains correspondents in major cities in Europe, Asia and the United States, and subscribes to more than twenty international news services.4 Finally, the Asahi Shinbun enjoys wide readership in Japan with a current circulation of some twelve million.5 Cartoons published in the Asahi Shinbun, therefore, are an important, but sometimes overlooked, visual source able to help us see how the disintegration of the Soviet Union was represented in Japan. This chapter will look primarily at the cartoons that appeared in the December 1991 issues of the Asahi Shinbun – during the last and most critical month of the existence of the Soviet empire.6 Even a fleeting glimpse of the cartoons published during this month reveals an overriding interest in the fate of the Soviet Union. Of course, this news item appeared prominently in newspapers around the world. The collapse of the Soviet Union was an event, comparable with the 1917 Russian Revolution, that significantly affected the history of the global community. However, during the same period, the Mainichi, another major Japanese daily, published only two cartoons related to the event while five political cartoons appeared in the pages of The New York Times. The Asahi Shinbun featured eighteen cartoons related to events in the Soviet Union during the course of December 1991 at an average rate of one every other day. From 23 to 29 December, the cartoons appeared on a daily basis for seven days in a row, something unprecedented, especially with regard to events taking place outside of Japan. These cartoons are an extraordinary resource for researchers interested in Japanese views of Russia. This chapter sets out to examine how the disintegration of the Soviet Union in 1991 was interpreted in Japan, focusing on images of understanding published in the form of political cartoons. It first describes the political events of 1991 that brought about the dissolution of the Soviet Union and examines aspects of this process that attracted the attention of cartoonists. Second, it compares the content of cartoons with articles published in the Asahi Shinbun and with cartoons appearing in The New Your Times at the same time, hoping to identify differences and similarities in approach. Third, it examines images of Russia and its political leaders that cartoonists sought to imprint on the minds of the Japanese newspaper (cartoon) reading public. In sum, Asahi cartoons described the

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disintegration of the Soviet Union as an event that did not require a paradigmatic shift in Japanese perceptions of its northern neighbour. In evaluating the Asahi Shinbun cartoons, we have profited from approaches pioneered by Ibaragi Masaharu, a Japanese specialist on political cartoons. In his book, Ibaragi first examined the content of Japanese cartoons through the prism of the political and social processes they reflected. He then analysed ‘the artistic technique of the artists, and the symbols and the subjects they use’.7 According to Ibaragi, political cartoons are a unique historical source. They deal with breaking news and convey the immediate reaction of the cartoonist, seeking to reflect points of view widely held in society. However, we must handle these documents with care because they often lack proper analysis and are explicitly emotive and charged with satire. In using political cartoons to study the disintegration of the Soviet Union, we must bear in mind that the events of December 1991 represented only one part of a lengthy process. The December cartoons reflect the political situation at a particular historical moment and correspondingly show only a certain stage in the course of events connected with the politics of perestroika. However limited the time-span, the cartoons give insight into Japanese understanding of Russia at a dramatic turning point in its history. THE DECEMBER CARTOONS

By 1991, it was clear to all Soviet citizens that perestroika, though popular in Europe and America, had not improved people’s lives. There was substantial disillusionment and frustration with Mikhail Gorbachev and his government. Moreover, the brutal and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to suppress Lithuanian independence (13 January 1991) tarnished Gorbachev’s image as a democrat. Widespread ethnic conflict and the election of Boris Yeltsin as president of the Russian Republic (12 June 1991) caused Gorbachev to consider the possibility of a new union that would give the republics more independence. Gorbachev’s lack of a clear and effective policy led to an attempt to remove him from power (18 August 1991). In three days, the conservatives who wanted to preserve the Soviet Union in its previous form were defeated. This significantly strengthened Yeltsin, while Gorbachev found himself increasingly without power. After the August coup, a weakened Gorbachev began the desperate struggle to regain control of the central organs of the Soviet Union. His inability to rule had already become obvious after the session of the Parliament of the Russian Federation on 23 August in which Yeltsin openly addressed Gorbachev in an imperious tone in the presence of deputies, correspondents and television services. However, on the same day Gorbachev managed to obtain the consent of leaders of nine republics, including Russia, to an accelerated signing of a new union agreement. His goal was to maintain the Soviet Union in

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the form of a loose union of republics, lacking centralized control, but continuing to possess a common name and some central organs within which there would be a place for Gorbachev himself. Thus began the ‘100 days of Gorbachev’, the final period of his presidency between the August coup and the Belovezhskii accord, signed on 8 December 1991. Gorbachev’s plans quickly unravelled, first by the dissolution of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the suspension of the Communist Party itself. This entailed virtual loss of power by Gorbachev over the republics and unrestricted growth of centrifugal tendencies. On 27 August the Asahi Shinbun carried a cartoon by Yamada Shin Futile Remorse: ‘What Was that 74 Years Voyage All about?’ (Pl. 35).8 Gorbachev is depicted as the captain of a ship named ‘The Communist Party of the Soviet Union’ which was about to sink into the sea. The ship-of-state is of course a common metaphor.9 In the cartoon Gorbachev abandons ship by jumping into a rescue-boat manoeuvred by Yeltsin. The butt of the joke here is the absolute collapse of the Communist Party. An additional comic effect involves a pun in the word kokai – which, depending on the characters used, could mean either ‘remorse’ or ‘voyage’.10 The second powerful blow was dealt to Gorbachev by the literal breakup of the Soviet Union. The proclamation of independence by the Ukraine on the day following the announcement of the suspension of the Communist Party was especially significant. It gave an example to other republics: Belorussia, Moldavia, Azerbaijan and Kyrgyzstan. Thus began the transfer of economic, political and military controls to the republics. December began with presidential elections and a referendum on support for the Act of Independence in the Ukraine. The results of the referendum were another defeat for Gorbachev who was counting on the support of its large Russian-speaking population. Some 90.32 percent of the votes supported the Act of Independence, and Leonid Kravchuk was elected president. It was clear that Gorbachev was at a dead end; without the Ukraine there could be no meaningful union. A cartoon by Hari Sunao on the Ukraine vote appeared on 4 December.11 Gorbachev is shown being swept away on a wave of ballots. The Japanese title of the cartoon, Sorenpo ga chu ni Ukuraina, is constructed on a play of words containing several meanings. The first part of the word ‘Ukraine’, usually written in the phonetic katakana script, is here represented by the character uku meaning ‘to rise to the surface’, ‘to float’, or ‘to be buoyed up’, but also has a slightly ironic meaning expressing the neglect of the Ukrainians towards Gorbachev and, hence, towards the Soviet Union. The character chu may be interpreted ‘to live in the clouds’ or ‘to be in an uncertain situation’ and serves to emphasize both the illusory nature of Gorbachev’s political goals and his own ambiguous position. Several variant translations are therefore possible, one being ‘Ukraine Sends the Soviet Union Adrift’. The importance attributed to the independence of Ukraine by the international community may be grasped from a cartoon by Yokoyama

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Taizo, which appeared the next day in the ‘contemporary society’ column, usually reserved for domestic issues.12 We see an American ambassador arriving in the Ukraine greeted by local authorities with great enthusiasm, while the protagonist of a renewed union stands nearby with an expression of great discontent. The title ‘Meddlesome’ or ‘Being Nosy’ may refer to the attitude of Gorbachev towards American policy, but it may also be seen as an expression of the personal view of the artist towards American policy. In fact, Japan recognized the Ukraine only at the very end of December after formal recognition was given to Russia. The next blow to Gorbachev’s plans was dealt on 8 December 1991 by the leaders of three Slavic republics, Russia, Belorussia and the Ukraine. Deep in the Belovezhskii forest in western Belorussia, the three leaders signed a document proposing the creation of a Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) that would not retain a single currency, economic space and strategic military command. This left Gorbachev only with the nuclear button and his office in the Kremlin. The Soviet Union practically ceased to exist, but Gorbachev still continued to fight for his vision of the country. In reaction to those events, a cartoon by Yamada Shin Joint Dwelling, We are Sorry, But! (Pl. 36) appeared on 10 December.13 We see three people – Yeltsin, Kravchuk and the Head of Belorussia’s Parliament Sushkevich – pulling out a pillar from the foundation of a building site on which the words ‘Idea for the Renewal of the Soviet Union’ are written, while Gorbachev is represented as a carpenter whose creations are falling apart. The cartoon sought to symbolize the obvious hopelessness of Gorbachev’s efforts to conclude a union agreement. Japanese cartoons also contrasted the Soviet Union in disarray with contemporary attempts to form a European Union. At the same time as the walls of the Soviet Union were crumbling, European Community leaders were gathering in Maastricht to define the future of Europe. Although they were not able to agree on all issues, significant steps were made towards establishing a single currency. A cartoon by Yamada Shin ‘Unity’ and ‘Disintegration’ Stand Nearby – What an Irony of History! appeared in the Asahi Shinbun on 12 December.14 A sturdy and solid tower with the inscription ‘EC’ was erected next to the crumbling tower of the USSR. Whereas one could clearly see faces of European leaders in the EC tower, the Soviet tower was faceless. Moreover, the tower is covered with clouds emphasizing the uncertainty of the situation. On the one hand, this could be interpreted as an indication that the Soviet state was collapsing while the unification process was going on in Europe, but on the other hand, it served as a warning to the EC countries that they may not escape the same fate. Another issue related to the stance of the Kazakhstan leader, Nursultan Nazarbaev, the unofficial spokesman for the Central Asian republics. Nazarbaev was not invited to the Belovezhskii forest meeting and was offended by this slight. He was thought to be in favour of Gorbachev’s

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new union, but kept people guessing. Since Kazakhstan had access to nuclear weapons, Nazarbaev’s support, one way or the other, was vital. Thus, when Nazarbaev joined the club of three Slavic republics, the Asahi Shinbun published a cartoon on 13 December in which a quartet of the leaders of Russia, the Ukraine, Kazakhstan and Belorussia stand drinking to the destruction of the USSR. The caption notes: ‘Kazakhstan Has Also Joined. Let’s Drink “for Swallowing the Soviet Union” ’.15 The tiny figure of Gorbachev is shown encapsulated in the vodka bottle making bubbles. Ironically, Gorbachev was known as an organizer of an anti-alcohol campaign in the Soviet Union, an issue which made him the butt of many jokes. Here, however, he himself seems to be drowning in alcohol. Thus far the Asahi Shinbun cartoons did not focus much on the role of Yeltsin. On 14 December, however, the Asahi Shinbun reprinted a cartoon from the Irish Times, showing Yeltsin brusquely pulling out a chair with a sign ‘The USSR’ from under Gorbachev. The caption read: ‘Yeltsin and Gorbachev Take Seats at Negotiations about Their Positions’.16 Yeltsin is depicted as a man who definitely knows what he wants. He stands firmly on the ground; his stout and strong figure and the resolute look on his face leave no doubt that he will achieve his goal. Gorbachev, left without a chair, is again floating in the air desperately attempting to cling to his desk. After the Central Asian republics joined the Belovezhskii Accord (also called the Minsk Agreement) Gorbachev was forced to acknowledge the creation of the CIS even though it appeared that there was no place for him in the new political structure. A cartoon Well, Friend, Don’t You Have a Place to Go Either? Come Here and Warm Up printed on 14 December suggested that Gorbachev may end up in the company of the ‘heroes of Marxism’17 (Pl. 37). After the August coup Gorbachev insisted on reforming the Communist Party which could be seen as his attempt to contribute to the development of Marxism. In the cartoon he is shown leaving Moscow and going to a cemetery where Marx and Lenin are depicted sitting on their monuments. They are warming themselves with a bonfire – one of the symbols of the 1917 revolution – and invite Gorbachev to join their company. The meaning of the cartoon is significant: the cemetery and the guilty look of Gorbachev seem to poke fun at the futility of the very idea of socialism. However, the colossal size of Marx and Lenin compared with a puny Gorbachev may suggest the idea of socialism was once good but ended in failure, reminding people of the popularity Marxism enjoyed among Japanese intellectuals. It was obvious that the Soviet Union had no future, but the nature of the state that would take its place remained uncertain. On 17 December a cartoon depicting a man and a bear was printed in the Asahi Shinbun. The man is asking the bear: ‘What’s your name?’ to which the bear replies: ‘I don’t know yet.’ The caption under the cartoon announced: ‘The Disappearing Soviet Union – Is Still a Country without a Name.’18 The Soviet Union is portrayed as a bear – the traditional symbol of Russia, appropriated also by the Soviet Union, as it was during the Olympic

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Games of 1980. In this particular cartoon the bear could also symbolize the leading role of Russia in the new political entity. A meeting between Yeltsin and Gorbachev took place on 18 December at which time it was decided that Gorbachev would retire. This event was noted in a cartoon by Kojima Ko showing Gorbachev flying into a history textbook inscribed with the word ‘perestroika’.19 Three people standing nearby are ‘witnessing the moment when [he] is buried in history’. Gorbachev does not seem to be completely happy with this role: he is grasping at an invisible enemy, and his face expresses both dissatisfaction and loneliness. This is the only cartoon in the entire December series where Gorbachev is not made to look humble. Throughout December an issue that worried the international community was the fate of nuclear weapons. As The New York Times put it: ‘While American officials wish the republics well in their efforts to become democratic, free-market entities, it is the fate of their nuclear weapons that is the prime concern of the United States at this time.’20 This worry remained unclear until 25 December, not knowing if each of the four republics with strategic weapons would have a say in their command or whether this authority would be centralized in the hands of the Russian president. The imagined nightmare was represented in a cartoon reprinted on 21 December from the Canadian Globe and Mail.21 Ballistic missiles from the Ukraine, Kazakhstan and Belorussia are shown going in different directions. On 21 December, leaders of eleven republics signed the Almaty Declaration thus confirming their independence and the creation of the CIS. The final denouement was depicted in a cartoon which showed eleven dancing heads of the new states with a spread-eagle Gorbachev flying away from them (Pl. 38).22 His birth mark is in the shape of a boot, corresponding to the boots worn by the presidents of independent states. The cartoon thus expresses the ultimate humiliation of Gorbachev. United, the eleven leaders give him the boot; their bodies move synchronically and the dancing party is led by Yeltsin. All eleven are dressed in Russian shirts and boots performing a typical Russian Cossack dance. The announcement by President Gorbachev of his decision to go into retirement brought forth a depiction of a lonely Gorbachev, sitting under the archway in a snowy Moscow, warmed by a blanket and wearing a cap with ear-flaps, the headwear of ordinary Russians, but not of Communist Party bosses. The former president has become ‘Homeless’, as the title declares.23 Santa Claus is flying over the Kremlin with a sack full of presents, but they are not destined for Gorbachev. His humble figure and sad look tell us that he is grieving over the fate of his country – or perhaps grieving over his own fate. On 25 December, Gorbachev made a television speech announcing his intention to resign; that evening Boris Yeltsin assumed control of Soviet nuclear weapons. The Asahi immediately took up the issue. Next day, the cartoon Nuclear Button Over to Mr Yeltsin depicted him against a background of warheads sticking out of a rocket shaft (Pl. 40).24 Yeltsin has a fierce look

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on his face and his arm is of enormous size as if linking his image to typical representations of Stalin.25 Yeltsin’s persistent craving for power throughout 1991 and dismissal of Gorbachev could have produced a threatening impression on the Japanese. His physical strength was also often used by cartoonists to hint at the possibility of devolution into a ‘reign of terror’. However, in fact Yeltsin’s political style was a far cry from the dictatorship of the Stalin era Interestingly, on the same day a comic picture A Dictionary of World Events for 1991 made the August coup the central event of the year.26 Other events included the confrontation between Prime Minister Miyazawa Kiichi and Vice Prime Minister Kanemaru Shin, representing different factions of the Liberal Democratic Party; the birth of a girl (not a boy) to Prince Akishino, pointing to the problem of the Heir Apparent to the imperial line; Japanese concern with economic recession, fictitious savings and fraud in the rice market. All of those events were causes of anxiety among the Japanese people. In this picture Gorbachev and Yeltsin are portrayed as a cicada emerging from its exoskeleton shell. As Yeltsin emerges, Gorbachev is left behind, a hollow shell bound to the barrel of a tank well symbolizing his position during the August coup. Yeltsin, with his new-found wings, is free to fly. In addition, we see a man sticking a flower into the muzzle of the tank’s cannon, meaning probably the relatively peaceful outcome of the ‘August revolution’. The cartoon reminds readers that in August 1991 the two politicians were allies for a short time. The words min-min-shu uttered by Yeltsin immediately suggests the Japanese word minshushugi meaning ‘democracy’, but at the same time sounds like the buzzing of a cicada on a hot August day. It is well known that a cicada’s life is short. In this sense the cartoon may be hinting that Yeltsin’s support of democracy and Gorbachev may also be short-lived. On 27 December, the Asahi Shinbun published a photograph of the final lowering of the Soviet flag over the Kremlin, next to a cartoon of Gorbachev flying downwards, carrying with him the hammer and sickle flag of the Soviet Union. The cartoon read: ‘Sharing the Same Fate’.27 The following day, a cartoon from a Norwegian newspaper was reprinted depicting the funeral of the Soviet Union. Gorbachev is again shown in a humiliating position, forced to carry the train of Yeltsin’s tsarist robes.28 Yeltsin is dressed in the traditional costume of the Russian tsars and carries the Orthodox cross. His figure is disproportionately large, indicating his supremacy; his face is confident with a touch of arrogance. A number of other figures, all with Yeltsin’s facial features, carry a coffin with the hammer and sickle inscribed on its cover. The action takes place against the background of a Russian cathedral, perhaps symbolizing the increasing influence of the Russian Orthodox Church. From this point on Yeltsin becomes the chief protagonist in the cartoons. On 29 December, a cartoon representation of a tear-off calendar for the year 1992 was published with Yeltsin appearing on all its pages: the future of Russia was clearly up to Yeltsin, but the cartoonist captured

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three typical Yeltsin poses.29 On one page Yeltsin seems to be warning people that from now on he is the one in power; on another Yeltsin is shown preening after victory (his fingers giving the ‘V’ sign); one final portrait depicted the angry Yeltsin. The message was that everyone should necessarily obey only ‘One Man’, as the caption of the cartoon stated. On 27 December, the Japanese government officially recognized Russia; this fact, however, did not attract the attention of cartoonists. POLITICAL CARTOONS AND CONTEMPORARY NEWSPAPER ARTICLES

The December cartoons provided the Japanese public with basic information on the process that led to the disintegration of the Soviet Union. The declarations of independence on the part of the republics, the various alliances and manoeuvres of the political elite, the ousting of Gorbachev and Yeltsin’s rise to power dominated the imagination of the cartoon artists. The presentation highlighted the struggle between Gorbachev and the leaders of republics headed by Yeltsin. Gorbachev’s desperate attempts to create a new union were pitted against resistance activities, indeed conspiracy, spearheaded by local leaders. Such views of the drama that led to the collapse of the Soviet Union bear all the traits of myth and stereotype, according to which ethnic conflict and independence movements were the prime reasons for the Soviet Union’s demise. Of course all these factors were important, but one must question the interpretation given by cartoons, for the genre is specific in its orientation and its attention to detail is sometimes too narrow. Was the cartoon view of events what really happened? In fact, a fundamental reason for President Gorbachev’s troubles was a sharp and deepening economic crisis. Beginning in 1990, the Soviet economy was in dire straits. ‘The government had spent all of the nation’s foreign reserves; bills from foreign creditors were going unpaid; export industries (especially oil production) had been allowed to decline; and Soviet officials camouflaged their mismanagement with more foreign borrowing. Furthermore, basic commodities were in short supply, and the process of a severe food shortage was ominous.’30 The Soviet Union was bankrupt politically and financially; Gorbachev was the president of a bankrupt state. Comparing the political cartoons with contemporary newspaper articles enables the discovery of significant differences in representation. Articles, for example, often discussed economic and social matters related to the disintegration of the Soviet Union, and highlighted the massive growth of dissatisfaction by ordinary people with the unfolding of events, instead of concentrating on the machinations of the political elite. Thus, an article dealing with the deepening economic crisis was published in the Asahi on the same day (4 December) that Hari Sunao’s

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cartoon depicted the results of the Ukrainian referendum. The opening words of the article were: ‘We were thrown into the sea, but we cannot swim.’ It explained that ‘because of financial difficulties, the transition of authority to the republics and the disintegration of some eighty ministries of the Soviet Union beginning from 15 November, 30,000 former employees who had worked for the central government inevitably will have to look for new jobs’. The article also predicted that workers in military-related industries would also soon become unemployed, with a number reaching two million employees. The article emphasized the fact that unemployment took place for the first time in the history of the Soviet Union. Individual cases were given by describing the activities of a public employment security office. Some people were quoted saying: ‘It is not good demolishing the old house before a new one has been built.’31 In another article the Asahi Shinbun presented a series of reports from the capitals of three Slavic republics – Moscow, Minsk and Kiev – under a general heading: ‘The Indefinite Future – the Unstable Internal Situation’.32 It contained interviews with people of various ages standing in long lines to purchase food. Photographs of empty grocery store shelves confirmed the report. From the interviews it was easy to understand that people supported independence in principle, but were deeply worried about the future. An economic map of the Soviet Union demonstrating regional specialization of certain products and predicting economic difficulties should the union be dissolved was also published.33 Another report expressed the anxiety of Russians living in various republics who at once became the minority in the New Independent States.34 A final report raised the spectre of the aged forced to survive during a period of mushrooming inflation.35 Many newspaper articles thus commented on the anxiety and dissatisfaction of the populace, a fact completely absent in the cartoons. The moral responsibility of politicians to the people was also not raised, although this issue is common in cartoons relating to Japanese domestic affairs. Likewise, the cartoonists seldom reflected on the impact of popular sentiment on the political situation. Only the 4 December cartoon depicting Gorbachev swept away by a wave of ballots touched, albeit indirectly, on this theme. Otherwise, Asahi’s editorials demonstrated strong support for Gorbachev and his efforts to create a new form of unity to replace the Soviet Union. Thus, an Asahi editorial for 10 December emphasized: In supporting the independence and freedom of the Soviet republics, we have pointed out several times that there must be continuity with the domestic and foreign policy [of the Soviet Union] leaving certain central organs with their prerogatives. We hold the opinion that control over the nuclear weapons, and issues of security and foreign policy should be unified as far as possible. Our position on this issue remains unchanged.36

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In addition, newspaper editorials tended to view the collapse of the Soviet Union in a broad historical perspective: History sometimes produces huge waves no one has the ability to deal with. It was such a wave that buried the world’s first socialist state – the Soviet Union – that had an enormous impact on the world community during this century. And it was also Soviet President Gorbachev who came up with the idea of perestroika.

Furthermore, the editorial claimed that waves of upheaval would continue: [The end of the USSR] does not mean that the era of huge changes for this superpower stretching across Europe and Asia has come to an end. The energy of the masses and other national forces, once released, will continue to shake the CIS, which has replaced the Soviet Union, as well as the whole world.37

A content analysis of the cartoons compared with contemporary newspaper articles makes it clear that the visual media offered a narrow and one-sided description of the chain of events. Attention to Gorbachev’s confrontation with the leaders of the republics dominated the cartoons and ignored a broader range of problems faced by people in the disintegrating Soviet Union. IMAGES OF POLITICAL LEADERS

The focus on political leadership nonetheless provides a good opportunity to examine how images of politicians relate to images of the nationstate. A high degree of personification in representation of the political process has roots in the history of Japanese political cartoons. The leaders of the Meiji state, for example, are easily identifiable in Meiji period satirical cartoons.38 Only three among the December cartoons are not immediately associated with specific historical personages. Furthermore, in the overwhelming majority of the cartoons, Gorbachev is the main protagonist only to be replaced by Yeltsin at the end of the month. The Soviet president appears in nine out of fourteen of the Asahi cartoons and in two out of the four cartoons reprinted from foreign publications. In the cartoons Gorbachev symbolizes the Soviet Union; he is presented not as the author of perestroika, but as the president of a disintegrating state. First and foremost, Gorbachev personifies the inglorious end of the Soviet Union; he is the loser. One obvious feature of cartoons depicting Gorbachev is his floating state, indicating the uncertainty of his position and simultaneously the uncertainty shrouding the fate of the Soviet Union. The cartoons show Gorbachev to be humiliated, denigrated and miserable. His image instils pity and a certain degree of compassion.

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It should be recalled that the perception of Gorbachev in Japan, especially around the time of his visit to Japan in April, was positive. According to Shimotomai Nobuo, ‘Mikhail Gorbachev became more popular as a politician in Japan than in his own country. For a time in Japanese elections a photograph of the candidate with Gorbachev even became a ticket for a National Diet seat.’39 Although his popularity slightly decreased after his visit, because of a disappointing lack of a ‘breakthrough’ on the territorial issue, Gorbachev did manage to excite interest in events taking place in Moscow. Gorbachev’s personality may have been the underlying cause of Japanese sympathy; his personal warmth and openness were a far cry from the standard image of Soviet politicians as unapproachable straight-jacketed bureaucrats. Contrary to the cartoons that highlighted the uncertainly of Gorbachev’s position, textual material, articles and editorials attempted to evaluate his place in history. Thus, the editorial published next to the cartoon depicting a doleful Gorbachev at the cemetery with Marx and Lenin, extolled Gorbachev’s achievements. Reminding readers of the role he played in initiating the process of democratization in the Soviet Union and bringing the Cold War to an end, it noted: His reforms, aiming at political democratization and accessibility of information, were supported by the urban middle class, but produced results he did not expect. Eventually, his actions resulted in an historic event, the dissolution of the Communist Party.40

On the day the Soviet flag was lowered, two articles attempted to sum up Gorbachev’s legacy. One of them, devoted to Soviet-Japanese relations, was entitled ‘Not Forgetting Gorbachev’s Impact’. It called the Soviet president a great politician and gave the following assessment of his visit to Japan: Despite of the disappointment felt by a lack of visible progress in resolving the territorial problem, the visit definitely contributed to the normalization of relations between the two countries that has been abundant in zigzags.41

The editorial Gorbachev’s Epoch Has Passed cited the words of President Mitterrand who assessed Gorbachev as ‘the most outstanding person of our century’. The Asahi Shinbun expressed its agreement with such an assessment. It also added that the defects of his policy ‘do not belittle his great contribution to the democratization of the Soviet Union and to the advancement of world peace’.42 Thus, the image of Gorbachev in the December cartoons was significantly different when compared with the generally favourable image that emerges from textual materials. Gorbachev and Yeltsin were the main protagonists in the December cartoons; indeed, many events are seen through the prism of the personal relations between these two men. Emphasis was often placed on

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the personal qualities of two leaders – the weakness of Gorbachev and the personal strength of Yeltsin. Their emotional states were contrasted: one was lonely, cast aside and therefore evoking pity and sympathy, while the other was shown strong, harsh and pitiless. However, Gorbachev and Yeltsin were not always shown only as enemies. In the cartoon A Dictionary of World Events for 1991, for example, Yeltsin’s cicada leaves his Gorbachev exoskeleton behind, implying that they were originally one and the same. In a 27 August cartoon, Gorbachev abandoned the ‘ship’ of the Communist Party by jumping into a rescue boat provided by Yeltsin. Thus, hints are given of shared purposes and interaction, though here they refer to the August events when the two were allies fighting against the coup. Although Yeltsin appears in the cartoons as the leader of Russia, symbols used to depict him relate more to peculiarities of his personality: broad face, big nose and beetle-brow. This is how he was represented in all the cartoons, irrespective of political position. The way he is made to symbolize imperiousness and strength is especially clear in the 29 December cartoon. Images of political leaders may be translated into images of nationstates. Historically, at least two opposite images of Russia and the Soviet Union existed interchangeably in Japan. One was that of a country torn apart by disorder and headed by a weak leader. Such an image first appeared in cartoons during the time of the Russo-Japanese War and the Russian Revolution of 1905. Civil strife was seen as a sign of weakness and contrasted with a strong and unified Japan. The weakness of Russia in 1991 is symbolized primarily by Gorbachev. Another common image of the Soviet Union was as a strong and menacing country governed by an authoritarian ruler, exemplified best by Stalin. In December cartoons, Yeltsin adopted this image. The irony, however, was that by the second half of the 1990s, Yeltsin would also be depicted as sick and drunk, thus symbolizing weak Russia. One of the cartoons that appeared in 1999 portrayed a powerless Yeltsin desperately clutching at Clinton’s arm and trying in vain to stop the American bombardment of Yugoslavia. Alongside the hammer and sickle, many images in the December cartoons served as national symbols of Russia: Cossack dancing, Russian shirts, caps with ear-flaps, vodka and, of course, the brown bear. A special role was reserved for the Kremlin. This complex of buildings, with its towers and domes, was the symbol of supreme power in the Soviet Union, but also has strong links to imperial Russia. Even though St Petersburg was the capital for more than three hundred years (between 1703 and 1918), coronations and other major events of the imperial family were celebrated in the Kremlin. Moreover, the Kremlin has a strong association with Ivan the Terrible, again linking the site with an image of despotism. In the cartoon depicting the funeral of the Soviet Union, Yeltsin, dressed as a Tsar, walks in the Kremlin. This image thus relates past to present and future, serving as a symbol of continuity in a period of momentous change.

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Finally, it is worth noting that the depiction of struggle between central and regional leaders in the Soviet Union may well be more than a description of events taking place in Russia; indeed, considering the fact that important Diet elections were taking place in Japan during the month of November, the cartoons may be really referring to infighting among Japanese political factions. Readers of the December newspapers may have seen the Soviet Union in disarray, but their minds’ eye may well have registered something more local and immediate in concern. AMERICAN CARTOONS – A COMPARISON

A comparison with American cartoons helps to understand some of the peculiarities of the Asahi Shinbun cartoons. Although American newspapers did not publish as many cartoons as the Asahi Shinbun, their images are quite telling. On 6 December, The New York Times published a cartoon as part of an article written by Yelena Bonner, the widow of the famous Russian dissident Andrei Sakharov.43 The author of the cartoon, Igor Kopelnitskii, a Soviet artist who had emigrated to the United States, had his own negative experience of the Soviet system. Thus, he represented the Soviet Union as a country of oppression symbolized by a concentration camp surrounded by barbed wire and the giant mechanical hand of the Communist Party clamping itself firmly around the head of a man attempting to cry out. A sharp stake is thrust into his open mouth, threatening to puncture his head with excruciating pain; his tongue is cut out. Black and white stripes on the hand and on the stake symbolize imprisonment. In the article Yelena Bonner writes that [Western policy] ‘is still based on the fear of the collapse of the Soviet empire. The collapse, however, has already occurred’.44 She called on the West to recognize the independence of newly emerging democratic states. ‘The world should seek to strengthen such democracies by providing the maximum aid possible.’45 It reminded people in the West that the Soviet Union was ‘the most terrible empire in the history of civilization’ and took Gorbachev to task as the person who ‘destroyed the legitimacy of his presidency by dismissing the constitutional Congress of People’s Deputies’.46 In other words, both the cartoon and the article urge the West not to fear the collapse of the Soviet empire; the time has come to break with the totalitarian past. Another cartoon published in the middle of the article While We Sleep,47 emphasized that ‘the new Commonwealth of Independent States is in a tangle of crises: economic, social, political, national’. This idea was represented visually by the fragile and cracked figure of Gorbachev with his arms, legs and half of his face falling off. Not only did this figure portray the severity of the situation, but pointed to Gorbachev’s inability to deal with the crisis. On the other hand, Yeltsin was praised for introducing a new economic policy. The author, Robert Legvolt, predicted ‘what [would] happen is likely to be hyperinflation, one of the most ravaging experiences other than war, and perhaps a

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large-scale unemployment’.48 All of this, Legvolt concluded, accentuated the necessity for Western help. One more cartoon in The New York Times drawn by Mirco Ilic represented the Soviet Union as a scarecrow constructed out of nuclear rockets, dressed in a cap with ear-flaps and coat with patches and pieces of straw sticking out all over. The accompanying article by Stephen M. Meyer discussed the nuclear danger that might result from the disintegration of the Soviet Union, but warned against ‘hyping the Soviet nuclear peril’. It explained that the so-called ‘button’ does not exist at all, while the management of decrepit nuclear plants presented a more serious problem. The article concluded that the ‘upheaval that [would] engulf the post-Soviet states over the next decade [would] be driven by forces too fundamental and unstable to be influenced – except at the margins – by dollar or diplomacy’.49 On 23 December, a cartoon in The New York Times gave a ‘thumbs-up’ assessment of Yeltsin’s policy. Domes of a Russian Orthodox Church depicted on the top of the thumb symbolized the beginning of a new era free from the communist past. The article by Stephen Sestanovich pointed out that ‘the changeover from President Gorbachev to President Yeltsin . . . represent[ed] the eclipse of a leader whose interests were served by keeping problems unresolved, in favour of one who [knew] that he [had] to offer a real solution if he [was] to survive’.50 On 17 December, the newspaper called 1991 the Year of Yeltsin and published a photograph of him showing the ‘OK’ gesture. Sestanovich concluded that ‘Russia’s democrats have the political strength to make use of our help and complete the revolution they have only just begun!’51 After the United States recognized the new independent states, several articles describing how American businessmen rushed to those countries in search of business opportunities, appeared. At the same time, Gorbachev’s resignation produced other articles paying tribute to his policy of perestroika and new political thinking. The New York Times and other American papers were supremely interested in the question of aid to the Soviet Union, be it for the sake of democracy or the elimination of the nuclear threat. The Asahi Shinbun cartoons, on the other hand, did not take up the issue of aid, and newspaper articles rarely touched on the topic. In fact, Japan was criticized by the West for its passive stance. American newspapers also tended to accentuate differences between the old Soviet Union and new independent states, while the Japanese cartoons seemed to play those differences down. The policy of publishing a cartoon in the middle of the article rather than separately, as practised by the Asahi Shinbun, also helped readers to better concentrate on problems raised in the newspaper articles. CONCLUSION

The Japanese press was completely justified in demonstrating extraordinary interest in events taking place in the Soviet Union during December

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1991. The disintegration of the Soviet Union resulted in an end to the Cold War that had dominated world politics for over fifty years. Moreover, it gave birth to some fifteen independent countries in place of the Soviet Union. The abundance of cartoons emphasized the significance of these events. The December cartoons were sufficiently varied in their means of expression, but had an overall common theme. As noted above, the cartoons reflected struggles for power and episodes relating to the decisionmaking process that brought on the demise of the Soviet Union. Japanese newspaper cartoons were illustrative in nature; they sought to isolate and explain major turning points, simplifying the narrative and reserving details and sub-themes to the realm of textual analysis. Cartoons that included easily-identifiable political actors were common. They, in turn, were dominated by caricatures of Gorbachev, far outstripping Yeltsin and leaders of the other republics. The image of Gorbachev in turn was linked to his position as president of the disintegrating Soviet Union. As the cartoons in the Asahi Shinbun sought primarily to narrate political processes taking place, concern with the consequences of change took second place. The goal of these political cartoons was to inform, using pre-existing stereotypes and symbols, rather than form new images, or create new symbols. On the one hand, such an approach may be attributed to the nature of cartoons in general which have to be produced quickly depending on existing emotions and visual icons. On the other hand, they may reflect a fundamental inertia in the Japanese image of Russia as a country in disorder and as a permanent military threat. Such stubborn images prevented Japanese readers from understanding the true extent of changes taking place in the Soviet Union. In contrast, the Western cartoons were more analytical; they sought to evaluate an event or a political figure. At the same time, satire is more predominant, as in the depiction of Yeltsin pulling the chair out from under Gorbachev or in representing Gorbachev as someone who is literally falling apart. Cartoons in The New York Times tended not to focus attention on the process, but singled out glaring traits or significant events. Japanese cartoonists took up relatively second-order events and attempted to link them with the ‘big picture’. It is exactly this reason that allowed the appearance of eighteen cartoons dedicated to one event during the course of one month. Hasegawa Tsuyoshi remarked on the ‘euphoria [in Japan] about the new Russia shedding itself of communism’.52 According to Hasegawa, it was Yeltsin’s cancellation of a visit scheduled for October 1992 that wiped out, with a single stroke, the positive atmosphere Gorbachev had cultivated in Japan. An analysis of the December cartoons, however, produces an alternate reading of the situation. The perception of Yeltsin as an ominous figure threatening Japan was not new; it had emerged already at the time of Russian independence. Moreover, Gorbachev’s

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weaknesses, as depicted in the Asahi Shinbun cartoons, produced feelings of compassion befitting his status as a failed hero.53 Finally, the cartoons demonstrate a surprising indifference to the problem of Japanese-Russian relations, including the issue of Japan’s socalled Northern Territories. The dissolution of the Soviet Union was one of the few moments in postwar history when territorial concerns were not at the centre of attention in Japan. At the same time, images of a despondent Gorbachev, drawn with obvious sympathy and pity, may reflect regret over a lost opportunity to restore closeness between two distant neighbors. NOTES 1

2

3

4

5

6

7 8

9

10

11

12

Yulia Mikhailova, ‘Laughter in Russo-Japanese Relations: Comic Pictures of the Russo-Japanese War’, Asian Cultural Studies, International Christian University Publications 3–4, vol. 27, Tokyo, 2001. For a detailed overview of trends in the study of political cartoons see: Ibaragi Masaharu, ‘Seiji manga’ no seiji bunseki (Political Analysis of ‘Political Cartoons’), (Tokyo: Saneisha: 1997), pp. 22–82. On the controversy, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jyllands-Posten_ Muhammad_cartoons_controversy (accessed 15 December 2006). The New Encyclopedia Britannica, (Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica Inc., 1979), vol. 1, p. 612. The number of copies of the morning edition of Asahi Shinbun totals 8,250,000, while the number of copies of the evening edition totals approximately 3,770,000. Ninety-nine per cent of them are delivered directly to families or offices, see: http://www.asahi. com/shimbun/ honsya/j/sales.html (accessed 15 December 2006). Gorbachev’s visit to Japan in April 1991 is also richly represented in cartoons, but we abstain from their analysis, because the visit itself is substantially covered in many academic publications but provides little information as to the analysis of Japan’s views of Russia. Ibaragi Masaharu, ‘Seiji manga’ no seiji bunseki, p. 19. Yamada Shin, ‘Munashii kokai “kono 74 nen no kokai wa nani dattanda . . .?” ’, (Futile Remorse: ‘What Was that 74 Years Voyage All about . . .?’), Asahi Shinbun, 27 August 1991, p. 2. Peter Burke, Eyewitnessing. The Uses of Images as Historical Evidence, (London: Reaktion Books, 2000), p. 60. Interestingly, the same words had been formerly used in Japanese cartoons with regard to Russia during the Russo-Japanese War. At that time, the Russian tsar was represented feeling remorse for his lack of appreciation of Japan, while the devastation of Russian battleships at the battle of Tsushima after a long voyage signalled the impending collapse of the tsarist regime. Hari Sunao, ‘Sorenpo ga chu ni Ukuraina’ (Ukraine Sends the Soviet Union Adrift), Asahi Shinbun, 4 December 1991, p. 2. Yokoyama Taizo, ‘Osekkai’ (Meddlesome), Asahi Shinbun, 5 December 1991, p. 17.

Disintegration of the Soviet Union 13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21 22

23 24

25

26

27

28 29 30

31

32

33

34

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Yamada Shin, ‘ “Shugo jutaku” wa mo gomen nanda!’ (‘Joint Dwelling’, We Are Sorry, But!’), Asahi Shinbun, 10 December 1991, p. 2. Yamada Shin, ‘Tonari awase no “togo” to “hokai”. Nanitaru rekishi no hiniku’, (‘Unity’ and ‘Disintegration’ Stand Nearby – What an Irony of History), Asahi Shinbun, 12 December 1991, p. 2. Yamada Shin, ‘Kazafu mo haitta “Soren nomikomi” kanpai’ (Kazakhstan Has Also Joined. Let’s Drink “for Swallowing the Soviet Union”), Asahi Shinbun, 13 December 1991, p. 2. Eritsin shi to Gorubachofushi wa otagai no posuto ni tsuite gironsuru tame-ni seki o tsukimashita (Yeltsin and Gorbachov Take Seats at Negotiations about their Positions), Asahi Shinbun, 14 December 1991, p. 5. Yamada Shin, ‘Kimi mo iku tokoro ga nakunatta no ka, ma kokode atatamari na yo’ (Well, Friend, Don’t You Have a Place to Go Either? Come Here and Warm up’), Asahi Shinbun, 14 December 1991, p. 2. Yokoyama Taizo, ‘Kieru Soren, kokumei kimarazu’ (The Disappearing Soviet Union – Is Still a Country without Name), Asahi Shinbun, 17 December 1991, p. 17. Kojima Ko, ‘Shisho no naka ni maibotsusuru isshun o miteiru no da’ (‘Witnessing the Moment When [He] Is Buried in History’), Asahi Shinbun, 20 December 1991, p. 2 William J. Broad, ‘Accord on Removal of Atom Arms from Ukraine’, The New York Times, 19 December 1991, p. A14. ‘Pareedo daisuki’ (I like Parades), Asahi Shinbun, 21 December 1991, p. 5. Kojima Ko, ‘Gorubi to 11 nin no odori’ (A Dance of Gorbi with 11 Men), Asahi Shinbun, 23 December 1991, p. 4. Hari Sunao, ‘Homuresu’ (Homeless), Asahi Shinbun, 24 December 1991, p. 2. Hari Sunao, ‘Kaku no botan kanri wa Eritsin shi ni,’ (Nuclear Button Over to Mr Yeltsin), Asahi Shinbun, 26 December 1991, p. 2. For representations of Stalin as dictator and persecutor see: Hashimoto Masaru, Masaru’s 366 Days of 20th Century, (Tokyo, Fusion Product, 1996). Sohara Takao, ‘Sesogo jiten ’91’ (A Dictionary of World Events of 1991), Asahi Shinbun, 25 December 1991, p. 13. Hari Sunao, ‘Ummei o tomo ni’ (Sharing the Same Fate), Asahi Shinbun, 27 December 1991, p. 2. Ron Hagen, Asahi Shinbun, [Untitled] 28 December 1991, p. 13. Hari Sunao, ‘Wanman’ (One Man), Asahi Shinbun, 29 December 1991, p. 2. William F. Nimmo, Japan and Russia. A Reevaluation in the Post-Soviet Era, (London, Westport: Greenwood Press, 1994), p. 83. ‘Kaikosha ni shoku sagashi no shiren’ (The Lessons of Looking for Jobs for the Dismissed), Asahi Shinbun, 4 December 1991, p. 6. Shimada Hiroshi, ‘Mienu mirai – yureru kokunai’ (The Indefinite Future – the Unstable Internal Situation), Asahi Shinbun, 14 December 1991, p. 3. ‘Taminzoku – kokuryoku ga do chosei’ (Multiple Nationalities – How to Adjust the Differences in State Powers), Asahi Shinbun, 10 December 1991, p. 6. Aoki Yukio, ‘ “Zaigai” Roshiajin ni eikyo dai’ (Consequences for Russians Living ‘Abroad’ Are Very Serious), Asahi Shinbun, 10 December 1991, p. 6.

152 35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44 45 46 47

48 49

50

51 52

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Japan and Russia: Three Centuries of Mutual Images

Sumikawa Haruhito, Ittochi no jumin obiyakasu shiyuka (Privatization Threatening the Inhabitants of the First Class Places), Asahi Shinbun, 10 December 1991, p. 6. ‘Shasetsu. “Sorenpo shometsu” no ato ni kuru mono’ (Editorial. What Comes after the ‘Soviet Union Disappears’), Asahi Shinbun, 10 December 1991, p. 2. ‘Shasetsu. Roshia-ga nigiru kyodotai no unmei’ (Editorial. Russia Holding in Hands the Fate of the Commonwealth), Asahi Shinbun, 23 December 1991, p. 2. For an example of Meiji political cartoons see: Henry D. Smith, Kiyochika, Artist of Meiji Japan, (Santa Barbara, CA: Santa Barbara Museum of Art, 1988). Nobuo Shimotomai, ‘Japan-Soviet Relations under Perestroika: Perceptions and Interactions between Two Capitals’, Japan and Russia: The Tortuous Path to Normalization, 1949–1999, ed. by Gilbert Rozman, (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000), p. 108. ‘Kienu Gorubachofusi no gyoseki’ (Gorbachev’s Achievements Would Not Disappear), Asahi Shinbun, 14 December 2006, p. 2. ‘Gorubi impakuto wasurezu’ (Not Forgetting Gorbachev’s Impact), Asahi Shinbun, 27 December 1991, p. 2. ‘Shasetsu. Gorubachefu jidai satte’ (Gorbachev’s Epoch Has Gone Away), Asahi Shinbun, 27 December 1991, p. 2. Yelena G. Bonner, ‘Why is the West Afraid of Freedom?’, The New York Times, 6 December 1991. p. A35. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Robert Legvold, ‘While We Sleep’, The New York Times, 10 December 1991, p. A31. Ibid. Stephen M. Meyer, ‘Hyping the Soviet Nuclear Peril’, The New York Times, 12 December 1991, p. A31. Stephen Sestanovich, ‘The Revolution: A Case for Optimism’, The New York Times, 23 December 1991, p. A17. Ibid. Hasegawa Tsuyoshi, ‘Japanese Perceptions of the Soviet Union and Russia, in Japan and Russia: The Tortuous Path to Normalization’, 1949–1999, ed. by G. Rozman, p. 314. Ivan Morris, The Nobility of Failure: Tragic Heroes in the History of Japan, (Tokyo: C.E. Tuttle, 1982).

8

Images in Tinted Mirrors: JapaneseRussian Perceptions in Provincial Japan TSUNEO AKAHA AND ANNA VASSILIEVA

INTRODUCTION

I

nternational relations naturally have a deep and lasting impact on mutual images. Dramatic events over the last hundred years have coloured the way Japanese and Russians see each other. At the time of the Russo-Japanese War (1904–05), members of the Japanese intelligentsia saw Russia through masterpieces of Russian literature, whereas the average Japanese ‘was dependent on popular media to characterize the enemy’.1 In the context of rising nationalism and war hysteria, ordinary Japanese formed images of Russians through media and propaganda prints depicting the war that were imbued with racism, nationalism and heroism. The prints presented Japanese military leaders and foot soldiers as disciplined, ethical and courageous, and their Russian enemies as undisciplined, arrogant, cruel and cowardly. On the other hand, Russian war posters relied upon equally denigrating stereotypes of Japanese: ‘knock-kneed weaklings, slant-eyed, yellow-skinned, and, for some reason, shaggy-haired – a puny kind of monkey, invariably dubbed “Japs” and “macaques” ’.2 These stereotypes have been analysed in Chapter 4 of this volume. After the Second World War, these stereotypes gave way to new images, in many cases equally unreal as can be seen in the chapters by Melnikova, Smorgunov, Mikhailova and Torchinov. Russians, for example, became fascinated with Japanese art, poetry, and, most recently, anime and other forms of Japanese popular culture. Whether crude caricatures in war prints and posters or idealized images derived from works of art and literature, stereotypes have governed mutual perceptions and attitudes. Unfortunately, they have

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not been a subject of sufficient scholarly interest, although literature on encounters between the two countries is abundant.3 What is also lacking is an in-depth study of contemporary RussianJapanese mutual perceptions. This chapter focuses on images held by ordinary Russians and Japanese; instead of looking at the formation of mutual perceptions through art, literature, film, or mass media, it seeks to analyse first-hand encounters between ordinary people. We seek to reveal patterns of image formations through a study of mundane interactions between the Russians and the Japanese in contemporary Japan. Moreover, we examine the mutual perceptions of Russians and Japanese living in provincial Japan. It is in these areas, rather than in large cities such as Tokyo or Osaka, that we are able to more directly and readily observe the impact of direct encounters between Russians and Japanese on mutual images. We are concerned literally with how Russians and Japanese see each other in real life situations.4 Equally important, the view from provincial Japan reveals that Russians and Japanese are beginning to view each other as geographical neighbours rather than distant peoples with disparate cultures and incompatible interests. Moreover, the prospects of growing economic ties between Russia and Japan in the twenty-first century, particularly between the Russian Far East and Hokkaido, offer the possibility of closer human contacts between the two nations. OBJECTIVES

Japan today receives few Russian visitors. Out of the 6,120,709 foreign nationals who entered Japan in 2005, for example, only 56,391 (0.9%) were Russian citizens. In comparison, 1,607,457 South Koreans entered Japan, representing 26.3% of the total number of foreign nationals entering the country, followed by 1,248,248 Chinese from Taiwan (20.4%), 746,921 American citizens (12.2%), 463,273 Chinese from the People’s Republic (7.6%), and 132,745 Filipinos (2.2%).5 Similarly, Russians constitute a very small part of the foreign population registered in Japan. In 2004, for example, only 7,164 Russian residents were registered in the country, representing less than 0.4% of the total number of registered foreigners (1,973,747).6 Small as the Russian presence in contemporary Japan may be, it is nonetheless significant. Russians represent a fairly recent presence, catching many host communities unprepared and occasionally causing social and cultural friction. Moreover, the number of the Russians visiting Japan, though small, has steadily grown since the mid-1990s and continues to grow. Serious research into the Russian presence in contemporary Japan is miniscule, especially when compared with work done on Russians in Japan in the nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries.7 Virtually all Japanese contemporary studies of immigrants and minorities place the Russians into the undifferentiated category of ‘others’, focusing instead on larger ethnic groups such as Koreans, Chinese, Japanese Brazilians and Filipinos.8

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The wide cultural gap between Japanese and Russian peoples poses interesting questions on mutual perceptions, intercultural communication and social interaction. Indeed, the cultural differences between Japanese and Russians and the images they create of each other may present communication and other social challenges to both Russians living in Japan and to the communities in which they reside. Moreover, the growing Russian population in Japan can potentially have an impact on future Japanese-Russian relations, currently marked by an absence of deep engagement.9 The rise of Japanese nationalism and the consolidation of Japanese national identity in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries had much to do with Japan’s uneasy and at times violent encounter with Russians during the prewar period.10 In the postwar period, Japan’s role as consistently an ally of the United States, helped to solidify negative attitudes towards the Soviet Union.11 Opinion polls show that a vast majority of present-day Japanese, most of whom have never encountered a Russian, maintain negative views.12 Less known, at least in Japan, is the fact that a majority of contemporary Russians hold favourable views of Japan.13 In both cases, these images, whether positive or negative, are based not on knowledge gained from first-hand experience, but learned from national stereotypes endorsed by political rhetoric or outdated and fragmentary depictions of national character. The authors examined the mutual perceptions of Russians and Japanese who live side-by-side in communities in Japan – that is, the views of people who have had actual visual encounters. The study seeks to delineate discernible patterns in those perceptions with reference to physical attributes, behavioural characteristics, affective aspects, attitudinal features and cognitive abilities that Russians and Japanese ascribe to each other. Data is drawn from a series of interviews and surveys of Japanese and Russian residents conducted in four provincial centres in Japan, namely Niigata, Sapporo and Wakkanai in 2001 and 2003, as well as in Fukui in 2002. Nearly 200 Japanese and Russians participated in the surveys and interviews for this study.14 Apart from large cities such as Tokyo and Osaka, the areas selected have a long history of contact with Russia, and are home to recognized communities of ex-patriot Russians. Also because of the significantly smaller native populations in these rural cities (except for Sapporo, which is the fifth largest city in Japan) mutual perceptions between the Russians and Japanese are more prominent. The Japanese respondents generally had fairly positive impressions of Russians, but some were disturbed or displeased with a number of physical, behavioural and attitudinal features of the Russians they had met at work/school or in social settings, using such adjectives as ‘scary’, ‘frightening’, ‘selfish’ and ‘not detail-oriented’. On the contrary, Russian impressions of Japanese people were generally positive, although a seeming lack of intellectual discourse left them with some negative impressions of the cognitive abilities of Japanese.

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Explanations for these and other discernible patterns of mutual perceptions are possible in three frameworks: (1) the nature of interaction between the Japanese and Russian subjects, particularly the nature of discourse and exchange; (2) the desirable and undesirable attributes of people informed by Russian and Japanese culture and myth (stereotypes); and (3) the projection of images of an ‘other state’ onto images of people from an ‘other society’. The explanations offered are exploratory rather than conclusive. Indeed, this is a new area of investigation that requires further research. MUTUAL PERCEPTIONS

A total of twenty-nine Japanese residents in the cities of Niigata, Sapporo and Wakkanai were interviewed in 2001 and again in Sapporo in 2003. The purpose was to gauge the range of views among local community members towards Russia and the Russians. For the same purpose, surveys were conducted of Japanese residents in Sapporo and Wakkanai in 2001, in Fukui in 2002, and in Niigata in 2003; a total of 126 completed surveys were received. Additionally, in order to canvass the experiences and views of Russian residents, we carried out in-depth interviews with seven Russian residents in Niigata and Sapporo in 2001 and again in Sapporo in 2003, most interviews lasting two to three hours. We also received surveys from thirty-four Russian residents in these two cities in 2003. Altogether, the interview and survey samples included 155 Japanese and forty-one Russians.15 The surveys asked respondents to give three adjectives to describe the Japanese (or Russians) they had met at work or school and those they had met in social situations. These mutual perceptions were divided up into five categories: physical appearance; behavioural characteristics; attitudinal features; affective aspects; and cognitive abilities. This revealed some interesting patterns, which will be introduced below. For analytical purposes, we define ‘physical appearance’ to mean those physical characteristics and other features of the outward appearance of the observed that are registered and remembered by the observer. ‘Affective’ features are the various kinds of emotional likes and dislikes towards people displayed by the observed and remembered by the observer. ‘Attitudinal’ characteristics are used in this study to refer to those natural or learned inclinations that the observer assumes to underlie the outward movement or expression of the observed and which the observer retains in memory. They may reflect a moral, ethical, or natural disposition of the observed. ‘Behavioural’ aspects are those externally observable actions of the observed that are perceived and remembered by the observer. Finally, ‘cognitive’ attributes are those mental abilities exhibited by the observed that are noticed and remembered by the observer. Naturally, some adjectives used by the survey respondents reflect more than one category. For example, the adjectives ‘easy-going’, ‘calm’ and ‘spirited’ may refer to an individual’s attitude or behaviour,

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the adjective ‘cold’ may describe a person’s affective state, attitude, or behaviour, and ‘boring’ can refer to a person’s behavioural or cognitive characteristic. We further separated the adjectives into ‘favourable’, ‘neutral’ and ‘unfavourable’ groups, except for physical attributes, which we decided not to put into normative categories because in most cases it was impossible to tell how our respondents viewed these attributes in normative terms. What is ‘favourable’, ‘neutral’, or ‘unfavourable’ is obviously a subjective matter and is clearly influenced by one’s culture. Our attempt, accordingly, was to understand how individual characteristics were understood within the context of Japanese and Russian societies. Table 1 shows the five categories of adjectives our survey respondents used to describe their mutual impressions. Table 1. Adjectives Describing Perceived Physical, Affective, Attitudinal, Behavioural, and Cognitive Characteristics of Individuals Categories

Favourable

Neutral

Unfavourable

Physical

beautiful/pretty/goodlooking, clean, stylish

big/huge/ muscular/ burly, fairskinned, tall, strong/sturdy, hairy, broadshouldered, sharp facial features, redfaced, blond, long-nosed, scented

scary/frightening/ unapproachable, mafia-like, dirty, smelly, dark

Affective

friendly/amiable, Japanophile (J), welcoming, kind/caring/warm/ compassionate

cold

Attitudinal

easy-going, earnest, gentle, positive, honest, serious/sincere, diligent/hardworking/ studious, simple, docile, calm, patient, persistent, humble, spirited, well-meaning, carefree, open, precise, persevering, passionate, broad-minded, proud, respectful, responsible

selfish, stubborn, calculating (J), impatient, pushy, provincial, cold, authoritarian, shy, superficial, distant

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Table 1. (continued) Categories

Favourable

Neutral

Unfavourable

Behavioural

easy-going, cheerful, interesting/amusing, calm, polite, gregarious, spirited, quiet, neat, pleasant, tidy, soft-spoken, Japanese-like, reliable, punctual, unobtrusive

bold

bad people/robber, unpunctual, brassy, violent/ready to fight, inexact/not detail-oriented (J), menacing, chatterbox, impatient, pushy, haggler, nit-picky, smile-less, provincial, cold, fast-talking, noisy, sloppy, loose, childish, obnoxious, boring

Cognitive

good at Japanese, eloquent, smart/ intelligent, able, intellectual, rational, artistic, independent thinking

poor risk manager, boring, easily influenced

‘J’ and ‘R’ denote Japan and Russia and indicate whether a given characteristic is seen as favourable, neutral, or unfavourable in the dominant culture of each country. The adjectives without this designation are, in our understanding, those on which Japanese and Russian cultures agree in terms of their positive, neutral and negative connotations. No Russians noted the physical appearance of the Japanese, so the designation of physical attributes in the three normative categories is based on the Japanese attribution of Russian characteristics. The adjectives linked by a slash are treated interchangeably in the present study.

JAPANESE IMPRESSIONS OF RUSSIAN PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Among the Japanese respondents there were nineteen ways to describe the physical appearance of Russians they had met in work/school environment and twenty-six ways for those they had met in social situations. By far the largest number of the respondents noted the body size (‘big’ and ‘tall’) and strength (‘muscular’, ‘strong’, ‘burly’, ‘sturdy’) of the Russians they had encountered, closely followed by the beauty of the Russians (presumably Russian women) encountered either at work/ school or on social occasions. A fair number of Japanese respondents found the Russians they encountered in both the work/school environment and in social settings ‘scary’, ‘frightening’ or ‘unapproachable’ (Table 2). In striking contrast, none of the Russian respondents used an adjective to describe the outward appearance of Japanese people at work,

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Table 2. Japanese Impressions of Physical Appearance of Russians at Work or School and in Social Settings

big/huge/muscular/burly beautiful/pretty/good-looking scary/frightening/unapproachable fair-skinned tall strong/sturdy fat dirty/smelly mafia-like stylish broad-shouldered sharp facial features hairy clean red-faced long-nosed blond dark

Work or School

Social Settings

Total

17 12 8 6 5 3

23 21 13 11 6 1 3 2

40 33 21 17 11 4 3 3 2 2 2 1

1 2 1 1 1 1

2 1

1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1

in school or in social situations. Explanations for this puzzling phenomenon will be offered later. JAPANESE IMPRESSIONS OF RUSSIAN BEHAVIOURAL, AFFECTIVE, ATTITUDINAL AND COGNITIVE CHARACTERISTICS

In the eyes of many Japanese, the Russians they met at work or in school were ‘friendly’, ‘amiable’, ‘kind’, ‘caring’, ‘warm’, ‘compassionate’ and ‘cheerful’. In social situations, many Japanese respondents also found Russians to be ‘kind’, ‘caring’, ‘good to others’, ‘compassionate’, ‘cheerful’ and ‘friendly’. There was no particular defect that was generally noticed by many Japanese respondents. A large number of adjectives were used to describe the non-physical features of Russians encountered. More than half of those characteristics were favourable. Of all adjectives used 37% were unfavourable.16 Of the non-physical characteristics 51% were behavioural markers that left some impression on the Japanese. Over half of the behavioural features the Japanese respondents noted were negative in judgment. An overwhelming majority of attitudinal characteristics our Japanese subjects ascribed to Russians were positive. The Japanese respondents did not differentiate attitudinal characteristics of Russians nearly as much as physical characteristics. The positive adjectives used to describe affective characteristics of Russians include ‘friendly’, ‘amiable’, ‘kind’, ‘caring’, ‘warm’, ‘compassionate’ and

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‘Japanophile’. Finally, a small number of respondents recognized the cognitive abilities of Russians as predominantly favourable. Those Russians whom Japanese survey respondents met on social occasions exhibited similar characteristics to those they met at work or school. The Russians were typically ‘kind’, ‘caring’, ‘warm’ and ‘compassionate’. Many of them were also ‘cheerful’ and ‘friendly’. Of the adjectives attributed to Russians in social situations 59% were favourable, 10% were neutral, and 31% were unflattering – an almost identical distribution to that of the adjectives used to describe Russian co-workers and schoolmates. Among the positive characteristics the Japanese people noted, most had to do with attitudes and behaviour and only a few related to affective or cognitive characteristics of Russians. In contrast, 56% of the negative attributes noted by the Japanese had to do with Russian behaviour. The Japanese did not use any negative adjective to depict the cognitive abilities of the Russians they had met on social occasions. RUSSIAN IMPRESSIONS OF JAPANESE PEOPLE

The thirty-four Russian respondents in Niigata and Sapporo had more positive than negative impressions of their Japanese co-workers and schoolmates. Of the Russians in the sample 38% found the Japanese hard working, and 18% ascribed either punctuality or kindness to their Japanese colleagues and schoolmates. The Russian respondents in the two cities chose twelve attitudinal features, nine behavioural characteristics, seven cognitive aspects and two affective attributes to describe their impressions of Japanese met at work or school. Eight of the twelve adjectives for attitudes and all eight adjectives for behavioural characteristics were favourable. In the eyes of the Russians, Japanese colleagues and schoolmates had a good attitude and were well behaved. On the other hand, all seven adjectives describing cognitive abilities were negative. They included ‘slow-witted’, ‘not independent’, ‘indecisive’, ‘boring’, ‘contradictory’ and ‘slow’. Apparently, Japanese co-workers did not impress them with their intellectual power. Russian impressions of Japanese met in social situations generally mirrored their impressions of Japanese met at work or school. In describing the Japanese they met socially, Russian respondents used many favourable descriptions. The Japanese struck most Russians as ‘kind’, ‘caring’, ‘compassionate’, ‘warm’, ‘hospitable’, ‘happy’ and ‘cheerful’. Many more Russians in Sapporo than in Niigata described the Japanese they had met socially as ‘kind’, ‘caring’ and ‘hospitable’. SUMMARY OF FINDINGS

This section summarizes the major findings of the survey; the next section will offer some explanations. First, many Japanese noted the physical characteristics of Russians but not a single Russian mentioned the physical appearance of Japanese

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people encountered. The Japanese noticed and remembered Russian physical features that were different from their own. They particularly noted the body size (‘big’ and ‘tall’) and strength (‘muscular’, ‘strong’, ‘burly’, ‘sturdy’). Japanese men tended to be favourably impressed by the physical appearance of the Russians, particularly women that they had met at work or school, while most Japanese women were neither favourably nor unfavourably impressed by Russian physical characteristics. Still, a fair number of Japanese respondents, both male and female, found the Russians they encountered scary, frightening or unapproachable. In social settings, there was little difference between Japanese men and women in their impressions of the outward appearance of Russians, although Japanese women’s unfavourable impressions of Russian outward appearance increased in social situations. Japanese men and women were similarly affected by Russian physical characteristics, about one-third of the men and women noticing the attractive features of Russian outward appearance and somewhat more men and women observing their neutral physical characteristics, i.e. their height and weight. Second, Russian impressions of Japanese attitudes and behaviour were overwhelmingly favourable. Japanese colleagues and schoolmates were ‘hardworking’ and ‘well behaved’. Japanese attitudes were perceived as positive but their cognitive abilities did not impress the Russians. The Russians had much the same views of the Japanese they had met outside the work or school environment. They were ‘kind’, ‘caring’, ‘warm’, ‘hospitable’, ‘happy’ and ‘cheerful’. Third, in the eyes of the Japanese respondents, the vast majority of Russian co-workers and schoolmates were friendly and kind and had good attitudes, but many behaved in an unpleasant manner. In comparison, the cognitive abilities of Russians left an impression on only a small number of Japanese, although they were mostly positive. EXPLANATION ONE: DEGREE OF DIRECT INTERACTION BETWEEN JAPANESE AND RUSSIANS

Does the frequency of interaction between Japanese and Russian people have any bearing on Japanese impressions of Russians? To answer this question, we first present the breakdown of our Japanese respondents by frequency of interaction with Russians at work or in school and in social settings (Table 3). In order to obtain a wide range of responses, we asked colleagues at local government agencies, research institutes, universities and newspaper companies to distribute the survey among their coworkers and students. We note some differences between the Japanese and Russian respondents. Roughly one half of the Japanese respondents interacted with Russians at least once a week and the other half less frequently or never. The Japanese respondents’ contacts with Russians in social settings were somewhat more limited, with 43.2% of them meeting Russians once a

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Table 3. Frequency of Japanese Respondents’ Contacts with Russians Frequency

At Work/school Number of responses

Daily Several times weekly Weekly Monthly Once a year Rarely Never TOTAL a

6 33 32 12 1 22 25 131

%

In Social Settings Number of responses

4.6 25.2 24.4 9.2 0.7 16.8 19.1 101.0a

1 27 20 8 3 20 32 111

% 0.9 24.3 18.0 7.2 2.7 18.0 28.8 99.9a

The totals do not equal 100% due to rounding.

week or more frequently and 56.8% less frequently or never. We should note, however, that the Japanese respondents in Niigata and Sapporo had proportionately more frequent contacts with Russians than did their counterparts in the other two cities both at work/school and in social settings. This can be explained by the fact that both Sapporo and Niigata have larger numbers of Russian residents and many of them are employed or attending school locally. In comparison with the Japanese respondents, Russian respondents in Niigata and Sapporo interacted with Japanese more frequently (Table 4). All but two Russians who indicated the frequency of contacts with Japanese at work or school said they interacted daily with their Japanese co-workers or schoolmates. The frequency of interaction with Japanese outside the work or school environment was somewhat less; nevertheless, twenty-two Russians (65.7%) socialized with Japanese on a daily basis, in comparison with the less than 10% of the Japanese respondents who had daily social contacts with Russians. Table 5 shows the distribution of the Japanese respondents’ references to the physical versus non-physical characteristics of the Russians they met at work or in school and in social settings by the frequency of Table 4. Frequency of Russian Respondents’ Contacts with Japanese in Niigata and Sapporo Frequency Daily Weekly Monthly Never TOTAL a

At Work/school Number of responses

%

31 1

93.9 3.0

1 33

3.0 99.8a

The totals do not equal 100% due to rounding.

In Social Settings Number of responses % 22 5 1 6 34

64.7 14.7 2.9 17.8 100.1a

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Table 5. Japanese Impressions of Russian Physical and Non-physical Characteristics by Frequency of Contacts at Work or School and Social Settings (Niigata, Fukui, Sapporo and Wakkanai) At Work or School Frequency of Encounter

Physical

At least once a week Less frequently or never TOTAL

23 7 30

Nonphysical 57 8 65

In Social Settings

Total

Physical

80 15 95

24 17 41

Nonphysical 22 14 36

Total 46 31 77

encounters in the four cities. The samples indicate that if Japanese people meet Russians fairly frequently at work or at school, they are twice as likely to form impressions of the non-physical attributes of the Russians they meet as impressions of their physical appearance. On the other hand, Japanese respondents who meet Russians at work or school less frequently or never are as likely to remember the physical as the non-physical characteristics of the Russians. The frequency of encounters in social settings does not seem to make much difference in the Japanese respondents’ impressions of Russians. In summary, the frequency of contacts explains only a part of the physical-non-physical differentiation of Japanese impressions of Russians. As noted above, the Russian respondents gave no impressions of the physical characteristics of the Japanese they had met either in the work/school environment or in social settings. Additionally, we have noted that virtually every Russian in our sample interacted with Japanese people daily or several times a week. Therefore, the frequency of interaction cannot explain why the Japanese they had met left no lasting impressions concerning their physical appearance. We must therefore look for additional explanations. EXPLANATION TWO: CULTURAL BELIEFS AND STEREOTYPES

Culture has been defined in numerous ways.17 For the present study we adopt the definition developed by Clyde Kluckhohn. Accordingly, ‘culture consists of patterned ways of thinking, feeling and reaction, acquired and transmitted mainly by symbols, constituting the distinctive achievements of human groups including their embodiments in artifacts; the essential core of culture consists of traditional (i.e. historically derived and selected) ideas and especially their attached values’.18 Mental, emotional and behavioural manifestations of culture are discernible in an individual, a small group and a larger community. This study is primarily concerned with those affective, attitudinal and behavioural patterns that individual Japanese and Russians notice about each other as different or distinct from those which they are accustomed to

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seeing among the members of their own culture. We also believe that people’s perceptions of physical characteristics of individuals or groups of individuals are also culturally informed. It is meaningful, therefore, to explore cultural explanations for the physical as well as non-physical characteristics that Japanese and Russian people notice about each other. Furthermore, because historically informed ideas and values form the essential core of culture, impressions of individuals’ affective, attitudinal, behavioural and even physical characteristics often produce value-laden assessments of those individuals on the part of the observer. For example, a Japanese office worker who expects his colleagues to accept orders from a superior without complaint and does not expect to be complimented for a job well done will be tempted to describe a Russian who does not behave or think similarly as unworthy of respect as a colleague. A Russian who expects white-collar professionals to be spontaneously engaging may very well have doubts about the intellectual ability of Japanese workers who appear aloof and disengaged during business meetings. In other words, consciously or unconsciously the observer renders a value judgement about the observed. With these aspects of culture in mind, we have attempted to explore the reasons behind the patterns discovered in the mutual impressions between Japanese and Russian survey respondents. Why do many Japanese people have distinct impressions of the physical characteristics of Russians they meet, while Russian respondents report no impressions of Japanese physical attributes? We suspect there are some cultural factors behind this phenomenon. To put it simply, ethnic and racial (and, by implication, physical) homogeneity is often thought to govern how Japanese perceive their national identity. Many Japanese, especially those who live in provincial areas, have limited opportunities to interact with foreigners; hence, they tend to notice and remember the outward appearance of foreigners, including Russians, whose physical characteristics are distinctly different from their own. On the other hand, Russians, by nature of their country’s history and ethnic composition, are more familiar with racial and physical diversity within their own society. They tend to look past the physical appearance of the Japanese people they meet and pay more attention to nonphysical characteristics. In the eyes of the Russians, Japanese people also appeared to behave in a superficial manner, perhaps out of a desire to behave ‘properly’. Another cultural trait often attributed to Japanese people is the tendency to differentiate between true thoughts and feelings, or honne, and a formal or official facade, known as tatemae.19 A positive interpretation of this aspect of Japanese behaviour would be that Japanese people know how to adjust behaviour according to circumstances, one way with family and close friends and associates and another way with others. An unflattering view of this aspect of Japanese behaviour would suggest that Japanese people are scrupulous, two-faced or hypocritical. In this view of Japanese culture, if one is to know the true thoughts and feel-

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ings of members of the in-group – family and relatives, a unit within a business firm, a group within a school, or some other social unit whose members share a sense of common identity and are committed to communal well-being – one must be accepted as a member of that group, either by birth or by admission. ‘Gaining admission’ into the in-group – to be considered an integral and trusted member of the social unit – may take years. There is a proper way to behave within the in-group and towards outsiders. Between members of the in-group an attitude and behaviour known as amae is allowed or even expected. Amae can be translated as psychological, emotional or behavioural dependence between trusted and trusting members of the in-group.20 Once established, the amae relationship between individuals allows, or even encourages otherwise inexcusable behaviour or open expressions of emotion. Normally, one exhibits amae towards another member of the group who is considered higher on the hierarchy within the group. Intimacy is nurtured through the relationship of dependence between individuals situated at different ranks. The hierarchy is typically based on age, seniority, ability, gender and some other dimension along which the roles of the group members can be differentiated, and it is clearly understood among the members of the group.21 Direct communication and intimate behaviour are reserved for the in-group. One is socially prohibited from engaging in an amae relationship with an outsider. Hence, Japanese may be courteous and friendly to foreigners – as well as to other Japanese who are not members of their own group – but they may also appear formal and distant. The differentiated communication style of the Japanese accords with the traditional emphasis on social harmony and conformity in Japan, which has its roots in the nation’s agrarian origins and history of successive military regimes.22 Russian impressions of Japanese attitudes and behaviour were overwhelmingly favourable. However, many Russians interviewed in Niigata and Sapporo complained that the Japanese they had met were superficial, formal and distant. How to explain this seeming contradiction? Here, too, culture may be at work. We have already noted that the Japanese appear to behave differently towards outsiders depending on the way they behave towards insiders. For many Japanese people, ‘proper’ behaviour towards outsiders is expected to be formal, superficial and distant. Yet, great importance is often attached to appearances. This further strengthens tendencies to behave ‘properly’, i.e. formally, in front of others. How to behave in public (towards or in front of outsiders) is as important as how to behave in private (within the in-group). In this regard, many critics of Japanese society conclude that Japanese people have two different codes of conduct.23 It is understandable, therefore, that behaviour towards foreigners tends to project formality, superficiality and distance. This may very well explain why a considerable number of Japanese respondents in the study said they felt uncomfortable or even disturbed by the behaviour

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of many Russians they had met who, we suspect, acted informally, casually or intimately towards the Japanese. Some saw such behaviour as ‘aggressive’. Moreover, when Japanese people see others behave in public in ways they themselves have been taught not to behave, they feel uncomfortable, even offended. Such behaviour is deemed ‘uncultured’. Culturally offensive manners of individuals who physically look different from the Japanese are naturally even more noticeable. There are numerous media reports about commercial establishments in Hokkaido port cities that display ‘Japanese Only’ signs to ward off Russians who store owners feel have offended their Japanese customers with their ‘uncultured’ behaviour.24 The best known case is that of a public bathhouse in Otaru that displayed a similar sign but was forced to take it down when the business owner and the city administration were sued for discrimination by an American-turned-Japanese citizen.25 Japanese people are often said to place foreigners in the category of gaijin (literally ‘outsiders’) on the basis of the latter’s appearance. Although Japanese people may be able to overlook the ‘foreign’ appearance of gaijin members of their in-group who have attained a high degree of ‘Japaneseness’ in their use of the Japanese language or in their behaviour, other Japanese whose interaction with gaijin is limited or non-existent are likely to see such foreigners as outsiders and expect them to behave in a non-Japanese way. In contrast, Russian impressions of Japanese attitudes and behaviour were overwhelmingly favourable, with such adjectives as ‘kind’, ‘caring’, ‘warm’, ‘hospitable’, ‘happy’ and ‘cheerful’ being used most frequently to describe Japanese people. On the other hand, as already noted, Japanese people’s cognitive abilities were not particularly impressive to the Russian respondents, who were described as ‘slow-witted’, ‘lacking in initiative’, ‘narrow-minded’ and ‘boring’. How are these impressions to be explained? In researching Russian-Japanese mutual perceptions and attitudes, we took particular note of communication between Russian and Japanese intellectuals. There are a number of highly educated Russian scholars from different parts of Russia who live and work in research institutes and universities in the northern Japanese provinces. Interviewing them and analysing surveys of other Russian academics, as well as observing their interactions with Japanese colleagues, allowed us to draw certain conclusions. In Russian intellectual culture, the breadth of knowledge, a freeflowing exchange of thought and opinion and the ability to draw upon facts and findings from diverse spheres of intellectual pursuits are highly valued. Creativity, originality and spontaneity of Russian professionals are often mixed with emotional attachment to ideas, which add excitement to discussions among colleagues. In contrast, sophistication is a highly appreciated quality of individuals in Japan and often means pursuing a narrowly defined area of intellectual endeavour. A ‘sophisticated’ person in Japan, therefore, may come across as someone unwilling to

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venture out of a defined narrow field and explore other avenues to knowledge and understanding. Often, when Russians face reluctance on the part of Japanese colleagues to explore unlikely and seemingly illogical questions or issues related to their mutual concern, they perceive the Japanese approach to be constricting and narrow-minded. On the other hand, Japanese scholars may grow frustrated with the lack of willingness and enthusiasm on the part of Russians to follow the strict canons of professional interaction in Japan. Why do ordinary Japanese citizens tend to view Russian behaviour in a negative light? This question relates to Japanese codes of ‘proper’ behaviour: specific social situations in Japan require different codes of behaviour. Most Russian short-term visitors to Japan would naturally be unaware of such codes, making Japanese observers feel troubled or even threatened by unpredictable and clearly unorthodox Russian behaviour. In their view, the Russians may seem too loud, their body language may be perceived as vulgar and their communication style too direct. Direct interactions are not necessary to form cultural images; indeed, most images are created in the absence of real encounters. Russian body language and manners of communication are often enough to offend a Japanese sense of proper social behaviour. These various cultural attributes may help to explain why many of the Japanese respondents focus their reactions on the external signs and fail to take note of Russian cognitive abilities. From the perspective of the Russian respondents, Japanese colleagues seem reluctant to engage in intellectual discourse. The Japanese do, however, find Russians ‘eloquent’, ‘intelligent’, ‘artistic’ and ‘good at the Japanese language’. In the surveys, Russians used only a few adjectives that are considered unfavourable in Russian culture, e.g. ‘closed’, ‘distant’, ‘superficial’, ‘secretive’, ‘disingenuous’, ‘narrow-minded’ and ‘boring’. They used a few other expressions that may be seen as unfavourable in Japanese and other cultures but not necessarily in terms of Russian traditional values. They include ‘quiet’, ‘shy’, ‘reticent’, ‘cautious’, ‘naïve’ and ‘indecisive’. Another term our Russian respondents used that may arguably be unfavourable is ‘heavy drinkers’. In the interviews and surveys we noticed two interesting patterns about the evolution of mutual attitudes between Russians and Japanese. Japanese with no contact with Russians had a negative predisposition. If the same Japanese were put in extended contact with Russians professionally or personally or had an opportunity to experience life in Russia, their attitude would become more positive. In other words, the more extensive contact with Russian people, the more favourable the responses were to questions about views of Russians. It became apparent, however, that the Russian respondents grew less sanguine about the Japanese the longer they stayed in Japan and the more extensive their professional and social interaction. Only Russians who live and work in Japan were able to come up with definitions of the Japanese that are considered unfavourable. The most

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common negative characteristics related by the Russian respondents about the Japanese are labelled ‘closed’, ‘distant’, ‘secretive’ and ‘disingenuous’. Russian culture is said to encourage open and frank exchange of opinions, even when spontaneity may seem to be not appropriate. Russians praise such openness, emphasizing that it leads to trust and understanding; however, encountering the more reserved Japanese code of behaviour leads them to feel rebuffed, rejected and not trusted. Over time, this cultural discord becomes a source of permanent frustration. The Russian complaint of the ‘superficial’ nature of Japanese people seems to reflect a tendency to internalize and embrace the full scope of emotional, cognitive or professional experiences. The seeming inability of the Japanese to go beyond prescribed rules and codes is often the source of misunderstanding regarding Japanese intent and willingness to engage in genuine communication. According to an interview with a Russian resident of Japan, the Japanese lack of spontaneity engendered feelings of boredom. To the Russian mind, Japanese people and Asians in general represent an enigma associated with secretiveness and the exotic. In terms of physical characteristics, many Russians fail to differentiate between the appearances of different Asian ethnic groups. The combination of Russia’s historical experience with the Russo-Japanese War, the presence of ethnic Koreans on Russian soil and strained relations with China in the 1970s, on the one hand, and, on the other, the lack of first-hand knowledge of everyday culture, tradition and social values of Asian peoples contributes to negative or indeterminate perceptions of Asian physical characteristics. Traditional Slavic culture praises such physical characteristics as height, strength, the light skin complexion and large eyes. Therefore, when Russians come to Japan, many find it difficult to differentiate between the great numbers of faces that they see in the streets, often feeling they all look the same, thus failing to take physical characteristics into consideration. In summary, culture sheds much light on the mutual perceptions between Japanese and Russian people. Culturally informed stereotypes and preferences seem to contribute to the formation of both positive and negative impressions. EXPLANATION THREE: PROJECTION OF NATIONAL IMAGES ONTO INDIVIDUAL IMAGES

Public opinion polls regularly show that Japanese people hold largely negative attitudes towards Russia. For example, according to a Japanese government survey conducted in 2002, only 15.1% of the Japanese polled felt friendly or somewhat friendly towards Russia and 77.7% said they did not feel friendly towards Russia.26 In contrast, Japanese respondents to our surveys in Fukui, Sapporo and Wakkanai were more favourably inclined towards Russia, with 45.8% of them holding friendly or somewhat friendly feelings towards Russia against 44.4% feeling not so friendly or not at all friendly (Table 6).27 In comparison, generally

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Table 6. Japanese Affinity towards Russia and Russian Affinity towards Japan a

Friendly Somewhat friendly Not so friendly Not at all No answer TOTAL

Number of responses

%

Number of responses

%

14 19 25 7 7 72

19.4 26.4 34.7 9.7 9.7 99.9b

30 4 0 0 0 34

88.2 11.8 0 0 0 100.0

a

Japanese subjects in Fukui, Sapporo, and Wakkanai; Russians in Niigata and Sapporo b The total does not equal 100% due to rounding.

speaking, the Russians have a more positive attitude towards Japan than do the Japanese towards Russia. For example, a 2001 survey in Russia showed that 45% of the Russians polled said they liked Japan and another 24% stated they had both likes and dislikes about Japan, with only 2% indicating they disliked Japan.28 It is not surprising, therefore, that the Russian respondents of the survey in Niigata and Sapporo held even more positive feelings towards Japan. None of the Russian residents in our two samples revealed negative feelings towards Japan. Our surveys and interviews show that many Russian women find certain characteristics of Japanese men alluring because they represent a promise of safe, stable and financially comfortable life. To Russian women, a Japanese office worker neatly dressed, wearing glasses and behaving with extraordinary politeness represents a partner who almost guarantees attention, care and protection from possible spousal abuse. He also promises a life in an affluent society, a strong economy and a country with deep cultural and family commitments. The simple notion of a man being not just a foreigner, but a Japanese, seems to compensate for the absence of the physical attributes of an idealized male in Slavic culture (tall, muscular, direct and expressive). Russians who come to Japan for business or tourism are attracted by overwhelmingly positive stereotypes of the country and people of Japan. The anticipation of experiencing a miracle is embedded in Russian fascination with the world of geisha, samurai, ikebana, Sony gadgets, sophisticated culture and modernity full of high-tech wizardry. They expect a flawless, perfect, modern fairy tale and that is what most of them find in Japan and take back when they return. Akio Kawato, a Japanese diplomat who spent many years in Russia and published a book on his experience as a public information officer at the Japanese embassy in Moscow,29 is quoted in the Russian Novyi Zhurnal as saying: ‘The most popular Japan in Russia is the Japan that does not exist.’30 The Russian authors of the article observes that the Russians have a need to maintain their mythical image of Japan and, according to a Japanese

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Slavist, Mitsuyoshi Numano, ‘this is a problem of Russian culture, not of Japanese culture’.31 For most contemporary Russians, Japan has become a mythical society with all the positive characteristics they find missing in their own country. In their image of Japan, they see a safe, clean, orderly, aesthetically pleasing and organized society populated by caring, attentive and punctual people. This is a stereotype that is actively promoted by all possible channels of information. Only those Russians who have spent time working in Japan are inclined to go beyond the stereotypes. Earlier chapters have noted the intensity of the anti-Soviet/Russian propaganda of the Japanese government during the Cold War era. Nonetheless, there have been consistent efforts in Russia to build positive images of Japan since the 1960s. The word ‘Japanese’ became associated with high quality, sophistication and attractiveness; at the same time Japan as a state became a symbol of material success, high standards of living and extraordinary technological achievement. All of that, multiplied by the traditional Japanese mythology of feminine beauty (symbolized by the geisha), noble spirit (embodied in the image of the samurai), and stories of modern Japanese who are reliable, professional and polite created a milieu which had a direct impact on the Russian perception of the Japanese people. Although we are not in a position to infer causality between the Russian respondents’ views of Japan as a country and their impressions of Japanese people, there does appear to be consistency between the two levels. It should be noted, however, that Russians who have lived in Japan for extended periods of time do experience difficulties that result from differences in communication styles, as can be seen in the following statement by a fifty-year-old Russian woman in Sapporo, who has lived in Japan for three years: Japan is a highly developed country where they have been able to preserve Japanese culture and traditions, having introduced cutting-edge technology and economic relations, which are not possible without the introduction of American-European culture. Japanese cities are very pretty and clean. The Japanese are very polite and well-wishing people. I have not encountered any negative attitudes directed at myself. At the same time, the Japanese almost never speak directly about things that are unpleasant to another person. And as a result, it is difficult for Russians to adjust their behaviour.

CONCLUSIONS

This study has attempted to uncover the kaleidoscope of images that exist among Japanese and Russians. Based on surveys and interviews, it has been more directly concerned than some of the other chapters in this book with ‘seeing the other’. The study took advantage of three interpretive

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frameworks to explain prevalent patterns in mutual perceptions: 1) the nature of the interaction; 2) the role of culturally-informed stereotypes; and 3) the transference of national images. A combination of both cultural and national images held by individuals helps to explain many of the patterns observed in the surveys. Increased contact between two peoples may promote understanding of different cultural norms and beliefs in spite of strained political relationships. However, the study also suggests that cultural and national images may in effect distort the impressions people develop of each other as they interact in provincial Japan. Japan and Russia represent two very distinct cultures with striking similarities as well as important differences, and these tendencies are exacerbated in provincial settings. The study indicates that from the perspective of the Japanese residents surveyed, the image of the ‘other’ (the Russians) improves as the ‘other’ takes on those attitudinal and behavioural characteristics that are congruent with what the Japanese deem desirable. From the perspective of Russian residents and visitors in provincial Japan, the study shows that, over time, various idealized myths about Japan and the Japanese people tend to be replaced by more realistic, but also by more negative, images. This cultural awakening, however, has not led Russians to abandon those arrangements that facilitate their prolonged stay in Japan, be they partners in work or in marriage. Ultimately, ordinary citizens of the two countries will have to find a way to communicate openly, understand each other’s culture and learn to accept differences. Eventually, they may be able to see each other clearly, even through tinted mirrors. NOTES 1

2

3

Elizabeth de Sabato Swinton, ‘Russo-Japanese War Triptychs: Chastising a Powerful Enemy,’ in J. Thomas Rimer (ed.), A Hidden Fire: Russian and Japanese Cultural Encounters, 1868–1929 (Stanford: Stanford University Press; Washington, D.C.: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 1995), p. 115. The passage is from Alexander Pasternak’s memoir, A Vanished Present, quoted in Barbara Heldt, ‘“Japanese” in Russian Literature: Transforming Identities’, in J. Thomas Rimer, (ed.), A Hidden Fire, p. 174. Heldt finds similar stereotypes in many other literary works as well. In addition to Rimer (ed.), A Hidden Fire, here we cite just a few examples: Peter Berton, Paul Langer, and George O. Totten, (eds), The Russian Impact on Japanese Literature and Social Thought (Los Angeles: University of Southern California Press, 1981); George Alexander Lensen, The Russian Push towards Japan: RussoJapanese Relations, 1697–1875 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1959); Fumio Matsuyama (ed.), Nihon no puroretaria bijutsushi (The History of Japanese Proletarian Art) (Tokyo: Zokeisha, 1972); Roshiashi Kenkyukai, (ed.), Nichi-Ro 200 nen: rinkoku Roshia to no koryushi (Two Hundred Years of Japan-Russia Relations: History of Exchanges with the Neighbour Russia) (Tokyo: Sairyusha, 1993); David Wells and Sandra Wilson (eds), The Russo-Japanese War in Cultural Perspective, 1904–05 (New York, NY: St. Martin’s Press, 1999).

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Some recent research points out that it is ‘the visible features of the social world which are readily available to the naked eye – not their representation in photographic images – constitute data for investigation’ (see, for example: Michael Emmison and Philip Smith, Researching the Visual (London, Thousand Oaks, New Delhi: Sage Publications, 2000), p. 4). However, this approach has seldom, if ever, been applied to the study of images one people have about another. Judicial System Department, Minister’s Secretariat, Ministry of Justice, ed., Annual Report of Statistics on Legal Migrants, 2006 (Tokyo: Kokuritsu Insatsukyoku, 2006), p. 6 and p. 8. The statistics obtained from the Immigration Bureau, Ministry of Justice, 31 July 2006. There are a few recent publications that include studies of the presence of Russians in Japan, but they are mostly concerned about pre-war periods. Examples include: Naganawa Mitsuo, Nikoraido no hitobito: Nihon kindaishi no naka no Roshia seikyokai (People in the Nikolai Cathedral: the Russian Orthodox Church in Japan’s Modern History) (Tokyo: Gendai Kikakushitsu, 1999); Naganawa Mitsuo and Sawada Katsuhiko, (eds), Ikyo ni ikiru: raiNichi Roshiyajin no sokuseki (Life in a Foreign Country: Footprints of Russians in Japan) (Tokyo: Seibunsha, 2001); and Wada Haruki, Hoppo ryodo mondai: rekishi to mirai (The Northern Territories Problem: History and the Future) (Tokyo: Asahi Shimbunsha, 1999). See Atsushi Kondo, ‘The Development of Immigration Policy in Japan’, Asian and Pacific Migration Journal, vol. 11, no. 4 (2002), pp. 415–36; Sakanaka Hideori, Nihon no gaikokujin seisaku no koso (The Idea of Policy on Foreigners in Japan) (Tokyo: Nihon Kajo Shuppan, 2001); Demetrios G. Papademetriou and Kimberly A. Hamilton, Reinventing Japan: Immigration’s Role in Shaping Japan’s Future, (Carnegie Endowment for International Peace), (Washington, D.C.: 2000); Vera Mackie (ed.), Japan’s Minorities: The Illusion of Homogeneity (London: Routledge, 1997); Hiroshi Komai (ed.), Kokusaika no naka no imin seisaku no kadai (Immigration Policy Issues amidst Internationalization) (Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 2002); Katherine Tegtmeyer Pak, ‘Towards Local Citizenship: Japanese Cities Respond to International Migration’, The Center for Comparative Immigration Studies, Working Paper, no. 30, University of California-San Diego, La Jolla, California, January 2001; David Bartram, ‘Japan and Labor Migration: Theoretical and Methodological Implications’, The International Migration Review, Spring 2000, pp. 5–32. See Tsuneo Akaha and Anna Vassilieva, ‘The Russian Presence in Contemporary Japan: Case Studies in Hokkaido and Niigata’, in Akaha and Vassilieva (eds), Crossing National Borders: Human Migration Issues in Northeast Asia (Tokyo, New York, and Paris: United Nations University Press, 2005), pp. 95–119. For insightful essays on the impact of cultural encounters between Russia and Japan on the development of Japanese national identity, see Marius B. Jansen, ‘On Foreign Borrowing’, in Albert M. Craig (ed.), Japan: A Comparative View (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1979), pp. 18–48; J. Thomas Rimer (ed.), A Hidden Fire; David Wells and Sandra Wilson, ed., The Russo-Japanese War in Cultural Perspective, 1904–05 (New York: St. Martin’s, 1999); Tadashi Anno,

Images in Tinted Mirrors

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12

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‘Nihonjinron and Russkaia ideia: Transformation of Japanese and Russian Nationalism in the Postwar Era and Beyond’, in Gilbert Rozman (ed.), Japan and Russia: The Tortuous Path to Normalization, 1949–1999 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000), pp. 329–56; and Yulia Mikhailova, ‘Japan and Russia: Mutual Images, 1904–05’, in Bert Edstrom (ed.), The Japanese and Europe: Images and Perceptions, Richmond: Japan Library [Curzon Press], 2000), pp. 10–171. See, for example, Tsuyoshi Hasegawa, The Northern Territories Dispute and RussoJapanese Relations, vol. 1–2 (Berkeley, CA: University of California, 1998). For example, a 2001 opinion survey conducted by the Japanese Cabinet Office revealed that 76.7% of the Japanese polled did not feel friendly towards Russia, as compared with 17.9% who felt friendly. This contrasts sharply with the high level of Japanese affinity towards the United States (76.5% feeling friendly as against 19.9% feeling no affinity). (See Naikakufu Daijin kanbo, seifu kohoshitsu (ed.), Gekkan seronchosa, Heisei 14-nen 6-gatsugo, Gaiko [Monthly Public Opinion Survey, June 2002, Diplomacy], [Tokyo: Zaimusho Insatsukyoku, 2002], p. 11.) A 2001 survey in Russia showed that 45% of those polled said they liked Japan and another 24% stated they had both likes and dislikes about Japan, with only 2% indicating they disliked Japan (Foreign Ministry, ‘Roshia ni okeru taiNichi seron chosa’ [Public opinion survey in Russia regarding Japan], 2 August 2001, Japanese Foreign Ministry’s website: http://www.mofa.go.jp/mofaj/area/ russia/chosa02/index.html), (accessed 15 September 2002). Among 6,026 Russian citizens officially registered in Japan in 2002, 447 resided in Hokkaido, 219 in Niigata Prefecture, and 127 in Fukui Prefecture. (Judicial System Department, Minister’s Secretariat, Ministry of Justice, (ed.), Annual Report of Statistics on Legal Migrants, 2003 [Tokyo: Kokuritsu Insatsukyoku, Tokyo, 2003], p. 167.) They respectively represented 7.4%, 3.6% and 2.1% of the total registered Russians in Japan. For a preliminary analysis (prior to the survey in Niigata in 2003), see Tsuneo Akaha and Anna Vassilieva, ‘The Russian Presence in Hokkaido: Accommodation and Resistance among Local Communities’, Japanese Society, vol. 6 (2002/2003), pp. 44–65. For a more comprehensive report, see Akaha and Vassilieva, ‘The Russian Presence in Japan: Case Studies in Hokkaido and Niigata’, a paper presented at the international seminar on ‘Cross-border Human Flows in Northeast Asia: A Human Security Perspective’, co-sponsored by the Center for East Asian Studies, Monterey Institute of International Studies and the Peace and Governance Programme, United Nations University, Tokyo, October 7, 2003. Synonymous adjectives are counted as one, for example: kind, caring, warm and compassionate. For explorations of ‘culture’ as a focus of inquiry in the study of international relations, including definitional issues, see Jessica C.E. Gienow-Hecht and Frank Schumacher (eds), Culture and International History (New York: Berghahn Books, 2003); Yosef Lapid and Friedrich Kratochwil (eds), The Return of Culture and Identity in IR Theory (Boulder, Colorado: Lynne Rienner, 1996); Samuel P. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1996).

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Clyde Kluckhohn, ‘The Study of Culture’, in Daniel Lerner and Harold Lasswell (eds.), The Policy Sciences (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1951), p. 86. For a brief description of honne and tatemae, see Joy Hendry, Understanding Japanese Society, Second Edition (London: Routledge, 1995), pp. 45–46. For the concept of amae, see Takeo Doi, The Anatomy of Dependence (Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1973). For a study of the hierarchical aspect of Japanese society and behaviour, see Chie Nakane, Japanese Society (Harmondsworth: Pelican, 1973). On the Japanese emphasis on social harmony, conformity and cooperation, see Hendry, Understanding Japanese Society, pp. 46–49, 59–65. For a discussion of the differentiated behaviour of Japanese towards insiders and outsiders, see Hendry, Understanding Japanese Society, pp. 43–45, 84–85. James Brooke, ‘Bars in a Japanese Port Keep Russians Outside’, International Herald Tribune, 23 April 2004, p. 2; James Brooke, ‘Foreigners Try to Melt an Inhospitable Japanese City’, New York Times, 12 May 2004, p. A4. ‘U.S.-born Japanese Wins Racial Discrimination Lawsuit’, Mainichi Daily News, http://mdn.mainichi.co.jp/news/archive/200211/11/20021111p2a00m0dm02100 1c.html (accessed 28 January 2005); Akemi Nakamura, ‘Downside of Being Foreign: Discrimination’s Blatant Signs, Not Roots, Easy Target’, Japan Times online, http://202.221.217.59/print/news/nn03–2004/nn20040325b1.htm (accessed 28 January 2005); Arudou Debito, ‘Japanese Only: The Otaru Hotspring Case and Discrimination against “Foreigners” in Japan’, Japan Focus, http://japanfocus.org/176.html (accessed 28 January 2005). Naikakufu daijin kanbo seifu kohoshitsu, (ed.), Gekkan Seron Chosa, Heisei 15nen 4-gatsugo, Gaiko (Monthly Public Opinion Survey, April 2003, Diplomacy) (Tokyo: Zaimusho Insatsukyoku, 2003), p. 10. Unfortunately, our survey in Niigata did not ask the respondents about their feeling of affinity towards Russia. Foreign Ministry, ‘Roshia ni okeru taiNichi seron chosa’ (Public Opinion Survey in Russia Regarding Japan). Kawato Akio, Roshia ni kakeru hashi (Building a Bridge to Russia) (Tokyo: Simul Shuppan, undated). Alexander Kulanov and Yulia Stonogina, ‘Obraz Yaponii v Rossii: pravda i vymysel’ (Image of Japan in Russia: Truths and Myths), http://magazines.russ.ru/ nj/2003/231/kulanov.html (accessed 30 May 2003). Ibid.

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Images at an Impasse: Anime and Manga in Contemporary Russia YULIA MIKHAILOVA AND EVGENII TORCHINOV

INTRODUCTION

B

eginning in the second half of the 1980s, Japanese popular culture began to spread rapidly around the globe, attracting fans in East Asia, the United States and some European countries.1 Popular culture is no longer identified with lower forms of entertainment or with the leisure activities of the working classes. Indeed, popular culture defines the modern experience; according to John Treat it serves as ‘convenient shorthand for myriad ways in which modern people experience what makes them “modern” or even “people” ’.2 Japanese popular culture is diverse, but anime and manga have come to be its chief representatives. Japanese animation dominates the field as confirmed by Miyazaki Hayao’s Oscar for Spirited Away (2001) and the nomination of Mamoru Oshii’s Innocence for the Palme d’Or prize at the 2004 Cannes Festival, the first animated film to be selected for this top category. Why are these forms of Japanese cultural experience interesting to people outside of Japan? Some think that the appeal comes from the technical and visual quality of Japanese animation.3 Others praise the ability of anime and manga to show ordinary life as it is, without moralizing, and yet convey a basically optimistic view of human nature, leaving space for romantic dreams, heroic adventures, eternal struggles and passionate loves and longings.4 Still others claim that the Japanese genre is able to represent new and at the same time universal themes and issues, such as the advance of technology and its concordant anxieties, or shifting gender identities that have come to fascinate people.5 Russian reviewers of Japanese animation emphasize those qualities of empathy and deep penetration into psychology that make them especially attractive to a Russian audience.6

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Many Japanese cannot imagine life without manga or anime. Nonetheless, critics of anime and manga are everywhere.7 They consider these genres too erotic, if not pornographic, too prone to violence, primitive in comparison with live-action films or literature; they claim that the cartoons, even in the hands of masters, have the power to stupefy their viewers, destroying rather then enhancing their intelligence. This negative attitude encompasses those who are particularly attached, the otaku. The latter are said to be so obsessed with the ‘virtual world’ that they may sever all relations with ‘real’ society. In the early 1990s, when Russia began to enter the global cultural flow, Japanese anime and manga found an eager audience. Groups of newlyliberated youth became fans of Japanese popular culture. The popularity of anime and manga in Russia has continued to grow, producing a new youth subculture deriving its inspiration from Japan. This chapter examines Russian youth subculture, focusing on the activities of RAnMa (Russian Anime and Manga Club8). It questions Russian youth interest in anime and manga and explores their fascination with Japan in general. The chapter argues that in this age of global mass media and communications, Russian fans of anime and manga have ironically perpetuated stereotypes of Japan that emerged some three hundred years ago, while the image of Russia in Japan today is no less associated with time-worn images. Data on the activities of Russian anime and manga fans has been gained through meetings and interviews during the period from 1996 to 2004,9 results of a survey of 200 people carried out in March 2004 in St Petersburg,10 materials which Russian anime and manga fans broadly advertise on the internet, their own drawings in manga style, and magazines which popularize Japanese anime and manga in Russia. OTAKU SUB-CULTURE IN RUSSIA11

The policy of perestroika created unimaginable opportunities for Russians to become acquainted with various forms of foreign culture. In the late 1980s, books by formerly banned authors, rock music, action and other entertainment films quickly inundated the country.12 Young people became the leading social (and age) group participating in these cultural activities. Informal youth groups based on interest in foreign culture became diverse and well publicized.13 The collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 had a dramatic effect on young people. Many found themselves unemployed, financially disadvantaged, or unable to adapt quickly to the new life.14 Economic and social instability made the problem of simple physical survival a priority among young people. A subsequent erosion of civil society undermined existing safety nets and nurturing systems, depriving many youth of any hope for the future. Mass media and academics have portrayed the youth of the immediate post-Soviet period ‘as a vulnerable section of society whose position may lead them into politically or socially dangerous

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acts’.15 Anomie and disorientation pushed young people to search for new sources of social and cultural identity. As noted by Graham Murdock, young people everywhere are in search for available symbolic resources to help them make sense of their specific situation and construct a viable identity.16 Japanese popular culture in the form of anime and manga offered one possible way of identification for Russian youth caught between contemporary discourses and spaces of transition. Japanese animation was sporadically shown in Soviet theatres since the 1970s. Japanese film festivals were held regularly from 1960, and often included some anime. By the end of the 1980s, Japanese animated features began to appear on Russian TV.17 The advent of video technology after 1987 made anime available in an unlicensed form, but the perception of such productions remained a form of entertainment suitable only for children. Manga was completely unknown in the Soviet era. Its dissemination outside Japan began in the second half of the 1980s, but there were special difficulties blocking its entry into the Soviet Union. Contrary to rock music, for example, which could easily make its way into the life of the Soviet people because of widespread use of sound recording equipment, no such infrastructure existed for manga. Pixel-perfect copying of artwork required high-quality photocopiers, which were under state control and only available to joint-venture companies towards the very end of the 1980s. It is difficult to date when the first manga books or magazines appeared in Russia, but it is possible that they were brought into Russia by students studying in Japan, whose number increased in the 1990s, or entered through English versions published in the United States and Western Europe. Around 1994 and 1995, the internet emerged as an important channel for the penetration of anime and manga into Russia, and committed fans began to appear. However, in the middle of the 1990s the internet was available only to around ten per cent of the Russian people, mainly to academics, owners and employees of business companies and members of their families. Moreover, anime and manga sites were in Japanese or English, requiring knowledge of these languages. This partly explains the broader spread of Japanese popular culture among the more educated youth – those who knew foreign languages and who had access to the internet. Russian fans began to call themselves otaku, following the Japanese pattern. At first, we assumed that Japanese animation and comics attracted the attention of youth with artistic abilities, offering a challenging opportunity to try their hand in a new realm of the arts. However, our 2004 survey demonstrated that only ten per cent of respondents were interested in drawing. Fifteen per cent gave preference to manga over anime, and some twenty-three people out of 200 had attempted to translate manga into Russian. At present, anime continues to be more popular than manga and not only because it is more easily available. Anime, for example, requires less knowledge of Japanese. Manga is the older genre, while animation is an extension of cinema, the dominant international cultural form of the twentieth century.18

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Most otaku are college or university students or young people who have either failed to pass the university entrance exams or who have, for one reason or another (largely financial), dropped out of school. From interviews we know that anime and manga-related activities comprised the major portion of an otaku’s daily schedule. None of the people interviewed, however, clearly expressed an intention to connect their future career with anime or manga. In our opinion, in the middle of the 1990s anime and manga provided a psychological niche; it was a means of identification for youth from not very well-to-do families of the intelligentsia who felt disgust towards the new capitalism and the dark atmosphere of criminality associated with it. At present (2007), some first-generation otaku have become professional designers, translators, cinema and art critics or pursue related intellectual professions. It would seem that fascination with Japanese cultural forms has stirred their creative activities. Otaku consider themselves technologically advanced members of the growing Russian middle class: ‘We are people who have some extra money for entertainment, but we are not rich enough to spend our free time travelling from Hawaii to a resort in the Bahamas.’19 Russian otaku soon realized that some organized form of activity would better suit their needs. Such an organization appeared in Moscow in the autumn of 1996 under the name of RAnMa. Its aims were defined as follows: (1) to propagate and popularize anime and manga as patterns of contemporary Japanese culture in Russia; (2) to stimulate interest in anime and manga among the Russian public, especially among the young; (3) to explain the nature of anime and manga to the Russian public in order to eliminate existing misconceptions about these Japanese art forms, as well as Japanese culture in general; (4) to assist beginners in the field to find a like-minded community and to help in answering their questions; (5) to create in Russia a primary market that would accept anime and manga not as an ‘exotic Oriental perversion’, but as a valuable part of entertainment, able to be enjoyed in Russia with no less popularity and commercial success than the mass culture of the West.20 In individual talks, interviews and on internet sites, otaku emphasize that Japanese popular culture is more attractive than its American counterpart, because, to cite one opinion, ‘American cartoon movies always have a happy end which can be predicted from the beginning, while in Japanese anime the end is far from clear, leaving opportunities for imagination.’21 In 1997, similar otaku clubs appeared in other cities of Russia, such as St Petersburg, Rostov-on-Don, Perm, Voronezh, Vladivostok and others. Membership in such a club consisted of two levels – regular members, the backbone of the movement, who paid a membership fee, and others who did not pay a fee but were simply interested in anime and manga. The average age of a Russian otaku is twenty-two years, ranging from sixteen to thirty-five, and the correlation of sexes is approximately equal.22

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The most regular form of communication among Russian otaku is animka, a gathering of several fans in an apartment or studio to watch a video, DVD or OVA, discuss recent news of the anime world, or prepare a costume play for later performance. The plays may be based entirely on the contents of an anime or manga, but may also develop an existing story where new characters are introduced. In the beginning, the costume play offered some compensation for the lack of original Japanese anime, but it was also an important form to expressing creativity, providing an open forum to construct group identity. Gathering at a more public space, tussovka, is another form of activity. Fans come to tussovka to buy and sell CDs, DVDs, videos, pictures or other products related to anime and manga, such as badges with characters, as well as just to communicate with each other. Tussovka often serves as a site to perform costume plays. Until recently, most tussovka took place out-of-doors because local authorities did not allow gatherings inside public buildings, treating otaku with suspicion. Since autumn 2003, in connection with the preparation of the St Petersburg Anime Festival, a local RAnMa club was put under the auspices of the Union of Youth Organizations, allowing anime festivals to be organized in public buildings. Tussovka is a form of association of ordinary people inherited from Soviet times. This also means that otaku do not count themselves among the rich new Russians who spend their leisure time in expensive clubs. All otaku with whom we spoke emphasized that animka or tussovka occupied an important part in their lives, serving as a sort of ‘second family’. The meetings were an opportunity to exchange videos and games, but also as places to meet close friends and people with similar interests and affections. However, recently, otaku say that anime-related activities no longer take precedence over education or work. During those gatherings, otaku do not consume alcohol (some beer is allowed) or drugs and do not condone physical violence, though many of them are familiar with martial arts. Female otaku often touch each other on the hands and shoulders while talking, but do not regard this as the expression of sexuality. On their homepages, otaku emphasize the peaceful character of their gatherings and in this way contrast themselves with cultures associated with criminal activities, violence, drugs or alcohol. They think that it is high time to recognize the fact that ‘anime and manga are the only alternatives to vodka, drugs and hooliganism dominant in Russia’.23 Contrary to representatives of many other subcultures, anime fans do not have any special clothing or hairstyles (except when engaged in costume plays) which could make them immediately recognizable. However, everyone has a nickname based on a favourite anime or manga character. They try to reproduce gestures and features associated with certain characters and their speech is rich in quotations from anime. Otaku appreciate the ability to tell interesting stories, either based on anime or derived from their own imagination. The subject itself does not

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appear to matter; the thrill comes from intellectual conversation, costume playing or karaoke singing. Presently, otaku communities exist in nearly all Russian cities. Two magazines Anime Magazine and AnimeGuide are published in Moscow and are distributed through subscription and sale. They feature overviews and reviews of various animated movies and games, describe events in the life of Russian otaku, such as festivals, and also provide information on Japanese culture. Topics covered include Japanese history, religion or classical culture; recently, however, this section has been devoted to the travel experiences of otaku who have visited Japan. Anime-related places, such as Akihabara, feature prominently in their stories. Publication of those magazines is clear evidence of the growing size of the otaku community in Russia. Articles on anime and manga also appear in popular magazines for youth, such as Smena, Esli, My, etc. Since 2000, anime festivals have become a important feature of youth subculture in Russia. The fifth festival held in Moscow on 3–6 November 2006 was widely advertised in newspapers; it attended to the needs of beginners, those interested in ‘classical’ anime and even offered insight into the ‘provocative’ yayoi genre.24 When asked to specify what factors attract young people to anime and manga, respondents to our survey gave the following points: an opportunity to understand problems of contemporary youth (43%), interesting leisure-time activity (22%), artistic style (18%), an opportunity to learn more about Japan (8%), an alternative to movies with violence and crime (7%), other (2%). As is obvious from the answers, fans do not treat anime and manga as mere entertainment. Generally speaking, otaku are equally attracted to all varieties of anime, because, according to the opinions of several people interviewed, ‘all of them pose problems related to the meaning of life itself’. A group of otaku noted that they liked anime because it gives space for fantasies and liberates them from restrictions set up by parents or traditionally formed stereotypes of sexual relations. Another group of young (nineteen years old) female otaku confessed to anime-related contradictions with parents, because ‘all parents dream of their daughters marrying the good guy’, while the girls themselves were not thinking of marriage at all. In their own drawings they often refer to the subjects of superwomen or Amazons. For their parents’ generation, it was common to marry young. At the same time, however, some parents enjoy anime and manga themselves, making it difficult to make generalizations. After ten years, general attitudes towards anime and manga have changed. Anime are no longer viewed exclusively as ‘kid culture’, but as a much broader and more significant cultural sphere. Moreover, the RAnMa club has long since achieved its goal to collect samples of anime and manga and familiarize the public with Japanese popular culture. This is the result not only of otaku activities, but due to the joint effort of television, cinema, the internet, and organizations such as consulates and, in fact, to the increasing integration of Russia into global popular culture.

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However, the activities of the RAnMa club have also undergone transformation. As soon as it became easier to obtain anime and manga, RAnMa came to be divided into small units for members with special and even professional interests. The fan world of anime and manga in Russia has lost its association with the notion of ‘art for the cultural elite’. Consequently, those who saw anime and manga as a tool to distinguish or even separate themselves from the ‘crowd’ are beginning to leave otaku clubs. Recently, large-scale Russian business corporations, for example MCEntertainment, have began to show interest in financing projects dealing with the purchase of Japanese anime, translating them into Russian or writing subtitles and thus making them available for a broad viewing audience. Otaku, however, do not like translations into Russian, saying that the attraction of the original seiyu (an actor whose voice is used for dubbing) voice becomes lost. They also consider their own interest in anime as ‘pure’, if not professional, and feel apprehension that the popularization of anime as entertainment for ‘the crowd’ would defile it as an art form. Thus, there is a contradiction between the exclusive nature of otaku sub-culture and their own successful efforts to make it a part of mass culture. WORKS BY RUSSIAN OTAKU

Russian otaku are engaged in their own creative activities, so-called fan art, which they exhibit at festivals. The most popular form is fanfik – graphic works produced for non-commercial purposes in manga style. Usually based on plots, ideas and characters from Japanese works, they may contain additions and introduce new characters, or they may even parody a Japanese original. Authors try as much as possible to reproduce the Japanese manga style. When asked about the difference between their pictures and Japanese manga, they replied that their pictures were not as perfect as the Japanese ones. In some cases, heroes are invented by otaku themselves. For example, the picture Vampires (Pl. 41) drawn by Felix Torchinov for a role-playing game, Vampires: the Masquerade, is his own invention, although the style is clearly derived from the Versailles series or heroes from Up Along the Nile (Nile-o Sakanobotte).25 The first and so far only work of a Russian otaku in the manga genre was officially published in the magazine Klassnyi zhurnal in 1999–2000.26 It was titled Nika after the name of the chief heroine, authored by Viacheslav Makarov and artwork by Bogdan Kulikovskii. Klassnyi zhurnal, founded in April 1999, targets mainly schoolchildren and is published under the auspices of the National Russian Organization of Scouts. The magazine contains a variety of features for children beginning with descriptions of video and playstation games, technical hints, detective stories, comics by foreign and Russian authors, crosswords and puzzles. The magazine also organizes photo competitions and even celebrated Barbie’s jubilee.

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As the first serialized manga published in Russia, Nika deserves a detailed description and analysis, in spite of the fact that it was created by amateur artists and by no means qualifies as a masterpiece. Nonetheless, the ideas, images and sensitivities the creators of Nika sought to share with their readers offer a good insight into the Russian otaku world. Nika is an original story, but contains many quotes from Japanese anime and manga together with sci-fi or books for children such as Harry Potter. The main character, Nika Novikova, is a fifteen-year-old Moscow schoolgirl. Her parents perished in an automobile accident and left Nika a videorecording firm. The girl is rich, beautiful, smart and ambitious; in a word, the object of envy for many teenagers. But Nika is unhappy because she has no friends. Her guardian takes care of the video firm and looks after Nika, but she prefers practising martial arts rather than going to school. Nika is obsessed with the idea of becoming stronger than the boys in her neighbourhood with whom she often fights. She definitely belongs to the shojo type of character.27 Like many of the heroines of Miyazaki Hayao and other manga masters, she combines strength and independence, assertiveness and risk-taking with magic powers. Her obsession with acquiring power through magic resembles the Sailor Moon heroines (Pl. 42). The manga consists of three parts, with the last one published only electronically. In part one, Nika becomes the owner of a detective agency and thanks to her wits manages to find the lost treasures of a famous archaeology professor. As a reward she receives an old book of magic compiled by Oleg, a famous magician who later turns out to be her grandfather. Nika patiently masters magic spells but soon discovers that magic powers are not always a blessing. Various ‘evil forces’, represented by Unit J 9, try to take the book away from her. They fail, but not because of Nika’s magical powers. She manages to survive only due to the help of two boys who protect her for ‘the sake of justice’. Finally, Unit J 9 is defeated and all three return to their normal life. This first part of the story is ‘Russian’ in content and character. Its main theme may be described as a struggle for survival in a semi-fantastic world saturated with criminals, violence and danger. The collection of weapons owned by members of Unit J 9, security guards, business corporations, theft of commercial secrets, hackers, nepotism and betrayal are clear references to contemporary Russian life. They are associated with the adult world that teenagers know they will have to confront. It also portrays the life of Russian youth who seem willing to live independently from their parents – a theme characteristic of many Japanese anime and manga. The story thus borrows on Russian and Japanese sources, both real and fantastic. Unit J 9, which attempted to attack Nika, may remind readers of Section 9 from The Ghost in the Shell or Nerd from Evangelion, but may also be associated with the former Soviet KGB. In general, the first part can be seen as a negative reflection of contemporary Russian life, especially if we take into account that Nika was created soon after the 1998 financial crisis.

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Part two takes place in Japan or some other Asian country. Nika undertakes a trip to a remote monastery high in the mountains. Her purpose is to master a new magic technique called gy, a probable allusion to zen meditation. The architecture of the monastery and the surrounding scenery rely on Japanese motifs. It appears, however, that the insidious and uncanny Father Superior, whom Nika meets there, is not willing to share his secret knowledge. He is more eager to get rid of a small girl, Asana, who is an orphan, like Nika, and who wandered into the monastery when she was a child. The peculiar feature of Asana, and the reason why no one likes her, is her unique ability to break everything that gets into her hands, be it a simple compass, a toaster or a radio. Father Superior casts a spell, tying Nika and Asana together with electric bonds. After a series of adventures, the two girls reach Moscow, only to discover that they are pursued by the Goshi brothers, who allegedly have received a command from the wicked ‘other world’ to capture Nika’s book of magic. Only after Nika resorts to a very strong spell do they manage to escape, an exercise that takes all Nika’s strength and, exhausted, she falls into a long and deep sleep. This part presents an ironic view of ‘things Japanese’. In the first part it was already clear that martial arts, often associated in Russia with Japan, are not a sufficient means of self-protection. Father Superior in part two is a far cry from a wise and benevolent Oriental sage. He is selfish, uncanny and mischievous and resembles the numerous religious practitioners, both Western and Eastern, who inundated Russia in the 1990s pursuing more than purely religious goals. The Goshi brothers are portrayed as overweight sumo wrestlers wearing huge Russian fur hats (Pl. 44). They are slow-thinking, faint-hearted and finally are taken by ambulance to a mental asylum. The funny little girl Asana with what seems to be a Japanese name may only be pitied for her awkwardness. The irony expressed by the authors towards ‘things Japanese’ seems strange for a story inspired by Japanese manga and may be seen as a counter-argument against the exoticization of Japan. In the third part the narrative revolves around Nika and Asana travelling through numerous ‘other worlds’, weird, mysterious, and always wicked; their constant struggle with ominous and ugly denizens seems to have no end. The storyline, moreover, loses coherence; the ‘other worlds’ seem to have some connection with an apocalyptic event that took place many years earlier. Nika and Asana travel across a desert, dying from thirst and hunger. They learn that universal time consists of two periods – the good and the bad, which interchange like sand in an hour-glass. Some strange animal-like creatures mill stones into sand to extend the good era, but it appears that no one has ever been able to achieve this goal. The girls give way to despair as their friends in Moscow fail to rescue them through a computer window; they are afraid they will never be able to return home. It is clear that technology will not save the day. The story has no clear finale, but the authors pose a question whether it is better to live in an artificial world full of technological wizardry or return to a past when

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the world was inhabited by mermaids, wood-goblins and other more familiar fantastic creatures. Indeed, as Bogdan Kulikovskii confessed in an interview, longing for a miracle was a stimulus behind his work. An interest in miracles, mysteries, spiritual powers or the spiritual world characterizes the ‘new age’ movement of the late twentieth century. According to Ian Reader, who studied this eclectic spiritualism in relation to Aum Shinrikyo, it presents an emotional counterbalance to the heavily technologized contemporary world. The new-age believers feel that science is not the solution to all problems.28 The authors of Nika seem to share this concern. They also express, albeit vaguely, apprehension that superhuman powers may destroy the world – one more topic characteristic to Japanese anime and manga. The story contains many overt references to Japanese manga and anime. The magic book will remind readers of Fushigi yugi, pancakes derive from Kiki’s Delivery Service, the electric cords that tie Asana and Nika together may have come from Urusei Yatsura. But the debt to Japan is greater in more general areas: the euphoric state of power, fascination with magic, dystopia wrought by technology, nostalgia for normal life and anxiety over the future. At the same time, some elements seem to betray more Russian origins: the criminal debauchery in Moscow, the depiction of life as a constant struggle for survival, the strong sense of insecurity and vulnerability of people and also the idea that wealth is no replacement for the warmth of human relations. As represented in this story, young Russians feel themselves uncomfortable whether surrounded by contemporary reality, technology or magic. They look for an escape from each, but are unable to find it. They are destined to loneliness and surrounded by violence and betrayal. We see Nika’s face with manga-style wide-open eyes full of pain and angst, rage and frustration. ‘It is so difficult to survive in this world’, this face seems to cry out. At the same time, Nika is strong, always ready to fight, to protect herself and resist evil. The feelings of loneliness, anxiety, uncertainty are by no means characteristic of Russia alone: they represent universal adolescent ‘rites of passage’ expressed here in anime and manga. Youth in contemporary Russia may indeed experience these feelings more strongly than young people in other countries; the unpredictability of their lives stands in stark contrast to the secure but regimented society familiar to their parents. THE JAPANESE CONNECTION

How has growing interest in Japanese popular culture influenced Russian images of Japan? Is anime a factor in current Russian-Japanese relations? To answer these questions we must first examine Soviet-era images of Japan. During the Cold War, Soviet authorities criticized Japan as an American lackey; at the popular level, however, Japan’s image was rather positive.29 Not many Soviet citizens could see Japan with their own eyes, so its image was shaped by mass media, literature, cinema and arts. The

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works of two Soviet journalists, Vsevolod Ovchinnikov and Vladimir Tsvetov, were particularly influential in the 1970s and 1980s. They presented Japan as a country with a unique aesthetic tradition, developed technology, a wholesome society and an excellent system of management.30 And, as the chapter by Irina Melnikova demonstrated, Japanese films shown in the Soviet Union contributed to the same perception. Research by experts in Japanese traditional culture, classical literature, religion and intellectual history complemented a growing interest in Japan. While translations of classical literature offered reading and entertainment to intellectuals, especially members of the older generation, young people seemed more interested in Zen Buddhism and the martial arts – karate, judo and aikido. In fact, President Vladimir Putin’s engagement with judo, part of his public persona, goes back to the Soviet period. Many students eagerly read privately-translated books and articles by such authorities on Zen Buddhism as Suzuki Daisetsu and Alan W. Watts. They also participated in training sessions of martial arts groups. To sum up, the image of Japan in the Soviet mind, similar to that in Western countries, possessed a dual character: Japan as a highly developed technological country which managed to preserve its unique traditional culture. However, there was an additional dimension in the case of the Soviet Union: Japan, which had been defeated in war, became the world’s top achiever. In the bubble years of the 1980s, Japan stood posed to dominate the twenty-first century. The contrast with the Soviet Union could not be greater. The 2004 questionnaire on images of Japan held by Russian anime and manga fans showed that the recent fascination with Japanese popular culture did not originate from this early interest in Japan. Only 9 percent of respondents traced their interest in manga and anime to internet searches for information on Japan. On the other hand, the overwhelming majority of manga and anime fans (83%) have chosen to study about Japan in universities, language study centres, and on their own, with some 67 percent engaged in the study of Japanese language. Nearly half of the respondents had never met a Japanese; about 40 percent have seen Japanese people from a distance, but never communicated with them; only some 10 percent reported meaningful contacts with a Japanese. Those who had seen and/or communicated with Japanese people were asked to give three attributes describing them. One group of attributes was based on personal impressions. The Japanese were characterized as polite, attractive, business-like, attentive, energetic, but also wary and reserved. A second group of attributes was based more on stereotypes, perhaps derived from manga and anime. They describe the Japanese as child-like, naïve, spontaneous, puzzling, unusual, interesting and strange. Answers to the question about the image of Japan showed that otaku equally regard Japan as an exotic country with a unique culture and traditions and as a technologically developed nation – about 50 percent chose both, while some simply wrote that it was the country of their

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dreams. Russian otaku held an exotic image of Japan in even greater numbers than ordinary Russians. The results of a survey conducted in 2004 by the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs gave the following reasons for Russian attraction towards Japan: religion, traditional arts and culture (35%), advanced technology (22%), and ‘exotic atmosphere’ (19%).31 Those answers coalesce with the impression of Japan as an ‘ideal country’ or ‘a golden island’ – the sorts of images that Ikuta has shown inhabited the Russian mind already from the eighteenth century. Japan has become for Russia a kind of ‘simulacra’, or a model of reality which replaces realty itself. The questionnaire also made enquiries into Russian otaku opinion on the state of Russian-Japanese relations: 42 per cent said that relations were steady and friendly; 22 per cent were aware of the existence of problems, but only 5 per cent could mention a specific issue; 10 per cent answered that Japan treated Russia with contempt; 16 per cent differentiated between state-to-state relations and people-to-people relations, the first characterized as ‘not so good’, the latter as ‘good’; the remaining 10 per cent reported that they did not know anything about RussianJapanese relations. It would appear that knowledge of Japan among rankand-file anime fans is not deep, despite the goal of the 2000 RAnMa charter to work towards ‘cultural rapprochement’ and ‘friendly relations’ between Japan and Russia.32 At the same time, interest in anime and manga has given birth to numerous magazines with colourful and attractive anime characters on their covers; the magazines contain Japanese crossword puzzles and short articles on Japanese history or contemporary life. These magazines may be treated as a proof of popular interest in Japan, but the image offered of Japan and Japanese people is not always complementary. They are often presented as slow-witted (like the sumo wrestlers in Nika) or robotlike beings who have lost their humanity due to technological progress. Japanese exoticism is treated with contempt. Otaku note that they feel victimized because of their addiction to anime and suggest that this might serve, at least for their parents, as a source of negative attitudes towards Japan. On the other side, there are some enthusiasts who are trying to challenge exotic images of Japan, making it more real and closer to Russian experience. For example, the homepage by Boris Ivanov, the author of one of the few books on Japanese animation written in Russian,33 contains some information on Japanese history and contemporary society. Ivanov aims ‘to throw light on the so-called myths about Japan and to bring it closer to the Russian people’.34 It seems instructive to enumerate some of the twenty myths he sets out to debunk. Myth no. 2: ‘Japan is a small country.’ Comments: ‘Everything is relative. The territory of Japan is 377,000 square metres. It is larger than Germany and nearly equal in size to Italy. The population of Japan is 125 million people which is slightly less than the population of Russia. Politically Japan has always been the strongest state in the Far East . . .’

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Myth no. 6: ‘The Kuril Islands are originally owned by Russia.’ Comments: ‘This is only partially true. One should not mix up two different groups of territories, i.e. the northern and central Kurils which until 1871 [1875] were part of the Russian Empire, and the southern Kurils (Shikotan, Iturup, Kunashir, Habomais), which until 1947 never belonged to any country other than Japan. These four islands are the stumbling block in Russian-Japanese relations . . .’ Myth no. 11: ‘The Japanese people are difficult to understand.’ Comments: ‘This is not true. The Japanese are no more difficult to understand than the Americans. They are practical and rational, not prone to philosophical allusions or profound thinking. However, they are polite, rarely refuse directly or express negative opinions. It is because of these features that they are criticized for duplicity. However, this is a characteristic feature of polite people of any ethnic background. In this sense it is no easier to understand a polite Russian than a Japanese.’ Another myth debunked is the notion that Japanese popular culture takes second place to American creativity. On the contrary, Ivanov praises Japanese originality, notwithstanding foreign borrowings. The home page ends with a list of useful readings on Japan. Despite minor historical mistakes, the information is presented objectively, void of either delight or contempt. Nonetheless, it is difficult to conclude that these efforts to expose myths about Japan have borne fruit. Are the Russian otaku attracted to the realities of contemporary Japan, or to images that exist only in the mind’s eye? As noted above, otaku were attracted to anime and manga out of a yearning for self-accommodation. Uncomfortable and apprehensive in the world dominated by money-making, worried about the prevalence of violence and crime, they attempted to escape into an imaginary world. In this sense anime and manga, saturated with virtual reality, sci-fi and fantasy, offered a protective niche. Although fans sought to educate people about Japan and its culture, the only reality about Japan that matters for them is its being a source of anime and manga. By no means do anime and manga play the role of a ‘mirror’ of contemporary Japanese society. Japan, the ‘land of their dreams’ is, in fact, a fantastic world. Some fans are aware of the excesses of this perception, but to destroy it would undermine the essence of the sub-culture itself. CONCLUSION

It is ironic that in the twenty-first century, an age of global mass communications filled with the expectation that people will know each other better, fans of Japanese popular culture in Russia and elsewhere see ‘the country of their dreams’ with much the same exoticism as their ancestors did some 300 years earlier. Instead of producing knowledge about the realities of Japanese life and society, anime and manga contribute little to the promise of mutual understanding. Images may seem to be at an impasse, but the changing reality of Russian life also imbues old

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stereotypes with new meanings. For example, the age-old image of ‘samurai’ which used to bring forth negative emotions is now correlated with commitment and responsibility, posing a positive contrast to Russian wild capitalism, associated for many with the criminal world. At the same time, with the rapid spread of consumerism in contemporary Russian society, Japanese cars and electronic equipment are no longer out of the reach. According to recent surveys, people tend to look at Japan more pragmatically: Russia needs Japanese investment and business platforms, and these things may help to improve the lives of the Russian people.35 Japanese technology is necessary for the development of Siberia and the Far East. For many in Russia, Japan is not fantastic and distant any more – it is losing its exotic allure. Several chapters of this book have demonstrated that Japan has a long history of treating Russia with fear, disdain and mistrust, which was sustained even during such a tremendous event as the collapse of the Soviet Union. Popular culture has served to perpetuate stale stereotypes and images. Russian characters appearing in video and OVA games, anime or manga are cold-blooded killers, spies or other villains.36 At best, they are represented as big-bosomed sexy girls in military uniforms entertaining themselves with tanks and military training.37 Thematically these products of popular culture may not necessarily deal with events taking place in Russia, but involuntarily they bring to mind old Cold War or even earlier stereotypes of Russia as a military giant to be feared. At present, however, the image of the military threat emanating from Japan’s northern neighbour is apparently receding into the past, with Japan and Russia conducting military training exercises in the Pacific together. Neither is Russia perceived as a miserable country, and stories about its new rich are too impressive to be ignored. Still, the inertia of negative images lingers. In newspapers, reports on the advances of Japanese companies into the Russian market are intermingled with anxiety about ‘oil-based’ nationalism, tensions around fishing in the Sea of Japan or suspicions regarding a lack of transparency in Russian taxation laws. It will definitely take time before the current interest of the Japanese business circles in dealing with Russia can be translated into any significant change of images. Mass media and popular culture are considered central to contemporary social, political and cultural experience, but in the case of Japan’s perception of Russia even a sophisticated public relations campaign can hardly happen without changes in reality. Both have to complement each other and there needs to be an audience eager to accept the new information. NOTES 1

For example, the total sales of films, copyrights and related goods of Toei Animation in March 2006 comprised 167 hundred million yen domestically and 48 hundred million yen internationally. Now the company aims to make the amount of its overseas sales equal to domestic sales. See Toei animeshon (Toei

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animation) http://www.toei-anim.co.jp/corporate/ir/business.html (accessed 7 December 2006). John W. Treat, Contemporary Japan and Popular Culture, (Richmond: Curzon, 1996), p. 6. Basically, the style of animation depends on the number of drawings which comprise the movement. With a large number of drawings the movement becomes smooth and natural in look, as in Western animation. However, Japanese artists and producers chose an opposite approach: they gave preference not to the smoothness of movement, but saturated their films with events, quick montage and change of sequences, thus placing emphasis on content. Tim Craig, ‘Introduction’, in Timothy J. Craig, Japan Pop! Inside the World of Japanese Popular Culture, (Armonk, New York, London: M.E. Sharp, 2000), pp. 10–13. Susan J. Napier, Anime: from Akira to Princess Mononoke, (New York: Palgrave, 2001), pp.10–11. Elena Zakharova, ‘Chernyi khod v mir iaponskogo soznaniia’ (A Back Way into the World of Japanese Consciousness), Smena, 2003, no. 7, pp. 65–66. Sharon Kinsella, Chapter 5: ‘The Movement against Manga’, Adult Manga. Culture and Power in Contemporary Japanese Society, (Richmond: Curzon 2002). Negative attitudes were especially stimulated in 1989 by the so-called ‘Miyazaki incident’ when pornographic manga were found in the apartment of a serial child-killer. The name of the club has obvious allusions to the popular television anime series Ranma 1/2. In fact, family members of one of the authors were among the first anime and manga fans in Russia. Because it seemed impossible to determine through a questionnaire how many anime and manga fans existed among Russian youth in general, an openended questionnaire was given to members of otaku groups to be answered on an anonymous basis. The goals of the survey, apart from the questions about age, education, occupation and sex, were to find out (1) how interest towards Japanese popular culture appeared; whether it was related to a prior interest in Japan, artistic activity or anything else; (2) what sort of activities otaku pursue as a group; (3) the meaning of anime and manga for the fan’s life and identity; (4) images of Japan and the Japanese held by otaku. Otaku were also asked to present their views on the state of Russian-Japanese relations and express their opinions on the subject of connection between the spread of the Japanese popular culture in Russia and the future of relations between the two countries. This part of the chapter draws partially on materials published in Yulia Mikhailova ‘Apocalypse in Fantasy and Reality: Japanese Pop Culture in Contemporary Russia’, in In Godzilla’s Footsteps, William M. Tsutsui and Michiko Ito (eds), (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), by permission of the publisher. Richard Stites, Soviet Popular Culture, pp. 178–203, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 178–203. Molodiozhnyi Peterburg: Dvizheniia, organizatsii, subkultury (Petersburg of Youth: Movements, Organizations, Subcultures), SPB: Institut Sotsiologii, 1997.

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Elena Omelchenko, Molodiozhnye kultury i subkultury (Youth Cultures and Subcultures), (Moscow: Institut Sotsiologii RAN, 2000), p. 8. Hilary Pilkington, ‘“The Future is Ours”: Youth Culture in Russia, 1953 to the Present’, in Catriona Kelly, David Shepherd (eds.), Russian Cultural Studies. An Introduction, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 381. In 2002 youth comprised 37.7 percent of the unemployed and 21.2 percent among those whose income was below the living wage; see: V. F. Lukov, ‘Spechificheskie cherty molodiozhnoi sub-kultury v Rossii’ (Specific Features of Youth Subcultures in Russia), Sotsiologicheskiie issledovaniia, 2002, no. 10, p. 80. Graham Murdock, ‘Mass Communication and the Construction of Meaning’, Nigel Armistead (ed.), Reconstructing Social Psychology, (Hardmonsworth: Penguin, 1974), p. 213. For the list of anime available on TV and in movie theatres see Alex Lapshin, The R.An.Ma Club, Appendix 1. Anime in Movie Theatres, Appendix 2. Anime on TV, http://ranma.anime.ru/english.html (accessed 8 November 2006). Susan Napier suggests that anime is probably ‘the ideal artistic vehicle for expressing the hopes and nightmares of our uneasy contemporary world’, Susan J. Napier, Anime: from Akira to Princess Mononoke, p. 10. See Boris Ivanov, Anime i manga v Rossii (Anime and manga in Russia), http://anime.dvdspecial.ru/Articles/otaku.shtml (accessed 7 December 2006). These aims were stated at the homepage of RanMa, Alex Lapshin, Rossiiskii klub iaponskoi animatsii (Russian Club of Japanese Animation), http:// ranma.anime.ru/ (accessed 7 December 2006). Interview, 31 August 2004. This is slightly different in Japan, as many Japanese drop their obsession with anime as soon as they graduate from high school. Boris Ivanov, Rossiiskaia animatsiia i iaponskoe anime (Russian animation and Japanese anime), http://anime.dvdspecial.ru/Articlesrussian.shtml (accessed 6 December 2006). ‘Gotika po-iaponski’, (Gothic á la Japanese), Nedelia-Izvestiia, 3 November 2006, p. H36. The archive containing verbal and graphic fanfik may be found on HP Boris Ivanov, Arkhiv fanfikov (Archive of Fanfiks), http://fanfic.anime.dvdspecial.ru/ (accessed 7 December 2006). One needs to be well-versed in anime and contemporary Russian slang to appreciate how creatively both are combined into the art for fans. The full version of Nika exists in electronic form. Bogdan Kulikovskii, Komikserial NIKA (Comic-series NIKA), http://www.comics.aha.ru (accessed 7 December 2006). In 2002, an abbreviated version of the story was published as a book by Russkui Izdatelskii Dom Publishers. The analysis in this article is based on the electronic and magazine versions, because the book version is much shorter and, probably, more distant from the original idea of the author. Susan J. Napier, Anime: from Akira to Princess Mononoke, p. 119. Ian Reader, Religion in Contemporary Japan, (Basingstoke: MacMillan Press, 1991), p. 236. Yulia Mikailova, ‘Japan’s Image in Soviet Japanese Studies’, Japanese Studies Bulletin of Australia, 1996, vol. 15, pp. 59–74.

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Vsevolod Ovchinnikov, Vetka sakury: rasskaz o tom, chto za liudi iapontsy (Sakura Branch: A Story about What Japanese People Are Like), (Moscow: Molodaia gvardiia, 1971); Vladimir Tsvetov, Piatnadtsatyi kamen’ sada Ryoanji (The Fifteenth Stone of Ryoanji Garden), (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo rolit literatury), 1986. Foreign Ministry, ‘Roshia ni okeru taiNichi seron chosa (Russian Opinion Surveys on Japan), Japanese Foreign Ministry’s website, http://www.mofa.go.jp/ mofaj/area/russia/yoron05/index.html (accessed on 19 November 2006). Alex Lapshin, Rossiiskii klub iaponskoi animatsii (accessed 28 November 2006). B. Ivanov, Vvedenie v iaposkuiu animatsuiu (Introduction into Japanese Animation), (Moscow: Mezhdunarodnyi foud razvitiia kinematograffi, 1999). B. Ivanov, Twenty Myths about Japan, http://anime.dvdspecial.ru/Japan/ legends.shtml Yu.D. Mikhailova, ‘Predstavlenia rossiian o Iaponii i rossiisko-iaponskihh otnosheniiakh po materialam oprosov obshchestvennogo mneniia v SanktPeterburge i Vladivostoke’ (Perception of Japan and Russo-Japanese Relations by Russians Based on Results of Public Opinion Surveys in St Petersburg and Vladivostok), Yearbook: Iaponiia 2007, Moscow: «AIRO-XX», 2007, pp. 171–87. For example, one of the heroines of Sakura Wars, Maria Tachibana, an émigré from Russia, renowned for her ferocity in fiery battle, joins the New York mafia (this series was released in 1999); in the Mobile Police Platform TV series (released in 1989–90) a defector from the Soviet Union tries to smuggle a Soviet military robot to Japan. Tamura Naoya, Nogami Takeshi, Moeyo! Sensha gakko, nikei (Learning about Tanks with Cute Anime Girls, part 2), (Tokyo: Ikarosu Shuppan, 2006).

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Strategies of Representation: Japanese Politicians on Russian Internet and Television LEONID SMORGUNOV

INTRODUCTION

R

epresentations of the ‘other’ stand among the major topics in contemporary philosophical and sociological discourse. Tsvetan Todorov, James Der Derian, Michael Shapiro, Iver Neumann and other scholars have developed methodologies to analyse images of the ‘other’ that are now widely used in the research of intercultural communication and international relations.1 These methodologies are equally appropriate for the case study of Russian-made images of Japanese politicians. It is widely noted that new media technologies have drastically changed the way people interact with one another. Television and the internet, being part and parcel of the industry which makes news, mould the world so diversely and fluidly that the notion of ‘reality’ itself is called into question. As Peter Osborne writes, Everyday life is lived in the medium of cultural form. Its phenomenological immediacy is the sedimented result of myriad repetitive practices, yet it is constantly open to the randomness of the chance occurrence, the unexpected encounter, the surprising event, as well as to the alteration of meanings through more explicit forms of social intervention. The novel is a ‘culture of everyday life’, as are television and video, various forms of print journalism and the multiplicity of other, more informal means of communication.2

Visual media are particularly able to stir up the imaginative capacity of peoples everywhere to construct and re-construct the world in which

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they live. This constructed world of everyday life depends so heavily on images that some scholars tend to think that ‘the contemporary world is the one where everything has become a representation, where everything is imagined’.3 However, although the influence of the media on the construction and interpretation of events is enormous, it does not encompass the entirety of roles played by images in the process of communication. The virtual world of images co-exists with perceptions in the real world where the identity of communicating subjects, though fluid, limits the boundaries of imagination. On the one hand, images may appear independent from their construction by the media; on the other hand, those constructed by the media may take on a life of their own. This chapter seeks to explain some of the philosophical principles that underpin the construction and interpretation of images of Japanese politicians on Russian television (hereafter TV) and Russian language internet sites by outlining three strategies of representation: the construction of a radically different ‘other’, the construction of a familiar or friendly ‘other’ and the construction of an indifferent or neutral ‘other’. The communicative nature of images demands their examination from the viewpoint of relations between the ‘other’ and the ‘self’. At the same time it is important to determine how images of politicians are built into what may be called ‘a political event’, while the metaphysics of existence of human beings in this world requires answering the question of how the construction of a political event is linked to the communicative nature of social relations. Hence, an understanding of identification practices relating to the ‘other’ cannot be limited to one strategy alone. Depending on the context of relations between the two parties, one or another strategy may become prevalent. However, quite often various strategies of representation are used simultaneously. The strategy of representation based on the logic of a radically different ‘other’ was developed by contemporary critical philosophy of radical orientation, including representatives of phenomenology and theory of communication, such as Edmund Husserle, Maurice Merleau-Ponty and Emmanuel Levinas. The strategy of understanding based on the idea of commonality of human culture is characteristic of the works of many Russian thinkers, Jürgen Habermas, and representatives of communitarianism and multiculturalism – Michel Walzer, Alasdar MacIntyre, Michel Sandel, Will Kymlicka. The third strategy was suggested by Mikhail Bakhtin and developed further in the post-modern interpretations of culture and the theories of mass media. The present analysis proceeds from an assumption about the communicative nature of images, irrespective of their standing in relationships of opposition, co-existence or construction as elements of performance. In the first case, images may symbolize tensions in relations between the two parties; in the second case, they mark friendly relations and, in the third case, the spectators are urged to believe in the circumstances. The time-frame covered in this chapter is the second half of the 1990s and the early years of the twenty-first century; more specifically

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the ten-year period between 1996 and 2006. It was during these years that images of Japanese politicians began to appear frequently in Russian news programmes due to a series of unofficial and official meetings between the leaders of the two states. Through the 1990s, Japan and Russia began to search for ways to improve relations, but it was not until the second half of the decade that Japan’s political leadership began to take Russian relations seriously; the issue of the Northern Territories and the conclusion of a Peace Treaty took on new urgency. The cabinets of Prime Ministers Hashimoto Ryutaro (1996–98), Obuchi Keizo (1998– 2000), Mori Yoshiro (2000–01), and Koizumi Junichiro (2001–06) made successive efforts to realize this ‘revolutionary for Japan idea’.4 Russian leaders responded, but during the presidency of Boris Yeltsin no serious approach to the problem was made. The second Russian president, Vladimir Putin, visiting Tokyo in 2000 declared Russia’s intention to abide by the Joint Declaration of 1956 which stipulated the transfer to Japan of two islands after the conclusion of a Peace Treaty. In March of the following year, both Putin and Mori confirmed this in written form during their meeting in Irkutsk. This declaration became the ‘top achievement’ in relations between the two countries. However, after that, so-called patriots in each country interfered and spoiled the possibility of further negotiations.5 The current Russian position is ‘two islands or nothing else’, while the Japanese position is ‘four islands or nothing else’. As the well-known Russian academic Konstantin Sarkisov noted with much wit, it seems that the word ‘nothing’ is the only thing which both sides have in common.6 The following study is based on news programmes presented by ORT (All Russian Television), RTR (Russian TV and Radio Company), NTV (Independent Television) and several Russian language internet sites, including those supported by newspapers and Japan-related magazines, such as Japan Today. ORT and RTR tend to represent the official position of the government, although in the 1990s the media were still independent enough to express its own viewpoint. NTV, until it was reshuffled (2003) by Vladimir Putin, was considered the voice of the liberal intelligentsia. However, in fact, there was no principal difference in the way various channels presented and interpreted images of Japan. It is also important to note that, although in principle the internet is more interactive than TV, enabling people to communicate and share information, some critics argue that recently the internet is losing its democratic character because of the domination of media conglomerates, so that, at least for the purposes of the present study, there seems to be no principal difference between images presented on TV and the internet.7 The internet sites discussed in this paper belong mainly to Russian TV channels, newspapers or magazines. However, quite often images of Japanese politicians presented there are based on photographs made by Japanese cameramen. This only confirms the idea that the strategy and the context of representation and interpretation of an image matter more than the picture itself.

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THE STARTING POINT

As demonstrated in the chapter by Ikuta Michiko, many stereotypes in the perception of Japanese by Russians go back to the time of initial contact between the two countries. The expedition of Adjutant-General Evfimii Putiatin (1804–83), which came to Japan in 1853 with the purpose of establishing official relations and opening the country, was especially noteworthy. Initial impressions are considered the ‘most true and stable’, they influence subsequent stereotypes and their survivability. Interpretative cognition is sensitive to historical memory. Records made by some members of the Putiatin expedition became a major source for future images. Among them were drawings and notes made by Alexander Mozhaiskii (1825–90), a naval officer, engineer and painter. A group portrait of the Japanese delegation was accompanied by particularly detailed comments [Pl. 45]. Mozhaiskii noted: The picture portrays the representatives of the Japanese government. I made them by pencil during the negotiations about the trade treaty with our plenipotentiary Vice-Admiral Putiatin. We can also see here their secretary and interpreter with the Dutch language. The Japanese plenipotentiaries were dressed very richly and neatly: each of them had four silk robes, the upper two were warm, while the two underneath were not padded with cotton-wool, just silk. Their wide trousers (sharovary) with ornaments were made of satin. All the Japanese girdled themselves with satin scarves with two sabres thrust under them. The trousers of two of them were white and thick like leather, silvercoloured. The sabres were top-quality made . . . Having failed to persuade the Admiral to follow their tradition, the plenipotentiaries arranged for themselves benches, equal in height to our chairs, brought from the frigate. We can see here the old honourable and good-natured dignitary Tsutsui Hizen no kami sitting first on the left, next to him was Kawaji Saiemon no jo, an intellectual who had significant influence on the course of the negotiations. The third one was Matsumoto Churobe [phonetic], an official spy who seldom interfered with the conversation, but whose duty was to hear and notice everything. The fourth was Koga Jinichiro, a man who, like every Japanese with a pretence to being well brought-up, was well versed in the Chinese language and famous in Japan for his deep knowledge. The last on the right, Nakamura Tameo, was recording everything on paper. He was clever, courteous, businesslike, and attentive, and we all liked him. The interpreter was lying on the floor, not daring to raise his head and eyes, breathing the air in, hissing and choking, he translated the words of the plenipotentiaries.8

This small sketch seems to contain all the main strategies of representation of the Japanese which can be seen in the Russian media today. Firstly, the Japanese officials are perceived in the perspective of another country with its own culture and history. They have different customs,

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manner of dressing, peculiarities of conducting negotiations, the composition of delegation and so on. ‘Robes’, ‘wide trousers’ and ‘scarves’ emphasize ‘strangeness’ and the ‘alien nature’ of the Japanese. These peculiarities make the Russians understand their own difference from the Japanese. Secondly, the description given above also points to features that can bring the Japanese and the Russians together, portraying them as representatives of a culture common to all mankind. We see members of the delegation as ‘clever’, ‘courteous’, ‘well brought up’; they are ‘businesslike’, ‘good-natured’ and ‘honourable’. These characteristics serve to emphasize the possibility of contact and the discussion of difficult problems that arise in the course of negotiations. Spatial symmetry, such as arrangement of seats of the same height, also plays the role of portraying both parties as equal and mutually dependent rather than ‘impervious’ and ‘self-contained’. Thirdly, the description contains many aspects that present negotiations as a performance. Everyone acts according to his role – ‘a plenipotentiary’, ‘a spy’, ‘an interpreter’ and so on; everyone seems to be hidden behind a mask which speaks only about the function but tells nothing about the nature of the persons themselves. ‘Robes’, ‘wide trousers’, ‘scarves’ and ‘sabres’ operate as attributes of the scene, as decorations. They mark the event under the name of ‘negotiations’. In this sense a mask means security, it creates distance, but it also highlights the role played by the various actors. Something similar we see now in the form of make-up, when people create their images. RADICALLY DIFFERENT ‘OTHER’

The main principle of the first strategy is to attempt communication in the absence of any prior totalizing ‘sameness’, be it rationality, morality, culture, tradition or anything else. This means that the ‘self’ and the ‘other’ are basically different but this difference is not antagonistic. The ‘empty space’ of alterity may be filled only during the process of communication, i.e. during the search for understanding which, in this case, is primarily the search for understanding of the ‘self’, yet without the denigration of the ‘other’. The ‘other’ exists as an objective independent entity; it is not subject to the ‘self’, but the ‘self’ augments itself and supplements the notion about oneself through comparison with the ‘other’. In other words, the ‘self’ admits the existence of the ‘other’ as a phenomenon. According to this strategy, the representation of the images of Japanese politicians engenders two types of interpretations – exoticism and asymmetry. Generally speaking, the images of exotic Japan have dominated over the Russian communication space for a long period of time, indeed, from the very beginning when information on the remote Golden Islands reached Russia. As demonstrated in other chapters in this book, that image could easily co-exist in time with the negative attitudes

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towards Japan-the-enemy. During the Brezhnev era (1964–82), for the majority of the Soviet people, photographs of bullet trains or Tokyo Tower, symbolizing the technological progress of Japan, were no less exotic than cherry blossoms, girls in kimono or silhouettes of ancient castles, so different the miraculous land of Japan seemed to be in comparison with the miserable situation at home. At present, many internet sites, including, for example, that of the magazine Japan Today, or even the site of the Japanese Embassy in Russia, continue to popularize the same symbols, as if intending to emphasize Japan’s ‘alien-ness’. However, TV programmes containing topics based on mere curiosity have recently been nearly absent. In a similar way, Japanese politicians are rarely portrayed according to the principle ‘who is who?’ Estranged curiosity, revealing no particular attitude to the ‘other’, is characteristic of some programmes directed on St Petersburg TV by Innokentii Ivanov, to travelogues of foreign lands or to general area information programmes. Here, images of politicians are presented as mere markers of the ‘other’ as if they were pharaohs of Ancient Egypt. Usually, this type of image carries stereotypical signs, for example, ‘cruelty’ and ‘firmness’ considered as being features of a Japanese samurai. The political leaders of Japan may be shown as ‘energetic’, ‘hard-working’ or ‘sinister’ and ‘insidious’ at the same time. An example of this sort of representation is a TV story, once shown by RTR in 2001, about skirmishing in the Japanese Diet. Another example concerns a high-ranking Japanese official who attempted to kill himself by ritual harakiri. Steven Rosen and other scholars, discussing the Western view of Japan as ‘other’, define this attitude as Orientalism: ‘Orientalism as cultural myth had been articulated through metaphors which characterize the East in ways which emphasize its strangeness and otherness.’9 Asymmetry is another important feature in the representation of Japanese politicians. Asymmetry means that the ‘other’ is set-off against images of the ‘self,’ and both are compared according to the standards of Russian culture. In this case, the images of Japanese politicians are more telling about the self-image of Russia than about Japan. The image of the ‘other’ here is nothing else but the carrier of the opposite mark, of the division, or gap that exists between the two countries. As Emmanuel Levinas wrote: The Other as other is not only an alter ego. He is what I am not: he is the weak one whereas I am the strong one; he is the poor one, ‘the widow and the orphan’. [. . .] Or else the other is the stranger, the enemy and the powerful one. What is essential is that he has these qualities by virtue of his very alterity. Intersubjective space is initially asymmetrical.10

This does not mean, however, that in reality relations of animosity exist. The television and the internet simply create pictures based on contrasts between large and small, strong and weak, good and wicked,

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serious and comic. They fervently perform these ‘arithmetic’ functions, because news programmes based on visual contrast stir the interest of the public. So, this seemingly impartial narrative hides a strategy to impose on viewers the ideology that the mass media itself sees fit. It is not important in this regard whether the image is presented as positive or negative – the main goal is to emphasize the contrast, the divergence in accordance with the rules of Boolean algebra. As a result, spectators see ‘small BUT strong’ Japan (represented by former Prime Minister Hashimoto Ryutaro) or big BUT weak’ Russia (represented by former president Boris Yeltsin) (Pl. 46).11 The universality of these general conclusions is characteristic of many TV programmes or internet sites. A visual image may also be distorted for the sake of the contrast itself. For example, the small height of Russia’s second president, Vladimir Putin, was replaced by the firmness of his sportive figure or, as on the cover of the magazine Japan Today,12 Putin was placed in the forefront, which made him look larger than Emperor Akihito – a strategy often used in photography. Another device is change in emphasis. When Mori Yoshiro, a man of relatively large size, became Japan’s prime minister, the emphasis in interpreting his image in the phrase ‘small BUT strong’ Japan was moved to the word ‘strong’. While the content of the image itself is irrelevant, we see here only the stereotype of contrasts. This asymmetry may derive from the geographical image of each country. However, the symbols of Japan seen here (Hashimoto Ryutaro as small BUT strong or Mori Yoshiro as small BUT strong) tell us nothing about the real Japan. These are the Russian symbols of Japan formed historically and they have to be looked at through the prism of contemporary Russian problems. Suffice it to say that the same way of representation was characteristic of Russian caricatures about Japan which appeared in the second half of the Russo-Japanese War: small and strong Japan was then contrasted with big and weak Russia. Hashimoto is ‘small’ only in comparison with ‘big’ Yeltsin, and Mori is ‘strong’ only in comparison with ‘weak’, though already ‘potentially strong’ Russia. Interestingly enough, in Japan at the same time, Mori was treated as a weak political leader. Later, after Koizumi Junichiro became prime minister, similar linkages were confirmed with Putin. When the two leaders met in 2003, the website of the newspaper Russia, noted that Koizumi ‘rubbed shoulders with the Russian President without taking his clothes off’.13 On this occasion the political leaders had their neckties on, contrary to Yeltsin’s unofficial meetings with Hashimoto. However, as will be demonstrated later, the relations between these two leaders are more often depicted by recourse to another strategy. The strategy of representation, based on contrasts, is typical of Russian political culture which leans towards generalization and dichotomy of thought. Features most often attributed to Japanese politicians throughout the second half of the 1990s were diligence (as opposed to Russian laziness), modesty (as opposed to Russian boasting), energy and optimism (which stood in contrast to a lack of initiative by the Russians),

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sense of duty and dignity, reserved behaviour and other characteristics that Russians are assumed to lack. These and other similar attributes refer to positive symbols of Japan which are simply contrasted with Russian disorder. However, the difference and distance between the images of Japanese and Russian politicians is only seemingly so, because Japanese politicians are in fact interpreted according to the stereotypes of Russian political culture. In the framework created by this strategy, the radically different ‘other’ remains estranged from the subject that perceives it, and both parties are not engaged in dialogue, although the subject itself gains additional elements of its identity. At the same time, asymmetry does not exclude the meaning of co-existence which is expressed in the case of Yeltsin and Hashimoto by their smiling faces and hot embracing. FAMILIAR AND FRIENDLY ‘OTHER’

The second strategy of interpretation is characterized by the urge to make the ‘other’ close and intimate to the ‘self’. The interpretation here is preceded by a search for some preconditions able to totalize differences and to bring both parties to one and the same ‘basis’. Jürgen Habermas, for example, looks for this basis in moral universalism sensitive to differences and in universal pragmatism of rational discourse. The philosopher points out that: . . . moral universalism must not take into account the aspect of equality – the fact that persons as such are equal to all other persons – at the expense of the aspect of individuality – the fact that as individuals they are at the same time absolutely different from all others. The equal respect for everyone else demanded by a moral universalism sensitive to difference thus takes the form of a nonleveling and nonappropriating inclusion of the other in his otherness.14

Differences in this case are totalized by means of rational communication. The latter presupposes a type of understanding which, though not aiming at levelling or appropriating, views differences as something that can be neglected in the process of discourse. ‘The assumption that the competition can lead to “rationally acceptable”, hence “convincing”, results is based on the rational force of arguments . . . [T]he content of the universal presuppositions of argumentation is by no means “normative” in the moral sense.’15 It is important to note that communication in this case proceeds as mutual adjustment based on rational consensus. In the Russian philosophical and religious tradition (Semion Frank, Pavel Florenskii, Aleksei Losev), understanding the ‘other’ is deemed possible due to original faith in the world as one integrated entity where relations of difference are overcome through dialogue based on the metaphysics of I-You-We. According to Frank, ‘sympathetic emotional experience’, understanding the ‘other’ based on some preliminary shared general idea not bound to any particular place in time or space, brings

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forth self-understanding followed by unity with the ‘other’. At the same time this unity with the ‘other’ brings forth the enlightenment of the ‘self’ and the feeling of unity with the whole world. As Frank wrote: . . . the dynamic going out of the self coincides with the experience of entering of something similar into the self from the outside – of something or, rather somebody, essentially bound to me in the way that it is similar to me but is located outside me and, hence, may be called. . . . by the unnatural term ‘other’ or ‘the second self’.16

According to this logic, a different type of communication appears when TV programmes or internet sites construct images of Japanese politicians in the frame of close and familiar Japan. To create this ‘closeness’ or ‘familiarity,’ images of Japanese politicians are interpreted as ‘events’ in the intercultural communication process of the two countries bound together by long history. This type of interpretation is connected to the real world; the content here is more important than the form, and space is open for discourse and discussion rather than to monologue narration by mass media. This event-related interpretation of images means that they are built into the relations between Japan and Russia not from the outside (as in the previous strategy), but are deep-rooted in the same political and cultural world. For example, news on the Okinawa Summit (2000) was mixed with information about the death of Ishii Hanako, the girlfriend of Richard Sorge, a legendary Russian secret service man. Ishii died at the age of ninety-four, one week after her first and only interview on Russian TV. The accompanying message emphasized that Japanese authorities had given Ishii the remains of Sorge after his execution, and that the Soviet government allocated her a pension and paid it until the end of her life. The biography of Mori Yoshiro presented on the internet and every story about him on Russian TV contains information about his father.17 He was a POW in the Soviet Union, and later became the mayor of Neagari, sister-city to Shelekhovo located near Irkutsk, and head of a local Association of Friendship between Japan and the Soviet Union. Some of his remains were buried in Shelekhovo. The television enthusiastically attempted to make the image of this Japanese prime minister as close to the Russian people as possible. He was characterized as the ‘bear-looking representative of the Liberal-Democratic Party’ (Pl. 47).18 His photos found at various internet sites appeared to confirm this characteristic, at least in the eyes of the Russians. Besides the fact that the bear is considered the traditional image of Russia itself, at that time it was associated with the political movement Unity, also known as ‘Medved’ (meaning ‘bear’ in Russian). This was an abbreviation of the Russian words Mezhregionalnoye dvizheniie edinstvo (Interregional Movement Unity) supported by President Putin. The same goal was pursued by a message spread by ORT on 18 June 2003 concerning former Prime Minister Mori Yoshiro in which he was purported to have asked that some of his remains

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also be buried in Russia. He is often credited with the phrase: ‘I am proud that in the end I will be buried in the vast lands of your country’. One more example of creating the image of a ‘close friend’ is the interpretation of the attitude to Russia by Admiral Yamamoto Ishiroku whose plane was shot down by the Americans in 1943. The internet site of the newspaper Vladivostok included a portrait of the distinguished admiral which was accompanied by a story about his death and included the following words: Some two years would pass and Japan which had seized Southeast Asia and China would not only have to give up those territories but to cede a part of its territory to its northern neighbour. To that very neighbour called Russia that had never been seen as the enemy by Admiral Yamamoto Ishiroku.19

In this way the message hinted that Japan’s real enemy was not Russia, but the United States. One Russian internet site represented a ‘drunken’ Koizumi Junichiro with the obvious intention to construct an image familiar to Russians, themselves known as heavy drinkers.20 In reality, however, the bottles surrounding Koizumi did not contain alcohol, but various food dressings, though their labels written in Japanese characters were incomprehensible to most Russians. Another significant aspect regarding Japanese politicians on Russian TV and internet sites is their representation as Europeans rather than as Asians. By emphasizing various video signs, such as clothes, manner of behaviour and communication common to the heads of Western states, the Russian mass media depicted Japanese leaders as participants in the process of globalization. Unofficial meetings of Russian President Boris Yeltsin with Prime Minister Hashimoto Ryutaro were put into the context of Yeltsin’s unofficial meetings with European leaders aiming thus to destroy the stereotypical perception of Japanese political behaviour as ceremonial in nature. The same goal was pursued by stories and video clips telling about the sport activities of Japanese political leaders – a practice borrowed in the West. The internet photograph of Mori Yoshiro striking a rugby ball and an accompanying message not only emphasized his sportive life style but also an image that complemented the images of European politicians with whom the Russians sought contact.21 Friendly images of Japan and its political leaders may result from the performance of Russian cultural practices. The Russian media often notes that Russian songs are more popular in Japan than in any other country. In fact the practice of singing Russian folk songs developed in immediate postwar Japanese utagoe kissa cafes, but disappeared later. Members of the old generation in Japan still remember these songs well. By the same token, during the festivities to celebrate the 300th anniversary of St Petersburg, local television showed that Russians also like to sing

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Japanese songs. The image of the mayor of Osaka, Isamura Takafusa, presenting St Petersburg with a Japanese lantern in June 2003 was set against a background of Russian children performing a Japanese song together with the Japanese delegation. The subsequent official meeting was perceived through a prism constructed by the Japanese songfest. POST-MODERNIST INTERPRETATIONS OF THE OTHER

Post-modernist strategies of interpretation presume the existence of images or signs separate from the reality which brings them forth; images start to live a life of their own. The images become more real than reality itself. This strategy is based on the following premises. First, mass media constructs a world of images that represent political events. In this sense, the images of Japanese political leaders should be viewed as an aspect of virtual reality created every day by TV news programmes, and as a necessary part of political performance. Second, every image is fluid; it changes depending on the news ‘frame’ it is built into. Images are situation-related. As Gaye Tuchman writes, ‘frames turn non-recognizable occurrences or amorphous talk into discernible events. Without the frames, they will remain mere happenings, mere talk or incomprehensible sounds.’22 Third, images of political leaders constructed by TV or the internet are imposed by mass media on viewers as a means to manipulate public opinion. However, the frames of manipulation are not fixed, and ample space for interpretation by viewers remains. Fourth, the images of political leaders are central symbolic figures in the structure of news programmes. Their role is to represent not only Japan as a state, its politics and parties, but Russian-Japanese relations as well. In this respect, the images of politicians are used pragmatically as a tool in a political game. One and the same visual image may be differently interpreted depending on the requirements of the game. The relation between images and political events is of particular importance here. Mass media plays a major role in the construction of political events. Jean Baudrillard has described how recent incidents have penetrated into the sphere of the political: There is a tidal wave in Pakistan, a black title fight in the US; a youth is shot by a bistro owner, etc. These sorts of events, once minor and apolitical, suddenly find themselves invested with a power of diffusion that lends them a social and ‘historic’ aura. New forms of political action have crystallized around this conflictualization of incidents that were hitherto consigned to the social columns. There is no doubt that, to a large extent, the new meanings they have taken on are largely the doing of the media.23

The requirements of political performance exact a significant imprint on the representation of images, including those of politicians. Although

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the news has a prescribed goal, it is structured according to the aesthetics of performance. Information and the relations of communication are built into the process of telecasting. During the programme, the selection of visual images and the coordinated succession of information flow are transformed into a performance which takes place ‘here and now’. News is news because it comes into being in a certain temporal frame of the programme which in turn transforms it into a political event. The constructivist character of the programme is evident in its every element including the way political leaders are presented. In this respect the image of a political leader ‘lives’ precisely in the frame constructed by the news and loses its meaning, becoming incomprehensible, outside this frame. Moreover, not only newsmakers such as TV journalists and announcers, but news consumers, the TV viewers, become participants in this performance. News programmes where Japanese political leaders appear are built into storylines that cater to the needs of the Russian audience. Because news functions as performance, the ethical may give place to the aesthetical. The ‘other’ loses its certainty. One of the techniques used here is the ritual of cross-dressing. Recently, this has become a popular component in demonstrating meetings between Russian and Japanese political leaders. Generally speaking, the ritual of changing clothes may be seen as a play or carnival staged with the purpose to promote communication. Huizinga pointed out that the play is: . . . in fact an integral part of life in general. It adorns life, amplifies it and is to that extent a necessity both for the individual – as a life function – and for society by reason of the meaning it contains, its significance, its expressive value, its spiritual and social associations, in short, as a cultural function. The expression of it satisfies all kinds of communal function.24

In a sense play can be compared to carnival. Both facilitate communication. In the process of carnival, the distance between the two opposites is contracted by means of laughter and mirthful action. Television has made the play-like actions and elements of carnival a lucrative business. It circulates incessantly the images of President Putin dressed in judo costume (Pl. 48), his wife in kimono (during the Okinawa Summit) and the then Russian Foreign Minister Igor Ivanov participating in the tea ceremony. These carnivalesque scenes aim to bring the two parties closer to each other by means of contracting the distance between them. However, they also turned events into a mere performance where the ‘masks’ of the participants hide their real feelings and reality itself. The same approach is visible in representations of Koizumi’s visits to Russia in 2003. During the January visit, the two leaders confirmed their intent to cooperate on the non-nuclearization of the Korean Peninsula and other international issues, including terrorism. They also agreed on the Japan-Russia Action Plan, in which both sides pledged to continue

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efforts to resolve the territorial issue and conclude a peace treaty, as well as to develop economic and other areas of cooperation. In May, during celebrations for the 300th anniversary of the founding of St Petersburg, Koizumi and Putin confirmed their wish to continue negotiations. In fact, however, political dialogue between the two countries was slowing down. The mass media portrayed the leaders of Japan and Russia as equal parties in a skilful game of diplomacy. A number of symbolic events took place each time, a visit to the Nord-Ost Theatre, the site of terrorist occupation in the autumn of 2002, offering flowers to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, a talk at a judo hall in a sports academy, or a number of impressive banquets, all serving as important photo opportunities.25 Ceremonies superseded content, as if to emphasize that ‘differences in opinion are not important’.26 Interestingly, one Japanese cartoon, titled ‘Self-arrogance of the Tops’, that appeared in 2001 poked fun at both presidents pointing out that their words should not be taken seriously. Hari Sunao depicted Putin and Koizumi sitting on equally high chairs and talking over the phone to each other. Both were praising themselves with the Russian word ‘harasho!’ which means ‘perfect’, while a crow passing by mimicked them croaking ‘ka-ra-sho!’27 The image of Koizumi Junichiro as the ‘elegant premier’ dressed in a light-grey suit, turquoise tie and with fluffy hair wanders from one Russian magazine to another and is used in electronic mass media regardless of the situation (Pl. 49).28 The symbolic connotations of this image represent a mixture of the positive, negative and ambivalent: it is ‘light’ but ‘grey’; as an official, Koizumi wears a suit and a tie, but his hair-style is different from the typically bureaucratic one and he is slightly unshaved like a Frenchman. The turquoise colour of his tie also has an ambiguous meaning: it is blue as the sky, green as the sea, but nontransparent at the same time. This ambiguity seems to resonate well with the inability of two leaders to establish a meaningful dialogue. An important example of the construction of political images was the coverage of the 2002 World Cup and the soccer match between Japan and Russia. The World Cup was presented as ‘a matter of the greatest state importance, as if Russia entered into a world war and its defeat would result in catastrophe on a national scale’.29 The match with Japan was interpreted on the background of two historical events: Russian defeat in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–05 and the ‘territorial problem’ (as the Northern Territories problem is called in Russia). When Russia lost the game, the site of the Asian Library came up with the heading ‘ “Tsushima”. Japan-Russia: 1:0. But we will not return the islands in any case.’30 It is true that after the disintegration of the Soviet Union in 1991 an image of the loser began to figure prominently in the mentality of the Russian people. Hence, the loss of the soccer game to Japan related immediately to the sensitive territorial problem and associations with the disastrous Battle of Tsushima Straits in May 1905. It was, however, the

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mass media that made these associations possible; for example, television announcers constantly prepared the Russian populace for a ‘state of war’ and led people to believe that the 8 June soccer match was a ‘decisive battle’. Moreover, the question of who, in the end, lost the war in 1945 was present in the Russian sub-consciousness. The mayor of Tokyo, Ishihara Shintaro, poured oil on the flames saying that Japan’s victory in the soccer game would help get the Northern Territories back. His message spread widely in the Russian mass media. Given this build-up, the defeat of the Russian team was accepted as a ‘second Tsushima’. Simultaneously, television quoted Putin saying ‘we do not have any spare land’.31 One cartoon (Pl. 50) which appeared at that time represented a Russian tippler with a bag of empty bottles looking pejoratively at an expensive Toyota car. The caption said: ‘Perhaps, you also want the Kuril Islands back?’32 It was widely known that after the defeat in the match with Japan, Russian fans crushed Japanese cars parked in the streets close to Red Square where a giant TV screen had been set up to view the game. The message concealed many meanings: the anger of ordinary Russians towards the Japanese whose conscientious work made their cars the best in the world; the apprehension that Toyotas were now ‘conquering’ Russia; dogged resistance to giving back territories captured in the Second World War, the victory in which is found the last reminder of Russia’s former might. Though the soccer match was decorated in historical and political clothes, in fact it did not have any practical impact on Russo-Japanese relations. The historical context was simply used for the purposes of promoting the event called ‘World Cup 2002’ and advertising goods: ‘buy this and you will win’. Obviously, commercial goals were more important than political ones. CONCLUSION

As noted by Corner and Pels, aesthetics and performances, their settings and the kinds of responses they receive have become the predominant trend in mediated politics.33 That trend also may indicate a lack of civic engagement in politics. In the case of representations of RussianJapanese relations on Russian internet and TV, concern with content seems to have been replaced recently by images of stylish politicians who are presented as stars. Although the images of political leaders definitely symbolize countries and relations between them, those images are by no means a substitute for thorough information and knowledge about political realities. The Russian public needs to know, for example, why the problem of territorial demarcation between Japan and Russia exists and why it is so difficult to solve it. Proliferation of visual images representing the leaders of the two states, shaking hands and smiling to each other, makes little contribution to the improvement of Russian-Japanese relations. TV and the internet with their enormous capacity to influence human minds and emotions and the

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creation of public opinion should, indeed, become more politically responsible. Instead of capitalizing upon entertainment, the new media can and should help to resolve a protracted state of deadlock in relations between the two countries. As this chapter has sought to demonstrate, the media can easily switch over from one strategy of representation to another. Perhaps as the political situation in Japan and Russia undergoes change, the style of their representation will change too – and let us hope for the better. NOTES 1

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Tsvetan Todorov, The Conquest of America: The Question of the Other (N.Y.: Harper Perennial, 1981); James Der Derian, On Diplomacy: A Genealogy of Western Estrangement (Oxford: Blackwell, 1987); Michael Shapiro, Reading the Postmodern Polity: Political Theory as Textual Practice (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992); Iver Neumann, Uses of the Other: ‘The East’ in European Identity Formation (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998). Peter Osborne, The Politics of Time. Modernity and Avant-Garde, (London, New York: Verso, 1995), p. 197. J. Ellul, The Political Illusion, (New York: Vintage, 1972), p. 202. Yurii Kunadze, ‘Notes on Japanese Foreign Policy, New Times, 2002, no 29, pp. 22–23. Yurii Kunadze, ’The Conspiracy of Patriots’, New Times, 2001, no. 26, pp. 24–26. Konstantin Sarkisov, ’Two, Four or Nothing’, New Times, 2004, no. 48, pp. 28–29. Some even speak of the ‘televisualization’ of the internet. See Timothy Roscoe, ‘The Construction of the World Wide Web Audience’, Media, Culture, Society, 1999, vol. 21, p. 677. A[lexandr] M[ozhaiskii], ‘Iaponiya i iapontsy,’ Russkii khudozhestvennyi listok, 1857, no. 14, pp. 1–2. Steven L. Rosen, ‘Japan as Other: Cultural Stereotypes and Cultural Conflict’, Hiroshima Joshidaigaku Kokusai Bunka Gakubu Kiyo, 2000, no. 4, pp. 75–81. Emmanuel Levinas, Existence and Existents, Translated by Alphonso Lingis, Foreword by Robert Bernasconi, (Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania: Duquesne University Press, 2001), p. 98. Iaponiia segodnia (Japan Today), 1998, no. 5, p. 1. Iaponiia segodnia (Japan Today), 2000, no. 10, front-cover. ‘Vstrecha Putina i Koizumi’ (Meeting of Putin and Koizumi), http://www.rgz.ru/ archive/13.01.2003/txt2.html (accessed 4 November 2003). Jürgen Habermas, The Inclusion of the Other: Studies in Political Theory, (Cambridge, Ma., The MIT Press, 1998), p. 40. Ibid., p. 44. Semion Frank, ‘Nepostizhimoe. Ontologicheskoe vvedenie v filosofiiu’ (The Incomprehensible. Ontological Introduction into Philosophy), Sochineniia (Collection of Works), (Moscow: Pravda, 1990), p. 355. ‘Tokyo zaiavliaet: “Kurs budet prezhnim” ’ (Tokyo Declares: ‘The Course Remains the Same’), http://www.ng.ru/world/2000–04–06_tokio (accessed on 16 October 2000).

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Index

Abramtsevo, 36, 45n Ainu, 11, 13–15, 24, 27, 29 Akhmatova, Anna, 32, 40 Akihito, Emperor, 198 Akishino, Prince, 141 Akkeshi, 23 Aleksandro-Nevskii Monastery, 22 Alexandrov, N.A., 35, 36, 44 Alexandrias, (Romances of Alexander the Great), 33 Alleni, Julio, 12, 14 Allied Occupation (1945–51): Soviet films in Japan, 115; repatriation of POWs, 99 Amae, 165, 174n Amateur Voices, 106 America. See United States Amur, 21, 78, 79, 82 Anglo-Japanese Alliance (1902), 54, 76 Anime Magazine, 180 Anime: as sources of visual information, 3, 7–8; as sources of images of Japan, 7–8, 153, 185–187; Russian-Japanese relations and, 184–186; Russian youth interest in, 176–181; topics in, 182–184; youth identity and, 177–178, 187 AnimeGuide, 180 Animka, 179 Antipin, Ivan, 23 Apushkin, Vladimir, 73 Arabesques, 36 Araki Sadao (war minister), 82 Art: Art Deco, 41; Art Nouveau, 42, 45; artworks as memory sites, 91–92,

107; as a source of historical information, 1–3; Avant-garde, 81; contemporary Japanese popular culture and, 177–178; émigré teachers of, 114; Europe and Japanese, 5–6; exhibitions of Japanese art in Russia, 34–35; fan, 181–184; high, see: paintings, 1; Japan as a land of, 34; Japanese influence on Russian, 5, 33–44; labor camps in, 92, 107; low, see: cartoons; Russian graphic artists, 38, 40–43; Russian-Japanese interaction in, 123, 127–128; World of Art, 37– 38, 40 Artifacts: as sources of images, 11, 13, 20–21; in museums, 25, 102 Asahi Shinbun: POWs issue in, 99–101; political cartoons in, 135–139, 141–142, 144, 147–150, articles on disintegration of the Soviet Union in, 142–144 Asakusa, 114 Asari Keita, 105 Atlasov, Vladimir, 22 August Coup (1991), 136, 137, 139, 141 Aum Shinrikyo, 184 Avant-Garde. See art. Bakhtin, Mikhail, 193 Bakufu, 11, 14, 17, 18 Balmont, Konstantin, 43 Baltic Fleet, 54 Barto, Agnia 116

Index Baudrillard, Jean, 202, 207 Beardsley, Aubrey, 34, 36, 41 Belokonskii, Ivan, 74, 87n, 213 Beniovskii, Maurice, 13, 14, 15, 19, 23 Benois, Alexandre, 37, 38 Belyi, Andrei, 36, 39 Bilibin, Ivan, 5, 40, 41, 43, 46 Birzhevye vedomosti, 35 Bitov, Andrei, 120 Block, Alexander, 39 Blue Rose, 39, 45n Body: as a source of visual information, 11, 12; identity and, 74, 95; Japanese impressions of Russia, 157–159; body language, 18, 167; link between civilization and, 51; Russian and Soviet representations of Japanese, 74, 77, 83–84; Western representations of Japanese, 50–52 Bogdanov, Andrei, 22 Bolshoi Theatre, 123 Bonnell, Victoria, 81 Bonner, Yelena 147 Borisov-Musatov, Viktor, 40 Boxer Rebellion, 56, 78 Brodelet, Jakob, 14 Briusov, Valerii, 39 Budilnik, 72, 75, 76, 77 Burty, Philippe, 34 Bushido, 62 Caron, Francois, 22, 30n, 214 Cartoons: comparison with newspaper articles, 142–145; disintegration of the Soviet Union in, 136–148; illustrative character of, 7, 149; images of Gorbachev in, 137–141, 144; images of Yeltsyn in, 140–141, 146; method of analysis, 136; Soviet propaganda, 83–85; stereotypes of Japan in, 5, 73–77; stereotypes of Russia in, 136, 141, 146 Castaways: as sources of information, 21, 23; images of countries and, 11, 17–18; Catherine II, 19, 24 GULAG, 97 Chekhov, Anton, 79, 88 Chiang Kai-shek, 106 Chishima. See Kurile Islands Chokoho Incident. See Lake Khasan

231

Chonmage, 24, 25 Christianity: as a symbol of Russia 73, 141, 148; in Japan, 21, 59, 60; Russian Orthodox Church difference with Western Christianity, 59; Cinema. See film Civil War (1918–22), 81, 84, 115 Cold War: end of 3, 71, 145, 149; group and individual identity, 92; Japan as American ally, 101–102, 116; anti-Soviet propaganda, 170; Japan’s image in the Soviet Union, 117, 184 Commonwealth of Independent States, 138, 147 Communist Party of the Soviet Union 123, 137, 139–140, 145–147 Cossacks: dances in political cartoons, 140, 146; penetration into the Russian Far East, 22, 78; in popular prints, 72, 74, 76, 78, 84 Daiei Company 118–119 Daikokuya Kodayu, 11–28 Daily Mail, 49 Degas, Edgar, 34, 44 Denbei, 21–22 Democratic Women’s Congress, 116–118 Department of Siberian Affairs, 22 Dersu Uzala (film), 89, 122, 126, 129 Dobuzhinskii, Mstislav, 37, 41 Doré, Gustav, 35 Doroshevich, Vlas, 79 Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 33 Dower, John 9n, 65n, 85 Drawings: art and, 38; as sources of information, 1; Hokusai, 41, manga style, 92, 176, otaku, 172, 180, Russian-Japanese negotiations in, 195; sinister theme, 42; stereotypes, 25, 35 Durer, Albrecht, 41, 42 Dutch studies, 13, 14, 15, 18, 20 Efimov, Boris, 82 Eisenhower, Dwight D. (President), 116 Eisenstein, Sergei, 114, 115 Eliseev, Sergei, 35 Esli, 180 Etorofu (Iturup), see Kuril Islands

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Exhibitions: as sources of visual information, 18, 103–104; as memory sites, 6, 91, 103, 108; castaways and, 18, Japanese art, 34–35, 38, 41; Symbolists, 39, 45–46, 50 Ezhov, Valentin, 118 Ezo (Hokkaido), 14, 16, 19; 154, 166 Fadeev, Aleksadr, 81 Falileev, Vadim, 38 Fanfik 181, 190n Fifteen Year War (1931–45), 48 Films: as historical information sources, 1; joint productions, 7, 112–113; Russo-Japanese War in, 49, 63; film versions of novel, 114; Japanese proletarian cinema, 114; Japanese in Soviet films, 115; Japanese film festivals in the Soviet Union, 115–116; scripts to, 116, 119, 120, 123, 126; mutual images in, 6–7, 118–129; Soviet film industry, 6–7 Fin de siècle, 33, 42 Foreign Hills, 105–106 Frank, Semion, 199–200 Fukui, opinion surveys in, 155–156, 163, 168–169 Futaba, Yuriko, 104 Futurists, 40 Ganbeki no haha, 104–105, 111 Gaugin, Paul, 36, 39 Geijutsuza (theatre), 114 Georgi, Johan Gotlieb, 25 Ginza Matsuya Gallery, 92 Ginza Saegusa Gallery, 92 Ginza Yoseido Gallery, 93 Glasnost, 7 Globe and Mail, 140 Gluskina, Anna, 43 Golden Age, 33 Golovnin, Vassilii, 26, 31n, 81, 89n, 130n, 216 Goncourt, de, Edmond & Jules, 36, 37 Gonza, 22, 25 Gorbachev, Mikhail (President), 7, 129, 136–149 Grabar, Igor, 36, 37, 41 Grant Ulysses (General), 51 Great Kanto Earthquake, 35, 80

Gromyko, Andrei (Foreign Minister), 119, 123 Gumiliov, Nikolai, 39 Gunshin, 62, 63 Habermas, Jurgens, 193, 199 Harakiri, 18, 197 Hari Sunao, 135, 137, 142, 204 Hasegawa (art dealer), 34, 36, 37 Hasegawa, Tsuyoshi, 3, 9, 149 Hashimoto, Ryutaro (Prime Minister), 194, 198, 199, 201 Hayashi Shihei, 14, 15, 16 Hermitage Museum. See museum Hibakusha, 123 Hijikata Yoshi, 114, 115, 130 Hirose Takeo (Lieutenant Commander), 62, 63 Hoffman, Max, 59 Holly, Michael Ann, 1 Holy Land, 33 Holy War, 72, 73 Honda Toshiaki, 19 Honne, 164 House of Friendship, 117–118 Hubner, Iogan, 14 Iankovich de Mirievo, F. I., 25 Identity: construction and images of ‘other’, 2, 4, 27, 82–86, 102, 108, 199; cultural, 5, 43, 129, 179; geographical space and, 71, 86; young people, 177–179; individual and group, 92, 95, 108, 165; Japanese national, 27, 107–108, 134, 155, 164; memory, 6, 91, 108; Russian/Soviet national, 5, 71, 73, 76, 85–86 Ideology, 8, 84, 86, 113, 124, 198 Ilic, Mirco, 148 Illustrations: as visual source, 3, 5–7, 16, 34; in books of Bilibin and Narbut, 40–43; nationalistic propaganda and, 84, 86, 90; of men and women, 12–13; of trade negotiations 23, 27 Illustrated London News, 50 Images: construction of identity and, 4, 8, 26, 52, 76, 82, 107, 193, 202–204; continuity of, 27, 43–44, 73, 83; 146, 169–170, 187–188, 195–197; historicity, 3, 8, 16, 20, 47–48

Index of Japan and Japanese: aggressive, 48, 73, 83, 115; animal-like, 83; beautiful/handsome, 50–52, 77; 118, 121, 124, 182; big body, 50–51; brave, 5, 49–51, 60, 63, 75–77; childish, 48, 51, 158; cruel, 21, 23, 26–27, 115, 197; deceitful, 73, 76; exotic, 27, 37, 43, 58, 64, 76, 85, 124, 168, 178, 183, 185– 188, 196–197; feminine, 36, 47, 51, 56, 170; golden island, 21, 186, 196; masculine, 48, 60, 65; orphan, 112, 116, 120–121, 126, 128; puny people, 83, 85, 153; trade partner, 25, 128; weak, 56, 72, 74, 76, 83, 85, 153; yellow peril, 2, 53–54, 56–57, 72–73, 75–76, 85 of Russia and Russians: aggressive, 12, 16, 166; authoritarian, 157; beautiful, 157, 159; big country/people, 120, 146, 157–159, 161, 198; brave, 84; cold country, 93–94, 96, 98, 102–103; compassionate, 157; cruel, 17, 54, 92, 97, 108, 153; diligent, 157, friendly, 157, honest, 157; easygoing, 157, gentle, 157, honest, 157, ideal land, 27; model of reform, 20; part of civilized West, 20; red barbarians, 5, 14–16, 19– 20, 28; sincere, 157; simple, 157; danger/menace/threat, 15–16, 19–20, 56, 59, 81, 85, 141, 148, 176, 182; trade partner, 15, 20, 128; weak, 7, 146, 150, 198; wretched/poor 94, 96, 102 Infantile genius, 36 Internet: as source of visual information, 8, 185; anime and manga on, 176–177; popular culture and, 176–178, 180; notion of reality and, 192; relation to image construction, 194, 202, 205; images of Japan on, 194, 197, 200; Russian sites on, 197–198, 201; RussianJapanese relations and, 202, 205 Intervention in Siberia, 79–80, 115 Iokibe Makoto, 106 Iriye, Akira, 2 Irkutsk, 26, 194 Ishikawa Shiro, 101–102

233

Isokichi, 18, 20 Ito Hirobumi (statesman), 57 Itsuki Hiroyuki, 122 Ivanov, Igor (Foreign Minister), 203 Japan Communist Party, 100–101, 118 Japan Today, 194, 197–198 Japanese Film Export Promotion Committee, 119 Japanese language school, 22 Japanese-American alliance. See U.S.Japan Mutual Security Treaty Japan-Russia Action Plan, 203 Japonisme, definition of, 34, in Europe, 5, 34; in Russia, 3, 33–40 Journalists and war correspondents: manipulation of public opinion, 5; repatriation of POWs, 100–101; Russian in Russo-Japanese War, 77–79; Soviet, on Japan, 2, 185; treatment by the Japanese, 57–59, 61, 63; Western and Russo-Japanese War, 50–64 Kabuki, 39, 118, 131 Kalabashkin, Nikolai, 34 Kamchatka, 14, 21–23, 81 Kamei Fumio, 114, 131n Kasatkin, Nikolai, 26, 172 Kashikura Tashiyuki, 123, 126 Kato Kyuzo, 98, 110 Katsuragawa Hoshu, 18, 29 Katsushika Hokusai, 34–37, 41–42 Kawanabe Kyosai, 35 Kazuki Yasuo, 92, 95 Khalkhin-gol. See Nomonhan Kinema junpo, 127 Kinugasa Teinoske, 115, 122, 131 Kipling, Rudyard, 48 Kitaev, Sergei, 34–35, 41, 44 Kitagawa Utamaro, 37–39, 41 Klassnyi zhurnal, 181 Klimt, Gustav, 40 Klutsis, Gustav, 81, 88 Kobayashi Taichiro, 34 Koichi, 18 Koizumi Junichiro (Prime Minister): representations of, 194, 198, 201, 204 Kondo Juzo (Seisai), 12, 28 Konrad, Nikolai, 43, 80

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Kopelnitskii, Igor, 147 Korea and Koreans: in Edo Japan, 11–13; in Russo-Japanese War, 60, 64, 74; residents in Japan, 154, 168; North Korea in opinion polls, 210 Krasnoarmeets i krasnoflotets, 72 Kremlin: as symbol, 84, 140, 146; as location of government, 7, 138, 141 Krokodil, 72, 83 Kudo Heisuke, 14–16, 19 Kukryniksy, 82, 90 Kurihara Komaki, 123, 125–126, 128–129 Kuril (Kurile) Islands 14, 21, 23, 72, 187, 205 Kurosawa Akira, 119, 126,129 Kuznetsov, Pavel, 39, 43 Labour camps, 91–95, 101–108, 115 Lake Khasan, 82, 84, 85, 89n Laxman, Adam, 16–17, 24–25 Leningrad: in film, 126 Leningrad Institute of Art Studies, 114 Letopis voiny s Iaponiei, 72, 78 Letter from Klavdia, 107 Levinas, Emmanuel, 193, 197 Lotman, Yurii, 84, 90 Lubok, lubki (pl.). See prints Maiakovskii, Vladimir, 40 Mainichi, 135 Maizuru Repatriation Memorial Museum. See museum Mamoru Oshii, 175 Manchuria: as a site of artistic action, 114, 121, 129–130n; as war theatre, 47, 50, 60, 75, 82; geographical consciousness and, 78–79; in Russian prints, 74 Manga: as sources of visual information 3, 7–8, Hokusai, 34, 37, 42; interest in Japan and, 185–187; otaku, 178–181; POW topics in, 92, 97; popular culture and, 175–177; Russian characters in, 188; topics and images in, 182–183; Maps: as propaganda, 81, 84; as source of information, 13, 16, 143; Russians in Japanese, 12, 20; Maritime Province, 78 Marxism, 114, 139 Matsumae, 11, 14–16, 23, 26

Matsuyama, 61, 69n Maxim Gorky Film Studio, 117–118, 123 Mazurovskii, Victor, 77 MC-Entertainment, 181 McGee, Anita, 60 Meck, von, Vladimir, 34 Meiji Emperor, 52 Memory: collective memory, 8, 80, 91, 122, 134, 195; construction of, 82, 86, 108; identity and, 6, 86, 91, 107; images and, 86, 92, 95, 97, 107–108, 134; visual representations and, 6, 105; Mercator, Gerardus, 29n Meyerhold, Vsevolod, 115 Mir bozhii, 88 Mir iskusstva. See Art: World of Art Mitta, Alexander, 123–124, 128 Miyazawa Kiichi (Prime Minister), 141 Miyazaki Hayao, 175, 182 Monet, Claude, 34 Mori Ogai, 53, 57, 66 Mori Yoshiro (Prime Minister), 194, 198, 200 Moscow: in cartoons, 134, 140; Japanese film-makers in, 114–15, 118 Moscow Conservatory, 119–120 Moscow International Film Festival, 115, 122 Moscow Olympic Games (1980), 127, 139 Mosfilm Studio, 126–127, 132 Moskovskie vedomosti, 35 Moskovskii listok, 35 Mozhaiskii, Alexander, 195 Museums: collective memory and, 6, 91; Japanese art exhibitions, 34, 35; Hermitage 126; Maizuru Repatriation Memorial Museum, 92–94, 99, 103; museum narratives, 102–105, 108 Nagata Masaichi, 119 Napoleon, 73, 77 Narbut, Georgii (Yegor) and Vladimir 5, 40–43 Narodnye kartiny. See prints Nationalism: Japanese, 3, 48, 62, 153, 155, 173; Russian and Soviet, 79–85, 188;

Index Navigation School, 23, 26 Nemuro, 18 Nerchinsk Treaty (1689), 21 Nevskii, Nikolai 43, 98 New York Times, 135, 147–149 Nihon Eiga Yushutsu Shinko kyokai. See Japanese Film Export Promotion Committee Niigata: opinion surveys in, 155–156, 160, 162–165, 169, 172–174 Nikkatsu Film Studio, 123 Nikolai, Archbishop, 26, 45n Nikulin Yurii, 120 Nishikawa Joken, 12, 14, 28 Nishikie, 35 Niva, 5, 77 Nogi Maresuke, 51, 59, 77, 85 Nomonhan, 79, 82 Novoe vremia, 35 Novyi zhurnal, 165 Obrazovanie, 72 Obuchi Keizo (Prime Minister), 194 Oguni Hideo, 119–120 Okada Yoshiko, 115–116, 118,131 Okinawa Summit (2000), 200, 203 Oleg Vidov, 125 Onosato Toshinobu, 92, 106 Orient/al, in Russian culture, 32–33, 43; in Russian art 39; Russian national identity and, 5, 34; sage 77, 183; stigma, 18, 52; Orientalism: as discourse, 2, 197; Russian version of, 5, 32–36 Ostromirovo Evangelie, 40 Ostroumova-Lebedeva, Anna, 38, 45 Otaku, 7, 176–191 Otsuka Kano, 123 Otsuki Gentaku, 13, 16 Ovchinnikov, Vsevolod, 185 Pacific War, 9, 47, 52–54, 65 Paintings: as sources of historical information; images of Japan and, 34; collections of Japanese, 35; memory and, 91; images of the Soviet Union in, 93–95, 107–108 Palas, Petr Simon, 25 Pasternak, Boris, 32 Perestroika, 7, 107, 112–113, 136, 140, 144, 148, 176 Peter the Great, 15, 19, 22, 73

235

Photographs: as visual information sources, 1, 4, 77, 80, 93, 103–104, 143; as means of communication, 116–118; in image construction, 194, 197–198, 200–201; of Russian and Soviet leaders 145, 148; RussoJapanese War in, Plates 14–18; Pioner, 81–82 Pleve, Viacheslav (Minister of Home Affairs), 72 Polivanov, Evgenii, 43 Polo, Marco, 20 Popular culture: identity and, 92, 108, 177; interest in Japan, 184–186; stereotypes and, 187–188; youth and 175–180 Port Arthur, 47, 51, 56, 59, 62, 64, 66, 71–73, 75, 77, 82 Postcards: as visual information sources, 3, 72; propaganda and, 82–83, 85–86; representation of stereotypes in, 5, 82–85 Prints: as visual sources, 5, 7; lubok, 41–42, 84, 87; Japanese woodblock, 35–43, 63, 153; narodnye kartiny, 72, propaganda, 6; Russian popular prints, 72–74, 77, 153 Prisoners-of-War (POW): as artists, 92–93; friendly views of the Soviet Union, 95–98; in Russo-Japanese War, 53, 61; negative images of the Soviet Union and, 6, 91, 102; in theatre performances about, 105–107 Prokino movement, 114 Propaganda: as source of information, 1, 3, 5–6; effectiveness of, 5, 71–72; art and, 73–75, 78, 115, 118, 130; American, 101–102; Japanese, 52–54, 63–64; Soviet political propaganda, 71–72, 75, 81–86 Prophet Mohammed, 8 Pudovkin, Vsevolod, 114–115 Pushkin Fine Arts Museum, 35 Pushkin, Alexander, 32–33, 41 Putiatin, Evfimy (Lieutenant General), 195 Putin, Vladimir (President), 1, 185, 194, 198, 200, 203–205 Race, 36, 51, 54–55, 64, 75, 125 Radzinskii, Edward, 123 Red Army, 82, 84–85, 94

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Red Cross, 60 Repatriation, 91–93, 99, 103–104, 110 Representation strategies, 118, 119, 193 Rerikh, Nikolai, 41 Resanov, Nikolai, 19, 26 Revon, Michel, 36, 45 Rodchenko, Alexander, 40 Roosevelt, Theodore (President), 54–55, 60, 62 Russian Academy of Arts, 35 Russian Academy of Sciences, 22 Russian Animation and Manga Club (RAnMa), 7, 176, 178–81, 186 Russian State Archives of Literature and Art, 113, 130n Russian-American Company, 24 Russian-Japanese relations: representations of, 1–2, 6–7, 200– 202; castaways and, 25–26; national identity and, 71, 86; military clashes, 82–83; POWs and, 91; images of partnership, 6, 112–129; in provincial Japan, 154, 161–162; Russkie vedomosti, 35 Russkoe bogatstvo, 35 Russo-Japanese War (1904–5): as key event in relations, 1, 5–6, 204; images of Japan in the West and, 47–64; images of Japan in Russia and, 72–79, 168; Russian interest in Japan and, 34, 36, 43, 47; Russo-Turkish War (1877–78), 73 Sakhalin, 16, 81, 88 Samokish, Nikolai, 77 San Francisco Chronicle, 51 Saito Kiyoshi, Plate 25 Saito Kunio, 97 Sapporo, opinion surveys in, 155–156, 160, 162–163, 165, 168–170 School of the Imperial Society for the Promotion of the Arts, 41 Sea of Japan, 7, 74, 103, 188 Sea of Okhotsk, 20 Seeing: as direct perception, 3–7; culture and, 164; images and, 3, 5; Russians in Japan, 154–164, 170 Sendai, 14, 19, 25 Sezession, 40 Shabalin, Dmitrii, 23, 27 Shcherbatov, Sergei, 34, 37–38

Shekhtel, Fiodor, 41 Shiba Kokan, 18 Shiki Theatre Company, 103, 105, 106 Sikorskii, Ivan, 75 Shimotomai Nobuo, 145, 152 Shinjuku Peace Memorial Museum, 94, 103 Shirando Academy, 20 Shochiku Film Company, 114 Shojo, 182 Silver Age, 33, 43, 44n Sino-Japanese War (1894–95), 53, 56 Sitae, 35 Slavina, Anna, 114 Slavina, Ekaterina, 114 Smena, 180 Solomin, Yurii, 126 Soloviev, Sergei, 126 Sorlin, Pierre, 129 Sosetsu Shincho, 92 Soviet State Cinematography Committee, 6, 7, 113, 118 Soviet-Japanese Basic Treaty (1925), 80 Soviet-Japanese Joint Declaration (1956), 1, 194 Soza, 22 Spafarii, Nikolai, 21 Spalvin, Evgenii, 43 Spanberg, Martin, 14, 23 St Petersburg, 5, 23, 25, 34–35, 37–40, 73, 178–179, 201–201, 204, 209 Stalin, Josef, 72, 83–84, 97, 102, 113, 115, 141, 146 Stenberg brothers, Georgii & Vladimir, 81 Stereotype. See image Stoessel, General, 75 Strekoza, 72, 75, 76 Sugae Masumi, 15 Symbolists, 39 Syn otechestva, 35 Tadano Makuzu, 19, 29n Takasugi Ichiro, 97 Talashkino, 36, 45n Tanaka Kakuei (Prime Minister), 123 Tanuma Okitsugu, 14, 16 Tatarinov Andrei, 25 Tatemae, 164, 174n Tavernier, Jean Baptiste, 22 Teichiku Record Company, 104–105 Television (TV): as a source of visual

Index information, 3, 8, 112, 134; images construction and, 192–205; political performance, 202–206; POWs related topics on, 104–105, 107 Theatre: historical memory and, 6, 91, 104; interest in Soviet theatre, 114; POWs related topics in, 105–107 Tiutchev, Fiodor, 73–74 Togo Heihachirô, 51, 74, 77 Toho Company, 123, 126 Tojo Hideki, Prime Minister, 83 Tokyo Peace Memorial Museum, 94, 103 Tomo no kai, 103 Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de, 34 Trans-Siberian Railway, 78, 94 Tsushima, as symbol: 51, 84, 204 Tsvetaeva, Marina, 43 Tsvetov, Vladimir, 185 Tuchman, Gaye, 202 Tussovka, 179 Ukhtomskii Esper (Prince), 78 Ukiyo-e, 38 United States of America, the: American propaganda cartoons, 83, 85; cartoons on disintegration of the Soviet Union 147–149; images in Japan of, 2–3; Japanese nationalism and, 3; repatriation of POWs and, 91–92, 101; representation in film of, 116, 125; views on Japan and, 55; views on Russia and, 54 Ushihara Kiyoshiko, 114, 130n U.S.-Japan Mutual Security Treaty, 116, 118 Utagawa Hiroshige, 36–39, 41–42 Utopia, 21, 35, 36, 44 Uzhevich, Ivan, 20 Vannovskii, G.M. (General), 49, 65n Vasilievy, Grigorii and Sergei, 115 Vestnik Evropy, 72, 79 Vestnik russkogo soldata, 72 Visual materials: as historical sources,

237

1–2; as reduction of reality, 2, 108, 141, 146; as sources of images 1–8, 12, 27, 34, 85–86, 112, 127, 135; attraction and influence, 42, 74, 91, 175, 192, 198; political performance, 198, 202–203; strategies of representation, 4. See also: anime; art, cartoons, drawings, exhibitions, film, illustrations, internet, manga, maps, museums, paintings, photographs, postcards, prints, seeing, television, theatre Voina s Iaponiei, 72, 77 Volochaevka, 83, 90n, 115 Voloshin, Maximilian, 33, 44n Voroshilov K.E., 85 Vysheslavtsev, Aleksei, 25 Wakkanai: opinion surveys, in, 155, 156, 163, 168–169 Walton, William, 23 War correspondents. See journalists Warhol, Andy, 64 Watteau, Antoine, 36 Whistler, James, 38 White, Hayden, 3 Wichmann, Siegfried, 34 World Cup 2002, 204–205 World of Art, 37–38, 40–41, 43 Yamada, Shin, 135, 137, 138 Yamamoto Ishiroku (Admiral), 201 Yayoi, 180 Yellow peril. See images of Japan Yellow parvenue, 77 Yeltsin, Boris (President): in political cartoons, 7, 136–148; on TV, 198–199, 201 Yokoyama Taizo, 135, 150–151 Yomiuri Shinbun, 119 Yoshida Isamu, 94 Yoshida Yukio, 106 Zenshinza (theatre), 118 Zheltorossiia, 78 Zolotoe Runo (Golden Fleece), 39

1

1. First Japanese printed map of the world representing all countries and peoples, 1645. People of Moscow are depicted in the sixth line from the top, second column from the right. Courtesy of Shimonoseki City Chofu Museum.

2

2. Kodayu and Isokichi greeting bakufu officials in European dress, 1795. Ishii Kendo Collection. Courtesy of the National Diet Library.

3a

3a. Exhibition of Koichi’s belongings held in Nagoya, 1795. Courtesy of the Paper Museum, Tokyo.

3b

3b. Exhibition of Koichi’s belongings held in Nagoya, 1795. Courtesy of the Paper Museum, Tokyo.

4

4. Celebration of the New Year held at the Shirando Academy, 1795. Courtesy of Waseda University Library.

5

5. Dmitrii Shabalin. Negotiations at Akkeshi between Russians and Japanese, 1779. Ash Collection. Courtesy of Götingen University.

6

6. Daikokuya Kodayu in Japanese clothes and with chonmage, 1791. Ash Collection. Courtesy of Götingen University.

7

7. D. Telezius. Japanese faces. D. Telezius was a botanist in the second mission to Japan (1804–5) headed by Nikolai Rezanov. Courtesy of the Central State Archive of Estonia. 1814.

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8. Vadim Falileev. The Return to the Sheksna, 1909.

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9. Ivan Bilibin. The Wave. Illustration to the Tale of Tsar Saltan, 1905.

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10. Georgii Narbut. The Net. Illustration to the book Little Tower-Chamber. The Spider, 1910.

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11. Georgii Narbut. The Bear. Illustration to the book Little Tower-Chamber. The Spider, 1910.

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12. Georgii Narbut. Toys. Illustration to the book Toys, 1911.

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13. A postcard sarcastically representing a belligerent Japan. Issued by Union Postale Universelle in early 1904.

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14. Nogi’s feast: General Nogi Maresuke was aware of the importance of courting the favour of Western observers, 1904.

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15. Admiral Togo Heihachiro. In his British-like uniform and fine beard, he embodied the new Japanese hero, 1904.

16. Western journalists in Tokyo cover the Russo-Japanese War. All major Western newspapers dispatched reporters to cover the Russo-Japanese War, 1904.

16

17

17. Wounded Russian soldiers. The humane treatment of Russian prisoners-of-war was valuable to the image Japan aimed to create in the West, 1904.

18

18. Hirose’s funeral. The death of Commander Hirose Takeo marks the birth of a cult of sacrifice and heroism in modern Japan, 1904.

19

19. On the War of Russia with Japan. Russian ‘popular print’, 1904.

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20. The Enemy is Terrible but God is Benevolent. Russian ‘popular print’, 1904.

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21. In the ‘First Class’ Salon. Budilnik, no. 31, 1905.

22

22. ‘Celebrations’ in Honour of a Japanese Prisoner of War. Budilnik, no. 37, 1904.

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23. Kukryniksy. Border Post. Postcard 1938.

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24. Kukryniksy. Soviet Gateway. Postcard 1938.

25

25. Saito Kiyoshi. White Road of Despair. 1982. Courtesy of Saito Kiyoshi.

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26. Yoshida Isamu. One Day’s Ration. [1955]. Courtesy of Yoshida Hiroyuki.

27

27. Ozuka Isamu. A Shelf with Silkworms (Labor Camp no. 11 in Irkutsk). 1978. Courtesy of Ozuka Chieko.

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28. Ishimaru Kanji in the role of Kokonoe Hidetaka in the drama Foreign Hills, 2005. Courtesy of the Public Relations Section, Shiki Theatre Group.

29

29. Colonel Ushijima and a Russian Old Believer. A still from the film Volochaevka Days, 1937. Courtesy of ‘Lenfilm’ Studio archives.

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30. Taro and Katherine. A still from the film Ten Thousand Boys, 1961. Courtesy of ‘Maxim Gorky Film Studio’ archives.

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31. Scene symbolizing a new stage in Soviet-Japanese relations. A still from the film Little Fugitive, 1966. Courtesy of ‘Maxim Gorky Film Studio’ archives.

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32. A still from the film Moscow, My Love, 1975. Courtesy of Mosfilm Studio archives.

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33. A still from the film Melodies of the White Night, 1976. Courtesy of Mosfilm Studio archives.

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34. A still from the film Way to Medals, 1979. Courtesy of Mosfilm Studio archives.

35

36

35. Yamada Shin, Futile Remorse: ‘What Was That 74 Years Voyage All About . . .?’ Asahi Shinbun, 27 August 1991. Courtesy of Asahi Shinbunsha.

36. Yamada Shin, ‘Joint Dwelling, We Are Sorry, But!’ Asahi Shinbun, 10 December 1991. Courtesy of Asahi Shinbunsha.

37

38

38. Kojima Ko, A Dance of Gorbi with 11 Men, 23 December 1991. Courtesy of Asahi Shinbunsha.

37. Yamada Shin, ‘Well, Friend, Don’t You Have a Place to Go Either? Come Here and Warm Up.’ Asahi Shinbun, 14 December 1991. Courtesy of Asahi Shinbunsha.

39

39. Hari Sunao, ‘Homeless’. Asahi Shinbun, 24 December 1991. Courtesy of Asahi Shinbunsha.

40. Hari Sunao, ‘Nuclear Button Over to Yeltsin’, Asahi Shinbun, 26 December 1991. Courtesy of Asahi Shinbunsha.

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41

41. Felix Torchinov. Vampires. Characters invented for the game ‘Vampires: the Masquerade’, 2001. Courtesy of Felix Torchinov.

42

42. Bogdan Kulikovskii. Nika as a shojo. Nika, volume 1, ‘The Magic Book’, 2002. Courtesy of Bogdan Kulikovskii and ZAO ‘Russkii Izdatelskii Dom’.

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43. Bogdan Kulikovskii. Nika and her friends fighting with evil forces. Nika, volume 1, ‘The Magic Book’, 2002. Courtesy of Bogdan Kulikovskii and ZAO ‘Russkii Izdatelskii Dom’.

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44. Bogdan Kulikovskii. Goshi brothers, 2000. Courtesy of Bogdan Kulikovskii.

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45. Alexander Mozhaiskii, Japanese Delegation at Negotiations on Trade Treaty with Adjutant-General Putiatin at Shimoda, 1854. Russkii khudozhestvennyi listok, 1857, no. 14.

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46. President Boris Yeltsin on a visit to Japan. Yeltsin and Prime Minister Hashimoto Ryutaro shaking hands before the Second Meeting of State Leaders, Kawana, 19 April 1998. Courtesy of Pana/JIJI PRESS.

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47. Mori Yoshiro, 7 July 2000. Courtesy of Pana/JIJI PRESS.

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48. President Putin visits a judo hall on 5 September 2000, Tokyo. Courtesy of Pana/JIJI PRESS.

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49. Prime Minister Koizumi Junichiro facing the Cabinet Meeting. 1 November 2002. Courtesy of Pana/JIJI PRESS.

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50. Sergei Stepanov ‘Perhaps, You Also Want the Kuril Islands Back?’, 2002. Courtesy of Sergei Stepanov.