Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan 9781350122499, 9781350122529, 9781350122505

Table of contents :
Cover
Half title
Series
Title
Copyright
Contents
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgments
1 Introduction: Rethinking Japanese Culture since 3.11
2 Re-masculinizing the Nation: Resilient Manhood and Revitalized Nationhood
3 Training Women for Disasters: Domesticity and Preparedness in the Age of Uncertainty
4 Securitizing Childhood: Children and Disaster Readiness Education
5 Mobilizing Paradise: Hawai‘i in Post-Disaster National Imagination
6 Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

SOAS Studies in Modern and Contemporary Japan SERIES EDITOR: Christopher Gerteis (SOAS, University of London, UK) EDITORIAL BOARD: Stephen Dodd (SOAS, University of London, UK) Andrew Gerstle (SOAS, University of London, UK) Janet Hunter (London School of Economics, UK) Barak Kushner (University of Cambridge, UK) Helen Macnaughtan (SOAS, University of London, UK) Aaron W Moore (University of Edinburgh, UK) Timon Screech (SOAS, University of London, UK) Naoko Shimazu (NUS-Yale College, Singapore) Published in association with the Japan Research Centre at the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, UK. SOAS Studies in Modern and Contemporary Japan features scholarly books on modern and contemporary Japan, showcasing new research monographs as well as translations of scholarship not previously available in English. Its goal is to ensure that current, high quality research on Japan, its history, politics and culture, is made available to an English-speaking audience. Published: Women and Democracy in Cold War Japan, Jan Bardsley Christianity and Imperialism in Modern Japan, Emily Anderson The China Problem in Postwar Japan, Robert Hoppens Media, Propaganda and Politics in 20th Century Japan, The Asahi Shimbun Company (translated by Barak Kushner) Contemporary Sino-Japanese Relations on Screen, Griseldis Kirsch Debating Otaku in Contemporary Japan, edited by Patrick W. Galbraith, Thiam Huat Kam and Björn-Ole Kamm Politics and Power in 20th-Century Japan, Mikuriya Takashi and Nakamura Takafusa (translated by Timothy S. George) Japanese Taiwan, edited by Andrew Morris Japan’s Postwar Military and Civil Society, Tomoyuki Sasaki The History of Japanese Psychology, Brian J. McVeigh

Postwar Emigration to South America from Japan and the Ryukyu Islands, Pedro Iacobelli The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan, Sari Kawana Post-Fascist Japan, Laura Hein Mass Media, Consumerism and National Identity in Postwar Japan, Martyn David Smith Japan’s Occupation of Java in the Second World War, Ethan Mark Gathering for Tea in Modern Japan, Taka Oshikiri Engineering Asia, Hiromi Mizuno, Aaron S. Moore and John DiMoia Automobility and the City in Japan and Britain, c. 1955–1990, Simon Gunn and Susan Townsend The Origins of Modern Japanese Bureaucracy, Yuichiro Shimizu (translated by Amin Ghadimi) Kenkoku University and the Experience of Pan-Asianism, Yuka Hiruma Kishida Overcoming Empire in Post-Imperial East Asia, Barak Kushner and Sherzod Muminov Imperial Japan and Defeat in the Second World War, Peter Wetzler Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post-3.11 Japan, Mire Koikari

Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

Mire Koikari

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2020 This paperback edition published in 2022 Copyright ©Mire Koikari, 2020 Mire Koikari has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgments on p. ix constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover image: Tokyo, Japan on March 10, 2012. The next day was the one year anniversary of the Great East Japan Earthquake and Tsunami. The Tokyo Tower was lit up with the special message for two days. (© Mark Eite / Aflo Co. Ltd. / Alamy Stock Photo) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Koikari, Mire, author. Title: Gender, culture, and disaster in post-3.11 Japan / Mire Koikari. Description: London, UK ; New York, NY : Bloomsbury Academic, 2020. | Series: SOAS studies in modern and contemporary Japan | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020025152 (print) | LCCN 2020025153 (ebook) | ISBN 9781350122499 (hardback) | ISBN 9781350122505 (ebook) | ISBN 9781350122512 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Disaster relief–Japan–History–21st century. | Tohoku Earthquake and Tsunami, Japan, 2011. | Fukushima Nuclear Disaster, Japan, 2011. | Japan–Social conditions–21st century. Classification: LCC HV555.J3 K65 2020 (print) | LCC HV555.J3 (ebook) | DDC 952.05/12–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020025152 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020025153. ISBN:

HB: PB: ePDF: eBook:

978-1-3501-2249-9 978-1-3502-1299-2 978-1-3501-2250-5 978-1-3501-2251-2

Series: SOAS Studies in Modern and Contemporary Japan Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

Contents List of Illustrations Acknowledgments 1 Introduction: Rethinking Japanese Culture since 3.11 2 Re-masculinizing the Nation: Resilient Manhood and Revitalized Nationhood 3 Training Women for Disasters: Domesticity and Preparedness in the Age of Uncertainty 4 Securitizing Childhood: Children and Disaster Readiness Education 5 Mobilizing Paradise: Hawai‘i in Post-Disaster National Imagination 6 Conclusion Notes Bibliography Index

viii ix 1 15 41 73 107 139 141 171 189

Illustrations 1.1 “GSDF members leave disaster-hit Rikuzentakata,” July 20, 2011. 2.1 “Got to be a real man about it,” Fukkō no Noroshi Poster Project, 2014.  2.2 “Finally home to the simple joy of cooking for the family,” Fukkō no Noroshi Poster Project, 2014.  2.3 “Resilience Japan,” Cabinet Secretariat. 3.1 “Disaster Readiness Fair,” December 1–2, 2012. 4.1 An illustration from Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon, 2013.  4.2 An illustration from Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon, 2013.  5.1 “Emperor and Empress Visit Fukushima—Day 1,” June 9, 2018.

5 18 18 26 52 98 103 109

Acknowledgments The idea for this book first emerged in Okinawa in 2013, where I was conducting research on gender and militarization in US-occupied Okinawa (1945–1972). Retracing the ways in which women and domesticity had been mobilized in the Cold War militarization of Okinawa, I could not help but notice the resurgence of similar dynamics involving gender, home, and the military in post–3.1 Japan, whose relentless call for national recovery and refortification was complexly refracted in this former Japanese colony. The question of Cold War and post– Cold War militarization—continuities as well as reconfigurations—followed me as I returned to Hawai‘i, another island community burdened with the legacy of militarism and colonialism that was emerging as an “off-shore site” for Japan’s resilience-building. Subsequent trips to Tōhoku (Fukushima and Miyagi), though brief, provided another vantage point from which to ponder the nature, extent, and implications of cultural formation and transformation proceeding in the post–3.11 nation. Situated in the triangulated space linking Okinawa, Tōhoku, and Hawai‘i, Japan’s move toward resilience began to take on the outlook not simply of a national-domestic endeavor but of a transnational project of exceptional reach and dynamism, demanding a multilayered analysis of gender, culture, and disaster. The result is this book, an attempt to critically engage with the premise and promise of resilience-building, whose seemingly incontestable claim to safety and security belies the workings of militarism, neoliberalism, and neoconservatism that undergird the emerging regime. As this book went into production in March 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic enveloped the world, raising the specter of global crisis and precipitating resilience mobilization of an unprecedented scale. Amid the fear and trepidation triggered by the outbreak, we are faced with an even more urgent need to approach the politics of crisis management from critically informed perspectives. In the course of my research, I benefitted from various exchanges with colleagues and friends in the United States, Japan, and beyond. Karl Ian Cheng Chua and Tom Le were extraordinarily generous in sharing their research insights and helping me think about Japan’s military and militarization from fresh perspectives. My conversations with Azuma Eiichiro, Iijima Mariko, Gwyn Kirk, Derek Hird, Kuraishi Shino, Nakano Kōichi, Wendy Matsumura,

x

Acknowledgments

Tze May Loo, Martin Dusinberre, Habu Junko, Katja Valaskivi, and the late Romit Dasgupta were invaluable, inspiring new thoughts and illuminating new research directions as I tackled the questions of gender and disaster. In the initial phase of this project, Matsuda Motoji, Matsui Kazuko, and Kawasaki Ichirō offered suggestions as well as encouragement, both of which proved vital in the subsequent course of research. Jan Bardsley has always been a wonderful colleague, supporter, and friend, whose generosity I am always in awe of and whose wisdom I always rely on. Victoria Scott and Gwyn Kirk provided editorial assistance with patience as well as precision, improving my prose tremendously. This project relied on library and archival resources in the United States and Japan. The East Asia Collection at Stanford University in Palo Alto, the Great Hanshin-Awaji Earthquake Disaster Materials Collection at Kōbe University in Kōbe, and the Disaster Management Library (Bōsai Senmon Toshokan) in Tokyo have a wealth of information on gender, culture, and disaster in Japan, and I owe much to staff members at each library in searching for and locating necessary documents. In 2016 and 2017, the Japan Foundation Summer Institute gave me opportunities to engage in a series of discussions on disaster resilience with scholars hailing from the United States, Japan, and Southeast Asia, and to visit disaster-struck communities in Tōhoku to witness the complex nature of recovery and reconstruction at the grassroots level. The richness of my experience at these two summer institutes had much to do with the hard work done by staff members of the foundation, including Yamamoto Masako, Nishimatsu Hideki, Hayase Tomonori, Christy Bahr Hirokawa, Yoshimura Shūhei, Miyazaki Aya, Purwoko Adhi Nugroho, and Nakamichi Tokumi. The funding provided by the Association for Asian Studies Northeast Asia Council, the Stanford University Asian Library Collection, and the University of Hawai‘i Center for Japanese Studies and Women’s Studies enabled my numerous research trips to Japan and North America. Various parts of the project have been presented at the Berkshire Women’s History Conference in 2014, the symposium “Safety and Security in Japanese Popular Culture after Fukushima” at Leiden University in 2015, and the conference “Constructing Masculinities in Asia” at the University of San Francisco Center for Asia and Pacific Studies in 2016. I learned much from the fellow presenters and participants at these forums. In publishing this book, I am most indebted to Christopher Gerteis, series editor of the SOAS Studies in Modern and Contemporary Japan at the University of London. At Bloomsbury Academic Press, editor Rhodri Mogford

Acknowledgments

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and editorial assistant Laura Reeves saw the book through production with impeccable proficiency. Earlier versions of Chapters 2 and 3 were published as “Re-masculinizing the Nation: Gender, Disaster, and Politics of National Resilience in Post–3.11 Japan” (Japan Forum, Vol. 31, No. 2, 2019), and “Training Women for Disaster: Gender, Crisis Management (Kiki Kanri) and Post–3.11 Nationalism in Japan” (The Asia-Pacific Journal, Vol. 11, Issue 26, No. 1, 2013). For reprint permission, I thank Christopher Gerteis and Mark Selden, respectively. In the remainder of this book, Japanese names, except those of authors who publish in English, are presented in the conventional Japanese fashion, with family names first and given names second. All translations from Japanese language sources are mine unless otherwise indicated.

1

Introduction: Rethinking Japanese Culture since 3.11

The 2011 Great East Japan Disaster has ushered in a new era of cultural production  in Japan. A magnitude 9.0 earthquake off the Pacific Coast of Japan on March  11 triggered the tsunami and nuclear accidents, taking numerous lives, causing extensive infrastructural damages, and devastating Tōhoku, a northeastern region of Japan.1 3.11—as the compound disaster came to be called—sparked impassioned discussions of safety and security. The conventional  practice of disaster preparation was no longer deemed feasible, being subsumed into new repertories of risk containment such as crisis management (kiki kanri) and national resilience (kokudo kyōjinka). Debates over how to protect one’s family, community, and nation against natural and man-made disasters proliferated, mobilizing various social actors, opening up new institutional spaces, and generating countless discourses and practices. The call for readiness and preparedness targeted not only adult men and women but also children, whose survival became linked to that of Japan. The phrasing “Ganbarō Nippon” (Rise up, Japan) spread like a wildfire, urging any and every Japanese to take actions so as to build and rebuild a resilient nation amid the pervasive fear, uncertainty, and precarity. Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan analyzes this emerging culture of safety and security in Japan. Drawing on insights in Gender Studies, Japanese Studies, Disaster Studies, and Cultural Studies, the book examines a nationwide pursuit of disaster recovery, reconstruction, and resilience since 3.11, in which ideas of gender and race, body and mind, safety and security, and nation and empire are repeatedly invoked to envision a new Japan. In contrast to existing studies that analyze social protest mobilizations triggered by the disaster, this book sheds light on another kind of mobilization in progress—a movement centered on resilience-building in which women and men, girls and boys, and Japanese and non-Japanese are called into action for national revitalization

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Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

and refortification. Retracing varied pronouncements of safety and security in government policy documents, scholarly publications, civic handbooks and manuals, school textbooks and popular literature, and emergency preparedness training in the home, school, and workplace, Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan approaches resilience-building as a dynamic space of cultural production and reproduction whose analysis provides a critical window into contemporary Japanese society. In doing so, the book raises a number of interrelated arguments.

The Culture and History of Disaster Resilience First and foremost, Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan highlights the generative power that disaster holds, in seismic as well as cultural terms. As cultural anthropologist Anthony Oliver-Smith argues, disaster is never a natural or neutral event that simply “happens.” Rather it is “a multiplicity of interwoven, often conflicting, social constructions” whose effects are “channeled and distributed variously within the society according to political, social, and economic practices and institutions.”2 In the wake of catastrophic events, individual and institutional actors participate in multitudes of meaning-making activities as they “attempt to come to terms, to understand what has happened to them and to develop strategies to gain some degrees of control.”3 Cultural and discursive dynamics triggered by disasters therefore constitute an obvious arena of inquiry. To understand the nexus between culture and disaster, examples from the past are useful. In the history of modern Japan, perhaps the most well-known disaster prior to 3.11 is the Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923. The quake not only devastated Tokyo and its vicinity but also, as Charles Schencking observes, gave rise to a “culture of catastrophe” in which a series of discourses and practices began to circulate to (re)define the meanings of Japan and its people.4 Politicians, bureaucrats, academics, and social critics who “saw an unparalleled chance to fashion the 1923 earthquake as Japan’s greatest national calamity” used the disaster “not only to advance a project for rebuilding Tokyo as a modern, imperial capital but also to implement a much larger and more complex program of national reconstruction.”5 Transforming people’s attitudes and mind-sets became a leading agenda among policy makers, as the discourse of “divine punishment” attributed the cause of the disaster to people’s spiritual degeneracy and moral laxity, framing the 1923 earthquake as an inevitable punishment meted out

Introduction

3

by the higher order. Physical reconstruction alone was not sufficient; moral reordering of the society was also necessary. As Janet Borland observes, a new regime of moral discipline focused especially on Japan’s youth. The Ministry of Education dispatched members of the Japanese Boy Scouts into the ruined city to collect “bidan,” moralizing tales of Japanese subjects whose actions during and after the disaster exemplified the nation’s dominant values. A three-volume textbook containing more than a hundred bidan was subsequently published, disseminating the lessons of “loyalty to the Emperor, filial piety, benevolence, personal sacrifice, courage, and obedience.”6 The 1923 disaster functioned as a “generative force in Japanese culture,” then, setting varied dynamics in motion to facilitate a moral-spiritual regeneration of the entire nation.7 The productive power of disaster is also evident in US history. During the Cold War, the United States witnessed the emergence of its own disciplinary regime, in which families and communities became the focal site of regulation in the face of a large-scale national crisis, that is, the prospect of nuclear holocaust. To contain nuclear anxieties and produce its own ideal subjects, the US civil defense program propagated a series of discourses and practices such as “duck and cover,” “nuclear fallout shelters,” and “grandma’s pantry” as the chief means of survival in the event of nuclear attacks.8 Similar to the “culture of catastrophe” in post–1923 Japan, US civil defense mobilization was an occasion for discipline and regulation whose objective was to solidify morale, build ethics, and fortify the nation. Considered a “moral obligation of every household,” civil defense was part of the “civil virtues indispensable to the American way of life in the nuclear age.”9 Repeatedly performed across diverse sites and spaces, Cold War civil defense was intended to “create the illusion that national narratives were knowable and unquestionable realities” and to convince Americans “by virtue of repetition” that the idea of nuclear survivability was not only possible but also “natural” and even “common sense.”10 The generative nature of disaster visible in pre–Second World War Japan and the Cold War United States has been on display in Japan since 3.11. This compound disaster of natural calamity (as in the 1923 earthquake) and manmade catastrophe (as in the Cold War nuclear crisis) has activated cultural production. Under the leadership of veteran politician Nikai Toshihiro, the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) established the Comprehensive Research Commission on the Establishment of Disaster Resilience in 2011, organizing a series of workshops in which politicians, academics, bureaucrats, and industry leaders engaged in endless discussions on national resilience. Prime Minister Abe Shinzō defined national resilience as his leading policy agenda, calling for

4

Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

structural fortification involving homes and other buildings, riverbanks and sea dikes, and railways and roads, as well as nonstructural fortification centered on information dissemination, educational training, and evacuation drills and exercises. The call for large-scale “public projects” (kōkyō jigyō) created a “buzz” in the construction industry, eliciting numerous pronouncements from business leaders who were elated at the prospect of “capitalizing on catastrophe.”11 This new cultural dynamism triggered by 3.11 was not confined to the elite strata of Japanese society but also proliferated at the grassroots level. In the immediate aftermath of the disaster, new words and phrases—“sōteigai” (beyond the purview of predictability), “kizuna” (bond), and “Ganbarō, Nippon” (Rise Up, Japan)—circulated, reflecting the fear, anxiety, and hope felt by ordinary people.12 The language of “kokunan,” or national crisis, dormant for nearly a century, has experienced a comeback, emphasizing the gravity of the situation and its dire implications for the national polity.13 Disaster assistance must be carried out not only in material but in immaterial terms whose hallmark has become the act of “yorisou”—psychologically aligning oneself with the feelings of disaster victims— with the Imperial Household and the Japan Self-Defense Forces (JSDF) playing a leading role in propagating this practice at the grassroots level.14 In a photodocumentary book entitled Nihonjin no sokojikara: Higashi Nihon Daishinsai ichinen no zen kiroku (Japanese Power of Resiliency: One Year after the Great East Japan Earthquake), the Sankei Newspaper Company recounted people’s ordeals through and after 3.11, with more than eight hundred photographs depicting their struggle, survival, and eventual triumph. The book praised the leadership of the Imperial Household and celebrated the unparalleled “sokojikara”—power of resiliency—displayed by ordinary people on the ground amid the unprecedented calamity visited upon the nation.15 Not long after the disaster, tradeshows held in major cities across Japan began to display a variety of emergency gear— gas masks, harnesses, rescue vehicles, nuclear radiation  decontamination devices, and antiterrorist surveillance equipment with male users in mind, and household gadgets such as canned food, portable cooking devices, and evacuation wheelchairs designed for female users—thus disseminating the ethos of self-care and self-responsibility in an age of precarity. A leading textbook publisher, Gakken Kyōiku Shuppan, commonly known as Gakken, published the ten-volume book series Higashi Nihon Daishinsai: tsutaenakereba naranai 100 no monogatari (The Great East Japan Earthquake: 100 Stories That Must Be Told), circulating the twenty-first-century version of bidan in which exemplary deeds of Japanese people—especially Japanese soldiers—during and after the 2011 disaster are repeatedly showcased.16 Against a backdrop of the

Introduction

5

Figure 1.1  “GSDF members leave disaster-hit Rikuzentakata,” July 20, 2011. Courtesy of Kyodo News Stills via Getty Images.

rising popularity of the JSDF and the US military since 2011, the militarization of childhood is now a salient feature in Japan, as evident in Figure 1.1. So much children’s literature on 3.11 has been published that an annotated guidebook has also appeared, listing more than three hundred titles.17 Undoubtedly, the March  11 disaster has activated a cultural–discursive dynamic in the postdisaster nation. That the 1923 earthquake, the Cold War nuclear crisis, and the March 11 disaster share similar features is no accident. Although separated by time and space, these events are in fact part of the transnational genealogy of “civil defense,” a gendered and gendering scheme of national protection whose articulation, as discussed below, has involved many nations over nearly a century. According to Sheldon Garon, the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905) constitutes an important node in this genealogy. With Japan’s surprising victory at the end of the war, Americans and Europeans turned their gaze to Japan’s “reputed success in military hygiene, troop morale, and home-front mobilization” and studied the latter to enhance their own defense capability for a future war.18 In this emerging network of knowledge and technology, even the ethos of bushidō (the way of warrior) became an item of exchange, as seen in its adaptation by

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Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

Robert Baden-Powell who recognized the value of this Japanese credo for his own organization, the Boy Scouts in the UK.19 The catastrophe of the First World War (1914–1918) intensified cross-border transfer and exchange of defense strategies. The introduction of aerial bombing, as seen in German raids on London and other European cities, made it patently clear that national defense now depended on the protection of civilians and their homes.20 Leaders of the United States, the UK, France, Italy, Germany, the Soviet Union, Poland, and Japan studied, analyzed, and adopted each other’s tactics, and  thus “home fronts were consciously constructed as part of transnational flows of ideas and institutions.”21 In post–First World War Japan, the significance of civil defense became even more obvious after the 1923 earthquake and, with it, the role of women at home became magnified. Women’s voluntary work was deemed essential to recovery and reconstruction, impressing women’s importance in crisis management upon the state. When the Second World War started, the Allies and Axis alike continued to tap into the shared vocabulary of civil defense, implementing such practices as home shelters, fire drills, neighborhood volunteer corps, and school evacuations in their respective contexts. As Traci Davis, Laura McEnaney, and Andrew Grossman point out, civil defense knowledge and technology that had accumulated through two major wars came to inform the Cold War home front in the United States, the UK, and Canada.22 In the United States, the newly established Federal Civil Defense Administration (FCDA) inherited pre-1945 discourses and practices as the nation prepared for a new war. Women and homes were once again central in national protection, playing a salient role in the new, anti-communist campaign that proliferated in the 1950s and 1960s.23 Civil defense knowledge and technology thus revamped and reformulated in the Cold War United States eventually traveled (back) to post–3.11 Japan. As the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), which had subsumed the FCDA, began to share its experts and expertise with Japan following the March 11 disaster, it inaugurated a new era of US–Japan cooperation. The ongoing proliferation of resilience culture in Japan should therefore be understood as part of the larger, multidirectional circulation of defense discourses and practices that spans a considerable temporal, cultural, and geographical distance.

Re-gendering Resilience-Building Second, Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan analyzes gender as a primary vehicle in post–3.11 cultural production.24 Examples from the past

Introduction

7

are once again instructive because they reveal the centrality of women and domesticity in disaster recovery, reconstruction, and resilience. The 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake not only sparked spiritual mobilization; it also set off largescale women’s activism on the ground. Barely a month after the quake, twelve women leaders met to discuss the role of women in post-disaster Tokyo. Among them was the notable female reformer Hani Motoko, whose declaration, “Let’s take actions without further ado” (Rikutsu nashi ni jikkō kara hajimemashō),25 led to the formation of the Tokyo Federation of Women’s Associations (Tokyo Rengō Fujinkai), a broad coalition of women leaders, groups, and organizations. Listed on the federation’s roster were a Who’s Who of female leadership of the day, including Hani Motoko, Kaneko Shigeri, Yoshioka Yayoi, Kubushiro Ochimi, Gauntlet Tsuneko, Kawai Michi, Oku Mumeo, Yamakawa Kikue,26 and organizations such as the Japan Young Women’s Christian Association, Japanese Women’s Christian Temperance Union (Nihon Kirisutokyō Fujin Kyōfūkai), Women’s Patriotic Association (Aikoku Fujinkai), Tokyo Women’s College, and Jiyū Gakuen (a Christian school established by Hani).27 The federation showcased women’s role as post-disaster welfare agents. Once the chaos subsided, federation members organized themselves into teams and began to distribute milk rations among mothers with infants.28 By handing out items of clothing and bedding, they took care of daily needs among the displaced and also provided economic opportunities for women who sewed these materials for a fee.29 Promoting women’s physical education (taiiku), the federation also placed women at the center of recovery and refortification, linking the question of women’s bodies to that of the national polity.30 Applying nascent census technology,31 federation members visited shelters to collect information on household composition, income, daily needs, employment situation, and health conditions of the dislocated population.32 Due to these multifaceted activities, the value and virtue of female citizenry became undeniable—a “bargaining chip” that the federation subsequently used to demand women’s suffrage and the abolition of licensed prostitution without success. The federation’s participation in post-disaster welfare activities can be best understood as part of the “life improvement movement” (seikatsu kaizen undō), a nationwide movement that generated close collaboration between the  state and civil society. Playing a conspicuous role in social engineering in pre-1945 Japan, the movement promoted moral suasion, domestic modernization, economic rationalization, and eventually the Second World War mobilization at the grassroots level.33 (Mis)understanding that women’s cooperation with the state would provide them with a platform from which to demand expanded rights for women, the Tokyo Federation of Women’s Associations deepened its

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Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

involvement in Japan’s nation- and empire-building through the 1930s and into the 1940s. This culminated in the organization’s transformation into the Dai Tōa Seikatsu Kyōkai (Great East Asia Life Association) in 1942, a women’s organ of the warring state whose expansionist drive came to an abrupt end in 1945.34 As US gender scholars would readily point out, a similar dynamic of gender, feminism, domesticity, and nation was also evident in the Cold War United States. American women leaders, most notably Katherine Howard, promoted women’s participation in Cold War civil defense in the name of women’s empowerment. In the early postwar context, in which the wartime icon Rosie the Riveter gave way to the postwar domestic symbol June Cleaver (the mother on the popular television show Leave It to Beaver), women leaders, many of whom were veterans of the first-wave women’s movement, considered the Cold War an opportune event. Asserting their primacy as mothers and wives whose expertise in matters at home was unquestionable, they tried to create a women’s space in the otherwise male-dominant political structure of the postwar United States.35 Women became the chief agents of Cold War home defense, stocking emergency food supplies in their pantries, assembling emergency-aid kits, and maintaining the physical and psychological well-being of their family members.36 A stark example of the militarization of everyday life, Cold War civil defense articulated, as argued by Laura McEnaney, an unlikely yet significant link among feminism, maternalism, militarism, and expansionism.37 In post–3.11 Japan, the significance of women and homes looms large, articulating a familiar link between femininity, domesticity, and defense. In “Asa Ichi” (First in the Morning), a TV program aired by the NHK (Japan Broadcasting Corporation) with housewives as its target audience, Kunizaki Nobue, leading female expert on crisis management, emphasized the importance of “women’s perspectives” in disaster preparedness, and recommended a list of items women should keep in their emergency bags. The program also instructed young mothers on how to escape a calamitous event with infants in tow. Step by step a female model demonstrated how to put on a fisherman’s vest, stuff its pockets with daily essentials, and carry one child in front and another on the back.38 Women articulate their own significance in disaster resilience, as seen in post-disaster publications with titles such as 3.11 Onnatachi ga hashitta: josei kara hajimaru fukkō e no michi (How Women Sprang into Action after 3.11: The Pathway to Recovery Begins with Women),39 Onnatachi ga ugoku: Higashi Nihon Daishinsai to danjo kyōdō sankaku shiten no shien (Women in Motion: The Great East Japan Disaster and Post-disaster Assistance from the Perspective of Gender Co-participation),40 and Fukkō o torimodosu: hasshinsuru Tōhoku no onnatachi

Introduction

9

(Take Back the Reconstruction: Women’s Messages from Tōhoku),41 which present the picture of women galvanized into actions in the face of an unprecedented crisis. In addition, the centrality of women in post–3.11 protection schemes is clear in pamphlets issued by local and national governments, guidebooks published by commercial presses, and drills and exercises implemented in local communities, all of which repeatedly emphasize the significance of women as chief agents of safety and security at home. Importantly, in post–3.11 discussions on women and disaster, the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake is frequently invoked. A study of the Tokyo Federation of Women’s Associations, undertaken by a collective of women historians and published by the feminist-oriented press Domesu Shuppan, draws a direct connection between the 1923 earthquake and the 2011 disaster, presenting the federation as a model for Japanese women to emulate. As the publication’s main title, Onnatachi ga tachiagatta (Women Rose Up), suggests, the study celebrates women’s mobilization during the 1923 crisis and articulates a feminized vision of “Rise up, Japan.”42 Clearly femininity and domesticity constitute salient elements in post–3.11 Japan. However, Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan also pays attention to the other, often forgotten gender, that is, men and masculinity. Indeed, the crisis triggered by the 2011 disaster was preceded by decades of national decline in which anxiety over manhood had been a persistent feature. As Anne Allison argues, contemporary Japan is best characterized as a “precarious” nation. Once a leading economic power, Japan has experienced a significant downturn in national power in recent decades. This became apparent in the early 1990s with the onset of an economic recession and undeniable following the 2011 disaster. Japanese men have been at the center of this rise and fall of the nation. Following the collapse of the Japanese empire at the end of the Second World War, Japanese men reconfigured their obligations to the nation as they took off the uniforms of imperial soldiers and put on the business suits of economic warriors. Pursuing their roles as breadwinners for their families, loyal servants to their companies, and the economic engine of the nation, these corporate warriors—“salarymen”—brought unprecedented economic growth to Japan, whose stability and prosperity quickly became an object of envy around the world. When the “bubble” burst in 1991 and recession set in, however, the fate of the nation—and Japanese men—took a drastic turn. With the rising tide of unemployment, underemployment, poverty, hunger, homelessness, “shut-ins” (hikikomori), “solitary deaths” (kodokushi), and suicide, Japanese men seemed to lose their foothold. The disaster of March 11 further called into question the state and status of men.43

10

Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

Given these preexisting dynamics, it is no surprise that the question of manhood has become inextricably linked to that of nationhood following the  March 11 disaster. As Robin LeBlanc observes, masculinity is so central in post–3.11 Japan that ongoing discussions of the reconstruction of energy sources and the economy are driven by a single, overriding concern of how to resurrect the figure of the salaryman, who once embodied the power and prowess of the nation.44 Importantly, the nexus between manhood and nationhood was also evident in the 1923 disaster. As the ruinous state of Tokyo revealed the nation’s weakness in a glaring manner, Gotō Shinpei, former mayor of Tokyo and president of the Reconstruction Institute, called upon the legacy of Admiral Tōgō Heihachirō, military hero of the Russo-Japanese War, as a model of heroism and sacrifice for Japanese to follow.45 Gotō was also an avid promoter of the Boy Scouts in Japan, a premier institution of masculine socialization whose origins go back to Robert Baden-Powell in imperial Britain.46 While studies of men and masculinity constitute a slowly growing area in Japanese Studies,47 ongoing discussions in Men’s and Masculinity Studies in the United States and Australia provide a useful context for analysis of post–3.11 Japan. Nation-building and rebuilding evince a masculinized and masculinizing process in which attributes associated with manliness—strength, virility, authority, and dominance—are repeatedly invoked to define the contours and contents of nation-states.48 The question of masculinity takes on particular significance during periods of crises, be they natural or man-made. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, social anxieties over gender disorder, exemplified by the increase in “effeminate” (weak and degenerate) men and “manly” (assertive and strong) women, triggered a pervasive fear about the decline of the nation amid economic depression, the rise of the women’s movement, and the closure of the frontier.49 To overcome this domestic crisis, American political leaders promoted the rejuvenation of masculinity via military deployment and overseas expansionism as a chief means to national refortification. Young boys were to follow suit, with American Boy Scouts providing an ideal training ground for fortification of their bodies and minds.50 Several decades later, the crisis of masculinity resurfaced during the Cold War, this time triggering the so-called Lavender Scare in which male homosexuality was understood as a matter of national (in)security. As homophobia proliferated in the postwar United States, gay men with government jobs became a prominent target of persecution. Their putative effeminacy was considered treasonous, as it would supposedly weaken the nation’s prowess vis-à-vis communist enemies.51 Anxieties about manhood and nationhood, so prominent in post–3.11 politics of resilience-building,

Introduction

11

should be considered in relation to these masculinized and masculinizing dynamics in both the United States and Japan.

The Local and the Global in Post–3.11 Culture Third, Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan analyzes the local–global nexus as it explores international dimensions of Japan’s resilience-building. Post–3.11 culture is full of examples that point to the importance of cross-border dynamics. To wit, the proliferation of the term “resilience” (rejiriensu) following 3.11 has much to do with a recent shift in global governance. During the 1980s and 1990s, disaster management became a leading global policy field, mobilizing a wide range of social agents including nation-states, regional organizations (such as ASEAN), international organizations (such as the UN), nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), scientific, technical, and academic communities, private businesses, and the mass media.52 Global discussions on disaster preparedness, prevention, and mitigation as well as on post-disaster rescue, recovery, and reconstruction have led to the circulation of new terms and concepts, including “disaster resilience” which was identified by the UN as a key concept in disaster management in 2005.53 As Jonathan Joseph and others point out, resiliencebuilding is a leading means of neoliberalization in local and global governance, in which risk management is increasingly offloaded to individuals who are urged to learn about and adopt the principles of self-care and self-responsibility.54 Far from being an exclusively economic phenomenon, neoliberalism generates multitudes of cultural and political dynamics, institutionalizing new values and practices, embedding its ethos in everyday life, and producing a new subject and subjectivity.55 In post–3.11 Japan, resilience-building has indeed become a focal arena of neoliberal discourses and practices, in which the privatization of risk management has been propagated together with the primacy of self-help and mutual help over government aid. In addition to neoliberalism, the post–3.11 resilience regime highlights the significance of the military as a chief agent of disaster management. The discourse of “disaster militarism” circulates, (re)casting the military as a humanitarian agency whose deployment is essential to containing natural and man-made disasters and building resiliency within and beyond the nation.56 As Richard Samuels points out, the rise in popularity of the JSDF and the US military following 3.11 is indeed noteworthy. Operation Tomodachi, an international rescue and recovery operation, entailed the deployment of US forces from bases

12

Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

in Okinawa, the Philippines, and Hawai‘i to disaster-struck Tōhoku, highlighting the vast network of US military resources and personnel that blankets the AsiaPacific region. By promoting unprecedented collaboration between the JSDF and the US military, the 3.11 disaster enhanced the level of interoperability, showcasing the militarized kizuna (bond) between the United States and Japan.57 Another kind of kizuna has also emerged as a result of the disaster because various ties have been forged between members of the military and Japanese civilians who have held ambivalent views vis-à-vis the institution since the end of the Second World War. As discussed throughout this book, the dynamics of militarism circulate in tandem with those of neoliberalism, suggesting the complex contours of securitization emerging in post-disaster Japan. The links between culture, disaster, militarism, neoliberalism, and transnationality are also evident in the post-disaster popularity of Hawai‘i, a garrison island in the middle of the Pacific and the place where the term “Operation Tomodachi” reputedly originated.58 The significance of Hawai‘i is seen in the excitement surrounding the 2012 reopening of Spa Resort Hawaiians in Iwaki, Fukushima, an entertainment facility known for its Polynesianthemed dance shows made famous by the critically acclaimed 2006 film Hura Gāru (Hula Girls). The spa’s reopening, which followed its temporary closure due to the disaster, was considered a sign of recovery and resilience, leading to its celebration as a “kizuna resort.”59 The popularity of Hawai‘i is also evident in “healing tourism” (hoyō ryokō), an arrangement that sent children from the disaster-struck prefectures to Hawai‘i for the purpose of physical and psychological rejuvenation. The project—“Rainbow for Japan Kids”—involved the US military, Japanese and American volunteers, civic organizations, and numerous transnational corporations, showcasing yet another kind of kizuna developing against the backdrop of securitization and neoliberalization proliferating in the Pacific. The post-disaster deployment of Hawai‘i is indeed a complex phenomenon informed by multiple layers of dynamics. As the Spa Resort Hawaiians showcases Japanese dancers with Hawaiian stage names to signal the recovery of post–3.11 Tōhoku, it depoliticizes dynamics of gender, race, class, militarism, and colonialism that have long shaped the history not only of Hawai‘i but also of Tōhoku. Healing tourism, too, is culpable in the dominant workings of power. The understanding of Hawai‘i as a “paradise” endowed with rejuvenating power was initially articulated by Americans who, following the annexation of the islands at the end of the nineteenth century, came to view the colony as a natural and feminized space for their own regeneration amid racial and national

Introduction

13

anxieties back on the continent.60 Redeployed in the twenty-first century as a place of healing for children struck by the 3.11 disaster, Hawai‘i now stands as a cross-border space for resolving the contradictions borne by young Tōhoku victims, a space in which the principles of self-care and mutual help are repeatedly invoked to embed the workings of neoliberalism and transnationalism in both locales. Driven by a spirit of volunteerism, moreover, healing tourism also exemplifies “voluntourism,” in which the premise of selflessness (exemplified by volunteerism) is subsumed into the promise of economic enterprise (exemplified by tourism) to facilitate the recovery and reconstruction.61 That Hawai‘i constitutes an important node in ongoing resilience mobilization is also evident in the recent visit of Nikai Toshihiro, leading LDP politician and architect of kokudo kyōjinka (national resilience). In May 2017, at a forum held at the University of Hawai‘i, Nikai spoke about the significance of safety and security in the Pacific whose enhancement depends on collaboration between Japan and Hawai‘i, with local Japanese Americans playing a role as its conduit.62 The post–3.11 invocation of Hawai‘i is therefore inseparable from geopolitical dynamics in the region, in which the legacies of colonialism are intertwined with the rise of neoliberalism and resurgence of militarism to turn the islands into a potent site of nation- and alliance-building in the twenty-first century.63

Conclusion In sum, Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan examines multilayered and multidirectional dynamics that inform post–3.11 resilience-building in Japan. While highlighting the workings of gender and culture, the book also situates post-disaster nation-building and -rebuilding within the larger transnational and transhistorical contexts of tourism, militarism, neoliberalism, and imperialism. Having elucidated the tenor of the study thus far, it is perhaps useful here to briefly note what this study is not about. The book does not discuss which resilience techniques and procedures are more (or less) effective than others in protecting people’s lives in natural and man-made disasters. Nor does it address the question of whether disaster resilience is a legitimate project that can deliver what it promises, and if it can do so, to what degree. Rather, this book takes post–3.11 disaster resilience as a complex of discourses and practices whose enunciation always entails power dynamics. In Japan and elsewhere, preparation for risks, dangers, and disasters has increasingly been institutionalized as “common sense,” naturalizing its premise and depoliticizing

14

Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

its intent. Some of the studies on 3.11 indeed treat resilience-building as the end  point of discussions rather than as a starting point of critical inquiry, placing  disaster readiness and preparedness outside the purview of in-depth analysis.64 Going against this normalizing impulse, Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan reframes the post–3.11 initiative toward national resilience as a deeply politicized and politicizing project, in which the grassroots desire to protect and preserve people’s lives is too frequently and too easily coopted by political and cultural machineries to reinforce dominant values and practices. At the confluence of unprecedented crisis, bottom-up mobilization, and a resurgence of nationalism, a call for national recovery and refortification proliferating in Japan could hardly be innocent or uncomplicated.

2

Re-masculinizing the Nation: Resilient Manhood and Revitalized Nationhood

In June 2016, the science fiction film Shin Godzilla premiered in Tokyo. The twenty-ninth installment of the Godzilla series produced by Tōhō, it became an immediate box-office hit across Japan, generating critical acclaim and winning the Japan Academy Prize for both Picture of the Year and Director of the Year. Inspired by the 2011 earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown, it is a disaster film par excellence. Depicting Godzilla as an unknown and unknowable force of destruction originating from the sea and powered by nuclear energy, the film draws an explicit analogy between the monstrous creature and the 3.11 catastrophe. As an unprecedented kokunan (national crisis) unfolds on the screen, the film, which was produced with assistance from the Japan SelfDefense Forces (JSDF), showcases the heroism, dedication, and courage of a band of soldiers who set out to contain the crisis at the risk of their own lives, tackling the monster with tanks, helicopters, and fighter jets and generating much excitement among members of the viewing audience.1 The film’s promilitary stance was not lost on the ruling Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) or the JSDF. Within months of its release, Prime Minister Abe publicly endorsed the film, stating that its popularity reflected public endorsement of the JSDF.2 A newly created JSDF recruitment poster featured Godzilla with the caption, “Kono ima o, mirai o, mamoru” (Protect the Present and the Future).3 In post–3.11 Japan, talk of men, military, and crisis has proliferated. Operation Tomodachi, the rescue operation carried out immediately after 3.11 by the US military and JSDF personnel and fictionalized in Shin Godzilla, was followed by numerous accounts congratulating American and Japanese soldiers for their bravery. Articulating “disaster militarism,”4 these narratives (re)cast the military as a humanitarian agency whose deployment is deemed essential in containing disasters. The celebration of martial masculinity is also visible in the 2014

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Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

coffee-table book Men Who Defend the Nation: Officers and Sailors of JMSDF (Kokubō Danshi: Kaijō Jieitai dansei jieikan shashinshū). Featuring photos of JMSDF (Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force) personnel in their twenties and thirties taken by the popular military photojournalist Miyajima Shigeki, the book highlights their youthful, muscular bodies as key to national security. Profiling soldiers stationed in locations from Hokkaido in the north to Okinawa in the south, many of whom cite disaster-related operations as a major reason they enlisted, the book assures its readers that the line of defense is firmly in place along the archipelago of Japan, where “kokubō danshi” (men who defend the nation) dedicate themselves to national safety and security.5 One disaster management manual lists a series of “JSDF techniques” deployable vis-à-vis earthquakes, typhoons, and torrential downpours, showing real-life soldiers demonstrating a variety of life-saving methods and thereby disseminating military techniques and technologies to the civilian population as part of selfhelp (jijo) education.6 The invocation of martial ideals is also observed in the revival of Space Battleship Yamato (Uchūsenkan Yamato), a science fiction anime first popularized during the 1970s in which soldiers are sent on a mission to save the Earth from lethal radiation unleashed by the enemy. Driven by “romantic desires to find a messianic hero (or heroes) capable of literally rescuing Japan from the state of emergency,” fans see “the allegory of apocalyptic post–3/11 Japan” in the fictional story of Yamato.7 The popularity of Space Battleship Yamato, named after the Imperial Japanese fleet sunk off Okinawa in the final days of the Pacific War, indicates that Japan’s expansionist past and its attendant national(ist) sentiments are part and parcel of post-disaster culture of safety and security. The martial legacy from the past played a part even or especially in the narrative of nuclear disaster. Following the catastrophic meltdown at the Fukushima nuclear power plants, the Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) dispatched a group of male employees, nicknamed “The Fukushima 50,” to contain the crisis. Facing their daunting mission, one of these workers stated that they “felt like members of the Tokkōtai [the Kamikaze pilots during the Second World War] in that we were prepared to sacrifice everything.”8 Linking his sacrifice to that of Japanese soldiers on suicide missions during the Pacific War, he voiced, perhaps with mixed feelings, the manly (and deadly) dedication that the nation demanded of both groups. The discourse of safety and security circulates widely, also infiltrating the corporate world to urge the latter to devise plans and implement procedures to safeguard the nation’s economy. Amid increasing demands for Business

Re-masculinizing the Nation

17

Continuity Planning (BCP) and Business Continuation Management (BCM), the Japan Chapter of the International Emergency Management Society (TIEMS) organized a 2014 symposium in which men in charge of crisis management in the business sector discussed economic refortification. Among the featured speakers were Koshino Shūzō—a former member of the JGSDF (Japan Ground Self-Defense Force) mobilized during the Hanshin-Awaji (Kōbe) Earthquake in 1995 and the March 11 disaster in 2011—who explained how to adopt the military command structure to government and business entities in times of crisis, and Tashiro Kuniyuki—representative of the InterRisk Research Institute & Consulting—who offered a variety of models of the Incident Command System (ICS) that would facilitate risk reduction and containment in the workplace. Following their presentations, the question-and-answer session predominantly focused on how to incorporate military techniques and technologies as part of corporate resilience strategies, pointing to the rise of new corporate warriorhood in which the boundary between security and the economy was blurred.9 The link between manliness and resilience is visible in post–3.11 Tōhoku as well. Fukkō no Noroshi (A Beacon of Rebirth) is a grassroots project in which a series of posters have been created to express the will and determination of people in disaster-struck Ōfunato, Kamaishi, Ōtsuchi, and Rikuzentakata. Highlighting the saliency of gendered and gendering dynamics at the grassroots level, the project expresses the long-standing assumptions of femininity and masculinity in photographic portrayals of local residents who strive for self-help (jijo) and mutual help (kyōjo). In one of the posters, a middle-aged man stands alone, his fist clenched, in front of a building. Its caption reads, “Shioretecha otokoga sutaru” (according to the translation provided, “Got to be a real man about it” (Figure 2.1)), suggesting the centrality of manhood and psychological fortitude in recovery and reconstruction.10 A contrasting notion of femininity is displayed in another poster, providing a foil for post-disaster masculinity. A middle-aged woman and her mother (or mother-in-law) appear at the window of what seems to be their temporary housing. This time the caption reads, “Gohan o tsukureru shiawase” (according to the translation provided, “Finally home to the simple joy of cooking for the family” (Figure 2.2)).11 In contrast to the male resolve and determination showcased in the first poster, the second defines the home as the main sphere for women in recovery and reconstruction, providing a domesticating vision of post–3.11 rebuilding. This chapter examines the intertwined dynamic of masculinity and resilience in Japan. At first glance, the post–3.11 celebration of manly fortitude, military might, and national prowess seems to indicate Japan’s confidence in national

18

Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

Figure 2.1  “Got to be a real man about it,” Fukkō no Noroshi Poster Project, 2014. Courtesy of Sasaki Masahiko.

Figure 2.2  “Finally home to the simple joy of cooking for the family,” Fukkō no Noroshi Poster Project, 2014. Courtesy of Sasaki Masahiko.

Re-masculinizing the Nation

19

masculine strength. In reality, however, this emerging discourse reflects the prevailing anxieties over the state of, and status of, manhood and nationhood. Japan—and its men—had been mired in “precarious” conditions since before the 2011 disaster, as they contended with a series of challenges during the 1990s, including rising unemployment, underemployment, poverty, hunger, homelessness, and suicide.12 As a result, the remasculinization of Japanese men has been a central agenda since 3.11, with the recovery of salarymen—a barometer of national power—as its priority.13 The simultaneous invocation of manhood and nationhood in the context of crisis is not unique to Japan. As scholars on men and masculinity would readily point out, national crisis, be it triggered by economic downturn, political turmoil, natural calamity, or military conflict, frequently engenders social anxieties over manhood and masculinity.14 Post-disaster Japan is an exemplary case in this respect because it evinces masculinized fears and anxieties in the aftermath of a major catastrophe. Following the understanding that inquiry into masculinity should take place not only at the micro level of individual discourses and practices but also at the macro level of industrialization, modernization, militarization, and other facets of geopolitical dynamics,15 this chapter sheds light on the workings of masculinity as a crucial aspect of Japanese culture in the making. As elucidated below, Japan’s post–3.11 rebuilding and refortification have unleashed a series of pronouncements and practices centered on the body, masculinity, the military, and the economy whose purview is not only national but also international. As the first substantive chapter of this book, the discussions on the following pages analyze the genesis, codification, and dissemination of kokudo kyōjinka (national resilience), a key concept that has been driving post–3.11 national recovery and rebuilding. Drawing on idioms and images from the past, present, and future, national resilience embeds post-disaster refortification in memories and metonyms of Japanese tradition, while also communicating a new vision of the nation in the new global century, in which resilience assumes increasing significance as a leading governance tool. Highlighting “the ability to withstand and survive shocks and disturbances” and “the capacity to thrive in the face of challenge,”16 resilience “acts as a means to create adaptable subjects capable of adapting to and exploiting situations of radical uncertainty.”17 Emphasizing the significance of “individual preparedness, making informed decisions, understanding our roles and responsibilities, and showing adaptability to our situation and being able to ‘bounce back’ should things go wrong,”18 the concept of resilience fits perfectly with the neoliberal emphasis on personal

20

Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

responsibility, reflexivity, and self-awareness. Circulating in a wide range of social spheres, it is especially useful in the realm of risk management, in which people are encouraged to develop awareness and make advance preparations rather than rely on the state to cope with predictable and unpredictable calamities.19 Importantly, this proliferation of neoliberalism leads to a renewed articulation of nationalism, whose emphasis on morality, solidarity, and tradition seeks to counter and contain instability, insecurity, and disorders produced by the emerging system predicated on atomization, individualism, and competition.20 As seen throughout this book, the simultaneous invocation of neoliberalism and neoconservatism is indeed a notable feature in contemporary Japan, generating a variety of discourses and practices in the wake of 3.11.

National Resilience (Kokudo Kyōjinka): The Beginning, Development, and Proliferation On one level, the rise of kokudo kyōjinka in Japan reflects a recent international trend in disaster readiness, in which resilience-building has become a norm in national, regional, and global governance. On another level, Japan’s emerging national vision is profoundly informed by the domestic dynamics of Japanese party politics, a field dominated by men. In 2009, the country experienced a dramatic shift when the conservative LDP, whose dominance had been almost uninterrupted since 1955, lost power to the Democratic Party of Japan (DPJ). Although marked as an occasion for major transformation, the DPJ’s rule lasted only a few years, with its quick demise being attributed, among other factors, to its inability to handle the 2011 disaster and its aftermath. In December 2012, with national resilience as its leading campaign promise, the LDP defeated the DPJ in the general election and swore in Abe Shinzō as prime minister. National resilience was first formulated as the LDP’s party platform during the party’s brief time as the opposition from 2009 to 2012. Its chief advocate was Nikai Toshihiro, LDP’s elder statesman, former Minister of Economy, Trade, and Industry, and Secretary-General of the LDP since 2016, whose words carry enormous weight. Witnessing the devastating consequences of 3.11, Nikai urged fellow party members to formulate a vision of national fortification as a way to reassert the LDP’s national leadership. His call for action led to the formation of the Comprehensive Research Commission on the Establishment of Disaster Resilience (hereafter the LDP Research Commission). From October 2011 to September 2012, the LDP Research Commission organized

Re-masculinizing the Nation

21

nearly eighty lectures, in which experts in civil engineering, seismology, public policy, economics, business, and art were invited to share their knowledge and perspectives on national refortification with audiences comprised of politicians, bureaucrats, academics, and industry leaders. The lectures were published in four thick volumes with the overall title Kokudo kyōjinka: Nihon o tsuyoku shinayaka ni (National Resilience: A Strong and Flexible Japan), each more than six hundred pages long and explicating a vision of national resilience defined by members of the LDP and its supporters.21 Following the LDP’s return to power in 2012, national resilience quickly moved from internal party discussions to national policy. Under the banner of Abenomics (an economic revitalization policy bearing the name of the prime minister), the newly formed Cabinet began to promote national resilience as a means to stimulate Japan’s economy via large-scale infrastructural investment, accompanied by a proposed budget of 200 trillion yen over a period of ten years. As new institutional space began to emerge to codify, implement, and propagate national resilience, the Cabinet Secretariat, an entity whose stature has risen dramatically since the 1990s,22 assumed central significance. In 2012, Furuya Keiji, a close associate of Abe and a veteran politician of the LDP who served as chairman of the National Public Safety Commission and minister in charge of the abduction issue involving North Korea, was appointed by the prime minister as the first minister in charge of national resilience. In 2013, an advisory committee was formed within the Cabinet Secretariat. Fujii Satoshi—a member of the graduate faculty of Civil Engineering at Kyoto University, special advisor to the prime minister (naikaku kanbō san’yo), leading contributor to the LDP Research Commission, and zealous advocate of national resilience who expounded his views through internet and print publications, lectures, and speeches—presided as chair. Based on the committee’s recommendations, three key documents on national resilience were issued—the basic act published in 2013, the fundamental plan in 2014, and the action plan in 2014. Following the publication of the Basic Act, the National Resilience Promotion Office (Kokudo Kyōjinka Suishinshitsu; hereafter the Promotion Office) was established within the Cabinet Secretariat in 2013. In 2014, a nominally nongovernment organization, the Association for Resilience Japan, was established, with Nikai, Fujii, and Furuya as prominent members. This organization called for a “national movement” (kokumin undō) that would involve government (kan), academia (gaku), industry (san), and the populace (min).23 A pamphlet issued by the Promotion Office in English and Japanese, “Building National Resilience—Creating a Strong and Flexible Country”

22

Gender, Culture, and Disaster in Post–3.11 Japan

(Kokudo kyōjinka to wa? Tsuyokute shinayakana Nippon e)—explains the scope and objectives of national resilience. It highlights the devastating consequences of the Ise Bay Typhoon in 1959, the Great Hanshin-Awaji (Kōbe) Earthquake in 1995, as well as the Great East Japan Earthquake in 2011, and predicts another catastrophe in the near future. Given the unimaginable levels of destruction such a disaster would cause, the pamphlet argues, it is imperative to “build safe national land, regions, and economy and society with strength and flexibility.”24 Specifically, Japan should pursue infrastructural innovation and renovation to “prevent human loss by any means,” “avoid fatal damage to important functions for maintaining administration as well as social and economic system,” “mitigate damage to property and facilities and prevent expansion of damage,” and “achieve swift recovery and reconstruction” in the event of a major catastrophe.25 To this end, the pamphlet proposes a two-pronged approach. One consists of “structural” and “hard” measures, which involve a series of construction projects aimed at fortifying homes and buildings, riverbanks and sea dikes, railways and roads, and industrial plants and structures.26 The other consists of “nonstructural” or “soft” measures to promote information dissemination and educational training aimed at increasing people’s awareness of risks, hazards, and disasters, encouraging family- and community-level planning, and facilitating evacuation drills and exercises.27 As discussed below, despite its seemingly neutral façade, each of the two areas defined as central to national resilience—one structural (hard) and the other nonstructural (soft)— has quickly become a site of mobilization where discourses of manhood and nationhood are circulated. In post–3.11 Japan, a nation shaken by unprecedented disaster, the call for national refortification described above seems reasonable, necessary, and even inevitable. As scholars of disaster repeatedly point out, however, the process of disaster and post-disaster recovery is never neutral but always mired in politics.28 Post–3.11 Japan is no exception, for national resilience has quickly become the focal site of political controversy whose articulation is never separable from the question of men and manhood. One example is proposed infrastructural fortification. Arguing that national resilience entails massive investment in public construction work, or kōkyō jigyō, involving railways, roads, bridges, and ports, critics contend that this will create pork-barrel spending, a practice long associated with the LDP in which public spending is utilized to gain votes and maintain control in local and national politics.29 Showcasing the generative power of disaster, the prospect of public construction work has led to countless pronouncements among business elites

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23

about the unparalleled opportunities involved in post–3.11 rebuilding. In its New Year issue in 2013, the leading business magazine Nikkei Construction “gave a close read on public construction” (dobokukai o yomu). It provided a list of fifty “key terms” considered essential in understanding the scope of post-disaster recovery and rebuilding. Quoting (male) leaders in business and academia, it also speculated on the economic repercussions that the LDP initiative would generate in public construction and attendant business strategies in this new economic landscape.30 The following year, the same magazine published another New Year special issue on resilience-building, offering an “in-depth prediction on public construction in 2014” (tettei yosoku, 2014-nen no doboku). Explaining the Basic Act of National Resilience, the issue covered an array of topics, ranging from budgetary proposals submitted by various ministries to supply conditions in disaster-struck Tōhoku to new construction knowledge and technologies.31 Praising the quality of resilience-building in Japan, the magazine endorsed the export of infrastructural techniques and technologies to Taiwan, Thailand, Vietnam, and Indonesia, with industry (san), government (kan), and academia (gaku) collectively harnessing their energies to facilitate business expansion abroad.32 Importantly, the possible return of pork-barrel politics invokes the memory of masculine political leadership—most notably that of former Prime Minster Tanaka Kakuei—for both supporters and critics of infrastructural investment.33 As the chief architect of the National Development Project (Kokudo Kaizō Keikaku) during the 1970s, Tanaka promoted a large-scale national reconstruction initiative, fueling the construction boom across Japan and prompting critics to call his regime a “construction state” (doken kokka). Patriarch of the party and “don” of construction interests, Tanaka was known for his aggressive behind-the-scenes dealings that earned him such nicknames as “computerized bulldozer,” “dark shogun,” and even “Godfather.”34 Post–3.11 public discourses frequently tap into the legacy of this masculine, charismatic leader, invoking the memory of Japan during a high-growth era when strong men were in charge of a strong party and a strong nation. The popular magazine, Bessatsu Takarajima, published a special issue on Tanaka Kakuei, providing an outsized story of an outsized man with numerous pictures to glorify his “life philosophy” and “ability in capturing people’s hearts and minds.”35 The former governor of Tokyo and author Ishihara Shintarō, well known for his conservative right-wing politics and controversial comment that 3.11 was “divine punishment” for the “egoism” of Japanese people, published a biography of Tanaka, portraying the politician as a “tensai” (genius).36

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The centrality of manliness is also visible in the LDP’s critique of its archenemy, the DPJ. During its brief tenure from 2009 to 2012, the DPJ challenged the LDP’s pork-barrel politics by promoting slogans such as “From concrete to people” (konkurīto kara hito e) and “Lifestyle politics” (seikatsu seiji), that is, trimming public works spending and redirecting fiscal resources to social security programs. Returning to power in 2012, the LDP reversed DPJ priorities to advocate an increase in public works spending under the banner “From people to concrete,” with the 2011 disaster providing compelling justification for such a reversal. The language of manliness played an important role in this shift. Members and supporters of the LDP condemned the DPJ’s emphasis on “people” over “concrete” as “infantile,”37 “irrational,”38 and even “treasonous,”39 and characterized DPJ rule as lacking “strength of mind,” “courage,” and “bravery.”40 Following the DPJ’s brief reign, the LDP sought to reinvigorate the nation by showing “strong political resolve”41 and “firm political leadership.”42 As Abe Shinzō declared, the promotion of national resilience illustrates the LDP’s “determination to stare down any and all challenges” faced by the nation.43 The centrality of masculinity in national resilience is explicitly articulated by Fujii Satoshi, who sees the philosophy of the warrior way (bushidō) as a basis for the project. Just as an accomplished samurai would never be taken by surprise on the battlefield, so Japanese people must ready themselves for any calamity by refortifying the nation’s infrastructure.44 Fujii’s invocation of bushidō is important to note. As discussed in Chapter 1, in the transnational formation of civil defense culture in the early twentieth century, the term traveled across national and regional borders and was adopted by Robert Baden-Powell, who founded the Boy Scouts in the UK.45 A discursive tool of a malleable nature, the term has also appeared and reappeared in the course of Japan’s modernity as the nation contended with a variety of crises. At the turn of the last century, the warrior ethos was first popularized by Nitobe Inazō, a Christian author, educator, and politician whose book Bushido: The Soul of Japan (1900) expounded on the samurai tradition. Written in English, the book shed light on the philosophy of martial masculinity in Japan, asserting the nation’s vigor and virility vis-à-vis Western imperial powers. The second “boom” in bushidō followed Japan’s defeat at the end of the Second World War, when internationally renowned author Mishima Yukio reinvoked the warrior ethos, insisting on the remasculinization of Japan to counter what he saw its feminization, pacification, and Americanization brought about by the defeat at the end of the Second World War and the subsequent US occupation from 1945 to 1952. Most recently, the discourse of warrior masculinity has resurfaced

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in the twenty-first century, with writer Hyōdō Isohachi advocating a “new bushidō.” Lamenting the emasculated state of the nation and its men, Hyōdō insists that Japan acquire nuclear weapons so as to assert its standing vis-à-vis the United States.46 Reflective of the discursive pattern long in place in Japan, Fujii’s reference to bushidō is an instance of traditional masculinity retooled to mobilize men in the new age of insecurity and uncertainty. A discourse of masculinity informs not only interparty politics between the LDP and the DPJ but also the definition of national resilience itself. The pamphlet mentioned above—Building National Resilience—conveys a series of ideas and practices involving the body and manhood in defining post–3.11 national refortification. Likening the human body to the national land area, it states that “[h]aving a resilient body means that a person has a healthy body resistant to a cold or flu and does not suffer a serious symptom even if infected and can get well soon.” A resilient nation would similarly withstand and recover from major disasters with minimum damage. Importantly this resilient body–land is gendered male, for the pamphlet uses the example of Suzuki Ichirō, a Japanese baseball player popularly known as “Ichiro” in US Major League Baseball: “Ichiro, a professional baseball player, has acquired a resilient body and mental power, as well as excellent batting techniques, through his ongoing efforts and has continued to be active on the front lines throughout his career both in Japan and the United States.” Thus national resilience not only imagines the nation’s land as male but understands its enactment in terms of a male body whose vigor is tied to persistent efforts at cultivating physical and mental strength.47 Selfdisciplining and self-appreciating, this new Japanese subject must continuously build, through endeavors centered on self-care, sufficient bodily capacity to contend with and contain myriad risks and dangers in order to contribute to the resilience of the nation. The significance of masculinity is made evident, but is also complicated, by the Promotion Office’s deployment of another national celebrity, Sasaki Norio, then head coach of Nadeshiko Japan, the women’s national football (soccer) team named after the flower nadeshiko (dianthus superbus). In a poster issued by the Promotion Office (Figure 2.3), Sasaki’s face exudes manly determination as he “kicks off ” the project of national resilience whose chief agenda is defined as “national risk management.” The utilization of Sasaki, an exceptionally popular figure at the time, is not surprising. Since Nadeshiko Japan won the FIFA women’s world championship shortly after the 2011 disaster, Sasaki has been hailed as a national hero. Having guided the beleaguered national team to international victory, Sasaki—once a salaryman—has been praised for his “management” skill,

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Figure 2.3  “Resilience Japan,” Cabinet Secretariat. Courtesy of Japan Football Association (Nihon sakkā kyōkai).

a resource applicable to other areas plagued by weakness. Refashioning himself as a business management guru, Sasaki began to promote his expertise as an athletic coach as a useful tool in reconfiguring business leadership (historically a terrain dominated by men) and revitalizing the national economy.48 As deployed

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by the Promotion Office, Sasaki’s expertise is now mobilized in yet another area of concern, national resilience, where effective management of risks is essential in strengthening the nation. A preeminent symbol of resilience, Sasaki embodies a link among body, business, and nation in post–3.11 Japan. The video “How to Achieve the World’s Top-Level National Resilience,” created by the Promotion Office and available on its website since 2013, sheds light on the centrality of gender, management, and leadership in national resilience. In this fifteen-minute piece, Sasaki Norio and Furuya Keiji engage in dialogue, highlighting similarities between creating a resilient sports team and building a resilient nation. As Sasaki explains to Furuya, Nadeshiko Japan faced enormous obstacles in international competitions because its players were “children of the smallest stature” (ichiban chīsai ko) whose physical size was markedly inferior to that of Western players. Despite this disadvantage, Nadeshiko Japan beat the US national team to “climb to the top of the world.” How was such a feat possible? According to Sasaki, it was due to the flexibility, preparation, and commitment that each member of the team had cultivated over the years. Under Sasaki’s careful gaze, members of Nadeshiko Japan learned to recognize weaknesses, overcome shortcomings, and prepare physically and mentally for any unpredictable scenarios during their matches. Avoiding a traditional, top-down style of coaching, Sasaki encouraged his athletes to identify vulnerability, correct mistakes, and devise winning strategies on their own, articulating a type of leadership that would direct team members from a distance. The “collective intelligence” (shūdanteki chisei) thus generated led Nadeshiko Japan to its spectacular victory in 2011, emphasized Sasaki. For Furuya, Sasaki’s coaching style is precisely the model of leadership that the government should adopt in its pursuit of national fortification. Just as Sasaki assumed the role of “control tower” (kontorōru tawā), so the government should function as the headquarters of resilience-building by directing people and resources from afar in preparation for future disasters. Sasaki’s strategies—having team members recognize their own vulnerability, prepare for unpredictable situations, cultivate collective intelligence, and enhance physical and mental capacities through repeated practice—are precisely the ones to be used in enhancing national resilience, a goal that can be achieved only when each member of a society develops awareness of, makes a commitment to, and executes the vision of resilience. Just as Nadeshiko Japan achieved international victory, so national resilience, when successfully implemented, will allow Japan to (re)gain its international preeminence as “the world’s strongest nation.” Illuminating the economic repercussions of national fortification, Furuya adds

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that Japan, once having established a reputation as a resilient country, will surely attract more investments from overseas, an element essential to enhancing its competitiveness in the global economic field.49 At first glance, the deployment of Nadeshiko Japan by the Promotion Office seems a welcome intervention in the otherwise male-dominated world of national resilience. Highlighting the exceptional feat accomplished by Japan’s female athletes, the video suggests, by analogy, that national resilience, too, would benefit from and indeed require women’s participation. The strength, perseverance, and dedication exemplified by members of Nadeshiko Japan have been celebrated as “Nadeshiko Power” in Japan, suggesting the importance of women in the post-disaster nation. Praising Sasaki’s strategy as coach, moreover, the video seems to advocate a less traditional and more egalitarian model of leadership in which voluntary participation, consensus-based decision-making, and the autonomy of team members (i.e., citizens) are valued. However, the potential for such an intervention is quickly lost. The video likens the post–3.11 nation to a sports team comprised of girl children and named after the flower nadeshiko, invoking the stereotypical notion of infantilized femininity. It envisions Japan as a feminized, infantile nation whose refortification requires the figure of an adult male, presenting a conventional vision of the gender hierarchy of masculine authority and feminine subordination. Invoking the phallic symbol of a “control tower,” the video reasserts the centrality of state power operating from afar, suggesting a neoliberal vision of governance in which the state rolls back its functions but still exerts its authority. Defining individual autonomy, participation, and commitment as the locus of national resilience, moreover, the video reflects and reinforces a discourse of self-reliance and selfcare popularized since 3.11, in which “individual help” (jijo) and “community help” (kyōjo) are assigned far more weight than “state help” (kōjo). At its core, national preparedness and protection rely on—and indeed demand—individual awareness and adaptability. Promoting the privatization of disaster prevention and preparation on the one hand and advocating a strong, paternalistic state on the other, the video articulates the familiar LDP discourse in which “economic liberalism (or neoliberalism)” is combined with “political illiberalism” to further facilitate a conservative, rightward shift in post–3.11 Japan.50 The importance of Nadeshiko Japan and Sasaki Norio—whose rise as national icons is based on their victory at the FIFA championship—suggests yet another political dynamic central to post–3.11 national refortification: the significance of cross-regional movements that exceed Japan’s borders and boundaries. How national and international dynamics intersect to inform national

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resilience can be seen at a 2014 event, the “US–Japan Workshop on National Resilience.” Sponsored by the Cabinet Secretariat and involving Furuya Keiji, Fujii Satoshi, and Nikai Toshihiro, the workshop also featured two Americans— Donald Lumpkins, Director, National Integration Center, Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), and Robert Eldridge, Deputy Assistant Chief of Staff (G-7), Marine Corps Installations Pacific (MCIPAC). The workshop linked national resilience to the history of security and securitization politics of the United States. In his presentation entitled “National Protection Overview,” Donald Lumpkins began by acknowledging the significant impact of the 2011 disaster on US national protection strategies and emphasized the importance of US-Japan collaboration in enhancing the two nations’ resilience capabilities. Discussing how FEMA defines and implements its own version of national resilience in the United States, he seemed intent merely on sharing technical know-how and  bureaucratic details of US crisis management with his counterparts in Japan.51 However, Lumpkins’s involvement in the workshop was more than an occasion for information sharing. FEMA, the institution Lumpkins represented, grew out of several public safety and national security bureaus, including the FCDA, which played an instrumental role in the militarization of everyday lives in the Cold War United States through such measures as civil defense of “duck and cover” exercises and underground shelters. Given that FEMA and the Department of Homeland Security, together with the Department of Defense (DOD), have been playing increasingly significant roles following the  9.11 attacks in 2001, Hurricane Katrina in 2005, and other large-scale disasters in the United States, the militarized and militarizing nature of national preparedness and protection is evident.52 Lumpkins’s involvement in the workshop was an occasion where the politics of national protection originating from the Cold War United States was subtly linked to that of national resilience emerging in post–Cold War Japan to create trans-Pacific circuits between the two nations in matters of national safety and security. Cross-border and cross-historical dynamics were even more central to Robert Eldridge’s presentation at the same forum, “Operation Tomodachi and Afterwards: A U.S. Marine Corps Perspective.” As Eldridge argued, the 2011 joint operation was a success in more ways than one. It revealed the humanitarian nature of the US military as it pursued rescue and recovery activities across Tōhoku, and also showcased positive qualities of each nation, such as the “stoicism” of the Japanese people, the “professionalism” of the JSDF,

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and American sympathy toward the Japanese. Also, it confirmed the importance of the “Japan-US security alliance” and “U.S. forward presence and experiences.” Eldridge—a political scientist specializing in Okinawa—highlighted the importance of Okinawa among the factors that led to the operation’s success. As a launching pad for disaster-related deployment of the US military not only to mainland Japan but also to Indonesia, Pakistan, the Philippines, the Solomon Islands, Taiwan, and Thailand, Okinawa was playing a vital role in ensuring the region’s safety and security. Highlighting the significance of Okinawa as a central site of US military operations in Asia and the Pacific, Eldridge, like Lumpkins, articulated a link between Cold War and post–Cold War geopolitical dynamics. The overwhelming presence of the US military in Okinawa, where more than 70 percent of US military facilities in Japan are currently concentrated, traces its origin to the Cold War alliance forged between the two governments in which Okinawa was forced to take on this disproportionate burden.53 Against the backdrop of Okinawans’ ongoing protest against the US military domination of their islands, Eldridge deployed the discourse of “disaster militarism,” emphasizing the importance of the US military presence in Okinawa.54 Mobilizing an assortment of men, among them politicians, bureaucrats, academics, athletes, and soldiers, post-disaster resilience-building has set in motion a series of ideas and practices that have to do with nationalism, neoliberalism, and militarism. Assigning a certain significance to the categories of women and colonized and often feminized space such as Okinawa, the emerging dynamic defines their involvement in national refortification in terms subordinate to the masculine authority. As seen in the US-Japan workshop, moreover, this new political movement, far from being confined within the domestic terrain, draws on dynamics beyond its borders where the legacies of the Cold War continue to shape regional dynamics. As discussed subsequently, one arena where these dynamics converge is that of business, in which corporate actors are urged to devise a series of resilience discourses, technologies, and programs to ensure the nation’s economic survival in the event of crisis.

National Resilience as Economic Refortification In the emerging culture of national resilience, Japan’s BCP and BCM have increasingly been becoming a norm.55 In the face of prevailing precarity, the private sector has to enhance its durability and maintain its operability in normal and abnormal times through a variety of means, including the implementation

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of on-site disaster drills and exercises, the creation of contingency plans and guidelines, the formation of resilient culture in the workplace, the militarization of employee training, and the establishment of supply chains ready to withstand any and all calamities. Articulating the neoliberal principle of personal accountability in corporate terms means that individual firms, factories, and companies must establish effective connections, assess real and potential risks, and deliver informed decisions. New personnel are appointed to undertake this crucial task, and workshops, symposiums, and exhibits are held across Japan to institutionalize this new business practice. In post–3.11 Japan, examples of business resilience abound. In fall 2013, the Security & Safety Trade Expo took place at the Tokyo Big Sight, a major conference and exhibition complex located in the popular shopping and entertainment district of Odaiba in Tokyo. Sponsored by a long list of government and nongovernment agencies and showcasing more than two hundred exhibitors, including Hitachi, Mitsubishi, Bridgestone, and Du Pont, the three-day event was an occasion to showcase up-to-date technologies of crisis management produced by various manufacturers, while also providing educational seminars, lectures, and workshops where businessmen who comprised one of the target populations learned how to contend with a multitude of hazards, ranging from natural disasters and pandemics to terrorism and war. A great deal of heavy gear and bulky equipment was displayed at the expo, exuding manly power in terms of color, size, and shape. Dotted across the exhibition floor were uniformed members of the US military and the JSDF, and in the “Israeli Pavilion,” defense contractors from Israel busied themselves negotiating sales with potential buyers. Crisis management experts—government bureaucrats, business consultants, academics, and community activists almost all of whom were men—expounded on the significance of fortifying the workplace in preparation for future calamities, explicating new business norms, sensibilities, and practices vis-à-vis an audience comprised predominantly of men in business suits.56 Displaying links among the military, industry, and technology, the expo promulgated selfhelp as the central logic of safety and security in the business sector. The significance of business resilience is also highlighted in the 2015 special issue of Risk Taisaku.Com, a magazine focused on risk reduction, prevention, and management in the contexts of earthquakes, pandemics, and terrorist attacks. Stating the need to cultivate resilience awareness in the workplace, the special issue discusses how to establish the BCP as a new cultural norm.57 One model case is found at the Tokyo Dome Corporation. Operating hotels, resorts, and amusement parks, the company runs more than five hundred disaster drills

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per year at its flagship entertainment complex, Tokyo Dome City. The exercise involves full- and part-time employees (numbering nearly seven hundred) as well as citizens in the surrounding communities (police personnel, firefighters, and local residents), all of whom rehearse evacuation procedures and practice first aid based on the company’s in-house guidelines.58 Training employees in resilience skills and techniques is never a sufficient measure for risk containment, however; the workplace culture as a whole must be transformed. The Disco Corporation, a company headquartered in Tokyo that produces precision tools for the semiconductor industry, regularly runs a disaster drill based on its own continuation plan, addressing a variety of issues, including the safety of employees, the timely shipment of products overseas, and the maintenance of its supply chain. The company has devised a number of ingenious methods with which to cultivate a disaster-ready culture among its employees: an essay contest with disaster themes; a competition in disaster readiness among sections; and a “monetary award” (based on internal currency) for those with exemplary resilience practices.59 IBM–Japan is similarly determined to inculcate a new ethos among its workers. Not only did it create a BCP for a large-scale pandemic in 2008, and another for a largescale earthquake in 2013, but all employees must sign off its Business Conduct Guideline (BCG), pledging their commitment to resilience-building. As IBM Resilience Service Line General Manager Laurence Guihard-Joly points out, a key to successful corporate resilience is to be “always on.” A variety of events, workshops, and presentations have been organized at IBM branches around the globe, ensuring that a new corporate culture of resilience is institutionalized across the company’s entire system.60 With the increasing tide of globalization, Japanese corporations must pursue operational securitization in overseas as well as in domestic contexts. Kojima Toshirō, a former employee of Hitachi, Ltd., who was in charge of its risk management protocols, states that Japanese companies large and small no longer have a choice but to send their personnel to “high risk areas” abroad if they are to survive international economic competition. Kojima argues that this can be done with proper preparation, and lists a series of strategies to that end. First and foremost, it is essential to gather information on local conditions to ascertain the nature and the degrees of risk. This should be combined with a series of other measures—the creation of an evacuation plan, consultation and coordination with Japanese embassies and consulates, procurement of bodyguards from private security companies, acquisition of bulletproof vests, vehicles, and shelters, and simulation drill exercises for a hostage situation.61

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The securitization of business operations is indeed an urgent matter, prompting Risk Taisaku.com to report on a risk management workshop held in Luzon, the Philippines. During the three-day training, a reporter dispatched by the magazine went through a series of exercises on how to cope with and survive crisis situations under the guidance of former Australian military personnel. During the workshop, a wide array of activities were pursued—administration of first aid, acquisition of combat skills, handling of a gun, simulation of combat situations, media management, and ransom negotiations. In addition to hands-on exercises, the importance of developing a resilient mind-set was emphasized. “No matter what,” the instructor told trainees, it is essential to maintain calm and remember that “You have the responsibility to go home to your family,” thereby emphasizing men’s obligations to the family as well as to the nation.62 Clearly, in the twenty-first century, corporate warriorhood takes on new meanings and significance. Just as the JSDF’s kokubō danshi protects the nation, so businessmen must guard the nation’s economy by developing a series of new skills and techniques, venturing into dangerous zones, and surviving calamitous situations with the aid of physical and psychological fortitude as their chief weapons.

National Resilience as Moral Reformation In post–3.11 Japan, the neoliberal thrust of resilience-building discussed thus far has been combined with the deployment of tradition, articulating an intertwinement of neoliberalism and neoconservatism in the new regime of resilience.63 The call for national revitalization repeatedly invokes Japan’s imperial past and demands a reformation of spirit amid countless signs of Japan’s weakness and vulnerability. Building a strong infrastructure is not sufficient for creating a resilient nationhood; revitalizing the Japanese spirit (kokoro) is equally or even more crucial. When Prime Minister Abe declared “Take back Japan” (Nihon o torimodosu), he not only expressed his determination to recapture political control, reestablish economic stability, and refortify the physical infrastructure, but also voiced his yearning, echoed by many within the LDP and beyond, to restore “Japaneseness” whose decline was considered a root cause of the nation’s precarious state. As Abe argues, national resilience must “reenergize the wonderful tradition and culture of Japan” and “transform the consciousness of people” so as to protect and preserve the “beautiful national polity.”64 With the invocation of Japaneseness—a term whose meaning is at best

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ambiguous—resilience becomes a malleable discursive terrain in which talks of the Japanese spirit, masculinity, and the nation’s imperial legacy flourish. The revitalization of Japaneseness is indeed a recurring theme. Linking Japan’s spiritual essence to post–3.11 resilience, Nikai Toshihiro states that national resilience is first and foremost about the “philosophy” (shisō) that reflects the spiritual makeup of Japan.65 He elaborates his argument in a three-part speechturned-essay entitled “Declaration of National Resilience” (Kokudo kyōjinka sengen). Since time immemorial, Japan has encountered numerous crises, and yet on each occasion the nation successfully recovered from devastation and was able to grow and prosper. In ensuring the nation’s survival, national leaders— always assumed to be men in Nikai’s writing—have played crucial roles. Equally important, however, has been ordinary people’s moral and spiritual fortitude, nurtured and passed down from generation to generation. Japanese spiritual virtue manifests in various ways, including self-sacrifice, mutual help, neighborly ties, rural communalism, affinity with nature, and humanism. Japan’s moralspiritual strength was clearly on display during the 2011 disaster, Nikai points out, as people in Tōhoku prioritized others’ well-being over their own and helped each other in a situation of unprecedented chaos. Broadcast internationally, the “pride” and “purity” of disaster victims showed the greatness of Japan around the world.66 To prove the immutable nature of Japaneseness, Nikai turns to two historical artifacts—the ancient literature of Nihon shoki which contains the seventhcentury edict authored by Prince Shōtoku during the reign of Empress Suiko, and the Charter Oath promulgated when the Emperor Meiji ascended the throne in the nineteenth century. Advocating unity, harmony, humility, and sincerity, these historical texts encapsulate who and what Japanese people truly are. Invoking Prince Shōtoku, a semilegendary figure who established the political foundation of ancient Japan, as well as Emperor Meiji, a larger-than-life figure who set Japan on the path of modernization, national unification, and eventual imperial expansion, Nikai situates national resilience within the larger mythohistorical narrative of Japan’s imperial genesis.67 Nikai is not alone in invoking Japan’s imperial lineage when defining national resilience. His collaborator, Fujii Satoshi, is also adamant in linking post–3.11 national refortification to the preservation of the Imperial House. If Japan is to “avoid a fatal blow” to its existence, members of the Imperial House must be protected against any and all calamities, he argues.68 “Securitization of the Imperial House” (kōzoku no anzen hoshō)69 should therefore be considered the leading agenda of national resilience, because its destruction would mean the

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literal end of Japan.70 Kyoto Mayor Kadokawa Daisaku echoes Fujii’s sentiment, pointing out that kokudo kyōjinka entails the refortification of the psychological backbone of the Japanese people. Kyoto is exemplary in this respect. As the seat of the Imperial Household, the ancient city of Kyoto has preserved Japan’s history, culture, tradition, and “heart” for centuries. No other city has taken care to preserve such ancient treasures as the imperial wedding garments from more than a thousand years ago, symbolizing the deep pride people possess and the eternal quality the nation embodies. Fortified by centuries-old culture, tradition, and spirit, and having overcome numerous crises in the past, Kyoto is a model city of resilience whose beauty continues to radiate to this day. For Kadokawa, cultural resilience (bunka no kyōjinka) is the basis of crisis readiness and preparedness.71 Given the gravity of national resilience where the survival of the imperial body and polity is at stake, the state of Japanese men who are to take on this significant mission is worrisome, according to Fujii. He is especially vocal about the dubious nature of Japanese men today who strike him as soft, weak, and emasculated. Comprising a generation of “peace idiots” (heiwa baka), contemporary Japanese men are not only oblivious to but, worse yet, incapable of handling the risks faced by the nation. Like Mishima Yukio, Fujii argues that the source of the problem is to be found in Japan’s post–Second World War success. Enjoying regional stability guaranteed by the US military and benefitting from economic prosperity achieved by the preceding generation of men who knew the true meaning of manhood because of their wartime experience, contemporary Japanese men are a bunch of spoiled brats who have grown up in a protected “hothouse” atmosphere without knowing hardship. Infantile and inexperienced, they lack manly fortitude and manifest the “spiritual poverty” that plagues the entire nation.72 For the nation to become truly resilient, Fujii asserts, Japanese men must revitalize their manhood by cultivating “spiritual resilience,” with the samurai of the feudal era and soldiers of the Second World War as their models. Once their spiritual vigor is regained, Japanese men will be able to put the nation “back on track,” guiding it along the path of growth and prosperity to achieve international preeminence. As far as Fujii is concerned, recovering authentic masculinity embodied by the ideal of the Nihon Danji (Japanese Man) is an obligation for all Japanese men.73 Importantly, the narrative of the need to restore lost manhood is articulated not only by men but also by certain women. This was observed at a 2012 roundtable discussion that the LDP Research Committee organized, at which female party members—Yamatani Eriko, Inada Tomomi, Inoguchi Kuniko,

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Koike Yuriko, among them—were invited to present their views on national resilience from “women’s perspectives,” with Nikai Toshihiro serving as the “observer.”74 Far from challenging masculinized and masculinizing discourses of national resilience, they demanded a return of strong men and a strong nation, reiterating arguments voiced by their male colleagues. Emphasizing the significance of Japaneseness in national resilience, Inada Tomomi, then chairwoman of the LDP Policy Research Board and later Minister of Defense, stated that characteristics such as pride, dignity, sincerely, diligence, spiritual richness, and love for the nation are the essence, indeed the “DNA,” of being Japanese.75 Yamatani Eriko, who succeeded Furuya Keiji as Minister of National Resilience, agreed wholeheartedly. She, too, considered the restoration of Japaneseness to be crucial to post-disaster national refortification. Turning to Nitobe Inazō’s 1900 English-language book Bushido: The Soul of Japan as well as to the Kojiki, an eighth-century chronicle whose significance rivals that of Nihon shoki, Yamatani emphasized the sacred nature of the Japanese polity and the Japanese people’s infinite affection for it.76 Highlighting her contribution as a woman, however, she also made a point of discussing “women’s issues” in post–3.11 Japan. Turning to the topic of the declining birthrate, she argued that the problem is attributable to women who postpone pregnancy, and also to men whose sperm may not be sufficiently active. A lack of “vigor” of men and their sperm, moreover, might have something to do with the poor quality of food they consume, she averred. Reassessing food production and ensuring food security, she argued, is crucial in building a stronger nation.77 Repeating the discourse of Japaneseness, Inada and Yamatani also extended the scope of post-disaster revitalization by deploying biological notions of DNA and male fertility, thereby lending womanly support to further naturalizing post–3.11 resilience in bodily terms.78 Discourses of manhood and nationhood proliferate at the grassroots level as well, as seen in the Tokyo Metropolitan Disaster Prevention Week, a local event held in Sumida Ward in September 2013. Despite its localized outlook (among its chief promoters were a Tokyo-based disaster prevention association as well as the Sumida branch of the Japan Chess Association), the event was informed by a number of historical and geopolitical dynamics in which national resilience is firmly linked to Japan’s past. To begin with, the event site, the Tokyo Memorial Temple for Two Disasters (Tokyo Ireidō), was a space infused with memories of national disasters, as it commemorates victims of the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake and also the Great Tokyo Air Raids of 1945. The Memorial Temple was built in 1930 at the Rikugun

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Hifukushō ato (the former site of the Japanese Imperial Army Uniform Factory) at Honjo, a place embodying the intertwined dynamic of empire, military, and domesticity (as reflected in garment production). During the 1923 disaster, the former clothing depot became the scene of major tragedy. Attempting to escape the fire that was erupting across Tokyo, people headed to the open space once occupied by the factory, taking with them as many belongings as possible, including clothing, bedding, furniture, bicycles, horses, etc. The firestorm soon reached Honjo, however, where these accumulated household materials fueled the inferno and incinerated more than 30,000 refugees taking shelter there. Pictures of charred, swollen, and decomposing bodies piled into mounds were subsequently printed in newspapers and on commemorative postcards, turning the site into a grim symbol of calamity in Japan’s modern history.79 The Memorial Temple is also informed by another important strand of dynamics, as its construction involved Itō Chūta (1867–1956), a leading architect in Imperial Japan. Promoting Japanese nationalism in architectural terms, Itō became involved in the construction of Okinawa Shrine, Heian Shrine, Yasukuni Shrine (including Yūshūkan), and Meiji Shrine in Japan proper as well as Karafuto Shrine, Chōsen Shrine, and Taiwan Shrine in Japan’s colonies, articulating a link between architectural construction and imperial expansion across Asia.80 Adjacent to the Memorial Temple is the Memorial Museum, also created by Itō, where various memorabilia associated with the 1923 earthquake are displayed. Among them is a large oil painting of Crown Prince Hirohito (later the Showa Emperor) during his post-disaster inspection of Tokyo, representing imperial beneficence vis-à-vis Japanese subjects. At the Tokyo Memorial Temple, then, Japan’s military and imperial pasts converge, creating a symbolically rich space to ponder the significance of the 2011 disaster. It was against this backdrop that four civil engineers, including Fujii Satoshi, presented a panel entitled “How to Protect Japan in the Face of Great Earthquakes in the Future.” Significantly, they spent less time discussing the technical knowhow needed to fortify Japan’s infrastructure than the concept of “love” (ai) as the chief means to national preparedness. Hosoda Akira of Yokohama National University argued that post–3.11 national refortification is above all a matter of preserving “Japaneseness.” Disaster prevention and mitigation must be pursued so that people in Japan could continue to live “as Japanese” while maintaining characteristics intrinsic to their culture such as sincerity, humility, cheerfulness, and ancestral respect. Hosoda was not confident, however, that such a task could be successfully pursued in contemporary Japan. Too many people were “indifferent” to

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the state and status of the nation. The problem was not simply their lack of technological understanding of how to prepare and protect their homes and communities from large-scale hazards and disasters, but their lack of spiritual commitment to the nation. Ignorant of the nation’s past, people were unable to grasp the greatness of its civilization. The cultivation of “love” for the nation was therefore the first step toward addressing the challenge of national preparedness and protection. In emphasizing the significance of “love,” Hosoda hailed civil engineers as exemplary practitioners as well as proselytizers of such love. Dedicated to maintaining the nation’s infrastructure, generations of civil engineers had staked their lives on sustaining the nation and preserving its great civilization, he stated. Another civil engineer, Iwaki Ichirō, a faculty member of Nihon University, explained how to cultivate such patriotic love in post–3.11 Japan. Stating at the outset that the ongoing nuclear crisis in Fukushima would not be part of his discussion, Iwaki proceeded to focus on a far less controversial topic, “A Project of Brushing up Bridges” (Hashi no Hamigaki Purojekuto). Taking place in the community of Hirata in Fukushima, this project provided an excellent example of infrastructural refortification, in which local government (kan), university (gaku), industry (san), and population (min) worked together to maintain local  bridges. Its importance was obvious, according to Iwaki. Maintaining a bridge is essential  to sustaining society’s infrastructure, just as brushing one’s teeth is necessary in keeping up one’s health. Both are ways to maintain infrastructure the long term, be it the human body or the national polity. The value of the project was not only about infrastructure, however. Volunteering time and energy to maintain bridges was an excellent way to overcome indifference and develop “emotional attachment” to one’s community. Suggesting the centrality of self-help and affective mobilization in national refortification, Iwaki suggested that people across Japan should become “bridge keepers” (hashimori), maintaining infrastructure in their communities on a daily basis as a way to cultivate love for the nation and contribute to its resilience. Fujii Satoshi of Kyoto University expanded on the topic of patriotic love. Unlike his other speeches and writings in which bushidō is a central referent, this time Fujii drew on Greek mythology, specifically the story of “The Sword of Damocles,” thereby situating his speech within a cross-cultural context of mythological narratives. The tale concerns a king, Dionysius, and his courtier, Damocles. In an attempt to teach Damocles a lesson about the weight of responsibility borne by those in power, the king seats him directly underneath a large sword that is suspended by a single strand of horsehair, thus revealing

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how a ruler lives every moment in imminent peril. For Fujii, the story was full of moral implications for post-disaster Japan. While the sword epitomizes the precarious state of Japan, the king’s lesson suggests the kind of mental fortitude required of people in the face of unknown and unknowable dangers. Just as the dangling sword instantly casts Damocles into a state of constant awareness, so the Japanese people must cultivate “sustained concern” (kigakari) about the nation. Developing sustained commitment is tantamount to expressing “love” to the nation. Whether or not people deploy sufficient spiritual energy (seishin katsuryoku) to cultivate such love would determine the future fate of Japan, Fujii declared. Only by realizing such love can Japanese people fulfill their potential “as Japanese” and help the nation realize its potential as an “unparalleled civilization.”81 In the panel presentation, these men articulated their visions as builders and architects of Japan. This localized event, taking place in a Tokyo neighborhood, was not local at all, as it recast post–3.11 national refortification within the larger contexts of Japan’s nation- and empire-building, whose legacies were well preserved in the memorializing practices associated with the site of the presentation, Tokyo Memorial Temple, and its architect, Itō Chūta. Expounding on the significance of “love” as a means to accomplish post-disaster refortification, the panelists advocated the notion of patriotic love and promoted civil engineers as exemplary practitioners of such love whose devotion to Japan could rival that of warriors, soldiers, and political leaders. Reiterating gendered and gendering dynamics of post-disaster refortification, the panel presentation became an occasion to present a masculinized vision of Japan as a nation whose future depends on the recovery and restoration of men and their bodily as well as affective commitment to their country.

Conclusion Following the March 11 disaster, national resilience has become a necessary and inevitable endeavor in Japan, where another large-scale disaster is predicted to occur of equal or even more devastating consequence. Working against the  normalizing impulse that undergirds this mobilization, this chapter has analyzed national resilience as a deeply politicized and politicizing project in which a series of cultural, historical, and geopolitical dynamics are brought  together to promote securitization, neoliberalization, and renationalization of Japan in masculine, corporeal terms. As cultural-discursive

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machinery, post–3.11 resilience-building is a multifaceted project, demanding refortification of the body and polity, reformulation of business practices at home and abroad, and rejuvenation of the Japanese spirit. National resilience is mobile and extensive, enlisting politicians, bureaucrats, soldiers, athletes, businessmen, and civil engineers as chief agents, while also incorporating into its vision, albeit in subordinate terms, marginalized categories of population such as women and peripheral sites such as Okinawa. Far from being confined to small circles of political elites, the emerging paradigm of resilience circulates widely, penetrating grassroots communities, as seen in the 2014 Tokyo Metropolitan Disaster Week, while also extending its reach beyond the national borders to tap into geopolitical dynamics in Asia and the Pacific. By tracing the workings of masculinity, culture, and disaster in post–3.11 Japan, this chapter has highlighted the need to critically reexamine idioms of safety and security with attention to manhood and nationhood. As the next chapter reveals, women and femininity play equally or even more important roles in the contemporary resilience politics, in which domesticity functions as a chief site of national recovery and refortification.

3

Training Women for Disasters: Domesticity and Preparedness in the Age of Uncertainty

The Japanese lifestyle magazine, an an, has enjoyed much popularity among young women since its launch in 1970. Along with glossy pictures and numerous advertisements, it has offered countless tips on topics ranging from clothing to makeup to sex, setting fashion trends and fanning female consumerism for decades in one of the world’s leading capitalist nations. Shortly after the March 11 disaster in 2011, an an published a special issue whose title read, “The Book for Women’s Disaster Preparation: Wisdom and Items for Self-Protection in Unpredictable Circumstances” (Josei no tame no bōsai bukku: “moshimo” no toki ni anata o mamotte kureru chie to mono), with the English subtitle “Girl’s Life Skill.” Suggesting that women and men experience disasters differently, the magazine discussed a variety of emergency goods that purportedly reflect women’s unique needs and urged readers to stock them as part of their disaster preparation.1 The magazine’s discussion provides a fascinating read on gender and disaster. The very first item on the list of emergency supplies is feminine sanitary napkins. Although the evacuation facilities might have this provision in store, the magazine contends, women have different size, thickness, and brand preference. Women should figure out how many and what kinds they need for each cycle and stock up on them in advance. Having a sufficient supply on hand is not simply a matter of addressing women’s bodily needs; it gives a “sense of security” (anshinkan), a crucial element in crisis management.2 The second item on the list is a portable washlet (“bidet”). In a large-scale disaster in which the water supply would likely be cut off, washing bodies and cleaning clothes would pose a challenge. This item is essential in maintaining bodily hygiene and avoiding health complications in such circumstance, as was well attested to by female victims of 3.11.3 Yet another recommended item was a face mask. Women could use it not only to avoid inhaling debris but to cover up “bare faces” (suppin no

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kao) at the evacuation facilities where they would most likely have no access to cosmetics.4 The topic of facial complexion assumes much significance in the special issue, leading to other advice and suggestions. Thus women should have “all-in-one cream” (multipurpose cream) as part of their disaster preparation. Useful for more than one purpose, it also helps reduce the number of makeup items women carry in their emergency bags. Having a rough complexion may add to psychological distress during disaster, a scenario women can avoid if they have prepared in advance.5 Multipurpose cream can be combined with plastic wrap which, placed on the face, would help moisturize it.6 Other items on the list included disposable lingerie, deodorant sheets, face wash, and hand mirrors, all centered on maintaining bodily hygiene, eliminating odors, and caring for one’s complexion. Nearly fifty emergency items are identified in this manner as part of “Girl’s Life Skill,” emphasizing women’s self-care and self-maintenance as the central tenet of female readiness and preparedness. Getting young women ready for hazards and disasters requires persistent effort. In 2013, an an published another special issue, “What to Do? Serious Crises Faced by Women” (Dōshitara iino? Onna no jūdai kiki). Posing the question “Do you think your happiness will last forever?” on its cover, the magazine proceeds to answer it in the negative, identifying a series of calamities that could strike women at any moment—unemployment, their parents’ illness, depression, cancer, and singlehood. To help women avert these situations, the magazine explains how to save money, cope with depression, and look for signs of health problems. Lest readers forget the significance of natural disasters, it reproduces segments of the earlier discussions in “Girl’s Life Skill,” reminding readers to stock up on multipurpose cream, plastic wrap, deodorant sheets, and portable bidets.7 In post–3.11 Japan, it is not only young women but wives and mothers who are urged to take action to prepare for future crises, all the more so because of their responsibility for the safety and security of their family members, and especially their children. This understanding is reflected in many of the post–3.11 publications, such as Shindo 7 kara kazoku o mamoru ie: bōsai gensai hando bukku (Preparing Home to Protect Your Family from Magnitude 7  Earthquakes: A Handbook for Disaster Reduction and Prevention) by Kunizaki Nobue, a leading female crisis management advisor,8 and Hisai mama 812 nin ga tsukutta kozure bōsai techō (A Notebook for Disaster Preparedness Compiled by 812 Mothers Who Experienced Disaster) by Tsunagaru.com, a volunteer organization established to assist mothers with children displaced by 3.11.9 Discussions of disaster-ready motherhood have proliferated via websites,

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print media, training sessions, lectures and workshops, radio and television, and disaster prevention fairs and events, with a cadre of professionals—crisis management advisors, educators, and trainers, many of them women— propounding mothers’ responsibilities in securing the home front and guarding the safety of children. Importantly, resilience-building also is a salient agenda item among women leaders and activists, who approach women’s readiness and preparedness as a chief strategy in promoting “gender equality.” In charge of family welfare during normal times, women possess special skills and knowledge deployable during crisis, they argue. For example, the Women’s Network for East Japan Disaster: Rise Together, a grassroots organization that emerged in the aftermath of 3.11, insists that “women’s perspectives” should be integrated into all levels of policy making concerning disaster. Creating a manual entitled “The Support We Wanted! A Collection of Good Practice in Disaster Response based on the East Japan Disaster” in Japanese and also in English, the organization, renamed the Training Center for Gender & Disaster Risk Reduction in 2014, continues to promote women-centered perspectives and practices among government agencies, nonprofit organizations (NPOs), and volunteer groups.10 With its commitment to women and resilience, Japan now stands as an exemplar of gender equality and disaster management. At the UN World Conference on Disaster Risk Reduction held in Sendai in 2015, Prime Minister Abe Shinzō presented a triumphant narrative of Japanese gender, culture, and disaster. Having encountered numerous natural disasters since time immemorial, Abe stated, Japan had gained knowledge and technology essential for resilience. Declaring that women were the “driving force” for a resilient society (kyōjin na shakai), he went on to describe how women played a pivotal role in recovery and reconstruction in Tōhoku. Members of a local disaster-prevention group took care of mothers with young children and elderly people at the evacuation facilities. Female police officers mobilized from across Japan provided emotional assistance to disaster victims. Fishermen’s wives turned their knitting skills into a source of profit-making, selling handmade sweaters and articulating an enterprising spirit. The number of women involved in disaster planning and preparation at the city and prefectural levels had increased. Japan was now exporting its expertise on disaster resilience and gender equality to neighboring countries such as Fiji, the Solomon Islands, and the Philippines.11 This chapter examines women’s mobilization in post–3.11 Japan. Following the March 11 disaster, the safety and security of individuals, families, and communities have increasingly been designated women’s responsibility. Under

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Prime Minister Abe’s calls for “a society in which women shine,” disaster recovery and refortification have become yet another sphere for Japanese women to step into and “shine” as they practice self-help (jijo) and mutual help (kyōjo). At one level, this emerging dynamic articulates a new cult of domesticity, in which women are the chief agents of protection and homes are a main site of defense. Facilitating the militarization of everyday life, this new culture circulates the logic and logistics of securitization in the public and private domains. At another level, the same dynamic also infiltrates the realm of feminist politics. Female resilience-building has been framed as part of “danjo kyōdō sankaku,” a policy agenda promoted by the Japanese government whose literal meaning is “gender co-participation” but whose official English translation is “gender equality.” Popularized since the 1990s, “gender co-participation,” which promotes “gender mainstreaming” to facilitate women’s participation in all spheres of society, has become a dominant paradigm of gendered resilience-building. Defined as a “feminist” project, women’s readiness and preparedness have garnered support from the broad spectrum of women leaders and activists. Interlinked with feminism, maternalism, neoliberalism, and militarism, post–3.11 culture articulates a new form of female citizenry whose implications are complex and convoluted. The link among women, domesticity, and security that is conspicuous in present-day Japan is not new. As discussed in Chapter 1, women’s and feminists’ mobilization was a crucial element of national defense in Japan and elsewhere during the First World War, the Second World War, and the Cold War. In addition to these precedents, post–3.11 gender politics in Japan can be meaningfully compared to post–9.11 mobilization of American women. Following the September 11 terrorist attacks in the United States, American citizen-subjects, “produced as responsible and self-improving and thus products of neoliberal self-empowerment regimes,” have begun to take the task of defense into their own hands. They contend with risks, dangers, and calamity, thereby aiding—and “saving”—the US security state.12 Emerging in this process are new categories of female subjects—“security mom,” “security feminist,” and “security girl”—who negotiate the mounting insecurity triggered by the global war on terrorism, economic precarity, and political retrenchment.13 Specifically, in the post–9.11 United States, the security moms strive to “privatize state security” via “parental and community surveillance” of children and also of racial-national others in order to protect the homes and homeland. The security feminists undertake “the work of counterterrorism and counterinsurgency as a project of gendered empowerment,” asserting feminine and feminist presence in the male-dominant sphere of war making.14 And the security girls learn how

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to “secure themselves, their families and communities” so as to prepare for their future careers in national security.15 All three figures link “national and military projects along with the state security, to women’s advancement and security in the home and nation” to embody the complex entwinement between women and the nation-state.16 The deployment of “feminist” in addition to “feminine” performs a critical function. The thriving and striving of American feminism is “attributed to the United States’ enlightened political order as well as to its moral and political superiority,” evidencing its superpower status and reinscribing the old imperial order in which the United States stands at the top.17 At the center of the overlapping dynamics of militarism, neoliberalism, and imperialism is the question of women. These dynamics observed in the post–9.11 United States are instructive for post–3.11 Japan, where the trigger for securitization is not the war on terror but the 2011 disaster, a compound catastrophe of earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown often (mis)represented as a case of “natural” calamity to obscure the government’s and industry’s culpability. As discussed below, Japan has witnessed the emergence of its own versions of “security moms,” “security feminists,” and “security girls,” in which women of diverse backgrounds play their parts in guarding homes as a way to enhance Japan’s resilience capacity. This emerging dynamic has domestic as well as international implications. When Prime Minister Abe celebrates female empowerment via national fortification, this obscures his dismal record in the realm of gender policy, a record whose misogynist tendencies have prompted some to remark that his advocacy for women to “shine” (in English) should more accurately be understood as a call for women to “shi-ne” (“die” in Japanese).18 Moreover, by declaring Japan to be a new champion of gender and resilience whose expertise benefits other nations in Asia and the Pacific, Abe subtly invokes Japan’s past in which the Land of the Rising Sun shone as the purportedly benign and beneficent leader of the “Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere.” The post–3.11 mobilization of women needs to be analyzed in relation to not only national but to transnational dynamics, then, whose articulations are inseparable from Japan’s imperial past as well as from a neoliberal and securitized future in the region.

Training Women and Protecting Homes In post–3.11 Japan, women are seen as the chief agents of home readiness and preparedness. Living in the age of precarity, they must cultivate the skills and

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dispositions needed to guard their homes and communities against risks, dangers, and calamities. Mothers bear special responsibilities in this sphere because their readiness—or lack thereof—directly affects the fate of their children. Discussions of women and disaster proliferate, disseminating resilience discourses and practices via guidelines and manuals, lectures and fairs, and television and radio programs. In directing women’s gaze toward the interior space of homes, this new dynamic suppresses critical reflection on the historical, institutional, and geopolitical dynamics that led to 3.11. As domestic securitization becomes normative in Japan’s post-disaster society, the (presumed) boundary between public and private also becomes less distinct, allowing the logic and logistics of securitization to circulate widely. The vision of domestic resilience consists of a number of themes and ideas, the most outstanding of which include the permanency of insecurity, containment of precarity, centrality of domesticity, deployment of the body, invocation of tradition, and regulation of emotion. First and foremost, insecurity is understood in post–3.11 Japan to be a permanent state of affairs. The basic logic of disaster readiness and preparedness is therefore not “if ” (moshimo) but “always” (itsumo). Never should risks and dangers be approached as an accident or an exception; one must always be ready for any and all kinds of calamity. A women’s disaster manual entitled Tokyo kurashi bōsai (Disaster Prevention and Preparation for Everyday Living in Tokyo) declares on its cover “Watashi no ‘itsumo’ ga, inochi o sukuu” (My being “always” ready would save lives), along with an English slogan commanding, “Be Ready. Everyday.” Issued by the Tokyo Municipal Government in March 2018, this 162-page document is a product of women’s collaboration. The impetus came from Koike Yuriko, a female politician and governor of Tokyo, and its contents reflect “women’s perspectives” provided by a board of female experts that includes Kunizaki Nobue (a leading authority on women’s readiness and preparedness), Tanaka Misa (founder of the NPO Bōsai Gāru, or Resilient Girls, which promotes disaster training for young women), Nakajima Chie (editor of an an), and Tomikawa Mami (representative of MAMA-PLUG, an NPO that advocates disaster training for mothers and children).19 To be “always ready,” women must alter their lifestyle. Kunizaki Nobue, one of the most recognized figures in the field of disaster preparation and prevention since 3.11, insists on the overall reorganization of women’s lives at home where a series of simple practices would facilitate this process. As she argues, women need to approach disaster preparation as a “hobby,” a personal preoccupation to pursue over a long period of time. Setting aside a

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small sum of money each month, they can gradually transform their homes into a safe space that would withstand hazards and disasters.20 A similar idea is articulated by Abe Naomi—an illustrator, graphic designer, and mother of two who experienced 3.11 in Miyagi—who promotes the notion of “ichi nichi ichi bōsai” (one day, one disaster prevention) in which women take up an act of disaster prevention and preparation one day at a time. Defining mothers’ “daily mindfulness” (fudan no kokorogake) as a key to family safety, she suggests forty small changes women should implement at home over a period of forty days.21 Kunizaki’s and Abe’s recommendations subtly or not so subtly articulate the neoliberal adage that a small investment, pursued by a self-motivated and self-appreciating individual regularly and diligently over time, can enhance her capacity to achieve the desired result. The significance of “itsumo” (always) is also highlighted in a special  issue of Kurowassan, another lifestyle magazine targeting women. To be ready for earthquakes, it argues, women should sleep in the type of pajamas in which they could run out of the house at any moment. Recommending unisex-style sleepwear, the magazine explains that young women must protect themselves against the possibilities of sexual assault and harassment at evacuation facilities.22 Such advice defines women as the locus of responsibility in a risk scenario and as actors whose personal accountability or lack thereof determines their safety and security. While emphasizing the permanent nature of insecurity, the emerging discourses nonetheless tell women that it is possible to contain and overcome disasters. Resilience-building is not an improbable or impossible proposition; it is a feasible enterprise for anyone and everyone to take on. Two discursive strategies—segmentation and containment—are deployed to turn the improbable to the probable. Earthquake, tsunami, nuclear meltdown, and other types of calamity are presented as distinct, discrete, and discontinuous; each type of disaster is then broken into smaller segments to which women apply a set of tools, skills, and knowledge to control and contain any harm. Unpredictable calamities are transformed into a sequence of well-demarcated and wellbounded phases, creating the illusion that after some duration, all crises will be resolved and “normal” life will return. This idea is clearly articulated by Kunizaki in one of her books, in which “jikanjiku de wakaru kokoroe to chie,” or wisdom and knowledge deployed along a timeline, play a central role in managing disasters. A sample script of readiness and preparedness is provided, starting with “a year in advance,” then moving to “six months in advance,” “a month in advance,” and “a week in advance,” and finally reaching “the day of the disaster.” Recovery and reconstruction proceed

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in a similar fashion, progressing from “a day after” to “a week after” and then to “a month after.” For each stage, Kunizaki instructs readers on what skills to use, tools to apply, and actions to take.23 This format is extremely popular, being repeated by other manuals and guidelines, as seen in an an’s “Girl’s Life Skill” in which instructions for women’s survival are offered for “immediately after,” “3–7 days later,” and “two months later.”24 The discursive strategy of segmentation and containment takes on a slightly different outlook in the book 4-koma de sugu wakaru minna no bōsai hando bukku (Handbook of Easy-to-Understand Disaster Readiness in 4-Frame Sequences). In it, author and illustrator Kusano Kaoru explains disaster readiness and preparedness in a series of four-panel cartoons. Inspired by the thought that “even a small piece of knowledge would produce a sense of safety and security,” Kusano, a mother of two, began her blogsite “ikinokoru.info” shortly after 3.11, describing in cartoon sequences a variety of skills and techniques necessary in surviving earthquakes, floods, lightning strikes, and landslides. From these initial online posts, she selected 180 pieces to create a quick-and-easy manual that would teach readers how to “live through” (ikinokoru) risks, dangers, and crises. Reducing each hazard to four simple frames, the book implicitly suggests that crises, no matter of what scale or complexity, can be overcome in a flash.25 Kusano’s initial publication has been followed by an expanded version as well as a sequel focused on emergency food preparation for mothers and children, indicating the popularity of her approach. When disaster is simplified, it becomes a manageable and containable event. The strategy of segmentation and containment obscures the reality of compound disasters such as 3.11, an uncontainable and unpredictable calamity whose resolution has not been achieved years after its initial occurrence. As the above discussions make clear, in Japan the home is a central locus in women’s readiness and preparedness. The domestic space, if properly managed, is a haven of safety, but if improperly attended to, it becomes a source of danger. Kunizaki points out myriad different ways in which the home could endanger lives, urging women to take action in advance to prevent this. In large-scale earthquakes, ordinary household items can turn into “killing weapons” (kyōki). Heavy furniture can fall down and block escape routes; worse yet, it can hurt or even kill people. To minimize potential dangers to their families, women must secure furniture to the floors, walls, and ceilings with screws, hinges, and metal chains. It is not enough to simply stabilize large household objects, however. Transforming the home into a zone of safety requires women’s constant vigilance. Every space—be it the entrance, hallway, bathroom, toilet, or yard—must be

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inspected, cleaned, and made “disaster-proof.”26 Removing excess, simplifying the family lifestyle, and learning to manage with fewer items is part of the household reorganization women should undertake. Smaller household items can also become a source of danger and therefore must be inspected, reordered, and properly stored.27 Especially dangerous are glasses and dishes flying out of the cupboards and breaking during an earthquake, because their sharp edges can inflict serious and even fatal injury. Step by step, Kunizaki explains how to place liners with a rough surface on shelves, stack up cups, plates, and bowls in a “disaster resistant manner,” and install locks and bars.28 The demand for household reorganization has grown rapidly in post–3.11 Japan, forging a link between domestic orderliness and disaster readiness in which a well-arranged home purportedly presents a solution to the problem. Kurowassan’s 2018 special issue on disaster readiness features Kunizaki, with a series of photos of the home she shares with her husband and son that showcases the kitchen, dining room, living room, bathroom, and children’s room, meticulously organized and “always ready.” The same issue features another female expert, Shibukawa Maki, a household organization consultant whose profession has gained much publicity in recent years as a result of the international popularity of Kondō Marie, who advocates the “KonMari Lifestyle.” With colorful illustrations spreading over twenty-five pages, Shibukawa offers detailed instructions on how to reorganize kitchen, living rooms, hallways, closets, and pantries to create well-ordered, clutter-free, and risk-averse homes. Reporting on her visits to two different households where she dispensed advice—one comprised of a middle-aged brother and sister, their aging mother, and two cats, and the other consisting of a wife, husband, and two children— the magazine shows “before” and “after” images of the two homes, highlighting the effectiveness of Shibukawa’s techniques and the ease of resilience-building at home.29 Once clutter is removed and new spaces are secured, women must stock a series of emergency provisions. Women must create a list of items essential in disaster and post-disaster situations, and buy, stock, and replenish them. Sample checklists abound to assist women in tackling this important task, in which disaster resilience is tied to female consumption activities. The lesson of self-help and self-reliance is at the core of this exercise: women must stock enough varieties and quantities of provisions to last from three days to a month, lest government assistance fails to arrive in time.30 In addition to humans, pets should be readied for disaster. One manual instructs pet owners on what supplies to stock and how to give first aid to injured pets during a disaster.31 Women

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with no family (or pet) should still obtain emergency supplies, some stocked at home and others placed in their emergency bags. Not infrequently, women and men are recommended to prepare bags of different weights. According to one instruction, an emergency bag for a man should weigh no more than 15 kg and for a woman no more than 10 kg,32 an untenable proposition given the large number of emergency items that an an’s checklist recommends women to carry in the name of “Girl’s Life Skill.” Transforming homes into a zone of defense entails an additional, far more costly, requirement as well—fortification of the housing structure itself. Constructing a “shelter” is highly recommended. Converting a single room into a shelter by strengthening its structure with wooden or metal reinforcement is a financially reasonable option for many.33 However, to truly secure the family’s safety and avoid the undesirable eventuality of evacuation, experts insist that a new house must be built. How are women to go about doing this? According to Kunizaki, women must first identify, with the help of experts, areas and regions not susceptible to earthquakes, tsunami, floods, or landslides. Once a plot of land firm enough to withstand all natural calamities has been identified, a disaster-proof house—bōsai hausu—could be built on it. Kunizaki presents her own spacious and beautifully decorated home, also featured in Kurowassan, as the model in one of her books.34 Hers is a dream home that only a few Japanese could ever imagine owning. Calling to mind a notion of “survival of the fittest,” Kunizaki’s advice implies, however unintentionally, that those with sufficient financial means are safe but those without are out of luck.35 A similar argument about resilient housing is presented by the female architect Inoue Keiko, whose book offers detailed information on construction, renovation, and fortification of houses.36 The topic of architectural refortification is so important that even small children are expected to learn this lesson. In a book specifically written for mothers and children and featuring the popular anime character Doraemon (a robotic cat fueled by nuclear energy and appointed the first “anime ambassador” by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in 2008), Kunizaki explains how building a resilient house on a resilient plot is an essential step toward survival.37 In post–3.11 Japan, the home is both a source of and a solution to the problem of survival, then, whose securitization can be achieved (only) by those with the proper domestic skills and ample financial means. Disaster or no disaster, women’s work never ends, and the post-disaster home front presents them with an endless stream of tasks. Once a shelter is built, unneeded objects removed, and essential household items organized, women

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must train family members in a series of bodily practices. While disaster drills and exercises are practiced at schools, companies, factories, and hospitals, the family constitutes the basic unit in readiness and preparedness, especially in the case of families with small children. “Family meetings” (kazoku kaigi) are highly recommended, where parents and children discuss evacuation procedures, identify rules to follow in emergencies, and create their own “family disaster preparation manual” (wagaya no bōsai manyuaru) reflecting each family’s unique needs, situations, and configurations. The family manual should also contain essential information such as details of bank accounts, health and life insurance policies, passport numbers, and driver’s license numbers, as well as weekly schedules of activities so that family members can find each other in the event of separation. Once these plans are created, a “practice run” should be conducted.38 Disaster training of mothers and children is a visible feature in many of the manuals, guidelines, and publications circulating in Japan. The book Kozure bōsai techō (Disaster Preparation for Mothers with Children) published by Tsunagaru.com in 2012 elaborates on the notion of “oyako bōsai” (parent-child disaster training) in which parents (by default mothers) and children constitute a main unit of resilience training. Based on testimonials of 812 mothers who experienced 3.11, it recommends a “disaster training picnic” (bōsai pikunikku), “disaster training camp” (bōsai kyampu), and “disaster training play” (bōsai gokko), in which mothers and children go through simulations of preparing meals with canned food, sleeping in a tent, and managing without water and electricity.39 Emerging in the immediate aftermath of 3.11, Tsunagaru.com has since then evolved into MAMA-PLUG, an NPO that promotes disaster education among mothers and children. As the initial publication has been followed by revised and expanded editions, the organization and its advocacy of oyako bōsai have been increasingly viewed as presenting a “common sense” approach in disaster preparation.40 For disaster education of mothers and children, community fairs and events offer an important venue. Publicized as “family oriented” and “child friendly,” these local gatherings function as an occasion where militarized and militarizing dynamics infiltrate everyday life. At a 2012 disaster fair in Nagaoka, Niigata (the region hit by the 2004 Chūetsu Earthquake), children were enticed to ride JSDF vehicles and put on uniforms of soldiers, firefighters, and policemen to take photos, while mothers were invited to attend a session on disaster management organized by an an, as seen in Figure 3.1. The fair’s ambience was enhanced by the entertainment provided by the local JSDF and the Niigata

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Figure 3.1  “Disaster Readiness Fair,” December 1–2, 2012. Courtesy of Television Niigata (Terebi Niigata).

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Prefecture Police Force music bands. A similar dynamic was observed at the Sonarea (Disaster Prevention Experience-Learning Facility) in the Tokyo Rinkai Disaster Prevention Park.41 Among the activities, programs, and exhibits held over a weekend in January 2013 was a photo session, for which small children, accompanied by their mothers, put on uniforms of the Metropolitan Police Force and had their pictures taken against a banner that read in part, “Let’s Protect Our Town from Terrorism.”42 Sonarea is an active space of resilience education. In the same month the photo session took place, a public lecture entitled “How to Protect Children from Large-Scale Earthquakes” was held for female educators at preschools, kindergartens, and elementary schools. The main speaker was Andō Risu, an outdoors enthusiast, disaster management expert, and regular contributor to the risk-management magazine Risuku Taisaku.com. Her lecture was centered on the idea that skills and techniques in camping, climbing, and skiing could be converted and utilized as part of resilience practices. Examples were many. A compass, a familiar tool in outdoor settings, would come in handy during and after disaster, so young children should be taught how to use this device. Building a fire and cooking rice is an essential survival skill, so students should practice it with the help of their teachers. Wearing layers of clothing to stay warm is a common-sense practice among skiers, campers, and hikers, so this piece of knowledge, too, should be transmitted to youth. Improvisation is the rule of the game in outdoor activities, and thus those in charge of small children should rehearse how to devise baby diapers or portable toilets out of plastic bags and other household materials. Disaster training can be simple, fun, and accessible, explained Andō. Blurring the boundaries between indoor and outdoor, danger and pleasure, her lecture highlighted how the idea of securitization proliferates across multiple spheres, normalizing a new set of embodied practices in the name of safety and security.43 Of the variety of bodily dynamics unleashed by 3.11, those involving food and foodways merit attention. Since the March 11 disaster, much attention has been given to nuclear food contamination and its effects on human health. Despite its significance, this focus neglects another strand of dynamic also triggered by the disaster—the militarization of food and foodways. The link between food and the military has existed since before 3.11, as seen in the popularity of miri-meshi (military meal), saba-meshi (survival meal), or otasuke-meshi (rescue meal). However, the March 11 disaster has pushed this preexisting interest to new heights, articulating intertwined—indeed “co-dependent”—dynamics between military and consumer (including food) technologies.44

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A publication entitled Iza to iu toki, yaku ni tatsu! Otasuke-meshi (Useful in Times of Emergency! Rescue Meals) is a veritable one-stop shop for disasterready foods—some found at local supermarkets, others consumed by astronauts in space, and yet others ingested by Imperial Japanese soldiers prior to 1945. Accompanied by ample photos, the book catalogues emergency food items in cans, sealed pouches, and boxes (many with camouflage designs), together with information on prices, distributors, and “cooking” methods. First published in 2008, the book was reissued after 3.11, indicating the continuing interest in the genre.45 Another book, which features “Jieitai gohan” (JSDF meals), provides a window into the food culture of the Japanese military. Praising the disaster assistance provided by the JSDF in which soldiers distributed hot meals among 3.11 victims, the book goes on to illuminate the culinary world of the military, discussing the nature and use of food rations, menus in the mess halls, food practice during deployment, signature dishes of different bases and branches, and military chefs known for their culinary skills. Varied in kind and excellent in taste, miri-meshi is something “everyone wants to eat all the time!”46 Yet another book extends discussions from the national to the global level by introducing military food and foodways in foreign countries (including the United States, the UK, Italy, France, and Germany). In addition to explaining how to purchase “miri-meshi for civilians” (minkan miri-meshi), it also instructs readers on how to prepare miri-meshi at home, with recipes for such dishes as the curry and rice of the Imperial Japanese Navy and the fried chicken and corn bread of the Confederate States Army during the US Civil War.47 Featuring soldiers cooking and savoring meals, these narratives make the military familiar, domestic, and depoliticized. The militarization of food and foodways continues to proliferate in postdisaster Japan. Rakuten, a popular online shopping site, sells emergency food items labeled “combat food.” The notion of “survival food” is ubiquitous and infiltrates everyday activities, as reflected in a cookbook based on award-winning recipes of the “Saba-meshi kontesuto” (Survival Meal Contest), an annual event organized by FM Sendai since 2006 whose participants are local housewives. The book lists a series of “delicious,” “easy,” and “fun” survival meal recipes (“Tomato Keema Curry,” “Pumpkin Risotto,” and “Seafood Paella” among them) that housewives can supposedly prepare within forty-five minutes. Importantly, the book advises women not only to adapt everyday fare to emergency situations but also to incorporate emergency food into their everyday menus. With enough practice during normal times, women should be ready to dish out delicious meals during a crisis.48

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Joining this post–3.11 mobilization of food and foodways are female culinary specialists. Sakamoto Hiroko, a leading culinary authority and survivor of the Hanshin-Awaji (Kōbe) Earthquake of 1995, has much personal experience and professional expertise to share. Even—or especially—in the context of crisis, she argues, women want to prepare meals family members are accustomed to, and with enough skills (waza) and practice in advance, they can easily accomplish this. Like Andō Risu, who advocates the adoption of outdoors skills and knowledge for disaster management, Sakamoto instructs women to approach emergency meal preparation as something akin to cooking at a campsite. With no availability of electricity, women could still set up a cooking station with metal pails, firewood, and a few bricks.49 With a bit of creativity, they could transform rice balls (a typical item distributed at evacuation sites) into delicious chicken pilaf or Chinese-style fried rice,50 and cook up Italian-style minestrone soup or Japanese-style stew (suiton).51 Emergency cooking techniques that require only minimal fuel could be adopted during normal times so that women save energy (setsuden), an additional benefit of resilient homemaking. Executing their domestic duties in normal and abnormal times, those who master emergency cooking skills are “Sūpā Shufu” (Super Housewives), Sakamoto enthuses.52 Committed to domestic resilience, Sakamoto thinks that children, too, must acquire emergency cooking skills and techniques. In the event of separation from their mothers, they must know how to feed themselves. In a cookbook targeting girls and boys, Sakamoto explains how to cook survival meals such as steamed shrimp, Chinese dumpling, and pickled vegetables. Importantly, she seeks to transmit more than survival skills, however. Through her discussions of food, Sakamoto also hopes to inculcate disaster-ready mind-sets and dispositions among young readers who bear the nation’s future.53 As discussions of food, body, and resilience proliferate, disaster training becomes an embodied and embedded practice, urging adults and children alike to rehearse emergency scenarios and develop their capacity as resilient citizen-subjects. In post–3.11 Japan, the various themes and facets of resilience-building discussed thus far are combined with an explicit emphasis on “Japanese tradition.” In the wake of the March 11 disaster—which scientific knowledge failed spectacularly to either predict or contain—Japanese tradition and folkways have regained new significance. A return to the wisdom of older generations (senjin no chie) is repeatedly emphasized in resilience discussions. Kusano Kaoru, the author and illustrator of the four-frame cartoons mentioned earlier, recommends the adoption of traditional domestic items such as a Japanese washcloth (tenugui) which can be used for multiple purposes during disaster.54

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At the January 2013 Sonarea lecture, the main speaker Andō Risu was followed by Sonoda Masayo, director of an NPO called Dakko to Onbu no Kenkyūjo—a “research center” that develops proper techniques for women to hold babies in their arms (dakko) or carry them on their backs (onbu). Defining traditional childrearing practices as key to disaster survival, Sonoda demonstrated how to hold an infant on her back with a traditional piece of long cloth (sarashi), while also urging the audience to seek advice about childrearing from older generations of women.55 The return to the past is also a prominent theme in emergency meal preparation. Japanese culinary culture (washoku bunka) is full of wisdom indispensable in crisis contexts. With much focus on Japanese tradition, one publication makes a surprising statement about food and resilience: after so much intake of seaweed as part of their basic diet for generations, Japanese bodies are “naturally” resistant to the effect of nuclear radiation.56 Sakamoto Hiroko is a passionate advocate of this return to Japan’s past. In her 2012 book Daidokoro bōsaijutsu (Disaster-Ready Kitchen Techniques) coauthored with her daughter, the culinary specialist Sakamoto Kana, the mother–daughter pair argue that women can learn from the lifestyle of bygone days (mukashi no kurashi), when modern domestic conveniences were not yet available but housewives managed to make do with whatever they had. “Recalling what it was like merely forty years ago,” women can figure out what to do in the modern-day context of disaster.57 With a strong emphasis on tradition, they recommend that women cultivate a relationship with rural farming families and communities whom they can rely on as a source of food in emergency times. Japanese women must recover, rediscover, and reconnect with a “home away from home” (furusato) as a way to prepare for the unknown and unpredictable future.58 While emphasizing the dire consequences of disaster, the two culinary specialists instruct women not to fear. Many nations have risen and fallen throughout history, yet none has ceased to exist because of earthquakes. Having survived numerous calamities over the centuries, Japan possesses the kind of wisdom that has been tested and proven to be effective, and that, passed on to the next generation of Japanese, will ensure the nation’s survival.59 The book was published by the Rural Cultural Association of Japan, an organization with close ties to the life improvement movement discussed in Chapter 1. Advocating the rationalization of everyday life, the movement played an instrumental role in Japan’s nation- and empire-building prior to 1945. Linking the neoliberal notion of self-help to the neoconservative sentiment of nation and tradition, the book mobilizes Japanese women to the post–3.11 resilience project.

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Finally, these talks of readiness and preparedness proliferating in post–3.11 Japan converge to highlight the single most important tenet of disaster readiness and preparedness—namely, the proper management and regulation of emotions. As an an explains in “Girl’s Life Skill,” keeping cosmetic items in the emergency bags is not at all a matter of female vanity; rather, it is about giving women access to tools with which to calm and heal (iyasu) their emotions and maintain their composure in the face of catastrophe.60 Disciplining hearts and minds is especially important in the event of nuclear crises. Large-scale nuclear accidents such as 3.11 invariably induce fear, anxiety, and uncertainty. However, this emotional challenge can be overcome by crying, a crucial technique of “cleaning one’s heart” (kokoro no osōji), whose domestic reference to cleaning (osōji) immediately invokes another method of disaster preparation, that is, house cleaning.61 Emotional overreactions to a nuclear crisis are not only unnecessary but problematic, and women must strive to control feelings of panic and keep a balanced mind no matter what.62 “Disasters of hearts and minds” (kokoro no shinsai) need to be carefully monitored as part of overall disaster preparation and prevention. Stretching and exercising, or simply gazing into a mirror, smiling, and “feeling happy,” are useful tactics to achieve this end.63 For longterm planning, developing friendships with neighbors as a source of emotional support is an important step—a type of investment—because women must rely on this and other types of mutual help in navigating and surviving crisis situations.64 Management of hearts and minds (kokoro no kanri) goes hand-inhand with crisis management (kiki kanri), in which the proper regulation of emotions leads to containment of the crisis, be it an earthquake, tsunami, or nuclear disaster. In sum, in post–3.11 Japan, nationalism, militarism, and neoliberalism have been linked to mobilize women and homes to engage in resilience-building. Saddled with the responsibility of domestic protection, women must engage in a variety of tasks, ranging from running disaster drills to stocking emergency provisions to disciplining their own and their family members’ bodies and minds. This emerging culture articulates a new vision of female citizenry in material and immaterial terms as it emphasizes transformation of the tangible (most notably housing) while also calling for recalibration of the intangible (hearts and minds). As discussed below, this emerging notion of resilient womanhood, far from being negative or prohibitive, incites a variety of discourses and practices concerning “female empowerment,” articulating a precarious link between feminism and resilience in contemporary Japan.

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Women, Resilience, and Entrepreneurism As discussed in Chapter 2, the National Resilience Promotion Office (hereafter the Promotion Office) is a main engine in Japan’s ongoing resilience-building. Established in the Cabinet Secretariat in 2013, it has been dominated by politicians, business leaders, and academics with close ties to the ruling LDP. A bastion of male power, the Promotion Office has nevertheless reached out to select women, showcasing them as “poster girls” of national recovery and refortification. This is a gendered strategy, in which a gesture toward “gender equality” seeks to enhance the regime’s legitimacy at home and abroad. Importantly, the same dynamic also gives these women access to resources and opportunities, allowing them to embark on new careers and chart new trajectories in the post-disaster nation. These dynamics are clear on the Promotion Office’s website, where a segment called “My Commentary” (Watashi no hitokoto) features statements of female resilience experts. These statements function as a pedagogical tool, reiterating key concepts and practices of resilience in a casual, accessible manner. One expert showcased in “My Commentary” is Kunizaki Nobue. Defining resiliencebuilding in terms far broader than she has done in her publications, Kunizaki characterizes disaster readiness and preparedness as a chief means to “realize one’s dream” (yume o kanaeru). Preparing for risks, dangers, and calamities is not a matter of “fashion” which can come and go, she states, but a fundamental principle that must take root in everyday life. Eliminating dangerous household items, reorganizing furniture, and preparing emergency bags are not enough. Women have to do more. To elucidate the depth and scope of resilience fortification, she provides an analogy: just as the maintenance of health requires daily practice of proper habits over lifetime, so resilience-building is an endeavor that one pursues “from cradle to grave” (yurikago kara hakaba made). Kunizaki further elaborates her vision of preparedness by referencing economic issues. Simply preparing to protect one’s life in the event of calamity does not promise a secure future; guarding one’s assets (zaisan) is equally or even more important. The significance of the latter is more than evident in the dire state of 3.11 victims who survived the March 11 disaster but continued to struggle thereafter, she observes. Furthermore, resilience-building demands the participation of business entities. For Japan to cope with and survive disaster, corporate leaders must do more than planning for timely recovery and uninterrupted operation; they must strategize in advance how to utilize disaster as an opportunity to enhance tenacity and competitiveness in the globalizing

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market. To build “a shining future,” Japanese must learn how to prepare for the worst, practice preventive measures on a daily basis, and protect lives as well as assets, Kunizaki argues.65 The outdoor skills proponent Andō Risu, another female expert whose statement appears in “My Commentary,” highlights the significance of mothers in resilience-building. As she points out, the potential power (senzai nōryoku) of mothers for readiness and preparedness is enormous. To make her case, Andō recounts how her career as a resilience advocate began. Chatting with  other mothers like herself about the usefulness of outdoors skills in disaster management, Andō found that they had a strong interest in the topic. Soon the word about Andō’s expertise began to spread, attracting the attention of other mothers across the country and launching her extraordinary career. Nowadays she gives nearly one hundred lectures on disaster resilience each year. Diverse in talents, inclinations, and experiences, Japanese mothers are bound by the mission of protecting children. Motivated by their maternal concern, they also reach out to older generations of women to learn about childrearing, creating new intergenerational communities. With women’s active participation in family and community protection, Andō feels that there is strong hope for the future.66 Andō’s advocacy of mothers is complemented by that of Tanaka Misa—the founder of Bōsai Gāru (Resilience Girls) who was involved in the creation of the women’s manual issued by the Tokyo Metropolitan Government—who emphasizes the importance of enlisting young single women, a population group often overlooked in the ongoing mobilization due to the overwhelming emphasis on mothers with children. Her organization has done much to obtain the participation of women in their twenties and thirties—understood as a transitory stage prior to marriage, birth, and family formation—and to involve them in events, lectures, and activities centered on resilience. Collaborating with government agencies in implementing disaster training and education, Bōsai Gāru has also teamed up with Japanese industry to direct young women’s attention—and their purchasing power—to the emergency goods (bōsai gudzu) that are spreading in the market. The organization’s agenda is well aligned with that of the state as well, since it plans to increase the number of “bōsai girls” and “bōsai boys” so that one in every ten young people in Japan will be ready to provide disaster assistance by the time of the 2020 Tokyo Olympics, an event of national and nationalist significance.67 The demographics of Japan’s resilient population have been further expanded by Ōki Satoko—seismologist and associate professor of Environment

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and Information Studies at Keiō University in Tokyo—who advocates the mobilization of college students. Young people, full of creative ideas and innovative thoughts, will energize resilience-building, she states. At Keiō University, Ōki’s students express their enterprising spirit in manifold ways. Some have created four-frame cartoons to explain how to organize evacuation shelters. Others have choreographed dance movements that teach small children how to protect themselves during disaster. Yet others have collaborated with their peers in information technology to create new smartphone applications. Not only do these initiatives highlight the significance of an interdisciplinary approach; they point out the important role that pleasure and entertainment play in resilience education. College students know how to make readiness and preparedness “cool,” observes Ōki. In addition to highlighting the significance of college and university students in resilience-building, Ōki elaborates on the concept of “resilience” itself in her statement on “My Commentary.” Referencing the notion of disaster being “beyond prediction” (sōteigai) that flourished following 3.11, she points out the impossibility of “predicting the unpredictable” (sōteigai o sōteisuru). Preparing for the unpredictable catastrophe would require a monstrous national budget and is therefore out of question. To devise an alternative approach to resilience, she suggests the following. Imagine an unimaginable event, be it mega earthquake, terrorist attack, or meteor strike, and then ask yourself what you most want to protect. The answer would obviously be your family, your assets and housing, and the basic functions of society. Resilience is accomplished by protecting these precious things in life, she argues. Without specifying what measures and resources are necessary to realize this vision, she vaguely suggests “Japanese culture” as a solution to the problem. Ōki is confident that Japan would succeed in achieving resiliency. Equipped with an ability to cope with and overcome risks, dangers, and calamities, Japan would surely gain an international reputation as a “resilient” and “beautiful” nation.68 Kunizaki, Andō, Tanaka, and Ōki’s support for resilience-building does not go unrewarded. The “My Commentary” webpage displays links to these women’s websites, which showcase their successful careers, list their numerous lectures, television appearances, contributions to community events, and partnerships with governmental and nongovernmental entities, and provide their contact information for future engagements. Subscribing to the dominant narrative of gender, nation, and disaster and highlighting the links among government (kan), academia (gaku), industry (san), and the population at large (min), these female experts are far from deferential to male authority in their collaboration

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with the Promotion Office. Stepping into the nation’s power center, they gain new resources—publicity, reputation, and prestige, among them—which help them survive and succeed in the male-dominant fields of seismology, crisis management, or outdoor sports in which they operate. Self-enterprising and self-marketing, they present a new mode of female empowerment in which the nation’s turn toward resilience aids them in their respective pursuits in the public arena. As discussed below, resilience-building is indeed never entirely inimical to the project of feminine and feminist empowerment, recruiting other women and further embedding securitization in the social field.

National Securitization and Feminist Mobilization Post–3.11 culture not only articulates a link between women’s and the nation’s empowerment at home, but also circulates a gendered vision of securitization beyond Japan’s borders, branding Japan as an exemplar of gender equality and disaster resilience. This dynamic is observed in the 2014 pamphlet “Learning from Adversity,” an eight-page English-language guide issued by the Gender Equality Bureau (Danjo Kyōdō Sankakukyoku; hereafter GEB) in the Cabinet Office. The pamphlet is a condensed version of the 2013 Japanese-language original “Danjo kyōdō sankaku no shiten kara no bōsai, fukkō no torikumi shishin” (The Basic Principles of Disaster Preparation and Reconstruction from the Perspective of Gender Equality), a voluminous document consisting of “Summary,” “Basic Principles,” “Explanations and Examples,” “Checklists,” and “Supplementary Documents” whose total length exceeds one hundred pages. “Learning from Adversity” articulates the interrelated themes of gender, nation, and disaster that drive post–3.11 resilience-building for the international audience. Stated at the outset is the national and nationalist vision of Japanese resiliency: “From earthquakes and tsunami to volcanic eruptions and typhoon, natural disasters have been a regular occurrence throughout Japan’s long history.” This long-standing engagement with natural (but not manmade) calamities “has molded our society and continually taught us fresh lessons.” Given this history, Japan has a special mission to fulfill. With its commitment to the principle of kaizen (translated as “continuous improvement”), Japan continues to learn from calamities and constantly improve its capacity for disaster management. With its commitment to “global cooperation,” moreover, Japan is eager to share its resilience knowledge and technologies with the international community. One of the vital lessons derived from the March 11 disaster concerns “the relationship

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between gender equality and disaster risk reduction.” “[T]o build a society with robust disaster resilience,” the pamphlet states, “gender equality must be a fundamental value in good times and bad,” and “women must share leadership roles in all aspects of the Disaster Risk Reduction (DRR) process.” In Japan’s crisis management, “the adoption of gender perspectives in all facets of disasterrelated planning” is a major agenda item.69 According to the pamphlet, the significance of women in times of disaster is obvious. Not only do women “typically play key roles in helping communities and individuals cope with the effects” of calamitous events, but disasters affect men and women differently—a point to be kept in mind, especially when “dealing with seniors, disabled people, expectant mothers, newborns and other vulnerable groups.” Among various manifestations of gender difference, violence demands special attention: women and children often become victims of domestic violence, sexual assault, and child abuse at the temporary shelters and evacuation facilities. To address this and other issues, “[p]romoting gender equality through close cooperation among various organizations” before, during, and after a disastrous event is an urgent matter.70 The rest of the pamphlet discusses a series of measures that would help promote “gender equality” in three phases: the “preparation stage,” the “disaster assistance stage” (immediately after a disaster; at evacuation shelters; at temporary emergency housing), and the “recovery and reconstruction stage.” The vision of “gender equality” advocated in each phase merits attention. During the preparation phase, every effort must be made to increase the number of women in decision-making positions in agencies in charge of local disaster management, including municipal government committees and civic fireprevention and disaster-preparation groups. Gender also matters in stocking supplies so that the provisions reflect “the special needs of women and families with children.” There should always be sufficient numbers of “female sanitary supplies” and also of “items for infants and other goods to meet [their] specific needs.” Childcare provision must also be planned in advance, especially for female medical personnel, firefighters, and other first responders. The pamphlet provides a model—childcare facilities set up by the JSDF during 3.11—and explains how this arrangement enabled the speedy mobilization of women soldiers. During the assistance stage, in which victims evacuate to the temporary shelters, gender remains a central issue. The evacuation facilities should be equipped with women-only spaces such as “a breast-feeding room, separate toilets for men and women, clothesline for drying laundry, dressing rooms

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and recreational areas.” Women should also be involved in all facets of shelter operations, including “distribution of sanitary goods, underwear and other women’s products.” Special attention should be paid to the health conditions “of expectant mothers, nursing infants, elderly women and others.” To prevent violence against women, “security patrols should protect the sleeping areas and spaces designated for women only”; “other measures such as distributing crimeprevention buzzers should be considered”; and “organizers [of the facilities] must create an environment that does not tolerate violence, with quick and comprehensive support given to any victims.” To ensure the implementation of these plans, women should occupy “at least 30%” of leadership positions in organizations involved in recovery and reconstruction, a benchmark figure set by the government policy of “202030,” which aims to increase the number of women in all sectors of society by the year 2020.71 As disaster victims move from the temporary shelters to temporary housing, this attention to gender must remain in place, for the benefit of women and of the entire community alike. As the pamphlet states, “[i]f women are involved in the planning, design and operation of temporary housing, these facilities will become much more livable and will better reflect the residents’ needs.” Repeating the principle of “202030,” it suggests that “self-governing organizations should be nurtured and supported” with women filling at least 30 percent of the positions of directors. In addition, the contact information of local gender equality centers and other public and private entities must be distributed among residents so that they can access necessary resources such as volunteer support, psychological counseling, and job training. Men, too, should receive special consideration based on their gender. Programs should be set up and consultation provided to deal with issues such as social withdrawal and isolation prevalent among middle-aged and older men displaced by disaster.72 Even after recovery and reconstruction begin, the principle of gender equality needs to remain at the front and center. Women must actively participate in decision-making processes. If necessary, “women-only” meetings can be organized to heed women’s opinions and avoid their silencing by men. At this stage, the question of women’s economic recovery looms large. Special efforts must be made to “help women disaster victims find employment,” and to provide support to those interested in “starting business.” As the pamphlet recommends, the implementation of “gender equality” at each disaster stage should be monitored by the method of PDCA (plan-do-check-act), a fourstage business management method.73 The “Check Sheets for Emergency Storage/Evacuation Shelters” attached to the pamphlet list items essential for

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mothers with young children (powdered milk, nursing bottles, baby food, baby carriers), and recommend actions crucial in integrating women into disaster management (creation of women-only space, assignment of women to positions of responsibility, survey of women’s needs).74 The Japanese original—much longer and far more detailed—provides an expanded version of the discussions outlined above for the domestic audience, reiterating the notion that women are “chief agents” (omona ninaite) of resilience-building. Intended as an administrative guideline, the document targets public and private organizations— volunteer fire-prevention squads and welfare commissions, factories and companies, and colleges and universities— encouraging each to adopt the guideline with “originality” and “creativity” to meet the specific conditions of a given locale.75 This original version features numerous real-life examples, further highlighting how the tenets of female selfreliance, mutual help, and entrepreneurism should be practiced to realize the vision of resilience. In Niigata Prefecture, four housewives got together after the 2004 earthquake, starting a new restaurant business in which local produce was the main feature and volunteers providing post-disaster assistance were the main customers.76 In Hyōgo Prefecture, a group of volunteers opened a daycare center after the 1995 earthquake, utilizing the government fund for post-disaster business innovation while collaborating with local midwives, doctors, pediatricians, and dentists.77 In Iwate Prefecture, another group started a small elderly care service after 3.11, shopping for and delivering daily items to older people living in the temporary housing facilities. The women’s home delivery doubled as an occasion to check up on the customers’ health conditions, serving two vital purposes in a way only women could do.78 Female entrepreneurism not only generates economic opportunities but also builds and strengthens kizuna. In Saitama Prefecture, a local gender equality center opened a café after the March 11 disaster, creating a space where local residents could get acquainted with evacuees from Tōhoku. Managed by volunteers, the café offered tea, a makeup service, and aroma massage, giving 3.11 victims much emotional sustenance while also nurturing human bonds between those affected by disaster and those not.79 The vision of resilience elaborated in “Learning from Adversity” and its Japanese original points to a number of assumptions informing the emerging culture of resilience, which now proliferate within and beyond Japan’s borders. Focusing on natural calamities, it avoids any mention of manmade disasters by leaving the nuclear meltdown out of the purview of discussions. Highlighting the recurring nature of disaster in Japan, it presents risk reduction as rooted in the

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nation’s history and tradition, a feature purportedly indigenous to the national body and polity. This national(ist) vision is laced with neoliberal discourses of self- and mutual help, continuous improvement, public–private cooperation, and local–global connection, with a corporate strategy of PDCA (plan-do-checkact) functioning as a chief monitoring device. Driving all these arguments is the commitment to “gender equality,” whose meanings are at best ambiguous and in fact quite malleable. Insisting on the importance of gender parity, the circulating discourse nonetheless espouses an essentialist view of femininity, highlighting bodily differences between men and women, defining women as agents of care work, and sanctifying maternal duties and obligations. Although the invocation of violence against women reveals the gender power differential and disrupts the much celebrated notion of kizuna, the dominant dynamic is immediately reinstated as no attempt is made to address the perpetrators (men) or the structural causes (patriarchal social, historical, and institutional orders) of this violence, implying that the issue is primarily a “women’s problem.” Furthermore, the resilient Japan to which women are urged to step up and play their part is a space where the military provides model child care and the neoliberal order celebrates female entrepreneurism as a pathway toward female empowerment. In this new post-disaster landscape, the ethos of self- and mutual help is embodied not only by women but also by NPOs and NGOs, all of whom take on a variety of care work necessary during and after disaster. Insisting on women’s participation via the benchmark figure of 30  percent as a talisman of gender parity, this emerging vision fails to consider—or, perhaps more accurately, avoids asking—what emerging demands and dynamics women are being mobilized to. Overlooking the dominant power dynamics undergirding post–3.11 resilience politics, “Learning from Adversity” and its Japanese original entice women to participate in the name of “gender equality.” How does one make sense of this proliferation of “gender equality” discourses in post-disaster Japan? The women’s mobilization recounted above must be understood in relation to two intertwined dynamics—the government’s deployment of women as a gendered human resource and women’s pursuit of (some form of) gender parity—both of which draw on the notion of danjo kyōdō sankaku (gender co-participation), a policy discourse of exceptional power, versatility, and malleability. On the one hand, gender co-participation is a governance discourse that emerged in response to the 1995 UN World Conference on Women in Beijing, where “gender mainstreaming” was adopted as a strategy for women’s empowerment around the globe. This international mandate had immediate repercussions on domestic politics in Japan. In the

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ensuing debates, the feminist demand for transformation of the patriarchal social order circulated in tandem with the conservative insistence on utilization of women amid economic and demographic shifts, culminating in the 1999 passage of the Danjo Kyōdō Sankaku Kihonhō, translated by the government as the Basic Act for Gender Equal Society.80 Although some consider the 1999 act to be a feminist milestone, others criticize its passage and subsequent implementation as an instance of “GovernmentSanctioned Feminism” (Gyōsei Feminizumu) or even “Rising-Sun Feminism” (Hinomaru Feminizumu).81 Emblemizing the idea of “gender co-participation” (danjo kyōdō sankaku) rather than “gender equality” (danjyo byōdō) in its Japanese title, the 1999 act has indeed had less to do with promoting gender equality than with utilizing women as gendered human capital amid the rising tides of neoliberalism and neoconservatism. Upholding the principle of “gender mainstreaming”—by now debunked by many feminist thinkers and practitioners as a means to integrate women to the dominant structure shaped by pro-market and pro-neoliberal forces82—the 1999 act has functioned as a gendered tool of governance, facilitating women’s participation in the labor market, promoting work–life balance, and promulgating pro-family and pronatalist policies (shōshika taisaku) to stem the falling birthrate.83 “Gender co-participation,” used as a stand-in for “gender equality,” has repercussions in international as well as domestic terrains. Adopted as a tool of national-branding,84 the discourse of “gender equality” would help cultivate a positive and progressive outlook toward “Japan,” restraining the international criticism on “comfort women” on the one hand85 and attracting overseas investors on the other.86 Abe’s speech at the UN World Conference on Disaster Reduction cited at the beginning of this chapter epitomizes this dynamic, in which the promotion of women was inextricably tied to that of the nation-state. On the other hand, “Learning from Adversity” and its Japanese original also reflect views and voices emerging from women’s and feminist mobilization since the Great Hanshin-Awaji (Kōbe) Earthquake in 1995. In the aftermath of this 6.9-magnitude earthquake, a series of issues surfaced that called attention to various manifestations of gender disparity. Not only did the number of female fatalities exceed male fatalities by about a thousand, but incidents of domestic violence, sexual assault, and sexual harassment were reported. Loss of employment—especially the firing of part-time workers, among whom women were overrepresented—exacerbated women’s economic displacement and accelerated the feminization of poverty. As the gender division of labor reasserted its power at home and in shelters, women shouldered a disproportionate share

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of post-disaster care work. With the masculinist assumption of household heads (setainushi) firmly in place, moreover, women were often sidelined in the distribution of post-disaster recovery funds. With women’s underrepresentation in both government and nongovernment entities in charge of recovery and reconstruction, there were few mechanisms through which women could address their grievances. Women’s physical and psychological needs—made all the more acute in the extraordinary circumstances of disaster but neglected and even belittled by men and male-dominant institutions—generated a visceral and lingering sense of dehumanization, degradation, and outrage. Women leaders and activists began to raise their voices, with the GEB funneling some if not all of their concerns to the realm of policy making at the local and national levels.87 Following 3.11—a disaster with even more lethal power and consequences—a similar set of gender issues resurfaced in Tōhoku, setting off another cycle of mobilization. Among the initiatives instigated by women was the “6.11  Symposium.” Organized just three months after the March 11 disaster, the symposium—hosted by the Science Council of Japan (Nihon Gakujutsu Shinkōkai) and featuring well-known female figures—became an occasion to showcase “gender co-participation perspectives” as a way to tackle multitudes of gender problems arising in disaster recovery, reduction, and reconstruction.88 Presiding over the event were Dōmoto Akiko (former governor of Chiba Prefecture), and Inoguchi Kuniko (political scientist, ambassador, and politician). Presenters included women scholars such as Ōsawa Mari (Tokyo University), Hara Hiroko (Ochanomizu University, emeritus), Ikeda Keiko (Shizuoka University), and Tsujimura Yumiko (Tōhoku University). Veteran players in the danjo kyōdō sankaku politics, Dōmoto, Inoguchi, and Ōsawa had been involved in its initial articulation in the 1990s. The symposium also featured influential women hailing from Tōhoku, including Okuyama Emiko (mayor of Sendai, Miyagi Prefecture), Munakata Emiko (director of the NPO Ikōru Netto Sendai, also in Miyagi), and Tabata Yaeko (director of the NPO Morioka Women’s Center in Iwate Prefecture)—all activist-administrators long involved in the implementation of “gender co-participation” in their respective communities since before 3.11.89 Drawing on lessons from the past—the 1995 Hanshin-Awaji (Kōbe) Earthquake and the 2004 Chūetsu (Niigata) Earthquake in Japan, as well as the 2004 Indian Ocean Earthquake and Tsunami and the 2005 Hurricane Katrina abroad—the symposium raised the specter of women in disaster. Many of the arguments presented at the symposium were familiar: women’s unique needs, especially those of mothers with young children, must be attended to; women’s

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representation must be increased at all levels of decision-making concerning disaster reduction, recovery, and reconstruction. Other arguments were new and (potentially) critical. Ikeda Keiko, a scholar of social geography, offered a comparative perspective on gender and disaster. Discussing overseas cases, she highlighted a global pattern of female victimization in disaster and pointed out various initiatives implemented by the United Nations.90 Ōsawa Mari, a leading feminist scholar, shed light on the regional inequality between Tokyo and Tōhoku. Exploring the historical and institutional dimensions of the nuclear disaster, she explained how Japan’s postwar economic development had forced Tōhoku, a historically impoverished region of quasi-colony status, to bear the burden of nuclear energy production.91 The question-and-answer sessions produced additional insights of critical nature. Commenting on the almost exclusive focus on women at the symposium, an unnamed man in the audience pointed out that the forum left men’s actions and conducts unquestioned and unanalyzed.92 Notwithstanding its critical potential, the symposium, which predominantly featured female politicians, intellectuals, and grassroots activists associated with “danjo kyōdō sankaku,” reinforced rather than challenged the dominant discourses of gender, nation, and disaster. In her prerecorded video message, Okuyama Emiko, mayor of Sendai, not only emphasized the importance of “gender co-participation” but highlighted the concept of kizuna, praising the value and virtue of mutual help where bonds among people would contribute to the safety and security of local communities.93 The social geographer Ikeda Keiko, who presented a global framing of gender and disaster, also reiterated the conventional understanding about women: given their expertise and experiences as mothers and wives, women should be involved in disaster management to realize the vision of “gender mainstreaming.”94 Tabata Yaeko, director of Morioka Women’s Center, established as one of the local GEB hubs in 2000, spoke about a nationwide network involving corporations, NPOs and NGOs, women’s groups, and individuals assisting the recovery of Tōhoku. Coordinating the distribution of aid materials arriving from across Japan, the Morioka Women’s Center was giving invaluable assistance to mothers with small children, people with disabilities, and elderly people affected by 3.11. At the center, a plan was in place to expand its preexisting program on female entrepreneurism, an important means to “realize women’s dreams.”95 Munakata Emiko, director of Ikōru Netto Sendai, introduced another example of post-disaster care work carried out by women, an initiative called “Sentaku Netto” (Laundry Network). An instance of female venture that utilized women’s domestic skills and experiences, the

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network was providing a laundry service in which volunteers washed and dried clothing of women living in the temporary shelters.96 Though celebrating women power, these instances nevertheless reiterate the traditional notion of femininity as being deeply tied to—and, indeed, confined within—the domesticity, thereby reinforcing the dominant dynamic of gender. The 6.11 Symposium triggered a series of endeavors involving women within and beyond Japan. The event sparked a series of intense lobbying activities by Dōmoto Akiko, Hara Hiroko, and other symposium participants who pressed the national government to integrate the vision of “gender co-participation” into disaster recovery and reduction. Thanks to their efforts, many of the insights and perspectives articulated at the 6.11 Symposium made their way into the “Learning from Adversity” pamphlet and its Japanese original, as well as into other policy statements and documents. Proud of their accomplishments, these leaders consider their mobilization a successful instance of women’s and feminist activism.97 The symposium was also a catalyst for grassroots organizing efforts, as reflected in the formation of Women’s Network for East Japan Disaster: Rise Together! (Higashi Nihon Daishinsai Josei Shien Nettowāku; hereafter Rise Together!) and also Japan Women’s Network for Disaster Risk Reduction (JWNDRR; Danjo Kyōdo Sankaku to Saigai Fukkō Nettowāku). Rise Together!, whose leaders included Ikeda Keiko, went on to play a major role in mainstreaming gender by addressing women’s needs in disaster, facilitating women’s representations in recovery and reconstruction, and generating a variety of educational resources.98 The organization, renamed Training Center for Gender & Disaster Risk Reduction in 2014, continues to advocate “gender co-participation” in resilience-building.99 The JWNDRR, in which Dōmoto Akiko and Hara Hiroko play leading roles, is another organization galvanized by 3.11, whose activities have since extended beyond Japan’s borders. A conspicuous presence at international gatherings organized by such entities as the United Nations and the Asian Disaster Prevention Center, the JWNDRR has also been actively pursuing partnership with the University of Hawai‘i, the University of Delaware, United Nations University, the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA), and the United Nations Office for Disaster Risk Reduction (UNDRR, formerly the United Nations International Strategy for Disaster Reduction or UNISDR).100 Not only does the JWNDRR aim to institutionalize “gender co-participation” in local, national, and international resilience governance; its activism doubles as an opportunity to publicize the progress Japanese women and feminist leaders have been making

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vis-à-vis the international audience. At the Fourth Global Platform for Disaster Risk Reduction meeting held in Geneva in 2013, Dōmoto recounted how the 6.11 Symposium had stirred mass mobilization of Japanese women who went on to successfully negotiate with the government to promote “gender equality.”101 Showcasing Japan as a new international leader in disaster reduction, Hara spoke about the need to disseminate Japan’s resilience technology abroad, referencing Kunizaki Nobue’s books as one of the crucial resources Japan could share with other countries.102 Highlighting its international orientation even more, the JWNDRR has gained funding from the Qatar Friendship Fund, an entity set up to offer assistance to post–3.11 recovery and reconstruction in Japan, a significant trading partner of Qatar in crude oil and liquefied natural gas. The JWNDRR and the Training Center for Gender & Disaster Risk Reduction continue to advocate “gender mainstreaming” and “gender co-participation” as a feminist agenda in post-disaster Japan. In pursuing “gender equality,” however, their activism rarely if ever engages with the questions of militarism and neoliberalism, thus leaving unanalyzed two prime geopolitical dynamics that centrally inform Japan’s resilience-building. Post–3.11 mobilization has articulated a gendered and gendering dynamic of securitization in which the nation’s move toward refortification has been entwined with feminist aspiration to achieve gender equality. Articulating their desire for gender parity in the discursive terrain long (re)shaped by “gender co-participation” and “gender mainstreaming,” Japanese women leaders have ended up endorsing the essentialist and biological notion of femininity and masculinity on the one hand and facilitating women’s incorporation into the dominant social structure in which neoliberalism and neoconservatism wield increasing power on the other. Far from transforming the existing gender order, Japan’s post-disaster mobilization has designated women as gendered agents of securitization who perform self- and mutual help, take on post-disaster care work, and pursue business ventures and adventures—all essential features of emerging neoliberal culture. Empowered, responsible, and enterprising, Japanese women are expected to strive to protect families, communities, and the nation, thus subsidizing and supplanting the state machinery whose concern with security is paramount. Publicizing Japanese women’s and feminists’ progress in the international realm, moreover, this emerging dynamic casts Japan as a global leader of gender equality and disaster resilience, an assertion also made by Prime Minister Abe Shinzō. Far from being a case of “post-feminism” (a phenomenon eliciting much commentary from feminist scholars and activists as a critique of neoliberal

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culture in which the presumed achievement of gender equality signals the end of feminism), the gender dynamics activated by the March 11 disaster still seem very much “feminist,” in that they acknowledge ongoing gender inequality and call for some form of feminist interventions. The invocation of “feminist” in addition to “feminine” subjects performs a crucial function in Japan and elsewhere, where the recognition of gender disparity, combined with the promotion of feminism as a solution, helps sustain an illusion of liberal democracy amid a shift to neoliberal political, economic, and social orders that proceeds apace. Importantly, Japan’s narrative of overcoming gender inequality and striving toward gender equality serves more than one constituency or purpose. Although it allows women leaders to expand their activism internationally, the same dynamic also enables the ruling power to reassert Japan’s leadership in the Asia–Pacific region. Operating in a political landscape where the space from which to launch truly critical interventions has been narrowing, feminist discourses have increasingly been appropriated to enable, rather than obstruct, the entrenchment of dominant political, economic, and cultural dynamics.103 Women’s mobilization in postdisaster Japan thus showcases a process in which mainstream liberal feminism is being “husked” and “transmuted” into neoliberal feminism, becoming a conduit to the emerging mode of power in the twenty-first century.104

Conclusion Post–3.11 Japan has witnessed an active mobilization of security moms, security girls, and security feminists, whose deployment has spawned a series of cultural products, pronouncements, and practices concerning gender and disaster. Deployed to enact readiness and preparedness as part of their gendered obligations at home, in the community, and for the nation, women are urged to acquire new skills and dispositions. Their failure to do so, it is implied, can only have dire consequences for not only their own survival but that of their loved ones. Saddled with this mission of personal and national significance, women participate in this new culture of securitization in which a refusal to comply would be deemed unnatural (given women’s “maternal instinct”), unreasonable (given the importance of life), and even treasonous (given the significance of national defense). This emerging culture is a multifaceted phenomenon. Articulating a post-disaster cult of domesticity, it transforms homes into a site of defense and everyday life into a series of safety practices. Encouraging women to become self-reliant, self-caring, and self-enterprising, it also charts an (illusory)

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pathway to “women’s empowerment,” celebrates “gender mainstreaming,” and frames resilience in the language of feminist progress. Showcasing Japan as a leader of gender equality and disaster resilience, furthermore, it even functions as a tool for national branding, enabling political elites to assert Japan’s power and prowess on the global stage. Circulating across multiple borders and boundaries, gendered resilience-building is an extensive and expansive project, recruiting women of diverse backgrounds to embed militarism and neoliberalism in their everyday practices so as to produce a new securitized citizen-subject in the face of unending precarity.

4

Securitizing Childhood: Children and Disaster Readiness Education

Anpanman—the round-faced boy hero who flies through the air, fights with villains, and feeds the hungry by offering a portion of his head made up of anpan (pastry filled with sweet bean jam)—is ubiquitous in Japan. Originally a character in a children’s storybook, he has gained extraordinary popularity through the televised anime series, Sore Ike! Anpanman (Let’s Go! Anpanman), which premiered in 1988. Clad in his signature red suit and long cape, the adorable figure has proliferated in the real and imaginary worlds of children, appearing on toys, stationery, and lunchboxes, and being a fixture in kindergartens, hospitals, shopping malls, and “Anpanman Children’s Museums” in Fukuoka, Kōbe, Nagoya, Yokohama, and Sendai. Capturing the hearts and minds of children, Anpanman ranked first in a 2010 popularity survey based on sales figures, beating his famous rivals—Hello Kitty and Pokémon.1 Created by Yanase Takashi (1919–2013), an eccentric poet, lyricist, and stage director, Anpanman, whose outlook (bread) is Western but inner core (sweet bean jam) quaintly Japanese, is a hero unlike any other. With his aversion to water and penchant for crying, Anpanman does not exude power and authority  as  other heroic figures conventionally do. Instead he is the “weakest hero in the world” who nonetheless helps others through his bodily sacrifice (i.e., breaking off his head and giving it to the hungry).2 Representing peace, generosity, and bravery, the gentle hero was inspired in part by Yanase’s experience as a Japanese soldier during the Second World War. Strongly opposed to war as a result of his wartime ordeal,3 Yanase created Anpanman so as to reimagine justice from the vantage point of the weak, vulnerable, and downtrodden.4 Following the March 11 disaster in 2011, Anpanman was catapulted to the status of national hero. People turned to the fictional figure to find solace, courage, and hope amid the unprecedented catastrophe that shook the nation.

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Radio stations were inundated with requests from listeners for the anime’s theme song, “Anpanman no Māchi” (Anpanman’s March), whose lyrics, written by Yanase, praise the value and virtue of love, life, and bravery. One listener called an FM radio station in Tokyo, asking that the song be played for the four-yearold daughter of an acquaintance for its upbeat message. A mother of three in Fukushima Prefecture recalls how her daughters, fearful of nuclear radiation and aftershocks, cheered up as soon as the familiar tune floated from a portable radio in their living room. Similar stories abound, attesting to the power of Anpanman in the disaster-struck nation. Already semiretired and suffering from illness, Yanase was pulled back into public life, launching a support campaign for the disaster victims in Tōhoku with Anpanman as its unmissable emissary.5 The figure of Anpanman is a malleable site of meaning making, however, where messages different from and even contrary to Yanase’s original intent are also articulated. For example, the YouTube video Shinsai Kyūjo Katsudō Ōenka (Theme Song for Disaster Rescue Operations) taps into the power of Anpanman to showcase the importance of the military. Accompanied by the tune of “Anpanman’s March,” the video combines scenes from the anime series with those of Operation Tomodachi. Maneuvering boats, helicopters, and aircraft carriers, an international band of soldiers rescued women and children in distress, bringing them to safety and reuniting them with their families. Drawing an analogy between the boy hero (Anpanman) and adult heroes (soldiers), the video articulates the notion of disaster militarism, in which the military is (re)imagined as an agent of humanitarianism whose primary mission is the protection and preservation of human lives. The intertwining of militarism and humanitarianism is especially salient in the video’s last scene. A member of the JSDF casts a fatherly smile at a baby cradled in his arms, whose life has been rescued thanks to the effective deployment of armed forces.6 In the aftermath of 3.11, Yanase’s artistry continues to proliferate, appearing in yet another domain concerned with safety and security: disaster education and training involving children. Asobōsai Karuta, which Yanase created in collaboration with the prefectural government of Kōchi (his birthplace), reveals his influence in readiness and preparedness education. Based on the traditional game of karuta (cards), in which players match the cards of pictures with those of proverbs, Asobōsai Karuta, whose naming combines asobō (let’s play) and bōsai (disaster prevention), is designed to inculcate the tenets of self-help (jijo) and community help (kyōjo) among youth. The pictures show a series of cartoon characters similar to those found in Let’s Go, Anpanman, while the proverbs focus on skills and dispositions necessary in preparing

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for and surviving disasters. Created in anticipation of the Nankai Megathrust Earthquake, a large-scale calamity predicted to take place in the near future, Asobōsai Karuta, available as a PDF on the prefectural government’s website since 2003, has gained nation-wide visibility since 3.11. It was publicized on Bōsai Rajio (Disaster Preparedness Radio), an FM radio program operated by members of the International Volunteer University Student Association in Japan.7 In addition, at the educational facility Sonarea in the Tokyo Rinkai Disaster Prevention Park, it was displayed with other educational materials whose formats followed traditional games of karuta and sugoroku (a board game). Visitors—many of them children accompanied by their parents—not only look at these games but also play them on site so as to acquire knowledge and technologies necessary for disaster readiness and preparedness.8 This chapter examines children and disaster resilience in Japan. Even more so than adults, whose mobilization has been examined in previous chapters, children constitute a concentrated site of resilience politics as they bear the nation’s future. As indicated by the proliferation of Anpanman following 3.11, the juvenile world is an animated site of cultural production where resilience discourses and practices proliferate via seemingly innocent and innocuous means involving toys, cartoons, games, storytelling, and schooling.9 Mobilizing things old and quaint—karuta, sugoroku, anpan—this new culture harks back to the past and invokes nostalgia. Highlighting disaster militarism and self- and community help, the same dynamic also articulates militarism and neoliberalism—two sides of the same coin in contemporary geopolitics.10 Gender, too, plays a salient role in this new discursive terrain, as the emerging narrative frequently celebrates (male) heroes, conventional or unconventional, privileging men and boys as chief agents of national safety and security. The myth of childhood innocence effectively depoliticizes these dynamics, making resilience-building seem natural, inevitable, and incontestable.11 The following discussions shed light on a number of organizations that play a central role in formation and transformation of post–3.11 juvenile culture. First and foremost, the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology (MEXT) plays a leading role in defining and disseminating readiness and preparedness among Japanese children. Generating a staggering number of reports, guidelines, and manuals, the ministry articulates a new form of pedagogy under the slogan—ikiru chikara or zest for living—whose ambiguity renders it more, rather than less, effective as a tool of mobilization.12 Joining the MEXT in recruiting children to a new resilience regime are the JSDF and the Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development

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(OECD). As leading arbiters of geopolitical and economic risks respectively, the JSDF and OECD articulate a link between resilience, militarism, and neoliberalism, making disaster education not only national but transnational in its scope and ambition. Finally, post-disaster juvenile literature constitutes an arena in which all these dynamics converge to further energize post-disaster cultural production. Similar to the bidan (moral stories) that proliferated in the aftermath of the 1923 disaster, post–3.11 juvenile narratives disseminate moralizing discourses of gender, race, military, and nation, functioning as a pedagogical tool of exceptional power and reach.

New Educational Visions: “Miracle of Kamaishi,” “Zest for Living,” and “OECD Tohoku School” Of various tales circulating in post–3.11 Japan, “Kamaishi no Kiseki” (Miracle of Kamaishi)—based on a real-life event in the city of Kamaishi in Iwate Prefecture— is perhaps one of the best known. A typical account, as presented by the Public Relations Office of the Japanese Government, goes as follows. The March 11 disaster was a catastrophic event, claiming close to 16,000 lives and more than 2,500 people still missing. Despite countless tragedies in Tōhoku, a small miracle took place in Kamaishi. Of more than 1,000 casualties in the coastal community devastated by the tsunami, only five were school-aged children. The majority of the city’s elementary and junior high school students (3,000 in total) managed to escape the tidal waves. The high survival rate of the children—99.8 percent being the most frequently cited statistic—was due to a city-wide educational initiative on disaster readiness and preparedness started a few years earlier by Katada Toshitaka, a civil engineering professor at Gunma University.13 More specifically, the story of the miracle unfolded as follows. On March 11, 2011, when the magnitude-9 quake hit the region at 2:46 p.m., 210 students were at Kamaishi Higashi Junior High School, many of them participating in after-school activities. Following the jolt, members of the school’s soccer team, anticipating the arrival of a tsunami, took immediate action. Based on their prior training, they started running to the closest evacuation site, while calling out to others to follow the suit. At nearby Unosumai Elementary School, teachers were leading nearly 360 students to the third floor of the school building, also in anticipation of the tsunami. Seeing Kamaishi Higashi students race by at full speed, however, they quickly realized the perilous situation they were in. Changing their course of action, they, too, began to run out of the building

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and headed for the evacuation site. Once there, a Kamaishi Higashi student turned to adult members of the crowd, suggesting that they move to yet another evacuation site, farther away and on higher ground. The sight of fleeing students alarmed residents in the neighborhoods, and they, too, started running. As the growing crowd fled to safety, older students carried babies in their arms, took the hands of younger students, and pushed the wheel chairs of the elderly. Nearly 700 people fled to safety in this manner, with those at the rear barely escaping the oncoming waves.14 This gripping tale of disaster, evacuation, and survival caught the attention of the NHK (Japan Broadcasting Corporation) and other media outlets. The story spread like wildfire, giving birth to a new legend of readiness and preparedness in post–3.11 Japan.15 Katada Toshitaka, now a leading authority on disaster education, has been instrumental in turning this local tale into a maxim of national resilience. As he argues, the story of the Kamaishi students articulates the “three fundamental principles of evacuation” (hinan sangensoku) essential in disaster readiness and preparedness for the entire nation. First, one should never rely on predictions (sōtei ni torawareruna). The scale of the 3.11 tsunami was “beyond expectations” (sōteigai), engulfing many of the designated evacuation sites previously considered “safe.” Exercising proper judgment in a given situation is therefore critical for survival. Second, one should do one’s utmost (saizen o tsukuse) in the face of disaster. Nearly 700 people escaped the tsunami because they never gave up and instead kept on running. Had they remained at the first evacuation site, none would have lived to tell the tale. Third, one should lead rather than be led by others (sossen hinansha tare) in the event of evacuation. Kamaishi Higashi students prioritized their personal safety, and their action in turn spurred others to follow suit. The result was a high rate of survival. The Miracle of Kamaishi showcases the significance of self-help and self-responsibility, two tenets of central significance in disaster education, Katada argues.16 This tale of the miracle draws its discursive power from the past as well as the future. On one level, the story affirms the value of an old adage in the region— “tsunami tendenko” or “inochi tendenko”—which instructs residents in tsunamiprone communities to run for their lives on their own in the event of a sea swell, suggesting that protecting one’s own life is a priority over saving others. If each and every member of the community follows this principle, the argument goes, there will be no need to worry about loved ones, because they, too, will flee on their own. On another level, the Miracle of Kamaishi also speaks to the demands of the changing economy, as Japan heads into an uncertain future. In a 2015 interview with the NHK, Nonaka Ikujirō, Professor Emeritus of the Graduate

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School of International Corporate Strategy at Hitotsubashi University, states that the story of Kamaishi is full of implications for “business management.” A renowned guru on corporate management whose analysis involves not only corporate but also military entities,17 Nonaka argues that school children’s successful survival in Tōhoku epitomizes the principles of individual autonomy, innovation, leadership, and situational thinking, all of which are essential in navigating the globalizing economy.18 The Miracle of Kamaishi is thus a national narrative that invokes wisdom from the past while also providing guidance for the future. Due to its unparalleled publicity, the Miracle of Kamaishi quickly made its way into the realm of national policy making. In September 2011, barely six months after the disaster, a panel of educational experts submitted a report to the MEXT. Drawing on the example of Kamaishi and highlighting the value of tsunami tendenko, the panel identified a number of aptitudes and attributes essential to disaster readiness and preparedness: thinking autonomously, making decisions, taking action, prioritizing personal safety, assisting others, and learning from the past.19 The report was subsequently incorporated into the white paper published by the MEXT in 2012. Entitled “Recovery and Reconstruction in the Aftermath of Great East Japan Disaster—Creative Recovery and Human Resource Development,” it identified “creative reconstruction” (sōzō-teki fukkō), “human resource development” (hitozukuri), and “cultivation of bonds” (kizuna) as the central pillars of post-disaster education. Insights and experiences gained during 3.11 would now provide a foundation for a “Future-Oriented Educational Model Originating from Tōhoku” (Tōhoku hatsu no mirai-gata kyōiku moderu), cultivating new, disaster-ready citizenry among youth, with Tōhoku functioning as the ground zero of this new educational initiative.20 What would these keywords and slogans actually entail in disaster training and education involving children? The MEXT answer to this question is found in “Development of Disaster Prevention Education for ‘Zest for Living’” (“Ikiru Chikara” o hagukumu bōsai kyōiku no tenkai). Published in 2013, this voluminous guideline—more than two hundred pages in length—discusses a variety of techniques and technologies necessary for disaster readiness and preparedness under the slogan “zest for living.” A reference manual for K-12 educators, it provides a series of suggestions for curricula and instructions, accompanied by checklists. Addressing a multitude of disaster scenarios ranging from earthquakes to tsunamis, fires, floods, lightning, volcanic eruptions, and tornados, the document is notable for its omission of any discussion of nuclear disaster.21

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The 2013 guideline emphasizes the significance of self- and community help, whereby the acquisition of discipline, order, and conformity plays a key role in cultivating resilient youth.22 Minute and detailed, it provides specific instructions for each grade. Kindergarteners are encouraged to learn how to recognize risks and dangers in their surroundings, follow rules and orders provided by their teachers, and make decisions and take actions accordingly. Simple games, plays, and drills would help nurture these traits.23 Among elementary school students, disaster training becomes more multidimensional. In addition to participating in evacuation drills, they would study past instances of natural calamities within and beyond Japan from a scientific perspective.24 Readiness and preparedness of families and communities are equally or even more important. Thus students are instructed to stock up on emergency items (food, water, first-aid kit) at home, discuss evacuation procedures with family members, and coordinate their actions with those of their neighbors.25 To enhance community help, they are urged to become familiar with the functions of local agencies. Members of municipal governments, police and fire stations, and community volunteer organizations can be invited to schools as “guest teachers” to share insights and impart knowledge.26 For junior and senior high school students, these lessons, exercises, and activities take on additional complexities. They learn how to provide first aid, fortify their homes, and contribute to community welfare in the aftermath of disaster.27 Visiting local police stations, hospitals, gas stations, city halls, television stations, and volunteer organizations is once again considered essential, because it would offer first-hand exposure to local agencies and thus an opportunity to acquire necessary knowledge and develop informed perspectives.28 Finally, the guideline suggests the importance of integrating these topics and activities into a variety of subject areas—such as social studies, physical education, and home economics—so that disaster education becomes a truly interdisciplinary endeavor. Importantly, the 2013 guideline also highlights the significance of moral education (dōtoku kyōiku), suggesting that proper disposition is an indispensable element in resilient citizenry in post–3.11 Japan. Thus kindergarteners are taught how to nurture love for life by taking care of animals and plants. In addition, they learn about the importance of orderliness, sociability, and collaboration as they play games, interact with their teachers, and clean up after themselves.29 The moral education among sixth graders involves discussions of a variety of obligations and responsibilities one is expected to fulfill in the post-disaster context. Since many would be displaced and live in public shelters, it is crucial to know how to endure inconveniences, empathize with others,

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and contribute to the collective welfare.30 The cultivation of “omoiyari,” a term encompassing  thoughtfulness, considerateness, and understanding, is indeed essential in post–3.11 education, so the seventh graders are encouraged to ponder the meanings and significance of the term. They are expected to “deepen the spirit of warm human love” (atatakai ningen’ai no seishin o fukameru) by reflecting on the Great Hanshin-Awaji (or Kōbe) Earthquake in 1995 and the March 11 disaster in 2011. These are part and parcel of new education that aims to teach youth how to “protect their own lives as well as those of others and proactively build interpersonal relations with members of their communities.”31 Clearly the post–3.11 vision of education is a mishmash of varied and sometimes contradictory ideas and practices. While celebrating the miraculous story of Kamaishi students’ survival amid the unforeseeable calamity of tsunami, it also insists on replicating that miracle through training and exercise. While prioritizing self-help and self-protection, it also demands the cultivation of neighborly love and communal bonds. While invoking the regional wisdom of tsunami tendenko, it also embraces the dictum of corporate management and business innovation in the globalizing world. While advocating the acquisition of scientific knowledge, it insists on the transformation of hearts. Driving all these arguments is a call for zest for living, or ikiru chikara, whose meanings are ambiguous at best, whether in English or Japanese. How is one to make sense of all this? A brief genealogical look at the term ikiru chikara, which provides an overarching theme for contemporary resilience education, is useful here. The concept, though appearing indigenous, in fact traces its origin to international discourses on education, in which notions such as “learning to be,” “lifelong learning,” “knowledge-based society,” and “key competencies” were first articulated by UNICEF (United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund) and later developed by the OECD.32 In response to global economic restructuring, the OECD—a transnational economic organization headquartered in Paris whose membership is comprised primarily of industrialized nations—advocates a new type of education for a new type of labor force. Upholding the so-called key competencies in the areas of “cognitive and practical skills, creative abilities and other psychosocial resources such as attitudes, motivation and values,” the organization calls for the development of human capital conducive to the rapidly changing economy, demanding the cultivation of autonomous, flexible, and entrepreneurial work force that is ready to function in the knowledge-based economy, capable of competing in the global market, and willing to pursue lifelong learning to continuously update its skills

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and qualifications. Aligning the mission of education with the demand of the economy, the OECD zealously propagates its agenda around the world.33 It was adopted in Japan in the 1990s, where the Ministry of Education (the predecessor of the MEXT) and its research wing, the National Institute for Educational Policy Research (NIER), had long been in a collaborative relation with the OECD. The organization’s new educational vision was translated as “ikiru chikara” or “zest for living,” instructing Japanese youth to learn how to “identify problems, learn and think independently, make an autonomous judgement and act accordingly” in order to meet the demand of the new economic era.34 Not surprisingly, the OECD’s involvement in educational governance has generated international criticism. One instance of controversy involves the PISA (Programme for International Student Assessment), a scholastic assessment scheme designed by the organization to measure the key competencies among the fifteen-year-olds of member and nonmember countries.35 Implemented in 2000 and repeated every three years since then, the PISA has gained currency as a new global standard. When the OECD publishes the “league tables” (i.e., international ranking based on mean test scores), it triggers “PISA shock” and fuels competition among the participating nations. In a 2014 open letter to then PISA director and German education analyst Andreas Schleicher, an international group of scholars and educators, including a leading educational scholar and critic Henry Giroux, challenged the “PISA regime.” Questioning the validity of assessment that relies on a narrow range of quantitative measurements, the letter criticizes the organization’s economically driven notion of human competency, reliance on certain experts (economists, statisticians, and psychometricians) in the constructions of measurements, use of an international ranking system that ignores economic disparities among nations, and “educational colonialism” in which the Global North exerts disproportionate influence in setting the educational agenda for the rest of the world.36 While reflecting these global dynamics, the proliferation of “zest for living” is also informed by domestic dynamics in Japan, where the economic recession of the 1990s has led to the rise of neoconservatism.37 As neoliberal economic restructuring has exacerbated social disparities, fueled anxieties, and deepened precarity, conservative members of the LDP have turned to the discourse of morality to manage uncertainty and contain insecurity. Calling for a new type of education, they emphasize order, ethics, self-discipline, respect for the tradition, and love for the nation. Emerging from this dynamic is a paradigm of “teaching for the heart” (kokoro no kyōiku).38 Shifting the locus of the problem from structural dynamics to individual attitudes and aptitudes, the new

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initiative reinforces a trend of privatization promoted by the OECD. Far from unique to Japan, this fusing of “market value” and “traditional value” proceeds globally,  affecting educational policy making in more than one nation or region.39 Post–3.11 resilience education reflects and reinforces these national(ist) and global dynamics, functioning as multifaceted discursive machinery whose power is all the more enhanced because of its express objective—the safety and security of children—a notion too self-evident to question or contest. How the local, the national, and the global were linked to instigate post–3.11 mobilization of children is evident in one educational project, in which Tōhoku became a “ground zero” for educational intervention—or perhaps more appropriately educational invasion—by national and international forces. Just a month after the disaster, the OECD Secretary-General and Mexican economist Angel Gurria visited Japan to promise the organization’s support for recovery and reconstruction of Tōhoku. Subsequent consultation involving the OECD, the MEXT, the NIER, and Fukushima University resulted in a project called OECD Tohoku School. Involving a hundred or so junior and senior high school students from Miyagi, Iwate, and Fukushima, the three prefectures hardest hit by the March 11 disaster, the project, which began in 2012, proposed turning Tōhoku into a site of “educational innovation” and “creative recovery,” facilitating a new form of learning to produce a new type of human capital to renew and rebuild Tōhoku. As explained by OECD Director for Education and German academic Barbara Ischinger, the students would plan, organize, and execute a public event in Paris in August 2014 to display Tōhoku’s progress toward recovery and showcase its attractiveness vis-à-vis the international audience. During the two and a half years leading up to the final Paris event, the students would attend five intensive workshops and hold regular meetings in their respective communities to plan, organize, and execute this mammoth project. No blueprint would be provided and the involvement of teachers would be kept minimal in order to nurture a spirit of autonomy among the participating youth.40 Accompanied by the slogan “Overcome the Past, Overcome Common Sense, Overcome National Borders” (Kako o koemasu, jōshiki o koemasu, kokkyō o koemasu), the OECD Tohoku School would strike one as a progressive endeavor at first glance. However, a closer look reveals that the school was an instance of the “businessification of education”41 whose core objective was to inculcate “key competencies” of leadership, initiative, collaboration, communication, and management. The construction of an entrepreneurial self was its ultimate objective. A variety of forces converged to transform the participating students

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into modern global subjects with proper training. The project began with a session chaired by Ikegami Akira, well-known journalist and former anchorman of the NHK, the standard bearer of the national language. Given the historical legacy of Tōhoku, whose dialectical and other cultural differences from Tokyo had long been regarded as signs of the region’s presumed backwardness, the scene of the students being trained in “standard” speech and communication was far from neutral.42 Subsequent workshops were explicitly business-oriented in their scope and content, featuring well-known figures in the realm of business management and public relations. Sanada Hidenobu, Chief Operating Officer of UNIQLO France, a global clothing chain headquartered in Japan, spoke about business analysis in order to foster “critical thinking” among the youth.43 Mitani Kōji, professor of business consulting at Kanazawa Technical University, held a workshop on “creativity” and “inquisitiveness.”44 Gad Weil, a French event producer known for his large-scale installations on the Champs-Élysées and elsewhere, talked about how to “brand” Tōhoku.45 Also speaking at the school was Andreas Schleicher of PISA fame. Highlighting the changing nature of the world and emphasizing the significance of “key competencies,” he stated that if Tōhoku was to overcome its marginal status in Japan, cultivating new skills and developing new human resources were essential.46 Addressing the young participants comprised of roughly equal numbers of girls and boys from Tōhoku, the speakers at these workshops were predominantly men of national and international stature, articulating a masculinized and globalizing dynamic surrounding the region after the 3.11 disaster. The project’s finale, “The Rebirth of Tohoku—Japan Rising toward the Future,” took place in the Champ-de-Marks Park in Paris on August 30 and 31, 2014. Drawing nearly 150,000 visitors, the event showcased an impressive list of corporate sponsorships, including IBM, Yahoo, UNIQLO, Soft Bank, Fujitsu, and ANA (All Nippon Airways). At the foot of the Eiffel Tower, the students’ visions, cultivated over two and a half years, were turned into a series of displays and activities. Large balloons were installed to represent the height of the 3.11  tsunami and convey the scale of the disaster. A domino toppling was arranged, with the movement of pieces symbolizing Tōhoku’s destruction, recovery, and resurgence. Video documentaries created by the students reported on the devastation wrought by the 3.11 disaster but also on the progress toward reconstruction. Regional cultural heritage was also on display, as exemplified by the performance of the Shishi Odori (Deer Dance) of Miyagi and a video on the Sōma Nomaoi (Wild Horse Chase in Sōma) of Fukushima. In the students’ booths, a variety of specialty products from their home communities

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were showcased, such as fruit jelly, kelp, and sweets. Next to these booths, the Japan National Tourism Organization publicized tourism in Japan, and several universities (Tohoku, Kansai, and Osaka) displayed information on exchange programs, indicating (at least for critical viewers) that the events presented a precious opportunity for those social actors in Japan whose concerns had little to do with Tōhoku or its youth.47 The event concluded with an official ceremony— the planting of a cherry tree at the OECD headquarters—highlighting the forging of kizuna (bonds) between Japan and France with the use of the preeminent symbol of the nation of Japan.48 Though it was praised as an innovative educational project for, by, and about the young disaster victims, the OECD Tohoku School became a public relations project in which the agenda of recovery and reconstruction was hijacked by actors and interests outside Tōhoku. What was showcased in Paris was an exotic, Orientalist image of remote Japan and still remoter Tōhoku, whose art, traditions, and specialty products would hopefully draw international tourists to the struggling region. Articulating a link between disaster, capitalism, and tourism, the project reiterated a dynamic of “capitalizing on catastrophe,” a pattern observed in disaster recovery and reconstruction in other instances.49 Moreover, the project was inundated with problems, as is often the case in disaster recovery and reconstruction involving external organizations. Recruiting a sufficient number of students in Tōhoku so soon after the disaster turned out to be a major challenge. Understaffing and miscommunication strained the relations between the organizers in Tōhoku and those in Paris, slowing the project’s progress and triggering exasperation among the participants. The fact that the students had to seek donations from business and corporate entities—almost all of them located in Tokyo—to finance their overseas trips raised questions about the nature and meaning of the project.50 Overburdened with logistical problems, the organizers in Japan had to relegate some of their work to for-profit as well as nonprofit entities.51 Tensions also emerged within Tōhoku. Nonparticipating teachers expressed aversion for the project, while participating teachers became skeptical about it. Many of the student participants, often selected by the teachers, kept their involvement a secret from their peers.52 It is hard to tell whether this was due to differential treatment accorded to students (some gaining access to coveted opportunities while others not) or to the obvious disconnect between the project’s overall aim and the ground-level reality of their communities in Tōhoku. Perhaps most poignantly, the disjointed nature of the project is reflected in a series of English-language documentary videos the students created for the

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finale in Paris. Illuminating local views, perspectives, and experiences, these videos, each lasting 10 to 20 minutes, could have opened up a space of critical thinking and reflection about 3.11 and its aftermath, yet their potential was quickly stifled by the premise and promise of the project. One video, set in Iwaki, Fukushima, sheds light on the nuclear disaster and its consequences at a local fish market. Focusing on its owner, the grandfather of the eighteen-year-old male student who is the film’s narrator-producer, the video recounts how the nuclear disaster polluted the ocean, contaminated the catch, and triggered a precipitous decline of sales at the store. Recording the dialogue between the student and his grandfather in the regional dialect, the video presents a vernacular view of 3.11. The narrator wonders aloud why the nuclear power plant was built in Fukushima to begin with. To find an answer, he joins the OECD Tohoku School and begins a research project on the history of the nuclear energy production in his community. His search leads him to the captain of a boat to whom he poses his question. However, the captain tells him that the Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant has brought much benefit to the region. Following this exchange, the video comes to a hasty conclusion without further exploring the question. The radiation level has gone down, and the customers have returned to the grandfather’s shop. The video’s last scene shows the narrator eating a plateful of sashimi, emphasizing (and “proving”) that locally caught fish is now safe and the problem no longer exists. Another video, set in Nihonmatsu, Fukushima, and narrated by a seventeenyear-old female student, explores the role of science in 3.11 and its aftermath. The opening scene shows numerous red petals (representing radioactive substances) falling onto the ground, conveying the horror of nuclear accident and its consequences in an artistic manner. Affected by the accident, the student joins a science club at her school to gain more insight into and understanding about nuclear energy issues. The video shows a variety of activities she and her fellow members subsequently pursue. Walking around the schoolyard, they measure nuclear radiation with a Geiger counter whose incessant noise indicates the high level of nuclear radiation. Traveling to Tokyo, they consult with experts at Tokyo University to further their knowledge. Back at their school, they assemble plastic bottles, metal sheets, and water to create a contraption to conduct an experiment on renewable energy. Notwithstanding its critical potential, the video, which illuminates the agency expressed by a female student and highlights the significance of science, never once raises a question about any historical and institutional dynamics that have led to the nuclear fiasco in Fukushima. In documenting a variety of experiments the students conducted

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at school, the video also highlights the activities of male members of the club but leaves females almost entirely invisible, reproducing a familiar dynamic of gender, science, and knowledge.53 Notwithstanding these dynamics, the OECD Tohoku School was declared a smashing success, containing and indeed erasing tensions, conflicts, and contradictions that accompanied the project. The official report proudly displays charts and diagrams that indicate the students’ progress in select areas of “key competencies.”54 Taguma Miho, OECD senior policy analyst and key liaison between France and Japan, proclaims that the project has provided a model of educational reform for the rest of the world to emulate. Given a boost—and also legitimacy—by the project’s apparent success, the OECD has launched a new project, “Education 2030,” whereby policy tools such as key competencies and PISA be revised, updated, and further disseminated.55 The MEXT, too, has been energized by the project’s success. Establishing a new research consortium, “Japan Innovative Schools Network supported by OECD,” in which Fukushima  University and Tokyo University are the main loci, the ministry is eager to extend the “Tōhoku model” to the rest of the nation, as seen in “Regional Revitalization and Innovation 2030” (Chihō Sōsei Inobēshon), which entails a series of projects in Hiroshima, Wakayama, Shimane, Hyōgo, and Fukui Prefectures similar to the OECD Tohoku School. Addressing issues ranging from declining birthrate and the environment to globalization, these projects  mobilize Japanese students, their corporate partners, and overseas collaborators, replicating the model initially devised in Tōhoku.56 “Zest for living”—a notion articulated at the intersection of neoliberalism and neoconservatism, with the OECD and the MEXT as its main instigators— therefore continues to proliferate within and beyond Japan, with Tōhoku providing an impetus, motivation, and justification for its promulgation and expansion.

Militarizing Disaster Education—Japan Self-Defense Forces Although neoliberalism exerts significant influence in Japanese education, militarism—another strand of geopolitical dynamics—plays an equally visible role in recruiting youth to post–3.11 resilience-building. Since the March 11 disaster, the link between youth and the military has indeed been notable. It is not only Anpanman that articulates this link. The images of children with soldiers

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in Tōhoku circulated widely, turning young people into effective publicists for the military.57 In his address to elementary school students in Tōhoku, Hirano Hirofumi, then MEXT Minister, stated that members of the JSDF, together with firefighters, policemen, and teachers, were tirelessly working for recovery and reconstruction and that in response young people should study hard, strengthen their bodies, cultivate their hearts, and take care of others.58 As “zest for living” calls for “community-help” in which local agencies play leading roles in readiness and preparedness, the military’s regional branches are increasingly part of disaster training at schools. In Kyoto, the JSDF Kyoto Provincial Cooperation Office dispatches its personnel to local schools to provide disaster education.59 In Tokyo, Tanashi Technical High School, a public institution, held three-day disaster training at the JGSDF (Japan Ground Self-Defense Force) Camp Asaka in 2013. The action, originating from then Tokyo governor Inose Naoki and his predecessor, Ishihara Shintarō, was approved by the Tokyo Metropolitan Board of Education.60 In 2017, Meguro Gakuin Junior and Senior High School, a private institution also in Tokyo, organized an “integrated study session” at the JGSDF Camp Nerima. The day’s activities were photographed and uploaded on the school’s home page.61 Similar collaborations involving schools and the military have also taken place in other prefectures, including Okayama, Hyōgo, Shiga, Toyama, Akita, and Hokkaido. The Ministry of Defense (MOD) is more than eager to reach out to children, as observed on its “Kids Site” website, a veritable one-stop shop for all things military for Japanese youngsters (pre-teens to teens). Featuring two mascot characters, Prince Pickles (Pikurusu ōji) and Miss Parsley (Paseri-chan), the website entices young viewers to become familiar with and develop affinity for the MOD and the JSDF. In it, four areas of interest for children are identified. “Let’s Study” (manabō) provides information on the history, function, and organization of the military, while “Let’s Work” (hatarakō) lists various job opportunities at the JSDF. “Let’s Experience” (taikenshiyō) announces public events hosted by the JSDF and the MOD, and “Let’s Enjoy” (tanoshimō) features downloadable computer wallpapers as well as paper craft patterns featuring JSDF jeeps, tanks, submarines, helicopters, and aircrafts, with intended appeal to boys. The website also provides a link to the manga versions of the ministry’s white papers dating back to 2006, and a short animation video on the JSDF in Japanese and English.62 The Kids Site presents the Japanese military first and foremost as an agent of defense rather than offense, whose chief objective is the maintenance of peace and security. The order with which the agency’s missions are listed is worth

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noting. The military’s top obligation is disaster relief (saigai haken), which entails saving people, protecting homes, searching for the missing, providing first aid, and delivering food and water. This is followed by the second mission, national defense (bōei), where the military protects Japan’s air, sea, and land spaces from external forces. The third mission is the maintenance of the international “security environment” (anzen hoshō kankyō), which includes peacekeeping operations and international diplomacy. The former entails aid and relief activities, such as the United Nations’ peacekeeping operations and disaster and post-disaster relief operations, while the latter revolves around building mutual understanding among nations via diplomatic visits, joint military exercises, and international exchanges of cadets (the military version of studying abroad).63 In the military’s outreach efforts targeting children, then, disaster-related operations are the organization’s hallmark. The animation video “Bōemon’s Defense Lecture—Easy-to-Understand Lesson on Self-Defense Forces” (Bōemon no bōei damon: yoku wakaru Jieitai) presents a pictorial account of the JSDF. The animation follows the fictional Kanō family, which consists of Hideki, elite fighter jet pilot, his wife Yumiko, and their three children, Daisuke, Mia, and Shō (sixth, fifth, and third graders). The story focuses on the children’s encounter with Bōemon, a mystical birdlike creature originally drawn by the youngest child, Shō, and now coming to life in the family’s living room, who goes on to become the video’s main narrator.64 The video is a specimen of “Japan’s manga military,” in which anime and cartoon characters are mobilized to generate grassroots support for the military. Though the phenomenon has elicited many comments and criticisms within and beyond Japan, the deployment of juvenile culture for military-related purposes is not unique to Japan.65 Bōemon’s role is reminiscent of that of Donald Duck in the Second World War mobilization and of Bert the Turtle in Cold War civil defense in the United States, where American children were trained to cope with national crisis via the help of animation characters. Following the March 11 disaster, Japanese children have been similarly enticed into learning about the significance of the military, with the help of imaginary figures created specifically for their consumption. The story of Bōemon, set in the domestic context of the fictional Kanō family, presents a multifaceted narrative. On one level, the video works as a pedagogical tool about the military and militarization. As Bōemon explains to the children, the mission of the JSDF is self-defense, where soldiers protect the homeland, maintain international security, and provide humanitarian aid during and after disasters. Utilizing actual JSDF footage as his teaching aid, Bōemon highlights a

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series of weapons and technologies of the Japanese armed forces but insists that they are never for invading other countries. To make his case, he draws on an easy-to-understand example. In the schoolyard, nobody would challenge bigger kids, he explains. Similarly, having a larger and stronger military translates into the power of “deterrence” (yokushiryoku), whereby foreign countries are discouraged from taking action against Japan. Following this explanation, Bōemon proceeds to illuminate the military’s three branches—Air, Ground, and Maritime—as “three arrows,” a term initially popularized by Prime Minister Abe and now repurposed to highlight the significance of multilevel defense. The military alliance between the United States and Japan constitutes a “fourth arrow,” an indispensable element in Japan’s safety and security, he notes. On another level, the video also functions as a teaching tool about gender and race. Its opening scene shows Hideki, a member of the JASDF (Japan Air Self-Defense Force), maneuvering a fighter jet in order to defend the nation’s airspace from unidentified enemies. Successfully completing his mission, he returns to the ground where he chats with his junior colleague Mizushima. Mizushima has happy news to share—the arrival of his first child—and is eager to show the picture of the newborn. Speaking about the joy of “having a large family,” Hideki pulls out his own family photo, whose configuration reflects the traditional ideal of “ichihime nitarō” (one daughter and two sons) but departs considerably from the current declining fertility rate in Japan which has been causing a considerable national anxiety. Mizushima heartily agrees with Hideki, expressing his hope to have two more children in the near future. Alluding to the “problem” of declining birth rate, the video subtly endorses a return to the “traditional family.” The endorsement of traditional gender–family dynamics becomes even more pronounced as the story follows Hideki back home, where his wife Yumiko and three children await. Although Yumiko works for a publishing company, she shows no sign of life outside home. Instead she pursues a series of domestic tasks, none of which is understood as “work” in the same way as her husband’s job is. The familiar understanding of masculinity and femininity is thus reiterated: Hideki is a strong and heroic soldier-defender active in the public domain of work, while Yumiko is a gentle nurturer-caretaker happily ensconced in the private sphere of home. Bōemon appears in this domestic scene, commencing his lecture on the military. Though the creature’s age and gender are “unspecified” in the video’s synopsis, Bōemon is clearly gendered male, given his name, appearance, and access to knowledge. Since he was originally drawn by the couple’s younger boy, Shō, the narrative also privileges boys as

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the originator of vital knowledge. In addition, Bōemon is deeply nationalized, for he proudly sports a lapel pin whose motif is the Japanese national flag. His lecture on the JSDF therefore proceeds within a domestic space that is infused with conventional understandings of gender, family, and nation. Importantly, the video brings up the topic of women in the military, a matter of obvious concern for Mia, the daughter of the family. Highlighting various roles female soldiers play in the JSDF, the video nonetheless portrays them as mostly confined to supportive functions on the ground.66 In contrast, male soldiers are front and center in military operations both at home and abroad, characterized by their physical strength, masculine heroism, and technological savvy. As the ensuing dialogue makes evident, it is Hideki, the head of the family and ace pilot of the JASDF, whom the children look up to and, in the case of the boys, wish to emulate. In the video’s depiction of the military, then, the facile promotion of “women power” (as reflected in Prime Minister Abe’s call for “Womenomics”)67 is combined with conventional understandings of men and masculinity. Notwithstanding the “infantilization” and “feminization” of the JSDF promoted by the manga militarism,68 the MOD Kids Site still privileges men as the epitome of Japanese soldiers and soldiering Japan, evidencing its masculine prerogative on a repeated basis. Also importantly, the video promotes conventional understandings of racenational difference. Shedding light on the JSDF’s peacekeeping activities, it highlights how Japanese soldiers build infrastructures and improve the lives of local people in South Sudan. As the footage shows little to no sign of modernity in Sudan, a familiar trope of modern Japan versus backward Africa is invoked, wherein the Japanese military, equipped with manpower, technology, and goodwill, brings “progress” to a distant country on a distant continent. The dynamics of gender, race, and nation elucidated above also inform the manga version of a MOD white paper, published in 2012, whose central theme is 3.11 and its immediate aftermath. More than seventy pages in length and comprised of seven chapters, it recounts military operations during the March  11 disasters through a series of photographic images and other visual aids, such as graphs and charts, to convey a sense of “reality” and “objectivity” to its readers.69 The story begins in March 2012, when Ayako—a female Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force (JMSDF) member originally from Tōhoku— reunites with two fifth graders, Katsunori and Mariko, a year after the disaster. As the three recount their ordeals during and after 3.11, Ayako helps them gain a deeper understanding of and appreciation for the JSDF and the MOD. As soon as the disaster struck, she explains, the Japanese military sprang into

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action on an unprecedented scale. Accompanied by charts, graphs, photos, and bullet points, Ayako describes how Japanese soldiers saved lives, searched for the missing, and delivered essential goods. The picture of the JSDF that emerges from her retelling is that of a modern organization equipped with speed, efficiency, and rationality. As she and the two children continue to discuss the disaster, the boundary between the military and the disaster sometimes becomes blurred. Japanese soldiers are reimagined as envoys of humanitarian aid who do everything they can (ima dekiru koto o sēippai okonau) for the sole purpose of helping disaster victims (subete wa hisaisha no tame ni).70 Nuclear meltdown is recast as the “struggles against the invisible enemy” (mienai teki to no tatakai), in which soldiers engage in deadly strategies (kesshi no sakusen)71 and risk their lives (inochigake de tachimukau) to tame and contain unknown adversaries.72 The language of disaster relief and that of armed struggle become indistinguishable, fusing the two concepts together so as to articulate the idea and ideal of disaster militarism. The explanation—provided for the benefit of children who may not be ready for complex explanations of military mobilization or nuclear radiation—immediately recruits them as the innocent articulators and disseminators of that very concept. Similar to the Bōemon video, the story of Ayako, Katsunori, and Mariko casts a spotlight on—but immediately marginalizes—women soldiers in the military. They perform the stereotypically female duties—of supplying food and water, setting up public bath facilities, organizing entertainment, and providing emotional care. When Mariko and Katsunori call Ayako and other female soldiers someone akin to “older sister” and even “mother,” such feminizing dynamics become even more visible. With emotion rather than logistic informing their work, women soldiers, who are imagined as part of the family, remain the Other in the institution of the military, unable to stand on a par with male soldiers who do the “real” work of ensuring the safety and security of the nation. When deployed to describe US soldiers, however, the language of family and kinship has the opposite effect, for it brings the outsiders in. Recalling the joint US-Japan Operation Tomodachi during the 3.11 disaster, Ayako, Mariko, and Katsunori describe US military as a “true friend” (shin no tomo). Gender  and race visibly inform this friendship. All US soldiers are depicted as white and male, except one male serviceman portrayed with darker skin tone. US soldiers are superior to Japanese soldiers, as indicated by their far better understanding of the grassroots needs and wants in disaster-struck communities in Tōhoku.73 As the foreign soldiers befriend Japanese children, racial and national divisions temporarily melt away. Affective bonds quickly

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develop between children in Tōhoku and soldiers from the United States, prompting the latter to recall their younger brothers back home. US-Japan relations are therefore reimagined in the familial but still hierarchical terms of brotherly love.74 Just as the MOD white paper domesticates US-Japanese military relations with an explicit use of familial language, so it depoliticizes the question of alliance-building and bilateral cooperation in the Asia-Pacific region, with children in disaster-struck Tōhoku providing an uncontestable justification for its values and virtues. While presenting this imaginary, intertwined world of US and Japanese military, the MOD Kids Site also entices children to step into the real, physical world of self-defense. The section “Let’s Experience” on the website encourages children to visit the MOD headquarters in Kasumigaseki, a bastion of Japanese bureaucracy in Tokyo. “Prince Pickles and Miss Parsley Exploration Tour in Ichigaya,” an annual summer event at the MOD headquarters, attracts more than a hundred school-aged children (elementary and junior high schools) on each of the two days it is held. Accompanied by guides dressed as Prince Pickles and Miss Parsley, the participants tour the headquarters, attend a lecture, meet with the minister, observe the Honor Guard training, put on military uniforms, and try their hands at flag signaling. Lunch is the highlight of the day, as children are treated to “Jieitai karē” (JSDF curry), a rice-and-curry dish specifically prepared by military chefs.75 The use of comestibles is no accident but reflects the recent popularity of “military food” (miri-meshi) discussed in Chapter 3, where the military’s food and foodways are popularized to generate grassroots support for the institution.76 Featured in the children’s tour in Ichigaya, JSDF curry constitutes a public relations tool that domesticates the military and militarizes domesticity in not-so-subtle way. While the Ichigaya tour entices children to explore the MOD headquarters, its deployment of Prince Pickles and Miss Parsley invites another, perhaps unintended kind of exploration as well. Since their debut in the early 1990s, these two mascot characters have been a popular symbol of Japanese military. As stated by one MOD official, “Prince Pickles is our image character because he’s very endearing, which is what Japan’s military stands for.”77 Representing the JSDF and the MOD, the prince and his lovable mate have been identified as “Japanese.” However, a closer look reveals some complications about their nationality that might undermine or potentially subvert the use of the mascots as national emblems. The full account of the prince is provided in the threepart manga story—“Prince Pickles, the Journey to Peace,” “Prince Pickles’ JSDF Diary,” and “Prince Pickles’ JSDF Diary 2.” Not readily accessible from

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the MOD Kids Site, the story is tucked away in an obscure corner of the Public Relations section of the MOD home page, among miscellaneous posters and pamphlets. It is impossible to determine whether children would actually read the story or how many have done so. Nonetheless, it is useful to examine its content because it illuminates how the dominant workings of power are far from stable or coherent and are in fact often mired in ambiguities and uncertainties. The story of Prince Pickles presents a conversion narrative in which foodrelated characters (named after vegetables, in contrast to bread-related creatures in Anpanman’s story) animate its plot line. As heir to the Kingdom of Paprika, where peace has prevailed for decades, the prince is not at all convinced of the necessity of keeping self-defense forces in his country. His perspective begins to shift, however, when he travels to the neighboring Kingdom of Broccoli, where he befriends Prince Carrot and falls in love with Miss Parsley, daughter of the village head. The prince’s happy sojourn does not last long because the Gōma Empire invades the Kingdom of Broccoli, injuring many, devastating the land, and kidnapping Miss Parsley. Rushing back to the Kingdom of Paprika, Prince Pickles mobilizes its defense forces to fight back. Showing much flair in his firstever military engagement, Prince Pickles drives away the enemy, restores peace, and rescues Miss Parsley. He learns an important lesson: self-defense is essential in protecting our loved ones and keeping the country’s peace. The narrative now changes scene from the Kingdoms of Paprika to Japan. At the urging of his father the king, Prince Pickles travels to Japan for a year-long study abroad. Joining the JSDF, he trains with Japanese soldiers, participates in disaster relief, and learns about the history of US-Japan military alliance. Enchanted by women soldiers in the JSDF, he is even more delighted by the military’s outreach activities, including its participation in the famed Ice Festival in Hokkaido, where soldiers carve a giant ice statue of Anpanman. More than anything else, Prince Pickles is impressed by the public gratitude to the military due to its disaster-related operations. The story concludes as he journeys back to the Kingdom of Paprika, where he will marry Miss Parsley and assume the role of heir to the kingdom, with newly acquired military expertise and experience guiding his country’s future.78 The story of Prince Pickles reproduces, but also complicates, dynamics of gender, race, and nation discussed in this chapter thus far. Notwithstanding its token acknowledgment of female soldiers, the narrative once again revolves around men, showcasing the prince as well as Japanese and American soldiers as defenders of peace and wielders of (just) power. The trope of male rescue is

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a central element in the narrative. Prince Pickles’s conversion to pro-militarism is triggered by the kidnapping of his beloved Miss Parsley, which spurs him into uncharacteristic rage and immediate military action, overriding his previous commitment to pacifism. Miss Parsley appears and reappears beside her prince throughout the story, steadfastly loyal and happily subordinate to him. In contrast to her unwavering devotion, Prince Pickles is distracted by female JSDF soldiers, with his large wandering eyes depicted humorously but uncritically. The workings of race and nation are more complex. The Kingdom of Paprika is a distant land full of medieval tradition, whose illustrations vaguely suggest some unspecified locale in the Middle East. Initially opposed to the military, the prince changes his perspective and travels to Japan in order to gain knowledge unavailable in his country. Once in Japan, Pickles’s childlike figure, however adorable, is in stark contrast to those of Japanese and American servicemen who are always portrayed as fully adult and fully male. Although he is officially identified as “Japanese” by MOD officials, Prince Pickles comes across as Japan’s Other, whose military as well as masculine capacities are not only different from but inferior to those of Japan itself. Despite his difference, however, Prince Pickles is simultaneously portrayed as precious. Embodying filial piety (as reflected in his obedience to his father) and family values (as indicated by his pursuit of heterosexual romance and marriage), he is a repository of traditional moral tenets that are fast disappearing in Japan. The story of Prince Pickles, then, can be read as a parable, in which Japan projects its wishful thinking onto its racial-national Others. It is perhaps a bit far-fetched but nonetheless interesting to imagine the Kingdom of Broccoli to be one of the areas formerly under Japanese control—Okinawa, China, or Korea—whose subordination to the Japanese Empire was articulated in terms of its gendered and racialized inferiority during the colonial era, whose ongoing opposition to Japan’s remilitarization is a source of geopolitical tension in the  current context, and whose eventual conversion to and support for Japanese military and militarization in the near future would be welcomed by the JSDF and the MOD. Created to propagate the notion of the JSDF as a leading humanitarian agent—and thus to generate public support and indeed adoration for the controversial institution—the prince could end up reinvoking the nation’s imperial past and its violent consequences in the region. During the Ichigaya tour, children then become unsuspecting witnesses to the convoluted dynamics of militarism—its assertion as well as its erasure—that continue to inform regional politics in East Asia.

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Post–3.11 Juvenile Literature: Linking Nationalism, Militarism, and Neoliberalism The dynamics of neoliberalism, nationalism, and militarism discussed thus far travel beyond Kamaishi, the OECD Tohoku School, and the MOD headquarters to reach larger audiences via post-disaster storytelling in Japan. The production of juvenile literature on 3.11 has indeed been phenomenal, prompting publication of an annotated guide book that lists more than three hundred titles.79 A variety of themes are articulated within this emerging genre, ranging from technical and scientific to literary and affective, in which expressions of criticism are not infrequent, especially when it comes to nuclear disaster. An illustrated story entitled Genbaku to genpatsu (Nuclear Bomb and Nuclear Power), by Matsuyama Rena, links the disasters in 1945 and 2011, providing a moment of critical reflection on both.80 Zukai: Genpatsu no uso (Illustrated: Lies of Nuclear Power), by the well-known activist-scientist Koide Hiroaki, retraces the history of nuclear energy production and its human cost within and beyond Japan.81 Discussions of nuclear power sometimes reference the Cold War Pacific. In Bikini suibaku hisai jiken no shinsō: Daigo Fukuryū-maru (The Truth about the Bikini Atoll Incident: Lucky Dragon), Anzai Ikurō, another activist-scientist, sheds light on US nuclear testing on the Bikini Atoll in the early postwar period.82 It is not only adult authors who engage in criticism; children, too, voice their concerns. Fukushima no kodomotachi kara no tegami (Letters from Children in Fukushima) is a collection of letters written by children in Fukushima. Addressing policy makers in Tokyo, these letters raise the specter of the government’s accountability, or lack thereof, in the 2011 nuclear meltdown, and question the myth of nuclear safety that has sustained Japan’s energy production for decades.83 Despite these and other instances of interventions, post–3.11 juvenile literature more often reflects and reinforces, rather than challenges and censures, the dominant discourses. The collections of children’s stories published by Gakken Kyōiku Shuppan, a leading textbook publisher commonly known as Gakken, provide an insight to this dynamic. One such collection, Illustrated Telling Tales on March 11 (Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon 3-gatsu 11-nichi; hereafter Telling Tales), targets younger children and consists of eight volumes, each containing two stories with ample illustrations. Another collection, Great East Japan Earthquake: 100 Stories That Must Be Told (Higashi Nihon Daishinsai: tsutaenakereba naranai 100 no monogatari; hereafter 100 Stories), targets older readers and consists of ten volumes, each containing ten stories with no

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illustrations.84 Circulating the twenty-first-century version of bidan based on real-life accounts of 3.11, these two collections, both published in 2013 and recommended in the aforementioned guidebook, circulate moralizing tales of gender, race, nation, militarism, and neoliberalism, reinforcing dynamics articulated by the MEXT, the OECD, and the MOD. In post–3.11 storytelling, gender plays a salient role in shaping the vision of resilience-building. “Futatsu no yūki” (Two Courageous Men) in Telling Tales recounts a real-life rescue operation pursued by two men, Uchiyama Tetsuyuki, a doctor at the Ishinomaki City Hospital in Miyagi Prefecture, and Yano Ken’ichi, a flight surgeon in Shizuoka Prefecture. The courage, commitment, and mobility of these men are the narrative’s central theme. Amid the earthquake and tsunami, Uchiyama completed a surgery after the electricity was cut off. To seek help for his patients and staff members stranded in the hospital, he ventured out of the building, waded through the waist-deep water, and reached the city hall to send out a rescue call. Receiving the call via the Ishinomaki Red Cross was Yano, who immediately flew his helicopter to the hospital. Soon three more helicopters arrived—one dispatched by the JSDF, and two others by the DMAT (Disaster Medical Assistance Team)—joining rescue activities in progress. Thanks to these men’s heroic efforts, more than 400 people were brought to safety. Portraying Uchiyama and Yano in constant motion, the story highlights men’s mobility.85 Gaining exceptional popularity, the story has been published as a separate booklet by Gakken, giving special recognition to this tale of masculine heroism, whose plot involves the military and whose message highlights the significance of self- and community help.86 In the volume, this story of the two doctors is paired with that of a woman, in a gesture toward gender balance.87 “Autodoa gientai shutsudō!” (Outdoor Donation Corp, Go!) features Iwano Sachiko, an avid hiker and skier who twice participated in a South Pole expedition and later worked for an outdoor goods company in Osaka. When the Hanshin-Awaji (Kōbe) Earthquake took place in 1995, she and her coworkers established a volunteer group “Outdoor Donation Corp” to lend their support to disaster relief efforts. Following the March 11 disaster in 2011, the group decided to once again volunteer their services, this time in Tōhoku. Yet the first person to go to the disaster-struck region was not Sachiko but her male colleague, Tatsuno Isamu. While distributing food, water, clothing, and camping gear such as tents, sleeping bags, lamps, portable stoves, he was able to share knowledge and technologies of outdoor survival with disaster victims. Eventually, Sachiko, too, made her way to Tōhoku, delivering aid materials and forming emotional bonds with those displaced as a result

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of 3.11. Unlike the story of “Two Courageous Men,” which features medical expertise, physical mobility, and masculine bravery, the story of Sachiko tells little of her expertise or credentials as a seasoned explorer. Instead, it highlights the secondary role she played in disaster relief and emphasizes the emotional rather than professional nature of her assistance as a female volunteer.88 In post–3.11 children’s stories, it is not only professionally trained men who exhibit mobility, bravery, and leadership; everyday men are also equipped with these qualities. 100 Stories recounts more than a few tales in which ordinary men in local communities participated in extraordinary acts, highlighting their autonomy, decision-making capacity, and propensities for action and for self- and community help. The first story of the entire collection is “Gareki to honō no umi o norikoete: shinise ryokan shujin no seikan to kyūjo katsudō” (Surviving the Fire and Debris in the Sea: The Story of Rescue and Survival of an Inn Owner), which recounts a dramatic story of Kumagai Hironori, the owner of a Japanese-style inn in Kesennuma, Miyagi. Following the earthquake, Kumagai, concerned with the safety of his fishing boat, rushed to the harbor. Seeing waters quickly receding from the shore, he knew instantly that large-scale tidal waves would soon arrive. Then and there, he made an extraordinary decision: he would sail his boat out of the harbor and into the ocean so as to avoid destructive waves that would surely crush his vessel. The narrative recounts a series of dramatic maneuvers Kumagai performed as he tried to ride out one monster wave after another. After hours of struggle in the sea, the tsunami finally subsided. Yet his ordeal was not yet over. Sailing back into the harbor, he saw a widespread fire along the shore, caused by the oil spill from the industrial plants. Navigating between the raging flames, Kumagai spotted a man adrift among debris. Skillfully maneuvering his boat, he reached the stranger and pulled him alive out of the water. Thanks to Kumagai’s bravery as a man and technical acumen as a sailor, both men survived.89 Like the tale of the two doctors, the story emphasizes men’s ability to act under adverse conditions and save not only their own lives but those of others. In post–3.11 storytelling, the military plays a recurring role. “‘Nerima no Yu’ de yasuragi o” (Providing Comfort to the Disaster Victims at the “Nerima Bathhouse”), in Telling Tales, focuses on the JGSDF First Logistics Support Regiment at Nerima Camp in Tokyo. The story describes the behind-the-lines assistance provided by the regiment in Kōriyama, Fukushima, which involved, among other things, building bathing facilities for the disaster victims. The protagonist is Sekine Yū, a female soldier and former collegiate athlete who once excelled at wrestling. The narrative highlights Sekine’s agency, mobility, and

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physical strength as a soldier, providing an image of femininity that challenges the immobility, dependency, and helplessness often associated with women in post–3.11 storytelling. However, the story quickly reinstates conventional notions of gender. Depicting interactions between soldiers and civilians (especially children), the illustration accompanying the story (Figure  4.1) portrays male soldiers in conversation with boys on technical details and female soldiers (including Sekine) in pursuit of the feminized tasks of cleaning the bathtubs, providing emotional care, and being surrogate mothers and sisters to local children.90 The possibility of women’s agency, suggested at the beginning of the story, quickly disappears, replaced by a familiar account of femininity and domesticity. In post-disaster literary imagination, male soldiers not only embody courage, bravery, and strength but, expressing compassion to disaster victims, become humanitarian agents who render service to the weak and vulnerable. “Soko ni wa nani mo nakatta. Kyūjo heri kara mita hisaichi” (Nothing Was Left: A View of the Disaster Zone from the Helicopter), in 100 Stories focuses on Watanabe Tamosu (pseudonym), a veteran JGSDF helicopter pilot who served in Miyagi and Fukushima during 3.11. The story not only provides details of his rescue mission but also pays close attention to his emotional state during his deployment. Flying in, Watanabe saw the vast Sendai Plain under water, a scene of utter devastation that left him speechless. Once on the ground, he

Figure 4.1  An illustration from Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon, 2013. Courtesy of Gakken Plus.

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felt “powerless” (muryoku) in the face of chaos, disorder, and destruction. Approached by a young girl who asked for his help in locating her mother and brother lost in the tsunami, he could not help but cry. Uninformed about the nuclear meltdown and exposed to unknown levels of radiation as he flew in and out Futaba-machi, a community adjacent to the site of the accident, Watanabe could barely contain his apprehensions about the military’s upper echelons. Despite all this, Watanabe maintained his stoicism as he pursued his duty. At the heart of the story is the emotional bond Watanabe formed with the disaster victims in Tōhoku. Whenever he arrived at an evacuation center, people welcomed him with spontaneous applause and expressions of gratitude. Even months after the disaster, the public appreciation toward the military did not wane. One day, at an airshow held at a military base outside Tokyo, Watanabe was approached by a man who inquired whether he had been deployed in Tōhoku. The stranger turned out to be from Minami Sanriku, one of the communities Watanabe had served during 3.11. After thanking Watanabe for all the work he had done, the stranger went on to explain how the March 11 disaster had changed his perspective on the military. Not at all convinced of the necessity of the JSDF prior to 3.11, he was now its solid supporter. Sharing memories of hardships during the disaster, the two men, overcome by emotion, burst into tears.91 Such narratives of disaster and human bonds are often intertwined with those of military technology. One of the tales included in 100 Stories, “Senjō de okonawareta sotsugyōshiki, Ōshima no kodomotachi to Kaijō Jieitai” (Graduation Ceremony Aboard the Ship: The JMSDF and Children of Ōshima), features another branch of the military, the JMSDF. Recounting how military technology was transferred from mine warfare to disaster rescue during 3.11, the story articulates the concept of “dual use,” in which military resources are effectively converted for civilian use in times of crisis. Explaining the JMSDF’s organizational structure, operational procedures, and weaponry, the story helps young readers acquire proficiency in military technology and terminology. Intertwined with the story of military technology is that of the friendship between soldiers and civilians during 3.11. The same story sheds light on the precious bonds forged between Fukumoto Izuru, Rear Admiral in the Mine Warfare Force Division of JMSDF, and the children of Ōshima, Miyagi, an island community devastated by the tsunami. In the immediate aftermath of the disaster, local elementary and junior high schools could not hold their commencement ceremony because their facilities were now being used as temporary evacuation centers for those who had lost their homes. Eager to help

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the students, Fukumoto offered his ship, Bungo, Mine Sweeper Tender MST464, as an alternative site for the ceremony. On the day of the event, as fifty or so elementary and junior high school students stepped on deck, they were greeted by female soldiers offering handmade corsages and male soldiers carrying a banner that read, “Congratulations on Graduating!” Being on the military ship and seeing large canons close up was especially thrilling for the boys. The excitement of the day did not end there. The students were treated to a special meal of “rice and curry,” based on a recipe passed down from the Japanese Imperial Navy. They were also given the chance to take a bath, a particularly welcome gift given the acute water shortage on the island. A photo taken of this happy occasion was circulated in Ōshima, uplifting the spirits of residents and impressing them with the generosity of the military. By providing a touching tale of soldiers and children in which domestic props of meals and baths play a central role, the narrative casts the military as a familylike organization whose affinity for and affiliation with civilian communities are genuine. At the end of the story, Fukumoto is quoted as saying that it was sincerity (magokoro), considerateness (omoiyari), and love (ai) that compelled soldiers to approach the disaster victims as though they were members of their own families. In the post–3.11 juvenile literature, the military becomes a familiar and familial institution, an agency driven by human emotion, kindness, and compassion to facilitate community-help based on its commitment to love.92 With its rise in popularity following 3.11, the JSDF has also become a space where youth would imagine a future career. “Ima ganbara nakute itsu ganbarunda. Rikujō Jieitai kesshi no kyūjo katsudō” (Now Is the Time to Do Our Best: the JGSDF Rescue and Recovery Operations) in 100 Stories shines a spot light on Colonel Nakamura Katsuo of the JGSDF, a man in charge of the behind-the-lines logistics support during 3.11. The narrative details his family background, explaining why and how he decided to join the military. Having lost his father and grown up in a single-parent household, Nakamura gave up his dream of becoming a dentist. To ease the burden his mother shouldered to raise him and his siblings, Nakamura chose to attend the National Defense Academy of Japan, where the tuition was free and a stipend provided. Nakamura’s choice of a military career was therefore inseparable from his family obligation, an attempt to fulfill his filial duty. Once in the JGSDF, Nakamura faced numerous challenges. Due to a knee injury from the past, he struggled to keep up with the demands of physical training. Though managing to graduate from the JGSDF Officer Candidate

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School, he was forced to give up a flashy career on the front lines because of his physical impediment and settle for low-profile duty in logistical support. Despite these difficulties, Nakamura persevered, thanks to the unfailing support provided by senior members of the JGSDF. Giving consistent encouragement and sage advice, these men were Nakamura’s surrogate fathers, ensuring that their young charge would overcome challenges and achieve his goal. Now in his forties, Nakamura was ready to play the role of father himself to younger soldiers under his command as they readied themselves for relief missions in Tōhoku. Post-disaster Tōhoku provided the backdrop against which Nakamura would pass on the principles of self-reliance, pride, compassion, and endurance to the next generation of soldiers. In Japanese military, young men could pursue education and careers while providing vital service to the nation, no matter what challenges they faced.93 In post–3.11 children’s literature, US soldiers, too, play a salient role, as seen in “Zenryoku de anatatachi o tasukemasu. Amerika Kaiheitai Operēshon ‘Tomodachi’” (We Will Help You with All Our Might: US Marines in Operation Tomodachi), included in 100 Stories. This account follows Juan Vallejo, a young sergeant of the 31st Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU) of the US Marine Corps (USMC), who was deployed to give assistance in Ōshima, Miyagi, which also provides the setting for the story of Bungo. Explaining the organizational structures and operational procedures of the 31st MEU, the narrative provides detailed knowledge of US military and also highlights the importance of USJapan joint operations. Equally or even more importantly, the story emphasizes the emotional bonds forged between American soldiers and Japanese civilians. The significance of cross-national friendship is showcased in the story’s last scene, in which an elementary-school boy from Ōshima presents a handmade US flag to a colonel of the USMC as a token of his appreciation for everything that Americans have done for his community.94 This heartwarming story of US dedication and Japanese gratitude conceals the complex—and also violent—history of the 31st MEU. Originally activated as the Special Landing Force Alpha, the unit was first deployed from Okinawa to Vietnam in 1967, to participate in the bloody war in Southeast Asia. Renamed the 31st Marine Amphibious Unit in 1970, and then the 31st Marine Expedition Unit in 1992, the unit continued to participate in armed conflicts within and beyond Asia while based at Camp Hansen in Okinawa starting in 1994. Following the terrorist attacks in the United States in 2001, it came to play a pivotal role in US wars in the Middle East, participating in Operation Phantom

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Fury in 2004, one of the most violent offensives in the US-Iraq War.95 Connecting Okinawa and Vietnam, two key sites of US militarization in Cold War Asia, and extending its reach to the Middle East, a site of US expansionism in the twentyfirst century, the 31st MEU embodies the global history of US militarism and its violent proliferation. Obscuring this bloody history of the US military, however, the account in 100 Stories tells a tale of pure-hearted Americans who dedicate themselves to the humanitarian cause in Tōhoku, with children as the innocent conduit of this bilateral relationship.96 While circulating neoliberal understandings of self- and community help and celebrating disaster militarism whose deployment is considered essential in maintenance of safety and security, post–3.11 juvenile literature also repeatedly articulates nationalist sentiments in which the past is invoked to (re)frame the present and future. “Yoshi bāchan no kamishibai” (Granny Yoshi’s Picture Story Show) in Telling Tales features 86-year-old Tabata Yoshi, a repository of traditional wisdom of the region. The story goes back to 1933, when Yoshi, an eight-year-old girl living in the fishing village of Tarō in Iwate, experienced the Shōwa Sanriku Earthquake and Tsunami. Though the tsunami devastated her own and many other communities along the coast, Yoshi miraculously survived the calamity by following the teaching of “tsunami (or inochi) tendenko,” a tenet of self-help and self-protection ingrained in the young girl’s mind by her grandfather. Fast forward several decades and Yoshi, now a grandmother, decided to pass on the lesson of “tendenko” to her grandchildren and other youngsters in Tarō. Creating kamishibai, a traditional picture story show, she began to tell tales of the 1933 disaster accompanied by her own handdrawn illustrations. On March 11, 2011, Yoshi and many of the children who had attended her show survived the tsunami, thanks to the wisdom she had imparted.97 In the aftermath of the disaster, Yoshi’s kamishibai became nationally known, being published as a booklet and joining other learning tools that use traditional games such as karuta and sugoroku (a board game) to teach disaster readiness and preparedness among youth.98 The value and virtue of tradition is also a central theme in another story, “Fukkō no shirushi ‘Sōma Nomaoi’” (A Sign of Recovery: “Sōma Wild Horse Chase Festival”), included in Telling Tales. Set in Sōma, Fukushima, a community devastated by the nuclear disaster, the narrative sheds light on a thousand-yearold regional festival called “nomaoi” or “wild horse chase,” a regional heritage also showcased in the OECD Tohoku School discussed above. A point of pride among local residents, the festival—which reenacts martial training involving several hundred men dressed as kiba musha (horse-riding warriors) and

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competing with each other to showcase their skills—is designated as a “jūyō mukei minzoku bunkazai” (intangible folk cultural asset of exceptional value) by  the government of Japan. Linking the past to the present and then to the future, the story details how the festival, resumed one year after the disaster, testifies to the resilience of people and communities in Sōma. At the center of the narrative is the Nishi family, more specifically Hayato, a teenaged boy; his father, a champion horse rider; and his grandfather, a skilled craftsman of samurai armor and helmet. The story details how the three generations of men dedicate themselves to the preservation of tradition. Prior to the disaster, Hayato’s father and grandfather were respected keepers of the nomaoi tradition. Following the disaster, Hayato is tasked with carrying on this precious heritage. A group of men in Sōma, including his father and grandfather, help Hayato become a skilled rider, while his mother cheers from the sidelines. The 2012 festival, resumed one year after 3.11 and taking place at an alternative site in Kanegasaki in Iwate, was a triumphant moment for people of Sōma. All three men of the Nishi family participated, riding their horses with grace and pride and giving hope to the community, as illustrated in Figure 4.2.99 The story of the Sōma Wild Horse Chase is popular. In 100 Stories, geared toward older readers, “Saisei to fukkō ni mukatte: Fukushima-ken Sōma Nomaoi” (Toward Recovery and Reconstruction: The Sōma Wild Horse Chase

Figure 4.2  An illustration from Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon, 2013. Courtesy of Gakken Plus.

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Festival in Fukushima) recounts the post-disaster revival of the same festival with more complexity, as hopefulness is intertwined with mourning by those who survived  3.11. This time, the story features the Makita family, another proud keeper of the tradition. Yasuo, the patriarch of the family, was a veteran horse rider, and his oldest son, Shōma, excelled at horse riding since his childhood. Yasuo looked forward to the day when his son would take his place in the festival, ensuring the continuation of nomaoi, whose preservation had been the mission of the family for centuries. Yet tragedy intervened. When the 2011 disaster struck, Shōma went missing, jeopardizing the family’s commitment to the tradition. An agonizing ordeal ensued as Yasuo and the rest of the family searched for Shōma for days. Two weeks passed before his body was found. Overwhelmed by grief, Yasuo gave up horse riding for good. The mournful tone of this story is buoyed by a hopeful note at the end. The valiant tradition would continue after all, sustained by the second oldest son, Kenji. At the 2012 festival, Yasuo and Kenji sat in the audience section to observe the event. Kenji turned to his still-grieving father to announce his decision: he would take over the role of his late brother and become the guardian of the tradition. The story ends with a scene in which Kenji and Yasuo train together for the 2013 festival. From one generation of men to another, the tradition of martial masculinity is passed on, a testament to the power of resilience rooted in regional heritage and patriarchal lineage.100 Showcasing the centuries-old festival in Sōma, these stories highlight not only the beauty of regional tradition and endurance of family ties, but the perseverance among disaster victims in Tōhoku, thus illuminating the significance of self- and community help, in which psychosocial resources—will, determination, and endurance—play a key role in facilitating the recovery and reconstruction of the community as a whole. By focusing on men and boys as the main protagonists, moreover, these narratives circulate a male-centered vision of resilience in which women play only marginal roles from the sidelines. Finally, showcasing the martial spirit as a vehicle for community rebuilding, these stories emphasize the significance of militarized culture rooted in the regional tradition and valued by the national government (as indicated by the status of nomaoi as a national treasure). Appropriated by post-disaster storytelling, the Sōma Wild Horse Chase becomes a powerful educational tool, in which myriad dynamics— of gender, nationalism, neoliberalism, and militarism—are linked together to shape the hearts and minds of the nation’s youth.

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Conclusion Alexander de Waal, a longtime observer of humanitarian crisis in Africa, states that “disaster preparedness, prevention, relief, and recovery—all words loaded with semi-submerged moral values—are in fact mechanisms of disaster management whereby calamities are not, in fact, prepared for, prevented, relieved, or recovered from, but are handled in such a way that they pose the minimum political threat to governments.”101 His observation is particularly pertinent to the status of children and childhood in post-disaster Japan. As indicated by the proliferation of Anpanman (a symbol simultaneously of childhood innocence, disaster militarism, neoliberal self-help, and nationalist nostalgia), Japanese juvenile culture has reemerged as an exceptionally productive and malleable site of meaning-making since the 3.11 disaster—a site where things innocent and innocuous are repeatedly coopted to promote resilience-building. Under the banner of the safety and security of children, the emerging culture mobilizes youth to diffuse a series of crises faced by the nation, be they nuclear fiasco, economic precarity, or international criticism of military expansion. The deployment of disaster resilience as a tool of governance in which contradictions are managed and threats contained is especially visible in Tōhoku. The Miracle of Kamaishi, the OECD Tohoku School, and the Wild Horse Chase in Sōma all suggest that post-disaster Tōhoku has become a new frontier of sorts, where a variety of national and transnational forces swoop down to articulate their respective agendas so as to capitalize on the catastrophe. As these dynamics proliferate beyond Tōhoku, resilience-building links local, national, and global dynamics, transforming a regional tragedy into an international showcase of militarism, neoliberalism, and neoconservatism, at the center of which stand Japanese children as the cherished sign of the nation’s moral justification and political legitimation.

5

Mobilizing Paradise: Hawai‘i in Post-Disaster National Imagination

In the global imaginary of Hawai‘i, no figure is more ubiquitous than that of the hula girl. A young maiden dancing against a backdrop of exotic flora and fauna presents an enduring image of Hawai‘i, drawing visitors to the tropical isle and circulating the vision of a paradise on earth. Following the March 11 disaster, the hula girl (re)emerged as a leading symbol of recovery and reconstruction in Japan. Scarcely two months after the disaster, the Kizuna Caravan was launched by the Spa Resort Hawaiians, a multiplex spa resort in Iwaki, Fukushima, known for its Polynesian-themed revue featuring young dancers from Tōhoku and made famous by the 2006 box-office hit Hura Gāru (Hula Girls) depicting the resort’s origin.1 Temporarily closed due to the damage caused by the disaster, the resort dispatched its dancers on a goodwill tour first to nearby evacuation facilities and then to twenty-six prefectures across Japan, spreading the “spirit of aloha” and providing a healing touch to the distressed nation. Generating enthusiastic responses, the caravan tour culminated in a celebration back in Iwaki on October 1, 2011, when the resort partially resumed its operations. The ceremonious event featured eighteen dancers from the caravan, actresses from the film (Aoi Yū and Yamazaki Shizuyo), and the mayor of Kaua‘i (a sister city of Iwaki), highlighting the power of the kizuna (bond) extending from Fukushima to the rest of Japan to Hawai‘i.2 The sight and sound of dancing maidens proliferated in post-disaster Japan. A 2012 children’s storybook, Hura gāru to inu no Choko (Hula Girl and Her Pet Dog Choco), tells the real-life tale of hula girl Ōmori Rie (“Moana Rie” on stage) and her pet dog Choco. Emphasizing self-help (jijo) and mutual help (kyōjo), the story recounts how Rie and Choco were able to survive the disaster because of the kizuna between the two.3 The caravan tour (of which Ōmori was part) is recounted in 100 Stories, the juvenile literature collection discussed in Chapter 4,4 and in Ganbappe, Hura Gāru!: Fukushima ni ikiru kanojotachi no

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ima (Rise up, Hula Girls!: Lives of the Hula Dancers in Fukushima Today), a documentary film that premiered in October 2011. Celebrating the value and virtue of the kizuna that the hula girls forged across Japan, these narratives link the passion of the dancers to the mission of the nation and highlight the significance of female resiliency. Surprisingly, the hula girls are just as popular, and perhaps more so, within the realm of business discourse. In the book “Tōhoku no Hawai” wa naze V-ji kaifuku shitanoka: Supa Rizōto Hawaianzu no kiseki (Why Has “Hawai‘i in Tōhoku” Been Able to Attain the V-shaped Recovery: The Miracle of the Spa Resort Hawaiians), freelance journalist Shimizu Kazutoshi analyzes the “miraculous” rebound the resort has achieved since the downturn caused by the disaster.5 Following 3.11, Jōban Kōsan Kabushiki-Gaisha. (hereafter Jōban Kōsan), the operator of the resort, orchestrated a public relations campaign with the hula girls as its main feature and successfully brought visitors back to Fukushima. Importantly, a similar strategy had been used half a century earlier by its predecessor, Jōban Tankō Kabushiki-Gaisha (hereafter Jōban Tankō). A leading mining company in the Jōban coal fields (the area extending from northern Ibaraki to southern Fukushima), Jōban Tankō faced a crisis in the 1950s when the national energy policy shifted its focus from domestic coal to foreign petroleum. To preempt an impending disaster, the company began to diversify, extending its operations to tourism and opening a hot spring resort named Jōban Hawaiian Center in 1966. The new venture recruited miners’ daughters from the surrounding communities, trained them in Polynesian-style dancing, and sent them on a public relations tour across Japan. Following this dramatic beginning, the resort went on to become an economic mainstay in the region, coming under the management of Jōban Kōsan in 1970 and being renamed the Spa Resort Hawaiians in 1999. When the triple disaster struck in 2011, hula girls were once again called upon to contain the crisis. The success narrative of Jōban Kōsan circulates in the business world, presenting a vision of corporate resilience in the twenty-first century.6 The iconic status of the hula girls was highlighted in June 2018, when Emperor Akihito and Empress Michiko visited the region. Since 3.11, the royal couple had been pursuing their own campaign, visiting disaster-struck communities, meeting with victims on the ground, and providing support and encouragement. Their compassionate gestures have been celebrated by the media, heightening the popularity of the Imperial Household.7 During their three-day trip to Fukushima, Akihito and Michiko visited temporary housing facilities in Iwaki where they listened to tales of the struggles of local women

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Figure 5.1  “Emperor and Empress Visit Fukushima—Day 1,” June 9, 2018. The Asahi Shinbun via Getty Images.

and men. Spending a night at the Spa Resort Hawaiians, the two also enjoyed the performance presented by the hula girls, which produced a heartwarming scene as captured in Figure 5.1. Deeply touched by the royal visit, lead dancer Suzuki Haruna tearfully stated, “We have been able to move forward since the disaster because the Emperor and Empress have repeatedly visited our community. We cherish this feeling of gratitude and continue to make progress toward recovery.”8 The imperial visit of Emperor Akihito at the end of his Heisei reign (1989–2019) was reminiscent of the one made by his father, Emperor Hirohito of the Shōwa reign (1926–1989), who traveled across Japan shortly after the Second World War to heal the nation devastated by the war and defeat.9 While Hawai‘i plays a visible role in Tōhoku, Tōhoku in turn exerts its presence in Hawai‘i. Once the initial chaos of 3.11 had subsided, “healing tours” (hoyō ryokō) began to bring children from Fukushima, Miyagi, and Iwate Prefectures to Hawai‘i for the ostensible purpose of “iyashi,” physical and psychological recovery and rejuvenation. A leading instance among them was the “Rainbow for Japan Kids” (hereafter RJK). Advocating “aloha” and “tomodachi” (friendship), the RJK, which lasted from 2011 to 2016, promoted “taiken-gata kōryū-gata no kyōiku ryokō” (an educational tour centered on hands-on experience and friendship-building). Sustained by Japanese and American volunteers and civic

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organizations and supported by corporate donations, the project was a model of grassroots cooperation enabled by generosity and goodwill flowing across borders. In the aftermath of 3.11, Hawai‘i has become a crucial site for Japan’s recovery, where fears, anxieties, and sufferings triggered by the disaster could be managed, contained, and diffused. This chapter examines the local–global nexus in post-disaster resiliencebuilding. Far from being confined within its borders, Japan’s move toward recovery and reconstruction recruited distant regions, cultures, and peoples. In these efforts, Hawai‘i stands out as a leading “off-shore” site whose deployment articulates—but also obfuscates—the politicized and politicizing nature of this mobilization. Located in the middle of the Pacific, Hawai‘i has been a place of imperial domination, indigenous contestation, and settler negotiation. Militarism and tourism have long informed political, economic, and cultural lives on the islands. And yet, Hawai‘i remains a “paradise on earth,” an example of myopia sustained in no small part by the fantasy of dancing natives whose feminine, exotic, and atavistic performance renders critical reflection unwanted and unwarranted. By mobilizing Hawai‘i and its feminine emissaries, Japan’s resilience-building provides an excuse, indeed a justification, for indulging in the dream of recuperation while avoiding the question of power. To intervene in these dynamics, this chapter presents a series of re-readings of Hawai‘i, Jōban, and the Pacific. Taking cues from existing studies  on the “hula circuits” between Hawai‘i and the United States,10 the following discussions shed light on other, less-studied crosscurrents between Hawai‘i and Asia. Retracing various bodies that appear, reappear, and disappear in this trans-Pacific arena, the chapter examines a series of social actors involved or implicated in post–3.11 resilience-building: most notably, the hula girls at the Spa Resort Hawaiians in Fukushima and the Tōhoku youth in Hawai‘i; less visibly but equally importantly, Korean coal miners in wartime Jōban, Japanese Americans in Cold War Hawai‘i, and imperial figureheads of the Shōwa and Heisei eras. Importantly, the call for kizuna has been intertwined with the invocation of “aloha,” linking one affective term to the other. This indigenous Hawaiian term for love, affection, and compassion has been appropriated by Japanese to articulate a multitude of dynamics that circulate within and beyond Japan’s national borders since 3.11. Staged in the post– Cold War Pacific, the relentless call for “healing” after the devastating nuclear disaster in Fukushima sits uneasily with the region’s Cold War past, during which the United States conducted a series of nuclear tests with horrendous consequences for indigenous bodies and psyches.11 Far from being a space of

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peace, the Pacific has been a theater of war and conquest. Through these and other re-readings, this chapter attempts to recast Hawai‘i as a site of historical introspection rather than obfuscation, a vantage point from which to launch a critical investigation into post–3.11 resilience-building.

Hawai‘i in Tōhoku: Mobilizing the Hula Girls for Resilience-Building Celebrated for its pristine beaches, majestic volcanoes, and fantastic rainbows, Hawai‘i, both real and imagined, has also been a dynamic site of cultural production. Following the March 11 disaster in Japan, the paradisiacal islands have become a stage for diverse discourses and performances, ranging from female self-discipline to national and international kizuna to male entrepreneurism. The centrality of Hawai‘i in post–3.11 culture is seen, for example, in the 2012 children’s book Hula Girl and Her Pet Dog Choco mentioned earlier. In contrast to juvenile literature discussed in Chapter 4, in which men and boys are protagonists, this story, written for young readers (primarily elementary school students), highlights the autonomy, perseverance, and tenacity of Ōmori Rie, a hula dancer at the Spa Resort Hawaiians, and her beloved Choco, a female dog that belongs to her family. Turning a spotlight not only on humans but also on animals, it articulates a new category of victims whose visibility has increased since 3.11. Referencing the history of coal mining in the region, the narrative invokes the memory of labor, body, and industry in Tōhoku. While presenting critical possibilities, the book devolves into yet another bidan (moral story), however, in which the tenets of self-help, mutual help, and kizuna are repeatedly celebrated within the imagined space of Hawai‘i. The story begins with Rie’s childhood in Fukushima. Visiting the Spa Resort Hawaiians for the first time, young Rie (a first grader at the time) was entranced by the vision of a tropical paradise and beautiful dancers. The impression was so deep that she began to nurture a dream to one day become a hula girl.12 Following graduation from local high school, she enrolled in the Jōban Music and Dance Institute (a training center attached to the resort) and began to take steps toward realizing her dream. Choco, her family’s pet dog, was always on Rie’s side, cheering her on and providing emotional support. Successfully completing her training, Rie joined the Spa Resort Hawaiians, becoming an employee of Jōban Kōsan and following family tradition whereby her great-grandfather had once worked for its predecessor, the mining company Jōban Tankō.13 Against the

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enchanting backdrop of Hawai‘i, the story illuminates the gendered aspiration of a young girl, the affective bond between humans and animals, and the family legacy of hard work. The March 11 disaster changed the lives of Rie and Choco forever. Following the explosion at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant, high levels of radiation spread to neighboring communities, including the town of Futabamachi where Rie lived with her family. All its residents, including the Ōmoris, were ordered to immediately evacuate, leaving homes, personal belongings, and pet animals behind. Although Rie’s sister, parents, and grandmother evacuated first to a local shelter and then to temporary housing in Chiba Prefecture, Rie decided to stay in Iwaki (which remained outside the evacuation zone). Not only was Rie separated from her family, but her beloved Choco was left in Futabamachi, by then an irradiated ghost town with no sign of human occupation.14 Following this dramatic turn of events, the story proceeds with two narrative voices, Rie’s as well as Choco’s, with each articulating her personal resolve, tenacity, and resourcefulness. Left alone, Choco soon began to feel loneliness and hunger. Running out of food and water, she ventured out, befriending other dogs, building a community of support, and acquiring a series of survival skills along the way. Forced to beg for food (from other dogs) and even to eat refuse on occasions, Choco learned how to adjust her expectations and cope with new circumstances engendered by the crisis. Despite numerous hardships, she remained hopeful, believing that she would be reunited with Rie.15 In the meantime, Rie was charting her own course of action, joining the Kizuna Caravan tour and traveling across Japan. Visiting an evacuation facility in Saitama Prefecture, she found a group of evacuees from her hometown living in a converted school building. As Rie and other hula girls danced to the soothing tunes of Hawaiian music, some in the audience were brought to tears because the sight of the hula girls reminded them of their “home.”16 Portraying this and other challenges arising in the aftermath of 3.11, the story still concludes with a happy ending. After months of separation, Rie and Choco were reunited when a volunteer animal rescuer found Choco.17 Against the backdrop of Hawai‘i recreated in Tōhoku, the tale of a young woman and her pet dog unfolds, articulating the value of kizuna and celebrating the virtues of self- and mutual help. When the same story is retold for older readers in 100 Stories, the narrative articulates another kind of kizuna, namely the affective bond that unites people  across Japan. The story “Kansha no omoi o idaki mae ni susumu: Fukushima Iwaki-shi Fura Gāru no fukkatsu” (Moving Forward with a Feeling of

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Gratitude: Resurgence of the Hula Girls in Iwaki, Fukushima) sheds light on the origin, development, and outcome of the Kizuna Caravan. Once again, women are at the center and forefront of the story. Shortly after the disaster, as the hula girls regrouped at the Jōban Music and Dance Institute, their sense of joy at being thus reunited at their beloved school was overshadowed by the gravity of the situation outside. Eager to play their part in recovery and reconstruction, the dancers came up with an idea—making goodwill visits to local evacuation facilities. By chance, all-male executives at Jōban Kōsan were also considering the possibility of organizing a campaign to publicize Tōhoku’s “recovery” and bring customers back to the Spa Resort Hawaiians. The Kizuna Caravan was thus born, transforming the hula girls into ambassadors of goodwill and messengers of resilience.18 Once the launch of the caravan tour was announced by national newspapers, the Spa Resort Hawaiians was inundated with hundreds of requests arriving from across Japan. From May to October 2011, the hula girls traveled across the archipelago, logging more than two hundred performances.19 It was no easy undertaking. Not only was the schedule grueling; the dancers traveled long hours and long distances in small vans packed with costumes and stage props. Dancing on outdoor stages covered with floors of asphalt, concrete, or artificial turf, their bare feet were burned during the summer months, leaving painful blisters.20 Yet the hula girls soldiered on. Wherever they went, the audience was enthusiastic. Some smiled and others wept, but all were united in the hope of recovery. By healing hearts and bringing smiles, the hula girls forged a strong emotional bond across Japan. The caravan tour was a transformative experience not only for the public but also for the dancers and staff at the Spa Resort Hawaiians. Because of her outstanding leadership, Ōmori Rie became the troupe’s top dancer, earning the privilege of performing solo as well as using a Hawaiian stage name, “Moana Rie.”21 The tour’s impact on other dancers was also visible. The more experienced dancers shared responsibilities in planning and organizing each performance, while those with less experience learned how to play their part by watching their seniors. The resort’s staff contributed to the tour’s success, moving heavy equipment, setting up the stage, and cleaning up after each performance.22 All of them were driven by “Ichizan Ikka” (One Mountain, One Family), a traditional Jōban adage that celebrates the family-like unity between employers and employees.23 This vernacular maxim in Jōban was soon combined with another maxim originating from Hawai‘i. A new performance repertoire at the resort was titled “Mahalo” (a Hawaiian term for regard, respect, and gratitude), articulating

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an ever-expanding circle of thanksgiving and kizuna-building radiating from Fukushima to Japan and beyond.24 When the hula girls reappear within the realm of business discourse, the vision of nation and disaster begins to shift: the dancers give up their well-earned spots on the stage and step aside, and male executives of Jōban Tankō and Jōban Kōsan stride in. Shimizu Kazutoshi’s book Why Has “Tohoku’s Hawaii” Been Able to Attain a V-shaped Recovery: The Miracle of Spa Resort Hawaiians presents a tale of corporate crisis and survival for business readers. Its cover design articulates a surprising link between managerial power, economic resilience, and Hawai‘i. Featured in the band wrapped around the book (obi), a crucial advertisement tool in the Japanese publishing world, is the phrase “Gyakkyō ni katsu kigyō no ‘sokojikara’” (The power of corporate resilience against adversarial conditions) with a picture of the hula girls performing on stage in red and white grass skirts. The message is clear: business resilience is a matter of effective deployment of female bodies by male leaders. To set the stage for his narrative, Shimizu provides a brief review of Jōban’s history. The Jōban coal field, whose development began in the nineteenth century, was known for low-grade coal and for underground thermal water interfering with its extraction. Despite these unfavorable conditions, the region emerged as a leading supplier of energy because of its proximity to the Kantō Plain, the nation’s center. Among the mining companies operating in the area were Iwaki Tankō and Iriyama Saitan, established in 1884 and 1885, respectively. In 1944, amid the rising tide of war, the two merged to become Jōban Tankō. Through the Second World War and in the immediate postwar years, the coal industry thrived because wartime mobilization and postwar reconstruction relied on coal as the main fuel. However, the boom came to an abrupt end in the late 1950s, when the “energy revolution” forced a sudden shift from domestic coal to foreign petroleum. Jōban Tankō now faced a major crisis. To protect the livelihood of its nearly 60,000 miners and their families, some strategy had to be devised.25 The man who stepped up to contain the crisis was Nakamura Yutaka, a charismatic businessman with a larger-than-life personality and the first of three figures whom Shimizu features in his book. As vice president of Jōban Tankō at the time, Nakamura was an outsider. The son of a small coal mine owner in Saga Prefecture, he had studied economics at Tokyo Imperial University and started his career at Iriyama Saitan. Nicknamed “Emperor Nakamura,” he was known for his tyrannical attitude toward executives but generosity and kindness to the rank-and-file.26 Whether despite his outsider status or because

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of it, Nakamura expressed deep concern about the fate of local miners who were destined to lose their jobs. To mitigate the crisis, he began to reorganize Jōban Tankō. Subsidiary companies were set up in construction, electricity, consulting, medicine, and food distribution. The problem of low-grade coal was turned into an advantage when a thermal power plant Jōban Joint Power Company was established in 1955.27 A joint venture, the new power plant was in partnership with other players in the energy industry, including the TEPCO whose name would later become synonymous with the Fukushima nuclear fiasco of 2011. Although Shimizu does not mention it, the construction of the new plant was significant enough that then Crown Prince Akihito and Crown Princess Michiko visited the site in 1961.28 Nakamura’s enterprising spirit was showcased in other ways as well. Jōban was known for geothermal hot springs that hampered its underground mining operations. Turning this cause of headache into a source of profit making, Nakamura decided to build a hot spring resort in the middle of the coal field.29 The origin story of the Jōban Hawaiian Center (renamed the Spa Resort Hawaiians in 1999) as recounted by Shimizu reads like a stirring narrative of masculine adventure set on the frontier of tourism enterprise. Faced with an unprecedented crisis, Nakamura valiantly pursued the tenets of self-help, entrepreneurialism, and corporate loyalty to rescue Jōban. In proposing to build a large-scale resort, he insisted on the principle of “jimae,” or self-reliance. With no prior experience in construction, he read through relevant literature and gained a certain mastery of architectural matters. Drawing on the method called the “diamond truss,” he drafted a blueprint for a giant dome structure that would house the resort’s main facility.30 Eager to gain more knowledge, Nakamura traveled to the United States to visit theme parks and recreational facilities and learn about mechanisms of the hospitality industry. Stopping in Hawai‘i, he observed how Polynesian-style performance was showcased as a major attraction for tourists. Back in Japan, Nakamura, ever inventive, devised a catchphrase, “Sen-yen motte Hawai ni ikō” (Let’s go to Hawai‘i with 1,000 yen), making the idea of Hawai‘i affordable and attracting potential visitors to his new venture.31 Ichizan Ikka was at the core of Nakamura’s project. As he envisioned, the new resort would have former miners work at the front desk, their wives housekeep in the back, and their sons cook in the kitchen.32 Rejecting the suggestion that professional performers be hired from Tokyo, he insisted that dancers be recruited from among miners’ daughters.33 The Jōban Dance and  Music Institute was thus established in 1965 to train a group of local girls—mostly

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teenagers with little to no background in dancing—in Hawaiian- and Tahitianstyle dancing for the grand debut, scheduled only ten months away. In the end, Nakamura triumphed. Opening its doors in 1966, the Jōban Hawaiian Center attracted more than 1.2 million visitors in its first year, far exceeding the estimated 800,000.34 The resort went on to become a leading economic actor in the region, providing employment to former miners and their children and grandchildren and realizing the vision of Ichizan Ikka. The legacy of male leadership, self-reliance, and regional loyalty, first articulated during the coal crisis in the 1950s and 1960s, was (re)mobilized in the wake of the March 11 nuclear disaster in 2011. When the disaster struck, Jōban Kōsan (former Jōban Tankō) was under the leadership of its president Saitō Kazuhiko, the second figure Shimizu features in his account. The notion of Ichizan Ikka, rooted in regional affinity and familial loyalty, had an even stronger hold on Saitō, whose father and grandfather had worked for Jōban Tankō. In the face of yet another unprecedented crisis, Saitō sprang into action. According to Shimizu, it was Saitō, not the hula girls, who instigated the caravan tour. Forced to shut down the resort due to structural damage caused by the aftershock on April 11, Saitō saw an “investment opportunity” rather than a setback. Taking advantage of this hiatus, he decided to send staff members to other hotels and resorts for retraining, and the hula girls on a national tour for publicity.35 His investment paid off. The campaign heightened the dancers’ popularity, transformed the resort into a symbol of resilience (“Kizuna Resort”), and attracted an unprecedented number of visitors following its grand reopening in 2012.36 Initiating a remarkable rebound for Jōban Kōsan, Saitō proved himself to be an effective crisis manager and shrewd business leader. Under Saitō’s leadership, the significance of Hawai‘i and also of the Pacific cannot be overemphasized. Following Saitō’s successful negotiation with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Japan, the seventh Pacific Islands Leaders Meeting (PALM7) took place at the Spa Resort Hawaiians in 2015. Held every three years since 1997, the forum has brought together leaders of Japan and other nations in the Pacific (Samoa, Fiji, Palau, and the Solomon Islands, among others) to discuss issues ranging from disaster resilience and economic aid to tourism promotion. For Jōban Kōsan and the city of Iwaki, an international conference of this magnitude was a major economic boon. Chaired by Prime Ministers Abe Shinzō of Japan and Tommy Remengesau of Palau, PALM7 was celebrated as an occasion to build kizuna across the region. As Abe pledged economic aid of 55 billion yen, leaders of the island nations expressed deep gratitude. All agreed to promote “people-to-people exchange,” pledging to solidify regional alliance in

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the Pacific.37 The congratulatory atmosphere was enhanced by the performance of the hula girls, whose kizuna-building ability was now enlisted to celebrate international alliance-building. The good news did not end there. Following the success of the PALM7, the next meeting, PALM8, was also to be held at the Spa Resort Hawaiians.38 An exemplary business leader, Saitō was selected to be one of the 100 “kankō karisuma” (charismatic leaders in the visitor industry) by the Japan Tourism Agency.39 In a published interview whose title read in part “Hura Gāru wa nigenai” (Hula Girls would never run away), Saitō attributed his and Jōban Kōsan’s success to Ichizan Ikka. Even in the face of the nuclear disaster, he states, the employees of the Spa Resort Hawaiians, including the hula girls, never ran away; they instead stayed on, doing everything they could to assist the company so as to realize the vision of One Mountain, One Family.40 Shimizu concludes his account by highlighting a third and last figure, Inoue Naomi, to whom Saitō passed the torch in 2013. A graduate of Tokyo University and former executive at the Mizuho Financial Group, Inoue was “fresh blood,” deliberately brought in to instigate a new phase of corporate restructuring.41 In “post-recovery” Japan, the Spa Resort Hawaiians needed to update its practice, renew its attractions, and ensure its survival. To make the resort “even more Hawaiian,” Inoue implemented a series of reforms. Staff members exchanged their drab uniforms for new Hawaiian-style attire and adopted shaka (a hand gesture used in Hawai‘i for greetings) in greeting their guests. Cleaning crews were renamed “Aloha Angels,” enhancing the joy, pride, and pleasure in their behind-the-scenes work.42 A new gift shop, “Hawaiians Hula Girl Shop,” was opened, selling a variety of merchandise ranging from hula dolls and calendars to DVDs.43 Even the local dialect, Iwaki-ben, became part of Inoue’s profitmaking scheme. Spoken by local staff in customer service, it would induce a slow, relaxing, and exotic ambience that visitors would surely appreciate.44 Operating in the age of “Womenomics,” Inoue was attentive to issues involving women, whose effective deployment is a key to corporate success in the global age. Managerial positions were opened up for women whose perspectives would be utilized to attract more female customers. A new re-employment practice called “OHANA” (a Hawaiian term for extended family relations) was established to rehire former dancers as greeters, trainers, and clerks.45 As a result of these changes, the Spa Resort Hawaiians was recognized as one of the “women friendly workplaces” by the Office of Gender Co-Participation of the Fukushima Prefecture Government.46 Ōmori Rie, who retired from the stage in 2016, was rehired as vice principal of the Jōban Music and Dance Institute. A popular spokeswoman, she continues to promote the resort as a symbol of

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kizuna, Ichizan Ikka, and iyashi no chikara (the power of healing).47 As Shimizu concludes, Jōban Kōsan and the Spa Resort Hawaiians have successfully preserved the legacy of the past while also cultivating a new corporate identity suited for the twenty-first century.48

Re(dis)covering Race, Gender, and Empire in Jōban The narratives of family, unity, and loyalty—as exemplified by female performers, corporate leaders, and even pet animals—reverberate in postdisaster Japan, disseminating an inspiring vision of women and men, miners and managers, outsiders and insiders, and even humans and animals coming together to provide material and emotional sustenance to each other in times of crisis. The obsolete notion of Ichizan Ikka—whose premise of a lifelong bond between employers and employees is no longer the reality in a neoliberal economy increasingly reliant on fluid labor—has now been retooled to add a sense of timelessness and authenticity to the post-disaster kizuna-building of families, communities, corporation, and the nation. Hawai‘i offers an exotic stage on which to showcase this fantasy of coming together, enhancing its discursive effect and enticing people into its alluring fold. The fabled narrative of Ichizan Ikka—conspicuously featured in both male-centered narratives of corporate management and female-centered narratives of affective bonding— begins to unravel, however, when one digs deeper into the history of Jōban. Buried in its coal field are memories of bodily exploitation of men and women situated on the margins of society, whose narratives challenge and unsettle any comforting vision of unity and harmony. In existing discourses of the Spa Resort Hawaiians, Jōban Tankō and Jōban Kōsan are described as “jiba sangyō,” a type of local industry with deep roots in the region. A closer examination reveals, however, that the history of Jōban Tankō and Jōban Kōsan is inextricably linked to that of Japanese empire. An alternative narrative is as follows. Established in the late nineteenth century, Iwaki Tankō and Iriyama Saitan, nuclei of what would later become Jōban Tankō, were part of zaibatsu, family conglomerates whose economic activities were part and parcel of Japan’s overseas expansion. Operated by Asano Zaibatsu and Ōkura Zaibatsu respectively, the two companies pursued multifaceted operations, including coal mining in Jōban that began in the 1910s. In the 1920s, when economic recession set in, labor disputes began to spread in Jōban, a pattern observed in other mining communities in Kyushu and Hokkaido. To contain protest and ensure

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continuing production, the slogan of Ichizan Ikka was invented, advocating harmony and promoting consensus between labor and management. In the 1930s and 1940s, as the expansionist drive accelerated, the demand for coal surged. In 1944, as part of wartime economic exigency, Iwaki Tankō and Iriyama Saitan merged to form Jōban Tankō. Japan’s defeat in 1945 brought still more changes to Jōban. As US-led “democratization” resulted in the dissolution of the zaibatsu, this necessarily affected Jōban Tankō, whose chief personnel were purged and replaced by a new cohort of leaders with local ties.49 A new organization would require a new identity, so the company began to rewrite its history as “jiba sangyō,” a localized entity with little or no connection to the fallen empire that had caused so much damage both at home and abroad. This rewriting of the history of Joban Tankō was in step with the postwar reinvention of Tōhoku. Long perceived as an outsider and even as a “pariah,” the region was now recast as the antithesis of and antidote to the ruined empire, a “privileged locus for the creation of postwar values in Japan.”50 Providing economic and discursive fuel for the nation’s rebirth, Jōban Tankō gained new significance, which was marked by the visit of Emperor Hirohito in August 1947, an event that drew enthusiastic responses from local miners.51 Despite this postwar rewriting, Jōban is undeniably a part of Japan’s expansionist past, albeit as a peripheral and subordinate locale whose chief function was to provide resources to the center.52 The region’s colonial past is evidenced by the presence of Korean laborers in its coal mines during the war. Prior to 1945, Japan’s coal industry relied on the labor of Korean miners, some already residing in Japan proper and others mobilized from Korea, Manchuria, and Sakhalin. Though the scale of their deployment was much smaller in Jōban than in Kyushu and Hokkaido, Korean miners were clearly part of the Jōban’s landscape. Regardless of the debate in present-day Japan as to the “voluntary” versus “involuntary” nature of wartime Korean labor, their deployment was inseparable from the politics of empire whose violence repeatedly targeted their bodies as the colonized Other.53 The memories of former Korean miners shed light on the workings of race, nation, and empire in wartime Jōban, creating noticeable cracks in the foundational narratives of jiba sangyō and Ichizan Ikka. Not only did they endure forced migration, but once in Jōban, they were exploited as cheap labor and subjected to racial and national prejudice and discrimination.54 In the underground mines, the working conditions were harsh, involving frequent accidents, injury, and even death.55 Working long hours, Korean miners’ wages were kept lower than those of their Japanese counterparts. Their meager earnings

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were further reduced, since they were required to participate in patriotic saving drives that undermined their ability to save enough to flee but helped finance Japan’s war making.56 Always suspect, Korean miners were subject to constant surveillance, with management, police (including the special police Tokkō), and surrounding communities watching their every move.57 The recollections of former Korean miners are invaluable in excavating the legacy of empire in Jōban. The story of one laborer who worked for Iriyama Saitan and Iwaki Tankō goes as follows. Taken from his home in Korea in 1943, he was threatened that if he refused to go, his father would be detained instead. Once in Jōban, he worked in the underground mines, where the temperature was unbearably high and the conditions extremely dangerous. Struck by a coal truck, he incurred a major injury but was never allowed to go to the hospital. His wages were miniscule and, as he later found out, the remittance promised by the management never reached his family back in Korea. Living conditions were no better. He was expected to address the Japanese resident manager as “Sir” (sensei), a reflection of hierarchical relations between the colonizers and the colonized. Given only a small amount of food, he suffered from a constant feeling of hunger. Despite these conditions, he did not try to flee. Witnessing how Korean escapees were captured, brought back, and beaten to a pulp, he stayed on, doing whatever he was ordered to do.58 In wartime Jōban, bodily discipline was the order of the day. Another former miner, who worked for Iriyama Saitan, recalls his experiences at the company’s housing facility, “Aobaryō.” Those from the same province in Korea were separated into different buildings and prohibited from moving from one building to another to see each other. If they missed work due to injury or illness, their food was reduced and often only leftovers were given.59 A former Japanese warden at the housing facility “Nagakuraryō” at Iwaki Tankō corroborates the pervasiveness of regulation. A military-like hierarchy was in place, whereby Japanese wardens were designated “battalion commanders,” their Japanese assistants “platoon leaders,” and Korean laborers “foot soldiers.”60 Japanese war veterans and noncommissioned officers were hired to give Korean miners physical, moral, and spiritual training so that they would become a properly disciplined labor force.61 The violent nature of wartime labor is also legible in various methods that were adopted to prevent the flight of Korean miners. At the Aobaryō, twometer-high wooden walls were erected around the buildings, and barbed wire was placed on top of these walls to ensure that no one dared try to escape.62 In the nearby town of Yumoto, a Korean brothel was contracted to provide sexual

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service to Korean miners in another strategy of containment to erode their will as well as their financial ability to flee.63 Letters were regularly checked, and the train stations nearby were carefully watched.64 The frequency and severity of beating are repeatedly mentioned in these miners’ recollections.65 Clearly, the Jōban coal field was a space rife with violence, contradicting its claims of jiba sangyō and Ichizan Ikka. The analytics of race, nation, and empire, crucial in understanding the landscape of Jōban, are just as important in recasting the history of the hula girls, a precious sign of resilience and kizuna in the post-disaster nation. The popularization of the Spa Resort Hawaiians, first triggered by the 2006 film Hula Girls and then accelerated as a result of mobilization following 3.11, has turned the spotlight on the first generation of hula girls, who stepped onto the stage to save the region from the coal crisis in the 1950s and 1960s. The (re)discovery of these “foremothers” has enhanced women’s claim to tenacity, loyalty, and dedication. Given the legacy of these women, Ōmori Rie states, Ichizan Ikka should be understood as more than a local tradition; it is part of the “DNA” that runs through generations of women.66 A closer look reveals, however, that the experiences of the first generation of hula girls further complicate the narrative of “One Mountain, One Family,” introducing additional dynamics involving the body, nation, and empire into the Jōban coal field. As already mentioned, the idea of building a tropical resort in Tōhoku originated with Nakamura Yutaka, patriarchal leader at Jōban Tankō. As he embarked on his project, he was well aware of another enterprise of a similar nature, the Takarazuka Revue, in Western Japan. This all-female theater troupe had been established in 1913 by a business tycoon named Kobayashi Ichizō to salvage his failing spa resort venture in Takarazuka (outside of Osaka) and boost ticket sales for his Hankyū Railways. The Takarazuka revue went on to become a “main technology of Japanese imperialism” in prewar and wartime Japan, whose performance articulated the ideas of racism, nationalism, and expansionism.67 Whereas Takarazuka was known for its urbane and sophisticated performance, Nakamura argued that his venture in Tōhoku would be different, since it would provide working-class entertainment with a “common touch” (shominteki na fun’iki).68 It was the sight of miners’ daughters dancing and perspiring on stage, he argued, that would touch the visitors’ hearts and ensure the resort’s success.69 In Jōban, where Korean miners had spilled sweat and blood just a few years earlier, it was now the bodies of local women that would sustain the region’s economy. Notwithstanding his disclaimer, however, Nakamura called his venture “Jōban no Takarazuka” (Takarazuka in Jōban), thus revealing the

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commonality between the two enterprises in which female labor was mobilized as a main source of male profit making.70 Importantly, Nakamura’s project in Jōban was linked not only to Takarazuka in Western Japan but also to Hawai‘i in the middle of the Pacific, which introduced yet another set of bodies into the foundational narrative of his enterprise. At the time, Hawai‘i—a US state since 1959—was emerging as a leading tourist destination for Japanese. Fanning the boom was the publicity generated by Japanese celebrities visiting the islands, including then Crown Prince Akihito and Crown Princess Michiko. Their wedding in 1959 had sparked the so-called Mitchī (Michiko) Boom, in which the commoner-turned-princess embodied the democratization of Japanese woman and feminization of democratic Japan.71 Taking place soon after their well-publicized nuptials, the couple’s visit to the islands in 1960 generated much fervor and raised the profile of Hawai‘i.72 In 1964, when Nakamura traveled to the islands, his journey came to involve Japanese Americans in Hawai‘i. His entry to Hawai‘i was mediated by Daniel Inouye, US senator from Hawai‘i who introduced him to Akiyoshi Hayashida, director of International Hospitality of the Hawaii Visitors Bureau (HVB).73 The connection thus established proved vital. Hayashida not only took Nakamura to the Polynesian Cultural Center, a newly established recreational park soon to become a tourist mecca in the islands, but also shared his considerable knowledge of hospitality business. He even became a godparent of sorts to the new venture in Tōhoku, for it was he who named it the “Jōban Hawaiian Center.” That Nakamura came into contact with Japanese Americans in Hawai‘i was no accident. In the early postwar years, this immigrant community was experiencing a remarkable ascent as a “model minority.” Arriving in the islands in the late nineteenth century, Japanese immigrants (Issei) and their Americanborn children (Nisei) lived an “ambivalent, unsettled, and elusive” existence in Hawai‘i.74 Situated on US-held territory in the Pacific, where the United States and Japan had each pursued its expansionist ambitions, Japanese emigrants to Hawai‘i were subject to racial-national prejudice and discrimination from the United States while also embodying Japan’s imperial thrust into the region.75 Recruited as a source of cheap labor for the sugar and pineapple plantations, they were “settler-immigrants,” subordinate to the rule of white Americans but complicit in the economic dynamics that were displacing and dispossessing the indigenous islanders.76 After the Second World War, the community profile of Japanese Americans began to change, as the Cold War turned Hawai‘i into the headquarters for US operations in the region. By the time Nakamura visited Hawai‘i in 1964, the territory-turned-state was not only of exceptional value in

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military terms but a key location in Cold War cultural strategies of “people-topeople” relations which cultivated affinity and affiliation with racial and national Others as part of alliance-building. Japanese Americans were an important asset during these years, both because they possessed knowledge of Japan, a crucial US ally, and because their inclusion as minority validated the US claim that it was a champion of racial equality and democracy. Daniel Inouye was the embodiment of this postwar transformation of Japanese Americans. Rising to prominence at the local and then the national level, this Nisei war hero utilized his own body to realize his ambition. Having lost his right arm on the battlefield during the Second World War, Inouye used his missing limb as an incontestable evidence of his patriotism, asserting his masculine prowess, challenging anti-Japanese racism, and entering into the realm of national politics. Building an extraordinary career in the US Senate, where he served without interruption from 1962 until 2012, Inouye—popular Democrat, champion of civil rights, posthumous recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom—channeled an enormous number of federal dollars to military-related projects in Hawai‘i and transformed the islands into a Cold War security state.77 Since Inouye’s death in 2012, his legacy has been emblemized in the USS Daniel Inouye (DDG‒118), an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer of the US Navy, with his widow Irene Hirano Inouye as its sponsor. Akiyoshi Hayashida, to whom Inouye introduced Nakamura, articulates the postwar ascent of Japanese Americans in another way. Whereas Inouye played a salient role in turning Hawai‘i into a militarized state, Hayashida was instrumental in transforming the islands into a tourist mecca. A former Fulbright scholar in Japan, Hayashida, who had worked for the Territory of Hawai‘i’s Department of Education for nearly three decades, exchanged his career in teaching for a career in hospitality after the Second World War. Appointed director of International Hospitality at the Hawaii Visitors Bureau, he devoted himself to promoting Hawai‘i as the premier destination of vacationers from around the globe. In the postwar development of militarism and tourism in Hawai‘i, Japanese Americans thus played an indispensable role. As Japanese Americans stepped out of the shadows of prewar and wartime racism and xenophobia, their postwar advancement was in significant contrast to the further marginalization of the indigenous people of the islands. Postwar and post-statehood economic and political power shifts alienated native Hawaiians from their land, culture, and history, continuing the pattern of displacement and dispossession that had begun in the nineteenth century. The diverging paths of these two communities of color reflect the complex

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relations between immigrant settlers from Asia and the indigenous population in Hawai‘i.78 With Nakamura’s visit to Hawai‘i, this complex history of the body, race, nation, and empire became part of the foundation of the Jōban Hawaiian Center he established in Japan. Back in Jōban, Nakamura’s endeavor was further complicated by dynamics centered on female bodies. Determined to showcase miners’ daughters at the new establishment, Nakamura argued that the spirit of Jōban could be maintained only if those who had “inherited the blood of miners” and “grown up breathing in and out the air in the coal fields” appeared onstage.79 Yet in a rural community such as Jōban, where there was a stigma associated with being a “showgirl,” his plan raised the specter of gender-sexual impropriety. Although some women expressed interest, others rejected the idea as too shameful or even as preposterous. Recruitment turned out to be extremely difficult. When recruiters called on local miners at their homes in search of prospective dancers, they were often shooed away and, if lucky, told to come back at night lest the neighbors find out.80 While some parents “volunteered” their daughters for the sake of the community, others would have none of it. One father, upon discovering that his daughter had secretly signed up, threw a bucketful of water at her and yelled, “Naked dancing (hadaka odori)! What are you doing? If you don’t quit right away, I will disown you, you ungrateful child (kono oyafukōmono)!”81 Disdain was pervasive, and women’s performance was ridiculed as “hip-shaking dancing” (koshifuri odori) and “midriff-baring dancing” (hesodashi odori).82 Afraid of negative reactions, some dancers kept their work a secret from their families, relatives, and friends.83 Even decades later, being a dancer at the resort was a sign of failure rather than success. At local schools, teachers would routinely chastise female students by stating (or threatening) that unless they studied harder, they would end up working at the resort.84 Until the 2006 film Hula Girls raised the profile of the resort, both recruitment and retention remained a serious challenge. Local miners’ understanding of the female body, in which the maintenance of gender-sexual respectability was of central significance, did not agree with that of Nakamura, in which the effective deployment of gendered and classed labor was a main concern. In the end, eighteen women signed up to form the first cohort of dancers at the Jōban Hawaiian Center. Their personal narratives provide a window into gendered and gendering dynamics of the resort’s initial years. In recounting their days as the hula girls, the former dancers intend to be laudatory. Nostalgically, they recall the pleasure and excitement they felt in training to become professional dancers, a hitherto unthinkable option in the remote mining community. Full

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of admiration and adoration, they reminisce about Nakamura, their instructors, and others who were involved in the beginning of the Jōban Hawaiian Center. And yet, their accounts also point to various dynamics of gender, power, and body, some subtle and others not-so-subtle, whose contours and contents are not too dissimilar to those of Korean miners who had labored in Jōban just a few years prior.85 At the Jōban Music and Dance Institute, discipline and regulation were two salient features. Day in and day out, the new recruits trained, pursuing the improbable task of transforming themselves into commercially viable dancers in less than a year. The success or failure of this daring project was in the hands of three instructors who hailed from Tokyo—Hayakawa Kazuko and Satake Kikuko (hula), and Katori Kiyoko (flamenco). Subject to their constant scolding, the young trainees cried on a regular basis. Those who lacked talent or effort or both were often subject to punishment—forced to stand in the hallway, prohibited from leaving the studio at meal times—until they mastered requisite techniques and movements.86 It was not only their bodies that had to be transformed; their hearts, too, had to be trained. Thus they were instructed to “fall in love as many times as possible” because the experience of romance would allegedly add luster to their performance on stage (tsuya ga deru).87 At Nakamura’s insistence, they were also taught a variety of other subjects, ranging from sewing to tea ceremony to etiquette, as part of “hanayome shugyō” (bridal training) for their later careers as mothers and wives.88 Once married, their dancing careers came to an abrupt end, because they had to step out of the spotlight and “retire,” a mandate enforced to maintain the ambience of “seijun”—feminine innocence and purity—on the stage.89 Corporeal dynamics were also noticeable during their “off-hours.” All dancers were required to live in the company dormitory, a former recreational facility owned and operated by Jōban Tankō in a desolate spot surrounded by zuriyama (piles of coal waste).90 There, they were placed under the care (in reality, the supervision) of Kiriyama Matsujirō, a former union official and employee of Jōban Tankō.91 Known for his kindly personality, Kiriyama, who lived on site with his wife and three daughters, was affectionately nicknamed “Ojisan” (uncle) by the dancers. Despite the benign picture this presents, the dormitory was a space replete with rules and regulations. Kiriyama and his wife were “parental figures” whose instructions had to be followed, the rule book stated.92 The dancers could leave the premises only on Sundays and holidays with permission, usually to visit their parents, who were required to report back on their daughters’ whereabouts. Barbed wire was placed around the dormitory, whether to keep the dancers in

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or strangers out no one was sure.93 Phone calls were checked, and only those from family members were accepted.94 Jealousy, rivalry, and competition were pervasive, leading to frequent tensions and conflicts.95 Importantly, these regulatory dynamics did not go uncontested. As the former dancers recall (often with a chuckle), they frequently resorted to the tactic of “dassō” (escape). At night, they would force open the barbed wire and flee to the harmless respite of a visit to a noodle stand, a dance hall, or a film showing in the nearby town of Yumoto. With flashlight in hand, Kiriyama regularly ran after the escapees and brought them back to the dorm. He did not always catch them in time. Finding strands of long hair caught in the barbed wire in the morning, he would learn of the mischief committed by the dancers the night before.96 Recounted with a certain sense of humor, such episodes nevertheless reveal how the young women were the objects of surveillance. On other occasions, their resistance was more explicit. One former dancer recalls that she cut off her long hair out of exasperation, a major form of defiance. She was not only scolded for this transgression but was temporarily banned from the stage. After a few years, she quit.97 Notwithstanding the assertion that “the hula girls would never run away,” so confidently stated by Saitō Kazuhiko in the wake of 3.11, some of the first-generation dancers at the resort did run away, contradicting the harmonious picture of corporate unity portrayed by Nakamura and other male leaders and revealing the exploitative nature of labor in Jōban. The personal recollections of the first-generation hula girls unsettle the narrative of Ichizan Ikka. Contrary to the later notion that female tenacity and perseverance are a (natural) part of the region’s tradition, and even of its “DNA,” the 1960s deployment of women dancers in the Jōban Hawaiian Center entailed disciplinary dynamics whose chief aim was to generate a usable resource to contain the economic crisis that had hit the region. Surrounded by barbed wire and subject to myriad daily regulations, not a few dancers fled—some only for a few hours, but others forever (as reflected in the persistent problem of retention). In an uncanny manner, these women’s recollections echo those of the Korean miners who had worked for Jōban Tankō during the Second World War, suggesting some unlikely similarities between their respective labor experiences across the dividing line of 1945. Further complicating the narrative of Ichizan Ikka were the Nisei Japanese Americans, whose involvement in the resort’s originary moment raises issues of race, immigration, indigeneity, and empire. Clearly post–3.11 national(ist) recovery and refortification, which mobilizes the hula girls as one of its salient symbols, stands on the shaky ground below which exist layers of historical dynamics long in circulation in Asia and the Pacific. As

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discussed below, the transnational nature of resilience-building becomes even more evident in the analysis of post–3.11 healing tourism, in which yet another set of bodies—those of Tōhoku children—play visible roles.

Tōhoku in Hawai‘i: Healing Children in the Paradisiacal Islands Post–3.11 resilience-building has not only mobilized Hawai‘i in Tōhoku; it has also generated reverse currents from Tōhoku to Hawai‘i. Following 3.11, “healing tours” (hoyō ryokō) began to bring children from the disaster zones to the tropical isles. At first glance, this project seems an exemplary instance of grassroots globalism. Featuring hands-on experience and cross-cultural exchange, the tours encouraged youth to learn about indigenous nature, culture, and history. Sustained by international volunteers and supported by corporate donations, the tours showcased how goodwill can travel across cultural and geographical borders to generate a moment of productive collaboration at the regional level. Despite these seemingly positive features, the project of post–3.11 healing tourism is no less political than the deployment of the hula girls, whose discourses and practices, as discussed below, reinforced the dominant workings of power in manifold ways. The two key elements driving this post–3.11 project were “healing” and “children.” The understanding of Hawai‘i as a space of healing is inseparable from the history of US imperialism. In 1898, the US annexed the Kingdom of Hawai‘i, and in 1900, it incorporated the islands as a territory so as to secure a relay point for its subsequent expansion in the region. Serving as a coaling station for American warships heading to the US-Philippines War (1899–1902), the new territory went on to develop into the headquarters for US military operations in Asia and the Pacific.98 Despite, or because of, the violent nature of colonization, Hawai‘i was simultaneously recast as a “healing” place, a prime destination for wealthy Americans. By traveling to these distant tropical isles, they could leave all of their problems back home—be they race tensions, class disputes, or gender conflicts—and quickly access Hawai‘i’s natural and spiritual power to recharge and rejuvenate. Amid the prevailing fear of “degeneration,” an affliction allegedly eroding the power of the American nation and American men, Hawai‘i would provide a space of “cure” for the national body and polity. The vision of Hawai‘i as a (feminine) antidote to (masculine) modernization and industrialization has since become an enduring trope.99

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The vision of Hawai‘i as a place of “healing” must also be understood in relation to Japan’s own history. Although the notion of Hawai‘i as a space of rest and recreation already existed in Japan in the early twentieth century,100 it was the postwar tourism boom, triggered by the onset of high economic growth in the mid-1950s, that catapulted the islands into prominence as the leading destination in Japan. Not only did Hawai‘i attract a large number of Japanese tourists; it also lured Japanese corporations—Japan Airlines, Mitsubishi, Mitsui, Mitsukoshi, Seibu, and Tōkyū, among others—that were interested in business and investment opportunities available in the islands. During Japan’s economic bubble (1985–1991), Japanese investment in hotels, resorts, and luxury homes in Hawai‘i soared, causing an unprecedented real estate boom and generating alarm about a new wave of “Japanese invasion.”101 As the economic recession set in in the early 1990s, Hawai‘i came to assume a renewed significance. Inundated by social, political, and economic tensions and contradictions, Japanese began to turn to Hawai‘i as a source of “iyashi,” a term evocative of care, nurture, recuperation, and healing. The new boom entailed new methods for extracting the islands’ healing potential. Japanese could no longer simply visit Hawai‘i as “spectators”; they must “go native” by participating in “authentic” and “indigenous” practices such as hula dancing, ‘ukulele making, and lomilomi massage.102 Hawai‘i’s restorative power would surely rehabilitate the bodies and souls of people from precarious Japan. Like the idea of “healing,” the figure of Japanese children in the Pacific has its own history. During Japan’s expansionist era, the Nanshiron (Thesis of Southward Advance) was an important ideology, articulating the nation’s expansionist ambitions in the South Seas (Nan’yō) lying south of Japan. This thesis circulated among Japanese children in the form of adventure stories and science fiction tales that depicted “exotic far-off islands,” “sensationalized savages,” and “ancient civilization” in the South Seas.103 Among the narratives enticing youth to join the vision and vista of the empire was the manga story of Bōken Dankichi (Adventurous Dankichi), in which the youthful prince Dankichi explores the South Seas with a herd of dutiful natives as his assistants. The prince personifies the supposed racial superiority of Japanese, as indicated by his white skin, shoes, and wristwatch, while the islanders embody the supposed racial inferiority of the primitives, as evidenced by their dark skin, round eyes, thick lips, and grass skirts.104 In addition to Dankichi, Momotarō, the Peach Boy, also played an active role in animating the imaginary world of the South Seas. In Japanese folk narratives, Momotarō, born out of a peach and reared by an aging couple, grows up to become a valiant youth, venturing out to a mystic island, conquering its

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inhabitants, and bringing treasures back home. With the onset of the Pacific War, the boy-hero, long a staple figure in folk tales, was transformed into a boysoldier and given the mission of recapturing the Pacific from the hands of the United States and the UK, two demonic-animalistic enemies, or “kichiku beiei.” Animated films such as Momotarō, Divine Troops of the Ocean, Momotarō and the Eagles of the Ocean, and Momotarō’s Sea Eagles propagated this masculinized vision of Japanese empire in the Pacific.105 After the end of the Second World War, Hawai‘i, far from disappearing, remained an important source of juvenile imagination in Japan. Two examples showcase its continuing significance. In April 1976, the NHK (National Broadcasting Corporation) children’s music program, Minna no uta (Songs for Everyone), premiered a new song, “Minami no shima no Hamehameha daiō” (Great King Hamehameha of the Southern Island). Appropriating the name of King Kamehameha of the Kingdom of Hawai‘i, the lyrics describe indolent natives on an indolent island: all the residents of this southern island share the same name, Hamehameha; the king sings with the winds and dreams with the stars; the queen wakes up as the sun goes up and hits the hay as the sun goes down; children do not like studying, arriving late at school if it’s windy and skipping it altogether if it rains.106 This image of Hawai‘i in the nursery song gave way to another image in high-tech youth entertainment a few decades later. In 2016, when Nintendo released Pokémon Sun and Pokémon Moon, “Alola,” an imaginary island chain in the middle of the Pacific, provided the setting. Portraying “Hawai‘i” at the height of Japanese tourism in the 1980s, “Alola” is full of sites and signs popular among Japanese visitors back then. With astonishing verisimilitude and detail, Pokémon Sun and Pokémon Moon recreate a vision of “Old Hawai‘i,” in which those who make a living in the state are mostly edited out.107 Set against these historical, geopolitical, and cultural dynamics, post–3.11 healing tourism involving Japanese children cannot be innocent or innocuous. The project “Rainbow for Japan Kids” (RJK) is an important case to examine because of its scale, popularity, and longevity. Taking place from July 2011 to August 2016, the RJK organized the total of ten tours, on which nearly two hundred children—all junior high school students, aged thirteen to fifteen, from Fukushima, Miyagi, and Iwate—were brought to Hawai‘i. Free of charge, each tour lasted for seven to ten days, involved a group of roughly twenty students and featured indoor and outdoor activities. The recruitment of youth was handled by the Miyagi Bikki no Kai (Bikki Organization Miyagi) in Sendai, Miyagi, an organization under the leadership of the singer Satō Muneyuki that

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provided a variety of support to Tōhoku children after 3.11. The planning and organizing of each tour was handled by the Japan-America Society of Hawaii (JASH), the Hawaii Senior Life Enrichment Association (HISLEA) and its female auxiliary, the Nadeshiko Club, and the US-Japan Council. Local, national, and transnational business entities—ABC Stores, First Hawaiian Bank, Hawaiian Airlines, Japan Airlines, Sony, UNIQLO, Mitsubishi Corporation, and Hilton Grand Vacations, among them—provided generous donations. To appreciate the meanings and significance of the project, it is crucial to understand the nature of its main organizers—the JASH, the HISLEA, and the US-Japan Council—all of them well known for their advocacy of bilateral cooperation between the United States and Japan. The JASH, a civic organization founded in Hawai‘i in 1976, aims to “promote understandings between the people of Japan and the United States through the special and unique perspective of Hawaii.” To this end, the organization promotes a variety of programs centered on business, politics, culture, and the environment.108 With multiethnic and multinational membership, its board of directors lists Japanese and Japanese Americans with significant corporate ties, including Kitagawa Hiroyuki of JTB Hawaii Travel; Kuroda Hiroyuki, vice president and regional manager of Japan Airlines; and Denis Isono, executive vice president of Central Pacific Bank.109 Another organization, the HISLEA, was established in 2007 to “enrich the lives of, and promote a spiritually active life for seniors in Hawaii, Japan, and worldwide.” One of its members, Ōkubo Ryōichi, has been a leading spokesperson for the RJK. Emphasizing the importance of crosscultural exchange, the HISLEA offers a variety of programs such as Japanese cooking, Hawaiian arts and crafts, and ‘ukulele lessons.110 Its executive officers comprise prominent Japanese and Japanese American individuals in the islands, including George Ariyoshi, former governor of Hawai‘i; Andō Kunitake, former president of Sony Corporation; and Harufuku Tsukasa, president of JTB Hawaii, Inc.111 Yet another organization involved in the RJK is the US-Japan Council. Founded in 2008 and headquartered in Washington, DC, the council is a vast machinery of US-Japan alliance-building. Its president was Irene Hirano Inouye—widow of Senator Daniel Inouye, former director and president of the Japanese American National Museum, and former chair of the Ford Foundation Board of Trustees. Combining Cold War rhetoric with neoliberal discourse, the council promotes people-to-people relations between the two nations while also enhancing public and private partnership through network-building, leadership education, and cultural exchange involving civic, business, and political leaders.112 Japanese

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and Japanese American leaders of the highest caliber are on its board, including Mazie Hirono, US senator from Hawai‘i; Norman Mineta, former secretary of transportation from California; Fujisaki Ichirō, former ambassador to the United States and president of the Nakasone Peace Institute; Fukuda Yasuo, former prime minister of Japan; and Yamanaka Shin’ya, Nobel Laureate and director of the Center of iPS Cell Research and Application at Kyoto University.113 The US-Japan Council—headed by the widow of Senator Inouye whose involvement in the Cold War securitization of Hawai‘i was substantial— articulates a link between military and philanthropy in the new century. In 2012, the council launched the “Tomodachi Initiative” in collaboration with the US Embassy in Japan, the government of Japan, and transnational corporations such as Coca Cola, Mitsubishi Corporations, and UNIQLO.114 Inspired by Operation Tomodachi, the US-Japan joint military operation mobilized during 3.11, the initiative sought to solidify and extend the “cooperation and spirit of friendship” between the two allies.115 With a focus on cultural exchange, education, and leadership training, it churned out a staggering number of bilateral youth programs, such as the Tomodachi Coca-Cola Educational Homestay Program, Tomodachi US-Japan Baseball Exchange, and Tomodachi Toshiba Science & Technology Leadership Program. The council maintained that these programs would help Japanese and American youth gain exposure to each other’s cultures, explore how to “make a positive difference in their communities, for their countries, and for the entire world,” and “learn to work and thrive in an entrepreneurial environment, creating new ideas and enterprises that spur economic growth and social progress.”116 It is hoped that the “Tomodachi generations” that emerged out of these endeavors would cement the bond between the United States and Japan. The RJK was part of this new transnational initiative, a project that promoted investment in children for the objective of securing and securitizing the region’s future. In post–3.11 healing tourism, then, the dynamics of militarism (embodied by Daniel Inouye as well as by Operation Tomodachi) were fused with those of neoliberalism (showcased by the endorsement of private–public partnership and entrepreneurism) to strengthen the present and future kizuna between the United States and Japan. The first RJK tour, from July 27 to August 8, 2011, gives a glimpse into how these ideas and ideals discussed above informed the contours and contents of post–3.11 healing tourism. The tour was packed with activities from the moment the participants landed at the Daniel K. Inouye International Airport in Honolulu, a hub for international tourists and the gateway to Hawai‘i. Participants spent the first day attending a welcome party organized by the

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Consulate General of Japan in Honolulu, and also visiting the Kahala Hotel & Resort Oahu for its tourist attraction “Dolphin Quest.” On the second day, they headed to the YMCA Camp Erdman in northern Oahu, where they pursued a series of indoor and outdoor activities, including grassroots exchange with local youth. Returning to Honolulu on the fourth day, they visited the Native Voyaging Society where they met with its captain Nainoa Thompson aboard the indigenous voyaging canoe, Hokule‘a. A few hours later, a shopping trip took them to the Ala Moana Shopping Center, a mega retail complex popular among Japanese tourists. On the fifth day, they visited the Bishop Museum, Hickam Air Force Base, the Koaloha Ukulele Factory, and at the end of the day, a local Walmart. On the sixth day, they flew to the Big Island (Island of Hawai‘i). There they not only learned about coffee production at the Doutor Coffee Farm, a corporate brand well known in Japan. They also got a taste of “Hawaiian culture” by planting ti trees, making lei bracelets, listening to chants, and playing old Hawaiian games under the guidance of the Japanese singer Mana Hasegawa, a member of the nonprofit educational organization Nā Wai Iwi Ola (The Ancient Waters of Life) and promoter of Hawaiian culture in Japan. On August 5, having completed the entire program, they departed for Japan.117 After the tour the participants kept in touch with each other by holding occasional reunions, one of which took place at the Spa Resort Hawaiians.118 Advocating physical and psychological rejuvenation, the program featured outdoor activities (hiking, rock climbing), craft making with Hawaiian themes (carving a charm out of Koa wood, weaving a leis bracelet, making a ‘ukulele), and grassroots exchanges involving local residents (mostly of Japanese or Japanese American background). Reflecting the emphasis of iyashi tourism, the tour provided some exposure to indigenous culture, as seen in the visit to Hokule‘a, the famed Polynesian voyaging vessel whose revival under Hawaiian navigator Nainoa Thompson has been a potent symbol of indigenous cultural renaissance, and also in the workshop directed by Mana Hasegawa, a Japanese performer trained in Hawaiian hula and chant and a member of an NPO that advocates the preservation of indigenous culture. These activities presented potential opportunities to counter the dynamics of the commodification and commercialization of indigenous culture that have long characterized the tourism industry in the islands. Despite such potential, the RJK healing tour reinforced rather than challenged the dominant workings of power. Taking place in Hawai‘i, it predominantly featured Japanese and Japanese American individuals and institutions. Marginalizing the indigenous community, it reiterated, despite its claim not to

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do so, a long-standing dynamic of tourism in the islands in which Hawaiians are repeatedly displaced from their rightful position as “hosts” and taken “hostage” in the “islands of hospitality.”119 In their place, transnational corporations, and also the US military, asserted their presence. Before participants left Japan, they were given a gift—a Sony Bloggie Touch camera—with which to view, record, and later review their journey to Hawai‘i. Participants also received flight service between Narita and Honolulu on JAL, and the beach access and other amenities offered by an array of hotels and resorts (Kahala Hotel & Resort Oahu, Halekulani Hotel, Halekoa Hotel, Hilton Grant Vacation, among others) with little to no charge. Expressing (genuine) sympathy for the victims of 3.11 was also a way for these businesses to publicize new corporate identities—charitable, multicultural, and transnational—a branding strategy increasingly essential in the globalizing and neoliberalizing economy. No less visible on the RJK tour was the US military. Upon visiting the Hickam Air Force Base, participants had a chance to see the military aircraft and meet some of the soldiers deployed in Operation Tomodachi. The reunion between the soldiers and the children was tearful, creating an unforgettable moment for all. Operation Tomodachi, originating from Hawai‘i and deployed in Tōhoku, now circled back to the islands, showcasing the virtue of disaster militarism by enlisting Tōhoku children as its indisputable witnesses. The participants’ testimonials—published on the RJK website (in English and Japanese) and also on the Miyagi Bikki no Kai website (in Japanese only)—shed further light on how the RJK reflected and reinforced the dominant dynamics not only in the context of Hawai‘i but also in that of Japan. Their statements are more than personal records of the journey. Articulating the ethos of selfhelp and community help in the transnational context, the youth’s touching tales entice readers to participate in the vision of the RJK. One student from Miyagi, who participated in the first tour, recalls a series of wonderful encounters, experiences, and insights he gained during his first-ever trip abroad. Inspired, he now wants to contribute to the good relations between Japan and Hawai‘i in the future; he also wants to become the type of adult who would never lose hope no matter what challenges he faces. Another participant, a girl from Miyagi who also participated in the first tour, echoes his sentiments. Unable to imagine any bright future since the March 11 disaster, she now realizes that she herself is responsible for “bringing light to her community” and ensuring that her hometown will be restored, no matter how long it takes. The student’s mother adds her own comments, attesting to the healing power of Hawai‘i. As a result of the trip to Hawai‘i, her daughter seems to now be able to release many of the

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worries and anxieties internalized since 3.11. The trip allowed her daughter to “loosen up,” restoring her energy and revitalizing her spirit. Another mother in Miyagi, whose daughter participated in the third tour, indicates how the healing power of Hawai‘i reaches even those who did not travel to the islands, inspiring them to move on. Watching her daughter come back from Hawai‘i with so many fond memories (preserved thanks to the Sony Bloggie), this mother now realizes the importance of looking for bright spots in life. Clearly, Hawai‘i has motivated disaster victims to take personal responsibility for their emotional well-being, pursue self- and community help, and build a better and brighter future. That the RJK provided an occasion for articulating the dominant discourse becomes even more evident in the statement provided by yet another student from Fukushima. A participant in the fifth tour, he states that the RJK tour has made him realize the meanings of kizuna for the first time. Never sure about the meanings of the term prior to the trip, he now understands its significance, thanks to the people in Hawai‘i who welcomed him as though he were a member of the family and thus showed him the value of kizuna in concrete ways.120 The RJK tours motivated adults to enunciate a variety of visions and sentiments as well. Importantly, the language of “aloha” appears repeatedly in their pronouncements, framing, justifying, and celebrating their undertaking. This invocation needs to be analyzed in relation to the fact that “aloha,” originally an indigenous term, has by now become “hypercommodified artifice” and even “part of the state apparatus,” as seen in the 1986 Aloha Spirit Law. The law urges (or demands) residents of Hawai‘i to “emote good feelings to each other, especially in government dealings” so that the state of Hawai‘i presents itself as an ideal destination—warm, generous, multicultural, and affectionate—for visitors, investors, and others. Emerging in the context of indigenous resurgence in the 1980s, the law was a response to emerging Hawaiian dissent and protest that challenged the existing social order in the islands.121 Far from being natural or spontaneous, “aloha” is a political-discursive tool. Despite or because of such dynamics, “aloha” became the chief framing device for the RJK. Indeed, it was a central motive. Ōkubo Ryōichi—leading organizer of the RJK, branch manager of JAL Hawaii at the time of 3.11, member of the HISLEA, and chief editor of the local magazine, Lighthouse Hawaii—stated that “aloha” was the backbone of the RJK. Defining the healing of hearts (kokoro o iyasu) as the project’s central mission, he explained that the RJK tours provided Tōhoku youth with opportunities to experience, learn from, and adopt the spiritual power of the islands. Asserting that participants “inherited the spirit of aloha” (aroha no kokoro o uketsuide kureta) as a result of the tours, he spelled

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out the healing tours’ implications for the future: Having experienced the spirit of aloha, these youth would grow up to “build a rainbow bridge between Hawai‘i and Japan.”122 In the statements published in his magazine Lighthouse Hawaii and uploaded on the RJK website, other adults involved in the project also talk about how the Tōhoku youth who went on the tours received the spirit of aloha (aroha no kokoro o uketoru),123 or how they “had a full-body experience of the spirit of aloha” (aroha no kokoro o shintai zentai de kanjiru) while in the islands.124 In a press release on March 20, 2016, the RJK even invoked the missionary notion of “dendō” (preaching) in defining its mission in relation to “aloha.” The central objective of the RJK was “aroha no kokoro no dendō” (the preaching of the spirit of aloha) among young people from Tōhoku who, once they grasped its meaning, would go on to play a crucial role in disaster recovery and reconstruction.125 For Ed Hawkins, JASH president and central participant in the RJK, “aloha” captured the essence of the project. Born to a Japanese mother and American father in Japan shortly after the Second World War, Hawkins—a retired US Air Force officer, recipient of the Order of the Rising Sun given in recognition of his decades-long contribution to US-Japan relations, and executive director of the Office of Economic Development of the City and County of Honolulu— embodies the bilateral ties between the two countries in both personal and professional terms. In the 2012 article “Hilton Helps Rainbow for Japan Kids” published in the Hawaii Tribune Herald (a Japanese American newspaper in Hawai‘i), Hawkins describes the significance of “aloha” in the RJK: “Through this initiative, it is our hope to create a lasting rainbow bridge between Japan and Hawaii so that the children will experience the spirit of aloha and return home with new hope to create a better future for themselves and their communities.”126 Another statement by Hawkins appeared in the JAL inflight magazine,‘Eheu, whose main audience is Japanese business-class passengers on their way to Hawai‘i. In it, Hawkins explains that bringing Tōhoku youth to “the islands of aloha” was a way to engage in “kokoro no shien” (support for their hearts). Emphasizing the project’s future-oriented vision, he states that the RJK would help participants “cultivate hopes and dreams, turn their gaze to the world, and take a confident step toward the future.” The project’s central mission was the cultivation of inner resources as well as an investment in the future.127 The US-Japan Council concurred completely. The RJK “reflects the efforts made by the people of Hawaii to share their ‘Spirit of Aloha’ directly with those who suffered as a result of the disaster.” The project would “create lasting friendship” between Japanese children and their counterparts in Hawai‘i,

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where “people from different cultures and backgrounds coexist in harmony with wondrous landscapes and natural settings.”128 In accord with the council’s earlier endorsement of Operation Tomodachi specifically, and of US-Japan cooperation more generally, the indigenous term “aloha” was now redeployed to articulate the future relations of the United States and Japan, in which multicultural friendship, military cooperation, and bilateral alliance-making would flourish. In sum, the RJK was a project animated by a variety of dynamics circulating in the Pacific. Staged in Hawai‘i, post–3.11 healing tourism reiterated the raced and gendered imaginary of Hawai‘i as the perennial Other whose natural and spiritual power would heal the bodies and souls of young visitors from disasterstruck Tōhoku. Despite its gesture toward indigenous culture and history, the project not only rearticulated militarism and tourism but also reinforced the settler presence of Americans, Japanese, and Japanese Americans in Hawai‘i. The language of “aloha” was central in these dynamics, framing a variety of agendas underpinning the RJK: promotion of self- and mutual help; celebration of multiculturalism and transnationalism; cultivation of emotional resources and psychological wellness; alliance-building between the United States and Japan; and investment in children configured as the nation’s and the region’s future. Drawing on the imperial past and articulating neoliberal futurity, the RJK constituted an important “relay point,” mobilizing familiar discourses of race, nation, and empire from the past and retooling them to promulgate a new vision of global subject and subjectivity in the emerging age of precarity. Despite its politicized and politicizing nature, the project—driven by goodwill, set in the wondrous islands, and advocating the well-being of children—elides critical scrutiny. In post–3.11 resilience politics, Hawai‘i functions as a site of production as well as vanishment of multifarious dynamics, sustaining Japan’s move toward recovery and refortification in visible and invisible ways.

Conclusion In 2017, the article “Fukushima Rebuilds Its Future with Fish, Tomatoes and Hula Dancing Girls” was published online. Written by the Japanese-Australian writer Oona McGee, the piece cheerfully reports on the extraordinary progress the region has made since 3.11. Visiting the prefecture at the invitation of the Tokyo Convention & Visitors Bureau and the government of Fukushima Prefecture, McGee introduces a variety of visitor spots—the Iwaki Wander

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Farm, Spa Resort Hawaiians, and Aquamarine Fukushima among them—and encourages readers to visit these places as a way to help Fukushima “move forward towards a brighter future.” The Iwaki Wander Farm, an agricultural theme park, cultivates tomatoes with charming names such as “Toscana Violet,” “Midori-chan,” and “Hula Girls.” To attract young visitors, the park also organizes speed-dating events in which participants enjoy “some tomatopicking and flirting between the vines.” The Aquamarine Fukushima aquarium, despite extensive damage incurred by the disaster, has resumed operation. Expanding its function, it now doubles as a monitoring station to measure the level of radiation of locally caught fish. The Spa Resort Hawaiians, a sprawling resort complex that features Mai Tai cocktails, enormous indoor pools, and an all-you-can-eat buffet, presents yet another success story. Complete with hula girls staging unforgettable performances, visiting the resort is “like taking a trip to Hawaii without leaving Japan!”129 Intending to be helpful, McGee’s article nevertheless repeats and reinscribes a series of problematic dynamics analyzed in this chapter. Linking disaster, recovery, and tourism, it promotes the region’s continuing economic dependence on external forces, a dynamic that led to the ominous presence of nuclear power plants to begin with. Celebrating the production of tomatoes (including a variety named “Hula Girls”), propagation of children (via speed dating and marriage), and promotion of the dancing bodies of hula girls (a  feminized human resource), it marks and markets local “products” as a way out of 3.11, presenting yet another politicized and politicizing discourse that fuels ongoing mobilization already suffused with numerous bodies and bodily dynamics. Overlooking the region’s complex involvement in nationand empire-building and reiterating the stereotypical image of Hawai‘i as a dreamland par excellence, the article invites readers to take part in this dehistoricized and depoliticized vision—all in the name of assisting disaster victims as they “move forward towards a brighter future.” This invitation is difficult for readers to decline because the disaster and recovery narratives of these enterprises naturally tug at the heartstrings, just as those of the hula girls and the Tōhoku youth do. Amplified by this and other sympathetic voices, kizuna-building continues, extending its political tentacles across the Pacific and performing a series of erasures—of race, gender, nation, empire—along the way. Amid this ongoing affective mobilization, this chapter has paused to reconsider some of the premises and promises undergirding such efforts to attain recovery, reconstruction, and resilience. Hawai‘i provides an unlikely and yet crucial starting point for such rethinking.

6

Conclusion

This book has explored the contours and contents of resilience culture in contemporary Japan. The 3.11 compound disaster of earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown has devastated Tōhoku, a subaltern region long marked as Japan’s hinterland and, indeed, as its other. It has also unleashed a series of discourses and practices centered on national recovery and reconstruction, mobilizing a variety of social actors—women and men, girls and boys, soldiers and businessmen, government elites and feminist activists—and circulating new visions of safety and security. The popularization of new idioms that range from the nationalist notion of kizuna and neoliberal principles of jijo (self-help) and kyōjo (mutual help) to the indigenous Hawaiian term of aloha is a prominent feature of this phenomenon, triggering culture-making and remaking of an unprecedented magnitude and dynamism. Amid the call to “Rise up, Japan,” post–3.11 resilience-building demands the reformation and refortification of body, home, and land, glorifying warriors and soldiers, celebrating security moms and security feminists, and mobilizing young people. Clearly, post–3.11 Japan illuminates the generative power of disaster, whereby a variety of social actors and institutions “capitalize on a catastrophe” to pursue their respective aspirations and agendas. Importantly, this new cultural formation cannot be contained within the physical boundaries of Japan or the temporal confines of the current century. Mobilizing distant locales such as Hawai‘i and tapping into the legacy of empire(s), Japan’s post–3.11 resilience-building reflects and reinforces dynamics of militarism, neoliberalism, and neoconservatism that continue to circulate in Asia and the Pacific. Touting the value of human life and espousing the empowerment of the weak and vulnerable, resilience-building thrives at home and abroad, obfuscating its political intent and embedding itself in the everyday life of people who continue to search—indeed, yearn—for a sense of safety and security in the present age of precarity. Gender, Culture, and Disaster in

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Post–3.11 Japan is a small attempt to intervene in this ongoing mobilization, in which historically marginalized populations (women and children), seemingly innocuous objects (domestic gadgets and cosmetic items), and fantasized island space (Hawai‘i) provide a surprising yet powerful impetus for all of us to engage in critical reflections on the emerging regime of power.

Notes Chapter 1 1

The Reconstruction Agency (Fukkōchō), an administrative unit created following the 2011 disaster, provides the following statistical information on the scope of damages caused by 3.11. The number of the deceased is 15,897; the missing 2,532; and the injured 6,157. Over 470,000 were evacuated from their homes, and as of January 31, 2020, 48,000 are still unable to return. The number of the buildings completely destroyed is 15,897; the half destroyed 282,900; the partially destroyed 730,114. Reconstruction Agency, “Great East Japan Earthquake.” Accessed February 15, 2020. https://www.reconstruction.go.jp/english/topics/ GEJE/index.html. 2 Anthony Oliver-Smith, “Theorizing Disasters: Nature, Power, and Culture,” in Susan Hoffman and Anthony Oliver-Smith, eds., Catastrophe & Culture: The Anthropological Perspective (Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 2002), 24. 3 Ibid., 38. 4 Charles Schencking, “The Great Kantō Earthquake and the Culture of Catastrophe and Reconstruction in 1920s Japan,” The Journal of Japanese Studies, Vol. 34, No. 2, 2008, 295–331. 5 Charles Schencking, The Great Kantō Earthquake and the Chimera of National Reconstruction in Japan (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 5–6. 6 Janet Borland, “Capitalising on Catastrophe: Reinvigorating the Japanese State with Moral Values through Education following the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake,” Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 40, No. 4, 2006, 894. 7 Gennifer Weisenfeld, Imaging Disaster: Tokyo and the Visual Culture of Japan’s Great Earthquake of 1923 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 13. 8 Susan Roy, Bomboozled!: How the U.S. Government Misled Itself and Its People into Believing They Could Survive a Nuclear Attack (New York: Pointed Leafe Press, 2010); Eric Swedin, Survive the Bomb: The Radioactive Citizen’s Guide to Nuclear Survival (Minneapolis: Zenith Press, 2011); Robert Jacobs, The Dragon’s Tail: Americans Face the Atomic Age (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2010). 9 Guy Oak, The Imaginary War: Civil Defense and American Cold War Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 8. 10 Alan Nadel, Containment Culture: American Narratives, Postmodernism, and the Atomic Age (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995), 8.

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11 For the notion of “capitalizing on catastrophe,” see Nandini Gunewardena and Mark Schuller, eds., Capitalizing on Catastrophe: Neoliberal Strategies in Disaster Reconstruction (Lanham, MD: Altamira Press, 2008). 12 Jordan Sand, “Living with Uncertainty after March 11, 2011,” The Journal of Asian Studies, Vol. 71, No. 2, 2012, 313–15. 13 Richard Samuels, 3.11: Disaster and Change in Japan (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013), x. 14 For the centrality of yorisou in JSDF’s disaster and post-disaster assistance activities, see Jieitai kazokukai, ed., Jieikan ga kataru saigai haken no kiroku: hisaisha ni yorisou shien (Tokyo: Namiko shobō, 2019). For the significance of the same concept in a variety of campaigns pursued by Emperor Akihito and Empress Michiko following 3.11, see, for example, Asahi Digital, “Yorisou kōshitsu, fukkō kizamu kahi,” March 30, 2019. Accessed June 17, 2019. http://www.asahi.com/ area/miyagi/articles/MTW20190401041050001.html. Also see Sankei shinbunsha, Tennō Kōgō ryōheika to Heisei daisaigai: gekidō no 30-nen zenkiroku (Tokyo: Sankei shinbunsha, 2019). 15 Sankei shinbunsha, “Nihonjin no sokojikara”: Higashi Nihon Daishinsai ichinen no zen kiroku (Tokyo: Sankei shinbunsha, 2012). 16 Gakken kyōiku shuppan, Higashi Nihon Daishinsai: tsutae nakereba naranai 100 no monogatari, Vols. 1–10 (Tokyo: Gakken kyōiku shuppan, 2013). For the argument that 3.11 constitutes a watershed moment in literature and art in Japan, see Helen Kilpatrick, “The Recognition of Nuclear Trauma in Sagashite imasu (I Am Searching), The Asia-Pacific Journal, Vol. 13, Issue 7, No. 8, 2015. 17 Kusagaya Keiko, 3.11 o kokoro ni kizamu bukku gaido (Tokyo: Kodomo no miraisha, 2012). 18 Sheldon Garon, “Transnational History and Japan’s ‘Comparative Advantage,’” The Journal of Japanese Studies, Vol. 43, No. 1, 2017, 69. 19 Ibid., 77–8. 20 Sheldon Garon, “Defending Civilians against Aerial Bombardment: A Comparative/Transnational History of Japanese, German, and British Home Fronts, 1918–1945,” The Asia-Pacific Journal: Japan Focus, Vol. 14, No. 2, 2016, 2. 21 Sheldon Garon, “The Home Front and Food Insecurity in Wartime Japan: A Transnational Perspective,” in Hartmut Berghoff, Jan Logemann, and Felix Römer, eds., The Consumer on the Home Front: Second World War Civilian Consumption in Comparative Perspective (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 30. 22 Tracy Davis, Stages of Emergency: Cold War Nuclear Civil Defense (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 20. 23 Laura McEnaney, Civil Defense Begins at Home: Militarization Meets Everyday Life in the Fifties (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 23–4; Andrew Grossman, Neither Dead nor Red: Civilian Defense and American Political

Notes

24

25 26

27 28 29 30 31

32 33

34

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Development during the Early Cold War (New York: Routledge, 2001), 87, 103; Homeland Security National Preparedness Task Force, “Civil Defense and Homeland Security: A Short History of National Preparedness Efforts,” September 2006. Accessed July 15, 2018. https://training.fema.gov/hiedu/docs/dhs%20 civil%20defense-hs%20-%20short%20history.pdf. For an account of Japanese women’s involvement in social mobilization centered on nuclear power usage during the 1970s, see Ulrike Wöhr, “Gender and Citizenship in the Anti-nuclear Power Movement in 1970s Japan,” in Andrea Germer, Vera Mackie, and Ulrike Wöhr, eds., Gender, Nation and State in Modern Japan (New York: Routledge, 2014), 230–54. Orii Miyako and Josei no rekishi kenkyūkai, eds., Onnatachi ga tachiagatta: Kantō Daishinsai to Tokyo Rengō Fujinkai (Tokyo: Domesu shuppan), 30. Years of birth and death of these women leaders are as follows: Hani Motoko (1873–1957); Kaneko Shigeri (1899–1974); Yoshioka Yayoi (1871–1957); Kubushiro Ochimi (1882–1972); Gauntlet Tsuneko (1873–1953); Kawai Michi (1877–1953); Oku Mumeo (1895–1997); Yamakawa Kikue (1890–1980). Ibid., 116–67. Ibid., 96–102. Ibid., 103–7. Ibid., 31. The first national census was administered in 1920, inaugurating a new era of modern state-building in Japan. As the federation applied this new technology of governance in post-disaster Tokyo, they received assistance and advice from Mary Beard, feminist writer and reformer who was visiting Tokyo with her husband Charles Beard at the invitation of Gotō Shinpei (Orii and Josei no rekishi kenkyūkai, Onnatachi ga tachiagatta, 116). Mary Beard revisited Japan after the Second World War and played an important role in postwar women’s reform under the auspice of General Douglas MacArthur. See Mire Koikari, Pedagogy of Democracy: Feminism and the Cold War in the U.S. Occupation of Japan (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2008), Chapter 3: “Feminism, Domestic Containment, and the Cold War Citizenry,” 75–120. Orii and Josei no rekishi kenkyūkai, Onnatachi ga tachiagatta, 108–21. Sheldon Garon, Molding Japanese Minds: The State in Everyday Life (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), Chapter 4: “Integrating Women into Public Life: Women’s Groups and the State,” 115–46. The complicity of women leaders and their organizations in prewar and wartime Japan has been well documented, pointing to the complex dynamics in which women’s aspiration to be included in national politics facilitated their participation in the dominant workings of power. In addition to Garon’s work cited in the preceding note, see, for example, Yoshimi Kaneko, Nihon fashizumu to josei (Tokyo:

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Gōdō shuppan, 1977) and Suzuki Yūko, Feminizumu to sensō: fujin undōka no sensō kyōryoku (Tokyo: Marujusha, 1988). 35 McEnaney, Civil Defense Begins at Home, especially Chapter 4, “Raising Women’s Bomb Consciousness,” 88–122. 36 Michael Scheibach, ed., “In Case Atom Bombs Fall”: An Anthology of Governmental Explanations, Instructions and Warnings from the 1940s to the 1960s (Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Company, 2009), 60, 62, 159; Elaine Tyler May, Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War Era (New York: Basic Books, 2008), especially Chapter 4, “Explosive Issues: Sex, Women, and the Bomb,” 89–108. 37 McEnaney, Civil Defense Begins at Home, 8. 38 NHK, “Asa Ichi,” aired on June 13, 2012, 8:15–8:55 a.m. Author’s note, June 13, 2012. 39 Nihon BPW rengōkai, 3.11 Onnatachi ga hashitta: josei kara hajimaru fukkō e no michi (Tokyo: Domesu shuppan, 2012). 40 Miyagi no josei shien o kirokusuru kai, Onnatachi ga ugoku: Higashi Nihon Daishinsai to danjo kyōdō sankaku shiten no shien (Tokyo: Seikatsu shisōsha, 2012). 41 Hagiwara Kumiko, Minagawa Masumi, and Ōsawa Mari, eds., Fukkō o torimodosu: hasshinsuru Tōhoku no onnatachi (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 2013). 42 Orii and Josei no rekishi kenkyūkai, eds., Onnatachi ga tachiagatta. 43 Anne Allison, Precarious Japan (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2013). 44 Robin LeBlanc, “Lessons from the Ghost of Salaryman Past: The Global Costs of the Breadwinner Imaginary,” The Journal of Asian Studies, Vol. 71, No. 4, 2012, 857–71. 45 Schencking, The Great Kantō Earthquake, 112. 46 Garon, “Transnational History,” note 43, page 78. 47 Exceptions include: Romit Dasgupta, Re-reading the Salarymen in Japan: Crafting Masculinities (New York: Routledge, 2013); Sabine Frühstück, Uneasy Warriors: Gender, Memory, and Popular Culture in the Japanese Army (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007); James Roberson and Nobue Suzuki, eds., Men and Masculinities in Contemporary Japan: Dislocating the Salaryman Doxa (London: Routledge, 2003); and Sabine Frühstück and Anne Walthall, eds., Recreating Japanese Men (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011). 48 Michael Kimmel, Manhood in America: A Cultural History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); R. W. Connell, “Globalization, Imperialism, and Masculinities,” in Michael Kimmel, Jeff Hearn, and R. W. Connell, eds., Handbook of Studies on Men & Masculinities (London: Sage Publications, 2005), 71–89. 49 Gail Bederman, Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880–1917 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996); Kristin Hoganson, Fighting for American Manhood: How Gender Politics Provoked the Spanish-American and Philippines-American Wars (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998).

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50 Mischa Honeck, Our Frontier Is the World: The Boy Scouts in the Age of American Ascendancy (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2018). 51 May, Homeward Bound, 91–3; Kimmel, Manhood in America, 170–1. 52 John Hannigan, Disaster without Borders: The International Politics of Natural Disasters (Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 2012). 53 The National Academies, Disaster Resilience: A National Imperative (Washington, DC: National Academies Press, 2012). 54 Jonathan Joseph, “Resilience as Embedded Neoliberalism: A Governmentality Approach,” Resilience, Vol. 1, No. 1, 2013, 38–52; Anthony Mckeown and John Glenn, “The Rise of Resilience after the Financial Crises: A Case of Neoliberalism Rebooted?” Review of International Studies, Vol. 44, Part 2, 2018, 193–214. 55 David Harvey, A Brief History of Neoliberalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); Julie Wilson, Neoliberalism (New York: Routledge, 2018); Rachel Riedner, Writing Neoliberal Values: Rhetorical Connectivities and Globalized Capitalism (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015). 56 Annie Fukushima, Ayano Ginoza, Michiko Hase, Gwyn Kirk, Deborah Lee, and Taeva Shefler, “Disaster Militarism: Rethinking U.S. Relief in the Asia-Pacific,” Foreign Policy in Focus, March 11, 2014. Accessed January 15, 2015. https://fpif.org/ disaster-militarism-rethinking-u-s-relief-asia-pacific/. 57 Samuels, 3.11, Chapter 4, “Dueling Security Narratives,” 80–109. For an additional discussion of kizuna, see Tamaki Tokita, “The Post-3/11 Quest for True Kizuna— Shi no Tsubute by Wagō Ryōichirō and Kamisama 2011 by Kawakami Hiromi,” The Asia Pacific Journal, Vol. 13, Issue 7, No. 7, 2015. 58 The US–Japan joint military operation during 3.11 was named “Operation Tomodachi” (or Tomodachi Sakusen) by Paul Wilcox, a retired military man serving in the Northeast Asian Policy Division of the US Pacific Command Headquarters in Hawai‘i. Chris Ames and Yuiko Koguchi-Ames, “Friends in Need: ‘Operation Tomodachi’ and the Politics of US Military Disaster Relief in Japan,” in Jeff Kingston, ed., Natural Disaster and Nuclear Crisis in Japan: Response and Recovery after Japan’s 3/11 (London and New York: Routledge 2012), 207. 59 Supa Rizōto Hawaianzu (Kizuna Rizōto), “Polynesian Grand Stage: Maka hou— Aratanaru hajimari.” Author’s collection. 60 Isiah Walker, Waves of Resistance: Surfing and History in Twentieth Century Hawai‘i (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2011), 60–2. For discussions of Hawai‘i as a gendered space whose feminized imaginary conceals the logic and logistics of US militarism in the region, see, for example, Adria Imada, Aloha America: Hula Circuits Through the U.S. Empire (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2012) and Teresia Teaiwa, “Bikini and Other S/pacific N/oceans,” The Contemporary Pacific, Vol.  6, No. 1, 1994, 87–109. 61 Chris McMorran, “From Volunteers to Voluntours: Shifting Priorities in Postdisaster Japan,” Japan Forum, 2017, Vol. 29, No. 4, 558–82.

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62 “Hawai Daigaku de kōen, Nikai Toshihiro Jimintō Kanjichō,” Nikkan San, May 11, 2017. For the understanding that Japanese American immigrants functioned as agents of pre-1945 Japanese expansionism in the Pacific, see Eiichiro Azuma, Between Two Empires: Race, History, and Transnationalism in Japanese America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 63 Another popular destination of post-disaster healing tourism is Okinawa, the southernmost prefecture of Japan, whose history of colonialism, militarism, and tourism parallels that of Hawai‘i. A well-known project is “Okinawa Kumi no Sato,” which brings children and also frequently their mothers to Kumejima, one of the islands of the Ryūkyū island chain, for physical and psychological recuperation. Taking place on the island where the Japanese Imperial Army committed ghastly atrocities at the end of the Second World War, the project was founded by former Okinawa Governor Ōta Masahide, photojournalist Hirokawa Ryūichi, and filmanime director and producer Miyazaki Hayao, and has been sustained by volunteer workers hailing primarily from mainland Japan. This is another instance where a colonized place is deployed for the sake of the colonizer’s recovery, reconstruction, and regeneration. The project’s content has been reported in Days Japan, a monthly photographic magazine whose chief editor is Hirokawa himself. For the history of Kumejima during the Second World War, including the “Kumejima Massacre,” see Ōta Masahide, Kumejima no “Okinawasen”—Kūshū, Kumejima Jiken, Beigunsei (Naha, Okinawa: Okinawa kokusai heiwa kenkyūjo, 2016). 64 See, for example, Jeff Kingston, “Introduction,” in Kingston, Natural Disaster, 4–8. In addition to providing a “to-do” list for disaster prevention and preparation which reflects and reinforces the paradigm of national resilience, Kingston emphasizes the significance of “first-hand accounts and immediacy,” where “typical scholarly conventions involving methodological or theoretical issues” should be bypassed. For another and related kind of disavowal of power and critical analysis of disaster, see David Slater, “Urgent Ethnography,” in Tom Gill, Brigitte Steger and David Slater, eds., Japan Copes with Calamity (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2015), 32–41. As he argues, the disaster, in its immediate aftermath, created a “prehegemonic” moment, where “urgent ethnography” on the ground takes precedence over systematic analysis of structures of power, as the former is more capable of capturing such moments than the latter.

Chapter 2 1

Kirk Spitzer, “New ‘Godzilla’ Makes Japan’s Military the Tough Guys,” USA Today, September 12, 2016. Accessed March 22, 2017. https://www.usatoday.com/story/ news/world/2016/09/12/japan-shin-godzilla-military-forces/90123594/; Anna

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Fifield, “The New Godzilla Film Imagines a Strong Japan Pushing Back against the U.S.” The Washington Post, September 23, 2016. Accessed March 22, 2017. https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/asia_pacific/new-godzilla-film-imaginesa-strong-japan-pushing-back-against-the-us/2016/09/23/ddd7d5c4-7f70-11e6ad0e-ab0d12c779b1_story.html?noredirect=on; Mark Schilling, “‘Shin Godzilla’: The Metaphorical Monster Returns,” The Japan Times, August 3, 2016. Accessed March 22, 2017. https://www.japantimes.co.jp/culture/2016/08/03/films/filmreviews/shin-godzilla-metaphorical-monster-returns/#.XX1TrS5KjIU. 2 Shushō kantei, “Jieitai kōkyū kanbu kaidō ni tomonau sōri shusai konshinkai,” September 12, 2016. Accessed October 16, 2016. http://www.kantei.go.jp/jp/97_ abe/actions/201609/12jieitai_konshinkai.html. 3 Jieitai Ōsaka chihō kyōryoku honbu, “Kono ima o, mirai o, mamoru,” Accessed October 16, 2016. http://www.mod.go.jp/pco/osaka/news/news02.html. 4 Fukushima et al., “Disaster Militarism.” 5 Isemura Kazuya, Kokubō danshi: Kaijō Jieitai dansei jieikan shashinshū (Tokyo: Shūeisha, 2014). The discourse of “kokubō danshi” is reminiscent of “teikoku danshi” of Meiji-era soldiering masculinity in Japan. Theodore Cook, “‘Making Soldiers: The Imperial Army and the Japanese Man in Meiji Society and State,” in Barbara Molony and Kathleen Uno, eds., Gendering Modern Japanese History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005), 259–94. 6 Ishizaki Tsutomu, Jieitai bōsai book (Tokyo: Magajin hausu, 2018). 7 Ikuho Amano, “From Mourning to Allegory: Post-3.11 Space Battleship Yamano in Motion,” Japan Forum, Vol. 26, No. 3, 2014, 325. 8 Justin McCurry, “Fukushima 50: ‘We Felt Like Kamikaze Pilots Ready to Sacrifice Everything,” The Guardian, January 11, 2013. Accessed April 5, 2016. https:// www.theguardian.com/environment/2013/jan/11/fukushima-50-kamikaze-pilotssacrifice. 9 TIEMS Nihon-shibu dairokkai paburikku kanfarensu: heiji no soshiki taisei dewa saigaiji ni kinou shinai. June 20, 2014. TKP gāden shitī Nagata-chō. Author’s note. June 20, 2014. 10 Fukkō no noroshi posutā purojekuto, “Shioretecha otokoga sutaru.” The literal translation reads that my masculinity will be undermined if I stay depressed. Accessed September 9, 2018. http://fukkou-noroshi.jp/posters/index.shtml#iwate. 11 Fukkō no noroshi posutā purojekuto, “Gohan o tsukureru shiawase.” The literal translation reads that I feel happy to be able to prepare meal. Accessed September 9, 2018. http://fukkou-noroshi.jp/posters/index.shtml#iwate3. 12 Allison, Precarious Japan. 13 LeBlanc, “Lessons from the Ghost,” 857–71. 14 Bederman, Manliness and Civilization; Hoganson, Fighting for American Manhood: Kimmel, Manhood in America.

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15 Dasgupta, Re-reading the Salaryman, 9; Connell, “Globalization, Imperialism, and Masculinities,” 71–2. 16 Joseph, “Resilience as Embedded Neoliberalism,” 39. 17 Ibid., 40. 18 Ibid., 41. 19 Ibid., 42. 20 Harvey, A Brief History, 81–6. 21 Jiyū Minshutō kokudo kyōjinka sōgō chōsakai, ed., Kokudo kyōjinka: Nihon o tsuyoku shinayaka ni (Tokyo: Sagami shobō, 2012); Kokudo kyōjinka: Nihon o tsuyoku shinayaka ni, sono 2 (Tokyo: Sagami shobō, 2013); Kokudo kyōjinka: Nihon o tsuyoku shinayaka ni, sono 3 (Tokyo: Sagami shobō, 2013); Kokudo kyōjinka: Nihon o tsuyoku shinayaka ni, 2015-nenban (Tokyo: Chūō kōron shinsha, 2015). 22 Kōichi Nakano, Ukeikasuru Nihon seiji (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 2015), 12. 23 Rejiriensu Japan Suishin Kyōgikai. Accessed September 17, 2018. http://www. resilience-jp.biz/. 24 Naikaku kanbō, kokudo kyōjinka suishinshitsu, “Building National Resilience: Creating a Strong and Flexible Country,” 4. Accessed May 20, 2015. www.cas.go.jp/ jp/seisaku/kokudo_kyoujinka/en/e01_panf.pdf. 25 Ibid., 3. 26 Ibid., 10. 27 Ibid., 6–8. 28 Hannigan, Disaster without Borders; Gunewardena and Schuller, eds., Capitalising on Catastrophe. 29 Igarashi Takayoshi, “Kokudo Kyōjinka” hihan: Kōkyō jigyō no arubeki “mirai moderu” to wa (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 2013); Aurelia Mulgan, “From People to Concrete: Reviving Japan’s ‘Construction State’ Politics,” East Asia Forum, February 26, 2013; T. J. Pempel, “Between Pork and Productivity: The Collapse of the Liberal Democratic Party,” Journal of Japanese Studies, Vol. 36, No. 2, 2010, 227–54. 30 “2013-nen, dobokukai o yomu, kīwādo 50,” Nikkei konsutorakushon, No. 559, January 14, 2013, 46–73. 31 “Tettei yosoku 2014-nen no doboku,” Nikkei konsutorakushon, No. 583, January 13, 2014, 42–67. 32 Ibid., 62–3. 33 Nikai Toshihiro, “Kokudo kyōjinka sengen,” in Jiyū Minshutō, ed., Kokudo kyōjinka (Tokyo: Sagami shobō, 2012), 20; Morita Minoru, “Kokudo kyōjinka no shisō to rinen” in Jiyū Minshutō, Kokudo kyōjinka 2015-nenban, 28; Konaga Keiichi, “Enerugī seisaku to seiji no rīdāshippu, Tanaka Kakuei-shi o kaiko shinagara,” in Jiyū Minshutō, ed., Kokudo kyōjinka (Tokyo: Sagami shobō, 2012), 463–90; Igarashi, “Kokudo Kyōjinka” hihan, 3. 34 James Sterngold, “Kakuei Tanaka, 75, Ex-premier and Political Force in Japan, Dies,” The New York Times, December 17, 1993. Accessed November 23, 2015.

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36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

46

47 48

49

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https://www.nytimes.com/1993/12/17/obituaries/kakuei-tanaka-75-ex-premierand-political-force-in-japan-dies.html. Bessatsu Takarajima Henshūbu, Tanaka Kakuei to iu ikikata (Tokyo: Bessatsu Takarajima, 2016), No. 2183. First published in 2014, the special issue was reissued in a fifteenth edition in 2016. Ishihara Shintarō, Tensai (Tokyo: Gentōsha, 2016). Nikai, “Kokudo kyōjinka sengen,” 48. Fujii Satoshi, Rejiriensu Japan: Nihon kyōjinka kōsō (Tokyo: Asuka shinsha, 2013), 64. Fujii Satoshi, Kyōjinka no shisō:“Tsuyoi kuni Nippon” o mezashite (Tokyo: Ikuhōsha, 2013), 142. Mitarai Fujio, “Kokudo kyōjinka ni mukete” in Jiyū Minshutō, Kokudo Kyōjinka, 494–5. Morita, “Kokudo kyājinka no shisō,” 28. Nikai Toshihiro, “Kokudo kyōjinka to iu ‘shisō’ II,” in Jiyū Minshutō, ed., Kokudo kyōjinka 2015-nenban (Tokyo: Chūō kōron shinsha, 2015), 16. Abe Shinzō, “Nihon o torimodosu,” in Jiyū Minshutō, ed., Kokudo kyōjinka sono 3 (Tokyo: Sagami shobō, 2013), 2–3. Fujii Satoshi, Mega kueiku X dē: Nankai torafu jishin, shuto chokka jishin ni uchikatsu 45 no kokka puroguramu (Tokyo: Kōbunsha, 2013). The notion of Bushidō made its way into the Scout Law, the basic rule book of the Boy Scouts. Michael Rosenthal, The Character Factory: Baden-Powell and the Origins of the Boy Scout Movement (Pantheon Books, 1984), 64. Michele Mason, “Empowering the Would-be Warrior: Bushidō and the Gendered Bodies of the Japanese Nation,” in Sabine Frühstück and Anne Walthall, eds., Recreating Japanese Men (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011), 68–111. Kokudo kyōjinka suishinshitsu, “Building National Resilience,” 3. Sasaki Norio and Yamamoto Masakuni, Katsu soshiki (Tokyo: Kadokawa shoten, 2012); Sasaki Norio, Nadeshiko jikara: Sā, isshoni sekai ichi ni narō! (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2011); Nadeshiko jikara tsugi e (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2012). Kokudo kyōjinka suishinshitsu, “Sekai toppu reberu no kokudo kyōjinka o mezashite.” Accessed March 1, 2015. http://nettv.gov-online.go.jp/prg/prg8017. html. For a longer, printed version of discussions on national resilience involving Sasaki Norio and Furuya Keiji, see Furuya Keiji, Sōdatta no ka! “Kokudo Kyōjinka”—rejiriensu shakai e no chōsen (Tokyo: PHP kenkyūjo, 2014), 195–234. Kōichi Nakano, “Political Dynamics of Contemporary Japanese Nationalism,” in Jeff Kingston, ed., Asian Nationalisms Reconsidered (New York: Routledge 2016), 160–71; “New Right Transformation in Japan,” in Mark Mullins and Kōichi Nakano, eds., Disasters and Social Crisis in Contemporary Japan: Political, Religious, and Sociocultural Responses (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 23–41.

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51 Donald Lumpkins, “National Protection Overview: National Protection Framework and NIPP 2013.” Accessed February 1, 2015. www.cas.go.jp/jp/seisaku/ kokudo_kyoujinka/workshop/pdf/h260707siryou1.pdf; “Kichō kōen: Beikoku no kokudo kyōjinka ni kakawaru torikumi,” in Jiyū Minshutō, ed., Kokudo kyōjinka 2015-nenban (Tokyo: Chūō kōron shinsha, 2015), 340–7. 52 George Haddow and Jane Bullock, eds., Introduction to Emergency Management (Amsterdam: Butterworth Heinemann, 2013), 1–130. 53 Gavan McCormack and Satoko Norimatsu, Resistant Islands: Okinawa Confronts Japan and the United States (Lanham, MD: Roman and Littlefield Publisher, 2012). 54 Robert Eldridge, “Operation Tomodachi and Afterwards: A U.S. Marine Corp Perspective.” Accessed on February 1, 2015. www.cas.go.jp/jp/seisaku/kokudo_ kyoujinka/workshop/pdf/h260707siryou3.pdf. 55 See, for example, Kiki taiō hyōjunka kenkyūkai, Sekai ni tsūjiru kiki taiō: ISO 22320; 2013 (Tokyo: Nihon kikaku kyōkai, 2014). 56 Kiki kanri sangyōten 2013: Security & Safety Trade Expo 2013. October 2–5, 2013. Tokyo Bikku Saito. Author’s notes. 57 “Bōsai, BCP o sasaeru jūgyōin no sodatekata,” Risk Taisaku.Com, Vol. 49, May 2015. 58 Ibid., 10–14. 59 Ibid., 14–17. 60 Ibid., 18–21. 61 Ibid., 38–9. 62 Ibid., 40–5. 63 Harvey, A Brief History, 81–6. 64 Abe, “Nihon o torimodosu.” 65 Nikai, “Kokudo kyōjinka to iu ‘shisō,’” 11–14. 66 Nikai, “Kokudo kyōjinka sengen,” 24–33, 59–60. 67 Nikai, “Kokudo kyōjinka sengen sono 2,” 37–40. 68 Fujii, “Tsuyoku shinayakana kuni o mezashite,” 121. 69 Fujii, Kyōjinka no shisō, 32. 70 Fujii Satoshi, Kyūkoku no rejiriensu: “Rettō Kyōjinka” de GDP 900-chōen no Nippon ga umareru (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2012), 45. 71 Kadokawa Daisaku, “Nihon no ‘bunka no kyōjinka’ ni shisuru Kyoto no yakuwari,” in Jiyū Minshutō, Kokudo kyōjinka 2015-nenban, 121–34. 72 Fujii, Kyūkoku no rejiriensu, 57–8, 63–6. 73 Fujii, Kyōjinka no shisō, 56–7, 198–202. 74 As will be discussed in Chapter 3, both Koike and Inoguchi have been playing a visible role in promoting women’s participation in resilience-building in post–3.11 Japan. 75 Kokudo kyōjinka sōgō chōsakai, “Zadankai: Josei kokkai giin ga kangaeru kokudo no kyōjinka,” in Jiyū Minshutō, Kokudo kyōjinka sono 2, 694.

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76 Ibid., 697. 77 Ibid., 721. 78 For critical assessment of Yamatani and Inada and their conservative—antifeminist and far-right—views, see Nakano, “Political Dynamics,” 168, and Sven Saaler, “Nationalism and History in Contemporary Japan,” 181, in Kingston, ed., Asian Nationalism Reconsidered. 79 Weisenfeld, Imaging Disaster, 63–5; Schencking, The Great Kantō Earthquake, 32–5. 80 Tze May Loo, Heritage Politics: Shuri Castle and Okinawa’s Incorporation into Modern Japan, 1879–2000 (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2014), Chapter 2, 55–83. 81 Kantō Daishinsai 90-shūnen shuto bōsai wīku, “Semarikuru daijishin, Nihon o dō mamoru ka,” September 7, 2013. Tokyo-to Ireidō. Author’s note.

Chapter 3 1

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

11

12 13

an an, “Josei no tame no bōsai book: ‘moshimo’ no toki ni anata o mamotte kureru chie to mono—Girl’s Life Skill,” October 10, 2011. An updated version of the special issue was published in 2017 with the identical format and contents. Ibid., 8–9. Ibid., 10–11. Ibid., 13. Ibid., 25. Ibid., 44–5. an an, “Anata ni semaru onna no kiki,” No. 1844, 2013. Kunizaki Nobue, Shindo 7 kara kazoku o mamoru ie: bōsai gensai hando bukku (Tokyo: Ushio shuppan, 2010). Tsunagaru.com, ed., Kozure bōsai techō (Tokyo: Media fakutorī, 2012). Higashi Nihon Daishinsai josei nettowāku, “Konna shien ga hoshikatta!: genba ni manabu josei to tayō na nīzu ni hairyo shita saigai shien jireishū,” and “The Support We Wanted! A Collection of Good Practice in Disaster Response based on the East Japan Disaster.” Accessed July 1, 2016. http://risetogetherjp.org/?p=2189. Shushō Kantei, “Daisan-kai Kokuren Bōsai Sekai Kaigi hai reberu pātonāshippu daiarogu ni okeru Abe Naikaku Sōri Daijin supīchi,” March 14, 2015. Accessed June 19, 2019. https://www.kantei.go.jp/jp/97_abe/statement/2015/0314speech. html. Inderpal Grewal, Saving the Security State: Exceptional Citizens in Twenty-FirstCentury America (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017), 2. For discussions of “security mom” and “security feminist,” see Grewal, Saving the Security State, especially Chapter 4, “‘Security Moms’ and ‘Security Feminists’:

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Securitizing Family and State,” 118–43. For discussions of “security girl,” see, for example, the website of a US project called “Girl Security,” a program centered on mentoring of high school girls by national security experts. Accessed July 30, 2019. https://www.girlsecurity.org/. 14 Ibid., 6. 15 Girl Security, “About.” Accessed July 30, 2019. https://www.girlsecurity.org/about. 16 Grewal, Saving the Security State, 120. 17 Catherine Rottenberg, The Rise of Neoliberal Feminism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 56. 18 Pronounced in Japanese, “shine” would mean “die.” This ironic re-reading was provided when the Gender Equality Bureau of the Japanese government posted a new blog of Abe Shinzō in 2014 in which his pro-women advocacy was accompanied by the English phrase “Shine!” Chelsea Szendi Schieder, “Blood Ties: Intimate Violence in Shizō Abe’s Japan,” World Policy Journal, Vol. XXXIV, No. 3, 2017, 34. 19 Tokyo-to bōsai hōmu pēji, Tokyo kurashi bōsai. Accessed June 17, 2019. https:// www.bousai.metro.tokyo.lg.jp/_res/projects/default_project/_page_/001/005/746/ kurashi.pdf. 20 Kunizaki, Shindo 7, 68. 21 Abe Naomi, Hisai mama ni manabu chīsana bōsai no aidea 40 (Tokyo: Gakken purasu, 2018). 22 Kurowassan, “Josei mesen de sonaeru bōsai bukku” (Tokyo: Magajin hausu, 2017), 11. 23 Kunizaki Nobue, Jishin no junbi techō: jikanjiku de wakaru kokoroe to chie (Tokyo: NHK shuppan, 2011). 24 an an, “Josei no tame no bōsai book.” 25 Kusano Kaoru, 4-koma de sugu wakaru minna no bōsai hando bukku (Tokyo: Disukavā tuenti-wan, 2011), 215. For Kusano’s blogsite, see Kusano Karou no 4-koma bōsai. Accessed June 13, 2019. http://ikinokoru.info. 26 Kunizaki, Shindo 7, 42–60; Jishin no junbi techō, 16–17; Kyodai jishin kara kodomo o mamoru 50 no hōhō (Tokyo: Buronzu shinsha, 2012), 16–19. The same advice appears in many other guidelines. See, for example, Tokyo-to bōsai hōmu pēji, Tokyo kurashi bōsai, 28–43. 27 Kunizaki, Kyodai jishin, 18–21; Jishin no junbi techō, 27–35. Also see Kusano, 4-koma de sugu, 19; Tsunagaru.com, Kozure bōsai techō, 105. 28 Kunizaki, Shindo 7, 18–23; Kyodai jishin, 16–17. 29 Kurowassan, “Josei mesen de sonaeru bōsai bukku,” 54–79. 30 Kunizaki, Shindo 7, 26–37; Kyodai jishin, 48–63; Jishin no junbi techō, 36–9, 47–8, 51, 61–2; Oyako de yomou! Doraemon no jishin wa naze okoru dō mi o mamoru (Tokyo: Shōgakkan, 2011), 74–7; Kusano, 4-koma de sugu, 33–9.

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31 Fujimura Akiko, Shinsai petto o sukuu: 3.11 kara manabu “petto bōsaigaku” (Tokyo: Nagasaki shuppan, 2012). 32 Shōgakkan bōsai chīmu, Jishin, teiden, hōshanō, minna de ikinuku bōsai jutsu (Tokyo: Shōgakkan, 2011), 96–7. 33 Kunizaki, Kyodai jishin, 32–3; Kusano, 4-koma de sugu, 43. 34 Kunizaki, Shindo 7. 35 In the Cold War United States, Arthur Schlesinger Jr. criticized the nuclear shelter project as “a design for saving Republicans and sacrificing Democrats.” As he argued, the call for a nuclear shelter, where one would convert the basement into a defense site, excluded the working-class poor who did not possess such homes from the premise and promise of safety in the nuclear age. Davis, Stages of Emergency, 29. 36 Inoue Keiko, Dai jishin dai saigai ni tsuyoi ie zukuri, ie erabi (Tokyo: Asahi shinbun shuppan, 2011). 37 Kunizani, Oyako de yomou!, 66–7. 38 Kunizaki, Shindo 7, 70–1; Kyodai jishin, 78–9; Jishin no junbi techō, 40–1; Kusano, 4-koma de sugu, 188; Tsunagaru.com, Kozure bōsao techō, 106–7. 39 Tsunagaru.com, Kozure bōsao techō, 108–15. 40 MAMA-PLUG, “Akutivu bōsai.” Accessed June 17, 2019. https://www.active-bousai. com/about/bousaipicnic/. 41 The name of the facility combines a term, sonaeru (prepare), with another, area (space). 42 Sonarea. January 20, 2013. Author’s note. 43 Sonarea, “Kyodai jishin kara kodomo o mamoru seminā,” January 20, 2013. Author’s note. For more detailed discussions on Andō’s approach, see Andō Risu, Risu no shiki dayori: kazoku no egao o mamoru kurashi no chie (Nagano: Shinken shinbunsha, 2017). 44 Grewal, Saving the Security State, 11–12. 45 Imai Kesaharu, Iza to iu toki, yaku ni tatsu!: Otasuke-meshi (Tokyo: World Photo Press, 2011). 46 Ozaki Kiyoko, Itsudemo tabetai! Jieitai gohan (Tokyo: Ikarosu shuppan 2011). 47 Imai Kesaharu, Heishi no kyūshoku, rēshon, sekai no miri-meshi o jisshoku suru: Zoku miri-meshi okawari! (Tokyo: World Photo Press, 2008), 129–40. 48 FM Sendai “Saba-meshi kontesuto” jikkō iinkai, ed., Kasetto konro ichidai de tsukureru kantan! Sabaibaru gohan (Tokyo: Fusōsha, 2013). 49 Sakamoto Hiroko, Guratto kitemo awatenai! Jishin no toki no ryōri no waza (Tokyo: Shibata shoten, 2011), 42–4. 50 Ibid., 48–9. 51 Ibid., 59–60, 67–71. 52 Sakamoto Hiroko, Sūpā Shufu no setsuden reshipi (Tokyo: Shibata shoten, 2011).

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53 Sakamoto Hiroko, Sabaibaru kukkingu: donna toki demo tabenuku genki jutsu (Tokyo: Dainihon insatsu, 2011), 2–7. 54 Kusano, 4-koma de sugu, 124. 55 Sonarea, “Kyodai jishin kara kodomo o mamoru seminā,” January 20, 2013. Author’s note. For the profile of the organization, see Dakko to onbu no kenkyūjo, “Kenkyūjo annai.” Accessed June 29, 2019. https://babywearing.org/ babywearinglabo/. 56 Shōgakkan bōsai chīmu, ed., Jishin, tēden, hōshanō, 67. 57 Sakamoto Hiroko and Sakamoto Kana, Daidokoro bōsai jutsu (Tokyo: Nō-sangyoson bunka kyōkai, 2012), 143. 58 Ibid., 136–7. 59 Ibid., 142. 60 an an, “Josei no tame no bōsai book,” 62–3. 61 Kusano, 4-koma de sugu, 176. 62 Shōgakkan bōsai chīmu, Jishin, tēden hōshanō, 67. 63 Kusano, 4-koma de sugu, 168–77. 64 an an, “Josei no tame no bōsai book,” 32. 65 Kunizaki Nobue, “Kokudo kyōjinka: watashi no hitokoto vol. 2.” Accessed May 11, 2019. https://www.cas.go.jp/jp/seisaku/kokudo_kyoujinka/kouhou/vol_2/hitokoto. html 66 Andō Risu, “Kokudo kyōjinka: watashi no hitokoto vol. 15.” Accessed May 11, 2019. https://www.cas.go.jp/jp/seisaku/kokudo_kyoujinka/kouhou/vol_15/hitokoto.html 67 Tanaka Misa, “Kokudo kyōjinka: watashi no hitokoto vol. 6.” Accessed May 11, 2019. https://www.cas.go.jp/jp/seisaku/kokudo_kyoujinka/kouhou/vol_6/hitokoto. html. 68 Ōki Satoko, “Kokudo kyōjinka: watashi no hitokoto vol. 1.” Accessed May 11, 2019. https://www.cas.go.jp/jp/seisaku/kokudo_kyoujinka/kouhou/vol_1/hitokoto.html 69 Naikakufu danjo kyōdō sankakukyoku, “Learning from Adversity.” Accessed July 1, 2019. http://www.gender.go.jp/english_contents/mge/drr/pdf/learning_from_ adversity.pdf, 1. 70 Ibid., 2. 71 Ibid., 3–5. 72 Ibid., 6. 73 Ibid., 6–7. 74 Naikakufu danjo kyōdō sankakukyoku, “Check Sheet for Emergency Storage/ Evacuation Shelters.” Accessed July 1, 2019. http://www.gender.go.jp/english_ contents/mge/drr/pdf/check_sheet.pdf. 75 Naikakufu danjo kyōdō sankakukyoku, “Danjo kyōdō sankaku no shiten kara no bōsai, fukkō no torikumi shishin.” Accessed July 21, 2019. http://www.gender.go.jp/ policy/saigai/shishin/pdf/shishin.pdf, 2. 76 Ibid., 67.

Notes 77 78 79 80

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84 85

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Ibid., 68. Ibid., 54. Ibid., 72. Ōsawa Mari, 21-seiki no josei seisaku to Danjo Kyōdō Sankaku Shakai Kihonhō (Tokyo: Gyōsei, 2000); Suzuki Ayaka, Seki Megumi, and Hori Akiko, “Josei undō to gyōsei no kyōdō ni kansuru ichi kōsatsu: Nuiya Yōko to Danjo Kyōdō Sankaku bijon ni chakumoku shite,” Joseigaku kenkyū, Vol. 21, No. 3, 2014. For the behindthe-scene dynamics surrounding the passage of the 1999 act, see Ōsawa Mari and Ueno Chizuko, “Danjo Kyōdō Sankaku Shakai Kihonhō no mezasu mono: sakutei made no ura omote,” in Ueno Chizuko, Kawano Kiyomi, Adachi Mariko, Ōsawa Mari, Takemura Kazuko, eds., Radikaru ni katareba: Ueno Chizuko taidanshū (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2001), 10–77. Hotta Midori, ““Danjo Kyōdō Sankaku” to ‘Hinomaru’ Feminizumu to no ayaui kankei,” in Amano Masako, Inoue Kimio, Itō Ruri, Inoue Teruko, Ueno Chizuko, Ehara Yumiko, Ōsawa Mari, and Kanō Mikiyo, eds., Shinpen Nihon no Feminizumu 1: Ribu to Feminizumu (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 2009), 289–94; “Danjo Kyōdō Sankaku teki akurobatto,” Inpakushon, Vol. 131, July 2002, 106–9; Kanei Yoshiko, “Danjo Kyōdō Sankaku no ‘kihansei’ e no toi,” Yokohama shiritsu daigaku ronsō jinbun kagaku keiretsu, Vol. 68, No. 2, 2017, 145–6; Tomomi Yamaguchi, “‘Gender Free’ Feminism in Japan: A Story of Mainstreaming and Backlash,” Feminist Studies, Vol. 40, No. 3, 2014, 549. The special issue of Inpakushon, subtitled “Danjo kyōdō sankaku no shikaku to gosan,” Vol. 131, 2002, offers a range of critique of the policy. Carole Bacchi and Joan Eveline, “Mainstreaming and Neoliberalism: A Contested Relationship,” Policy and Society, Vol. 22, No. 2, 2003, 98–118; Susanna George, “Mainstreaming Gender as Strategy: A Critique from a Reluctant Gender Advocate,” Women in Action, No. 2, 2004, 72–3; Association for Women’s Rights in Development (AWID), “Gender Mainstreaming: Can It Work for Women’s Rights?” Spotlight, No. 3, November 2004. Accessed May 5, 2019. https://www.awid.org/ sites/default/files/atoms/files/spotlight_-_gender_mainstreaming_-_can_it_work_ for_womens_rights.pdf. Muta Kazue, “Feminizumu no rekishi kara miru shakai undō no kanōsei,” Shakaigaku hyōron, Vol. 57, No. 2, 2006, 292–309; Minakawa Masumi, “‘Danjo Kyōdō Sankaku seisaku’ wa ima dokoni irunoka,” Joseigaku, Vol. 16, 2008, 25–39; Liv Coleman, “Will Japan ‘Lean In’ to Gender Equality?” U.S.–Japan Women’s Journal, No. 49, 2016, 3–25; Chelsea Szendi Schieder, “Womenomics vs. Women: Neoliberal Cooptation of Feminism in Japan,” Meiji Journal of Political Science and Economics, Vol. 3, 2014, 53–60; Kikuchi Natsuno, Nihon no posuto feminizumu: “joshiryoku” to neoriberarizumu (Tokyo: Ōtsuki shoten, 2019). Katja Valaskivi, “A Brand New Future?: Cool Japan and the Social Imaginary of the Branded Nation,” Japan Forum, Vol. 25, No. 4, 2013, 485–504. Coleman, “Will Japan ‘Lean in’?”

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86 Keiko Kaizuma, “The Contradictions of the ‘Utilization of Women’: NeoliberalNeoconservative Government and Its Use of Women of the Global Middle Class,” Voices from Japan, No. 28, March 2014, 7–12. 87 For issues concerning gender inequality and disparity emerging in the aftermath of the 1995 disaster, see, for example, Wuimenzu Netto Kōbe, ed., Saigai to josei: bōsai, fukkō ni josei no sankaku o (Kōbe: Wuimenzu netto Kōbe, 2005). For a general history of women, disaster, and political mobilization from 1995 to 2011, see Fumie Saitō, “Women and the 2011 East Japan Disaster,” Gender and Development, Vol. 2, No. 2, 2012, 266–7. 88 For a summary view of the 6.11 Symposium, see Ōsawa Mari, “Nihon Gakujutsu Kaigi no Higashi Nihon Daishinsai e no taiō to jendā no shiten,” Gakujutsu no dōkō, October 2013, 30–5. 89 For the 6.11 Symposium’s proceedings, comprising records (kiroku-hen) and documents (shiryō-hen), see Ōsawa Mari, Dōmoto Akiko, and Yamaji Kumiko, eds., “Saigai, fukkō to danjo kyōdō sankaku 6.11 shinpojiumu.” Accessed July 1, 2013. https://gcoe.iss.u-tokyo.ac.jp/2011/12/gcoe-1.html. For PowerPoint presentations of the select speakers at the event, see Nihon gakujutsu kaigi, “Kōkai kōen shinpojiumu hōkoku, 6.11 shinpo no hōkoku.” Accessed September 24, 2012. http://www.scj.go.jp/ja/event/houkoku/110611houkoku.html. 90 Ōsawa, Dōmoto, and Yamaji, eds., “Saigai, fukkō to danjo kyōdō sankaku 6.11 shinpojiumu (kiroku-hen),” 10–17. 91 Ibid., 49–53. 92 Ibid., 27, 63. 93 Ibid., 20–2. 94 Ibid., 11, 15. 95 Ibid., 58–61. 96 Ibid., 35–6. 97 For an account of feminist mobilization triggered by the 6.11 Symposium culminating in “feminist triumph,” see the document section of the symposium proceedings. Ōsawa, Dōmoto, and Yamaji, eds., “Saigai, Fukkō to danjo kyōdō sankaku 6.11 symposium (shiryō-hen). Also see the publications related to Japan Women’s Network for Disaster Reduction discussed below. 98 Higashi Nihon Daishinsai josei shien nettowāku, “Konna shien ga hoshikatta!” and “The Support We Wanted!” 99 See, for example, the special issue of Biocity, “Tokushū: Saigai to jendā—josei no shiten o ikashita bōsai, saigai shien, fukkō,” Vol. 67, 2016, 8–77. 100 JWNDRR, “Women as a Force for Change: Gender and Disaster Risk Reduction.” Accessed May 15, 2019. http://jwndrr.sakura.ne.jp/jp/wp-content/ uploads/2014/11/201411_pamphlet.pdf. 101 Akiko Dōmoto, “How We Wrote Gender Perspective into Japan’s Disaster Legislation,” in JWNDRR, Disaster Risk Reduction: A Japanese Women’s Perspective

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on 3/11, Presentation to the Fourth Global Platform for Disaster Risk Reduction, Geneva, May 19–23, 2013, 6–9. For a similar narrative, see Dōmoto’s keynote speech at the international symposium organized by the National Women’s Education Center of Japan (NWEC) on October 29, 2011. Akiko Dōmoto, “Kichō koen: Danjo Kyōdo Sankaku no shiten kara mita saigai to fukkō, Higashi Nihon Daishinsai ni manabu,” Kokuritsu josei kyōiku kaikan, ed., NWEC International Symposium: Disaster Restoration and Gender, 2011, 15–24. Author’s Collections. 102 Hiroko Hara, “Gender Issues in Disaster Prevention, Disaster Relief and the Reconstruction Process in Japan” in JWNDRR, “Disaster Risk Reduction,” 21. 103 Rottenberg, The Rise of Neoliberal Feminism, 75–8. 104 Ibid., 54.

Chapter 4 Hiroko Tabuchi, “In Search of Adorable, as Hello Kitty Gets Close to Goodbye,” The New York Times, May 14, 2010. Accessed November 16, 2018. https://www.nytimes. com/2010/05/15/business/global/15kitty.html. 2 “Kokoro ni hibiku sekai saijaku no hīrō Anpanman no seigi: Yanase Takashi-san ni kiku,” Nikkei Trendy Net, June 17, 2011. Accessed September 2, 2016. https://trendy. nikkeibp.co.jp/article/pickup/20110527/1035910/. 3 Yanase Takashi, Boku wa sensō wa daikirai (Tokyo: Shōgakkan, 2013). 4 Yanase Takashi, Yanase Takashi Daizen: Takashi Yanase on Stage (Tokyo: Furōberukan, 2013). 5 “NHK kurōzu appu gendai: Anpanman ni takushita yume—ningen Yanase Takashi,” originally aired October 30, 2013. Accessed September 2, 2016. https://www.nhk.or.jp/gendai/articles/3423/1.html. 6 “Shinsai Kyūjo Katsudō Ōenka.” Accessed May 1, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=0ih1hT0Vlxw. 7 “Daigakusei ga bōsai rajio hajimemashita.” Accessed December 18, 2018. http://bousairadio.net/program/index.html. 8 Sonarea, Tokyo. Author’s note, January 20, 2013. 9 Juvenile culture was also a salient site of discursive dynamics in pre-1945 Japan, where children were mobilized to promote the nation’s expansionist cause. See, for example, Japan Forum’s special issue, “Children, Education, and Media in Japan and Its Empire,” Vol. 28, 2016. For an excellent pictorial account of school textbooks, juvenile magazines, and children’s toys and games (including karuta and sugoroku) that played a part in mobilizing youth, see Kuboi Norio, E de yomu Dai Nihon Teikoku no kodomotachi: senjō e sasotta kyōiku, asobi, sesō bunka (Tokyo: Tsuge shobō shinsha, 2006). For a historical account of children, militarism, and 1

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12

13

14 15

16 17

18 19

Notes culture from the late nineteenth century to the present, see Sabine Fruhstuck, Playing War: Children and the Paradoxes of Modern Militarism in Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2017). Gwyn Kirk and Margo Okazawa-Rey, “Neoliberalism, Militarism, and Armed Conflict,” Social Justice, Vol. 27, No. 4, 2000, 1–17. For critical discussions of the ideological work that “childhood innocence” performs, see Henry Giroux, Stealing Innocence: Youth, Corporate Power, and the Politics of Culture (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2000), 2. For the significance of children in post–9.11 securitization politics in the United States, where the narrative of child protection generated an unlikely alliance between conservative ideologues and feminist activists, see Paul Renfro, “‘Hunting These Predators’: The Gender Politics of Child Protection in the Post–9/11 Era,” Feminist Studies, Vol. 44, No. 3, 2018, 567–99. Keita Takayama, “Global ‘Diffusion,’ Banal Nationalism, and the Politics of Policy Legitimation: A Genealogical Study of ‘Zest for Living’ in Japanese Education Policy Discourse,” in Pertti Alasuutari and Ali Qadir, eds., National Policy-Making: Domestication of Global Trends (New York: Routledge, 2014), 131. Government of Japan Public Relations Office, “Made in New Japan: The Miracle of Kamaishi.” Accessed November 18, 2018. https://mnj.gov-online.go.jp/kamaishi. html. Katada Toshitaka, Kodomotachi ni “Ikinuku Chikara” o: Kamaishi no jirei ni manabu tsunami bōsai kyōiku (Tokyo: Furēberukan, 2012). In addition to several documentary programs, an NHK crew led by the female producer Fukuda Kazuyo published a number of books on the event. See NHK supesharu shuzaihan, Kamaishi no kiseki: donna bōsai kyōiku ga kodomo no “inochi” o sukuerunoka? (Tokyo: Īsuto puresu, 2015). For its illustrated version, see NHK shuzaihan and Katada Toshitaka, Minna o mamoru inochi no jugyō: Ōtsunami to Kamaishi no kodomotachi (Tokyo: NHK shuppan, 2012). For the manga version of the story, see NHK supesharu shuzaihan, Anime-ban Kamaishi no kiseki: inochi o mamoru jugyō (Tokyo: Shin Nihon shuppansha, 2014). NHK supesharu shuzaihan, Kamaishi no kiseki, 128–39. Nonaka, who taught at the National Defense Academy (Bōei Daigaku) from 1979 to 1982, co-edited a volume, Shippai no honshitsu: Nihongun no soshikiteki kenkyū, in 1984, which provides organizational analysis of the Japanese Imperial Army and its failures during the Second World War. NHK supesharu shuzaihan, Kamaishi, 242–8. Monbu kagakushō, “Higashi Nihon Daishinsai o uketa bōsai kyōiku, bōsai kanri tō ni kansuru yūshikisha kaigi, ‘Chūkan torimatome,’” September 30, 2011. Accessed November 12, 2018. http://www.mext.go.jp/b_menu/shingi/chousa/sports/012/ toushin/1311688.htm.

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20 Monbu kagakushō, Heisei 23-nendo Monbu kagaku hakusho: Higashi Nihon Daishinsai kara no fukkyū, fukkō – hito zukuri kara hajimaru sōzōteki fukkō (Tokyo: Saeki insatsu kabushikigaisha, 2012), 25, 54–5. Accessed November 1, 2018. http:// www.mext.go.jp/b_menu/hakusho/html/hpab201201/1324356.htm. 21 Monbu kagakushō, Gakkō bōsai no tame no sankō shiryō: ‘Ikiru chikara’ o hagukumu bōsai kyōiku no tenkai, 2013. Accessed November 1, 2018. http://www.mext.go.jp/component/a_menu/education/detail/__icsFiles/ afieldfile/2018/12/25/1334780_01.pdf. This document is an updated version of the similarly titled “The Safety Education at School for ‘Zest for Living’” (“Ikiru Chikara” o hagukumu gakkō deno anzen kyōiku) published in 2001 and 2010. 22 Ibid., 6, 9, and 11. 23 Ibid., 52. 24 Ibid., 96–9. 25 Ibid., 108–9. 26 Ibid., 82–3. 27 Ibid., 149–54. 28 Ibid., 134. 29 Ibid., 54–6. 30 Ibid., 91–3. 31 Ibid., 130–1. 32 For a genealogical account of the origin and development of “zest for living,” see Takayama, “Global ‘diffusion,’” 140. For a study of development of “lifelong learning” in Japan, see Akihiro Ogawa, Lifelong Learning in Neoliberal Japan: Risk, Community, and Knowledge (Albany: SUNY Press, 2015). 33 Chouaib El Bouhali, “The OECD Neoliberal Governance: Policies of International Testing and Their Impact on Global Education Systems,” in Ali Abdi, Lynette Shultz, and Thashika Pillay, eds., Decolonizing Global Citizenship Education (Rotterdam, Netherlands: Sense Publishers, 2015), 119–30. 34 Takayama, “Global ‘diffusion,’” 137–8. 35 The Ministry of Education and the National institute for Educational Policy (NIER) were involved in the initial construction of PISA. See Takayama, “Global ‘diffusion,’” 130. 36 Heinz-Dieter Meyer and Katie Zahedi, and signatories, “An Open Letter: To Andreas Schleicher, OECD, Paris,” Global Policy Journal, Vol. 12, No. 7, May 5, 2014. 37 For the argument that neoliberalism necessarily gives rise to conservative nationalism in the twenty-first-century context, see Harvey, A Brief History. 38 Keita Takayama, “Japan’s Ministry of Education ‘Becoming the Right’: Neo-Liberal Restructuring and the Ministry’s Struggles for Political Legitimacy,” Globalisation, Societies and Education, Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2008, 134–7. 39 For the global rise of neoliberalism and neoconservatism in the field of education, see Michael Apple, “Between Neoliberalism and Neoconservatism: Education and

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42

43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53

54 55 56

Notes Conservatism in a Global Context,” in Nicholas Burbules and Carlos Torres, eds., Globalization and Education: Critical Perspectives (New York: Routledge, 2000), 57–77; “Understanding and Interrupting Neoliberalism and Neoconservatism in Education,” Pedagogies, Vol. 1, No. 1, 2006, 21–6. For the project’s outline, see its website, OECD Tōhoku Sukūru. Accessed October 1, 2018. http://oecdtohokuschool.sub.jp/. For an article written by Gabor Halasz, Hungarian education policy specialist and participant in the project, see “The OECD-Tohoku School Project (A case of educational change and innovation in Japan).” Accessed October 13, 2018. http://oecdtohokuschool.sub.jp/_src/sc820/ oecd938c96k83x83n815b838b83v838d83w83f83n83g95f18d908f91814083k837b 815b81e83n838b83u83x81i91e6394c581j81i93fa967b8cea94c581j.pdf. For a perspective of adult participants from Japan, see Miura Hiroki, Nanashima Takayuki, and Murashige Shin’ichirō, “OECD Tōhoku Sukūru no torikumi to sono kyōiku kōka,” Fukushima Daigaku chiiki sōzō, Vol. 26, No. 2, February 2015, 7915–40. Dave Hill, “Books, Banks and Bullets: Controlling Our Minds—the Global Project of Imperialistic and Militaristic Neo-liberalism and Its Effect on Education Policy,” Policy Futures in Education, Vol. 2, No. 3&4, 2004, 504–22. For the discussions of Tōhoku as Japan’s “Other,” see Nathan Hopson, Ennobling Japan’s Savage Northeast: Tōhoku as Postwar Thought, 1945–2011 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2017). Miura et al., “OECD,” 7920. Ibid., 7917. Ibid., 7918. OECD Tōhoku Sukūru, “Andoreasu Shuraihyā shi kouenkai, ’13.2.4.” Accessed November 15, 2018. http://oecdtohokuschool.sub.jp/schleicher.html. Ibid., 9–10. OECD Tōhoku Sukūru, “Tōhoku fukkōsai Wa in Paris.” Accessed October 1, 2018. http://oecdtohokuschool.sub.jp/_src/sc737/fukkousai_report.pdf. Gunewardena and Schuller, eds., Capitalizing on Catastrophe. Miura et al., “OECD Tōhoku Sukūru no torikumi,” 7932. Ibid., 7923–4. Halasz, “The OECD-Tohoku School Project,” 21–3. The videos are available on the home page of Japan Innovative Schools Network (ISN) supported by the OECD, a research consortium established following the conclusion of the OECD Tohoku School. Accessed December 16, 2018. https://innovativeschools.jp/en/archive/oecd_tohoku_school/. OECD Tōhoku sukūru, “Tōhoku fukkōsai WA in Paris.” Taguma Miho, “OECD Interview Education 2030: Kagi wa Nihon no kyōiku genba ni koso sonzai shite imasu,” Career Guidance, Vol. 412, 2016, 30–3. Japan Innovative Schools Network. Accessed on December 22, 2018. https://innovativeschools.jp/.

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57 See, for example, Miyajima Shigeki, Saiki (Tokyo: KK besto serāzu, 2011), 76–8, 82–3, 108–11. 58 Hirano Hirofumi, “Shingakki o mukaeru minasan e,” reprinted in MEXT, Heisei 23-nendo Monbu Kagakushō Hakusho, 56. 59 Jieitai Kyoto chihō kyōryoku honbu kōhō ibento, “Sōgō gakushū moderu puran.” Accessed on November 7, 2018. https://www.mod.go.jp/pco/kyoto/kouhoushitsu/ gakushumodel.html. 60 Shinbun Akahata, “Toritsukō no Jieitai kunren ga nokoshita mono,” August 14, 2013. Accessed on November 7, 2018. https://www.jcp.or.jp/akahata/aik13/201308-14/2013081413_01_1.html. 61 Meguro Gakuin, “Meguro Gakuin hairaito: sōgōteki na gakushū jikan ‘bōsai kyōiku’ Jieitai Nerima chūtonchi bōsai taiken gakushū.” Accessed on November 4, 2018. http://www.meguro.ac.jp/junior/highlight/2017/09/bousai_kyoiku_jieitai. html. 62 Bōeishō Jieitai, Jieitai Kids Site.” Accessed on August 1, 2018. http://www.mod. go.jp/j/kids/. 63 Bōeishō Jieitai, “Kids Site: Bōeishō Jieitai no ninmu.” Accessed on August 1, 2018. http://www.mod.go.jp/j/kids/understand/duty.html. 64 For a brief summary of the video’s storyline, also see Frühstück, Playing War, 165–7. 65 See, for example, Matthew Brummer, “Japan: The Manga Military: How Japan’s ‘Creative Industrial Complex’ Is Using Manga to Shape Public Perceptions,” The Diplomat, January 19, 2016. Accessed October 30, 2018. https://thediplomat. com/2016/01/japans-creative-industrial-complex/; Katherine Chin, “Japan’s Military-Manga Complex,” Brown Political Review, March 10, 2016. Accessed October 30, 2018. http://www.brownpoliticalreview.org/2016/03/japans-militarymanga-complex/. 66 For a critical assessment of the history of gender in the JSDF, see Satō Fumika, Gunji soshiki to jendā: Jieitai no joseitachi (Tokyo: Keiō gijuku daigaku shuppan, 2004). 67 Schieder, “Womenomics vs. Women.” 68 Frühstück, Playing War, Chapter 4: “Queering War,” 165–210. 69 Bōeishō Jieitai, Heisei 23-nendo ban manga de yomu bōei hakusho: Higashi Nihon Daishinsai ni okeru Jieitai no saigai haken katsudō, 2012. Accessed on November 1, 2018. http://www.mod.go.jp/j/publication/wp/comic/h23/index.html. For a summary of its storyline, see Frühstück, Playing War, 174–5. 70 Bōeishō Jieitai, Heisei 23-nendo ban manga, 15. 71 Ibid., 40. 72 Ibid., 36. 73 Ibid., 50–1. 74 Ibids., 49.

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75 Bōeishō Jieitai, “Kodomo Kasumigaseki kengaku dē, Pikurusu ōji to Paseri-chan no Ichigaya tanken tsuā.” Accessed November 1, 2018. http://www.mod.go.jp/j/ kids/activity/tour.html. Also see “Prince Pickles and Miss Parsley Tour at the MOD 2017,” JDF-Japan Defense Focus, No. 91, August 2017. Accessed November 15, 2018. http://www.mod.go.jp/e/jdf/no91/web-only.html. 76 See, for example, Miyajima Shigeki, Fushō Miyajima senjō de meshi kuu! (Tokyo: Wārudo foto puresu, 2008); and Kikuzuki Toshiyuki, Sekai no miri-meshi o jisshoku suru—heishi no kyūshoku rēshon (Tokyo: Wārudo foto puresu, 2006). 77 A statement by MOD official Yanagi Shōtarō quoted in Hiroko Tabuchi, “Prince Pickles’ Charm Offensive: SDF Deploys Perky Mascot to Boast Cuddly Image,” The Japan Times, February 21, 2007. Accessed November 16, 2018. https://www. japantimes.co.jp/news/2007/02/21/national/sdf-deploys-perky-mascot-to-boastcuddly-image/#.XX_uwS5KjIU. 78 Bōeishō Jieitai, “Pikurusu Ōji heiwa e no tabi.” Accessed August 21, 2016. https:// www.mod.go.jp/j/publication/book/pamphlet/pdf/pickles.pdf; “Pikurusu Ōji Jieitai nikki.” Accessed August 21, 2016. https://www.mod.go.jp/j/publication/book/ pamphlet/pdf/pnikki1.pdf; “Pikurusu Ōji Jieitai nikki 2” Accessed August 21, 2016. https://www.mod.go.jp/j/publication/book/pamphlet/pdf/pnikki2.pdf. For a detailed summary of the plot, see Frühstück, Uneasy Warriors, 128–38. 79 Kusagaya, 3.11 o kokoro ni. 80 Matsuyama Rena, Genbaku to Genpatsu (Tokyo: Kodomo no Miraisha, 2013). 81 Koide Hiroaki, Zukai: Genpatsu no uso (Tokyo: Fusōsha, 2012). 82 Anzai Ikurō, ed., Bikini suibaku hisai jiken no shinsō: Daigo Fukukyū-maru monogatari (Kyoto: Kamogawa shuppan, 2014). Daigo Fukukyū-maru (Lucky Dragon) was a Japanese tuna fishing boat that was contaminated by nuclear fallout from the US nuclear testing at Bikini Atoll on March 1, 1954. 83 Kids Voice, ed., Fukushima no kodomotachi kara no tegami (Tokyo: Asahi shinbun shuppan, 2012). 84 Will kodomo chiiku kenkyūjo, ed., Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon 3-gatsu 11-nichi, Vols. 1–8 (Tokyo: Gakken kyōiku shuppan, 2013); Gakken kyōiku shuppan, ed., Higashi Nihon Daishinsai. 85 Will kodomo chiiku kenkyūjo, ed., “Futatsu no yūki,” in Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon, Vol. 6: Tasukeau hitotachi, 4–25. 86 Gakken purasu, Futatsu no yūki: takusan no inochi o sukutta oishasan no hanashi (Tokyo: Gakken purasu, 2013). 87 Whereas the numbers of male and female protagonists are about even in Telling Tales, efforts toward gender equality fall precipitously when older readers are targeted, as in 100 Stories, where stories featuring men far outnumber those involving women. 88 Will kodomo chiiku kenkyūjo, ed., “Auto doa gientai shutsudō!” in Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon, Vol. 6: Tasukeau hitotachi, 26–47.

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89 Gakken kyōiku shuppan, ed., “Gareki to honō no umi o norikoete: shinise ryokan shujin no seikan to kyūjo katsudō,” in Higashi Nihon Daishinsai, Vol. 1: Sonohi, 7–31. 90 Will kodomo chiiku kenkyūjo, ed., “‘Nerima no yu’ de yasuragi o,” in Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon, Vol. 7: Hirogaru shien no wa, 26–43. 91 Gakken kyōiku shuppan, ed., “Sokoni wa nani mo nakatta. Kyūjo heri kara mita hisaichi,” in Higashi Nihon Daishinsai, Vol. 3: Ikiru koto o, ikiru tameni, 7–29. 92 Gakken kyōiku shuppan, ed., “Senjō de okonawareta sotsugyōshiki, Ōshima no kodomotachi to Kaijō Jieitai,” in Higashi Nihon Daishinsai, Vol. 3: Ikiru koto o, ikiru tameni, 55–77. 93 Gakken kyōiku shuppan, ed., “Ima ganbaranakute itsu ganbarunda. Rikujō Jieitai kesshi no kyūjo katsudō,” in Higashi Nihon Daishinsai, Vol. 3: Ikirukoto o, ikiru tameni, 31–53. 94 Gakken kyōiku shuppan, ed., “Zenryoku de anatatachi o tasukemasu. Amerika Kaiheitai Operēshon ‘Tomodachi’” in Higashi Nihon Daishinsai, Vol. 4: Tasukeau koto, 173–96. 95 “31st Marine Expeditionary Unit: Ready, Partnered, Lethal,” Marines: The Official History of the United States Marine Corps. Accessed October 5, 2016. http://www.31stmeu.marines.mil/About/History/. 96 Following 3.11, Okinawans have expressed a sense of ambivalence about the celebration of the US military on mainland Japan. See, for example, Tōbaru Kazuhiko, “Shinsaigo no guntai to Mea no suimyaku,” in Chinen Ushi, Yogi Hidetake, Shiitada Atsushi, and Tōbaru Kazuhiko, eds., Tōsōsuru kyōkai: fukkigo sedai no Okinawa kara no hōkoku (Tokyo: Miraisha, 2012), 188–96. 97 Will kodomo chiiku kenkyūjo, ed., “Yoshi bāchan no kamishibai,” in Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon, Vol. 2: Nigero! Tsunamida!, 26–43. 98 Tabata Yoshi, Obāchan no kamishibai: tsunami (Tokyo: Sankei shinbun shuppan, 2011). 99 Will kodomo chiiku kenkyūjo, ed., “Fukkō no shirushi, ‘Sōma nomaoi,’” in Kataritsugi ohanashi ehon, Vol. 8: Furusato o torimodosu!, 4–21. 100 Gakken kyōiku shuppan, ed., “Saisei to fukkō ni mukatte: Fukushima-ken Sōma Nomaoi,” in Higashi Nihon Daishinsai, Vol. 9: Saisei to fukkō ni mukatte, 213–39. 101 Alexander de Waal, “Foreward,” in Gunewardena and Schuller, eds., Capitalizing on Catastrophe, xi.

Chapter 5 1 2

For the official website of the Spa Resort Hawaiians, see Supa Rizōto Hawaianzu. Accessed March 24, 2018. https://www.hawaiians.co.jp/. Shimizu Kazutoshi, Hura Gāru 3.11: tsunagaru kizuna (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2011), 166.

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Haraigawa Manabu, Hura Gāru to inu no Choko: Higashi Nihon Daishinsai de hisaishita inu no monogatari (Tokyo: Hāto shuppan, 2012). 4 Gakken kyōiku shuppan, “Kansha no omoi o idaki mae ni susumu. Fukushima-ken Iwaki-shi Hura Gāru no fukkatsu,” in Higashi Nihon Daishinsai, Vol. 5: Hōshanō to no kakutō, 171–96. 5 Shimizu Kazutoshi, “Tōhoku no Hawai” wa naze V-ji kaifuku shitanoka: Sūpā Rizōto Hawaianzu no kiseki (Tokyo: Shūeisha shinsho, 2018). 6 See, for example, “Kachū no hito, Saitō Kazuhiko Jōban Kōsan shachō no kokuhaku: Hura Gāru wa nigenai,” Nikkei Business,Vol. 1619, December 5, 2011, 56–8; “Kyū Jōban Tankō no atochi ni dekita Supa Rizōto Hawaianzu ga daishinsai o norikoerareta riyū,” Zaikai, Vol. 62, No. 3, 2014, 28–31; “Ima o kataru, ‘Ichizan Ikka’ no kizuna ga tsuruku Hura Gāru no kagayaki,” Shōkō jānaru, Vol. 43, No. 3, 2017, 62–5. 7 Shun’ya Yoshimi, Yume no genshiryoku: Atoms for Peace (Tokyo: Chikuma shobō, 2012), 10–12. 8 Ogata Yūdai and Shima Yasuhiko, “Ryōheika to Fukushima, nagori oshimu mikkakan, hatsunetsu no kōgō sama ga hana o,” Asahi shinbun digital, July 5, 2018. Accessed June 2, 2019. https://www.asahi.com/articles/ASL6J7KPJL6JUTIL020. html. 9 Yoshimi, Yume no genshiryoku, 9–10. He points out a stunning similarity in visual representations of the two emperors, as each appeared in a scene of destruction to express care, sympathy, and compassion for those afflicted by disaster. Visible in both scenes was the presence of the US military, participating in post-disaster recovery and reconstruction during the US occupation of Japan (1945–52) and Operation Tomodachi (2011), respectively. 10 For the concept of “hula circuits,” see Imada, Aloha America. For critical analysis of hula, gender, and empire, see, in addition, Jane Desmond, Staging Tourism: Bodies on Display from Waikiki to Sea World (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999); Haunani Kay Trask, “Lovely Hula Hands: Corporate Tourism and the Prostitution of Hawaiian Culture,” Border/Lines, Vol. 23, Winter 1991/1992, 22–34; Amy Ku‘uleialoha Stillman, “Globalizing Hula,” Yearbook for Traditional Music, Vol. 31, 1999, 57–66. For a historical review of Japanese perceptions of Hawai‘i since the turn of the twentieth century, see Yujin Yaguchi, Akogare no Hawai: Nihonjin no Hawai kan (Tokyo: Chūō kōron shinsha, 2011); and “Longing for Paradise through ‘Authentic’ Hula Performance in Contemporary Japan,” Japanese Studies, Vol. 35, No. 3, 2015, 303–15. 11 Robert Jacobs, “Nuclear Conquistadors: Military Colonialism in Nuclear Test Site Selection during the Cold War,” Asian Journal of Peace Building, Vol. 1, No. 2, 2013, 157–88; Teaiwa, “bikinis and other s/pacific n/oceans,” 87–109. 12 Haraigawa, Fura Gāru, 19–26. 3

Notes 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

165

Ibid., 44–55. Ibid., 55–71. Ibid., 73–80, 117–32. Ibid., 113–17. Ibid., 134–42. Gakken kenyū shuppan, “Kansha no omoi,” 178. Ibid., 187. Ibid., 184. Idid., 194–5. Moana means sea or ocean. Ibid., 185. Ibid., 180. Ibid., 195–6. Shimizu, “Tōhoku no Hawai,” 54–6. Ibid., 56–7. Ibid., 60. Jōban kyōdō karyoku 50-nenshi henshū iinakai, ed., “50-nen no ayumi”1955–2005: hito to jigyō no kiroku (Tokyo: Jōban kyōdō karyoku kabushiki gaisha, 2005), 45. Shimizu, “Tōhoku no Hawai,” 61–6. Ibid., 68–9. Ibid., 70–4. Ibid., 77–80. Ibid., 85. Ibid., 90. Ibid., 27–39. Ibid., 16–17. Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Japan, the 7th Pacific Islands Leaders Meeting (PALM7). Accessed February 5, 2019. https://www.mofa.go.jp/a_o/ocn/ page23e_000427.html. Shimizu, “Tōhoku no Hawai,” 45–8. Kokudo kōtsūshō, “Saitō Kazuhiko.” Accessed February 16, 2019. https://www.mlit. go.jp/kankocho/shisaku/jinzai/charisma/mr_saito_k.html. “Kachū no hito,” Nikkei Business. Shimizu, “Tōhoku no Hawai,” 140–1. Ibid., 143–6. Ibid., 156–7. Ibid., 191. Ibid., 147–55. Fukushima-ken seikatsu kankyō-bu danjo kyōsei-ka.,“Kiratto Fukushima.” Accessed February 22, 2019. https://www.kirattofukushima.jp/support/support.htm l?id=41&mode=&key1=&key2=&key3=

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47 “Ima o kataru,” Shōkō jānaru. 48 Shimizu “Tōhoku no Hawai,” 196–8. 49 Shimazaki Naoko, “Jōban Tankō no chiikiteki tokusei to sono kyūshūryoku: santanchi hikaku kenkyū ni mukete no seiri,” Shakai jōhō, Vol. 19, No. 2, 2010, 183–5. 50 Hopson, Ennobling Japan’s Savage Northeast, 2. 51 Ikari Katsumi, Hawaian sentā monogatari (Tokyo: Jōban kōsan kabushiki gaisha, 2002), 163. 52 The unequal relations between Tokyo and Tōhoku, where the peripheral community functioned as a supplier of essential resources (coal) to the nation’s center prior to 1945, continued in the postwar decades. In the 1960s, Fukushima was selected as one of the sites for nuclear energy production in Japan. The construction of nuclear power plants in Fukushima, for which the US Cold War campaign “Atoms for Peace” provided rhetorical justification, and US technologies and technicians the material underpinnings, turned Fukushima into a provider of nuclear energy for consumers in the nation’s center, whose lives were at a safe distance from the potential and as made evident in 3.11 real and lethal dangers of nuclear energy production. Kaimuna Hiroshi, “Fukushima” ron: Genshiryoku mura wa naze umaretanoka (Tokyo: Seidosha, 2011), 188–92; Yoshimi, Yume no genshiryoku, 19–46. 53 Yamada Shōji, Koshō Tadashi, and Higuchi Yūichi, eds., Chōsenjin senji rōdō dōin (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 2005). For the dispute between the Japanese and Korean governments over wartime labor mobilization, see, for example, “Foreign Minister Taro Kono Calls on South Korea to Take ‘Firm and Resolute’ Action After Ruling on Wartime Forced Labor,” The Japan Times, October 31, 2018. Accessed February 16, 2019. https://www.japantimes.co.jp/news/2018/10/31/national/crimelegal/south-korean-supreme-court-orders-japan-firm-compensate-wartime-forcedlaborers/#.XX74RS5KjIU. 54 For testimonials of Korean laborers who were mobilized to a variety of industries in wartime Japan, including coal, construction, manufacturing, and the military, see, for example, “Hyakumannin no shinse taryon” henshū iinkai, ed., Hyakumannin no shinse taryon: Chōsenjin kyōsei renkō, kyōsei rōdō no “han” (Osaka: Tōhō shuppan, 1999), and Chōsenjin kyōsei renkō shinsō chōsadan, ed., Kyōsei renkō sareta Chōsenjin no shōgen (Tokyo: Akashi shoten, 1992). For the accounts provided by former Korean miners who worked in Jōban, see Yamada Shōji, ed., Chōsenjin kyōsei dōin kankei shiryō 1 (Tokyo: Ryokuin shobō, 2012); Tatsuta Kōji, “Jōban Tanden Chōsenjin senji dōin higaisha to izoku kara no kikitori chōsa,” Zainichi Chōsenjinshi kenkyū, Vol. 39, 2009, 105–36; Nagasawa Shigeru, “Senjika Jōban Tanden ni okeru Chōsenjin kōfu no rōdō to tatakai,” Shien, Vol. 47, No. 1, 1987, 1–13; “Senjika Jōban Tanden ni okeru Chōsenjin kōfu no rōdō to tatakai (2),” Shien, Vol. 47, No. 2, 1988, 61–94. 55 Nagasawa, “Senjika Jōban Tanden (2),” 69–70.

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56 Nagasawa, “Senjika Jōban Tanden,” 27, 30. 57 Ibid., 5. 58 Tatsuta, “Jōban Tanden Chōsenjin,” 117–18. 59 Nagasawa, “Senjika Jōban Tanden (2),” 64. 60 Ibid., 65. 61 Nagasawa, “Senjika Jōban Tanden,” 24. 62 Yamada, Chosenjin kyōsei dōin, 234. 63 Nagasawa, “Senjika Jōban Tanden (2),” 65. 64 Ibid., 77–8. 65 Yamada, Chōsenjin kyōsei dōin, 235. 66 “Ima o kataru,” Shōkō jānaru, 63–4. 67 Jennifer Robertson, Takarazuka: Sexual Politics and Popular Culture in Modern Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 4–5, 90. 68 Shimizu, “Tōhoku no Hawai,” 92. 69 Ibid., 86. 70 Ikari, Hawaian sentā, 81. 71 Jan Bardsley, Women and Democracy in Cold War Japan (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), see especially Chapter 5 “Fashioning the People’s Princess: Shōda Michiko and the Royal Wedding of 1959,” 109–37. 72 Yaguchi, Akorage no Hawai, 105. 73 Ikari, Hawaian sentā, 36–9. In his account, Ikari refers to a “Japanese American Senator from Hawai‘i” whom Nakamura contacted in 1964 to seek advice in preparation for his visit to the islands. Although Ikari does not name this individual, it must have been Daniel Inouye, because he was the only Japanese American in the US Senate at the time. 74 Azuma, Between Two Empires, 6. Among Japanese immigrants to Hawai‘i were those from Fukushima. For the history of Fukushima immigration to the islands, see, for example, Fukushima Hawaikai, Fukushima iminshi: Hawai kikansha no maki (Fukushima: Fukushima Hawaikai, 1958). 75 Ibid., 10–11, 92–3. 76 Candace Fujikane, “Introduction: Asian Settler Colonialism in the U.S. Colony of Hawai‘i,” in Candace Fujikane and Jonathan Okamura, eds., Asian Settler Colonialism: From Local Governance to the Habits of Everyday Life in Hawai‘i (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2008), 1–42. 77 Kathy Ferguson and Phyllis Turnbull, Oh, Say, Can You See?: The Semiotics of the Military in Hawai‘i (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999), Chapter 4 “The Pedagogy of Citizenship,” 155–98. 78 Dean Saranillio, “Colliding Histories: Hawai‘i Statehood at the Intersection of Asians ‘Ineligible to Citizenship’ and Hawaiians ‘Unfit for Self-Government,’” Journal of Asian American Studies, Vol. 13, No. 3, 2010, 283–309. 79 Ikari, Hawaian sentā, 70–1.

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80 Shimizu Kazutoshi, Jōban ongaku buyō gakuin 50-nenshi: Hura Gāru monogatari (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2015), 145–6. 81 Shimizu, Jōban ongaku, 88–91. 82 Shimizu, “Tōhoku no Hawai,” 84. 83 Shimizu, Jōban ongaku, 89. 84 Ibid., 133. 85 For personal accounts of the first-generation dancers at the Jōban Hawaiian Center, see the special feature, Ōkoshi Aiko, “Tokushū: Ano koro,” in Hibi no shinbun: Iwaki Biweekly Review, March 15, 2011. For a biographical account of Ono (Toyota) Emiko, the top dancer at the time, see Ōkoshi Aiko, Odoru kokoro: Ono Emiko no saigetsu (Iwaki, Fukushima: Shisōkan, 2013). The dancers’ personal narratives and recollections are also included in Shimizu, Jōban Ongaku. 86 Ibid., 54–9. 87 Ibid., 103–4. 88 Ibid., 34. 89 Ikari, Hawaian sentā, 82. 90 Shimizu, Jōban ongaku, 48. 91 Ibid., 50–1. 92 Ibid., 100. 93 Ibid., 67. 94 Ōkoshi, Odoru kokoro, 83. 95 Ibid., 70, 83, 101, 109. 96 Shimizu, Joban ongaku, 62–7; Ōkoshi, Odoru kokoro, 107. 97 Ōkoshi, “Tokushū: Ano koro.” 98 Kyle Kajihiro, “The Militarizing of Hawai‘i: Occupation, Accommodation, and Resistance,” in Candace Fujikane and Jonathan Okamura, eds., Asian Settler Colonialism: From Local Governance to the Habits of Everyday Life in Hawai‘i (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2008), 170–94. 99 Walker, Waves of Resistance, 60–2; Desmond, Staging Tourism, 128–9. 100 Yaguchi, Akogare no Hawai, 23–55. 101 Ibid., 188–90. 102 Yaguchi, “Longing for Paradise,” 303–5, 312–13. 103 Mark Ombrello, “The South Seas on Display in Japan: Yosano Tekkan’s Nan’yōkan and South Seas Discourse of the Early Twentieth Century,” Pacific Asia Inquiry, Vol. 7, No. 1, 2016, 26–8. 104 Karl Ian Uy Cheng Chua, “Boy Meets World: The Worldview of Shōnen kurabu in the 1930s,” Japan Forum, Vol. 28, No. 1, 2016, 80–1. 105 Klaus Antoni, “Momotarō (The Peach Boy) and the Spirit of Japan: Concerning the Function of a Fairy Tale in Japanese Nationalism of the Early Shōwa Age,” Asian Folklore Studies, Vol. 50, 1991, 155–88; John Dower, War without Mercy: Race and Power in the Pacific (New York: Pantheon Books, 1986), 250–9.

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106 Uta mappu. “Minami no shima no Hamehameha daiō.” Accessed March 27, 2019. http://www.utamap.com/showkasi.php?surl=k-110427-345. 107 Robert Rath, “‘Pokémon Sun and Moon’ Is a Tourist’s Version of Hawaii,” Waypoint, February 9, 2017. Accessed March 27, 2019. https://waypoint.vice.com/en_us/ article/ypqany/pokemon-sun-and-moon-is-a-tourists-version-of-hawaii. 108 Japan-America Society of Hawaii, “Our Mission.” Accessed March 23, 2019. https://www.jashawaii.org/mission. 109 Japan-America Society of Hawaii, “Board of Directors.” Accessed March 23, 2019. https://www.jashawaii.org/board-of-directors. 110 Hawaii Senior Life Enrichment Association, “Goaisatsu.” Accessed March 23, 2019. http://www.hawaiiseniorlife.org/. 111 Hawaii Senior Life Enrichment Association, “Yakuin riji.” Accessed March 23, 2019. http://www.hawaiiseniorlife.org/About/Boardmember. 112 US-Japan Council, “About.” Accessed March 24, 2019. http://www.usjapancouncil. org/about. 113 US-Japan Council, “Board of Councilors.” Accessed March 24, 2019. http://www.usjapancouncil.org/board_of_councilors 114 US-Japan Council, “Tomodachi Initiative, Donors.” Accessed March 24, 2019. http://usjapantomodachi.org/about-us/donors/. 115 US-Japan Council, “Tomodachi Initiative, About Us.” Accessed March 24, 2019. http://usjapantomodachi.org/about-us/. 116 US-Japan Council, “Tomodachi Initiative, Leadership.” Accessed March 26, 2019. http://usjapantomodachi.org/programs-activities/entrepreneurship-leadership/. 117 Rainbow for Japan Kids, “Rainbow for Japan Kids 1.” Accessed May 12, 2018. http://en.rainbowforjapankids.com/about-rfjk/rainbow-for-japan-kids-1/. 118 Miyagi bikki no kai, “Hawai Reinbō Kizzu Purojekuto, dai ikkai hōkoku pēji.” Accessed March 31, 2019. http://bikkifund.net/hawaii1.html. 119 Liza Keānuenueokalani Williams and Vernadette Vicuña Gonzalez, “Indigeneity, Sovereignty, Sustainability and Cultural Tourism: Hosts and Hostages at ‘Iolani Palace, Hawai‘i,” Journal of Sustainable Tourism, Vol. 25, No. 5, 2017, 669. 120 Rainbow for Japan Kids, “Message from Kids.” Accessed April 7, 2019. http://en.rainbowforjapankids.com/messages-form-kids/. Miyagi Bikki no Kai also published longer and more detailed versions of the same testimonials starting with the first tour. Miyagi bikki n okai, “Hawai Reinbō Kizzu.” Accessed April 7, 2019. http://bikkifund.net/hawaii1.html. 121 Stephanie Nohelani Teves, “Aloa State Apparatuses,” American Quarterly, Vol. 67, No. 3, 2015, 711–12. For the appropriation of indigenous Hawaiian terms and practices and colonial and post-colonial contestation over culture, see Lisa Kahaleohe Hall, “‘Hawaiian at Heart’ and Other Fictions,” Contemporary Pacific, Vol. 17, No. 2, 2005, 409; Williams and Ganzalez, “Indigeneity, Sovereignty, and Sustainability.”

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122 Shiozawa Junko, “‘Aroha no kokoro o Tōhoku no kodomotachi e’ Reinbō fō Japan purojekuto ni tsuite hokkinin no Ōkubo Ryōichi san ni hanashi o kikimashita,” Huffington Post, August 28, 2016. Accessed May 12, 2018. https://www. huffingtonpost.jp/junko-shiozawa/aloha-tohoku_b_11741238.html. 123 Rainbow for Japan Kids, “Dai-yonkai hōkoku.” Accessed May 4, 2019. http://www.rainbowforjapankids.com/about-rfjk/rainbow-for-japan-kids-4/. 124 Rainbow for Japan Kids, “Dai-gokai hōkoku.” Accessed May 4, 2019. http://www.rainbowforjapankids.com/about-rfjk/rainbow-for-japan-kids-5/. 125 Rainbow for Japan Kids, “Press Release.” Accessed March 22, 2016. http://www.rainbowforjapankids.com/. 126 “Hilton Helps Rainbow Kids for Japan,” Hawaii Tribune Herald, April 5, 2012. Accessed March 24, 2019. https://www.hawaiitribune-herald.com/2012/04/05/ hawaii-news/hilton-helps-rainbow-for-japan-kids/. 127 “‘Reinbō fō Japan kizzu’ purojekuto,” ‘Eheu, Autumn 2011, 50–1. 128 US-Japan Council, “Rainbow for Japan Kids.” Accessed March 24, 2019. http://usjapantomodachi.org/programs-activities/japan-america-society-ofhawaii-rainbow-for-japan-kids-2/. 129 Oona McGee, “Fukushima Rebuilds Its Future with Fish, Tomatoes and Hula Girls,” Japan Today, February 7, 2017. Accessed June 22, 2019. https://japantoday.com/ category/features/fukushima-rebuilds-its-future-with-fish-tomatoes-and-huladancing-girls?comment-order=popular.

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Index Boldface locators indicate illustrations; locators followed by “n.” indicate endnotes. ABC Stores 130 Abe Naomi 47 Abe Shinzō 15, 20, 70 Abenomics 21 economic aid 116 misogyny 45, 152 n.18 national resilience 3, 24 “Take back Japan” 33 “three arrows” 89 Womenomics 90, 117 Akihito. See under Emperor Ala Moana Shopping Center 132 Allison, Anne 9 aloha Aloha Angels 117 Aloha Spirit Law (1986) 134 “Alola” 129 definition of 110, 134 in resilience culture 110, 134–6, 139 spirit of 107, 109, 135 an an (magazine) 41–2, 46, 48, 50, 52, 57 Andō Risu 53, 55–6, 59 Anpanman 73–4, 86, 93, 105 Anzai Ikurō 95 Aquamarine Fukushima aquarium 137 architecture 37, 50, 115 Ariyoshi, George 130 Asano Zaibatsu 118 Asobōsai Karuta 74–5 Atoms for Peace 166 n.52 Azuma, Eiichiro 146 n.62, 167 n.74 Baden-Powell, Robert 6, 24 Basic Act for Gender Equal Society. See danjo kyōdō sankaku (gender co-participation) Beard, Charles 143 n.31 Beard, Mary 143 n.31

bidan (moral stories) 3–4, 76, 96, 111 Bōken Dankichi (Adventurous Dankichi) 128 Borland, Janet 3 Bōsai Gāru (Resilience Girls) 46, 59 Bōsai Rajio (Disaster Preparedness Radio) 75 Boy Scouts American 10 British (UK) 6, 24 Japanese 3, 10 Bridgestone Corporation 31 Bushido (Nitobe) 24, 36 bushidō (the way of warrior) 5, 24–5, 38, 149 n.45 Business Continuation Management (BCM) 17, 30 Business Continuity Planning (BCP) 16–17, 30–2 business management 26, 63, 78, 80, 83, 118 business resilience 31–3, 114–18 capitalizing on catastrophe 84, 105, 139 children. See also Boy Scouts; education, MEXT; OECD Tohoku School; Rainbow for Japan Kids (RJK) cartoons 50, 73–5, 88–94, 128–9 cooking 55 disaster training 50–1, 52, 53, 55, 59, 76–80, 87 Great Kantō Earthquake 3 innocence 75, 105, 158 n.11 juvenile literature 4–5, 95–104, 107, 111–14, 128 kamishibai 102 letters 95 military (education) 87–94

190

Index

military (soldiers) 5, 5, 62, 74, 87–94, 96, 98, 99–102, 133 military (vehicles) 51, 52, 74, 87, 98 Second World War 128–9, 157 n.9 songs 74, 129 toys 73, 75, 79, 87, 102, 132, 157 n.9 civil defense, history of Cold War 3, 6, 8, 29–30, 44, 88, 153 n.35 First World War 6, 44 home front 5–6, 7–9, 37, 44 Russo-Japanese War 5, 10 Second World War 3, 6–7, 9, 12, 16, 24, 35, 44, 73, 88, 109, 114, 122–3, 126, 129, 135, 143 n.31, 146 n.63 transnational genealogy 5–6 and women 5–9, 143 n.34 civil engineering (doboku) 21, 23, 37–9, 76 coal 108, 110–11, 114–15, 118–21, 124–5, 127 Coca Cola 131 construction state (doken kokka) 23 culture of catastrophe 2–3 Dakko to onbu no kenkyūjo 56 Damocles, Sword of 38–9 danjo kyōdō sankaku (gender coparticipation) 43–4, 58–70, 117 critique of 66, 155 n.81, 155 n.83 Danjo kyōdō Sankaku Kihonhō (Basic Act for Gender Equality) 66 and disaster resilience 43, 61–70 history of 65–6 and national branding 43, 61, 66, 71 6.11 Symposium 67–9, 156 n.88, 156 n.89, 156 n.97 Davis, Traci 6 de Waal, Alexander 105 dendō (preaching; missionizing) 135 disaster fairs 31, 51, 52 Disaster Medical Assistance Team (DMAT) 96 disaster militarism. See also Operation Tomodachi; Japan Self-Defense Forces (JSDF); Ministry of Defense definition of 11–12 disaster relief (saigai haken) 88, 91, 93 humanitarianism 74 national defense (bōei) 88 security environment (anzen hoshō kankyō) 88

disaster-proof house (architecture) 49–50 Disaster Risk Reduction (DRR) 62, 69–70 Disco Corporation 32 Dōmoto Akiko 67, 69–70 Doraemon 50 Du Pont 31 “dual use” 99 economic recession (after the “bubble”) 9, 81, 118, 128 education, MEXT 76. See also OECD Tohoku School businessification 82–3 educational colonialism 81 guidelines 78–80 Miracle of Kamaishi 78 moral education (dōtoku kyōiku) 79 “omoiyari,” cultivation of 80 Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA) 81 Regional Revitalization and Innovation 2030 (Chihō Sōsei Inobēshon) 86 “teaching for the heart” (kokoro no kyōiku) 81 zest for living (ikiru chikara) 78, 80–2, 159 n.32 Eldridge, Robert 29–30 Emperor Heisei (Emperor Akihito) 34–5, 108–10, 115, 122, 142 n.14, 164 n.9 Meiji 34 Shōwa (Emperor Hirohito) 37, 109, 119, 164 n.9 Empress, Michiko 108, 109, 115, 122, 142 n.14 entrepreneurism children 77–8, 80, 82–4, 131 men 30–3, 113–18 women 43, 58–61, 64–5, 68–9 Federal Civil Defense Administration (FCDA) 6, 29 Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) 6, 29 feminism 8, 57, 71. See also danjo kyōdō sankaku (gender co-participation) Gyōsei Feminizumu (GovernmentSanctioned Feminism) 66 Hinomaru Feminizumu (Rising-Sun Feminism) 66

Index and imperialism 7–8, 44–5, 143 n.34 and militarism 8, 44, 57, 90, 98 neoliberal feminism 44–5, 66, 70–1 post-feminism 70–1 and resilience 7, 17, 36, 40, 44, 57–61, 72, 156 n.97 security feminism 44–5, 61–71, 139, 151 n.13, 158 n.11 First Hawaiian Bank 130 First World War (1914–1918) 6, 44 Fujii Satoshi 21, 24–5, 29, 34–5, 37–9 Fukkō no Noroshi (A Beacon of Rebirth) project 17, 18 Fukushima 50, The 16 Fukushima nuclear crisis. See under nuclear Fukushima University 82, 86, 160 n.40 Furuya Keiji 21, 27, 29, 36 Gakken Kyōiku Shuppan (Gakken) 4, 95–6 “Ganbarō, Nippon” (Rise up, Japan) 1, 4, 9, 139 Garon, Sheldon 5–6 “gender equality.” See danjo kyōdō sankaku (gender co-participation) gender mainstreaming 44, 65–6, 68–70, 72 Gill, Tom 146 n.64 “Girl Security” (project) 152 n.13 Giroux, Henry 81, 158 n.11 Gotō Shinpei 10, 143 n.31 Great East Japan Disaster (3.11) and cultural production 2–6 as “divine punishment” 23 extent of destruction of 1, 141 n.1 gendered and gendering 6–11 as kokunan (national crisis) 4, 15, 19, 88 local and global 11–13 Great Kantō Earthquake (1923) 2, 7, 9, 36 Grewal, Inderpal 151 nn.12–13 Grossman, Andrew 6 Guihard-Joly, Laurence 32 Gurria, Angel 82 Hani Motoko 7 Hanshin-Awaji (Kōbe) Earthquake (1995) 17, 22, 55, 66–7, 80, 96 Hara Hiroko 67, 69–70 Harvey, David 145 n.55

191

Hawai‘i. See also Rainbow for Japan Kids (RJK); Spa Resort Hawaiians (Kizuna Resort) “Alola” 129 Emperor and Empress 122 history of colonialism in 127 immigration from Tōhoku 167 n.74 Japanese American communities (see Japanese Americans) Japanese imagination of 128–9, 139 “Japanese invasion” 128 as “off-shore”site for resilience 13, 110, 139–40 statehood (1959) 122 tourism 122–3 Hawaii Senior Life Enrichment Association (HISLEA) 130 Hawaii Tribune Herald (newspaper) 135 Hawaiian Airlines 130 Hawkins, Ed 135 Hayashida, Akiyoshi 122–3 “healing toursim” (hoyō ryokō) in Hawai‘i (see Rainbow for Japan Kids (RJK)) in Okinawa 146 n.63 Hello Kitty 73 Hickam Air Force Base 133 Hidenobu, Sanada 83 Hilton Grand Vacations 130 Hirano Hirofumi 87 Hirohito. See under Emperor Hirokawa Ryūichi 146 n.63 Hirono, Mazie 131 Hitachi, Ltd. 31–2 Hitotsubashi University 78 Hokule‘a 132 home preparedness (post –3.11) architectural refortification 50 cleaning 48–9 cleaning one’s heart (kokono no osōji) 57 cooking contest 54 “daily mindfulness” (fudan no kokorogake) 47 disaster training, parent-child (oyako bōsai) 51 disaster training camp (bōsai kyampu) 51 disaster training picnic (bōsai pikunikku) 51

192

Index

disaster training play (bōsai gokko) 51 emergency bags 8, 42, 50, 58 emergency items 8, 41–2, 49–50, 59, 62–4 family manual (wagaya no bōsai manyuaru) 51 family meeting (kazoku kaigi) 51 fairs and lectures 51, 52, 53, 56 female citizenry 57 finance 58 food and foodways 53–5 as hobby 46–7 “home away from home” (furusato) 56 “ichi nichi ichi bōsai” (one day, one disaster prevention) 47 Japanese tradition 55–6 “killing weapons” (kyōki) 48 militarization 51–5 Super Housewives (Sūpā Shufu) 55 “wisdom of older generation” (senjin no chie) 55 women’s magazine 41–2, 49 Hosoda Akira 37–8 Howard, Katherine 8 hula circuits 110, 164 n.10 hula girls (Japanese) 12, 107–9, 109, 111–18, 121–2, 124–6, 137 Hura Gāru (film) 12, 107, 121, 124 Hurricane Katrina 29, 67 Hyōdō Isohachi 25 IBM 83 IBM–Japan 32 Ichiro (Suzuki Ichirō) 25 Ichizan Ikka. See One Mountain, One Family (Ichizan Ikka) Ikeda Keiko 67–9 Ikegami Akira 83 ikiru chikara. See zest for living (ikiru chikara) Imperial Army (Japanese) 16, 36–7, 54, 73, 100, 120, 146 n.63, 147 n.5 imperial household (kōshitsu) 4, 34–5, 108 imperialism 13, 45, 121, 127 Inada Tomomi 35–6 Incident Command System (ICS) 17 Inoguchi, Kuniko 35, 67 Inose Naoki 87 Inoue Keiko 50

Inoue Naomi 117 Inouye, Daniel 122–3, 130–1 Inouye, Irene Hirano 130 Iriyama Saitan 114, 118–20 Ischinger, Barbara 82 Ishihara Shintarō 23, 87 Itō Chūta 37, 39 Iwaki Ichirō 38 Iwaki Tankō 118–19 Iwaki Wander Farm 137 Japan Air Self-Defence Force (JASDF) 89–90 Japan Airlines (JAL) 128, 130, 133–5 Japan-America Society of Hawaii (JASH) 130 Japan Chapter of the International Emergency Management Society (TIEMS) 17 Japan Ground Self-Defense Force (JGSDF) 5, 17, 87, 89, 98–101 Japan Innovative Schools Network supported by the OECD 86, 160 n.53 Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force (JMSDF) 16, 89–90, 99 Japan National Tourism Organization 84 Japan Self-Defense Forces (JSDF) 4–5, 15–16, 29. See also Operation Tomodachi; Ministry of Defense and children 5, 5, 51, 52 (see also under children) events and fairs 31, 52, 93, 99 as humanitarian agent 94 “Jieitai gohan” (JSDF meals) 54, 92, 100 kokubō danshi 33 Kyoto Provincial Cooperation Office 87 as manga military 88, 90, 92, 161 n.65 yorisou act of 4, 142 n.14 Japan Women’s Network for Disaster Risk Reduction (JWNDRR) 69–70 Japanese Americans 13, 109–10, 122–4, 126, 130–3, 135–6, 146 n.62, 167 n.74 “Jieitai gohan” (JSDF meals) 54 jijo (self-help) 38, 44, 49, 56, 65, 70, 74–5, 77, 79–80, 96–7, 102, 104–5, 107, 111–12, 115, 134, 136, 139 definition of 11, 16, 28

Index jimae (self-reliance) 115 Jōban history of 118–19 Ichizan Ikka (One Mountain, One Family), origin of 118 imperial visits 108–9, 109, 119, 164 n.9 Iriyama Saitan 114, 118–20 Iwaki Tankō 114, 118–20 jiba sangyō (local industry) 118, 121 Korean laborers in, wartime 119–21, 166 nn.53–4 Jōban Hawaiian Center 108, 116, 122, 124–5 Jōban Joint Power Company 115 Jōban Kōsan (Jōban Kōsan KabushikiGaisha) 108, 111, 113–14, 116–18 Jōban Music and Dance Institute 115, 117, 125 Jōban Tankō (Jōban Tankō KabushikiGaisha) 108, 111, 114–16, 118–19, 125 Joseph, Jonathan 11 Kadokawa Daisaku 35 Kainuma, Hiroshi 166 n.52 “Kamaishi no Kiseki” (Miracle of Kamaishi) 76–8, 105 Katada Toshitaka 76–7 Keiō University 60 kiki kanri (crisis management). See kokudo kyōjinka (national resilience) Kingston, Jeff 146 n.64 Kiriyama Matsujirō 125 kizuna (bond) 4, 12, 65, 68, 78, 84, 107–8, 110–11, 121, 131, 134, 137, 139 Kizuna Caravan 107, 112–13 Koide Hiroaki 95 Koike, Yuriko 36, 46 Kojima Toshirō 32 kōjo (government help) 28 kokubō danshi 16, 33, 147 n.5 kokudo kyōjinka (national resilience). See also business resilience; children; danjo kyōdō sankaku (gender coparticipation); home preparedness (post –3.11); Opeation Tomodachi; Rainbow for Japan Kids (RJK); Spa Resort Hawaiians (Kizuna Resort)

193

basic principles of (see jijo (self-help); kōjo (government help); kyōjo (community/mutual help)) and civil engineering 21, 23, 37–9, 76 as cultural machinery 8–9, 21–2, 58 development of 20–30 as economic refortification 17, 30–3, 108, 114 as government policies 2, 11, 19–21, 63, 65, 69, 105 of Imperial Household (kōshitsu) 34–5 kizuna (see kizuna (bond)) Kokudo Kyōjinka Suishinshitau (National Resilience Promotion Office) 21, 25, 27, 58, 61 and “love” (ai), cultivation of 38, 39, 100 as moral and spiritual reformation 1, 3–4, 33–9, 76, 96, 111 poster 26 and public construction work (kōkyō jigyō) 4, 22–4 sokojikara as 4 and yorisou, act of 4, 118, 128, 142 n.14 kokunan (national crisis) 3, 4, 15, 19, 88 kōkyō jigyō (public construction projects) 4, 22–4 Kondō Marie 49 KonMari Lifestyle 49 Koreans, wartime forced labor 110, 119–21, 125, 166 nn.53–4 Koshino Shūzō 17 Kumejima Massacre 146 n.63 Kunizaki Nobue 8, 42, 46–50, 58–9, 70 Kurowassan (magazine) 49 Kusano Kaoru 48, 55 kyōjo (community/mutual help) 13, 17, 34, 44, 57, 64–5, 68, 70, 74, 79, 87, 96–7, 100, 102, 104, 107, 111–12, 133–4, 136, 139 definition of 11, 28 Kyoto University 21, 38, 131 Lavender Scare 10 “Learning from Adversity” (pamphlet) 61–7 LeBlanc, Robin 10 Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) 3, 13, 15, 20–5, 27–30, 33–6, 58–61, 81 life improvement movement 7, 56 Lighthouse Hawaii (magazine) 134–5

194

Index

Lucky Dragon (Daigo Fukuryū-maru) 95 Lumpkins, Donald 29 Mahalo 113 Mana Hasegawa 132 March 11 disaster. See Great East Japan Disaster (3.11) masculinity American 10, 19, 127 Japanese 9–10, 17, 18, 19, 23–8, 25, 33, 35–6, 39–40, 63, 70, 73–4, 89–90, 94, 96–9, 104, 115, 128–9 Japanese American 123 Matsuyama Rena 95 Michiko, Empress. See Empress, Michiko militarism. See disaster militarism Ministry of Defense 87–94, 96 Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology (MEXT) 75, 78, 81, 86, 96 Mishima Yukio 24, 35 Mitsubishi Corporation 31, 128, 130–1 Mitsui & Co., Ltd. 128 Mitsukoshi, Ltd. 128 Miyajima Shigeki 16 Miyazaki Hayao 146 n.63 Momotarō (Peach Boy) 128–9 motherhood. See home preparedness (post –3.11) Munakata Emiko 67 mutual help. See kyōjo (community/ mutual help) Nadeshiko Japan 25–8 Nakajima Chie 46 Nakamura Yutaka 114–15, 121–6 Nakano, Kōichi 148 n.22, 149 n.50 Nankai Megathrust Earthquake 75 Nan’yō (South Seas) 128–9 National Institute for Educational Policy Research (NIER) 81 national resilience. See kokudo kyōjinka (national resilience) National Resilience Promotion Office (Kokudo Kyōjinka Suishinshitau) 21, 25, 27, 58, 61 neoconservatism (nationalism) 20, 30, 33, 57, 66, 70, 81, 86, 95, 104–5, 121, 139, 159 n.39 neoliberalism 95–6, 104–5, 139 definition of 11–13, 75

and militarism 75, 86 and neoconservatism 19–20, 33, 57, 66, 159 n.39, 160 n.39 neoliberal feminism 44–5, 66, 70–1 and political illiberalism 28 private-public partnership 65, 131 and transnationalism 13 NHK (Japan Broadcasting Corporation) 8, 77, 83, 129, 158 n.15 Nihon Danji (Japanese Man) 35 Nikai Toshihiro 3, 13, 20, 21, 29, 34, 36 Nitobe Inazō 24, 36 Nō-san-gyoson bunka kyōkai (Rural Cultural Association of Japan) 56 Nonaka Ikujirō 77–8 nuclear crisis (Japan) 1, 16, 38, 57, 68, 74, 85, 91, 99, 102, 105, 112, 115, 117, 166 n.52 crisis (US) 3, 5–6, 8 energy/power 15, 50 radiation 4, 56 testing (Pacific) 95, 110, 162 n.82 OECD Tohoku School 82, 86, 102 businessification of education 82 capitalizing on catastrophe 84 corporate sponsorships 83 documentary videos 83–5 Paris finale 82–4 PISA key competencies 80, 82–3, 86 problems 84 Ōki Satoko 59–60 Okinawa 12, 16, 30, 37, 40, 94, 101–2, 146 n.63, 163 n.96 Okinawa Kumi no Sato project 146 n.63 Ōkubo Ryōichi 130, 134–5 Ōkura Zaibatsu 118 Okuyama Emiko 67–8 Oliver-Smith, Anthony 2 Ōmori Rie 107, 111–13, 117–18, 121 One Mountain, One Family (Ichizan Ikka) 113, 115–19, 121, 126 Operation Tomodachi 11–12, 15, 29–30, 74, 91, 101, 131, 133, 136, 145 n.58 Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) 75–6, 80. See also OECD Tohoku School Program for International Student Assessment (PISA) 81 Ōsawa Mari 67–8 Ōta Masahide 146 n.63

Index “people-to-people” relations 116, 123, 130 plan-do-check-act (PDCA) 63–5 Pokémon 73, 129 political illiberalism 28 post-feminism 70–1 precarity 1, 4, 9, 19, 30, 33, 39, 44–6, 57, 72, 81, 105, 128, 136, 139 Prince Pickles 87, 92–4 Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA) 81, 159 n.35 Rainbow for Japan Kids (RJK) 12–13, 109–10 and aloha 134–6 dendō (preaching, missionizing) 135 history of 120–30 programs 131–2 participants’ testimonials 133–4, 169 n.20 supporters of 130–1, 133–6 Reconstruction Agency (Fukkōchō) 141 n.1 resilience. See also kokudo kyōjinka (national resilience) definition of 11, 25, 44–5 as a global governance (policy) discourse 11, 69, 105 and neoliberalism 11–13, 19–20, 30, 33, 57, 76, 105, 139 Resilience Japan (poster) 21, 26 Risk Taisaku.com (magazine) 31–3, 53 Rottenberg, Catherine 152 n.17, 157 n.103 Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905) 5, 10 Saitō Kazuhiko 116–17, 126 Sakamoto Hiroko 55, 56 Sakamoto Kana 56 salarymen 9–10, 19, 25, 144 n.47 Samuels, Richard 11 Sasaki Norio 25–6 and business management 26 coaching style 27 collective intelligence 27 “control tower” 27 in ‘Resilience Japan’ (poster) 21, 25, 26 as a salaryman 25 Schencking, Charles 2 Schleicher, Andreas 81, 83 Schlesinger, Arthur, Jr. 153 n.35 Second World War 3, 6–7, 9, 12, 16, 24, 35, 44, 73, 88, 109, 114, 122–3, 126, 129, 135, 143 n.31, 146 n.63

195

securitization 12, 29, 32–3, 46, 53, 131, 158 n.11. See also kokudo kyōjinka (national resilience) of imperial household (kōzoku no anzen hoshō) 34–5 security feminists 44–5, 71, 139, 151 n.13, 158 n.11 security girls 44–5, 71, 152 n.13 security moms 44–5, 71, 139, 151 n.13, 158 n.11 Security & Safety Trade Expo 31 Seibu 128 self-help. See jijo (self-help) Sentaku Netto (Laundry Network) 68 Seventh Pacific Islands Leaders Meeting (PALM7) 116–17 Shibukawa Maki 49 Shimizu Kazutoshi 108, 114–18 Shin Godzilla (film) 15 Shinsai Kyūjo Katsudō Ōenka (Theme Song for Disaster Rescue Operations) 74 Shōtoku, Prince 34 6.11 Symposium 67–9, 156 n.88, 156 n.89, 156 n.97 Slater, David 146 n.64 sokojikara (power of resiliency) 4 Sōma Nomaoi (Sōma Wild Horse Chase) 83, 102–5 Sonarea (Disaster Prevention ExperienceLearning Facility) 53, 56, 75 Sonoda Masayo 56 Sony 130, 133–4 sōteigai (beyond prediction) 4, 60, 77 Spa Resort Hawaiians (Kizuna Resort) 12, 107–11, 113, 115–18, 121, 132, 137. See also Jōban Hawaiian Center Space Battleship Yamato (Uchūsenkan Yamato) 16 Tabata Yaeko 67–8 Taguma Miho 86 Takarazuka Revue 121–2 Tanaka Kakuei 23 Tanaka Misa 46, 59 terrorism 31–3, 44–5, 53, 60, 101 3.11 (Tōhoku) disaster. See Great East Japan Disaster (3.11) Thompson, Nainoa 132 Tōhoku dialect 83, 85, 117

196

Index

immigration to Hawai‘i 167 n.74 as Japan’s Other 68, 83, 119, 139, 160 n.42, 166 n.52 OECD Tohoku School (see OECD Tohoku School) Tohoku University 67, 84, 86 Tokyo Dome Corporation 31 Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) 16, 115 Tokyo Ireidō (Tokyo Memorial Temple for Two Disasters) 36–7, 39 Tokyo kurashi bōsai (Disaster Prevention and Preparation for Everyday Living in Tokyo) 46 Tokyo Rengō Fujinkai (Tokyo Federation of Women’s Associations) 7, 9 Tokyo University 67, 85–6, 117 Tōkyū 128 Tomodachi generations 131 Tomodachi Initiative 131 Tomodachi Sakusen. See Operation Tomodachi tourism 12, 108, 115–16. See also healing tourism; Rainbow for Japan Kids (RJK); Spa Resort Hawaiians (Kizuna Resort) Japan National Tourism Organization 84 as a means of iyashi 128 militarism and 110, 123, 136, 146 n.63 voluntourism 13 Tsunagaru.com 42, 51 tsunami tendenko 77–8, 80, 102 202030, policy of 63 UNIQLO 83, 130–1 United Nations 11, 43, 65–6, 68–9, 88 United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund (UNICEF) 80 United States. See also civil defense, history of; Operation Tomodachi children, securitization 158 n.11 colonization of Hawai‘i 110, 128 Department of Defense 29 Department of Homeland Security 29 Federal Civil Defense Administration (FCDA) 6, 29 Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) 6, 29 feminism, securitization 44–5

Hurricane Katrina 29, 67 September 11 terrorist attacks 44–5, 158 n.11 University of Hawai‘i 13, 69 “urgent ethnography” 146 n.64 US-Japan Council 130–1, 135–6 US-Philippines War (1899–1902) 127 volunteerism 13, 38, 63–4, 96, 109–10, 127 v-shaped recovery 108, 114 Weil, Gad 83 Wilcox, Paul 145 n.58 women. See also danjo kyōdō sankaku (gender co-participation); feminism; home preparedness (post –3.11) anti-nuclear power movement 143 n.24 and Cold War 3, 6, 8, 44 entrepreneurism of 58–61 feminization of poverty 66 and First World War 6, 44 gender mainstreaming 44, 65–6, 68, 70, 72 and Great Kantō Earthquake 7, 9 for national branding 43, 61, 66, 69–71, 108–9, 109, 111–14 and Second World War 7, 24, 44, 143 n.31 security feminists 44–5, 71, 139, 151 n.13 security girls 44–5, 71, 152 n.13 security moms 44–5, 71, 139, 151 n.13 202030 (policy) 63 unemployment 42, 66 violence against 47, 63, 66–7 Womenomics 90, 117 Yamanaka Shin’ya 131 Yamatani Eriko 36 Yanase Takashi 73–4 yorisou, act of 4, 142 n.14 Yoshimi Syun’ya 164 n.9 zaibatsu 118–19 zest for living (ikiru chikara) 78 Education 2030 (initiative) 86 genealogy of 80–1, 159 n.32 Japanese adaptation 81–2