Handbook of Environmental History in Japan 9789048559909

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
Contributors
Preface
Introduction: Perspectives of Environmental History in Japan
Part 1: Topology of Environmental History
1 Cultural Landscapes in Japan: Case Studies in Shiga, Ehime and Okinawa Prefectures
2 Japan’s Colonial Environments
3 National Parks, Nature Conservation, War: The Development of the National Parks System in Japan, 1907–1945
Part 2: Pollution Incidents/Disasters
4 The Ashio Affair: The Emergence of Industrial Pollution as a Social, Political and Environmental Issue (19th–20th Centuries)
5 Two Outbreaks of Minamata Disease and the Struggle for Human Rights
6 Black Rain, Lawsuits and Compensation: Radiation in the Environment and Human Exposure in Hiroshima and Nagasaki
7 Environmental Problems Caused by the Shinkansen in Nagoya City
Part 3: Between Nature and Human
8 Epidemiological Landscape and Medical Theories: Focusing on a History of Smallpox in Early Modern Japan
9 Between Nature and Human: History of the Use of “Night Soil” in Japan
10 Agricultural Technology and the Environment in Modern Japan
Part 4: Seas, Lakes and Shores
11 Regional Environmental History: The Lake Biwa Region
12 The 20th Century around Tokyo Bay: Life, Production, and Environment
13 Tuna Fisheries and Thermonuclear Tests, 1954–1963
Part 5: Forestry
14 Japanese Swidden Agriculture (yakihata): Environmental History of Grassland, Forest and Fire
15 A History of Tree Planting in Modern Japan: Resource Utilization and Environment Conservation
16 Empire Forestry Endures: The Development and Continuity of Japanese Forestry in Southeast Asia, 1930–1970
Index

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Handbook of Environmental History in Japan

Japan Documents Handbooks This series focuses on the broad field of Japanese Studies, aimed at the worldwide English language scholarly market, published in Tokyo in English. Each Handbook will contain an average of 20 newly written contributions on various aspects of the topic, which together comprise an up-to-date survey of use to scholars and students. The focus is on Humanities and Social Sciences. Titles in this series: Handbook of Higher Education in Japan (edited by Paul Snowden) Handbook of Confucianism in Modern Japan (edited by Shaun O’Dwyer) Handbook of Japanese Media and Popular Culture in Transition (edited by Forum Mithani and Griseldis Kirsch) Handbook of Japanese Christian Writers (edited by Mark Williams, Van C. Gessel and Yamane Michihiro) Handbook of Modern and Contemporary Japanese Women Writers (edited by Rebecca Copeland) Reconsidering Postwar Japanese History: A Handbook (edited by Simon Avenell) Handbook of Environmental History in Japan (edited by Fujihara Tatsushi) Forthcoming titles in this series: The Annotated Constitution of Japan: A Handbook (edited by Colin P.A. Jones) Handbook of Sport and Japan (edited by Helen Macnaughtan and Verity Postlethwaite) Handbook of Japanese Martial Arts (edited by Alexander Bennett) Handbook of Japanese Public Administration and Bureaucracy (edited by Mieko Nakabayashi and Hideaki Tanaka) Handbook of Crime and Punishment in Japan (edited by Tom Ellis and Akira Kyo) Handbook of Disaster Studies in Japan (edited by Paola Cavaliere and Junko Otani) Handbook of Contemporary Japanese Diplomacy: The 2010s (edited by Tosh Minohara) Handbook of Japanese Feminisms (edited by Andrea Germer and Ulrike Wöhr) Handbook of Japan’s Environmental Law, Policy, and Politics (edited by Hiroshi Ohta) Handbook of Japanese Games and Gameplay (edited by Rachael Hutchinson) Handbook of Human Rights and Japan (edited by Tamara Swenson) Handbook of Europe-Japan Relations (edited by Lars Vargö) Teaching Japan: A Handbook (edited by Gregory Poole and Ioannis Gaitanidis) Handbook of Russia-Japan Relations (edited by Kazuhiko Togo and Dmitry Streltsov) Handbook of Women in Japanese Buddhism (edited by Monika Schrimpf and Emily Simpson) Handbook of Japanese Security (edited by Leszek Buszynski) Handbook of Japanese Tourism (edited by Hideto Fujii) Handbook on Japanese Civil Society (edited by Simon Avenell and Akihiro Ogawa) Handbook of Japanese Labor Practices: Changing Perceptions (edited by Robin Sakamoto) The Advent of Sound in Japanese Cinema: A Handbook (edited by Sean O’Reilly) Handbook of Global Migration and Japan (edited by Shinnosuke Takahashi and Yasuko Hassall Kobayashi) Handbook of Work and Leisure in Japan (edited by Nana Okura Gagne and Isaac Gagne) Handbook of Japanese Aesthetics (edited by Melinda Landeck) Handbook of Japanese Architecture (edited by Ari Seligmann) Handbook of Modern Japan-Korea Relations (edited by Mark Caprio and Robert Winstanley-Chesters)

Handbook of Environmental History in Japan Edited by Fujihara Tatsushi

Amsterdam University Press

First published 2023 by Japan Documents, an imprint of MHM Limited, Tokyo, Japan.

Cover design, layout, and typography: TransPac Communications, Greg Glover isbn 978 90 4855 989 3 e-isbn 978 90 4855 990 9 nur 696 © The authors / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2023 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book.

Table of Contents Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .vii Preface

Fujihara Tatsushi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi

Introduction: Perspectives of Environmental History in Japan Fujihara Tatsushi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii Part 1: Topology of Environmental History 1

Cultural Landscapes in Japan: Case Studies in Shiga, Ehime and Okinawa Prefectures Uesugi Kazuhiro . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

2

Japan’s Colonial Environments John Hayashi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

3

National Parks, Nature Conservation, War: The Development of the National Parks System in Japan, 1907–1945 Nishimura Takahiro . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34

Part 2: Pollution Incidents/Disasters 4

The Ashio Affair: The Emergence of Industrial Pollution as a Social, Political and Environmental Issue (19th–20th Centuries) Cyrian Pitteloud . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

5

Two Outbreaks of Minamata Disease and the Struggle for Human Rights Seki Reiko . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .70

6

Black Rain, Lawsuits and Compensation: Radiation in the Environment and Human Exposure in Hiroshima and Nagasaki Nakao Maika . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .86

7

Environmental Problems Caused by the Shinkansen in Nagoya City Aoki Soko . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101

Part 3: Between Nature and Human 8

Epidemiological Landscape and Medical Theories: Focusing on a History of Smallpox in Early Modern Japan Kozai Toyoko . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117

Table of Contents

v

9

Between Nature and Human: History of the Use of “Night Soil” in Japan Yuzawa Noriko . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129

10

Agricultural Technology and the Environment in Modern Japan Fujihara Tatsushi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142

Part 4: Seas, Lakes and Shores 11

Regional Environmental History: The Lake Biwa Region Hashimoto Michinori . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

12

The 20th Century around Tokyo Bay: Life, Production, and Environment Kobori Satoru. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176

13

Tuna Fisheries and Thermonuclear Tests, 1954–1963 Yuka Tsuchiya Moriguchi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193

Part 5: Forestry 14

Japanese Swidden Agriculture (yakihata): Environmental History of Grassland, Forest and Fire Komeie Taisaku . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213

15

A History of Tree Planting in Modern Japan: Resource Utilization and Environment Conservation Takemoto Tarō . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233

16

Empire Forestry Endures: The Development and Continuity of Japanese Forestry in Southeast Asia, 1930–1970 Nakashima Kōji . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252

Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 273

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Contributors Aoki Soko is Associate Professor of Environmental Sociology at the Graduate School Faculty of Arts and Letters, Tohoku University. She has been researching about those who face environmental problems. Her main area of research is environmental activism, especially anti-pollution and anti-nuclear power movements. She published a book based on her doctoral dissertation, The Development of the Movement Against Nuclear Facilities in Germany (Minerva Shobō, in Japanese), in 2013, and an article on environmental justice, “Sociological Perspectives on Environmental Justice: Rethinking on Anti-nuclear Movements in Germany” in Ken’ichi Ohbuchi, ed., Social Justice in Japan: Concepts, Theories and Paradigms, Trans Pacific Press, 2007. Fujihara Tatsushi is Associate Professor at the Institute for Research in Humanities, Kyoto University. His main research field is modern history of food and agriculture in Germany and Japan. His published works in Japanese include History of the Kitchen in Modern Germany (2012), Rice Breeding in the Japanese Empire (2012), Philosophy of Decomposition (2019). His works in English include “Erbhofgesetz in Manchukuo: a case study of the acceptance of Nazi agricultural ideology by the Japanese Empire,” in L. Fernández Prieto, J. Pan-Montojo, M. Cabo (eds.), Agriculture in the Age of Fascism (Brepols, 2014) and “Colonial Seeds, Imperialist Genes: Hōrai Rice and Agricultural Development,” in Hiromi Mizuno, Aaron S. Moore, John DiMoiaw (eds.), Engineering Asia: Technology, Colonial Development and the Cold War Order (Bloomsbury Publishing, 2018). Hashimoto Michinori is a museum curator at the Shiga Prefectural Lake Biwa Museum. His field of specialization is history, researching medieval Japanese history and regional environmental history. His published works include “A 13th-century turning point of fishing rights and endemic fish-trap (“eri”) technology in Lake Biwa, in relation to the role of village communities,” in Kawanabe H., Coulter, G.W. & Roosevelt, A.C. (eds.), Ancient Lakes: Their Cultural and Biological Diversity (Kenobi Productions 1999), “The Medieval Social Relationships and Lake Biwa Fisheries,” and “History of Funazushi”, both in Hiroya Kawanabe, Machiko Nishino, Masayoshi Maehata (eds.) Lake Biwa: Interactions between Nature and People, 2nd ed. (Springer/Nature 2020). John Hayashi, PhD Candidate in History at Harvard University, researches science, technology and environment in modern Japan, Taiwan and the global Japanese diaspora. Particular interests include rivers, conservation, climate change and science in the tropics. From July 2023, he will be Assistant Professor in the Department of History and Sociology of Science at the University of Pennsylvania. He holds a BA from Yale College.

Contributors

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Kobori Satoru is Associate Professor at the Institute for Research in Humanities, Kyoto University. His main research field is the socio-economic history of modern Japan. He is the author of “From Shrine to Machine: The Industrial Change and Urbanization of Ota Special Ward, Tokyo, 1900–1960” in Economic Research Center Discussion Paper, E19(4) in 2019, and “When Energy Efficiency Begets Air Pollution: Fuel Conservation in Japan’s Steel Industry, 1945–60” in Technology and Culture, 63(2) in 2022. Komeie Taisaku, Professor in Geography, has been teaching at the Department of Geography, Graduate School of Letters, Kyoto University since 2004. His main research is on historical geographies of mountain areas and environment history of Japanese imperialism. His latest book, An Environmental History of Forest and Fire (2019, in Japanese), argues the critical role of swidden agriculture in human-environmental relationship and the impact of modern forestry science on vegetation control in imperial Japan.  Kozai Toyoko is a Professor of Sociology at Bukkyo University in Kyoto, Japan. Her work ranges from sociological studies on the medical use of the human body in modern and contemporary Japan to historical analyses of infectious disease control measures in the Japanese archipelago. Recently, she published a book (in Japanese) titled The Road to Immunization: A History of Smallpox in Early Modern Japan (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 2019). Yuka Tsuchiya Moriguchi, Professor in American History, has been teaching at the Graduate School of Human and Environmental Studies, Kyoto University. Her  research primarily focuses on US-East Asia relations during the Cold War era, especially in the fields of cultural and science diplomacy, fisheries and nuclearity. Her published works include Science, Technology and the Cultural Cold War in Asia: from Atoms for Peace to Space Flight  (Routledge, 2022) and a co-edited volume Cultural Cold War and Development of Knowledge  (Kyoto University Press, 2022, in Japanese. English  and Chinese versions are forthcoming.) Nakao Maika, Associate Professor in history of science at Hiroshima University. After receiving her PhD from the University of Tokyo, she has been continuing her research on the nuclear history of Japan. She published two books, Allure of Nuclear: Science Culture in Prewar Japan and the Emergence of “Atomic Utopia,” (Keisō Shōbō, 2015, in Japanese) and Scientists and the Sorcerer’s Apprentice: The Border between Science and Non-Science (Seidosha, 2019, in Japanese). Her latest articles include “Radium traffic: radiation, science and spiritualism in early twentieth-century Japan” Medical History, vol. 65-1 (2021).

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Nakashima Kōji is Professor at the Faculty of Human Sciences, Institute of Human and Social Sciences, Kanazawa University. His specialty is human geography and he has a keen interest in geography and environmental history of forests and their use in modern Japan as well as in social and environmental movements around various natures. He has previously published “Re-appropriating the grassland: toward an alternative production of nature for changing militarized reality” (Japanese Journal of Human Geography, 2015); “Production of forest and the green landscape: representation and practice of the afforestation campaign in Japan, 1950s-1960s” in Wing-Shing Tang, Fujio Mizuoka, eds. East Asia: A Critical Geography Perspective (Kokon Shoin, 2010, in Japanese). Nishimura Takahiro, LLD, is a professor of legal history at the Law Faculty, Meijo University. One of his research fields is the comparative history of the development of nature conservation law in Germany and in Japan. He has published many articles on this topic, including “The ‘Militarization’ of National Parks in Japan (1925-1944)” (2016) and “Nature Conservation in Nazi-Germany” (2014, in Japanese), both in Memoirs of Osaka Kyoiku University. Cyrian Pitteloud is a graduate of the University of Geneva, where he completed his doctorate in Japanese studies. His research focuses on environmental conflicts in modern Japan (late-19th and early-20th centuries) and he worked on the Ashio Affair for his doctoral thesis. After a post-doctorate at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes (Paris), he is a temporary teaching and research assistant at the University of Lille. His current project concentrates on industrial contamination of rivers. Seki Reiko is Professor in the Department of Contemporary Culture and Society, College of Sociology, Rikkyo University. Her research focuses on the issue of victims of environmental pollution, including the damage caused by the Fukushima nuclear power plant accident to evacuees. She published the article “Participatory Research by Niigata Minamata Disease Victims, and Empowerment of These Victims,” in The International Journal of Japanese Sociology, no. 15 in 2006. Takemoto Tarō, Senior Assistant Professor at Tokyo University of Agriculture and Technology, received his PhD in Agriculture from The University of Tokyo. His areas of interests include forestry, forest policy, rural sociology, and forest history in modern Japan and its colonies. He published the book chapter “Japan I: Histories of ‘Property Wards (Zaisanku)’ and ‘School Forests (Gakkou-rin),’ ” with Haruo Saito in M. Inoue and G. Shivakoti (ed.), Multi-level forest governance in Asia: concepts, challenges and the way forward (Sage Publications, 2009). Uesugi Kazuhiro, PhD, is an Associate Professor of historical geography at the Department of History, Faculty of Letters, Kyoto Prefectural University. His articles about landscape histories and map histories include “Monumental landscape” in Kinda Akihiro, ed., A Landscape History of Japan, (Kyoto University Press, 2010), “Historical Landscape of Osaka,” in Kären Wigen et al., eds., Cartographic Japan (The University of Chicago Press, 2016), and “Selling the Naval Ports: Modern-Day Maizuru and Tourism” (Japan Review 33, 2019). Contributors

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Yuzawa Noriko, Professor at the Faculty of Sustainability Studies at Hosei University, has interests in historical geography, everyday life history and women’s history. Her works are  “Developments in local industry and transformations in daily life: A case study of the shift from cotton to wool in modern-era Bisai, Aichi Prefecture” Japanese Research in Business History, Vol. 35, 2018; Daily Life and Food in Modern Japan (The University of Nagoya Press, 2018.)

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Preface Fujihara Tatsushi

What do readers imagine when they hear the words “environmental history in Japan”? Many people might think first of the Fukushima nuclear disaster. The air pollution in Yokkaichi or Itai-itai disease in Toyama are also well known. However, this book does not deal with the above case studies head-on. Rather, it actively focuses on themes that are not necessarily well-known outside of Japan and may not even be well-known within Japan. Using this approach, we believe we can present a more vivid picture of Japan’s environmental history to our readers, moving away from clichés. This book, compiled with these intentions in mind, would not have been possible without the contributions of many people, of course. First, the contributors to this book responded sincerely to my difficult request that they write a chapter that explains their unique issues and perspectives in a way that readers—specialists and non-specialists alike—would understand and value. Second, the reviewers of this book read through the draft and appreciated the fact that it was written largely by Japanese speakers who had little experience presenting in English on a variety of fascinating topics. Third, I would like to thank Mark Gresham, Managing Director of MHM Limited. He supported me, anxious about editing a book in English for the first time, by his meticulous editing work down to the smallest detail. I will never forget the beers we drank together at the yakitori restaurant “Saezuri” in Kyoto and the conversations we had about our lives. Notes on the Romanization of Japanese The Hepburn system of romanization has been used for Japanese terms, including the names of persons and places. Long vowels are indicated by a macron, except for place names and words that are in everyday use in English (such as Tokyo). The Japanese custom of placing the family name first has been followed for the names of Japanese persons. In the case of citations of works in English by Japanese authors, we have deferred to the romanization style and name order given in the original work.

Preface

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Introduction Perspectives of Environmental History in Japan Fujihara Tatsushi

Structure of this book The arc-shaped Japanese archipelago, which is dotted along the eastern coast of the Eurasian Continent, stretches 3,000 kilometers from north to south. It has a total area of about 377,900 square kilometers, almost all of which belongs to the humid and temperate zone. Mountainous areas account for 70 percent of the land area, and farmland and residential land spread out in the narrow plains. Volcanic activities have continued unchanged since ancient times, typhoons repeatedly hit from the southern oceans in autumn, and there are many earthquakes and floods. We can easily characterize the archipelago as a disastrous one. On the other hand, the Kuroshio current, a warm current from the south, and the Oyashio current, a cold current from the north, collide off the coast of Japan, and there are abundant fishery resources. In autumn, the whole country is ablaze with colored leaves; in winter, it snows mainly on the Sea of Japan side, and in spring, flowers bloom all at once and rice fields are planted. The so-called rainy season begins, and when the rainy season ends, hot summer comes. This book is about the history of such an environment. The 16 contributors’ specialties include environmental sociology, human geography, history of science, medicine, agriculture, forestry, fisheries, cities and the like. They do not necessarily specialize only in environmental history, but they are all researchers who have been deeply involved in the history of the environment in a broad sense and the history of environmental change in Japan. As the editor, I asked each author to convey both a general story that is easy for readers to learn and the detailed content of their own research. In this way, it was my intention that both those who are new to Japan’s environmental history and those who have experience in the field would find this handbook a valuable resource. By selecting topics which span multiple fields and disciplines and balancing these with authors who can address the issues deeply, I can divide the book into five sections.

Introduction: Perspectives of Environmental History in Japan

xiii

In Part 1 “Topology of Environmental History” three contributors discuss the importance of “topography” in the environmental history in Japan. In Chapter 1 Uesugi Kazuhiro examines cultural landscapes—landscapes created by the interaction of humans and nature—using three case studies: Higashi Kusano in Shiga Prefecture, Karihama in Ehime Prefecture, and Imadomari in Okinawa Prefecture. Chapter 2 by John Hayashi discusses colonialism and the environment, focusing on greening projects and cherry blossom trees in Japanese colonies such as Sakhalin, Taiwan and Korea. Nishimura Takahiro follows in Chapter 3 with a review of national parks in the first half of the 20th century, highlighting the conflict between use and protection, and the relationship with war. Both Chapters 2 and 3 are related to how the Japanese/colonial government encouraged national/imperial identity. Part 2 deals with “Pollution Incidents.” Environmental pollution incidents in Japan are well-known around the world, providing great lessons about these the catastrophes. Cyrian Pitteloud outlines the Ashio Copper Mine poisoning incident in Chapter 4. This shocking damage spread throughout the Watarase River and its basin, and even now is a representative incident of the pollution that endangered the foundations of human life. Chapter 5 by Seki Reiko discusses how Minamata disease, which is the most well-known pollution case in Japan, destroyed human conditions and communal relationships. This chapter focuses on cases of mercury contamination in Kumamoto and Niigata. In Chapter 6 Nakao Maika deals with the catastrophe of the atomic bomb. In particular, there is still a sense of discrimination that victims of the radioactive materials from the “black rain” that fell on Hiroshima immediately after the atomic bombing cannot be included in the atom bomb victims list. The little-known but important issue of noise pollution resulting from the Tokaido Shinkansen is addressed in Chapter 7 by Aoki Soko from the context of the history of social movements, which will lead to future comparative research on traffic-related pollution problems around the world. In Part 3, titled “Between Nature and Human,” the back-and-forth movements between what is involved in the human body and what is involved in the natural human environment is examined. Chapter 8 by Kozai Toyoko provides a detailed study of smallpox countermeasures in early-modern Japan, especially preventive methods influenced by Western medicine. Yuzawa Noriko discusses in Chapter 9 the use of human excreta as fertilizer from the early-modern period to the high economic growth period, and the material cycle resulting from it. I attempt in Chapter 10 to organize the development of modern Japanese agricultural technology (rice breeding, agricultural tractors, chemical fertilizers and pesticides), the resulting transformation of society, and the later development of organic farming to resist such modern technology. In Part 4 attention is turned to water resources, particularly the discussion of the use of seas and lakes under the title “Sea, Lake and Shore.” Hashimoto Michinori aims to construct a complex “regional environmental history” of fish, people and water in the context of Lake Biwa in the Middle Ages in Chapter 11. Chapter 12 by Kobori Satoru summarizes the environmental changes in Tokyo Bay, where development has progressed from early on, focusing on air pollution, marine pollution, and the use of concrete around the shores. In Chapter 13 Yuka Tsuchiya Moriguchi discusses the US hydrogen bomb test in the Marshall Islands, the fishing boat Lucky Dragon 5 and the subsequent decline in the value of tuna in Japan against the backdrop of the Cold War. The final section, Part 5, deals with the history of forestry in Japan. Chapter 14 by Komeie Taisaku discusses the development of swidden farming and takes a position critical of the discourse which labels it as environmental pollution. In Chapter 15 Takemoto Tarō xiv

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summarizes the afforestation projects of Imperial Japan and the forestry researchers involved in it, whereas Chapter 16 by Nakashima Kōji focuses on the fact that Japanese forestry development in Southeast Asia continued even after the war. I am aware that not a few topics are missing here. For example, topics such as insects, animals and the role of religion are little mentioned. Nor is the Ezo region—now Hokkaido— that Brett L. Walker has been vigorously working on discussed so much.1 Still, the chapters in this Handbook include many topics that have had little discussion or review in the past. And this work represents the first time that several of the authors have published papers in English.

The environmental history of Japan: A tool for thinking about the global environment Why is it necessary for English-speaking readers to learn about the environmental history of Japan? Simply put, it is because the history of the environment in Japan is full of clues to solve the current global environmental problems. The tragic history of environmental pollution in Japan—rarely seen elsewhere in the world—provides a great lesson to prevent such tragic incidents from happening again. Or, if such incidents have already happened, there are countless lessons to minimize them. The atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki by the United States in August 1945 for the first time in the world caused unprecedented destruction to the human body, the human mind, and the human environment (Chapter 6). American medical scientists were more interested in investigating, not treating, their victims. It was a catastrophe that should be called destruction of not only the environment and the human body, but also of morality. The world’s first hydrogen bomb test by the United States in the Marshall Islands on March 1, 1954, and the exposure of the crew of the Japanese fishing vessel Lucky Dragon 5, and the resulting food insecurity, also demonstrate this catastrophic nature. (Chapter 13). The severe mercury pollution that occurred in Kumamoto and Niigata during the period of high economic growth, was reported to the world through magazines that published the photographs of, especially, Eugene Smith. “Minamata” came to be known in the history of the world as one kind of global destruction of humans and the environment. Whether it be the Ashio Copper Mine affair (Chapter 4) or Itai-itai disease (resulting from cadmium released in Toyama Prefecture), the history of the pollution of entire river basins by toxic wastewater from mines cannot be overlooked because such pollution continues to occur around African and Asian mines for materials such as rare earth. The second reason for studying Japan’s environmental history is to understand the ingenuity of using the natural environment that existed in Japan before the serious destruction of human life and the environment as described above. For example, yakihata (swidden agriculture), which has been practiced in mountainous areas of Japan since the early modern period, was rooted in the wisdom of using nature effectively while renewing it (Chapter 14). The history of reforestation in Japan (Chapter 15) also offers useful clues in the age of great destruction of tropical rain forests. Similarly, the method of using human excreta as organic fertilizer, practiced from the early modern period to the high economic growth period, shows a rare thoroughness which give some hints for reconstructing material circulation (Chapter 9).

Introduction: Perspectives of Environmental History in Japan

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A third reason comes from the environmental history of former colonies. Countries liberated from their colonial masters continue to develop based on the economic interests of those same former colonizers (Chapter 16). In other words, knowing the history of the development of the colonial natural environment is useful because it also leads to knowing the current exploitative structure of environmental destruction. As is well known, Conrad Totman and Brett L. Walker in particular have contributed greatly to the development of Japanese environmental history. Totman’s research on forestry, which is also mentioned in Takemoto’s chapter, was introduced in Japan and had a great impact. However, Totman’s papers do not cover much about the history of swidden farming from the early modern period to modern times (Chapter 14), Japan’s afforestation projects during the imperial period (Chapter 15), and the continuity of Japanese forestry in Southeast Asia before and after World War II (Chapter 16). Part 5 introduces a very important theme that is hardly mentioned in, and is not well known outside of, Japan. In addition, Brett L. Walker’s research on the extinction of wolves, research on the development history of Ezochi,2 and research on Japan as a “toxic archipelago” 3 have expanded the potential of Japanese environmental history research at once. In the context of the “toxic archipelago,” not only the Ashio Mine Incident (Chapter 4) and Niigata Minamata disease (Chapter 5) but Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb damage and medical research (Chapter 6), tuna contamination due to hydrogen bomb testing (Chapter 13), Tokyo Bay pollution and bayshore development (Chapter 12) and chemical pesticide contaminations (Chapter 10) were also not overlooked. Furthermore, the discourse that the Edo period was an ecological time—often mentioned in the context of the Japanese environment—is worthy of skepticism, as presented in this book’s discussions. Yuzawa’s paper, which describes the use of human excreta from the perspective not of ecology but of economic interest, and Chapter 14, which describes the spread of swidden farming, clearly depict the temporal continuity from the early modern period to the modern period.

Between toxic and green Conrad Totman regards the Japanese archipelago as “the green archipelago.” On the other hand, Brett L. Walker labels it the “toxic archipelago.” The contrastive expressions, however, correctly indicate the characteristics of the environmental history of Japan. In addition, neither author wrote about the progression of the environmental history of Japan as a simple success story, nor did they describe it as a simple dark history. It can be said that their view of history—that the current Japanese environment exists through repeated protection and destruction—is a well-balanced perspective that applies to other countries as well. This book also hopes to provide such a well-balanced account of the environmental history of Japan. However, this is based on the premise that there are large differences between regions. This book focuses on looking at the diversity of Japan’s environment rather than its unity. As Chapter 1 points out, the cultural landscapes of Shiga in Honshu Island, Ehime in Shikoku Island and Okinawa Island are completely different, and the history of Lake Biwa and its use discussed by Hashimoto is so rare in other regions that his historiography should be called a “regional environmental history.” The environmental history of cities and suburbs such as the Keihin/Keiyo region (Chapter 12) and Nagoya (Chapter 9) is also developing in its own

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way while also being related to farming villages. As Chapter 13 discusses the history of the global tuna fishery by linking it with the family history of the fishermen of Shizuoka and Kochi Prefectures, Japan’s environmental history also includes family, local, regional, national and global history. The existence of that layer cannot be overemphasized. The environmental history of Japanese colonies is also highly diverse. As Chapters 2, 10, 15 and 16 show, colonial powers, local perceptions, and transitions vary from region to region. The same is true for pollution and contamination. Air pollution in Kawasaki and water pollution in Tokyo Bay (Chapter 12), damage to humans by pesticides and tractors (Chapter 10), vaccination accidents (Chapter 8), noise pollution from the Shinkansen in Nagoya (Chapter 7) and pollution of humans and the environment by atomic and hydrogen bombs (Chapter 6 and 13) have not so much been touched on in previous studies. Another feature of this book is its explicit emphasis on the position of politics in environmental history. The discussion in Chapter 3 of the process of establishing national parks and militarization is indeed a matter of nature conservation and politics. Many chapters in this book show that the history of government-led development in postwar Japan is closely related to the history of environmental and human pollution. This book will show readers the gradation that exists between two images of the Japanese archipelago: the toxic and the green. I believe that this book is also useful in the sense of discovering arguing points of environmental history around the world by learning about the wide-ranging points of environmental history in Japan.

Notes 1

Brett L, Walker, The Lost Wolves of Japan (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2005.) Brett L. Walker, The Conquest of Ainu Lands: Ecology and Culture in Japanese Expansion, 1590–1800 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001.) 3 Brett L. Walker, Toxic Archipelago: A History of Industrial Disease in Japan (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010.) 2

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Chapter 1 Cultural Landscapes in Japan: Case Studies in Shiga, Ehime and Okinawa Prefectures Uesugi Kazuhiro Using the idea of “cultural landscape” in Japan we can evaluate the local area from three points of view: nature, history and the life and livelihood of the residents. This perspective helps us understand the locality and the relationship between nature and humans in each area. This chapter introduces various features of Japanese cultural landscapes through three case studies in different environments in Japan: Higashi-kusano (in the central region of Japan), Karihama (Shikoku Island region), and Imadomari (on Okinawa Island).

Introduction The cultural landscape is a perspective for understanding local life with its surrounding environment. Although it had been discussed in geography, it was used in widespread genres following its introduction by UNESCO in 1992.1 When the Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage was concluded in 1972, both cultural and natural heritage was identified. This division was initially criticized, and the discussion of the idea about the relationship between nature and human life continued within the World Heritage Committee and other academic realms. The cultural landscape—as a new concept to bridge nature and human life in world heritage—was created in 1992. The concept is represented as the “combined works of nature and of man.” There are currently 114 properties on the World Heritage List as cultural landscapes.2 The protection of property through national law is a prerequisite for registration as a world heritage site. In Japan, although historical heritage had been protected by the Law for the Protection of Cultural Properties (Bunkazai hogohō) since 1950, it failed to protect the properties which combined nature and human life. Therefore, cultural landscape as cultural property was introduced in the revision to the law in 2005. The definition of “cultural landscape” in the law is provided below:

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Landscape areas that have developed in association with the modes of life or livelihoods of the people and the natural features of the region, which are indispensable for the understanding of our people’s modes of life and livelihoods.3 The destruction of local landscapes and the disappearance of local lifestyles were broadcast around Japan following the period of high economic growth. The protection of the landscape was considered one of the most important policy issues. The domestic context—as well as international conditions—influenced the formation of cultural landscape. In Japan, the value of cultural landscape is researched from three points of view: nature, history, and life and livelihood. Under the concept of “cultural landscape” nature and humans are considered the main actors in making the locality and the value of the cultural landscape is understood by the relationship between them, as well as from the point of view Figure 1.1 Cultural Landscape in Japan

Higashi-kusano Karihama

Imadomari

Source: Agency for cultural affairs website, Cultural landscapes. https://www.bunka.go.jp/seisaku/bunkazai /shokai/keikan/ (accessed 2 July 2021).

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of each. When the locality meets certain criteria and shows high value, the area is selected and designated as an Important Cultural Landscape (ICL) by the government of Japan. Seventy-one areas have been designated as ICLs in Japan at the time of March 20224 (Figure 1.1). The people in these areas wish to sustain their livelihoods through the protection and utilization of their own landscapes and localities. The Agency of Cultural Affairs provides financial assistance to their various activities to preserve the locality, such as repair of the components of the ICL. This chapter discusses various features of Japanese cultural landscapes using three examples in which I took part in the research, from heavy snowfall areas to the subtropics areas, and from mountain areas to coastal areas: Higashi-kusano (in the central region of Japan); Karihama (Shikoku Island region), and Imadomari (on Okinawa Island).5

Livelihood in snow: The cultural landscape of Higashi-kusano The location of Higashi-kusano Japan is known globally as a region of heavy snowfall due to the seasonal wind in winter. This wind is a northwest wind from the Eurasian continent and contains large amounts of water.6 The world record for the maximum depth of snow cover is 11.82 meters observed on February 14, 1927 at the observation station on the top of Mt. Ibuki (1,377 m) on the border between Shiga Prefecture and Gifu Prefecture in central Japan. The cultural landscape of Higashi-kusano, Maibara City in Shiga Prefecture—designated as an ICL in 2014—is located at the headwaters of the Anegawa River, a heavy snowfall area of the Ibuki Mountains7 (Figure 1.2). The Higashi-kusano area comprises four villages: Yoshitsuki, Koka, Magatani and Kozuhara. The amount of snowfall increases from the south to the north. Figure 1.3 shows the average depth of snow cover in March in Kozuhara Village, however, with the heaviest snowfall coming in February, Figure 1.3 does not show the peak snowfall. Kozuhara has deep snow cover (over 100 cm) in March once every 3 or 4 years. The data show only snow which has fallen as precipitation, but there is also a large quantity of snow removed from the roofs and the roads which lies around the houses and along the roads in the village. The relationship with the snow There are unique features related to the winter livelihood in the landscape of Higashi-kusano. For example, the old houses have a large open space under their eaves called a kaidare.8 The brackets extending from girders inside are 0.9–1.8 meter long from the wall of the house and support the eaves with an outside crossbeam. The building construction is strengthened for the weight of the snow. The roof end is 0.5–1 meter from the tip of the brackets, and some houses have a large space created from this overhang that is over 2 meters long from the wall to the roof ends. The people in the area lean snow fences against the roof of the house so that they can work and stock daily commodities such as firewood in kaidare through the heavy snowfall season.

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Figure 1.2 Important cultural landscapes in Shiga Prefecture

Wakasa Bay

Higashi-kusano Ibu ki M t ai n s oun

Mt. Ibuki (1377m)

Lake Biwa

Kyoto

Otsu

10 km

Important Cultural Landscapes in Shiga Prefecture

Source: The Geospatial Information Authority of Japan (GSI)

The heavy snowfall in the winter provides an abundance of water throughout the year. There are several springs and ditches surrounding the settlements in Higashi-kusano, and the residents have used the water in various ways, especially the water in the ike—a small water pit along the side of a ditch.9 Residents use this as a place for washing vegetables and 6

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various farm tools, drawing water used in the house and for cooling fruits and vegetables, much like a refrigerator. The kawato, a shallow-depth place made from damming up the water of a ditch, is also used in Kozuhara. The people in Kozuhara made hemp cloth, and kawato were used as a place to wash hemp bark. After washing, the hemp bark was dried in the kaidare. The making of hemp cloth provided important winter work for the people in Kozuhara when they could not work on the farms. Adding to the kawato and the kaidare, the snow also had an important place within the work of the people: they bleached the hemp cloth in the sun by rolling it out on the snow.10 Hemp cloth was one of the typical products made through utilizing the natural environment. However, the people in Kozuhara were unable to make these clothes after 1948, when the Cannabis Control Laws prohibited the cultivation of hemp throughout Japan. The loss of their traditional livelihoods in the winter changed the relationship between the people and the snow, and the snow decreased in its utility value in their daily lives. Their new relationship with the snow started in 1970, when a ski resort was opened on the mountain area in Higashi-kusano.11 Residents worked at the ski resort during the winter, and some also renovated their houses into guesthouses for skiers. Other residents made souvenirs using local products. The snow—previously a barrier prohibiting the residents from leaving their homes in winter—became a resource to generate an increase in visitors. Skiers’ cars caused heavy traffic congestion in the mountain villages at first, but after the construction of the bypass route around the settlements—with the widening of the mountain road—the problems were solved. The residents also received benefit from the road improvements. Various events, such as snowball fights and the experience of harvesting vegetables in the snow, were planned by the residents. Higashi-kusano was selected as an ICL as a landscape which shows life in heavy snowfall areas. Some components of the landscape remain in their traditional shapes and roles.

Figure 1.3 Average amount of snow in March at Kozuhara in Higashi-kusano cm 400 350 300 250 200 150 100 50 0

(N.D.)

1974

1980

1985

1990

1995

2000

2005 Year

Source: Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai, 2013

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However, others reflect modern lifestyles following the 1970’s. The nature of snow usage has changed throughout history. However, it is important that a creative utilization of snow continues, despite these changes. These changes might have been negative—from the point of view of the preservation of the historical landscape—however, the notion of the cultural landscape in Japan allows this change. Cultural landscapes must be “living” landscapes.

Surrounded by the sea and mountains: The cultural landscape of Karihama The terrace fields of mandarin oranges Karihama is a small village along the Uwakai Sea located in the southwest of Ehime Prefecture on Shikoku Island. It has two settlements, Honura and Edaura, which are divided by both a small hill where the Kasuga Shrine is located, and the sea (Figure 1.4). The village is surrounded by the mountains, and the slopes behind the settlements are terrace fields where mandarin oranges are cultivated. The landscape is very beautiful, and visitors would perceive Karihama as a productive and beautiful farming village. The research team which reviewed the cultural landscape of Karihama (including myself) also concluded that it would be important to study the lifestyle of mandarin orange farmers within the community. However, our expectation was incorrect, and the understanding of the scenery

Figure 1.4 Location of Karihama

Karihama

(Edaura)

(Honura) Uwa Sea

300 m

GSI Map

Source: The Geospatial Information Authority of Japan (GSI)

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in the present showed only some part of the value of the cultural landscape as investigations proceeded. Although the exponential growth of mandarin orange cultivation was after 1945, the slopes had been previously used by the people in various ways. The changes in the marine biology along the village coast has also influenced the landscape and livelihood of the residents. Our research team found the following results in Karihama.12 Usage of the sea and the mountains Karihama, a part of the Yoshida Domain from 1657 to 1867 during the Tokugawa shogunate, was initially a fishing village that paid tax to the domain per fish caught. The people in Karihama caught various fish from inshore waters, especially Japanese sardines, using large nets. These sardines were dried and carried to Osaka for use as fertilizer, because dried sardine was in high demand for the mass cultivation of cotton near Osaka during that period. The residents lived by selling their fishery resources. In contrast, the slopes behind the settlements were not the primary livelihood space but were a complement space to the livelihood by the sea at that time. They were not constructed into terrace fields, and were used, for example, as a place for cutting firewood and making charcoal, as plantations of Japanese wax trees which the Yoshida Domain required them to plant, and as fields of potatoes and grains. They built stock houses for the fishery nets on the shore, barns for farming and stockrooms for the seeds of the wax trees in the settlements. The majority of these have been destroyed; however, several barns and a stockroom still remain. The poor sardine catches in the 1890s contributed to a decrease in the demand of fish fertilizer in Japan. Consequently, the people in Karihama had to change their livelihood. Fishing continued to be a major source of their livelihood; however, the type of fish caught changed from sardines to other species. Three alternative industries became primary to the livelihoods of residents: sericulture, weaving and peddling. Sericulture was highly encouraged by the Japanese government. People in Karihama started to plant mulberry trees on the slopes and make silk yarns in their settlements. The technique of weaving was introduced in the 1850s and spread gradually among the women in and around Karihama. Their cloth was called karie shima (textiles made by Karihama and neighbor Tonoe people) and known both in the provinces of Kyushu Island and Shikoku Island. The peddlers of Karihama (who were predominantly men) played important roles in the popularization and dissemination of the cloth. They went throughout western Japan and sold their goods including karie shima. As the livelihood space changed from the sea to the slopes and settlements, the people invested their capital in them. They constructed various houses and stockrooms for the sericulture industry. Some residents built houses called oriya-yozan where people lived on the first floor and worked in sericulture on the second floor. Silkworms require a warm environment when young and spaces with good ventilation after growing. The oriya-yozan had fireplaces under the floors, and the residents used them in the early spring days. In order to provide good ventilation, there were a number of windows and fewer walls, allowing ample sunlight into the second floors. Residents wanted to construct proper spaces for the production of silk yarns, even if the reduction in the number of walls increased the risk of destruction in earthquakes. The people also transformed the mountain slopes behind the settlements into terrace fields by constructing masonry walls (Figure 1.5). This made it easier to work on the slopes and prevented fertilizer from washing away. The fertilizer was made by mixing the fish with Chapter 1: Cultural Landscapes in Japan

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Figure 1.5 Masonry walls of the terrace fields

Source: Photograph by Uesugi Kazuhiro

human excrement. The resources of the sea and the settlements were transmuted into the mountains. The Butsuzo Tectonic Line (between the Chichibu Belt and the Shimanto Belt) passes to the east and west just under the mountains. We can see the difference in the stone used to create the walls of the terrace fields. Limestone is used on the upper fields because it is north of the line, and sandstone is used on the lower fields. Such a difference in the stones (according to the geology) suggests that the stones used in the walls were not carried from another area but were local stones that were dug up through the reclamations of the slopes. The dynamic reconstruction of the settlements and the mountains was achieved by the financial support of the peddlers who wanted to increase profit through increasing production. The stone column in Kasuga Shrine was erected in 1912 by the peddler cooperative of Karihama. It is inscribed with the names of the 5 coordinators and 95 peddlers of Karihama. It is a historical record indicating that Karihama was both a village of peddlers and a fishing and farming village. The majority of peddlers were actually seasonal laborers in the off-seasons of fishing or farming. Various wealthy farmers (having large farmlands) could live solely off sericulture; however, the majority of families subsisted off the combination of fishing, farming, weaving and peddling. The multiple-livelihood style was common during this period.

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World War II changed the way of life in Karihama. To acquire their daily food, the people cut mulberry trees on the terrace fields and cultivated potatoes and wheat. The women in the village could not weave clothes because of the reduction in materials, and the lack of commodities prevented men from peddling. The sericulture industry was reduced in Japan, and many farmers in Karihama did not want to replant mulberry trees on their terrace fields, but wished to utilize the land for alternative purposes. Consequently, they selected the mandarin orange. Mandarin oranges had been cultivated in Karihama before the war, but the production quantity was minor. Following the war, the people in Karihama started to use the mountains as mandarin orange fields. Mandarin oranges grow on well-drained lands in a warm climate. They require a moderate amount of precipitation and abundant sunlight. They are also resistant to salt damage from seawater. The mountains along the seacoast in Ehime Prefecture are quite suitable for the cultivation of mandarin oranges. Moreover, the improvement to the terrace fields facilitated the cultivation of mandarin oranges in Karihama. Flat farming spaces allowed the people to work the slopes. They maintain that the oranges are delicious because the stones used in the terrace walls create a beneficial environment as they reflect the sunshine and provide heat to the trees. The usage of the sea also transformed after the war. Although the quantities of sardines recovered for a short while, it did not last. The demand for sardines in Japanese society declined sharply, as the materials used for fertilizer changed to chemical compounds. Instead of sardine fishing, people in Karihama started to catch whitebait (for producing dried fish), which is a popular food in Japan. Others farmed fish and pearls. The calm sea in the inner part of the ria coast brought beneficial conditions to the sea farmers. Mandarin orange fields and the farming terraces are one of the most important components of the mountain landscape. But the evaluation of the locality of Karihama—with respect to the mandarin oranges and terraces—is incomplete vis-à-vis the historical changes in the relationship between nature and the people. Various components in Karihama suggest that the relationship transformed throughout history. The use of the mountains and the sea was altered according to the change in environmental and social contexts. As Karihama’s case shows, the cultural landscape is formed by multi-layered components through the various changes in the relationship between nature and people. It is important to understand that various components connect historically and geographically and make their own changing process of the landscape. When we investigate cultural landscapes, we have to trace the process and evaluate whether the change of the landscape in the present follows in the past footsteps—with respect to the historical traces.

A subtropical island: The cultural landscape of Imadomari The movement of the village Changes in the surrounding environment occasionally influence the movement of settlements. Natural disasters—such as tsunamis and earthquakes—are typical changes; however, social changes can also impact settlements. In this section, we study the Imadomari settlement as an example that settlements move by the abandonment of a governing authority and its castle. The following is based on the report about the cultural landscape in Imadomari.13

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Imadomari is located on the coast of the northern part of the Okinawa main island (Figure 1.6), the largest island in the Nansei Islands which spread from Kyushu Island to Taiwan Island. Imadomari The origin of Imadomari is unclear; however, it is well known that it was Motobu peninsula previously the castle town of the Nago Nakijin Castle. This was the central castle of the Hokuzan Dynasty loOkinawa main island cated on the top of the mountain.14 Records (Ming Shilu) suggest that the king of Haniji managed the castle in 1383. Excavational investigations indicate that the castle had been used during the late-13th and Naha early-14th centuries. Imadomari was constructed during this period, 0 20 km and developed alongside the castle. During this period, Imadomari was Source: The Geospatial Information Authority of Japan (GSI) divided into two settlements, Nakijin and Oyadomari. The difference in their features is unclear, although Nakijin was closer to the castle than Oyadomari. The Hokuzan Dynasty was destroyed by the Chuzan Dynasty, which acted in the central part of the island and became the basis of the later Ryukyu Kingdom. The castle keeper from the Chuzan Dynasty came to manage the Nakijin Castle and the previous Hokuzan realm after 1422. The Oyadomari settlement moved to the barrier coast near the castle prior to 1609 when the castle was damaged by Satsuma troops from Kyushu Island (Figure 1.7). The relationship between the residents and the Hokuzan Dynasty was fractured, and they subsequently moved away from the castle. The investigation for ICL indicates that the change in the natural environment also influenced this movement.15 The coastal plains were wetlands prior to the late-15th century; however, the changing sea level made it a dry area. Asato attempted to understand the movement of settlements from higher to lower areas in Okinawa Island, with respect to the soil distribution, the developments of the agricultural techniques, and the results of the excavating investigations.16 He discussed the transformation of the settlement locations in Okinawa Island between the 15th and 16th centuries when the settlements transferred to the lower area near the sea from the upper hillsides in the previous age. The movement of the Oyadomari settlement is a typical change in Okinawa. The movement of the Nakijin settlement occurred between 1609 and 1643. The new settlement was located next to the Oyadomari settlement. Following this, the two settlements were integrated into one village named “Imadomari,” derived from the combination of the Chinese used for the name of each settlement. After the keeper of the castle also moved to the Nakijin settlement in 1643, Nakijin Castle remained uninhabited. Nevertheless, the residents moving to the coastal village did not forget the previous living space. There are annual ritual events in Imadomari, and several Figure 1.6 Okinawa main island

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places of worship where the residents visit are located in both the previous settlements and the castle grounds. One of the worship places located in the former Nakijin settlement on the top of the hill was constructed in the dwelling site of Nakijin Noro, who was a female priest overseeing the ritual services. The people remembered the previous dwelling place after the Noro moved to the seashore, and they commemorated it by the designating it as a place of worship. We can see many commemorative places for the Imadomari people in various places in and around Nakijin Castle. The continuation of the ritual events using the previous living area and the present village connects the people to the historical castle area and their movement. The ritual events also suggest the historical livelihoods in Imadomari.

Figure 1.7 Movement of Imadomari

Imadomari (now) Nakijin

Oyadomari Oyadomari

(Oyadomari) (Oyadomari)

(Nakijin) (Nakijin)

NakijinCastle Nakijin Castle place of worship 200 m

GSI Map

Source: The Geospatial Information Authority of Japan (GSI)

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Residents prayed for fruitful harvests and for the safety of maritime activities such as fishing and sea traffic. Morphology adapting to nature Feng shui—originating in ancient China—has spread throughout East Asia and developed differently in each region. In Okinawan, feng shui is “Embraced protection” (hougo), which means to enfold qi (vital energy) to protect it from spilling out.17 The people in Okinawa were aware of the idea through the tree planting projects managed by Sai On, a well-known bureaucrat-official of the Ryukyu Kingdom in the 18th century. Although most of the villages in Okinawa remove their hougo now, Imadomari preserves its hougo very well. There are two types of the hougo in Imadomari: one surrounding the entire settlement and another enclosing each house. The former type is a zone of planted trees found on three sides of the settlement excluding the south side. They are believed to retain vital energy flowing into the settlement from the southern mountains. Such tree walls have physical functions protecting the settlement from the northern wind, the tide and the sand caught by the wind. The Casuarina (Casuarina equisetifolia J. et G. Forst.) and the screw-pine (Pandanus odoratissimus L.f) are prevalent in the northern plant wall. Contrastingly, the common garcinia (Garcinia subelliptica Merr.) comprises the overwhelming majority in the eastern and western earthworks. According to Nakama, the oldest age among the common garcinia in the settlement hougo is estimated between 250 and 290 years, which correlates to the period of the plantation project conducted by Sai On.18 The common garcinia is also found inside the settlement: it surrounds each residential lot. The house hougo has a traditional meaning within Okinawan feng shui, the same as the settlement hougo: it ensures physical protection against the wind, the tide and the sand. In addition, the common garcinia has a fireproof property. If a fire occurs within the settlement, the trees surrounding the affected house prevent the fire from spreading to other houses. The common garcinia is one of the most important components distinguishing the cultural landscape of Imadomari. It has grown alongside the society and provides both the significance of belief and the function of disaster prevention. Imadomari’s population is aging, and the working and young generations are decreasing. Several common garcinia trees in the settlement face removal or neglect. The management of the trees is too difficult for the elderly, both physically and financially. This is an important issue in the maintenance of the cultural landscape, and must be solved by the proper management of the local environment such as the wind, tide, sand and fire hazards. To protect the cultural landscape is to ensure the sustainable life in Imadomari. Thus, residents are beginning to establish a plan for the preservation of the cultural landscape.

Conclusion When we want to understand the cultural landscape of an area, research is required with respect to three points of view: the nature, the history, and the life and livelihood of the residents. The case studies in this paper suggest that the interactions among these three aspects have formed the localities and the changes in these interactions are inscribed in their

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landscapes. The landscapes of the three areas demonstrate that each of the areas have their own localities. We can also find non-changeable aspects within both the livelihood of residents and the landscape. The case of Higashi-kusano indicates that life with snow continues throughout the local history, although the way of life has changed gradually. The residents in Karihama continue to adapt their livelihood according to the changes in the ecosystem around them. The study of Imadomari highlights that the relationship with the older living space does not vanish despite the requirement to resettle due to changing social conditions. A landscape inscribed in such a way (and an ability to relate well to the environment) ensures an attractive cultural landscape. The ability to sustain the relationship between the environment and the people is necessary for a sustainable future. To understand the cultural landscape is to comprehend the link among the past, the present and the future of a geographic area. Author’s note: The author would like to thank all of the research team members of the three areas for their cooperation.

Notes 1

Kinda Akihiro, Bunkateki Keikan: Seikatsu to Nariwai no Monogatari [Cultural landscape: stories of life and livelihood] (Tokyo: Nikkei Business Publications, 2012). 2 UNESCO website, Cultural Landscapes, accessed 16 August 2021, http://whc.unesco.org/en/culturallandscape/. 3 Law for the Protection of Cultural Properties, Article 2, Paragraph 1, Item 5, accessed 14 December 2022. https://elaws.e-gov.go.jp/document?lawid=325AC0100000214. 4 Agency for Cultural Affairs. Cultural landscapes, accessed 2 July 2021. https://www.bunka.go.jp/seisaku /bunkazai/shokai/keikan/. 5 Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai, ed., “Maibarashi Higashikusano no bunkateki keikan” hozon katsuyo jigyo hokokusyo hozon katsuyō jigyō hōkokusyo [Research report for the cultural landscape in Higashi-kusano, Maibara City] (Maibara City, 2013); Seiyo-shi Kyōikuiinkai, ed., Seiyo-shi bunkateki keikan chōsa seika hōkokusyo [Research report for the cultural landscape in Seiyo City] (Seiyo City, 2018); Cultural property section of Nakijin Village, ed., Nakijin son Imadomari no fukugi syuraku keikan chōsa hōkokusyo [Report of the investigation for the cultural landscape in Imadomari, Nakjin village] (Nakijin Village, 2018). 6 Sekiguchi Takeshi, “Sekai no sekisetsu bunpu” [The distribution of the amount of snow coverage in the world], Chigaku Zasshi 73, no. 1 (1964): 11–22. 7 Uesugi Kazuhiro, Keikan wa rekishi kara yomitkeru: Hajimete no rekishi chirigaku [Guidebook for landscape histories in Japan] (Tokyo: Beret Publishing, 2020). 8 Hamasaki Kazushi and Ishikawa Shinji, “Shūraku no kōzō to keikan” [Settlement structure and landscape] in “Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no bunkateki keikan” hozon katsuyō jigyō hōkokusyo, ed. Maibarashi Higashikusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai [Research report for the cultural landscape in Higashi-kusano, Maibara City] (Maibara City, 2013), 62–100. 9 Ichikawa Hideyuki, “Higashi-kusano no mizu riyō” [Usage of the water in Higahi-kusano] in “Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no bunkateki keikan” hozon katsuyō jigyō hōkokusyo, ed. Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai [Research report for the cultural landscape in Higashikusano, Maibara City] (Maibara City, 2013), 102–114. 10 Ichikawa Hideyuki, “Kōzuhara no asaorimono to keikan” [The hemp cloths and landscape in Kozuhara] in “Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no bunkateki keikan” hozon katsuyō jigyō hōkokusyo, ed. Maibarashi Higashikusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai [Research report for the cultural landscape in Higashi-kusano, Maibara City] (Maibara City, 2013), 115–18. 11 Hishida Tetsuo and Uesugi Kazuhiro, “Touge michi to sekizōbutsu ga kataru kōryū” [The interaction shown in the mountain routes and stoneworks] in “Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no bunkateki keikan” hozon

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katsuyō jigyō hōkokusyo, ed. Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai [Research report for the cultural landscape in Higashi-kusano, Maibara City] (Maibara City, 2013), 184–95. 12 Seiyo-shi Kyōikuiinkai, ed., Seiyo-shi bunkateki keikan chōsa seika hōkokusyo [Research report for the cultural landscape in Seiyo City] (Seiyo City, 2018). 13 Cultural property section of Nakijin Village, ed., Nakijin son Imadomari no fukugi syuraku keikan chōsa hōkokusyo [Report of the investigation for the cultural landscape in Imadomari, Nakjin village] (Nakijin Village, 2018). 14 Okinawaken Nakijin-son Kyōiku Iinkai Nakijin-son Rekishi Bunka Sentā, Nakijin kenkyū 3: Nakjin no rekishi [Nakijin studies 3: The history of Nakijin] (Nakijin Village, 1993). 15 Cultural Property Section of Nakijin Village ed., Nakijin son Imadomari no fukugi syuraku keikan chōsa hōkokusyo [Report of the investigation for the cultural landscape in Imadomari, Nakjin village] (Nakijin Village, 2018). 16 Asato Susumu, Gusuku, Kyōdōtai, Mura: Okinawa Rekishi Kōkogaku Josetsu [Castle, community, and settlement; the introduction of Okinawa historical archaeology] (Okinawa: Yōjusya, 1998). 17 Kamata Seishi, Yamamoto Takatsugu, Urayama Ryuichi, eds., “Hougo” to Okinawa no sonraku kūkan: Dentōteki chiri shisō no kankyō keikan gaku [“Embraced protection” (Hougo) and village spatial planning in Okinawa: A landscape architecture study of traditional geographic thought] (Tokyo: Fukyosya, 2019). 18 Nakama Yūei, Shimashakai no shinrin to bunka [Forest and culture in Okinawa society] (Naha: Ryūkyū Shobō, 2012).

Bibliography Agency for Cultural Affairs. Cultural landscapes. Accesed 2 July 2022. https://www.bunka.go.jp/seisaku /bunkazai/shokai/keikan/. Asato, Susumu. Gusuku, kyōdōtai, mura: Okinawa rekishi kōkogaku josetsu [Castle, community, and settlement; the introduction of Okinawa historical archaeology]. Okinawa: Yōjusya, 1998. Cultural Property section of Nakijin Village, ed. Nakijin son Imadomari no fukugi shuraku keikan chōsa hōkokusyo [Report of the investigation for the cultural landscape in Imadomari, Nakjin village]. Nakijin Village, 2018. Hamasaki, Kazushi and Ishikawa Shinji. “Shūraku no kōzō to keikan” [Settlement structure and landscape]. In “Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no bunkateki keikan” hozon katsuyō jigyō hōkokusho [Research report for the cultural landscape in Higashi-kusano, Maibara City], edited by Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai, 62–100. Maibara City, 2013. Hishida, Tetsuo and Uesugi Kazuhiro. “Touge michi to sekizōbutsu ga kataru kōryū” [The interaction shown in the mountain routes and stoneworks]. In “Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no bunkateki keikan” hozon katsuyō jigyō hōkokusho [Research report for the cultural landscape in Higashi-kusano, Maibara City], edited by Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai, 184–95. Maibara City, 2013. Ichikawa, Hideyuki. “Higashi-kusano no mizu riyou” [Usage of the water in Higashi-kusano]. In “Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no bunkateki keikan” hozon katsuyō jigyō hōkokusho [Research report for the cultural landscape in Higashi-kusano, Maibara City], edited by Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai, 102-14. Maibara City, 2013. ———. “Kōzuhara no asaorimono to keikan” [The hemp cloths and landscape in Kozuhara]. In “Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no bunkateki keikan” hozon katsuyō jigyō hōkokusho [Research report for the cultural landscape in Higashi-kusano, Maibara City], edited by Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai, 115-18. Maibara City, 2013. Kamata, Seishi, Yamamoto Takatsugu, Urayama Ryuichi, eds. “Hōgo” to Okinawa no sonraku kūkan: Dentōteki chiri shisō no kankyō keikan gaku [“Embraced protection (Hōgo)” and village spatial planning in Okinawa: A landscape architecture study of traditional geographic thought]. Tokyo: Fukyosha, 2019. Kinda, Akihiro. Bunkateki keikan: Seikatsu to nariwai no monogatari [Cultural landscape: stories of life and livelihood]. Tokyo: Nikkei Business Publications, 2012. Maibarashi Higashi-kusano no Bunkateki Keikan Hozonkeikaku Sakutei Iinkai ed., “Maibarashi Higashikusano no bunkateki keikan” hozon katsuyo jigyo hokokusyo hozon katsuyō jigyō hōkokusyo [Research report for the cultural landscape in Higashi-kusano, Maibara City]. Maibara City, 2013.

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Nakama, Yūei. Shimashakai no shinrin to bunka [Forest and culture in Okinawa society]. Naha: Ryūkyū Shobō, 2012. Okinawaken Nakijin-son Kyōiku Iinkai Nakijin-son Rekishi Bunka Sentā. Nakijin kenkyū 3: Nakjin no rekishi [Nakijin studies 3: The history of Nakijin]. Nakijin Village, 1993. Seiyo-shi Kyōikuiinkai, ed. Seiyo-shi bunkateki keikan chōsa seika hōkokusho [Research report for the cultural landscape in Seiyo City]. Seiyo City, 2018. Sekiguchi, Takeshi. Sekai no sekisetsu bunpu [The distribution of the amount of snow coverage in the world]. Journal of Geography 73, no. 1 (1964): 11–22. The World Heritage Committee. Operational Guidelines for the Implementation of the World Heritage Convention (UNESCO, 1994). Accessed 16 August 2021. https://whc.unesco.org/archive/opguide94.pdf. Uesugi, Kazuhiro. “Toshi no bunkateki keikan no kangaekata” [Toward cultural landscapes of cities]. In Toshi no itonami no chisō: Uji, Kanazawa [The layers of the livelihoods in cities: Uji and Kanazawa], edited by Nara bunkazai kenkuyūsho keikan kenkyūshitsu. Nara: Nara Bunkazai Kenkuyūsho, 2017. ———. Keikan wa rekishi kara yomitkeru: Hajimete no rekishi chirigaku [Guidebook for Landscape histories in Japan]. Tokyo: Beret Publishing, 2020. UNESCO website. Cultural Landscapes. Accessed 16 August 2021. http://whc.unesco.org/en/culturallandscape/.

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Chapter 2 Japan’s Colonial Environments John Hayashi This chapter presents Japanese colonialism as an environmental process, one fueled by resource extraction yet also committed to “greening” the territories it occupied. Planting cherry trees in places such as Korea symbolized Japanese rule. At the same time, Japanese agricultural and botanical ideals had to adapt to meet the conditions of diverse ecologies. Even when attempts to remake landscapes fell short, they established legacies that persist across East Asian landscapes through to the present day.

Introduction By the time the Japanese empire reached its greatest extent during the throes of the Second World War, it occupied territory ranging from Alaska’s foggy Aleutian islands and the Mongolian steppe to Burmese mangroves and the phosphate island of Nauru. This diversity of ecologies was no accident. It reflected not only the empire’s vast geographic reach but also the fact that Japan’s Asia-Pacific War was a resource war. Coal, oil and rubber are seldom found in a single location, and as they fueled Japan’s engines of war they also pushed the empire into new environments. While the spatial scale of this process may have been unprecedented, Japan and its empire had been expanding in ecologically transformative ways for a long time. This chapter addresses what I call Japan’s colonial environments. Taking a cue from the field of environmental history, “environment” here connotes neither a passive background for human events nor a universalized and singular entity (“the environment”). Instead, I take “environment” to reside first in the mass of non-human materials, minerals, rivers, seas, marshes, mountains, trees, grasses, shrubs, crops and animals that constituted the physical reality of the Japanese empire and also in the relationships these various objects, organisms and landscapes had with each other and with humans. The colonial or quasi-colonial spaces within the modern Japanese empire on which this chapter focuses are, by year of acquisition or incorporation, Taiwan (1895), South Sakhalin/Karafuto (1905), Korea (1910), the South Seas Mandate (1919) and Manchukuo (1932).1 Before addressing any of the above cases, I examine the early modern incorporation of Ezo/Hokkaido, where the stage was set for the drama of Japanese imperialism to play out across continental Northeast Asia and islands to the south and north of the Japanese

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archipelago. One could also look to other rehearsals from the Tokugawa period, whether at its dawn with the Satsuma Domain’s annexation of the Amami and Tokara Islands or at its close with the shogunate’s abortive claims on the Bonin (Ogasawara) Islands. The promise of looking broadly at modern overseas colonies lies in comparison and connection. In all of these sites, colonial officials, entrepreneurs, Japanese settlers and local peoples alike all wrestled with questions about how to use and relate to the non-human world. The lifespans of most of these colonies was at least several decades—long enough to coincide with certain natural cycles, such as periodic typhoons or the time that it takes a fast-growing conifer to reach felling age. This chapter approaches Japan’s colonial environments first from the vantage point of resources before proceeding to a consideration of landscapes and the place of organisms within them. All of these are large topics, particularly when addressed on the massive scale of Japanese empire. There are interconnections linking them broadly across geographic and topical space, however, that can only be captured through a wide analytical lens. What I aim for here is to convey, through illustrative examples, how certain broad themes and categories map onto particular examples from varied colonial environments. In doing so, this chapter both surveys the course tread thus far by environmental historians writing on the Japanese empire and suggests paths to which the field might expand in the future.

Empire of extraction Let us begin with resources. Resources hold such a great significance that it might be tempting to tell the entire history of Japanese imperialism as a quest to secure and extract resources. Such a framing certainly helps make sense of Japan’s wartime invasion of Southeast Asia in pursuit of rubber, tin and oil. As William Tsutsui has argued, it also explains Japan’s advance into new oceanic spaces—its “pelagic empire” of fishery exploitation—better than other theories of imperialism, such as notions about capital’s search for new markets, living space for surplus populations, imperial prestige or the civilizing mission.2 It would be a mistake to project this logic onto all of Japan’s imperial ventures, however, and not just because any single theory of imperialism is perforce reductive. It was not until after World War I that Japan began to describe itself as a “have-not” (motazaru kuni) when it came to a unified conception of resources.3 Military strategy, rather than resource hunger, was the crucial variable in Japan’s acquisition of colonies from 1895 through the 1910s. Such geopolitical maneuvering was sometimes accompanied by a strain of environmental apologism, which justified Japanese rule through the dubious argument that Japan would prove a superior steward of colonial land and the resources they held. The point here is not to deny resources’ importance, but rather to pinpoint when and how they became important. Once Japan acquired its colonies and commenced—or accelerated preexisting—extractive processes, resources became a driving force in transforming colonial environments. We can gain some sense of these transformations by examining the ways in which Japan became materially dependent on colonial goods. Keeping fields productive in the Japanese home islands required fertilizer from resource peripheries as early as the 18th century; by the 20th century, the chief sources shifted from Hokkaido herring meal to Manchurian soycake and Korean chemical fertilizers. Each of these had local environmental ramifications at sites

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of extraction, including, respectively, the collapse of herring fisheries, large-scale clearing of vegetation for soy planting and the pollution of local water sources.4 This is not to say that the material consequences of economic growth and expanding consumption in Japan were confined to the empire, at least before the World War II-era dash towards autarky. To take the example of Taiwan, Japanese demand for camphor and sugar influenced environmental changes on the island while it was still part of the Qing empire. After 1895, when Japan took control of Taiwan, such trends accelerated in ways that were mutually transformative. It was largely due to masses of cheap sugar pouring into Japan from Taiwan (and the Ryukyu islands) that sweets became increasingly common during the imperial period; from 1888 to 1903 per capita sugar consumption nearly doubled. Sugar was but one of many commodities that derived in significant part from raw materials from Japan’s colonies. By the mid-1930s, nearly one fifth of rice consumed in metropolitan Japan consisted of imports from Korea and Taiwan. Coal from Manchuria—and later north China—was indispensable in fueling Japanese industry from the early-20th century through the collapse of the empire. By the end of World War II, Karafuto supplied an estimated seventy percent of raw materials for Japan’s paper-cellulose industry.5 For some critics writing in the successor states to the Japanese empire, such as South Korea and Taiwan, it has become commonplace to describe Japanese imperialism as straightforward plunder, an extractive enterprise that in its wake left colonial environments exhausted and bodies broken. This is a powerful narrative. But it is also a flattening one, and cannot describe the sheer diversity of motivations and consequences of Japanese imperialism. Complicating this narrative does not require us to accept the self-aggrandizing claims of imperial boosters that Japan was a benign presence in colonial environments. It does, however, compel us to grapple with diverse expressions of Japanese imperial rule. Doing so gives both more texture and more analytical edge to our histories. For resources, this can mean thinking about colonial geography in new ways. On the topic of forestry, Nakashima Kōji has suggested adopting a model of concentric circles radiating out from the home islands of Kyushu, Shikoku and Honshu. In this core group, protecting resources was as important as developing them, and the forestry policy emphasized sustainable yields. Protective instincts were less pronounced in the internal colonies of Okinawa and Hokkaido and weaker still in the direct colonies of Taiwan and Korea, but all of these territories still had programs focused on reforestation. Forestry was more extractive in the “East Asian New Order” territories of Manchukuo and China and within the Southeast Asian and Pacific territories of the Co-Prosperity Sphere became baldly exploitative, with little to no concern given to ameliorating long-term damage.6 This arrangement reflects both geographical arrangement and temporal progression—it is a schematic and suggestive way of thinking about the countervailing forces of harvesting and creating resources. Not all resources are created equal, of course. Water, for instance, became increasingly important across the imperial period with expansions of hydroelectric generation, irrigated agriculture and water-thirsty industrial production. With such existential concerns on the line, water conservancy was not any less important in Korea or Taiwan than in the core home islands; differences came rather in the social relations and coercion that accompanied projects of irrigation, dam construction and erosion control. For marine resources (chiefly fish but also cetaceans), sustainable harvest was a concern for some, but fleets near and far from the home islands alike nevertheless fished stocks to depletion. Other resources simply cannot be regenerated, at least not on timescales commensurate with the lifespans of humans 20

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or their empires. Coal is a prime example. Mass production in Japanese industries was mirrored by what Timothy LeCain has called “mass destruction” in its mines. Victor Seow has shown that excavating the gargantuan open pit mine at Fushun (near Shenyang) entailed both despoiling the local environment and forcing Chinese miners into dangerous and often deadly working conditions.7 In short, tracing the paths traveled by resources—from agricultural goods to fuels—demonstrates the material interconnectedness of the empire and reveals policies that were variously extractive and regenerative. Heretofore I have followed the literature at large in focusing on resource flows between metropolitan Japan and its colonies. Yet connections between colonies were significant as well. Taiwanese sugar and Manchurian coal, for instance, both flowed not just to the Japanese islands but to colonial Korea as well. This area awaits further research.

Transplanting Landscapes Neo-Japanese on empire’s edge Another way to understand Japan’s colonial environments is to ask the very simple question, “What did they look like?” That is, what characteristics did landscapes under Japanese rule have in common? Such an inquiry gives a glimpse both into the physical and social legacies of the Japanese empire, since, as Eric Mueggler has written, landscapes are social relations.8 And just like prevailing social relations, landscapes across Japan’s colonies were extraordinarily diverse. Because a shared experience as part of the Japanese empire united them, however, we can ask a common question of them: under colonial rule, did they become more like Japanese landscapes? Alfred Crosby famously used the term “Neo-Europes” to describe areas, including much of North America and South America’s Southern Cone, in which European migrants settled in large numbers, becoming numerically dominant and transforming landscapes to support Old-World species such as wheat, cattle and pigs. Although this settler colonial process was predicated upon deliberate conquest of indigenous peoples, aspects of Neo-Europes came about through unintended consequences. Crosby wrote about portmanteau biota, the “extended family of plants, animals, and microlife” that European voyagers brought along with them (like a portmanteau suitcase).9 With this understanding, we might rephrase the question from above, “Did Japan produce Neo-Japans?” Japan’s early modern expansion into Ezo (later Hokkaido) was both economic and ecological, and dealt devastating damage to Ainu people through epidemic diseases such as smallpox and syphilis. Brett Walker has followed Crosby in describing this as a case of ecological imperialism, one which cut off relationships Ainu had with the world beyond and as they became dependent on trade with Tokugawa Japan. The Matsumae domain’s mining of precious metals also disrupted river ecologies, killing salmon and threatening the Ainu who depended upon them. Nevertheless, many Ainu continued to use their landscape through combining hunting, fishing, and small-scale shifting cultivation (the final mostly done by women) and later working in seasonal fisheries. It was only in the 1870s that the Meiji state sought to turn Ainu into sedentary farmers along an ideal of Japanese agriculture. Earlier attempts to turn Hokkaido’s plains into a land of rice paddies, like much of the rest of Japan, had failed. Instead, Meiji initiatives focused on hardy crops like potatoes and radishes.10

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These efforts to transform Ainu into agriculturalists largely failed, but as ethnic Japanese settlers streamed in and the Meiji state looked to make Hokkaido productive, the archipelago’s northernmost main island was transformed all the same. As the example of wet-rice cultivation suggests, this was no simple matter of inscribing Japanese landscapes onto the new colony. Instead, much of the inspiration came from elsewhere in the Northern Hemisphere. Taming Hokkaido’s forbidding landscape became one of many tasks for which the young Meiji government recruited Western experts. Prussian agronomist Louis Boehmer oversaw the shipping and planting of hundreds of thousands of trees in the 1870s and early 1880s from Europe and the United States into Hokkaido. Peach, plum, pear and apple grew right in the heart of the colonial capital of Sapporo, but the Colonial Agency (Kaitakushi) struggled to find Japanese farmers willing to grow the trees. As a fruit grower who was a child at the time later recalled, “No one had ever seen, let alone eaten, an apple. When we were offered apple seedlings, some of us even thought they were a nuisance, and no one wanted to take any.” 11 Despite such setbacks, fruit, including varieties unfamiliar to the early Meiji palate, came to play an important role in feeding Hokkaido and making it productive. With fisheries increasingly depleted, developing food sources took on pivotal importance. Another Colonial Agency employee by the name of Edwin Dun played a crucial role here in seeking to develop ranching. Dun, a rancher from Ohio later known as the “father of Hokkaido agriculture” believed livestock ranching would be a good fit to Hokkaido’s wide-open spaces. Yet bears, feral dogs and especially wolves tormented livestock in the Meiji period, partially because their own favored prey—deer—were being intensively hunted. Dun thus endeavored to eliminate wolves altogether. By combining strychnine poison baiting and bounty incentives, Dun and others in the Colonial Agency helped bring about the complete extinction of the Hokkaido wolf by the close of the 19th century. Relating this history, historian Brett Walker traces wolf extermination back to European settlement of eastern North America, and then back further, to the extirpation of wolves from England by around 1500. Wolf killings had occurred in Japan before the Meiji period, but wholesale extermination was unthinkable. In this way, Walker writes, not just North America but “Japan too became a kind of NeoEuropean landscape.” 12 Changes wrought in Hokkaido were soon transposed further north following Karafuto (South Sakhalin’s) cession to Japan after the conclusion of the Russo-Japanese War. Although Karafuto’s most significant role within the Japanese empire was as a provisioner of timber and pulp, agriculture was pivotal to its settler colonial history. As an English-language summary prepared by Japanese officials described, “There was practically no agriculture in Karafuto prior to … 1905. No sooner had it passed into Japan’s possession that vigorous steps were taken for the reclamation work of all arable land.” 13 To a significant extent this represented an elaboration of processes begun in Hokkaido: shipping routes connected the two islands, much administrative architecture was shared, and of the hundreds of thousands of settlers who came to Karafuto from metropolitan Japan, a good half came from Hokkaido. Both of these islands are huge and ecologically diverse, however, so recreating Hokkaido farms in Karafuto was no straightforward task. Food in the colony was constantly in short supply. One response was the establishment in Toyohara (now Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk) of the Central Research Station, which experimented on a broad range of crops and generated strategies for settlers struggling to make ends meet. Researchers suggested that oats, which in Karafuto were generally given to horses, could support its people as well. With little custom of preparing oatmeal or oat bread, settlers did not find this advice easy to stomach.14 This example 22

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illustrates that rather than creating Neo-Japans in Karafuto, Japanese imperialism had to assimilate to foodways that were either local or had been brought in by other settlers. At the geographic extreme in the colonial empire opposite from Karafuto lay the South Seas Mandate, which Japan seized from Germany early in World War I and administered as a League of Nations mandate thereafter. This expansive region covered most of Micronesia, excluding Guam and the Gilbert Islands (Kiribati). From the early days of Japan’s involvement in the region, the South Seas Mandate’s hot, tropical climate inspired dreams of great Japanese sugar plantations. The important immediate comparative context for this was not the Japanese home islands but rather Okinawa and especially Taiwan, which by this point was functioning as a uniquely profitable colony because of massive sugar harvests. It was from Taiwan that entrepreneur Matsue Haruji arrived and, with government backing, began transforming Saipan and nearby Rota and Tinian into sugar plantations. Under his leadership, sugar plantations went from occupying a modest 20 hectares in 1916 to 6700 hectares in 1930–1931.15 Before working in Taiwan, Matsue had studied at Louisiana State University alongside sugar experts with experience and ambitions in the Caribbean, and this background helps us see that Japan’s sugar plantations in Micronesia were both an extension of patterns from colonial Taiwan and a local variation on a global theme. Distinct to the South Seas Mandate, labor for sugar plantations came chiefly not from local people, the Chamorro, but from Okinawan migrants. They both cleared the native limestone forest of vegetation and labored in plantations and refineries.16 Karafuto and the South Seas Mandate may have been at opposite ends of the empire, but they both had high populations of Japanese settlers who worked to transform them into productive appendages of Hokkaido on the one hand, and Taiwan and Okinawa on the other. Blossoming imperialism If the question of Neo-Japans can be viewed through diverse local adaptations, then there are examples that highlight similarities across the empire as well. A floral legacy of Japanese imperialism that, even today, a traveler across East Asia might well encounter is the cherry blossom. The Japanese word sakura refers to a number of different cultivars and wild varieties that were long planted in the home islands and, in the Meiji period, expanded into new areas overseas. This was not limited to the empire, and the most famous cherry blossoms outside of Japan continue to be those in Washington, D.C. Nevertheless, within the empire sakura became a potent symbol of Japanese rule. Across colonial spaces, they grew in stately rows along wide boulevards, in towering clusters in parks and Shintō shrines, and in historical sites of importance to the Japanese. Cherry blossoms began to figure in Japanese military aesthetics in the late-19th century and became ubiquitous in the imagery of patriotic death and self-sacrifice by the time of World War II. The fragile pink blossoms served to honor war dead—soldiers who had valiantly given their lives in the service of the nation.17 Such memorials were not limited to then-recent events of Japan’s modern wars, but included earlier Japanese attempts to expand its empire as well. In colonial Korea, the ruling Government-General proposed in 1932 to plant some 15,000 cherry blossoms in the area surrounding the historic battlefield at Pyŏkchegwan, near Seoul. This was where Japanese forces in 1593 had triumphed over a Ming army that had swept down from China in aid of Chosŏn Korea. In terms of environmental

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management, planting thousands of cherry trees at this site promised to dovetail with erosion control efforts. It would also serve to make the area more inviting to tourists. Hillsides that were not denuded but rather covered in cherry blossoms, that most Japanese of trees, would both make for an inviting sight and, as one newspaper article put it, “provide solace to the souls of the brave soldiers” who had died there.18 Sakura also commemorated more recent Japanese victories. Cherry trees had blossomed in Port Arthur’s environs since soon after Japan’s victory turned the area into an effective colony as the Kwantung Leased Territory. In 1931, the Japanese seizure of Manchuria occasioned further plantings of multiple varieties of this “emblem of military valour” around Dalian.19 The problem, as urban planners and botanists saw it, was that while these ornamentals thrived in the southern Liaodong peninsula, they could not withstand the bitter cold and heavy frosts everywhere else in Manchuria. Of some four thousand cherry trees planted in Japanese Harbin in 1934–1935, not one survived more than a year. Creative efforts to overcome these climatic conditions suggest just how important cherry blossoms were within the project of creating “Neo-Japans” abroad. In Harbin, the South Manchuria Railway Company commissioned Russian agronomist Alexander O. Voeikov to investigate whether hardy cherry trees that grew wild in Manchuria might be made into ornamentals, but he initially had little success in cultivating trees that would both survive and produce large blossoms. Later, he used pollen sent from Japanese cherry blossom cultivars in Port Arthur to create a hybrid variety with the Russian steppe cherry (Prunus fruticosa).20 One newspaper columnist described this botanical pairing as “a type of international alliance, which requires no registration with the League of Nations.” 21 For Japanese settlers, however, the ultimate appeal of this experimentation lay in affective bonds with the homeland. A Russian journalist drew parallels with settler colonialism elsewhere in the world, writing, “It has been proved through colonisation in Siberia and North America that the settlers feel more at home and more satisfied with their lot when they are able to have the trees which grow in their native districts with them in their colonies. … unless [the Japanese] can have the trees and shrubs they love in their colonies they never feel actually and completely satisfied.” 22 Symbolically, no Japanese tree is more fraught with nationalistic associations than the cherry tree. As such, it is an exceptional example of settlers’ proclivity to replicate familiar ecologies. Not all examples carry such symbolic weight: Voeikov noted that the tree most strongly associated with Japan in southern Manchuria was not the cherry but rather the black locust (Robinia pseudoacacia). Native to the upper South of the United States, the black locust’s history in Japan dated only to the 1870s, but as a resilient and quick-growing species it spread throughout the home island rapidly.23 For some Japanese settlers, then, recreating their native districts in Manchuria simply meant planting what was familiar—whether it had any uniquely Japanese character or not. A final way of confounding the question of Japan creating “Neo-Japans” in its colonies is by looking instead at other directions of biological exchange—back into the home islands and between colonies. In his book on Tokyo’s Ueno Zoo, Ian Miller describes animals ranging from Korean deer and Chinese hedgehogs to Komodo dragons from the Dutch East Indies that were spoils of Japanese military conquest shipped back and displayed prominently in the heart of the metropolitan capital. There they performed the ideological work of trumpeting the glory and exoticism of the empire while also demarcating the boundary between civilization and nature.24 Not all animals from colonial spaces were so tightly controlled as the creatures caged in Japan’s zoos. Consider the pheasant. The green pheasant is Japan’s national 24

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bird and is widely dispersed across Honshu, Kyushu and Shikoku. It is absent in Hokkaido, where ornithologists seeking to understand its evolution attempted unsuccessfully to introduce it in the 1930s. The subspecies that did take off, so to speak, was instead the Korean ring-necked pheasant. While experiments to release this game bird elsewhere in the home islands failed, to the relief of ornithologists concerned with the “purity of Japan’s [green] pheasants,” after 1930 Korean ring-necked pheasants flourished in Hokkaido.25 There, they survive in large numbers to this day as an avian inheritance of empire.

Greening the growing empire Changes in the land across the empire were felt both locally and back in the home islands. In the final section, I raise the problem of “greening,” (ryokka, chiefly meaning tree-planting) an environmental issue that to various actors could encompass scales ranging from the local to the entire empire. Doing this suggests that any examination of this issue in any East Asian national context, even if contained to the post-World War II period, has to account for the history of the Japanese empire. In his book Seeds of Control, David Fedman describes how the Government-General in Korea led projects to inculcate “forest-love thought” (airin shisō) among the Korean populace. Beginning in 1911, the first full year of colonial rule, April 3 was celebrated each year with ceremonial plantings featuring high-ranking officials and framed as an opportunity to strengthen economy, ecology and spirituality all at once. Japanese foresters understood this ideological, public-facing work to be part of their duty to rehabilitate the Korean landscape and cover the peninsula in green. These ceremonial plantings were massive in scale, and between 1911 and 1934 participants planted a stunning 596 million seeds, saplings and trees. Scientist and bureaucrat Ueki Homiki viewed these triumphs of afforestation as affirming Korea’s place in a regional lineage of conservation, one that drew from the wisdom of sages in Ancient China.26 Such linkages between Korea and elsewhere on the Asian continent went beyond the level of rhetoric. On April 3, 1937—the 26th year of ceremonial planting—newspapers reported that due to an abundance of strong and healthy Korean seedlings, a large number of them were being sent as a gift to the allied nation of Manchukuo. There, they would be planted as part of Manchukuo’s own national Arbor Day, which as in Korea was established soon after the new government came into power. Manchukuo’s Arbor Day fell alternately on April 19, 20 or 21. That this timing diverged from that of the Japanese empire’s reflects both geographic and cultural factors. With a higher latitude and longer winters than most of Japan, Manchuria at the beginning of April had air too cold and earth too hard for mass plantings. Manchukuo Arbor Day was also set to be observed fifteen days after the Qingming Festival, a day set aside in China for honoring ancestors.27 Linking Arbor Day to the Qingming Festival was not a novel idea. Beginning in 1915, the Republic of China had combined the two holidays under the initiative of Yuan Shikai.28 Tree-planting is an activity whose benefits are only realized after decades, and for young governments like Republican China and Manchukuo alike Arbor Day was an opportunity to mobilize subjects of every age to imagine life growing and flourishing under continuing rule of the state. For Manchukuo in particular, presenting the holiday as an accompaniment to the ancient Chinese Qingming Festival represented an appeal to tradition in the service of

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statist mobilization. This helped present the country’s Japanese leaders as legitimate heirs to a long Chinese civilization. At the same time, the holiday’s boosters were at pains to stress that it was necessary because Manchuria’s vast, verdant “seas of trees” (jukai) had been recklessly overcut before the founding of Manchukuo.29 Analyzing the Korean case, Fedman writes about these initiatives as “just the sort of ideological lubricant needed to facilitate the establishment of a command economy for natural resources.” 30 As children, women and men all across these societies did the hard work of digging, planting and watering on the one hand, and were denied access to harvest woodland resources on their own terms on the other, the state tightened its grip on the empire’s nonhuman world. Arbor Day illustrates how these trends grew deeper over time. Although its history in Japan reached back to the end of the 19th century, it was not observed nationally until the 1930s. Even then it was organized by a civic organization, but in 1938 the government took control of the holiday, moved it to April 4 and renamed it “National Spiritual Mobilization Arbor Day.” 31 Patriotic Planting Soon, greening Japan’s expanding territory became a mission ever more closely aligned to service and self-sacrifice for the nation. While previous environmentally-situated movements (undō) had been described with benign-sounding words like “forest love” or “greening,” 1940 saw the beginning of the Patriotic Tree-Planting Movement (shokuju hōkoku undō). The context for this was a mobilization of resources and popular energies as Japan plunged into total war. Also crucial was the celebration in 1940 of the 2,600th anniversary of the mythical founding of Japan. It was in March of this year, in the lead-up to the prime springtime planting season, that the Central League for Natural Spiritual Mobilization announced the start of the Patriotic Tree-Planting Movement. This movement was carried out in cooperation between foresters and a broad range of government and quasi-government religious organizations. This organizational architecture reflects the fact that the movement’s stated goals went beyond ecological rehabilitation and provision of war material to encompass donation of timber to shrines and temples so that they could and inspire greater devotion.32 The tendrils of this movement extended across the empire. In Ch’unch’ŏn, east of Seoul, local authorities called for bureaucrats and local people to work together and carry out roadside tree-planting as part of “patriotic tree-planting fever.” The South Seas Buddhist Assocation (Nan’ei Bukkyōkai), one of the chief religious organizations in colonial Taiwan, used its monthly periodical to print text provided by the Central League. The Japanese Army was an enthusiastic participant and funded plantings on empty spaces and training grounds under its control. In 1943, Hualian, in eastern Taiwan, had tens of thousands of trees planted along roadsides alone. Many more trees, supposedly five seedlings for each person, ended up everywhere from shrines and government buildings to personal gardens; these ranged from the whistling pine tree (Causarina equistefolia) and the tung tree to camphor and bamboo. All of this was put forward in loyal service of “total war.” 33 A pamphlet about this movement that was distributed to youth groups—and printed across the empire—gives insight into its ideological positioning. Grounding the Central League’s appeal was a frank acknowledgement of the privations that Japan’s “holy war” had led to. The war economy siphoned materials and labor from other sources, forcing people to

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take on more duties and endure new hardships. Against a sense of powerlessness, one thing that people could do, the pamphlet proclaimed, was plant trees. The resulting timber would become “tools of civilization” (bunmei no riki) such as poles for telegraphs and telephones, ties for railroads and bridges, military weapons, mine timbers, and components of airplanes, automobiles, and warships. It was clear that war required wood. For the pamphlet’s authors, however, a lack of wood also justified war. Describing China’s denuded hills and mountains, they wrote that “at a glance, the bleak and desolate bald mountains displayed the national character of a country in ruins” (bōkokuteki na kokuminsei).34 In this interpretation, it was a failure of Chinese civilization that had led to the country’s troubles—troubles that could only be ameliorated by Japanese control of the landscape. The brutal war that Japan was prosecuting on the continent was presented as a sacred mission and an engine of consumption. It was also a destructive force that was also devastating China, but on this point the pamphlet was silent. As with the seedlings sent from Korea to Manchukuo for its Arbor Day, organisms and rhetoric alike were implicated in these linkages of Japanese spiritual mobilization to rehabilitation of the Chinese landscape. Articles from early 1941 printed in newspapers in metropolitan Japan and Shanghai reported that the Army and National Forestry Association were making plans to send grass, shrub and tree seeds to soldiers on the front. Part of this operated on an affective level: soldiers who had spent long years in arid northern China, where the landscape had nothing to remind them of their verdant hometowns back in Japan. By receiving maple or zelkova seeds in care packages (imonbukuro) alongside tinned food, cigarettes, razors, and candy, soldiers were materially and emotionally linked to family members and well-wishers on the home front. The project had grander goals as well. An article in the Asahi shinbun stated that “these are not merely commemorative trees of individual soldiers–they are commemorative trees for constructing and raising Asia [kōa kensetu].” “Greening the continent” was a precondition for developing north China and thus an indispensable part of what military leaders understood as Japan’s destiny. In addition to the aforementioned familiar species, this effort would focus on planting Japanese poplar, jujube, and acacia—the final particularly hardy and resistant to flooding and overcutting. Readers were urged to take care to send seeds in sturdy and thoroughly waterproofed pouches.35 We can surmise that many such seeds were sent to the front, although it is challenging to judge how many made it into the earth, and how many shrubs or trees survived. This example shows the ways that comfort, conservation and conquest were all wrapped up within a single ideological and physical package. As in other episodes of Japanese expansion, a desire to heal a damaged landscape had little to do with driving the empire’s initial incursions—Japan did not invade China to plant trees. Such conservationist rhetoric nevertheless speaks to the ways that some Japanese imperial planners imagined a Co-Prosperity Sphere that would endure and produce resources after the war was won. At the time, it also provided a powerful cover story, one that obscured the violence and brutality of Japan’s war under the rhetorical foliage of a rehabilitation mission.

Inheriting colonial environments: World War II and beyond The Second World War’s human violence was intertwined with environmental devastation. This was true across all theaters in the war, and the Asia-Pacific was no exception.36 Yet the

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environmental reality of the war was far from uniform, and William Tsutsui has provocatively argued that one-sided depictions of World War II as a disaster for Japan’s environments obscure more than they reveal. Even as the war was indisputably catastrophic for forests, fur seals and song birds, for example, deep-sea fisheries rebounded and research into alternative fuel sources boomed.37 Any responsible history must attend to all of these developments. What Tsutsui does not address, and which require considerably more research, are wartime colonial environments. Across the empire, military mobilization and material self-sufficiency—autarky—put new pressures on resources, landscapes, and bodies alike. In Korea, fuel requisition exposed humans and animals to piercing cold during wartime winters. Desperate attempts to boost coal production in Manchuria involved the brutal use of forced labor.38 In Taiwan, the need to find imperial timber sources fomented conflicts between loggers, government foresters and manufacturers. Facing widespread hardwood cutting, forester Seki Fumihiko responded with a plea for proper display of devotion to “national policy” through implementation of long-term planning.39 One increasingly harvested hardwood was screwpine, which for certain colonial officials posed the additional threat of providing a habitat for mosquitoes to dwell in and transmit malaria. At the same time, the loss of imported fibers such as Manila hemp led to a revival of screwpine fiber hats, which had been popular early in the century and were largely woven by Han Taiwanese girls and women within their homes. Hat manufacturers thus called for a measured and regenerative policy towards harvesting screwpines, which would keep female imperial subjects productive in the safety of their own homes.40 It is up to future researchers to uncover and interpret these broad patterns—both during World War II and beyond. After all, Japan’s colonial environments did not disappear with the end of Japanese colonialism. As the empire fell, crowds toppled statues, people changed the names they used and the languages they spoke and colonial nationals left the home islands en masse as millions of Japanese repatriated. In contrast, the environments of the now-former Japanese empire saw few abrupt transformations. Instead, they constituted in large part what empire left behind. In being environmental, this legacy was both material and ideological. In focusing on resources, organisms and landscapes, this chapter has also related a history of ideas. One potent example that cuts across East Asia is “greening.” In the decades after World War II, afforestation campaigns of “greening the national territory” (kokudo ryokka) in Japan, “greening the entire country” (chǒn’guk nokhwa) in South Korea, “greening Taiwan” (lühua Taiwan) in the Republic of China, and “greening the mother country” (lühua zuguo) in the People’s Republic of China all share both a similar vocabulary and a set of ideological commitments. Understanding this requires us to see Japanese colonialism as a formative force in the history of East Asian environments.

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Notes 1

This list is not comprehensive. For the Ryukyu Islands, see chapter 3 of this volume. Space constraints preclude coverage of the Kuril Islands (1875), the Kwantung Leased Territory (1905) and areas occupied during World War II. 2 William Tsutsui, “The Pelagic Empire: Reconsidering Japanese Expansion,” in Japan at Nature’s Edge: The Environmental Context of a Global Power, ed. Ian Jared Miller et al. (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2013), 22–23. 3 Satō Jin, “Motazaru kuni” no shigenron: jizoku kanō na kokudo o meguru mō hitotsu no chi [Resource thinking of the “have-nots”: sustainability of land and alternative vision in Japan] (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 2011). 4 David Howell, Capitalism From Within: Economy, Society, and the State in a Japanese Fishery (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995); Juliane Schlag,, “Living in Decline—the Dynamics of Anthropogenic Disturbances in the Recent Landcover History of Manchuria and Its Consequences for Northeast Asia,” Asian Geographer 38, no. 2 (2021); Katō Keiki, “Chōsen shokuminchi shihai to kōgai—senji-ki no Kōkaidō Hōzan-gun o chūshin ni” [Colonial rule in Korea and pollution—centering on wartime Pongsan-kun, Hwanghae-do], Shikai 61 (2014). 5 Barak Kushner, “Sweetness and Empire: Sugar Consumption in Imperial Japan,” in The Historical Consumer: Consumption and Everyday Life in Japan, 1850–2000, ed. Penelope Francks et al. (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 133–34. 127–50; Catherine Porter, “Korea and Formosa as Colonies of Japan,” Far Eastern Survey 5, no. 9 (1936): 83; Victor Seow, Carbon Technocracy: Energy Regimes in Modern East Asia (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2021), 118–23, 185–90; Sailing Directions for Sakhalin Island and Adjacent Mainland Coast (Washington, D.C.: United States Government Printing Office, 1945) 4. 6 Nakashima Kōji, “Nihon shokuminchi shugi to shizen—Ajia Taiheiyō Sensō-ki no ryokka undō” [Japanese colonialism and nature—greening movements during the Asia-Pacific War], Seibutsugaku-shi Kenkyū 84 (2010): 66–68. 7 Timothy LeCain, Mass Destruction: The Men and Giant Mines that Wired America and Scarred the Planet (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2009); Seow, Carbon Technocracy. 8 Erik Mueggler, The Paper Road: Archive and Experience in the Botanical Exploration of West China and Tibet (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011), 15. 9 Alfred Crosby, Ecological Imperialism: The Biological Expansion of Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 89. For a detailed explanation see pp. 270–93. 10 Brett Walker, The Conquest of Ainu Lands: Ecology and Culture in Japanese Expansion, 1590–1800 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001); Tamura Sadao, “Naikoku shokuminchi toshite no Hokkaido” [Hokkaido as an internal colony], in Iwanami kōza kindai Nihon to shokuminchi, vol. 1, “Shokuminchi to teikoku Nihon” [Colonies and imperial Japan], ed. Ōe Shinobu et al. (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1992); David Howell, “From Nurturing to Protection in Nineteenth-Century Japan,” in Protection and Empire: A Global History, ed. Lauren Benton et al., (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). 11 Michael Thornton, “Settling Sapporo: City and State in the Global Nineteenth Century,” PhD Dissertation, Harvard University, 2018, 293–343; Sapporo-shi Kyōiku Iinkai, Shinbun to jinmeiroku ni miru Meiji no Sapporo [Meiji Sapporo as seen through newspapers and directories] (Sapporo: Hokkaido Shinbunsha, 1985), 167–68, quoted in Thornton, “Settling Sapporo,” 334. 12 Brett Walker, The Lost Wolves of Japan (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2005), 129–83, quote on 166. 13 The Japan Year Book, 1943–44 (Tokyo: Foreign Affairs Association of Japan, 1943), 937. 14 Nakayama Taishō, Shokuminchi Karafuto no nōgyō takushoku oyobi imin shakai ni okeru tokushu shūenteki nashonaru aidentiti no kenkyū [Research on the agricultural colonization of colonial Karafuto and special peripheral national identity in immigrant society] PhD Dissertation, Kyoto University, 2010, 125–26. 15 Nanyōchō, Annual Report to the League of Nations on the Administration of the South Sea Islands under Japanese Mandate for the Year 1931 (Tokyo: Japanese Government, 1931), 84. 16 Mori Akiko, trans. Wendy Matsumura, “A History of the Excluded: Rethinking the Sugar Industry in the Northern Mariana Islands under Japanese Rule,” Historische Anthropologie 27, no. 3 (2019), 421–24. 17 Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney, Kamikaze, Cherry Blossoms, and Nationalisms: The Militarization of Aesthetics in Japanese History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002).

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18

“Hekiteikan senseki e yamazakura o shokusai” [Planting mountain sakura at the Pyŏkchegwan battlefield], Chōsen shinbun, April 1, 1932, 5. 19 K. Uyeda, “History of Hsiungyocheng Hot Springs,” The Manchuria Daily News, May 21, 1930; A. O. Woiekoff, “Blossoming Trees in N. Manchuria,” Manchuria, July 1, 1936, 14. 20 Woiekoff, “Blossoming Trees,” 14. 21 Murotsu, “Chefoo Likes Wool Goods,” The Manchuria Daily News, June 2, 1936, 7. 22 A. V. Oupshinsky, “Harbin Experiments in Hybridisation,” Manchuria, July 15, 1937, 465. 23 Woiekoff, “Blossoming Trees,” 15. 24 Ian Jared Miller, The Nature of the Beasts: Empire and Exhibition at the Tokyo Imperial Zoo (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013). See also Joseph Seeley and Aaron Skabelund, “’Bite, Bite Against the Iron Cage’: The Ambivalent Dreamscape of Zoos in Colonial Seoul and Taipei,” The Journal of Asian Studies 79, no. 2 (2020): 429–54. 25 M. Hachisuka, “Phasianus mut. Tenebrosus introduced into Hokkaido,” Japanese Journal of Ornithology 38 (1934): 276–77; Takashima Haruo, “Considerations on the change of animal life in Japan (I), Yamashina chōrui kenkyūjo kenkyū hōkoku 1, no. 3 (1953): 90–91. 26 David Fedman, Seeds of Control: Japan’s Empire of Forestry in Colonial Korea (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2020), 180–85. 27 Kamochi Masanori, “Shokujusetsu” [Arbor Day], Manshū gurafu, June, 1941, 93; Fujiyama Kazuo, Manzhou senlin yu wenhua [Manchurian forests and culture], in Jilin Provincial Library, Wei Manzhouguo shiliao [Manchukuo historical materials], vol. 7 (Beijing: Quanguo Tushuguan Wenxian Suowei Fuzhi Zhongxin, 2002), 382–83. 28 E. Elena Songster, “Cultivating the Nation in Fujian’s Forests: Forest Policies and Afforestation Efforts in China, 1911–1937,” Environmental History 8, no. 3 (2003): 458-64. 29 Prasenjit Duara, Sovereignty and Authenticity: Manchukuo and the East Asian Modern (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, 2003), especially 120–21; Kamochi, “Shokujusetu.” 30 Fedman, Seeds of Control, 177. 31 Kuga Shunichi, trans. Ueki Teruyo, Dr. Birdsey Northrup: The Founder of Arbor Day in Japan (Osaka: Inter Osaka Corp, 1972); Takemoto Tarō, Gakkōrin no kenkyū: Mori to kyōiku o meguru kyōdō kankei no kiseki [Research on school forests: traces of cooperative relationships between forests and education] (Tokyo: Nōsan Gyoson Bunka Kyōkai, 2009), 192–93. 32 Shimokawa Kōshi, ed., Kankyō-shi nenpyō 1926–2000 [Environmental history chronological table 1926–2000] (Tokyo: Kawade Shobō Shinsha, 2004), 28; “Shokuju hōkoku undō jisshi ni kan suru ken” [Item concerning the implementation of the patriotic tree-planting movement], National Archives of Japan, call number san 02501100, 3; Kaigun seido enkaku kan–jūroku [History of the naval system, vol. 16] (Tokyo: Kaigun Daijin Kanbō, 1943), 1109. 33 “Siksu poguk yǒl e hoǔng” [Responding to patriotic tree-planting fever], Maeil sinbo, April 14, 1940, 3; “Shokju hōkoku undō ni tsuite” [Regarding the patriotic tree-planting movement], Nan’ei Bukkyō, May, 1940; “Kokubō kokka kensetsu dai-ichinen” [The first year of constructing the national defense state], Tokyo nichinichi shinbun, Dec. 12, 1940; “Sōryokusen e shokuju hōkoku” [Patriotic tree-planting for total war], Taiwan nichinichi shinpō, March 19, 1943, 2. 34 Shokuju hōkoku undō ni tsuite [Regarding the patriotic tree-planting movement] (Tokyo: Kokumin Seishin Sōdōin Chūō Renmei, 1940), 3–5, quote on 4. 35 “Heitai-san tanomimasu tairiku o ryokka shimashō” [Soldiers request, let’s green the continent], Tairiku shinpō, Feb. 23, 1941, 2; “Tairiku no ryokka e imonbukuro no naka ni wa kusaki no tane o iremashō” [Towards greening the continent: let’s put seeds of grasses and trees in comfort packages], Asahi shinbun, Aug. 1, 1941, 4. 36 Simo Laakkonen et al., ed., The Long Shadows: A Global Environmental History of the Second World War (Corvallis: Oregon State University Press, 2017); Micah Muscolino, The Ecology of War in China: Henan Province, the Yellow River, and Beyond, 1938–1950 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015). 37 William Tsutsui, “Landscapes in the Dark Valley: Toward an Environmental History of Wartime Japan,” Environmental History 8, no. 2 (2003): 294–311. 38 Fedman, Seeds of Control, 211–22; Seow, Carbon Technocracy, 197–204. Seow makes the point that as transport became increasingly difficult, resource pressures focused more acutely on areas of the empire close to the home islands; this complicates Nakashima’s schema of concentric extraction introduced above.

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39

Seki Fumihiko, “Shinrin no ranbatsu bōsai o imashimu” [Warning against reckless felling and violent harvesting], Taiwan no sanrin 183 (1941): 2–3. 40 Kō Ikujo [Hong Yuru], “Kanojotachi no ‘Nihon jidai’—Shokuminchi Taiwan no seibōgyō ni mirareru jendā, kaiso, teikoku” [Gender, social stratification, and empire: The “Japan Era” experienced by Taiwanese women in hat manufacturing], Gengo bunka 55 (2019); “Taiwanbō shigen kakuho no tame rintōju no hogo o chinjō” [Petitioning for protection of the screwpine in order to secure resources for Taiwan hats], Taiwan nōrin shinbun, May 10, 1940, 15.

Bibliography Ch’en Kuo-tung. “Nonreclamation Deforestation in Taiwan, c. 1600–1976.” In Sediments of Time: Environment and Society in Chinese History, edited by Mark Elvin et al., 693–727. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Crosby, Alfred. Ecological Imperialism: The Biological Expansion of Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986. Duara, Prasenjit. Sovereignty and Authenticity: Manchukuo and the East Asian Modern. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield Publsihers, 2003. Fedman, David. Seeds of Control: Japan’s Empire of Forestry in Colonial Korea. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2020. Fujiyama, Kazuo. Manzhou senlin yu wenhua [Manchurian forests and culture]. In Jilin Provincial Library, Wei Manzhouguo shiliao [Manchukuo historical materials], vol. 7. Beijing: Quanguo Tushuguan Wenxian Suowei Fuzhi Zhongxin, 2002. Hachisuka, M. “Phasianus mut. Tenebrosus introduced into Hokkaido.” Japanese Journal of Ornithology 38 (1934): 276–77. Hagino, Toshio. Chōsen, Manshū, Taiwan ringyō hattatsu-shi ron [Theories of forestry development in Korea, Manchuria, Taiwan]. Tokyo: Ōzorasha, 2005. “Heitai-san tanomimasu tairiku o ryokka shimashō” [Soldiers request, let’s green the continent]. Tairiku shinpō. Feb. 23, 1941, 2. “Hekiteikan senseki e yamazakura o shokusai” [Planting mountain sakura at the Pyŏkchegwan battlefield], Chōsen shinbun. April 1, 1932, 5. Howell, David. Capitalism From Within: Economy, Society, and the State in a Japanese Fishery. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995. ———. “From Nurturing to Protection in Nineteenth-Century Japan.” In Protection and Empire: A Global History, edited by Lauren Benton et al., 114–31. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. The Japan Year Book. 1943–44. Tokyo: Foreign Affairs Association of Japan, 1943. Kaigun seido enkaku kan–jūroku [History of the naval system, vol. 16]. Tokyo: Kaigun Daijin Kanbō, 1943. Kamochi, Masanori. “Shokujusetsu” [Arbor Day], Manshū gurafu. June, 1941, 93. Katō, Keiki. “Chōsen shokuminchi shihai to kōgai—senjiki no Kōkai-dō Hōzan-gun o chūshin ni” [Colonial rule in Korea and pollution—centering on wartime Pongsan-kun, Hwanghae-do]. Shikai 61 (2014): 71–82. Kō, Ikujo [Hong Yuru]. “Kanojotachi no ‘Nihon jidai’—Shokuminchi Taiwan no seibōgyō ni mirareru jendā, kaiso, teikoku” [Gender, social stratification, and empire: The “Japan Era” experienced by Taiwanese women in hat manufacturing]. Gengo bunka 55 (2019): 35–53. “Kokubō kokka kensetsu dai-ichinen” [The first year of constructing the national defense state]. Tokyo nichinichi shinbun. Dec. 12, 1940. Kuga, Shunichi. Translated by Ueki Teruyo. Dr. Birdsey Northrup: The Founder of Arbor Day in Japan. Osaka: Inter Osaka Corp, 1972. Kushner, Barak. “Sweetness and Empire: Sugar Consumption in Imperial Japan.” In The Historical Consumer: Consumption and Everyday Life in Japan, 1850–2000, edited by Penelope Francks et al. 127–50. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. Laakkonen, Simo et al., eds. The Long Shadows: A Global Environmental History of the Second World War. Corvallis: Oregon State University Press, 2017. Mori, Akiko. Translated by Wendy Matsumura. “A History of the Excluded: Rethinking the Sugar Industry in the Northern Mariana Islands under Japanese Rule.” Historische Anthropologie 27, no. 3 (2019): 410–34.

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Mueggler, Erik. The Paper Road: Archive and Experience in the Botanical Exploration of West China and Tibet. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011. Murotsu. “Chefoo Likes Wool Goods.” The Manchuria Daily News. June 2, 1936, 7. Muscolino, Micah. The Ecology of War in China: Henan Province, the Yellow River, and Beyond, 1938–1950. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Nakashima, Kōji. “Nihon shokuminchi shugi to shizen—Ajia Taiheiyō Sensō-ki no ryokka undō” [Japanese colonialism and nature—greening movements during the Asia-Pacific War]. Seibutsugaku-shi Kenkyū 84 (2010): 51–71. Nakayama, Taishō. Shokuminchi Karafuto no nōgyō takushoku oyobi imin shakai ni okeru tokushu shūen-teki nashonaru aidentiti no kenkyū [Research on the agricultural colonization of colonial Karafuto and special peripheral national identity in immigrant society]. PhD Dissertation, Kyoto University, 2010. Nanyōchō. Annual Report to the League of Nations on the Administration of the South Sea Islands under Japanese Mandate for the Year 1931. Tokyo: Japanese Government, 1931. Ohnuki-Tierney, Emiko. Kamikaze, Cherry Blossoms, and Nationalisms: The Militarization of Aesthetics in Japanese History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. Oupshinsky, A. V. “Harbin Experiments in Hybridisation.” Manchuria. July 15, 1937, 464–65. Porter, Catherine. “Korea and Formosa as Colonies of Japan.” Far Eastern Survey 5, no. 9 (1936): 81–88. Ruoff, Kenneth. Imperial Japan at its Zenith: The Wartime Celebration of the Empire’s 2600th Anniversary. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2010. Sailing Directions for Sakhalin Island and Adjacent Mainland Coast. Washington, D.C.: United States Government Printing Office, 1945. Satō, Jin. “Motazaru kuni” no shigenron: jizoku kanō na kokudo o meguru mō hitotsu no chi [Resource thinking of the “have-nots”: sustainability of land and alternative vision in Japan]. Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 2011. Schlag, Juliane. “Living in Decline—the Dynamics of Anthropogenic Disturbances in the Recent Landcover History of Manchuria and Its Consequences for Northeast Asia.” Asian Geographer 38, no. 2 (2021): 179–96. Seki, Fumihiko. “Shinrin no ranbatsu bōsai o imashimu” [Warning against reckless felling and violent harvesting]. Taiwan no sanrin 183 (1941): 1–3. Seow, Victor. Carbon Technocracy: Energy Regimes in Modern East Asia. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2021. Shimokawa, Kōshi, ed. Kankyō-shi nenpyō 1926–2000 [Environmental history chronological table 1926– 2000]. Tokyo: Kawade Shobō Shinsha, 2004. Shokuju hōkoku undō ni tsuite [Regarding the patriotic tree-planting movement]. Tokyo: Kokumin Seishin Sōdōin Chūō Renmei, 1940. “Shokuju hōkoku undō jisshi ni kan suru ken” [Item concerning the implementation of the patriotic treeplanting movement]. National Archives of Japan, call number san 02501100. “Siksu poguk yǒl e hoǔng” [Responding to patriotic tree-planting fever]. Maeil sinbo. April 14, 1940, 3. Songster, E. Elena. “Cultivating the Nation in Fujian’s Forests: Forest Policies and Afforestation Efforts in China, 1911–1937.” Environmental History 8, no. 3 (2003): 452–73. “Sōryokusen e shokuju hōkoku” [Patriotic tree-planting for total war]. Taiwan nichinichi shinpō. March 19, 1943, 2. “Tairiku no ryokka e imonbukuro no naka ni wa kusaki no tane o iremashō” [Towards greening the continent: let’s put seeds of grasses and trees in comfort packages]. Asahi shinbun, Aug. 1, 1941, 4. “Taiwanbō shigen kakuho no tame rintōju no hogo o chinjō” [Petitioning for protection of the screwpine in order to secure resources for Taiwan hats]. Taiwan nōrin shinbun. May 10, 1940, 15. Takashima, Haruo. “Considerations on the change of animal life in Japan (I).” Yamashina chōrui kenkyūjo kenkyū hōkoku 1, no. 3 (1953): 87–97. Takekoshi, Yosaburō. (George Braithwaite, trans.) Japanese Rule in Formosa. London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1907. Takemoto, Tarō. Gakkōrin no kenkyū: Mori to kyōiku o meguru kyōdō kankei no kiseki [Research on school forests: traces of cooperative relationships between forests and education]. Tokyo: Nōsan Goson Bunka Kyōkai, 2009.

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Tamura, Sadao. “Naikoku shokuminchi toshite no Hokkaido” [Hokkaido as an internal colony]. In Iwanami kōza kindai Nihon to shokuminchi, vol. 1, “Shokuminchi to teikoku Nihon” [Colonies and imperial Japan], edited by Ōe Shinobu et al., 87–199. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1992. Thornton, Michael. “Settling Sapporo: City and State in the Global Nineteenth Century.” PhD Dissertation, Harvard University, 2018. Tsutsui, William M. “Landscapes in the Dark Valley: Toward an Environmental History of Wartime Japan.” Environmental History 8, no. 2 (2003): 294–311. ———. “The Pelagic Empire: Reconsidering Japanese Expansion.” In Japan at Nature’s Edge: The Environmental Context of a Global Power, edited by Ian Jared Miller et al., 21–38. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2013. Uyeda, K. “History of Hsiungyocheng Hot Springs.” The Manchuria Daily News, May 21, 1930. Walker, Brett, The Conquest of Ainu Lands: Ecology and Culture in Japanese Expansion, 1590–1800. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001. ———. The Lost Wolves of Japan. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2005. Woiekoff, A. O. “Blossoming Trees in N. Manchuria.” Manchuria. July 1, 1936, 14–16.

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Chapter 3 National Parks, Nature Conservation, War: The Development of the National Parks System in Japan, 1907–1945 Nishimura Takahiro The national parks system in Japan—established in 1931—had three purposes: 1) recreation and health preservation of the nation; 2) enlightenment of the nation; and, 3) to appeal to foreign tourists and acquisition of foreign exchange, with entrusting the task of preservation to the natural monuments system. Shortly after its establishment, the national parks system was deeply caught-up in the wartime situation. The first two of these purposes provided the basis for a grotesque transformation of the character of national parks during which they came to be considered as training fields to accomplish the war aims and to establish the “Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere.”

Introduction Japan has several pieces of legislation pertaining to the designation of nature reserves, with the Natural Parks Act (Shizenkōen hō) enacted in 1957 playing the key role. As shown in Table 3.1, approximately 15 percent of the country is now designated as natural parks, among which there are thirty-four national parks comprising slightly less than 6 percent of the national land area. These national parks are considered as the “ultimate bastion” 1 of nature conservation. However, as the word “park” suggests, this system uses nature for recreational and touristic purpose and does not aim to fully protect nature.

Table 3.1 Overview of natural park areas (as of March 31, 2021)2 Type National Park

Number of parks 34

Quasi-National Park Prefectural Natural Park Total

34

Park area (ha) 2,194,931

Ratio to national land area (%) 5.807

57

1,445,150

3.823

311

1,948,730

5.156

402

5,588,811

14.786

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Article 1 of the act sets out what is intended: “The purposes of this act are to contribute to the health and recreation of citizens, to enlighten the citizens and to conserve biological diversity through conserving excellent natural scenic areas and through promoting the utilization of those areas.” Among the three purposes mentioned here, the former two were already stressed by scholars of landscape architecture who contributed to the establishment and development of the national parks system through the end of the Second World War. Even though the purposes provided the basis for the militaristic use of national parks at the time,3 they were succeeded by the Natural Parks Act without sufficient reflection. Mainly, the first purpose—contribute to the health and recreation of citizens—has consistently been the distinguishing characteristic of national parks and nature parks. The words “to conserve biological diversity” were added to the articles when the act was amended in 2009. However, inconsistencies in the articles include: 1) the articles state that the act conserves biological diversity through conserving excellent natural scenic areas. However, scenic beauty and biological diversity may not necessarily correlate to each other. Furthermore, 2) the articles also state that promoting the utilization of natural parks contributes to the conservation of biological diversity, but does not specify how this might work in practice. Indeed, a major part of the national parks area in Japan is not equivalent to the “Category II: National Park” In the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) Protected Area Categories System.4 Generally speaking, usage and impact control is quite loose in national parks or natural parks. Resource extractions and the development of nature for tourism or other purposes have been widely allowed, especially when this development has not disturbed the beauty of the landscape.5 In contrast, there is an act that has the express purpose of fully protecting nature: the Nature Conservation Act (Shizenkankyō hozen hō) enacted in 1972.6 This act intends to preserve nature with no assumption that nature may still be exploited in some form. However, this act has not played a major role in nature conservation, as nature reserves protected through this act comprise only 0.28 percent of the national land area, as table 3.2 shows. In other words, the use of nature in some form can be considered the premise of nature conservation legislation in Japan. Table 3.2 Overview of nature reserves under the Nature Conservation Act (as of March 31, 2020)7 Type Wilderness Area

Number of parks 5

Nature Conservation Area Prefectural Nature Conservation Area Total

Park area (ha) 5,631

Ratio to national land area (%) 0.014

10

22,542

0.06

546

77,413

0.2

561

105,604

0.28

What has led to the development of these characteristics in Japanese nature conservation law? What have been the logical consequences of this premise? The purpose of this chapter is to provide a historical analysis of this development. In order to do this, it is not enough to concentrate only on the development of the system of national parks or natural parks. Instead, we must go back to the genesis of the modern nature conservation law in Japan.

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Natural monuments and nature conservation The first nature conservation law in Japan was the Act for the Protection of Historic Sites, Places of Scenic Beauty and Natural Monuments (Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu hozon hō) enacted in 1919. The protection of natural monuments was first raised as an issue by Miyoshi Manabu (1862–1939), a Japanese pioneer in plant physiology and plant ecology. Miyoshi is also known as the first person to translate the German word Ökologie to the Japanese term seitaigaku and the first to use fūkei, the word currently used as a translation of landscape. Miyoshi began promoting the protection of natural monuments in 1907.8 He drew his arguments from the ideas of German botanist Hugo Conwentz (1855–1922), who published The Threat to Natural Monuments and Proposals for their Conservation9 in 1904. This book was instrumental in leading to the establishment of the Prussian Office for the Care of Natural Monuments in 1906. It is evident that Miyoshi had been paying attention to developments in Germany from early on. Having witnessed the destruction of nature through the process of modernization, Miyoshi advocated for parts of nature designated as natural monuments to be protected. Initially, he understood natural monuments as the part of nature that constituted the “landscape specific to the land.” 10 This concept was rather broad and included landscape protection. However, he later changed this definition of natural monuments to “nature that is disappearing” 11 and removed the mention of landscape elements from the definition. He did this certainly because he thought that landscapes would be protected within the framework determined for the protection of places of scenic beauty and national parks. Miyoshi argued that the protection of natural monuments was important in terms of the academic, historical and scenic values involved. Furthermore, he stated that the protection functioned to conserve the “purity of nation” or “national characteristics.” 12 These points served to connect historic sites and places of scenic beauty to natural monuments. At the time when Miyoshi began promoting the protection of natural monuments, a movement already existed in Japan to protect historic sites and trees led by Tokugawa Yorimichi (1872– 1925), the fifteenth Head of the Kishū Tokugawa family and a member of the House of Peers of the Imperial Diet. Miyake Hiizu (1848–1938), also a member of the House of Peers, introduced Miyoshi to the movement. Subsequently in 1911, the Association for the Protection of Historic Sites, Places of Scenic Beauty and Natural Monuments (Shiseki Meishō Tennen Kinenbutsu Hozon Kyōkai) was formally established.13 However, objections were raised to having historical sites and nature grouped together in this way. Miyake looked to the Bund Heimatschutz [Homeland Protection Association] in Germany. This Association was formed in 1904, following a proposal by Ernst Rudorff (1840–1916) and other interested parties.14 This association consisted of six divisions described by Miyake as follows: 1. Protection of monuments; 2. Protection of architecture; 3. Protection of works of arts and crafts; 4. Protection of natural monuments; 5. Protection of famous and historic sites; and, 6. Protection of old customs and ceremonies.15 Miyake understood the Heimatschutz movement as intended to “protect nationalism” and to “protect the source of national pride,” and that the six divisions had the same objectives.16 Natural monuments were thus considered, from this perspective, to have the same power as historic sites to cultivate love for one’s homeland and patriotism.

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The Association had close relations with the Geography Division of the Ministry of Home Affairs and cooperated with it to establish and implement the system of protection. The Association’s periodical Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu [Historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments] published from 1914 became the central forum of discussions for protection. The publication continued until 1944 with a cessation of nearly 3 years due to the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923.17 The Act for the Protection of Historic Sites, Places of Scenic Beauty and Natural Monuments was enacted in 1919, twelve years after Miyoshi proposed the concept of natural monuments. This concept was still unfamiliar to many contemporaries, and questions such as “what does the term ‘natural monument’ mean?” were asked even in the Imperial Diet.18 The reason natural monuments could be institutionalized at such an early stage was first, that natural monuments had been grouped together with historic sites and places of scenic beauty, and second, the ideas supporting these types of protection were thought to be useful for national integration. This kind of nationalist rationale continued to be advanced until Japan’s defeat in the Second World War. However, for natural scientists such as Miyoshi who had advocated specifically for the protection of natural monuments, this nationalist rationale for protection was of less importance. Already in 1907, Miyoshi had clearly stated that the securing of “specimens for academic investigation is particularly important.” 19 Miyoshi and other natural scientists considered academic significance as key among the three values mentioned above. This attitude of natural scientists was viewed as problematic within the association. Criticism was raised that natural monuments were not only for academics. For example, Tokugawa Satotaka (1865–1941), the then vice-president of the association, stated the following: “Protection of nature means that there is a movement that destroys nature in some way, and we have to consider whether nature should be maintained as it is against such a movement. In such a case, I would like to first think that nature is an important resource to cultivate a national spirit. I would like to think about academic value only thereafter.” 20 In other words, in order to protect nature, a rationale that could “counter” destruction was necessary, and a rationale based on academic value was considered to be insufficient to combat destruction. However, Miyoshi and his peers did not change their views despite being aware of this objection and continued to insist on the value of securing specimens for research. What kind of study did Miyoshi have in mind when he referred to academic value? It is important to note that he was a Japanese pioneer in plant ecology. Plant ecology at that time involved the study of transitions in nature, with the assumption that nature would reach its climax when there was no human intervention. The specimens required for such study could be derived from nature reserves protected from human intervention. At present, the natural monuments system in Japan is seen to conserve mainly single objects such as giant or wellknown trees. For this reason, it has been criticized for not contributing to the conservation of biological diversity. While Miyoshi argued for the protection of these kinds of single objects, he also went a step further and was ahead of his time in emphasizing the importance of nature reserves. When putting forth his views, Miyoshi also made reference to trends in Germany. In 1913, he went to Europe and the United States for site visits and met Conwentz in Germany.21 He also attended a Conference for the Care of Natural Monuments organized by Conwentz, and gave a lecture entitled “Nature Preservation Areas in Japan.” 22 By that time, Germany

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37

had already made progress in the conservation of nature reserves, and Miyoshi was fully aware of the development. Moreover, from around 1907, he started to refer to national parks in America, which he initially understood as operating within a framework for only preserving nature.23 However, after his site visit in the United States, he refined his thinking and came to understand these national parks as involving protected areas of scenic beauty. Miyoshi subsequently proposed two kinds of mechanisms to conserve nature spatially, namely, nature preservation areas and scenic beauty conservation areas. The former had an ecological rationale which “absolutely” protected nature and prohibited human intervention. The latter was a mechanism that allowed for development as long as the landscape was not impaired and “relatively” protected nature.24 As is evident here, Miyoshi had developed the concept of a modern zoning system even before the natural monuments system had been established. A framework that allowed for the designation of nature reserves per se was not realized. However, Miyoshi and his peers paved the way for the spatial preservation of nature by using the guideline for the designation of natural monuments. This guideline, formulated in 1920, provided the basis to determine which objects should be designated as natural monuments. Animals, plants and minerals were listed in the guideline under Part 1, and Part 2 specified the following criterion; “A large area with many natural monuments that need protection (nature preservation area).” 25 This part of the guideline enabled a land area of considerable size to be designated as a natural monument. Before the Second World War, two areas were designated using this criterion in 1928, namely, Kamikochi (Nagano Prefecture) and Lake Towada-Oirase Gorge (Aomori and Akita Prefectures). Designations were clearly determined as part of the implementation of a national parks concept by the Geography Division of the Ministry of Home Affairs. These two areas were already famous tourist destinations at the time and were designated as “places of scenic beauty and natural monuments.” A combination of the two categories was used because parcels of land with nature had to be determined first, before having the relevant ministries and agencies decide at a later date on the designation of specific areas as nature preservation areas and as scenic beauty conservation areas. This was the first attempt in Japan to conserve nature through a zoning system with regulations of varying strictness in determining areas for conservation.26 However, no similar designation was made subsequently, probably because the National Parks Act (Kokuritsu kōen hō) was passed in 1931, and large-scale places of scenic beauty came to be designated as national parks.

Establishment of national parks system In 1911, the national parks system became a topic of discussion in the Imperial Diet for the first time. But it was in 1920 that the Geography Section of the Ministry of Home Affairs started a field survey of national parks, and in 1921, the Public Health Division of the same Ministry also began its own field survey. Each party had its own reasons for involvement with national parks. The Geography Section, as mentioned above, considered national parks to be places of scenic beauty and natural monuments in large scale. The Public Health Division had long since handled the administration of urban and regional parks and considered national parks to be an extension of that system. It had strong connections with scholars of landscape architecture like Honda Seiroku (1866–1952) and

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Tamura Tsuyoshi (1890–1979). These were the leading figures who contributed to organize the National Parks Association (Kokuritsu Kōen Kyōkai) in 1927, which also cooperated with the division to establish and implement the national parks system. The Association published its own periodical Kokuritsu Kōen [National Parks] from 1929 to 1944. Consequently, there was a dispute over the rationale of national parks between these two parties. After considerable debate, administration of the national parks system was assigned to the Public Health Division in 1925. This Division and the National Parks Association understood national parks to be “magnificent landscapes of nature which represent landscapes of Japan” 27 and stressed three purposes of national parks: 1. recreation and health preservation of the nation; 2. enlightenment of the nation; and, 3. to appeal to foreign tourists and acquisition of foreign exchange.28 Even though these purposes were not written in the Act itself, the then-Minister of Home Affairs, Adachi Kenzō, explained them as the main reason to propose the National Parks Bill in the fifty-ninth Imperial Diet in 1931.29 In particular, the claim that the conservation of nature could deliver economic benefit provided a strong rationale for protecting it. Tamura, considered to be the originator of the national park concept in Japan, was fully aware of this. Tamura stated, “the business that destroys the landscape shows the profits it generates in numerical terms, so that the protection of the landscape can no longer be spoken of as an absolute must. The side that conserves the landscape is also forced to compete with the numbers, in a sense saying, ‘there is this much profit from conservation.’” 30 It was in response to this consideration that a second system aiming to conserve nature spatially was established. What then was the perception of the relation between the natural monuments system that was already in place, particularly the category of nature preservation areas within this system, and the national parks system? Tamura was well aware that there were differences between the existing system and what he was proposing: National parks conserve nature and landscapes and make them widely available to the public. There is already a good system for preserving nature and historic sites, so if you want to create national parks, their purpose should not merely be to preserve nature. … there is already a dedicated system for nature preservation. So, there is no need to establish nature preservation areas again within the national parks system. 31 In addition, Tamura predicted that nature development would be needed to promote the use of national parks and that, in some cases, the development could go too far, requiring intervention from the natural monuments system.32 In other words, the proposed national parks system allowed for an economic rationale while the natural monuments system was entrusted with the task of fully preserving nature. Here, Tamura considered that the characteristics of a landscape could be used as evaluation criteria and believed that nature that did not constitute scenic beauty could be sacrificed for various developments. While acknowledging the use of nature for tourism, Miyoshi thought that parts of nature had intrinsic value and should not be sacrificed, and therefore tried to protect them as nature preservation areas. If these two systems had complemented each other, the nature conservation system that Miyoshi had conceived would have been realized. But this is not how it happened.

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The National Parks Act was enacted in 1931.33 From 1934 to 1936, twelve national parks were designated (see Table 3.3),34 however, designations based on the category of nature preservation areas were not applied, other than in the two cases mentioned above. There was no discernible action to promote the designation of ecologically important areas in national parks as nature preservation areas. The National Parks Act itself had the category of “special area” which provided stricter regulations, but under the criteria to choose these “special areas”, there were articles such as “when a special area is to be designated along a road, the standard breadth from the center of the road is one hundred meters for both sides.” 35 This demonstrated that the intent was to offer protection only for natural landscape which was within a visitor’s sight. Table 3.3 Designations of National Parks from 1934 to 1936. 1934.03

First Phase: Unzen, Kirishima, Setonaikai

1934.12

Second Phase: Akan, Daisetsuzan, Nikkō, Cyūbusangaku, Aso

1936.02

Third Phase: Towada, Fuji-Hakone, Yoshino-Kumano, Daisen

Source: Compiled by the author.

The reasons for this development would seem relatively clear: First, the National Parks Act could permit various developments and uses of nature, making the designation of national parks much more acceptable for the relevant ministries. Second, the rationale behind the National Parks Act was strong enough to ensure the spatial conservation of nature, or to be more precise, conservation of scenic beauty. The academic value that Miyoshi argued for was shown to be a very weak rationale for the protection of nature spatially. Furthermore, the rationale that ecologically important nature was a “source of national pride” did not seem to have been persuasive either. However, the way in which national parks were used changed dramatically after they had been designated. Of the three purposes of national parks mentioned above, “appeal to the foreign tourist” lost its significance before and during the war. However, “health preservation of the nation” and “enlightenment of the nation” provided the basis for a grotesque transformation of the character of national parks during the period, as is discussed below.

Militarization of national parks Japanese society became progressively more conservative and militaristic before and during the war. Under the Maintenance of the Public Order Act (Chian iji hō, 1925) it became more difficult to express opinions contrary to those held by the government. The year the National Parks Act was enacted, 1931, was the same year as the Manchurian Incident, a false-flag operation which enabled Japan to fully occupy and take control of Manchuria. In September 1933 Japan declared it would leave the League of Nations because of the Lytton Report which found Japan to be the aggressor in Manchuria and stated that Manchuria should be returned to China. Under these circumstances, Honda explained the rationale for national parks in connection with “national danger” in November 1933. According to him, Japan had encountered various difficulties in domestic and foreign affairs and, “To break through this national

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danger, the health of the nation is necessary above all else. In this sense, the establishment of the national parks system is most important.” 36 In May 1937, two months before the outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War, the national parks system was explained directly in connection with the war. At the sixth general meeting of the National Parks Association where the problem of a lack of government budget for the parks was discussed, Kishi Mamoru stated: “The parties making the national budget have no understanding of national parks. In particular, the military considers national parks to be quite useless.” However, “from the viewpoint of national defense in a broader sense, the Japanese nation must now fully improve its body and mind, and racial improvement is now the most important thing in Japan. …we must at first persuade the military in this sense and make them willing to pay money for national parks.” 37 As mentioned above, the Public Health Division and scholars behind it insisted that the utilization of nature was as important as its protection. This meant that national parks had to be established with roads and other facilities in order to develop their use. This thinking had the widespread acceptance of local stakeholders who expected economic benefits from the designations of national parks. However, after the designations, the government allotted no budget for the national parks and thus it was quite understandable that the budget should be discussed at the general meeting of the National Parks Association in 1937, one year after the third round of national park designations. The concept of “national defense in a broader sense” was first advocated by the army. In 1934, it insisted that it was not enough to simply strengthen militaristic power for national defense. The state and society should be organized and managed to enhance the vitality of the whole state, it said.38 This policy was pursued by the cabinet of Hirota Koki formed in 1936 under strong interference by the army. The Hirota cabinet also revived a former regulation of the army and the navy which stipulated that the army and navy ministers had to be chosen from active-duty officers. Kishi’s words clearly show that he had adapted his position to these political situations in order to petition for a national park budget. Kishi is likely to have also taken into consideration the upcoming reorganization of ministries. When the first Konoe Fumimaro cabinet was formed in June 1937, the army supported the cabinet on condition that it create a new ministry that aimed to improve the physical strength of the nation. The Public Health Division and the Social Welfare Division were separated from the Ministry of Home Affairs and integrated into the new Ministry of Health and Welfare in January 1938.39 It had five Divisions: Physical Strength Division; Public Health Division; Disease Prevention Division; Social Welfare Division; and Labor Division. Administration over the national parks system was assigned to the Facility Section of the Physical Strength Division. This meant that national parks would be considered thereafter one of the facilities for the training to improve the physical strength of the nation. From this time on, Kokuritsu Kōen published a large number of articles which had arguments similar to Kishi’s. Not only politicians or bureaucrats but also many scholars supported his argument. For example, Tamura said, “in this unprecedented national crisis, we must seriously make up our mind to promote national spirit and improve the physical strength of the nation. For persons concerned with the national parks, this is a golden opportunity to devote ourselves to serving the state.” 40 However, this kind of argument seems to have weakened the rationale for national parks, because it considered national parks as merely one kind of training place.

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Tamura actually wrote about a “new” national parks system in 1941 and 1942. He argued that the national parks were too aristocratic and removed from common people’s lives. Instead, national parks had to find a new rationale to serve the state’s “eternal aim,” according to him. The new rationale was to use national parks not only for recreational purposes, but also as “outdoor training fields.” However, in order to be used for this purpose, national parks had to be made easily accessible for all of the nation. Therefore, national parks had to be scattered all over Japan. He insisted that there should be at least one big nature park within a radius of one hundred kilometers from every big city.41 From this standpoint, he later proposed nine new national parks. However, once accessibility was considered, it became difficult to stick strictly to the original criteria which defined national parks as “magnificent landscapes of nature which represent landscapes of Japan.” Consequently, he proposed a new notion, namely the “nation’s park.” According to Tamura, “the regional nature parks which we must now choose are outdoor fields for recreation, exercise and training based on the real life of citizens. They could be distinguished from existing national parks. They comprise new nature parks based on the needs of our times and could be called nation’s parks.” 42 The National Parks Association also organized a commission to deal with national land planning and investigated sites to propose new national parks or prefectural nature parks from 1941. This investigation was conducted on the basis of Tamura’s point of view. It should be noted that the designation of new national parks and quasi-national parks after the war was also broadly based on this war time investigation. Tamura also proposed another notion: “recreational fields.” These included not only national parks, prefectural parks and urban nature parks, but also forests, lakes and marshland, seashores, rivers and so on. He insisted that these recreational fields should be considered in the national land planning. Tamura also said that the word “recreational” sounded somehow weak and should be replaced with another word which contained the nuance of fields that were also suitable for the mental and physical training of the nation.43 Later, the word was in fact replaced by “fields for a healthy nation [kenminchi].” Tamura’s idea was almost identical to that of the Ministry. In the Tsukuba Annex of the National Archives of Japan, there is a file labeled National Parks in General, 1940–1944, which contains a document entitled “Guidelines to Establish the System of National Training Places” (Kokumin Renseichi Taisei Kakuritsu Yōkō). This document is undated and also contains no information about the author, as is often the case with Japanese archival documents. Judging by the contents, it is likely that it was written in 1942 by the Population Division (former Physical Strength Division). It is also likely that it was a plan which was never carried out. The guidelines include more obvious references to the military context: To strengthen the Yamato [Japanese] race and make strong soldiers and a healthy nation, various kinds of permanent measures must be made and enforced. In cities and also in agricultural lands, for people in all age brackets and jobs, appropriate mental and physical training is necessary. … for this purpose, national training places must be rapidly expanded and improved. Some open spaces can be used without any extra facilities, and concerning outdoor places, it is basically enough to preserve their natural elements with a legal basis as necessary conditions for training. The indispensable training for us as a militaristic nation must be done there, such as … battlefield maneuvers, traditional 42

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martial arts, shooting, horse riding, walking, swimming, mountain climbing, skiing, camping and so on. At the same time, through getting close to nature, the training will help citizens to understand their own homeland and also national land, thus imbuing patriotism.44 Logically, many kinds of places were included in the notion of national training places: natural parks such as national parks; all kinds of other parks administrated at national, prefectural and municipal levels; all kinds of gymnastic halls; national or publicly-owned surfaces of water; national, publicly owned or privately owned forests; green tracts of land; sports grounds and gymnastic halls of schools; temples and shrines and so on. Even the places designated as historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments were included in the list of national training places. According to these guidelines, two laws were supposed to apply to national training places—the National Parks Act and the Act of National Training Places (Kokumin renseichi hō). It is likely that the latter was only planned in these guidelines. According to the draft of this new act, the Minister of Health and Welfare designated some areas as training places for the nation. As mentioned above, there were two laws for nature conservation during this time period: the National Parks Act and the Act for the Preservation of Historic Sites, Places of Scenic Beauty and Natural Monuments. This meant that only special nature such as “magnificent landscapes of nature which represent landscapes of Japan” or “nature that is disappearing” could be protected. If the Act of National Training Places had been enacted, it could have also protected ordinary nature without such specific significance. However, it is worth noting that a draft law of this kind could be drawn up only under the context of militarization at that time. Furthermore, the guidelines contained a draft statute for a new association—the Great Japanese Association for National Training Places (Dainihon Renseichi Kyōkai). According to the draft, the aim of the association was to research, plan and develop the system of national training places, in which national parks were expressly included. This meant that the Ministry of Health and Welfare intended to dissolve the National Parks Association and establish a new association. This also shows clearly that the Ministry considered national parks to be merely one of several training fields. Although the plan for the new association was not realized, the National Parks Association was instead reorganized, as is discussed below. In December 1942, Tamura proposed to the National Parks Association board of directors a reorganization of the association to concentrate exclusively on the healthy nation policy.45 In April of that year, the Ministry had already created a pamphlet entitled Healthy Nation Movement and distributed it to promote the policy. The new name of the association was the “Association for National Land and Healthy Nation,” and the name of its periodical was also changed from Kokuritsu Kōen to Kokudo to Kenmin [National Land and Healthy Nation]. According to the prospectus of the association, its aim was “to cultivate and strengthen human resources to accomplish this holy war and to establish the Greater East Asian CoProsperity Sphere.” 46 As mentioned above, it is highly likely that this reorganization was an alternative to the former plan of the Ministry to found the Great Japanese Association for National Training Places. At the first council board meeting, Koizumi Chikahiko (1884–1945), the thenMinister of Health and Welfare and ex-General Office Director of Army Medicine, said that the superior nature of national parks and other national land was “the fountainhead of the vitality” to sacrifice oneself to the “holy war” and production.47 Chapter 3: National Parks, Nature Conservation, War

43

However, the role of national parks was much more limited than the new association had expected. In 1943, the Ministry of Health and Welfare was reorganized and administration over the national parks was transferred to the Shūren Section within the Healthy Nation Division. In this division, another similar section also existed, namely the Tanren Section. The words shūren and tanren are similar and both can be translated into training, so the difference between them is unclear. But on closer inspection of the cabinet decision “Guidelines to Counter Tuberculosis” in August 1942, the difference becomes quite clear. The aim of this cabinet decision was to prevent and eradicate tuberculosis. For this purpose, it classified the nation into healthy, weak and sick people. For healthy people, tanren was deemed necessary to prevent them from becoming infected with tuberculosis. Meanwhile weak people were prescribed recuperation and shūren.48 A document from the national archives—Reference Material for the Eighty-fourth Imperial Diet, volume 2 (Dai 84-kai Teikokugikai Kankei, daini satsu), written by the Healthy Nation Division in 1943—shows a clearer difference between these two notions because each divisional section wrote one chapter respectively. According to the Shūren Section, the subject of the shūren policy in 1943 and 1944 included some 420,000 people who had very weak muscles and bones, or who were considered to be developing tuberculosis, or who had very slight cases of tuberculosis. Conversely, tanren included training which could be practiced in everyday life. The administration of the national parks was assigned to the Shūren Section, not to the Tanren Section. The Shūren Section wrote, “Our section is now investigating how to utilize the existing twelve national parks and six new national parks currently under consideration for the fields of shūren to make front-line soldiers and industrial soldiers, which are mostly demanded in this situation of affairs.” 49 It is remarkable that they planned to designate six more national parks in 1943, in the midst of the war, and these eighteen national parks were for shūren, in other words for the training of weak people. We can presume that there were already enough places in or around cities to train people and they did not need to be transported to distant national parks. A budget was also set-up to establish new green zones near cities for tanren, although no budget was given to national parks. Altogether, the attempt to adapt the rationale of national parks to the wartime situation logically undermined the raison d’être of the parks themselves.

Conclusion After the war, the idea which considered natural monuments as the “source of national pride” lost its meaning. The Act for the Protection of Historic Sites, Places of Scenic Beauty and Natural Monuments was included in the Act for the Protection of Cultural Properties, enacted in 1950. The first article states that the purpose of the act is to contribute not only to the cultural improvement of citizens, but also to the development of world culture. Natural Monuments including nature preservation areas are now under the category of cultural properties, and, logically, the Cultural Ministry has administration over them. Currently 1,031 objects are designated as natural monuments but merely 23 of them are nature preservation areas, all of them quite limited in area. Nature conservationists usually consider that the system of natural monuments does not play any significant role for conservation.

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In 1949, only six years after the National Parks Association had reorganized into the Association for National Land and Healthy Nation, a new National Parks Association was organized. The main players of the new association were almost the same as of the former one. Its prospectus stated that national parks should contribute to reconstructing a “peaceful and cultural state,” 50 without reflecting on what they had said during the war. In 1957, the National Parks Act was amended into the Natural Parks Act. As mentioned in the introduction, the two purposes which provided the basis for a grotesque transformation of the character of national parks were succeeded by the act, again without any reflection. There has been no serious consideration of what “to enlighten the citizens” means in postwar society. The first purpose, namely “to contribute to the health and recreation of citizens” further distinguished the character of natural parks. The number of natural parks and the land area covered by them has been constantly increased. At the same time, as Tamura himself predicted, large-scale destruction of nature has taken place under the act. A considerable amount of the destruction has been undertaken to facilitate the development of tourism. It is worth mentioning here that Tamura was also the first chairman of the Nature Conservation Society for Japan established in 1951, which still exists today and has been the most important private organization for nature conservation in Japan. Numata Makoto (1917–2001), a famous ecologist and one of the main figures of the nature conservation movement from the 1960s until the 1990s, criticized Miyoshi as an advocate of an “ideology of giant or well-known trees,” meaning that the natural monuments system contributes only to preserve single objects. “Preservation of single objects is obsolete. Now is the time of spatial preservation,” he said, even though Miyoshi himself held the same ideal more than a half century earlier. Numata also criticized the natural parks system as not contributing to preserve nature, but merely justifying large scale forestry in the park area.51 Numata and other ecologists successfully took the initiative in realizing the enactment of the Nature Conservation Act in 1972. This was the origin of the current complicated situation, that two similar frameworks of nature reserves coexist under the administration of the Ministry of Culture and the Ministry of Environment. Until 2019, this act provided three types of nature reserves: wilderness areas, nature conservation areas and prefectural nature conservation areas.52 The first two are especially considered to be the most important examples of maintaining nature without human intervention. But table 3.2 above simply shows that the act is insignificant for nature conservation. The Nature Conservation Act simply involved a repeated attempt to apply Miyoshi’s approach: only a system based on the premise of using nature in some form could realize spatial protection in considerable size. In 2016, under the economic policy of then-Prime Minister Abe Shinzō, the Environmental Ministry started the project for “fully enjoyable national parks,” which aimed to attract more inbound tourists and to increase the number of visitors from 4.8 million by 2015 to 10 million by 2020. The target became unachievable due to the COVID-19 pandemic, but the ministry simply extended the term to 2025.53 One scholar of landscape architecture insists that the mission of Japanese national parks is always to strike the balance between use of natural resources and protection of natural landscape.54 But history shows that how to use nature has always defined where and how to protect it: the “special areas” of the National Parks Act conserved the natural landscape within the sight of visitors; during the war, “to conserve natural elements … as necessary conditions for training” was thought to be enough. Ways to use nature will always change, develop and become more intensive, but, without any effective complementary system and Chapter 3: National Parks, Nature Conservation, War

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rationale for the preservation of nature, the results will always fall short of what is required to conserve the ecological balance. Author’s Note: This work was supported by JSPS KAKENHI Grant Numbers JP23530010, JP17K03317 and JP21H03726.

Notes 1

Murakushi Nisaburō, “Shizenhogo no toride to shiteno kokuritsu kōen—Yoshino-Kumano Kokuritsu Kōen shitei wo furikaeru” [National parks as the ultimate bastion of nature conservation—looking back at the designation of Yoshino-Kumano National Park], National Parks, no. 642 (2006): 4–7. 2 Kankyōshō [Ministry of the Environment], “Shizenhogo kakushu data” [Data on nature conservation], accessed May 12, 2021, http://www.env.go.jp/park/doc/data.html. 3 Nishimura Takahiro, “The ‘Militarization’ of National Parks in Japan (1925–1944),” Osaka Kyōiku Daigaku Kiyō 65, no. 1 (2016): 11–22, https://opac-ir.lib.osaka-kyoiku.ac.jp/webopac/TD00029008. 4 IUCN, “Protected Area Categories,” accessed May 12, 2021, https://www.iucn.org/theme/protected-areas /about/protected-area-categories. 5 Murakushi Nisaburō, Kokuritsu kōen seiritsushi no kenkyū [Study of the history of the establishment of the national parks system] (Tokyo: Hosei Daigaku Shuppankai, 2005); Murakushi Nisaburō, Shizenhogo to sengo Nihon no kokuritsu kōen [Nature conservation and national parks in Japan after the war] (Tokyo: Jichōsha, 2011); Murakushi Nisaburō, Kōdo seichōki Nihon no kokuritsu kōen [National parks in the high economic growth periods in Japan] (Tokyo: Jichōsha, 2016). 6 Judging from the purpose and regulation of the act, its name would better be translated to “Nature Preservation Act,” though the common translation is “Nature Conservation Act.” Japanese law uses many synonyms for conservation and preservation like hogo, hozen, hozon or kakuho, but there are not clear distinctions among them as in the corresponding two English terms. Here I follow the common translation. 7 Kankyōshō [Ministry of the Environment], “Shizen kankyō hozen chiiki kakushu data” [Data on nature conservation areas], accessed May 12, 2021, https://www.env.go.jp/nature/hozen/data.html. 8 Miyoshi Manabu, “Tennen kinenbutsu hozon no hitsuyō narabini sono hozonsaku ni tsuite” [On the necessity for protecting natural monuments and how to protect them], Taiyo 13, nos. 1/2 (1907): 169–75/169–82. 9 Hugo Conwentz, Die Gefährdung der Naturdenkmäler und Vorschläge zu ihrer Erhaltung [The threat to natural monuments and proposals for their conservation], (Berlin: Gebrüder Borntraeger, 1904). 10 Miyoshi, “Tennen kinenbutsu hozon no hitsuyō,“ Taiyo 13, no. 1 (1907): 169. 11 Miyoshi Manabu, Tennen kinenbutsu kaisetsu [Commentary on natural monuments] (Tokyo: Toyamabō, 1926), 81. 12 Miyoshi, “Tennen kinenbutsu hozon no hitsuyō,” Taiyo 13, no. 2 (1907): 177. 13 Nishimura Takahiro, “Nihon ni okeru tennen kinenbutsu to shizenhogo (1906–1944) I” [Natural monuments and nature conservation in Japan (1906–1944), I], Rekishi kenkyū, no. 56 (2019): 24–31, https://opac-ir .lib.osaka-kyoiku.ac.jp/webopac/TD00031116. 14 Friedemann Schmoll, Erinnerung an die Natur. Die Geschichte des Naturschutzes im deutschen Kaiserreich [Memory of nature. The history of nature conservation in the German Empire] (Campus: Frankfurt/Main, 2004), 398–402. 15 Miyake translated here the German word Landschaftsbild [landscape] to “famous and historic sites.” This misinterpretation demonstrates a diverging point for the different types of development of nature conservation in each country, although this is another theme beyond the scope of this chapter. 16 Miyake Hiizu, “Tennen kinenbutsu to kyōkoku hozon” [Natural monuments and homeland protection], Shiseki Meishō Tennen Kinenbutsu Hozon Kyōkai dai nikai hōkoku (1914), 90–98. 17 Maruyama Hiroshi, “Shiseki meisho tennen konenbutsu no chōryū” [The movement to the historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments], in “Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu” Taishō-hen kaidai, sōmokuji, sakuin [Bibliographical introduction, table of contents and register to the volumes of “Historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments in the Taishō era”] (Tokyo: Fuji Shuppan 2003), 5–37; Takagi Hiroshi, “Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu Shōwa-hen kaidai” [Bibliographical introduction to the

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volumes of “Historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments in the Shōwa era”], in Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu” Shōwa-hen kaidai, sōmokuji, sakuin [Bibliographical introduction, table of contents and register to the volumes of “Historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments in the Shōwa era] (Tokyo: Fuji Shuppan 2008), 7–34. 18 Kanpō gōgai [Official gazette, extra edition], Dai 49-kai Teikokugikai Kizokuin giji sokkiroku [Stenographic records of the fourty-first Imperial Diet, House of Peers], no. 16 (1919): 287–89. 19 Miyoshi, “Tennen kinenbutsu hozon,” Taiyo 13, no. 2 (1907): 177. 20 Tokugawa Satotaka, “Kokumin seishin to shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu” [National spirit and historic sites, places of scenic beauty, natural monuments], Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu, n.s., 1, no. 1 (1926): 10–11. 21 Sakai Toshio, Hyōden Miyoshi Manabu—Nihon kindai shokubutsugaku no kaitakusha [A critical biography of Miyoshi Manabu—The pioneer of modern Japanese botany] (Tokyo: Yasaka Shobō, 1998), 539. 22 Miyoshi Manabu, “Naturschutzgebiete in Japan” [Nature preservation areas in Japan], Beiträge zur Naturdenkmalpflege 4 (1914): 382–85. 23 Miyoshi, “Tennen kinenbutsu hozon,” Taiyo 13, no. 2 (1907): 176; Miyoshi Manabu, “Tennen kinenbutsu hogo ni tsuite” [On the preservation of natural monuments], Kyoto kyōiku, no. 124 (1912): 11. 24 Miyoshi Manabu, “Ōbei no tennen kinenbutsu hogo to tennen hogokuiki“[On natural monuments and nature preservation areas in Europe and the United States], Shokubutsugaku zasshi, no. 335 (1914): 464–71. 25 Kanpo [Official gazette], no. 2258 (1920): 255–56. 26 See Nishimura, “Nihon ni okeru tennen kinenbutsu to shizenhogo (1906–1944) I,” 40–43. 27 Kokuritsu Kōen Chōsakai [National Parks Investigation Committee], “Dai-san kai Kokuritsu Kōen Chōsakai sōkai gaikyou” [Report on the third general meeting of the National Park Investigation Committee], Kokuritsu kōen 3, no. 10 (1931): 35–37. 28 Ushio Shigenosuke, “Kokuritsu kōen to jidai no yōkyū” [National parks and the needs of our times], Kokuritsu Kōen 1, no. 1 (1929): 2-3; Yamada Junjirō, “Kokumin hoken to kokuritsu kōen“ [Health preservation of the nation and national parks], Kokuritsu kōen 1, no. 1 (1929), 4; Takaku Jinnosuke, “Gaikyaku yūchi to kokuritsu kōen” [National parks and foreign tourists attraction], Kokuritsu kōen 1, no. 1 (1929): 22; Ōshima Tatsujiro, “Kokuritsu kōen no shimei to hozon no seishin” [The mission of national parks and the spirit of preservation], Kokuritsu kōen 4, no. 11 (1932): 2–6. 29 Kanpō gōgai [Official gazette, extra edition], Dai 59-kai Teikoku Gikai Shūgiin giji sokkiroku [Stenographic records of the fifty–ninth Imperial Diet, House of Representatives], no. 18 (1931): 439–48. See also Itō Takehiko, “Kokuritsu kōen hō kaisetsu (1)” [Commentary on the National Parks Act (1)], Kokuritsu kōen 3, no. 7 (1932): 12. 30 Tamura Tsuyoshi, “Fūkei-seisaku jō yori mitaru kokuritsu kōen mondai” [Issues on national parks from the perspective of the landscape policy], Teien 9, no. 8 (1927): 176–77. 31 Tamura Tsuyoshi, “Kokuritsu kōen to hozon jigyō” [National parks and the preservation project], Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu, n.s., 7, no. 2 (1932): 132–33 32 Tamura, “Kokuritsu kōen to hozon jigyō,” 135–40. 33 About the process of the legislation, see Murakushi, Kokuritsu kōen seiritsushi, 71–139. 34 About the process of the designations, see Murakushi, Kokuritsu kōen seiritsushi, 143–371. 35 Kokuritsu Kōen Kyokai [National Parks Association], “Dai 10-kai kokuritsu kōen iinkai” [Report on the tenth National Parks Committee], Kokuritsu kōen 10, no. 2 (1938): 36. 36 Honda Seiroku, “Jikyoku to kokuritsu kōen no shimei” [The state of affairs and the mission of national parks], Kokuritsu kōen 5, no. 11 (1933): 3. 37 Kokuritsu Kōen Kyōkai [National Parks Association], “Kokuritsu Kōen Kyōkai dairokuji sōkai” [The sixth general meeting of the National Parks Association], Kokuritsu kōen 9, no.3 (1937): 41–54. 38 Rikugunshō [Ministry of the Army], “Kokubō no hongi to sono kyōka no teishō” [The rationale for national defense and a proposal to strengthen it], in Shōwa shisōshū II [Collection of thoughts in the Shōwa period II], ed. Bunzou Hashikawa (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo, 1978), 5–25. 39 About the foundation and the development of the Ministry of Health and Welfare, see Kōseishō Nijūnenshi Hensyhū Iinkai (ed.), Kōseishō nijūnenshi [Twenty years history of the Ministry of Health and Welfare] (Tokyo: Kankōchō Shingikai, 1960), 77–120, 162–75; Fujino Yutaka, Kōseishō no tanjō [The birth of the Ministry of Health and Welfare] (Kyōto: Kamogawa Shuppan, 2003).

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40

Tamura Tsuyoshi, “Jikyoku to kokuritsu kōen” [The state of affairs and national parks], Kokuritsu kōen 10, no. 2 (1938): 1. 41 Tamura Tsuyoshi, “Jikyokuka no kokuritsu kōen to shin Nihon kokuritsu kōen no teishō” [National parks in current affairs and a proposal for new Japanese national parks], Kokuritsu kōen 13, no. 5 (1941): 30–31. 42 Tamura Tsuyoshi, “Jikyokuka no kokuritsu kōen to shin Nihon kokuritsu kōen no teishō,” 30–31. 43 Tamura Tsuyoshi, “Kokudo keikaku to kyūyōchi” [National land planning and recreational fields], Kokuritsu kōen 14, no. 2 (1942): 24. 44 Kōseishō [The Ministry of Health and Welfare], Kokuritsu kōen ippan, Shōwa 15–19 nen [National parks in general, 1940–1944], National Archives of Japan, Annex-10-017-00・昭47環境00001100. 45 Kokudo Kenminkai [Association for national land and healthy nation], “Kyokai kiji” [Reports from the association], Kokudo to kenmin 15. No. 1 (1943): 30. 46 Kokudo Kenminkai [Association for national land and healthy nation], “Kokudo kenminkai shuisho” [The prospectus of the association for the national land and healthy nation]. Kokudo to kenmin 15, no. 3 (1943): 3–5. 47 Koizumi Chikahiko, “Shikiji” [Opening address], Kokudo to kenmin 15, no. 3 (1943): 2. 48 Cabinet Decision, “Kekkaku taisaku yōkō,” in Shiryō Nihon gendaishi [Materials for modern Japanese history] 12, ed. Shirō Akazawa et al. (Tokyo: Ōtsuki Shoten, 1984), 373–74. 49 Kōseishō Kenminkyoku [The healthy nation division of the Ministry of Health and Welfare], Dai 84-kai Teikokugikai kankei, daini satsu [Reference material for the eighty-fourth Imperial Diet, volume 2], National Archives of Japan, main building-3A-002-01・昭47厚生00002100. 50 Kokuritsu Kōen Kyōkai [National Parks Association], “Zaidan Hōjin Kokuritsu Kōen Kyōkai saihossoku ni tsuite” [On the reestablischment of National Parks Association], Kokuritsu kōen, n.s, no. 7 (1950): 29. 51 Numata Makoto, Shizenhogo to iu shisō [Thoughts on nature conservation] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1994), 13–15, 194–97. 52 The act was amended in 2019 and the fourth category of the protected area, namely the “Offshore Seabed Nature Conservation Areas” was introduced. In 2020, 4 areas were designated under this category. 53 There are many plans to develop nature for tourism in connection with this project. A typical example is the plan to construct a new cable car line through the “special protection zone” of Tateyama-Kurobe, one of the core zones in Chūbu-Sangaku national park. See Murakushi Nisaburō, “‘Tateyama-Kurobe sekai burandoka kōsō’ to soreni hantaisuru shizenhogo undō” [Nature conservation movement against the Tateyama Kurobe “global branding” initiative], Keizai shirin 88, no. 1/2 (2020): 35–95. See also Murakushi Nisaburō, “Yamanashi-ken no Fujisan tetsudō kōsō ni tsuite no hihanteki kōsatsu” [A Critical review of the construction plan for the Mt. Fuji mountain railway drafted by the Yamanashi prefecture authorities], Keizai shirin 88, no. 4 (2021): 5–60. 54 Tsuchida Toshiyuki, review of Shizenhogo to sengo Nihon no kokuritsu kōen [Nature conservation and national parks in Japan after the war], by Murakushi Nisaburō, Ringyō keizai 71, no.7 (2018): 15.

Bibliography Conwentz, Hugo. Die Gefährdung der Naturdenkmäler und Vorschläge zu ihrer Erhaltung [The threat to natural monuments and proposals for their conservation]. Berlin: Gebrüder Borntraeger, 1904. Fujino, Yutaka. Kyōsei sareta kenkō—Nihon sashizumu ka no seimei to shintai [The forced health—life and body under Japanese fascism]. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbundō, 2000. ———. Kōseishō no tanjō [The birth of the Ministry of Health and Welfare]. Kyoto: Kamogawa Shuppan, 2003. Honda, Seiroku. “Jikyoku to kokuritsu kōen no shimei” [The state of affairs and the mission of national parks]. Kokuritsu kōen 5, no. 11 (1933): 1–3. Itō, Takehiko. “Kokuritsu kōen hō kaisetsu (1)” [Commentary on the National Parks Act (1)], Kokuritsu kōen 3, no. 7 (1932): 10–15. IUCN. “Protected Area Categories.” Accessed May 12, 2021. https://www.iucn.org/theme/protected-areas /about/protected-area-categories. Kakugi Kettei [Cabinet decision]. “Kekkaku taisaku yōkō.” In Shiryō Nihon gendaishi [Materials for modern Japanese history] 12, edited by Shirō Akazawa et al., 373–74. Tokyo: Ōtsuki Shoten, 1984. Kankyōshō [Ministry of the Environment]. “Shizenhogo kakushu data” [Data on nature conservation]. Accessed May 12, 2021. http://www.env.go.jp/park/doc/data.html.

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———. “Shizen kankyō hozen chiiki kakushu data” [Data on nature conservation areas]. Accessed May 12, 2021. https://www.env.go.jp/nature/hozen/data.html. Kanpō gōgai [Official gazette, extra edition]. Dai 49-kai Teikokugikai Kizokuin giji sokkiroku [Stenographic records of the forty-first Imperial Diet, House of Peers]. No.16 (1919). ———. Dai 59-kai Teikoku Gikai Shūgiin giji sokkiroku [Stenographic records of the fifty-ninth Imperial Diet, House of Representatives]. No. 18 (1931). Koizumi, Chikahiko. “Shikiji” [Opening address]. Kokudo to kenmin 15, no. 3 (1943): 2. Kokudo Kenminkai. “Kyokai kiji” [Reports from the association]. Kokudo to Kenmin 15. no. 1 (1943), 30. ———. “Kokudo Kenminkai Shuisho” [The prospectus of the Association for the National Land and Healthy Nation]. Kokudo to Kenmin 15, no. 3 (1943): 3–5. Kokudo to kenmin—kokuritsu kōen kaidai [National land and healthy nation—new series of national parks]. Nos. 15–16 (1943–1944). Kokuritsu kōen [National parks]. Nos. 1–14 (1929–1942). Kokuritsu Kōen Chōsakai. “Dai-san kai Kokuritsu Kōen Chōsakai sōkai gaikyō” [Report on the third general meeting of the National Parks Investigation Committee]. Kokuritsu kōen 3, no. 10 (1931): 35–37. Kokuritsu Kōen Kyōkai. “Kokuritsu Kōen Kyōkai dairokuji sōkai” [The sixth general meeting of the National Parks Association]. Kokuritsu kōen 9, no. 3 (1937): 41–54. ———. “Dai 10-kai Kokuritsu Kōen Iinkai” [Report on the tenth National Parks Committee]. Kokuritsu kōen 10, no. 2 (1938): 36–39. Kōseishō. Kokuritsu kōen ippan, Shōwa 15–19 nen [National parks in general, 1940–1944], National Archives of Japan, Annex-10-017-00・昭47環境00001100. Kōseishō Kenminkyoku. Dai 84-kai Teikokugikai Kankei, daini satsu [Reference material for the eighty-fourth Imperial Diet, volume 2]. National Archives of Japan, Main building-3A-002-01・昭47厚生00002100. Kōseishō Nijūnenshi Henshū Iinkai (ed.). Kōseishō nijūnenshi [Twenty years history of the Ministry of Health and Welfare]. Tokyo: Kankōchō Shingikai, 1960. Maruyama, Hiroshi. “Shiseki meisho tennen konenbutsu no chōryū” [The movement of the historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments]. In “Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu” Taishō-hen kaidai, sōmokuji, sakuin [Bibliographical introduction, table of contents and register to the volumes of “Historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments in the Taishō era], 5–37. Tokyo: Fuji Shuppan 2003. Miyake, Hiizu. “Tennen kinenbutsu to kyōkoku hozon” [Natural monuments and homeland protection]. In Shiseki Meishō Tennen Kinenbutsu Hozon Kyōkai dai nikai hōkoku, 90–98. (1914). Miyoshi, Manabu. “Tennen kinenbutsu hozon no hitsuyō narabini sono hozonsaku ni tsuite” [On the necessity for protecting natural monuments and how to protect them]. Taiyo 13, nos. 1/2 (1907): 169–75/169–82. ———. “Tennen kinenbutsu hogo ni tsuite” [On the preservation of natural monuments]. Kyoto kyōiku, no. 124 (1912): 6–18. ———. “Naturschutzgebiete in Japan” [Nature preservation areas in Japan]. Beiträge zur Naturdenkmalpflege 4 (1914): 382–85. ———. “Ōbei no tennen kinenbutsu hogo to tennen hogokuiki” [On natural monuments and nature preservation areas in Europe and the United States]. Shokubutsugaku Zasshi, no. 335 (1914): 464–71. ———. Tennen kinenbutsu kaisetsu [Commentary on natural monuments]. Tokyo: Toyamabō, 1926. Murakushi, Nisaburō. Kokuritsu kōen seiritsushi no kenkyū [Study on the history of the establishment of the national parks system]. Tokyo: Hosei Daigaku Shuppankai, 2005. ———. “Shizenhogo no toride to shiteno kokuritsu kōen—Yoshino-Kumano Kokuritsu Kōen shitei wo furikaeru” [National parks as the ultimate bastion of nature conservation—looking back at the designation of the Yoshino-Kumano National Park]. National Parks, no. 642 (2006): 4–7. ———. Shizenhogo to sengo Nihon no kokuritsu kōen [Nature conservation and national parks in Japan after the war]. Tokyo: Jichōsha, 2011. ———. Kōdo seichōki Nihon no kokuritsu kōen [National parks in the high economic growth periods in Japan]. Tokyo: Jichōsha, 2016. ———. “‘Tateyama-Kurobe sekai burandoka kōsō’ to soreni hantaisuru shizenhogo undō” [Nature conservation movement against the Tateyama Kurobe “global branding” initiative]. Keizai Shirin 88, no. 1/2 (2020): 35–95, http://doi.org/10.15002/00023609.

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———. “Yamanashi-ken no Fujisan tetsudō kōsō ni tsuite no hihanteki kōsatsu” [A critical review of the construction plan for the Mt. Fuji mountain railway drafted by the Yamanashi prefecture authorities]. Keizai Shirin 88, no. 4 (2021): 5–60, http://doi.org/10.15002/00024147. Nishimura, Takahiro. “The ‘Militarization’ of National Parks in Japan (1925–1944).” Osaka Kyōiku Daigaku Kiyō 65, no.1 (2016): 11–22, https://opac-ir.lib.osaka-kyoiku.ac.jp/webopac/TD00029008. ———. “Nihon ni okeru tennen kinenbutsu to shizenhogo (1906–1944) I” [Natural monuments and nature conservation in Japan (1906–1944), I]. Rekishi Kenkyū, no. 56 (2019): 21–63, https://opac-ir.lib.osaka -kyoiku.ac.jp/webopac/TD00031116. ———. “Nihon ni okeru tennen kinenbutsu to shizenhogo (1906–1944) II” [Natural monuments and nature conservation in Japan (1906–1944), II]. Osaka Kyōiku Daigaku Kiyō, no. 67 (2019): 201–20, https://opac-ir .lib.osaka-kyoiku.ac.jp/webopac/TD00031045. Numata, Makoto. Shizenhogo to iu shisō [Thoughts on nature conservation]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1994. Ōshima, Tatsujiro. “Kokuritsu kōen no shimei to hozon no seishin” [The mission of national parks and the spirit of preservation]. Kokuritsu kōen 4, no. 11 (1932): 2–6. Rikugunshō. “Kokubō no hongi to sono kyōka no teishō” [The rationale for national defence and a proposal to strengthen it]. In Shōwa Shisōshū II [Collection of thoughts in Shōwa period II], edited by Bunzō Hashikawa, 5–25. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1978. Sakai, Toshio. Hyōden Miyoshi Manabu—Nihon kindai shokubutsugaku no kaitakusha [A critical biography of Miyoshi Manabu—the pioneer of modern Japanese botany]. Tokyo: Yasaka Shobō, 1998. Schmoll, Friedemann. Erinnerung an die Natur. Die Geschichte des Naturschutzes im deutschen Kaiserreich [Memory of nature. The history of nature conservation in the German Empire]. Campus: Frankfurt/ Main, 2004. Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu [Historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments]. 1–6 (1914–23); n.s., 1–19 (1926–44). Takagi, Hiroshi. “Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu Shōwa-hen kaidai” [Bibliographical introduction to the volumes of “Historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments in the Shōwa era]. In Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu Shōwa-hen kaidai, sōmokuji, sakuin [Bibliographical introduction, table of contents and register to the volumes of “Historic sites, places of scenic beauty and natural monuments in the Shōwa era], 7–34. Tokyo: Fuji Shuppan 2008. Takaku, Jinnosuke. “Gaikyaku yūchi to kokuritsu kōen” [National parks and foreign tourist attraction]. Kokuritsu kōen 1, no. 1 (1929): 22–23. Tamura, Tsuyoshi. “Fūkei-seisaku jō yori mitaru kokuritsu kōen mondai” [Issues on national parks from the perspective of the landscape policy]. Teien 9, no. 8 (1927): 176–77. ———. “Kokuritsu kōen to hozon jigyō” [National parks and the preservation project]. Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu, n.s., 7, no. 2 (1932): 129–40. ———. “Jikyoku to kokuritsu kōen” [The state of affairs and national parks]. Kokuritsu kōen 10, no. 2 (1938): 1. ———. “Jikyokuka no kokuritsu kōen to shin Nihon kokuritsu kōen no teishō” [National parks in current affairs and a proposal for new Japanese national parks]. Kokuritsu kōen 13, no. 5 (1941): 29–31. ———. “Kokudo keikaku to kyūyōchi” [National land planning and recreational fields]. Kokuritsu kōen 14, no. 2 (1942): 14–31. Tokugawa, Satotaka. “Kokumin seishin to shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu” [National spirit and historic sites, places of scenic beauty, natural monuments]. Shiseki meishō tennen kinenbutsu, n.s., 1, no. 1 (1926): 5–11. Tsuchida, Toshiyuki. Review of Shizenhogo to sengo Nihon no kokuritsu kōen [Nature conservation and national parks in Japan after the war], by Murakushi Nisaburō, Ringyō Keizai 71, no. 7 (2018): 14–24, https:// doi.org/10.19013/rinrin.71.7_14. Ushio, Shigenosuke. “Kokuritsu kōen to jidai no yōkyū” [National parks and the needs of the times]. Kokuritsu kōen 1, no. 1 (1929): 2–3. Yamada, Junjirō. “Kokumin hoken to kokuritsu kōen”[Health preservation of the nation and national parks]. Kokuritsu kōen 1, no. 1 (1929): 4.

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Part 2 Pollution Incidents/ Disasters

Chapter 4 The Ashio Affair: The Emergence of Industrial Pollution as a Social, Political and Environmental Issue (19th–20th Centuries) Cyrian Pitteloud This chapter describes the proceedings of the conflict provoked by one of the worst environmental degradations of modern Japan. It emphasizes the various aspects of these historical events, and how the exploitation of the Ashio copper deposit in Tochigi Prefecture triggered an intense public debate on mining contamination at the turn of the century. Among other factors, scientific expertise mobilized both by protesters and the government contributed to the emergence of pollution as a social, political and environmental issue.

Introduction On 18 December 1891, during the Diet of Japan’s second session, Tanaka Shōzō (1841–1913), a representative from Tochigi Prefecture, called on the government to take action regarding the activities of the Ashio copper mine because they were contaminating agricultural land located downstream.1 Private property—protected by the imperial constitution—and the public good (kōeki) were at risk, he said. In the newly established Diet (1890), this intervention made a strong impression. While there had been local actions and denunciations prior to Tanaka’s intervention, the fact that he raised the issue at the national level heralded the beginning of an intense social debate on industrial pollution. Environmental degradation, however, was not something entirely new. Ancient and early modern Japanese societies had also put nature under pressure.2 For instance, on several occasions throughout history, forests were chopped down for major construction projects or to gain more agricultural land.3 In addition, the early modern period (1573–1867) saw contamination events due to mining activities, and records of complaints go back to the 17th century.4 Nevertheless, in Japan, as elsewhere, from the end of the 19th century the expansion of industrialization damaged the environment at an unprecedented scale. Among other activities, mining, dyeing and chemical industries had a significant impact, affecting water, land,

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air and living organisms. In many places across the archipelago, toxic effluent and fumes harmed people’s livelihood and health, sparking long-term disputes among actors representing conflicting interests. The pollution from the Ashio mine is one of the worst environmental crises of modern times: at its peak in 1896, the river network had spread pollutants (arsenic, cadmium, lead and mercury, among others) to around 40,000 hectares of land downstream of the mine, across five prefectures and a part of Tokyo’s territory. The damage sparked an important protest movement led by village headmen, landowners and farmers, as well as supported by the urban public (especially in Tokyo), which lasted from 1890 until the first decade of the 20th century.

The Ashio affair When pollution leads to an “affair” (jiken) Issues relating to industrial pollution in Japan have been the subject of much interest since the 1960s and 1970s, after the country faced several severe public health scandals.5 In the context of the protest movements and legal actions, activists and scholars looked for past occurrences of such disputes, which turned out to be plentiful. As a result, various collections of sources and research were published.6 The conflict around the Ashio mine contamination has a special place in this narrative, and has been studied extensively.7 These events undoubtedly played a key role in raising awareness about pollution issues and making it a matter of public debate. Together with other phenomena, such as labor, discrimination or poverty, pollution started to be considered as a social issue (shakai mondai).8 This shows that there was an awareness early on that this problem did not only concern the people directly affected, but society as a whole. Indeed, as the conflict continued, the protest movement gained support from individuals with very heterogeneous social backgrounds: intellectuals, politicians, lawyers, Christians, Buddhists, students and women, all defending the population of the contaminated areas. Participation of the urban public in events in the countryside is an unusual matter which needs to be emphasized. The press discussed the incident, with support emerging for both sides of the conflict, protesters and the mine. The manager of Ashio, meanwhile, had the protection of local as well as central authorities and powerful individuals. These various social actors took sides, debated the issue of closing the mine or keeping it open, giving these events a real dimension of an affair. Thus, in this article, we will refer to the “Ashio affair.” 9 In addition to media coverage, there was a legal aspect to the conflict (see below the so-called Kawamata incident), which further justifies the use of the term “affair.” The Ashio mine and Furukawa Ichibē Ashio is a small town in the mountains of Tochigi Prefecture, 110 kilometers north of Tokyo. A copper deposit was discovered nearby around the year 1550 and exploited since at least 1610.10 There is a long history of copper trade between Japan and its neighbors, and the Ashio mine played a significant part in it. The events of the Ashio affair start in 1877 when Furukawa Ichibē (1832–1903), an industrialist with close ties to the government, took over the

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mine. Furukawa did not belong to a wealthy family, yet became one of the most successful industry leaders of his time. He built a fortune in the mining industry, with the Ashio site as its center. Furukawa had connections with many members of the government and people in power. Among them, Mutsu Munemitsu (1844–1897), Shibusawa Eiichi (1840–1931) and Hara Takashi (1856–1921) were some of the most influential. Respectively Minister of Agriculture and Commerce (among other high positions), founder of the First National Bank and considered the “father of Japanese capitalism,” and head of the Home Ministry, the three provided support in crucial moments.11 After Furukawa took over the site, the mine was modernized, extensively exploited and turned into a technological showpiece of the period. He radically transformed the operation, gradually replacing subcontractors with centralized management and introducing the latest Western technologies (e.g. steam pumps to remove water and ore slurry, compressed air drills, cable cars, lighting and wagons powered by a hydroelectric plant, a Bessemer converter).12 Indeed, Furukawa benefitted from a context in which the mining sector greatly developed, in large part thanks to the state, which started pilot programs and hired foreign specialists. Less than fifteen years later, the Ashio mine was supplying a third of domestic copper production. In 1884, and for the next twenty years, it became Japan’s top supplier.13 At the time, copper was a highly valuable material used for the electrification of the country, for telegraph and, later, telephone cables, as well as for weapons and ammunition parts in the military sector.14 We must remember that the events at Ashio took place between two major conflicts: the First Sino-Japanese War (Nisshin sensō, 1894–1895) and the Russo-Japanese War (Nichiro sensō, 1904–1905). Above all else, this metal was intended for export: it was Japan’s third biggest export after silk and tea.15 The government centralized the sale of copper and these exports provided the foreign currency needed to buy technology and to pay specialists from abroad. Therefore, copper proved to be a crucial element in the modernization of the country and the Ashio mine a highly strategic and important site. The environmental and social costs of industrial growth The success story of Furukawa in Ashio came at a cost. The extraction of the ore and its transformation on site contaminated air, water and soil. In the mid-1880s, evidence of damage caused by the mine could no longer be ignored, although the contamination most probably started earlier. The ore contained sulphur, copper and iron. When melted to extract copper, sulphur combined with oxygen in the atmosphere producing sulphur dioxide (SO2), which was then released in the air together with the arsenic contained in the ore. This chemical combination affected farmland neighboring the refineries through acid rains, for instance at the Matsuki Village which was definitely abandoned by its population in 1902. Air pollution destroyed the vegetation of the surrounding mountains whereas mining activities required a large amount of wood (as fuel or construction material), which intensified deforestation. Since the already depleted forests were no longer properly absorbing precipitation, rainfall led to erosion and landslides. The source of the Watarase River is at Mount Sukai, right above the Ashio mine and forms a natural border between the Tochigi and Gunma Prefectures. Being a tributary of the Tone River, the Watarase is part of one of the greatest basins of the country. Ordinarily subject to

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overflowing, the intensity and frequency of its floods increased due to deforestation. The Watarase and the Tone became repositories for the wastewater from the mine’s galleries and slags (waste left after the ore treatment). Hazardous substances from the ore, as well as toxic chemicals used to extract the copper, contaminated the water with pollutants such as arsenic, chlorine, copper sulphate, sulphur, along with heavy metals such as cadmium, lead, mercury and zinc. These substances settled at the bottom of rivers, and the overflow of the Watarase and Tone then spread the contamination over a large area, where it once deposited valuable silt. The bioaccumulation of these harmful pollutants damaged the crops. The contamination of the water system caused a great deal of harm to the local economy. Besides agriculture, other sectors were destabilized, revealing the complex interweaving of multiple natural systems and how far-reaching the pollution was. The dyeing industry and silkworm farming were impacted too, as the pollutants in the water ruined the color of the dye and killed silkworms, which feed on the leaves of mulberry trees.16 Disease spread among wildlife and people downstream of the mine: eye disease, diarrhea, stomach problems and breastfeeding impediments for women.17 The number of fish caught dropped drastically and the 3,000 households of fishermen established along the Watarase were left completely destitute. Of course, the degradation of the surroundings of the Ashio mine and the Watarase Basin did not start with Furukawa taking over the mine. There were episodes of water contamination as early as 1680. At the end of the 19th century, what tipped the balance was what can be called “hybrid causations”: the convergence of multiple factors where none would have brought the same result on its own.18 In this case, it was the combination of capital investments, imperial state power, the influence of international markets, the chemical properties of copper, technological progress and the presence of a particular ecosystem that caused irreparable damage to the local environment. A multifaceted protest movement (1890–1910s) From the mid-1880s, more and more voices rose up in the Watarase basin against the apparent signs of pollution, accusing the Ashio mine of being responsible (e.g., in newspaper articles from 1885). Despite a few isolated actions, it took massive damage to agriculture for a larger protest movement to emerge.19 In August 1890, severe floods struck Tochigi and Gunma, affecting 1,600 hectares of farmland. The following month, farmers, landowners and village headmen started mobilizing. The movement lasted until the first decade of the 20th century and went through various stages and levels of intensity. The population resorted to proven protest methods (petitions, marches, gatherings), but also made use of new political institutions (prefectural assemblies, Imperial Diet, constitution) as well as the national press. Protesters asked for the removal of the refineries or the temporary suspension of their activities, and compensation for the damage done to rice paddies and agricultural fields. From the early stages of the movement, protesters called upon agronomy and medical experts to analyze the polluted environment.20 Their goal was to get the support of these specialists and to benefit from their legitimacy, as well as gather evidence of a direct link between the mine’s activities and the damage, in order to prove the responsibility of Ashio’s operator.21 However, protesters also encountered obstruction, for example, when the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce turned down their requests

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for an investigation, or when it refused to reveal its findings. Moreover, because experts were struggling to elucidate how exactly mining pollution affected the soil, the governor of Tochigi Prefecture demanded further tests, delaying active measures against the mine. These scientific uncertainties were also a way for local authorities to downplay the gravity of the situation. Soon, pollution became the subject of scientific controversy, as the government also resorted to experts for their own purposes. In the Diet, the representative for Tochigi in the Lower Chamber, Tanaka Shōzō, started questioning the government and did so relentlessly until his resignation in October 1901, with few results. In December 1891, Tanaka was given an answer to his questions and this represented the first official position on the matter. The Minister of Agriculture and Commerce, Mutsu Munemitsu, denied any link between the damage and the mine.22 He argued that investigations were being carried out at the mine and that its operator was taking measures. This position did not change much over the years. Later, the government was forced to acknowledge, at least in part, the responsibility of Furukawa Ichibē for the harm done to farmland. According to the authorities, however, the activities of the mine were only one of the possible causes of contamination. The damage was not considered important enough to threaten the public good and did not justify a suspension of Furukawa’s mining license, a possibility offered by the Mining Laws of 1890 (Kōgyō jōrei, which came into effect in 1892).23 The government maintained that this conflict did not fall within its purview, but rather within that of the Tochigi authorities, and recommended a private agreement. At this point, the government refused to get involved and, in 1892, after two years of political agitation, Furukawa convinced most of the village headmen and their people to accept settlement agreements (jidan keiyaku), with the help of the governor of Tochigi. The signatories committed to abandoning any complaint against the mine until 1896. In exchange, Furukawa would give them a modest amount of money and the promise to install, in under four years, an ore dust vacuum system to prevent pollution. Surprisingly, the protesters never took legal action. In 1890, at the very beginning of the movement, several communities had considered this possibility, in case Furukawa refused their demands for compensation and relocation of the refineries.24 We can only speculate as to why they gave up on this option. The protesters may have been deterred by the financial burden of litigation as well as the lawyers’ fees, and maybe they thought that legal action would take too long. Furukawa could, on top of everything, have appealed, thus delaying the resolution.25 Moreover, at the time the new civil legislation had just started to be implemented and its application was not yet clear to the public. In addition, the burden of proof was on them, so they had to demonstrate the existence of mining pollution—with all the technical difficulties that this represented—and to quantify the damage precisely in order to claim appropriate compensation. In light of the difficulties in this matter, and in the absence of convincing results, it is understandable that they decided not to initiate civil proceedings. At any rate, this choice to wage a purely political battle, neglecting their legal options, undoubtedly deprived the protesters of the possibility of being recognized by a court of law as having been injured by the mining industry. If legal recourses existed, at least as early as the entry into force of the Civil Code in 1898, they do not seem to have been exploited. In this, the Ashio affair is not very different from other environmental conflicts at the time. In the case of the Shisakajima refinery (Ehime Prefecture), a settlement was also reached outside the courts, and the same is true of the Hitachi mine (Ibaraki Prefecture), for instance.26 As the settlement agreements divided and weakened the movement, so did the First Sino-Japanese Chapter 4: The Ashio Affair

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War. Like other opposition MPs, Tanaka refrained from criticizing the government during the hostilities, thus answering the authorities’ call for national unity.

Pollution and State power The floods of 1896 and government involvement The settlement agreements placated the protests until 1896. That year, a chain of events led to the involvement of central authorities. First, a series of devastating floods in July and September spread pollution to the prefectures of Ibaraki, Chiba, Saitama and to a part of Tokyo’s territory. Between 33,000 and 45,000 hectares of land were contaminated. Second, these floods occurred just as the settlement agreement measures negotiated by Furukawa were coming to an end and the pollution problem had still not been solved. This provided a new opportunity for the leadership of the opposition movement and strengthened Tanaka’s position, who had been hostile to the settlement agreements in the first place. From this period onwards, he played a major role in the movement. Third, as a result of the floods the population rallied once more, this time on a much larger scale, reflecting the extent of the pollution. Many villages united to have their claims heard and the protest movement grew significantly. Protesters started to deliver their claims directly to the central government. From March 1897, protest marches to the capital were organized. This new strategy marked a break with previous years, as the chains of command were subverted. Participants re-enacted peasant protests wearing rain coats and conical hats.27 On 2 March 1897, protesters—a few thousand strong—marched to the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce. On the 23rd of the same month, a second march headed to the capital. Information suggests it would also head to the Ministry of the Imperial Household this time. Although the protesters apparently did not make it to their destination, this threat proved efficient as it increased pressure on the government. At the same time, due to information campaigns and visits to the contaminated areas and the mine, a support movement emerged in Tokyo. Newspapers, pamphlets and political press provided daily accounts of the situation in the polluted areas.28 Protesters had the help of political personalities, such as Tani Kanjō (1837–1911), who reached out to members of the government.29 Although the best-known figures of the movement are predominantly male, it is important to remember that the protest could not have existed without the participation of women. While there are few documents written by women, their role is substantiated by the mention of female names in several sources, such as lists of support contributions or the oaths that protesters took among themselves. In this tense environment, faced with the pressure of public opinion, the risk of a farmers’ upheaval and the involvement of the Imperial Household, the central authorities were forced to respond. After a decade of deferring to local authorities and a policy of non-intervention, the government finally stepped in. Its involvement included repression (as well as legal prosecution) of the protest movement and, to a lesser extent, its supporters: fines or censorship of newspaper articles, banning meetings, etc. Yet, the government demonstrated its willingness to do something for the protesters and for public opinion by establishing the so-called Commissions of Inquiry on Mining Pollution, on two separate occasions, March 1897 and March 1902. These commissions were meant to demonstrate the goodwill of the authorities 58

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and to appease popular anger. Gathering high-ranking officials and experts, it also provided legitimacy to governmental measures, since commissioners made recommendations based on scientific knowledge. The First Commission of 1897 and establishing an official position on pollution The First Commission of 1897 and the involvement of the central authorities was a pivotal moment. Forced to show its willingness to manage the crisis, the government needed to suggest ways of ending the damage to farmland (or at least reducing it to an acceptable level) and offering compensation. More importantly, it had to reassure the population of its capacity to keep industry and its fallout under control, not only to continue with mining activities despite their social and environmental consequences, but also to restore faith in technological progress and science. This was achieved through a display of power, by rallying experts of growing disciplines (agronomy, medicine and engineering, for example) and establishing an official narrative on mining pollution.30 The Commission of 1897 brought together representatives of the various ministries concerned, including Home, Finance, Agriculture and Commerce, as well as the Cabinet Legislation Office. After several months of investigation and debates, the commissioners handed in their report in May 1897.31 According to their conclusions, Furukawa Ichibē could be held only partly responsible for the harm done to farmland, as some of the contaminated sediment present in the waterways was a result of the mine’s prior management. Preventive work at the facility was deemed sufficient to avoid future damage. Finally, the possibility of suspending or shutting down the mine’s operations, as stipulated by Article 59 of the Mining Laws, was dismissed. The physicians among the commissioners, Gotō Shinpei (1857–1929) in particular,32 maintained that no copper poisoning or sanitary issues were caused by the mine despite evidence to the contrary. For instance, the number of young men failing physical examinations for the military was higher in contaminated areas than in uncontaminated areas in both Gunma and Tochigi.33 Additionally, it was later revealed that the investigation’s methodology was flawed: experts focused solely on chemically pure copper and did not consider impure samples (i.e. copper ore and its components, such as arsenic, zinc and lead), therefore ruling out copper poisoning.34 Health issues were declared to be unrelated to the mine’s activities and, instead, a result of endemic diseases. These conclusions defined the official position for the rest of the conflict and had crucial implications. When popular anger rose again a few years later because the situation had not improved, the central authorities stuck to their discourse. The government followed the commissioners’ recommendations and issued several decrees, one of which, on 27 May 1897, forced Furukawa to carry out preventive measures at the mine, such as sediment ponds, higher chimneys for the refineries and better storage for mining waste. Despite threatening to shut down the mine if the work was not finished in due time, the government barely monitored the process, or its efficiency. Furukawa did comply, at great cost, although without meeting the set deadlines.35 He turned the work imposed by the decree into an opportunity to improve Ashio’s productivity. More importantly, Furukawa claimed that, after completing it, he should no longer be held responsible for any future pollution, ascribing it to sediment deposits that happened prior to his management. In

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addition, the owners of damaged fields and paddies were compensated through tax exemptions, meaning the cost was covered by the state, not the industrialist.36 The floods of 1896 led to the involvement of central authorities in the conflict. Considering the information above, they clearly favored Furukawa Ichibē. Under the guise of strict regulations, the measures they imposed guaranteed the continuation of mining activities in Ashio. However, the large-scale poisoning of 1896 was also a turning point in the protesters’ understanding of pollution. Protesters started to carry out surveys in the areas to show the disastrous effects of mining contamination on health. In March 1899, during the Diet’s thirteenth session, Tanaka revealed the results of this expertise: in many places across the contaminated area, the year 1896 was a turning point for the population’s life expectancy. The birth rate dropped and the death rate rose.37 Later, field reports from the journalist Matsumoto Eiko (1866–1928) would confirm the social consequences of the crisis in the region, where communities were torn apart due to poverty, exodus and illness.38 Little by little, faced with the prospect of ecocide, some of the protesters came to see pollution as a threat to life itself. Therefore, it was no longer an issue that could be compensated financially. Tanaka, in particular, developed his own ecological thought.39 He became convinced that by promoting industrial growth and neglecting the laws of nature, civilization (bunmei), or progress, was going in the wrong direction. One of Tanaka’s famous quotes illustrates the essence of his thinking: True Civilization … Does not crush its mountains Does not destroy its rivers Does not demolish its villages Does not kill its people.40 However, Tanaka’s “environmental turn” is not easy to situate, nor his thought to summarize.41 Indeed, he was primarily an activist, and his reflections on the relationship between human beings and their environment did not lead to the writing of a theoretical text as such. It is only through his actions, his personal notes, his correspondence and his speeches that we can reconstruct how his thoughts on the subject of nature evolved, which proves somewhat difficult.42 This growing sense of emergency, combined with the frustration and tension induced by the complicated process for getting a tax exemption and the insufficient measures imposed on Furukawa, brought a revival of the protest movement. In 1898, the marches to the capital resumed. In February 1900, the fourth march ended in violent clashes between police and protesters at Kawamata, which resulted in many injuries on both sides. About 100 arrests were made and legal procedures were launched against about 50 persons, as most of the accused were charged for the “crime of gathering of rioters” (kyōto shūshūzai), leading to a new phase of judicialization of the conflict.43 Outraged by the incident, Tanaka Shōzō resigned from his position in October 1901, but not before he gave a vibrant last speech: he warned the government of a “national death” (bōkoku) if nothing was done to act against pollution and if industrial and economic growth kept prevailing in politics. Two months later, Tanaka attempted a direct appeal (jikiso) to the Meiji Emperor, Mutsuhito (1852–1912), but was intercepted before he could hand him his appeal.44 He was re-enacting a practice from the Tokugawa period (1603–1867), in which village leaders tried to reach the shōgun directly. For 60

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this act, Tanaka was likely to face a death sentence, but the government did not want to make a martyr out of him and released him. Regardless, the event once again sparked debates in the press as well as civil unrest. The Second Commission of 1902 and the flood control program As a result of this unrest, the government set up a second Commission on Mining Pollution in 1902, five years after the first one and the decree issued to Furukawa Ichibē. This decision was designed to bring the protest movement to an end, and was successful in that regard. Maintaining their previous stance, authorities went one step further: since it was floods that released pollutants into the region’s farmland and generated endemic diseases, the solution was a river management program. Cause and consequence were thereby subverted, as now the issue came from the water and no longer from the mine. Large-scale intervention would this time take place in the water system of the downstream region, not in Ashio. The government merged the pollution issue with its flood control program in the Kantō plain. According to the experts of the Second Commission, damage to farmland was caused by copper as other pollutants were omitted from the analyses. The focus on copper made it possible to present mine waste as harmless to the population and enabled the government to ignore other elements contained in the ore (such as arsenic or lead), that could affect living organisms. Copper asphyxiated the soil, which produced sulphuric acid and killed the crops. This resulted in poverty and economic stagnation. However, the presence of copper sediments in the rivers predated the measures imposed on Ashio by the decree of 1897. Thus, experts supported Furukawa’s statement arguing that he could not be held responsible after having carried out the preventive work. Relying on the narrative established during the First Commission, disease in the contaminated areas was attributed to impurities (e.g., intestinal parasites) also brought by the overflow of the Watarase and Tone rivers, which contaminated the wells. Any connection between the extraction and transformation of copper, on the one hand, and health issues, on the other hand, was denied. Consequently, floods were responsible for both the damage to farmland and health issues. Experts concluded that, alongside some minor improvements to the preventive measures in Ashio, major riparian work would prevent further pollution and solve the problems in the Watarase basin.45 Once more, the solution lay in technological processes, which had proved insufficient in the past. Based on these recommendations given in March 1903, the government implemented an extensive plan for flood-control infrastructure, which was carried out over many years and encountered resistance from the population. This plan was part of a wider program aimed at preventing floods and strengthening state control over rivers in the Kantō area. Since around the 1880s, the government had changed its approach to river management. Abandoning the previous system of low and discontinuous dykes, this new approach was based on high and continuous dykes, and on redirecting the course of rivers along straight lines, so they reached the estuary by the shortest route. Such changes entailed an acceleration of the flow, since high, continuous dykes prevented the surplus of water from discharging along the way. However, when the dykes collapsed or were overwhelmed, devastating floods occurred. This acceleration represented a real paradigm shift for water management in modern times.46 The construction of a reservoir was planned at the location of the Yanaka village, where the Watarase, Tone and Omoi rivers meet, in order to prevent floods and to allow the copper

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effluent to settle. In addition, the courses of the Tone and Watarase rivers were greatly modified to accelerate their flows and direct them towards the Pacific Ocean. These changes had another goal: protecting the capital. At the top of Chiba Prefecture, the Tone splits: one branch becomes the Edo River, the other continues east and flows into the Pacific. Since the Edo flows through Tokyo to its bay, the work on the Tone was also designed to spare Tokyo from the floods and the pollution they carried. Similar modification of the course of the Tone had already been carried out with the purpose of flood control during the Tokugawa period. To override local resistance, the government made use of the River Law (Kasenhō, 1896). This enabled the Home Ministry, instead of the prefectural authorities, to manage rivers when required, affirming state control over the territory and the population. Indeed, the construction of the reservoir led to the eviction of the inhabitants of Yanaka. Some 3,000 hectares of farmland, grassland and marsh were transformed into a large sedimentation pond and most of the 2,700 people (450 households) living there had to relocate to nearby villages. Some of them went as far as Hokkaido. For Tanaka Shōzō, this plan made little sense: the government was destroying land cultivated for generations, something irreplaceable. Worse still, the modification of the river system seemed to ignore the agency of natural elements and the laws of nature. In 1904, Tanaka moved to Yanaka and further developed his ecological thought. The flow of natural elements (especially water) became a central part of it. For him, blocking these flows would result in stagnation and death. Supporters of the protest movement, socialists and anarchists in particular, mobilized against the evictions, but in vain. Between June and July 1907, the government destroyed the dykes surrounding Yanaka, along with the homes of the last inhabitants. Some of them still refused to leave and built shacks near the now submerged vestiges of the village. However, a large part of the population considered the sacrifice of the village inevitable and a necessary evil. On the eve of the war against Russia, the movement had already lost some of its momentum and support as the focus of public attention had shifted from the contaminated land to military preparations. The last of the protesters ended up isolated and the unrest caused by the mining pollution was suppressed. After Tanaka Shōzō died in 1913, some opposition remained, but on a much less significant scale.

Pollution and its aftermath Despite massive intervention in the region, the area still suffered from floods even after riparian work was completed, partly due to the fact that reforestation was at times neglected. Likewise, the pollution caused by the Ashio mine did not disappear. In the 1920s and 1930s, protests against the Furukawa company, which had become a powerful conglomerate (zaibatsu), continued on a smaller scale, before they were stifled again by the country’s mobilization for war and by the conflict itself.47 In January 1944, the government classified the mine as a priority enterprise for the war effort. To make up for the lack of manpower, the mine used forced labor, including Koreans as well as Chinese and American prisoners.48 In the aftermath of Japan’s defeat, some groups revived the complaints against the mine. A few years later, another mass pollution event reignited a major protest movement: on 30 May 1958, a pile of mining waste, which had been neglected, collapsed in Gengorōzawa, near Ashio. About 2,000 cubic meters of debris cut through three train lines before ending up in the Watarase River. The contaminated river water poisoned 6,000 hectares of rice fields, and

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more than 20,000 farmers’ households in Morita (present-day Ōta City, Gunma) saw their crops completely destroyed. The farmers formed an association, petitioned the government to set standards for water quality and demanded that the mine take action to prevent pollution completely, as well as pay compensation. In 1962 the authorities finally examined the case and arbitrated the dispute between the Furukawa company and the plaintiffs. This time the context favored the latter, as environmental and health movements were emerging, many of which would start legal procedures in the late 1960s. In November 1972, the Furukawa company announced the imminent closure of the mine. But while mining stopped in 1973, the refineries continued to operate with imported ore, and production even increased, until they were closed in 1989. A compromise between the parties was finally reached on 11 May 1974. The company agreed to pay 1.55 trillion yen to farmers, to improve the management of mining waste and to sign an agreement with the city of Ōta on pollution control. This was a historic decision, as for the first time since the 1880s the Furukawa company acknowledged its responsibility. In 2011, following the 11 March Tōhoku earthquake that triggered a tsunami and the Fukushima nuclear disaster, a waste rock pile collapsed again in Gengorōzawa, making clear that the problem was still not solved. Today, the industrial legacy remains: a huge amount of toxic ore waste is still being stored and monitored, deforestation has left its mark on the surrounding mountains where vegetation is only just growing back, at the cost of considerable effort and resources.49 Finally, water quality remains at risk and requires regular monitoring due to the deposits at the bottom of the rivers. Although there is a consensus on condemning the devastation caused by the Ashio mine, the site is at the center of a memorial battle between those who wish to highlight a glorious industrial past, and activists who insist instead on passing on the memory of the fight against pollution.

Conclusion Starting as a local conflict, the Ashio affair eventually took on a regional and national dimension, as pollution spread and support emerged in cities. One characteristic of this protest movement was that it was carried out within a framework that was, if not entirely legal, at least not fundamentally different from practices of the time: to some extent, the administrative route was preferred to direct action, thus renouncing any blockade, sabotage, destruction or threats. Demands were addressed to the local or higher authorities rather than to the mine’s operator, as there was hardly any attempt to negotiate directly with him. Instead, the protesters turned to representatives at various levels of government. The refusal to use force is what distinguishes this conflict from similar ones of the same period. Even in the Kawamata confrontation, violence was not a deliberate strategy. The fact that the protest movement lasted for almost two decades and gathered strong support from very diverse social groups meant the central authorities were compelled to become involved to solve the conflict. This marks a break with the pollution cases of the early modern period, where conflicts were generally resolved between local actors. The failure of the anti-pollution movement, especially its inability to close the site, was largely due to the government’s political and economic support of Furukawa, as well as to the role copper played in the country’s technological modernization and military projects. Besides censorship and repression, the government showed token signs of goodwill to subdue the protest

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movement. In this endeavor, science and technology were powerful tools to manage both the environment and the population, planting the seeds of expert-based governance. Basing themselves on the legitimacy of scientific disciplines, central authorities maintained that the mine was not a threat to the public good and made clear that industrial activities were in fact an inseparable part of said good. In order to prevent this position from being undermined, mining needed to be presented as harmless to the population and health issues needed to be attributed to other factors, primarily floods. Due to the scale of the dispute, its duration and its media coverage, the Ashio affair is an iconic example of the early pollution incidents of modern Japan. However, it is not entirely representative, since other contemporary conflicts sometimes ended in a slightly better settlement for the inhabitants.50 Nevertheless, it reveals how the strengthening of Japan’s economic, industrial and military power, which was widely conceived in the society as the country’s most urgent priorities, came to be pursued at the expense of human and natural resources. The Ashio affair exposed the issues surrounding the exploitation of resources: the opposition between various sectors of the economy (such as industry and agriculture), the notion of public good and its interpretation, the difficulty for citizens’ movements to win their case, the responsibility of polluting companies and of the state towards its citizens, the establishment of a modern administrative structure, and the question of compensation for and/or restoration of a contaminated environment. In this regard, it shares many similarities with other pollution incidents occurring elsewhere at the same period.51 It coincided with the development of investigative journalism and major social surveys, as well as the establishment of public health policies, and also highlighted the limits of an approach based entirely on technical solutions. More broadly, it raised the question of regulation in industry. Far from being a case limited to Japan, its similarities (and differences) should be compared with multiple incidents, and considered part of a global trend. With historical hindsight, the extended timescale of contamination is revealed, as is the topicality of the issues discussed at the time. Author’s Note: This chapter is part of the project Contamination of Rivers and Environmental Conflicts in Modern Japan (P2GEP1_191469) financed by an Early Postdoc.Mobility grant from the Swiss National Science Foundation. I would like to thank Miura Kenichirō (Hakuō University) for his comments, as well as the Center for Japanese Studies of the EHESS, which financed the English proofreading of this chapter.

Notes 1 Village headman (nanushi or shōya) of Konaka, Tanaka belonged to the mid-level category of provincial leaders. He actively participated in the “Popular rights and liberty movement” (Jiyū minken undō, 1874– 1884). Besides being one of the leaders of the protests in the Ashio events, he is also known for his ecological thought. See Komatsu Hiroshi, Tanaka Shōzō no kindai [Tanaka Shōzō’s modernity] (Tokyo: Gendai Kikakushitsu, 2001); Miura Kenichirō, Tanaka Shōzō to Ashio kōdoku mondai [Tanaka Shōzō and the Ashio mining pollution issue] (Tokyo: Yūshisha, 2017); Robert Stolz, Bad Water (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014); Kenneth Strong, Ox against the Storm (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1977). 2 Conrad Totman, Japan. An Environmental History (London: I.B. Tauris, 2014). 3 Conrad Totman, The Green Archipelago (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989). 4 Andō Seiichi, Kinsei kōgaishi no kenkyū [Study on the history of pollution in early-modern times] (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1992); Patricia Sippel, “Keeping Running Water Clean,” in Water Control and River

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Biographies, ed. Terje Tvedt and Eva Jakobsson (London: I.B. Tauris, 2006); Iijima Nobuko, Kankyō mondai no shakaishi [Social History of Environmental Issues] (Tokyo: Yūhikaku, 2000). 5 The most famous scandals are known as “the four big industrial diseases” (yondai kōgaibyō), namely Minamata disease (mercury contamination) which appeared in Kumamoto and Niigata Prefectures, itai-itai disease (literally “it hurts, it hurts,” cadmium poisoning) and Yokkaichi asthma (respectively in Toyama and Mie Prefectures). 6 E.g., Kamioka Namiko, ed., Kindai Nihon no kōgai, shiryō [Pollution in modern Japan: Sources] (Tokyo: Shin Jinbutsu Ōraisha, 1971); Kamioka Namiko, Nihon no kōgaishi [History of pollution in Japan] (Tokyo: Sekai Sho’in, 1987); Oda Yasunori, Kindai Nihon no kōgai mondai [Pollution issues in modern Japan] (Kyoto: Sekai Shisōsha, 1983). 7 For an overview of these early works: Kano Masanao, ed., Ashio kōdoku jiken kenkyū [Studies on the Ashio mining pollution incident] (Tokyo: San’ichi shobō, 1974); Shōji Kichirō and Sugai Masurō, Tsūshi Ashio kōdoku jiken 1877–1984 [History of the Ashio mining pollution incident, 1877–1984] (Yokohama: Seori Shobō, 2014 (1st ed.: 1984)); Fred Notehelfer, “Japan’s First Pollution Incident,” Journal of Japanese Studies 1, no. 2 (1975). For sources, see Uchimizu Mamoru, ed., Shiryō Ashio kōdoku jiken [Documents on the Ashio mining pollution incident] (Tokyo: Aki Shobō, 1971); Tochigikenshi Hensan Iin-kai [Editorial Committee for the History of Tochigi Prefecture], Tochigikenshi [History of Tochigi Prefecture] (Utsunomiya: Tochigiken, 1980); and, more recently Anzai Kunio, Horiguchi Osamu and Fukui Atsushi, eds., Ashio dōzan kōdoku jiken kankei shiryō [Materials pertaining to the Ashio copper mine pollution incident] (Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 2009). Some documents are also available open access on the National Archives of Japan’s website: https://www.digital.archives.go.jp/. 8 Ishii Hitonari, “Shakai mondai no hassei” [The emergence of social issues], in Iwanami kōza: Nihon rekishi [History of Japan: Iwanami course], ed. by Ōtsu Tōru, Sakura’i Eiji, Fujii Jōji, Yoshida Yutaka and Yi Sŏng-si (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2014). 9 Known as the Ashio dōzan kōdoku jiken in Japanese, it is usually translated by the “Ashio copper mine case/ incident.” However, the term jiken is used for a wide range of incidents, scandals and so on, including affairs (as in the Dreyfus affair). I have chosen the latter because of the symbolic significance and the impact of these events on the society at the time. 10 For an extensive study of the mine, see Murakami Yasumasa, Ashio dōzanshi [History of the Ashio copper mine] (Utsunomiya: Zuisōsha, 2006); Nimura Kazuo, The Ashio Riot of 1907 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997). 11 Konishi Tokuō, “‘Furukawa no dō’ o sasaeta mono (jō)(ge)” [Supporters of “Furukawa’s copper,” 2 parts], Tanaka Shōzō no sekai 4 & 6 (1985 & 1986). 12 These changes in the organization of the workforce and in capital-labor relations also caused conflict, sometimes fueled by subcontractors and barracks managers, who lost some of their prerogatives. In 1907, these tensions led to the “Ashio riot” (Ashio bōdō jiken), which shook the mining town for 3 days and could only be controlled by the intervention of the army. See Nimura, The Ashio Riot of 1907. 13 Shōji and Sugai, Tsūshi Ashio kōdoku jiken, 13–15. 14 On the relationship between war and copper, see Konishi, “‘Furukawa no Dō’”; LeCain, Timothy, The Matter of History: How Things Create the Past (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). LeCain offers a thoughtful comparison between the Ashio mine and the Watarase River Basin, on the one hand, and the Anaconda copper mine in Montana and the Deer Lodge Valley, on the other. His approach emphasizes the “material power” of copper. 15 See Takagi Kiyoshi, “Dō to Nihon shihonshugi” [Copper and Japanese capitalism], in Kano, Ashio kōdoku jiken kenkyū; Patricia Sippel, “Technology and Change in Japan’s Modern Copper Mining Industry,” in Institutional and Technological Change in Japan’s Economy. Past and Present, ed. Janet Hunter and Cornelia Storz (London: Routledge, 2006). 16 On silkworms, see Walker, Toxic Archipelago, chapter 1; LeCain, The Matter of History, chapter 5. 17 Takaishi Masaki, Ōshima Hiroshi and Asano Satoshi, “Ashio dōzan ga hikiokoshita kōgai ni okeru kankyō oyobi hito e no eikyō” [The effects of pollution from the Ashio copper mine on the environment and on people], Kokusai iryō fukushi daigaku gakkaishi 20, no. 2 (2015). 18 Walker, Toxic Archipelago, 16–20. 19 The first actions began as early as 1887. They were organized by a few individuals studying in Tokyo who tried to raise awareness about the pollution in their school’s newspaper.

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20

On the role of agronomists, refer to Yamamoto Yūzō, Ashio kōdoku jiken to nōgakusha no gunzō [The Ashio mining pollution incident and some agronomists] (Utsunomiya: Zuisōsha, 2019). 21 For example, as early as October 1890 the pharmacy of the Utsunomiya prefectural hospital was asked to analyze soil and water samples where copper, as well as nitrous and sulphuric acids, were found. The hospital declared the water unsuitable for consumption and the results were published in the Shimotsuke Newspaper on 21 October 1890. 22 The fact that Mutsu’s son, Junkichi (1870–1905), was married to the daughter of Furukawa is probably not unrelated to his statement. Junkichi was later adopted by Furukawa and became his heir. 23 Article 59: “if the method of extraction or prospecting is harmful to the public good, the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce may revoke permission to exploit the mine.” However, the definition of public good was left to the interpretation of the government. 24 Komatsu, Tanaka Shōzō no kindai, 267. 25 The length of the procedure was indeed invoked by the vice-president of the Tochigi county assembly, Yokoo Terukichi (1855–1919), as an argument for the settlement agreements with Furukawa, obviously with some success. Tochigikenshi Hensan Iin-kai, Tochigikenshi, 521. 26 The complaint filed in 1907 by 36 landowners and farmers against the copper refinery of the Ōsaka Alkali company before the Ōsaka District Court is one of the few exceptions in the pre-war period. Especially so, since the verdict, given in 1915, was favorable to the plaintiffs and was upheld on 27 December 1919 by the Ōsaka High Court of Justice following Ōsaka Alkali’s appeal. This occurrence is generally considered to be the first in which plaintiffs won their case. 27 Like the militants of the Popular rights and liberty movement before them, they used the figure of the martyrs of peasant protests, victims of repression from the authorities. 28 Alan Stone, “The Japanese Muckrakers,” Journal of Japanese Studies 1, no. 2 (1975). 29 Former military man and close to the government, he was a supporter of agrarianism (nōhonshugi). He convinced Enomoto Takeaki (1836–1908), the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce, to visit the contaminated areas. After he witnessed the situation, and due to the climate of tension, Enomoto established a commission of inquiry. 30 Pitteloud, Cyrian, “The 1897 Commission of Inquiry on the Ashio Mining Pollution: from Laissez-Faire to the State Management of an Environmental Crisis,” Cipango. Japanese studies. English edition, 2023, forthcoming. 31 Commissioners had differing opinions on several matters, the main point of contention being whether to shut the mine down or keep it open. However, those opposed to continuing the mining operations were outvoted. The Commission’s reports and the minutes of its proceedings are in Tochigikenshi Hensan Iin-kai, Tochigikenshi, 641–813. 32 Head of the Hygiene Office (Home Ministry), Gotō was a high-level civil servant with a long career and a reputed doctor. He was an active promoter of industrial hygiene politics. 33 Konishi Tokuō, “Ashio dōzan onzon no kōzō” [How the Ashio mine was preserved], Seikei ronsō 58, no. 3 & 4 (1989). 34 Komatsu, Tanaka Shōzō no kindai, 790–93. 35 Konishi Tokuō, “Ashio dōzan kōdoku jiken kenkyū” [Studies on the Ashio copper mine pollution incident], Seikei ronsō 58, no. 5 (1990). 36 This measure had other consequences: in a system where only people paying a certain amount of taxes could benefit from political rights such as voting, tax exemptions meant the loss of said rights. Local communities were destabilized, since the local tax was indexed to the national tax. The exemptions dried out the tax income of the communities and diminished the state’s tax revenue. 37 Uchimizu, Shiryō Ashio kōdoku jiken, 361–84. 38 Her articles, published from 1901 in newspapers such as the Mainichi, the Yorozu chōhō or the Shimotsuke, are one of the few first-hand sources we have that are left by women. See Stolz, Bad Water, 45–50; Komatsu, Tanaka Shōzō no kindai, 783–88. 39 The ecological thought is understood here as a trend of ideas that appeared in the 19th century, distinct from liberalism, socialism and feminism. This current of ideas arose in response to a new scale of environmental degradation, and questioned the place of human beings in nature, with a certain mistrust of technology’s capacity to solve the problems it created. See Dominique Bourg and Augustine Fragnière, eds., La Pensée écologique : Une anthologie [Ecological thought : An anthology] (Paris: PUF, 2014).

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40

Tanaka Shōzō, Tanaka Shōzō senshū [Selected works of Tanaka Shōzō] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989), vol. 6, 226. Translation by Stolz, Bad Water, 116. 41 The expression is from Stolz, who dates this shift to around 1902. Bad Water, chapter 3. 42 See Stolz, Bad Water; Komatsu, Tanaka Shōzō no kindai; Miura, Tanaka Shōzō to Ashio kōdoku mondai. 43 Tamura Norio, Kawamata jiken [The Kawamata incident] (Tokyo: Shakai Hyōronsha, 2000); Notehelfer, “Japan’s First Pollution Incident”: 376–80. With most of the leaders imprisoned, women were the ones who organized the marches in February and March 1902. 44 The early socialist and future leader of the anarchist wing, Kōtoku Shūsui (1871–1911), wrote the text of this appeal. For an English translation, see Stolz, Bad Water, 207–9. 45 Some of them also recommended building hospitals and digging new wells to improve the general sanitary conditions of the population in the region. However, the government did not adopt such a policy. Komatsu, Tanaka Shōzō no kindai, 794. 46 Nakamura Shinichirō and Oki Taikan, “Paradigm Shifts on Flood Risk Management in Japan,” Water Resources Research 54 (June 2018). 47 For instance, in December 1940, after about 20 petitions had been filed to the Home Ministry since 1915, people, united in an association, obtained a budget for the repair of the river system. However, due to a lack of archives, the extent of the work undertaken at that time and its effectiveness are unknown. Shōji and Sugai, Tsūshi Ashio kōdoku jiken, 215–63; Hirose Takeshi, Kōgai no genten o kōsei ni [To future generations: the starting point of pollution] (Utsunomiya: Zuisōsha, 2001), 159–76. 48 Koshō Tadashi, Ashio dōzan Chōsenjin kyōsei renkō to sengo shori [The forced displacement of Koreans to the Ashio copper mine and the post-war settlement] (Unknown place of publication: Sōshisha, 2013). 49 Akiyama Tomohide, ed., Mori yo yomigaere [Forests, come back to life] (Tokyo: Daiichi Puranningu Sentā, 1990). 50 Watanabe Takehiro, “Talking Sulfur Dioxide,” in Japan at Nature’s Edge, ed. Ian Jared Miller, Julia Adeney Thomas and Brett Walker (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2013). 51 For a recent work emphasizing this global trend, refer to François Jarrige and Thomas Le Roux, The Contamination of the Earth. A History of Pollution in the Industrial Age, (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2020.)

Bibliography Akiyama, Tomohide, ed. Mori yo yomigaere. Ashio dōzan no kyōkun to ryokka sakusen [Forests, come back to life. Lessons from the Ashio mine and reforestation operations]. Tokyo: Daiichi Puranningu Sentā, 1990. Andō, Seiichi. Kinsei kōgaishi no kenkyū [Study on the history of pollution in early-modern times]. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1992. Anzai, Kunio, Horiguchi Osamu and Fukui Atsushi, eds. Ashio dōzan kōdoku jiken kankei shiryō: Kokuritsu Kōbunshokan shozō eiinbon [Materials pertaining to the Ashio copper mine pollution incident: Facsimiles of documents held by the National Archives of Japan], 30. vols. Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 2009. Bourg, Dominique and Augustin Fragnière, eds. La Pensée écologique: Une anthologie [Ecological thought: An anthology]. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2014. Hirose, Takeshi. Kōgai no genten o kōsei ni: Nyūmon Ashio kōdoku jiken [To future generations—the starting point of pollution: Introduction to the Ashio mining pollution incident]. Utsunomiya: Zuisōsha, 2001. Ishii, Hitonari. “Shakai mondai no hassei” [The emergence of social issues], in Iwanami kōza: Nihon rekishi [History of Japan: Iwanami course], edited by Ōtsu Tōru, Sakura’i Eiji, Fujii Jōji, Yoshida Yutaka and Yi Sŏng-si, vol. 16, 281–314. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2014. Iijima, Nobuko. Kankyō mondai no shakaishi [Social History of Environmental Issues], Tokyo, Yūhikaku, 2000. Jarrige, François and Thomas Le Roux. The Contamination of the Earth. A History of Pollution in the Industrial Age. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2020. Kamioka, Namiko, ed. Kindai Nihon no kōgai: Shiryō [Pollution in modern Japan: Sources]. Tokyo: Shin jinbutsu Ōraisha, 1971. Kamioka, Namiko. Nihon no kōgaishi [History of pollution in Japan]. Tokyo: Sekai Sho’in, 1987. Kano, Masanao, ed. Ashio kōdoku jiken kenkyū [Studies on the Ashio mining pollution incident] (Tokyo: San’ichi shobō, 1974).

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Komatsu, Hiroshi. Tanaka Shōzō no kindai [Tanaka Shōzō’s modernity]. Tokyo: Gendai Kikakushitsu, 2001. Konishi, Tokuō. “‘Furukawa no dō’ o sasaeta mono (jō)” [Supporters of “Furukawa’s copper” Part 1)]. Tanaka Shōzō no sekai 4 (1985): 48–56. ———. “‘Furukawa no dō’ o sasaeta mono (ge)” [Supporters of “Furukawa’s copper” Part 2)], Tanaka Shōzō no sekai 6 (1986): 57–68. ———. “Ashio dōzan onzon no kōzō: Dai sankai kōdoku yobō kōji meirei o chūshin ni” [How the Ashio mine was preserved: On the third order requiring preventive work]. Seikei ronsō 58, nos. 3 & 4 (1989): 741–98. ———. “Ashio dōzan kōdoku jiken kenkyū: Dai sankai kōdoku yobō kōji no jisshi to meireisho no kaizan” [Studies on the Ashio copper mine pollution incident: The implementation of the third preventive works plan and the falsification of the order], Seikei ronsō 58, no. 5 (1990): 935–87. Koshō, Tadashi. Ashio dōzan Chōsenjin kyōsei renkō to sengo shori [The forced displacement of Koreans to the Ashio copper mine and the post-war settlement]. Unknown place of publication: Sōshisha, 2013. LeCain, Timothy. The Matter of History. How Things Create the Past. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017. Miura, Kenichirō. Tanaka Shōzō to Ashio kōdoku mondai: Tsuchi kara umareta riberaru demokurashī [Tanaka Shōzō and the Ashio mining pollution issue: Liberal democracy born from the soil]. Tokyo: Yūshisha, 2017. Murakami, Yasumasa. Ashio dōzanshi [History of the Ashio copper mine]. Utsunomiya: Zuisōsha, 2006. Nakamura, Shinichirō and Oki Taikan. “Paradigm Shifts on Flood Risk Management in Japan. Detecting Triggers of Design Flood Revisions in the Modern Era.” Water Resources Research 54 (June 2018): 5504–15. Nimura, Kazuo. The Ashio Riot of 1907: A Social History of Mining in Japan, translated by Terry Boardman, edited by Andrew Gordon Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997. Notehelfer, Fred. “Japan’s First Pollution Incident.” Journal of Japanese Studies 1, no. 2 (1975): 351–83. Oda, Yasunori. Kindai Nihon no kōgai mondai: Shiteki keisei katei no kenkyū [Pollution issues in modern Japan: Research on historical formation processes]. Kyoto: Sekai Shisōsha, 1983). Pitteloud, Cyrian. “The 1897 Commission of Inquiry on the Ashio Mining Pollution: from Laissez-Faire to the State Management of an Environmental Crisis.” Cipango. Japanese studies. English edition, 2023, forthcoming. Sippel, Patricia. “Technology and Change in Japan’s Modern Copper Mining Industry,” in Institutional and Technological Change in Japan’s Economy. Past and Present, ed. by Hunter Janet and Storz Cornelia (London: Routledge, 2006), 10–26. ———. “Keeping Running Water Clean. Mining and Pollution in Preindustrial Japan.” In Water Control and River Biographies, edited by Terje Tvedt and Eva Jakobsson, 419–36. London: I.B. Tauris, 2006. Takagi, Kiyoshi. “Dō to Nihon Shihonshugi” [Copper and Japanese capitalism], in Ashio Kōdoku Jiken Kenkyū [Studies on the Ashio mining pollution incident], ed. by Kano Masanao (Tokyo: San’ichi shobō, 1974), 6–41. Takaishi, Masaki, Ōshima Hiroshi and Asano Satoshi. “Ashio dōzan ga hikiokoshita kōgai ni okeru kankyō oyobi hito e no eikyō” [The effects of pollution from the Ashio copper mine on the environment and on people]. Kokusai iryō fukushi daigaku gakkaishi 20, no. 2 (2015): 59–69. Tamura, Norio. Kawamata jiken: Ashio kōdoku o meguru watarase enganshi [The Kawamata incident: Chronicles from the banks of the Watarase River, on the Ashio mining pollution]. Tokyo: Shakai Hyōronsha, 2000. Tanaka, Shōzō. Tanaka Shōzō senshū [Selected works of Tanaka Shōzō], 7 vols. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1989. Tochigikenshi Hensan Iin-kai [Editorial Committee for the History of Tochigi Prefecture]. Tochigikenshi: shiryōhen kingendai [History of Tochigi Prefecture: Edited sources for the modern and contemporary periods], vol. 9 (Ashio). Utsunomiya: Tochigiken, 1980. Shōji, Kichirō and Sugai Masurō. Tsūshi Ashio kōdoku jiken 1877–1984 [History of the Ashio mining pollution incident, 1877–1984]. Yokohama: Seori Shobō, 2014 (1st ed.: 1984). Strong, Kenneth. Ox against the Storm: A Biography of Tanaka Shozo, Japan’s Conservationist Pioneer. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1977. Stolz, Robert. Bad Water. Nature, Pollution & Politics in Japan, 1870–1950. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014. Stone, Alan. “The Japanese Muckrakers.” Journal of Japanese Studies 1, no. 2 (1975): 385–407.

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Totman, Conrad. The Green Archipelago. Forestry in Preindustrial Japan. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989. ———. Japan. An Environmental History. London: I.B. Tauris, 2014. Uchimizu, Mamoru, ed. Shiryō Ashio kōdoku jiken [Documents on the Ashio mining pollution incident]. Tokyo: Aki Shobō, 1971. Walker, Brett. Toxic Archipelago: A History of Industrial Disease in Japan. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010. Watanabe, Takehiro. “Talking Sulfur Dioxide: Air Pollution and the Politics of Science in Late Meiji Japan.” In Japan at Nature’s Edge: The Environmental Context of a Global Power, edited by Ian Jared Miller, Julia Adeney Thomas and Brett Walker, 73–89. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2013. Yamamoto, Yūzō. Ashio kōdoku jiken to nōgakusha no gunzō [The Ashio mining pollution incident and some agronomists]. Utsunomiya: Zuisōsha, 2019.

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Chapter 5 Two Outbreaks of Minamata Disease and the Struggle for Human Rights Seki Reiko Minamata disease, officially confirmed in 1956, is an environmental pollution disease caused by the consumption of large amounts of fish and shellfish in which methylmercury from industrial wastewater had accumulated. Although originally discovered in Minamata, Kumamoto Prefecture (from which it takes its name), it was rediscovered in Niigata Prefecture in 1965 and was labeled as Niigata Minamata disease. Victims of Niigata Minamata disease interacted with other pollution disease victims such as Minamata disease and Itai-itai disease, and through court cases, constructed environmental pollution as a social problem that threatens human life and health. However, discrimination and fear of discrimination against victims of the two Minamata diseases have led to missed opportunities for compensation and many are still struggling in court today.

Introduction Illness as a metaphor1 sometimes becomes stigma.2 It drives history and changes society. In the same way, pollution-related disease led to a policy shift from an economy-oriented society to an environment-oriented society. In particular, the impact of Minamata disease is immeasurable in social, economic and political contexts. More than half a century after its outbreak, Minamata disease continues to be a social problem. In this chapter, we characterize Minamata disease as victims’ movements for human rights and profane discrimination, and discuss how the Minamata disease problem has grown from the “visible damage” to the accusation of “invisible damage.”

What is Minamata disease? In late March 1956, in Minamata City, Kumamoto Prefecture, a girl at the age of 5 years and 5 months became ill. Her family was engaged in fishing. Until then, she had been completely healthy. In late March, she was unable to use chopsticks well when eating, and was not able to put on her athletic shoes well. By April 13th, her movement had become sloppy and she

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stumbled easily. On April 21st she visited the Chisso factory’s hospital. On April 23rd she was admitted to the hospital and on that same day, her younger sister—2 years and 11 months old—began to show signs of illness.3 Dr. Hosokawa Hajime (1901–1970), director of the Chisso factory hospital, officially reported to the Minamata Public Health Office on May 1, that children in a particular area were becoming ill one after another, and there was an outbreak of an unknown disease of the central nervous system. This was the day of official confirmation of the outbreak of Minamata disease. Soon it was discovered that not only children but adults had developed the disease as well. What was the cause? In July 1959, a report by Minamata Disease Research Group, School of Medicine, Kumamoto University, and again in November of that year, a report by the Food Sanitation Investigation Council of the Ministry of Health and Welfare, indicated that the cause of Minamata disease was some sort of organic mercury. In December Chisso signed a mimaikin (sympathy money) contract with a patients’ group. They paid 300,000 yen to the families of those who had died from the disease as well as 20,000 yen in funeral expenses. In addition, they paid 100,000 yen in pensions for adult patients and 30,000 yen in pensions for minor patients. In exchange, even if it was determined in the future that Chisso’s wastewater was the cause of Minamata disease, the patient’s family would not demand new compensation. The outbreak of Minamata disease in a region of Japan was thought to have been resolved once and for all. Minamata disease is described as being “in origin of pollution problems” or “in an origin of environmental problems.” It shows that environmental pollution harms the lives and health of human beings. However, in the beginning, Minamata disease was not acknowledged as a serious social problem. In Kumamoto Prefecture, it was initially thought that the issue was resolved when the mimaikin contract was signed. Chisso did not take the problem seriously and did not improve the drainage systems of its wastewater (Figure 5.1). Moreover, other similar types of factories in the nation continued with their operations (Figure 5.2). Unfortunately, it took a second outbreak of Minamata disease for it to be recognized as a social problem. If the necessary reforms had been made, the occurrence of Minamata disease at Agano River might have been prevented. Figure 5.1 Trends in annual production of acetaldehyde by Chisso and Shōwa Denkō

Acetaldehyde production (1,000 tons)

50

45,244 41,029 Niigata Minamata Disease (Shōwa Denkō)

40 Minamata Disease (Chisso)

30

20

15,919 9,159

10

0

19,631

×

16,115

× 527

1935

1940

1945

Minamata Disease (Chisso)

1950

1955

1960

1965

783 1968

Niigata Minamata Disease (Shōwa Denkō)

Source: Prepared by Bando Katsuhiko, November 1986.4

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Figure 5.2 Acetaldehyde Production Plant Location List

Tekkosha Co. Inc. Sakata factory (Yamagata Pref.) Nihon Gas Chemical Co. Matsuhama factory (Niigata Pref.)

Shōwa Denkō Co. Kanose factory (Niigata Pref.) Dai Nippon Seruroido Co. Arai factory (Niigata Pref.) Electrochemical Industory Co. Oumi factory (Niigata Pref.) The Nippon Synthetic Chemical Industry Co. Ogaki factory (Gifu Pref.) The Nippon Synthetic Chemical Industry Co. Kumamoto factory (Kumamoto Pref.)

Chisso Co. Minamata factory (Kumamoto Pref.)

Source: Watanabe Shinichi and Seki Reiko (1995), 48.5

Minamata disease was first recognized as a social problem after the second outbreak was made public. On June 12, 1965, Professors Tsubaki Tadao and Ueki Kōmei of Niigata University gave a press conference about incidents of organic mercury poisoning along the banks of the Agano River in which seven people became seriously ill and two out of these had succumbed to poisoning. At the conference, Prof. Tsubaki said “the disease showed a striking resemblance to Minamata disease in Kumamoto.” 6 The following morning, newspapers carried the headline of “Minamata disease” outbreak in Niigata, breaking the false silence which assumed “the issue of Minamata disease was over.” 7 Minamata disease in Kumamoto was socially re-discovered. The Kanose Plant of Shōwa Denkō, K.K., located on the upper shore of the river, was suspected to be the source of poisoning. At first, however, local government officials and the media were cautious of calling the cases of poisoning “Minamata disease.” From a medical standpoint, Minamata disease is methylmercury poisoning syndrome. The cause of this disease is the continuous ingestion of fish and shellfish that are contaminated with methylmercury. A typical symptom of Minamata disease is the Hunter-Russell Syndrome (ataxia, sensory disturbances, impaired hearing, dysarthria, vision constriction and tremors). The most severe cases—acute Minamata disease—leads to death. Even the incomplete type (atypical slight type) induces symptoms of ringing in the ears or sensory disturbances, which severely damages patients’ daily lives. For instance, patients are unable to button up their clothes or can be severely burned because of disturbed sensitivity to heat. Pediatric Minamata disease shows symptoms that are similar to those observed in cases of pediatric paralysis. Furthermore, there were cases of congenital Minamata disease in infants who were affected by organic mercury poisoning from their mothers during pregnancy. However, from a social standpoint, Minamata disease is not merely a disease caused by organic mercury poisoning but one caused by industrial environmental pollution. The issues

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are not only the causative substance and disease symptoms but also the social responsibility of the corporation discharging the causative substance. If the organic mercury poisoning is called Minamata disease, it means that poisoning occurred by eating a large amount of fish and shellfish in which methylmercury had leaked because of wastewater from a factory. If, however, methylmercury poisoning is not linked to a factory discharge, the case should not be identified as Minamata disease, even if it is medically the same organic mercury poisoning.

Making pollution a social problem Niigata Prefecture, which collaborated with Niigata University, investigated the causes, assisted with the medical expenses, and conducted epidemiological assessments for the residents living along the banks of the river. On August 25, 1965, an advocate organization—the current name is “Niigata Minamatabyō Kyōtōkaigi”—was formed for the patients. With support from the organization, patients’ groups (current name: Niigata Minamatabyō Hisaishanokai) were formed. There were some people who wanted to pursue a civil lawsuit in order to prevent an ambiguous resolution of the cause of the disease, which was seen in an Table 5.1 The Four Big Pollution Disease Lawsuits in Japan Name of Pollutioncaused Disease

Date of Suit Date of Judgment

Defendant Corporation(s)

Niigata Minamata disease

12/06/1967 29/09/1971

Shōwa Denkō

Yokkaichi asthma

01/09/1967 24/07/1972

Shōwa Yokkaichi Sekiyu, Mitsubishi Yuka, Mitsubishi Kasei Kogyo, Mitsubishi Monsanto Kasei, Chubu Electric Power, Ishihara Sangyo Kaisha

Asthma due to air pollution (respiratory disease).

Itai-itai disease

09/03/1968 30/06/1971 (Mitsui Mining & Smelting appealed on the same day, and appeals court ruled on 09/08/1972)

Mitsui Mining & Smelting

Cadmium contamination of farmland. Osteomalacia developed as a result of advanced kidney damage. (The name Itaiitai disease comes from the cries of the patients “Itai! Itai!” meaning “It hurts! It hurts!”)

Chisso

Organic mercury poisoning. Neurological disorders, mainly sensory impairment (acquired Minamata disease) and fetal Minamata disease with cerebral palsy-like symptoms (congenital Minamata disease).

Minamata disease (Kumamoto)

14/06/1969 20/03/1973

Causes and Symptoms of Pollution-caused Disease Organic mercury poisoning. Neurological disorders, mainly sensory impairment (acquired Minamata disease) and fetal Minamata disease with cerebral palsy-like symptoms (congenital Minamata disease).

Source: Compiled by the author.

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earlier case of Minamata disease in Kumamoto.8 However, the victims were hesitant to file a lawsuit even though it was the most crucial aspect of the process because they did not want to defy the higher authorities.9 The first person who opted to be a plaintiff was Kuwano Chugo, the father of a boy who passed away when he was 19 years old. Kuwano fed his sick son raw fish (sashimi) from the river every day without knowing that it was contaminated. His son’s condition worsened drastically. According to Kuwano, “he was in frantic convulsions and even anesthesia didn’t work … so the four of us, the nurse, two of my other children and I, had to bind him to the bed. It was like the death of a beast rather than the death of a human being. … He didn’t just die … he was killed.” 10 Kuwano’s decision was the beginning of the movement to file lawsuits. On June 12, 1967, thirteen people from three different families filed lawsuits against Shōwa Denkō seeking compensation. Plaintiffs termed Minamata disease along the Agano River as “Niigata Minamata disease.” It was the first full-scale pollution lawsuit in Japan. Later, lawsuits for other pollution-related diseases, such as Yokkaichi asthma, Itai-itai disease and Minamata disease in Kumamoto were filed. These were known as “the four big pollution diseases” lawsuits and evoked strong public opinion against pollution (Table 5.1). Thus, the civil movement for the protection of nature and against pollution had expanded to other types of pollution that were occurring nationwide and included the development of industrial sites that could potentially cause pollution. It should be emphasized that the aforementioned lawsuits against pollution—as well as strong public opinion—did not occur spontaneous; instead, they were a result of the strong intent of the Niigata Minamata disease lawsuit. Bandō Katsuhiko (1933–2020), the attorney for the plaintiffs, led the lawsuit by implementing the belief that “the main field of battle is located outside of the court,” 11 and “we will win when we connect with the battles outside of the court, by completely revealing the enemy’s true character in the court.” Niigata Minamata disease was fought as a movement both inside and outside the court. To enhance collaboration among pollution victims, Niigataken Minshudantai Minamatabyō Taisaku Kaigi (Niigata Prefectural Conference of Democratic Organizations for Minamata Disease: Minsuitai), later Niigata Minamatabyō Kyōtō Kaigi (Niigata Minamata Joint Struggle Conference: Kyōtō Kaigi)12 encouraged the victims to support the lawsuits. Through mutual understanding, the victims started to solidify their decisions to sue. Therefore, more lawsuits were filed, resulting in widespread social opinions against pollution. Thus, it was Niigata Minamata disease that turned Minamata disease, which is said to be “the origin of pollution problems,” into a social problem. Niigata Minamata disease was the “starting point for the socialization of pollution.” 13

The price of life and human dignity Minamata disease patients in Kumamoto filed lawsuits two years after the Niigata Minamata disease lawsuits. The process was impeded, however, by the isolation of patients who did not have support systems, as well as by the existence of mimaikin contracts. Generally, there is a correspondence between illness and discrimination. In the beginning, Minamata disease was perceived as a “bizarre illness” with unknown causes. People condemned the victims behind their backs arguing that this was due to their karma and that

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their illness was a consequence of their ancestors’ wrongdoings. Shopkeepers did not accept money directly from patients’ hands because they suspected that the illness was contagious. When it became clear that this disease was caused by the consumption of polluted fish, the livelihoods of fishermen were immediately affected. Even after it was pointed out that the cause of the pollution was wastewater from the Chisso-owned factory, patients still suffered and felt ashamed because of peoples’ slander for “consuming rotten fish” or “falling ill because of their poverty.” Moreover, on December 30, 1959, “Minamatabyō Kanja-kazoku Gojokai” (the Minamata Disease Family Mutual Aid Association), an organization of patients and their families, agreed to the previously-mentioned mimaikin contract. This was not compensation money, as the correlation between wastewater drainage and the cause of the disease had not yet been determined. The payment was small because it was only meant as “sympathy money” However, because there was a clause in the agreement that prohibited further pursuance of compensation, even if Chisso factory’s wastewater discharge was determined to be the cause of the disease, in reality, it was money to make the patients waive future compensation. At that time, however, Chisso already knew that wastewater discharge from its acetaldehyde-producing factory caused Minamata disease. Chisso was aware of this fact from experiments on cats, which were conducted by the Director of Chisso factory’s hospital, Dr. Hosokawa. On October 6, 1959, “cat 400,” which was a research study cat that was fed the industrial wastewater, exhibited symptoms of Minamata disease. However, this research was not publicized and further research was prohibited on November 30, 1959. Later, Minamata disease lawsuits judged that mimaikin was a violation of public order and morality. Indeed, after signing the agreements for mimaikin contract, all that remained was a sense of agony. As Ishimure Michiko (1927–2018) depicted in her novel “Kugaijodo,” 14 there was anguish in mothers who lost their children after delivering and raising them. Furthermore, there were instances of Minamata disease patients caring for each other. Prof. Harada Masazumi (1934–2012), from the School of Medicine at Kumamoto University, conducted medical examinations of the patients by visiting each patient’s house. The homes were difficult to access by land as they were located along the intricate coast. He witnessed the fishermen living in poverty and realized that they had no choice but to fish, despite knowing that the fish were contaminated. While observing the lives of these patients, he noticed that there were children who were exposed to methylmercury as fetuses in their mothers’ wombs, leading to the discovery of congenital Minamata disease. Nevertheless, the situation for Minamata disease patients showed no signs of change. Photos taken by Kuwabara Shisei (1936–) at that time show us the situation of families of Minamata disease patients. Kuwabara visited Minamata for the first time in 1960 and took photos of a girl named Kumiko, who was impaired by Minamata disease. He described her as a beautiful “Tennyo” (celestial maiden) and said that “the Tennyo enlightened the dignity of human beings.” 15 He also took photos of Tomoko, the eldest daughter among seven siblings, who was born with congenital Minamata disease. Kuwabara portrayed her family’s affectionate gaze for Tomoko in his photos. Later, Tomoko’s mother said “Tomoko is our treasure child; she sacrificed herself to save her siblings and me by absorbing all the mercury to herself. This is why our symptoms are not too bad.” 16 Kuwabara’s photos were filled with affection, but also reflected people’s lives in poverty by showing sliding shoji doors with holes and ragged tatami floors. The cruel reality of Minamata disease could not be overlooked and these photos captured this reality. Chapter 5: Two Outbreaks of Minamata Disease and the Struggle for Human Rights

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Who protects human rights, life and health? In January of 1968, Bandō Katsuhiko, the attorney representing the Niigata Minamata disease patients, along with Niigata Minamata disease patients, visited Minamata. This visit resulted in changes in the situation of Minamata disease patients in Kumamoto. First, there was an acknowledgment of the fact that the occurrence of Niigata Minamata disease could have been prevented if the victims in Kumamoto had fought without accepting an ambiguous resolution by agreeing to the mimaikin contract. Second, Minamatabyō Shimin Kaigi (the Civic Organization Supporting Minamata Disease Patients) was established to accept the visitation of Niigata Minamata disease patients. Minamata disease patients, who had been discriminated against, isolated, and quietly existing, finally acquired a strong advocate. Eight months later, in September 1968, the government issued an official conclusion of the cause of Minamata disease. The government officially recognized that the two Minamata diseases, in Kumamoto and in Niigata, were related diseases caused by methylmercury in industrial wastewater. This recognition came three years after Minamata disease became public, and twelve years after the discovery of Minamata disease in Kumamoto. As more Minamata disease victims were being officially certified, there was a need to focus on compensation. The Ministry of Health and Welfare decided to set up a binding arbitration committee for Minamata disease. It required the Minamata Disease Family Mutual Aid Association to submit beforehand a contract of agreement of no objection to the outcome of the committee. The Ministry demanded that the association surrender any right to have input to the committee. However, this appeared to be similar to the mistake of mimaikin. The Association’s opinions were divided: to file a lawsuit or to let the binding arbitration committee for Minamata disease decide the contents of the compensation. These opposing views could not be reconciled and on April 5, 1969, the organization split into an arbitration group (who were willing to accept binding arbitration) and the litigation group (who decided to sue the company). On May 27, 1970, the arbitration group accepted the agreement proposal from the committee and agreed to sign the “contract of settlement” with Chisso. Although there were some additional payments included in the committee’s agreement proposal, the highest compensation for a deceased victim was only four million yen. Moreover, yearly payments and annuities for surviving victims were divided into different ranks, depending on their age and conditions. Patients in the arbitration group were deeply disappointed by the offer amount. The president of Chisso Corporation stated, “this contract is the revised agreement of the previous mimaikin.” 17 The patients trusted and had high hopes in the committee that was formed by the government; however, “they were forced to accept the insignificant amount of mimaikin and were left in despair.” 18 The litigation group, however, declared that the lawsuit was to fight for justice, to reveal Chisso’s criminal acts, to obtain appropriate compensation, and to prevent further incidences of pollution. “Chisso was not held accountable for its actions, and those who did not ask for the responsibility of the perpetrator had probably never put themselves in the victims’ shoes. On the other hand, patients who had never agreed to the settlement contract by the Ministry of Health and Welfare were determined to protect their rights and the rights of all civilians to live as human beings. Thus, a lawsuit was filed in the Kumamoto District Court.” 19

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On June 30, 1971, the verdict was rendered in the lawsuits filed by the Itai-itai disease patients. It was the first verdict among the four big pollution diseases lawsuits.20 Additionally, on September 29, 1971, the verdict for the Niigata Minamata disease cases was rendered. Prior to the verdict, Shōwa Denkō declared that it was not going to appeal, regardless of the verdict; the plaintiffs’ victory was determined. Additionally, the Yokkaichi asthma patients’ case was concluded as a victory for the plaintiffs on July 24, 1972. Finally, the verdict for the Minamata disease lawsuit, which was the last case among the four big pollution diseases, was rendered on March 20, 1973. The verdict stated three important points. First, Minamata disease was caused by methylmercury that was released into the wastewater from the Chisso factory in Minamata. Second, Chisso was negligent in taking precautionary measures against the discharge of wastewater, despite the fact that the corporation had the responsibility to monitor it. Third, the agreement of mimaikin was illegal as it was contrary to public order and morality. Thus, Chisso was ordered to pay compensation in accordance with the court ruling, which was 18 million yen for a deceased victim and 16 to 18 million yen for each surviving victim.21 Throughout the Minamata disease lawsuit, it was observed that human rights were protected by those who fought to protect their own rights, advocated for the victims, and ruled on the laws that articulate public opinions and general will. “Those who sleep on their rights are not protected” is a famous quote. The judicial system functioned as a fort for human rights for the people who fought to have their rights protected.

The wind blowing in Minamata disease Minamata disease patients who had taken a backseat, came out in the open to share their experiences of suffering, thus beginning their legal actions. The advocators supported the patients. Although the lawsuits were the first step to regain their human rights, “the main field for the battle is located outside of the court.” It was public opinion and social transformation that supported the verdict for justice. In other words, “The Court should never be influenced by the weather of the day but inevitably they will be influenced by the climate of the era.” 22 It is important to understand the social atmosphere of the early 1970s when the verdicts for the lawsuits of the four big pollution diseases were rendered. The year 1970 was particularly important. President Nixon of the United States stated in his State of the Union address that the most crucial task was pollution reduction. Furthermore, in honor of the environment, Senator Gaylord Nelson (D-Wisconsin) created Earth Day. This was the time when new social movements in the US started to shift from anti-war to ecology. As in Japan, this was when a social transformation toward the environment began. In 1970, Ui Jun (1932–2006) held a workshop called “Kōgai-Genron” (Pollution Theory) which led to a surge in anti-pollution movement participation among citizens.23 Ui was the technical researcher of sewage and water treatment who detected that Chisso’s wastewater was the cause of Minamata disease. Moreover, he worked as an assistant to the team of attorneys in the Niigata Minamata disease lawsuit. In the same year, Tokyo Minamatabyō wo Kokuhatsu Suru Kai (the Associations to Indict [those responsible for] Minamata Disease in Tokyo) was formed. Many students and other citizens started to support the social movement of Minamata disease patients by either visiting Minamata or working from wherever they were located.

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Also, there were developments in systematizing environmental protection. At the special session of Parliament held at the end of 1970, fourteen pollution-related laws were enacted. This session was called the “Pollution Parliament.” In 1971, the Environment Agency (current Ministry of the Environment) was established to focus on environmental protection and the prevention of pollution. In 1972, the United Nations Conference on Human Environment was held with the theme of “Only One Earth.” In his speech at the event, Ōishi Buichi (1908–2003), the Director General of Japan’s Environment Agency, to reaffirm this, mentioned the victims of pollution-related diseases, such as Minamata disease, during rapid economic growth after the war and stated that GNP is not the only indicator of the effort to pursue happiness.24 It became a worldwide trend to replace economic policies with environmental protection policies and to shift to the society that seeks technology development in order to reduce pollution and contamination. There was also significant progress on the issue of Minamata disease. To be legally recognized as suffering from Minamata disease, government certification is required. Without certification, a victim is not officially a Minamata disease patient, even if he or she eats fish and shellfish polluted with methylmercury and shows symptoms of Minamata disease. In addition, the symptoms of Minamata disease are diverse, with some symptoms visible and severe, and others invisible. Even if a patient has symptoms and is diagnosed by a doctor as being suspected of having Minamata disease, he or she is not officially a Minamata disease patient without certification. While the patients who were earlier certified for Minamata disease were fighting the lawsuits as plaintiffs, newly certified patients were emerging. Still, there were patients whose certifications were denied and those who could not even apply for the certification process. In 1971, the newly established Environment Agency had set a policy through “Jimujikan tsūchi” (Notification by the Vice-Minister) that any individual suspected of having Minamata disease is considered to be certified if the possibility of Minamata disease cannot be ruled out. This facilitated the patients’ certification. Minamata disease lawsuits both in Niigata and in Kumamoto started to gain support from the public, seen as a movement towards justice. In Niigata, where patients’ cases were victorious earlier, the movement continued even after the lawsuits. In 1973 the patients’ group and the advocate organization established a compensation agreement, Hoshō kyōtei, with Shōwa Denkō. This was done to ensure patients who were newly certified did not have to file new lawsuits in order to receive compensation. In the same year, in Kumamoto, another compensation agreement between Chisso and the patients was established. This process was led by a negotiation group, which was different from the litigation group that filed the lawsuit. Kawamoto Teruo (1931–1999), who lost his father to an acute and fulminant type of Minamata disease, was the leader of this negotiation group. Kawamoto visited the house of every patient who was not certified and filed applications on their behalf. If an application was denied, he requested administrative grievance hearings. The reason behind the Notification by the Vice-Minister from the undersecretary in 1971 was the issue of uncertified Minamata disease patients. In 1971 Kawamoto himself was certified as a Minamata disease patient. Kawamoto started his negotiations by sitting in a tent in front of the Chisso Corporation Headquarters in Tokyo. Eventually, he succeeded in getting Chisso to sign the compensation agreement.25 His energy indomitable spirit can

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be sensed from the movie “MINAMATA” (Johnny Depp, Director, 2020), which featured a photographer named Eugene Smith (1918–1978). Finally, the two Minamata disease issues reached their resolution as compensation agreements were established in 1973. However, a new problem emerged. In October 1973, the Fourth Arab-Israeli War took place, resulting in an oil crisis. In 1974, Japan experienced its first negative economic growth following World War II. With the economy cooling down, environmental protection became less of a priority. Although the compensation agreement required certification in order to receive compensation, the criteria for the certification process gradually became stricter. Thus, there was a rise in the number of uncertified patients who were rejected and so was born the “problem of uncertified patients.”

Sacred representations and secular discrimination Minamata disease was described as a “bizarre disease” (kibyō), “karma disease” (gōbyō) and sometimes “contagious disease,” and patients and families were often alienated and discriminated against. Even after it was made clear that it was due to methylemercury poisoning, patients and their families were still treated with discrimination at work and in marriage. Patients with congenital Minamata disease and pediatric Minamata disease, which had similar symptoms to infantile paralysis, were stigmatized as disabled children. However, the victims’ movement transformed Minamata disease from a stigma to a “symbol of fighting against pollution and the environmental destruction.” 26 The leader of the patients’ group who acted and shared experiences of the disease in and out of court, the patients who had miserable physical conditions, and the patients of congenital Minamata disease and pediatric Minamata disease became symbols of incidents that should never occur again. They became the sacred symbols of the creation of an idealized society that is equal, unbiased and filled with integrity, such that another tragedy like Minamata disease does not occur. The sacred and profane contrarily coexist in this issue: there was still more conflict and discrimination to come. Once the compensation agreement was established, patients who applied for the certification process received were no longer accused of having a “bizarre disease” or “karma disease.” Instead, discrimination against a “fake patient” (nisekanja) began. This was levelled at patients who were working and moving around well despite claiming to have Minamata disease; they were told that they had faked their claim in order to receive the compensation payment. Minamata disease patients are qualified to be relief recipients after they are certified. The symptoms of Minamata disease are wide ranging (Figure 5.3), but without certification, no damages are paid. Thus, rejected claims reinforced discriminatory accusations that labeled patients as “fake” and “money seekers.” Patients who were rejected not only had their compensation denied, but were also subjected to disgraceful and unethical accusations of being fraudulent. In order to show that they were not fake patients and to have their damages acknowledged, patients who had no visible symptoms or who had not yet been certified were successively filing lawsuits to seek their certifications and compensation (Table 5.2). In these lawsuits, not only offender companies but also Kumamoto Prefecture and the Japanese government which were perceived as not having fulfilled their obligations to prevent the occurrences and

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Figure 5.3 A Wide Range of Different Symptoms of Minamata Disease

Level of Methylmercury Intake

Sterilty

Miscarriage Stillbirth Congenital Minamata Disease Cognitive Impairment

Characteristic clinical symptoms of methylmercury poisoning: Acute Type (Paralyses, Convulsions, Disturbance of Consciousness) Death Typical Cases Sub-acute Poisoning Chronic Progressive Type

Sensory Disturbances, constriction of Visual Field, Ataxia, Impaired Hearing, Dysarthria, etc. (Hunter-Russell Syndrome)

Incomplete Type Atypical Slight Type

Non-specific Disease (such as Liver Damage, High Blood Pressure and others that are not restricted to Minamata disease)

Latent Cases of Poisoning · Sub-clinical Cases Source: Foundation Minamata Disease Center Soshisha, ILLUSTRATED MINAMATA DISEASE, (Tokyo: Seori Shobō, 1993), 43 (partially modified using “Cognitive Impairment”).

growth of outbreaks of Minamata disease were also to be held accountable. As these lawsuits persisted for a long time, many patients died before a verdict was handed down. The Japanese government rejected all forms of mediations even though the court recommended these settlements from 1990 to 1992.27 In 1995, the Japanese government attempted a political resolution of the Minamata disease and eventually announced a “final and comprehensive settlement.” Although the recipients of this solution were still not officially certified as Minamata disease victims, they were recognized as “the people who had legitimate reasons to seek the needed aid.” In addition, the legal responsibilities of the government were also vague. It was almost 40 years after the official announcement of the occurrences of Minamata disease in Kumamoto in 1956, and 30 years since the announcement of Niigata Minamata disease in 1965. Ultimately, all the plaintiffs (except the Kansai lawsuits) accepted this resolution in view of the patients’ hopes to have closure while they were still alive.

Minamata disease that has not been resolved In 1992, before the final solution was reached, the local government of Minamata City began to focus on the moyai naoshi, meaning the restoration of relationships. The word moyai comes from the moyai rope that connects one ship to another ship. Minamata disease caused discrimination and prejudice, and brought about serious conflicts between patients and citizens. The city’s vision is to reconnect people with each other and create a pollution-free society. Minamata City has undertaken promotions to revitalize the region as “Environmental Model City” and “Ecotown.” 80

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Table 5.2 Table 5.2 Lawsuits by uncertified patients (until acceptance of the final settlement) Lawsuits The Second Minamata Disease Lawsuit (Date of filing 1973/01/20) 1979/03/28 District court decision: 12 out of 14 people acknowledged to have Minamata disease 1985/08/16 High court decision: 4 out of 5 people acknowledged to have Minamata disease (confirmation)

Defendant(s)

Chisso

Third Minamata Disease Lawsuit (Date of filing 1980/5/21) 1987/03/30 District court decision (first group):Victory for the plaintiff. All of the individual plaintiffs except the five already-certified plaintiffs were acknowledge to have Minamata disease. The responsibility of the Government and Prefecture was acknowledged. Appeal → Acceptance of the Final Settlement 1993/03/25 District court decision (second group): Victory for the plaintiff. 103 out of 118 people acknowledged to have Minamata disease. The responsibility of the Government and Prefecture was acknowledged. (Appeal → Acceptance of the Final Settlement)

Government, Prefecture, Chisso

The Second Niigata Minamata Disease Lawsuit (Date of filing 1982/06/21) 1992/03/31 District court decision: 88 of the 91 patients (excluding the three who were already-certified) were recognized as having Minamata disease; The responsibility of the Government was denied. (Appeal → Acceptance of the Final Settlement)

Government, Shōwa Denkō

The Minamata Kansai Lawsuit (Date of filing 1982/10/28) 1994/07/11 District court decision: 51 out of 58 people acknowledged to have Minamata disease; 42 out of 59 people acknowledged to have Minamata disease; Responsibility of the Government and Prefecture was denied. 2001/04/27 High court decision: 51 out of 58 people acknowledged to have Minamata disease; The responsibility of the Government and Prefecture were acknowledged. 2004/10/15 Supreme Court decision: The responsibility of the Government and Prefecture were acknowledged.

Government, Prefecture, Chisso

The Tokyo Minamata Lawsuit (Date of filing 1984/05/02) 1992/02/04 District court decision: 42 out of 64 people acknowledged to have Minamata disease. The responsibility of the Government and Prefecture was denied. (Appeal → Acceptance of the Final Settlement)

Government, Prefecture, Chisso, Subsidiary of Chisso

The Kyoto Minamata Lawsuit (Date of filing 1985/11.28) 1993/11/26 District court decision: 38 out of 46 people acknowledged to have Minamata disease. The responsibility of the Government and Prefecture was denied. (Appeal → Acceptance of the Final Settlement)

government, prefecture, Chisso, Subsidiary of Chisso

The Fukuoka Minamata Lawsuit (Date of filing 1988/02/19) 1996/5/22 District court: A settlement reached in court. (Acceptance of the Final Settlement)

Government, Prefecture, Chisso, Subsidiary of Chisso

Source: Compiled by the author.

In the same way, in 2005 Niigata Prefecture announced the “Statement of Creating an Environment in Hometowns: On the Occasion of the 40th Year of Niigata Minamata Disease,” declaring that it is the prefecture’s responsibility to ensure that all victims of Niigata Minamata disease can live in peace within their community and that this tragedy, which has caused so many victims, should be utilized as a lesson for the future. Chapter 5: Two Outbreaks of Minamata Disease and the Struggle for Human Rights

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In 2008 the prefecture also enacted the “Niigata Minamata Disease Community Welfare Promotion Ordinance.” (Niigata Minamata-byō chiiki gukushi suishin jōrei). The ordinance declared that a person who eats fish with accumulated methylmercury from the Agano River and has symptoms of Minamata disease is a Niigata Minamata disease patient, regardless of whether the patient is certified as having Minamata disease or not. In accordance with this ordinance, Niigata Prefecture has been promoting the welfare of Niigata Minamata disease patients, regeneration and reconciliation of the community, and education and awareness about Niigata Minamata disease. However, in spite of the efforts of Minamata City and Niigata Prefecture, the problem of Minamata disease remains unresolved. After the second and final settlement, Funabashi Harutoshi, an environmental sociologist, noted that “Minamata disease is not only a disease for the victims, but also” “represents a serious pathology and limitation in various areas of Japanese society. It has not yet been fully overcome.” 28 This soon became a reality. The final settlement measure that provided relief to those who were rejected on their application for certification was a time-limited system. But the certification system itself has continued unchanged. Victims who were not covered by or who did not access the final settlement system within the time frame are now applying for certification. Some of them had grown up without knowing that they had grandparents or parents who had been affected by Minamata disease and were unaware that they themselves had been affected at an early age. When the applications for certification were rejected, the victims filed a series of new lawsuits: No More Minamata Disease. In order to solve these problems, the “Special Measures Law of Minamata Disease” (Minamata-byō tokuso hō / Minamata-byō tokubetsu sochi hō / Minamata-byō higaisha no kyū sai tokubetsu sochi) was enacted in 2009, and a settlement was reached via the courts. This was the third solution. However, because this measure was a limited time relief scheme, those who failed to apply by the time limit began to apply for certification and file new legal cases. Thus, more than half a century after the outbreak of Minamata disease, the two Minamata diseases remain unsolved social problems. The entire picture of environmental problems often becomes clearer after a long time. Internationally, mercury is considered to have serious health effects even in trace amounts, and to prevent these dangers, the Minamata Convention on Mercury entered into force in 2017 to reduce the environmental risk.29 However, in Japan, in certifying Minamata disease, the health hazards caused by trace contamination as stipulated in the Convention are not recognized. Minamata disease was caused by the consumption of fish polluted with methylemercury. In a self-sufficient lifestyle, local dietary habits become homogenized making Minamata disease a social problem on a regional and household basis. The population of the victims of Minamata disease is the local community at that time when they were self-sufficient and consumed polluted fish. However, in the second No More Minamata lawsuit pending in Niigata, the state claims that it has not been proven that there was a food culture in the Agano River basin where everyone ate river fish.30 Denying the food culture in order to deny the victims of Minamata disease is not just historical revisionism, but also cultural revisionism. It is also a systematic contradiction of the Special Measures Law of Minamata Disease which was enacted to solve the problem of the certification system, which continues to be actively used even though the time limit for compensation under the system has long passed. This is no way to relieve the victims. 82

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Minamata disease shows that environmental pollution causes irreversible damage to life and health; that social damage, including discrimination and prejudice, is added to the above; that damage cannot be relieved unless people raise their voices; and that resolution is not easily achieved even after a long time. This wide-ranging damage is a mirror reflecting the injurious acts which the economy, government and society should take to heart.

Notes 1

Susan Sontag, Illness as Metaphor (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1978). Erving Goffman, Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity (Hoboken, NJ: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1963). 3 Harada Masazumi, Minamata Disease, trans. Tsushima Sachie and Timothy S. George, ed. Timothy S. George, (Kumamoto: Kumamoto Nichinichi Shinbun Culture & Information Center 2004, Original work published 1972), 10–12; Ueno Tomeo, “Shōni no Minamatabyō” [Infantile Minamata disease], in Minamatabyō: Yūkisuiginchūdoku ni kansuru kenkyū [Minamata disease: study on organic mercury poisoning], ed. Kutsuna Masachika et. al. (Kumamoto: Research Group of Minamata Disease, School of Medicine, Kumamoto University, 1966), 85–86. 4 Conference on Niigata Minamata Disease (Chairperson: Honma Yoshiharu), 2008, Niigata Minamatabyō ni kakaru kondankai saishūhōkokusho: Kanja to tomoni ikiru shien to fukushi no tameni [Final proposal of the Conference on Niigata Minamata Disease: For support and welfare of living together with patients] (Niigata: Department of Welfare and Public Health, Niigata Prefectural Government), 30. 5 Watanabe Shinichi and Seki Reiko, “Dai 3 Minamatabyō mondai no genzaiteki iso (1): Dai 3 Minamatabyō to suigin panikku” [Reconsidering problems on the third Minamata-disease (1): The third Minamata-disease and mercury panic], Bulletin of Oita Prefecture College of Arts and Culture, Vol. 33 (1995): 48. 6 According to the survey, the journalist who attended the press conference stated that “We knew about inorganic mercury poisoning due to the industrial accidents issue, but no one knew about organic mercury poisoning.” 7 Kawana Hideyuki, Dokyumento Nihon no kōgai 1: Kōgai no gekika [Document of pollution in Japan 1: intensifying pollution] (Tokyo: Ryokufū Publishing, 1987), 48. 8 Iijima Nobuko, Kankyō mondai to higaisha undō [Environmental problems and victims’ movement] (Tokyo: Gakubunsha, 1984); Bando Katsuhiko, Niigata Minamatabyō no 30 nen [Thirty years of Niigata Minamata disease] (Tokyo: NHK Publishing, 2000), 28–32. 9 In the 1920s in Niigata there was a tenant farming dispute called Kizaki-sōgi. This dispute was one of the three biggest tenant farming movements in Japanese history, although it ended in defeat. In addition, in 1713, a righteous person named Yomoshichi was prosecuted because of a false accusation; he was executed by decapitation after all of his teeth were pulled out. Apparently, his last words were “do not defy the power.” Given this local history, nobody volunteered to be a plaintiff. 10 Niigata Minamatabyō Bengodan, Niigata Minamatabyō saiban 2 genkoku saishū junbishomen [Niigata Minamata disease lawsuit 2 plaintiffs’ final brief] (Niigata: Niigata Minamatabyō Kyoutoukaigi, 1971), 3, 179. 11 This is a phrase that has been repeated since the false accusation in a railroad accident where a train had overturned, known as “Matsukawa incident.” 12 Kyōtō Kaigi was formed by the Minsuitai, an organized group of Communist Party-affiliated groups, with the addition of Sociakist Party-affiliated groups. 13 Seki Reiko, “Kankyō mondai no genten ha ima” [How are the current origins of environmental problems?], in Seki Reiko, Nakazawa Hideo, Maruyama Koji and Tanaka Motomu, Kankyō no Shakaigaku [Sociology of environmental problems] (Tokyo: Yuhikaku, 2009), 226. 14 Ishimure Michiko, Kugaijodo: Waga Minamatabyō (Tokyo: Kodansha, 1972), 134–35. 15 Kuwabara Shisei, Haha to ko de miru A2 Minamata no hitobito [Seeing with mothers and childlen A2 people in Minamata] (Tokyo: Kusanone Publishing, 1988), 35. 16 Harada Masazumi, Takaragotachi: Taijisei Minamatabyō ni mananda 50 nen [The treasury children: 50 years of learning from fetal Minamata disease] (Fukuoka: Genshobo, 2009), 26. 17 The Kumamoto Daily News, May 28, 1970. 2

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18

Niigata Minamatabyō Bengodan, Niigata Minamatabyō saiban 2 genkoku saishū junbishomen, 28 Niigata Minamatabyō Bengodan, Niigata Minamatabyō saiban 2 genkoku saishū junbishomen, 28–29. 20 However, as the defendant corporation appealed against the verdict the next day, the victory of the plaintiffs was not determined until August 9, 1972. 21 After this verdict, the compensation paid to the patients in the arbitration group was raised to the same amount as that of patients in the litigate group. 22 Paul Freund’s words, introduced by Ginsburg, and made famous by her film, “On the Basis of Sex” (Mimi Leder, Director, 2018). Ruth Bader Ginsburg with Mary Hartnett and Wendy W. Williams, My Own Words, (New York: Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2018), 161. 23 “Kōgai-Genron” was offered from 1970 to 1986, and “the executive committee not only prepared the courses, but also acted as an information center for the national anti-pollution movement.” See Ui Jun, Genten toshiteno Minamatabyō [Minamata disease as the origin], ed. Fujibayashi Yasushi, Miyauchi Taisuke and Tomozawa Yuki (Tokyo: Shinsensha, 2014), 294. 24 Kankyōchō 10 Shūnen Kinen Jigyō Jikkō Iinkai, Kankyōchyō 10 shūnen kinen-shi [Records of the Environmental Agency for the 10th anniversary of its foundation] (Tokyo: Kankyōchō, 1982), 67. 25 The other groups of patients such as the litigation group also signed the compensation agreement with Chisso. 26 Seki Reiko, Niigata Minamatabyō wo meguru seido, hyōshō chiiki [System, representation and community of Niigata Minamata disease: Socialized suffering and reality of everyday life] (Tokyo: Toshindo, 2003), 298. 27 There are not a few cases that the Japanese government refuses to settle on the the grounds that they are incompatible with the government’s claims or that they will affect other similar lawsuits. 28 Funabashi Harutoshi, “Mininteikanja no chōkihōchi to ‘saishū kaiketsu’ no mondaiten” [Long-term neglect of uncertified patients and the problem of “final settlement”] in Niigata Minamatabyō mondai [Environmental sociology of Niigata Minamata disease], by Iijima, Nobuko and Funabashi Harutoshi (Tokyo: Tōshindo, 1999), 233. 29 This Convention is to protect human health and the environment from anthropogenic emissions and releases of mercury and mercury compounds, and to recognize that mercury is a chemical of global concern owing to its long-range atmospheric transport, its persistence in the environment once anthropogenically introduced, its ability to bioaccumulate in ecosystems, and its significant negative effects on human health and the environment. 30 Brief No.24 for Respondent State (Mar.8, 2021), 8–9. 19

Bibliography Bando, Katsuhiko. Niigata Minamatabyō no 30 nen [Thirty years of Niigata Minamata disease]. Tokyo: NHK Publishing, 2000. Conference on Niigata Minamata Disease, (Chairperson: Honma Yoshiharu). Niigata Minamatabyō ni kakaru kondankai saishūhōkokusho: Kanja to tomoni ikiru Shien to fukushi no tameni [Final proposal of the Conference on Niigata Minamata Disease: For support and welfare of living together with patients]. Niigata: Department of Welfare and Public Health, Niigata Prefectural Government, 2008. Foundation Minamata Disease Center Soshisha. ILLUSTRATED MINAMATA DISEASE. Tokyo: Seori Shobō, 1993. Funabashi, Harutoshi. “Mininteikanja no chōkihōchi to ‘saishū kaiketsu’ no mondaiten” [Long-term neglect of uncertified patients and the problem of “final settlement”]. In Niigata Minamatabyō Mondai [Environmental sociology of Niigata Minamata disease], Iijima, Nobuko and Funabashi Harutoshi. Tokyo: Toshindo, 1999. Ginsburg, Ruth Bader, with Mary Hartnett and Wendy W. Williams. My Own Words. New York: Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2018. Goffman, Erving. Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity Hoboken, NJ: Prentice-Hall, Inc. 1963. Harada, Masazumi. Minamatabyō. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1972. ———. Minamata Disease. Translated by Tsushima Sachie and Timothy S. George. Edited by Timothy S. George. Kumamoto: Kumamoto Nichinichi Shinbun Culture & Infomration Center, 2004. ———. Takaragotachi: Taijisei Minamatabyō ni mananda 50 nen [The treasury children: 50 years of learning from fetal Minamata disease]. Fukuoka: Genshobo, 2009.

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Iijima, Nobuko. Kankyō mondai to higaisha undō [Environmental problems and victims’ movement]. Tokyo: Gakubunsha, 1984. Ishimure, Michiko. Kugaijodo: Waga Minamatabyō. Tokyo: Kodansha, 1972. ————. Paradise in the Sea of Sorrow: our Minamata Disease. Translated with an introduction and notes by Livia Monnet. Kyoto: Yamaguchi Publishing,1990. Kankyōchō 10 Shūnen Kinen Jigyō Jikkō Iinkai. Kankyōchyō 10 shūnen kinen-shi [Records of the Environmental Agency for the 10th anniversary of its foundation]. Tokyo: Kankyōchō, 1982. Kawana, Hideyuki. Dokyumento Nihon no kōgai 1: Kōgai no gekika [Document of pollution in Japan 1: intensifying pollution]. Tokyo: Ryokufū Publishing, 1987. Kuwabara, Shisei. Haha to ko de miru A2 Minamata no hitobito [Seeing with mothers and childlen A2 people in Minamata]. Tokyo: Kusanone Publishing, 1988. Niigata Minamatabyō Bengodan. Niigata Minamatabyō saiban 2 genkoku saishū junbishomen [Niigata Minamata disease lawsuit 2 plaintiff ’s’ final brief]. Niigata: Niigata Minamatabyō Kyoutoukaigi, 1971. Seki, Reiko. Niigata Minamatabyō wo meguru seido, hyōshō chiiki [System, representation and community of Niigata Minamata disease: Socialized suffering and reality of everyday life]. Tokyo: Toshindo, 2003. ———. “Kankyō mondai no genten ha ima” [How are the current origins of environmental problems?]. In Kankyō no Shakaigaku [Sociology of environmental problems]. By Seki, Reiko, Nakazawa Hideo, Maruyama Koji and Tanaka Motomu. Tokyo: Yuhikaku, 2009. Sontag, Susan. Illness as Metaphor. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1978. Ueno, Tomeo. “Shōni no Minamatabyō” [Infantile Minamata Disease]. In Minamatabyō: Yūkisuiginchūdoku ni kansuru kenkyū [Minamata Disease: Study on organic mercury poisoning], edited by Kutsuna Masachika et al. Kumamoto: Research Group of Minamata Disease School of Medicine, Kumamoto University, 1966. Ui, Jun. Genten toshiteno Minamatabyō [Minamata disease as the origin], edited by Fujibayashi Yasushi, Miyauchi Taisuke and Tomozawa Yuki. Tokyo: Shinsensha, 2014. Watanabe, Shinichi and Seki Reiko. “Dai 3 Minamatabyō mondai no genzaiteki iso (1): Dai 3 Minamatabyō to suigin panikku” [Reconsidering the problems on the third Minamata-disease (1): The third Minamatadisease and mercury panic]. Bulletin of Oita Prefecture College of Arts and Culture, Vol. 33, 1995.

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Chapter 6 Black Rain, Lawsuits and Compensation: Radiation in the Environment and Human Exposure in Hiroshima and Nagasaki Nakao Maika There are various studies and opinions regarding the extent of the effects of the atomic bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. These studies are important as they relate to compensation for those affected. This chapter traces how environmental radioactivity of the atomic bombings has been measured and how damage to the human body has been considered, and examines the difficulties in clarifying environmental contamination and compensating for it.

Introduction: The black rain lawsuit The black rain that fell on Hiroshima and Nagasaki has an important political, cultural and psychological meaning for those affected by it. Ibuse Masuji’s novel Black Rain, one of the most well-known books about the atomic bombings and the aftermath, portrays the problems of late radiation effects and marriage discrimination against atomic bomb survivors. For the sake of his niece Yasuko’s marriage, Shigematsu, the protagonist, struggles to hide the fact that she was exposed to the black rain. Despite Shigematsu’s efforts, the marriage breaks up and Yasuko develops atomic bomb disease.1 As depicted by Ibuse, survivors of the atomic bombing have been subject to discrimination due to being affected by radiation on a genetic level, as they could develop atomic bomb disease at any time in the future, a fear they lived under. Black rain is also a concept that reflects the gray zone surrounding the notion of hibakusha (lit., “bomb-affected-person”). The word hibakusha started to be used widely after the Japanese government established the Act on Medical Care for Atomic Bomb Survivors (Genshi bakudan hibakusha no iryō nado ni kansuru hōritsu; hereinafter “Medical Law”) to provide compensation for hibakusha in the form of medical relief (House of Representatives 1957), setting the terms and defining the scope of hibakusha.2 The strict definition of

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hibakusha, the people eligible for receiving compensation based on the law, has been defined by the law based on the area where the person was at the time of the bombing and the days following. Though this area has been expanded in response to repeated requests from people outside of the originally-defined area, the movement and class action suit by many people to seek recognition as hibakusha is still ongoing. In contrast to Shigematsu’s attempt to hide that Yasuko had been hit by the black rain, some survivors have fought to be recognized that they were hit by the rain that contained radioactive material. As the black rain covered a vast area, class action lawsuits to seek hibakusha certificates started in 2015. On July 14, 2021, the Hiroshima High Court admitted 84 plaintiffs exposed to black rain outside areas subject to government aid as hibakusha, and therefore eligible for healthcare benefits. However, their initial applications between 2015 and 2018 were declined in court. Moreover, they had not been compensated for a long time before. Many of the eligible people have already died. This brings up the question of what has changed and brought about the plaintiffs’ victory. The scope of hibakusha and non-hibakusha changed as the Medical Law was revised. The boundary between hibakusha and non-hibakusha has shifted along with the law. In the context of compensation, what made the law change so many times, and was scientific evidence used or not? This chapter examines the scientific research on black rain and residual radiation from the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and discusses how it contributed, or did not contribute, to the relief of A-bomb survivors. Scientific investigations into black rain and residual radiation were conducted by several agents, including Japanese and US scientists, A-bombed cities and prefectures, and the Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare. Activists and related parties have been criticizing the government and the mainstream scientists as they have been neglecting the danger of low-level radiation and internal exposure. Such conflict occurred not only after the nuclear attacks of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but also after other nuclear disasters such as the accidents which occurred in Chernobyl and Fukushima. There is a huge discussion on politics and culture regarding “uncertainty” of radiation effects. Olga Kuchinskaya, who studies the public knowledge about radiation health effects after the Chernobyl accident, observes the power that produces “invisibility.” She illuminates the phenomena that prevent radiation effects from becoming more publicly visible, scientifically observable and knowable.3 In addition to this power, there are cultural, technological, and environmental conditions that influence the production of knowledge about radiation exposure (Nakao 2021). Learning how people have measured radiation and how it has been linked or not linked to compensation can help us understand this complex issue. This chapter looks at the scientific investigation of the atomic bombs and the dosimetry system, the Act on Medical Care for Atomic Bomb Survivors and the A-bombed areas in Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the A-bomb Lawsuit. It illuminates the difficulty regarding the clarification of environmental contamination and its compensation.

Investigation of the atomic bombings and the dosimetry system Scientific investigations started soon after the bombing. The Japanese Imperial General Headquarters, the army, and the navy organized several investigation teams to assess the bombing and its effects. Many scientists from imperial universities took part in the

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investigation. Teams from Tokyo Imperial University and Kyoto Imperial University arrived in Hiroshima and teams from Kyushu Imperial University and Kumamoto Medical University arrived in Nagasaki before the end of the war on August 15th. Before, during, and after the war there were active scientific investigations of the bombsites, including in the fields of physics, chemistry and medicine. As the initial response, measurement of radioactivity was performed by groups of scientists. Nishina Yoshio of RIKEN collected samples at 28 locations within five kilometers of the hypocenter between August 8th and 9th. The radioactivity of those samples was measured at RIKEN. From August 10th to 14th, Arakatsu Bunsaku of Kyoto Imperial University collected hundreds of samples and measured radioactivity at 100 locations in and around Hiroshima using Geiger-Muller counters. Asada Tsunesaburo of Osaka Imperial University measured radioactivity at several locations in the city between August 10th and August 11th using a leaf electrometer and Geiger-Muller counter. Shinohara Ken’ichi of Kyushu Imperial University collected samples in Nagasaki from August 13th to 15th and measured their radioactivity. Kimura Kenjiro of Tokyo Imperial University arrived in Hiroshima on August 14th and measured radioactivity using the Lauritsen electroscope. From the soil that Kimura brought back to Tokyo, radioactive elements such as Sr-89, Ba-140 and La-140 from the soil at Takasu in Hiroshima and Sr-89, Ba-140, Pr-144 and Zr-95 from the soil at Nishiyama in Nagasaki were detected with the Lauritsen electroscope. From late August to mid-September, Yamazaki Fumio of RIKEN measured the intensity of gamma radiation in and around Hiroshima City using a Lauritsen electroscope. In mid-September, the National Research Council of Japan (Gakujutsu Kenkyū Kaigi) set up a Special Committee for the Investigation of the Atomic Bomb Disaster (Genshi Bakudan Saigai Chōsa Tokubetsu Iinkai), which became the parent organization for Japanese scientific investigations into the atomic bomb disasters.4 The physics group measured the intensity of gamma rays at 70 locations in Hiroshima City using a Neher electrometer, and determined the equal intensity curve in October. The US Army, US Navy, and Manhattan Engineer District (US Army Corps of Engineers) team came to Hiroshima and Nagasaki in early September 1945. These teams were unified as the Armed Forces Joint Commission for Investigating Effects of the Atomic Bomb in Japan. The Americans asked Japanese scientists to support their research—a request to which the Japanese scientists responded. In Japan, the commission was called the Japanese American Joint Commission (Nichibei Gōdō Chōsa Dan). They measured radioactivity at various sites in Hiroshima and Nagasaki between September and November 1945, using Geiger-Muller counters. However, the results of these surveys were not made public during the Occupation, and the survey data were forced to be submitted to the United States. In addition to the many measurements of radiation taken immediately after the bombings, surveys were also conducted to see what symptoms people exposed to the atomic bombs would develop and how much radiation they were exposed to. In order to investigate the effects of the atomic bomb on human survivors, the United States established the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission (ABCC) under the National Academy of Sciences in 1947. The ABCC operated under the budget of the US Atomic Energy Commission (AEC), which advanced nuclear development, and the US had the intention to use its findings in its nuclear strategy during the Cold War. One of the main research programs of the ABCC was the Life Span Study, started in 1950, which investigated the lifelong health effects of atomic bomb survivors based on epidemiological studies, with the major objective of investigating 88

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the long-term effects of atomic bomb radiation on causes of death and incidences of cancer. About 100,000 subjects—73,000 atomic bomb survivors and 26,000 unexposed individuals—were selected from among the residents of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, as identified by a national census in 1950, and have been followed since that time. The number was later increased to 120,000. Several problems of this study have been pointed out: the census did not include individuals who had died before 1950; some of the “unexposed individuals” had indeed been exposed;5 and the ABCC became notorious among the survivors for not providing medical treatment to those from whom they collected medical data. A lack of available data about individual dose exposures of atomic bomb victims prevented the determination of the relationship between radiation exposure and its different symptoms. The AEC tried to classify the absorbed dose of radiation (dosimetry).6 Among the several types of radiation emitted from atomic bombs, gamma rays and neutrons were known to be harmful to the human body, and scientists needed to clarify the amounts of gamma rays and neutrons emitted from the bombs at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The first attempt was the tentative 1957 dose (T57D), created using the data from US nuclear tests conducted in Nevada and based on the assumption that there was a large margin of error, as it did not take into account such as the shielding effect of indoor exposure to radiation. The AEC launched up a secret project named “ICHIBAN” in 1956. They built a Japanese house in the Nevada desert, where nuclear tests were being conducted, and calculated the shielding effect and other factors. Using this data and the data from the ABCC, the tentative 1965 dose (T65D) was set.7 The details of how the T65D was set up were not known, as it was a US military secret. It was 1981, when an American journalist claimed that T65D was inaccurate.8 According to the article, neutron rays were overestimated, while gamma rays were underestimated. One of the reasons for this inaccuracy was the different climatic conditions at the US nuclear test sites in Nevada and Hiroshima/Nagasaki. Neutron rays, in particular, can be impeded by humidity, and the neutron spectrum from the research reactor had greater energy than Little Boy (the nickname of the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima). The dosimetry reassessment project began in 1983 with a joint US–Japan committee. With this project, the scientific investigation conducted by Japanese scientists immediately after the war was re-examined. The Japanese dealt with the exposure data, and the Americans calculated the individual exposure dose of each survivor using supercomputers. As a result, the Dosimetry System 1986 (DS86) was established. According to DS86, the harmful effects of atomic bomb radiation on the human body were twice what was previously believed. The International Commission on Radiological Protection (ICRP) 1990 statement reflected DS86 and drastically reduced the permissible dose. However, along with the development of measuring instruments and calculating technologies, it became obvious that there was a discrepancy in the thermal neutron activation data of DS86.9 In 2002, the new Dosimetry System 2002 (DS02) was established, which compiled a database of all measurement data that could be used for radiation dose assessment and comprehensively reviewed explosive powers, ground zero coordinates and explosion heights. Advances in computing and measurement technologies enabled this change, and, to date, it is the most reliable dosimetry system. However, it is not a perfect system. It estimates external exposure doses and does not consider the effects of internal exposure when radioactive materials were taken into the body.

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As we have seen in this section, surveys in the A-bombed sites began soon after the bombings, but these surveys were not conducted with the relief of survivors in mind, and the data were monopolized by US military science. Although it was primarily built up for the military purpose of the United States, the dosimetry system has become an important element in the criteria to recognize hibakusha, which would also be contested in the court.10

The Medical Law and the A-bombed areas For several years after the war, survivors of the atomic bombings were left without proper medical support even though various symptoms appeared in stages. It took many years to understand the mechanism of the physical impact of the atomic bombing and some aspects are still not understood well. In early 1950s, the occurrence of post-atomic bomb disorders such as cataracts and increased leukemia-like symptoms in atomic bomb sufferers had become apparent. As keloids attracted attention and the post-disorders became clear, activities aimed at the relief of the victims of the atomic bomb began to be organized, and efforts for research and treatment of the atomic bomb disease proceeded. The Bikini Incident of 1954 triggered a nationwide “ban the bomb” movement, which in turn led to the promotion of aid for survivors of the atomic bombings. Eventually, the Medical Law was enacted in 1957. The Medical Law is defined as providing biannual health checkups for hibakusha and medical benefits for those who are certified as having developed diseases resulting from the atomic bombings (atomic bomb disease patients). The hibakusha, defined by the Medical Law, were those who could be placed into one of the following four categories: 1. Those who were in Hiroshima City or Nagasaki City at the time of the atomic bombing or in the area adjacent to these cities specified by a Cabinet Order (direct exposure). 2. Those who were in the areas specified in the preceding category within a period specified by a Cabinet Order counting from the time of the atomic bombing (entering the city exposure). 3. Those who were under circumstances in which their bodies were affected by the radioactivity of the atomic bomb at the time of the bombing or afterwards (assisted exposure). 4. A person who was a pre-born child of any of the persons listed in the preceding three categories at the time of the occurrence of the events specified in the relevant items (exposure in utero)11 It is important to note that the Medical Law has been a two-tiered system from the beginning. The main part of the Medical Law was concerned with the issuance of Hibakusha Health Cards to the eligible applicants and conducting biannual health checkups for them. The other provision, for those who were certified as having diseases caused by the atomic bombings and therefore receiving medical benefits, was very limited. The hurdles to obtaining certification of diseases caused by the atomic bombings were high, and the Medical Law did not help many survivors. The government emphasized radiation as a distinguishing characteristic that sets injury and illness from the atomic bombings apart from other kinds of harm suffered in air raids by incendiary bombs.12 In 1960, the Medical Law was revised, and medical expenses were paid to those who fell under the newly defined category of “Special Hibakusha.” The Special Hibakusha were those considered to have been exposed to high doses of radiation and were entitled to general medical benefits in addition to health

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checkups. In 1968, the Law on Special Measures for the Atomic Bomb Survivors (Genshi bakudan hibakusha ni taisuru tokubetsu sochi ni kansuru hōritsu; hereinafter “Special Measures Law”) was enacted, which provided special allowances, health care allowances, nursing care allowances, and medical allowances, and subsequently expanded various benefits to hibakusha.13 The law has been revised many times, and each revision has created division among survivors and residents of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Since the designation of A-bombed areas was made according to administrative districts, it created an intense sense of unfairness among residents in areas outside the designated areas. In 1974, when the Medical Law was amended to eliminate the distinction between special and general hibakusha and to unify the Hibakusha Health Card, a new category of “Health Checkup Recipients” (deemed hibakusha) was established, who could apply for a Hibakusha Health Card if they develop certain diseases, such as cancer. In 1976, a new special health checkup area was established in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In Hiroshima, this was called the “black rainfall area.” However, the areas of “heavy rain” and the “light rain” were not distinguished, as is discussed later in this chapter. In Nagasaki, the A-bombed area, including the special health checkup area, was expanded to about twelve kilometers from north to south and about seven kilometers from east to west. Since then, there has been an active movement to expand the A-bombed area to a radius of twelve kilometers from the hypocenter, leading to the creation of new divisions and new demands. In response to repeated requests from survivors’ groups and the court’s ruling in a lawsuit seeking recognition for hibakusha, the Ministry of Health and Welfare (MHW) set up the Council on Basic Measures for Hibakusha (Kihonkon) as a private advisory body in June 1979. In December of the following year, the Council submitted a report stating that “designation of atomic-bombed areas should be limited to cases where there are scientific and rational grounds.” This report was an attempt to set the direction of subsequent survivors’ administration, namely to put a stop to the expansion of atomic-bombed areas and to prevent an increase in the number of hibakusha. From the beginning, however, the A-bombed areas were not scientifically defined. The following sections examine the scientific research on environmental radioactivity and how it was considered in relation to human suffering.

Examination of the exposed area In Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the demand for expanding the area of the atomic bombing continued, and scientific investigations on the areas were repeated. This section examines the myriad studies on black rain and residual radiation in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. “Black rain” was observed especially in Hiroshima. After the atomic bomb exploded, a huge mushroom cloud formed in the sky above the city of Hiroshima, and black rain began to fall twenty to thirty minutes later. This rain, containing dust stirred up by the blast and radioactive materials emitted by the bomb, continued to fall for several hours around the western part of Hiroshima City and the northwest suburbs. There have been two important meteorological studies on the area where the black rain fell, conducted by Uda Michitaka in 1945 and Masuda Yoshinobu in the late 1980s. The areas they set are called the Uda rainfall area (“heavy rainfall” and “light rainfall”) and the Masuda rainfall area.

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Uda, a meteorologist with the Hiroshima District Meteorological Observatory, conducted a survey of 170 inhabitants of Hiroshima and its suburbs 1–4 months after the bombing and suggested two rainfall areas: the “heavy rain area” and the “light rain area.” The heavy rain area was oval shaped, with a long axis of 19 km and a minor axis of 11 km. The light rain area was also oval shaped, with a long axis of 29 km and a minor axis of 15 km. The results of the analysis of the data were summarized in the “Report on Hiroshima atomic bomb disaster concerning meteorology” published in May 1953.14 Hiroshima City and Hiroshima Prefecture conducted a questionnaire survey in 1973 to ask about the conditions under which the black rain fell and the health conditions of the Uda rain area and its surroundings. The number of respondents was 5,106. About 40 percent of the residents in the surveyed area were in poor health. In response to the survey, the heavy rain area of Uda was designated as a special health checkup area in 1976. However, while it was valuable, Uda’s report was not enough to grasp the entire rainfall area. Uda conducted the survey on foot or by bicycle with six meteorological engineers and technicians from the Hiroshima District Meteorological Observatory, which was in chaos immediately after the atomic bombing. Even though the sample size of the report was only 170, the survey area extended into mountainous areas, so the survey points were sparse, and many areas could not be properly surveyed. The MHW, which was in charge of the administration of survivors, conducted various surveys to deliberate on the expansion of the bombed area. In the late 1970s, the MHW commissioned the Japan Public Health Association (Nihon Koshu Eisei Kyokai) to survey residual radioactivity in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In the 1976 survey, soil samples (107 samples from Hiroshima and 98 samples from Nagasaki) were collected and analyzed for cesium-137, based on the standard of taking six points on concentric circles every 2 km from the hypocenter, covering an area of 30 km from the hypocenter. Except for the Nishiyama area in Nagasaki, no difference was observed in the direction from the hypocenter, and no difference was observed in the three concentric zones within 8 km, 10–18 km, and over 20 km from the hypocenter. In the survey of 1978, soil samples were collected from 174 points at ten or more places each from the seventeen areas (within a radius of approximately 1 km centered on the survey points in 1976), and analysis of cesium-137 was conducted using the same method as in the previous survey. Areas including points that showed high radioactivity density in the previous survey (study areas) included two areas in Hiroshima and three areas in Nagasaki. In Hiroshima, the study area was not significantly different from the control area. Therefore, the ministry concluded, it could be said that fission products from the atomic bomb remain in the two study areas. In Nagasaki, there was no evidence of residual fission products from the bomb in the three study areas. It was meteorologist Masuda Yoshinobu who revised the Uda rainfall area. At the 1985 World Conference Against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs held in Hiroshima, Masuda was told by atomic bombing survivor Murakami Tsuneyuki that black rain was observed in a wider area than that shown in Uda’s map, which prompted him to reinvestigate the black rain area. At that time, 40 years had passed since the explosion, making the investigation difficult. Masuda used official reports from Hiroshima Prefecture and Hiroshima City and written accounts by survivors to extract black rain data.15All 170 original data were combined with the new data, and Uda’s classification methods were used to classify rainfall areas as light, moderate and heavy. The tentative revised black rain area map was announced at the annual meeting of the Japan Meteorological Society on 26 May 1987. After the tentative map 92

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was distributed, many survivors called or wrote to inform Masuda that this revised map was still incorrect, and Masuda continued a more detailed investigation. The investigation was expanded so the final map was created using the 2125 data sources. At last, Masuda’s black rain area map was published in 1989.16 Masuda’s rainfall area stretches about 40 kilometers north and 25 kilometers east to west, about four times wider than Uda’s light rain area (Figure 6.1). Masuda used new questionnaires, interview results, reports of survivors and other sources to make a revised rainfall area map. The start times, duration, and estimated amount of precipitation of black rain were also reported. Figure 6.1 Area of black rainfall 34.7

30 km

Tsudani Kake

34.6

Suzuhari Yasuno

Tsutsuga Minochi

Ihara 20 km

Imuro Kuchi

Kabe

34.5 LATITUDE

Toyama Tomo Sagotani 34.4

Ishiuchi Koi Yahata Furuta Itsukaichi

Yagi Midorii Furuichi

20 km

34.3

Fukawa 10 km

Hesaka Nakayama Nakano Funakoshi

Hatsukaichi 30 km

Shiya

Yano 10 km Ninoshima-Kanawa

Hiroshima UDA (Heavy) UDA (Light) MASUDA

Bay Kure

34.2 132.2

132.3

132.4

132.5

132.6

LONGITUDE Source: Ohtaki 2011 (used with permission)

In response to Masuda’s rainfall map, Hiroshima City and Hiroshima Prefecture set up an Expert Panel on Black Rain in 1988, chaired by Shigematsu Itsuzo of the Radiation Effect Research Foundation. After nine meetings, the panel compiled “Report of the 1991 Expert Panel on Black Rain (Hiroshima Prefecture and City).” They estimated the residual radioactivity and rainfall area using the meteorological simulation calculation method, examined Chapter 6: Black Rain, Lawsuits and Compensation

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the health effects by frequency of somatic mutations and chromosome aberrations, and concluded there was no evidence of residual radioactivity in the rainfall area and no evidence of human health effects due to radiation. In Nagasaki, the rain fell in the Nishiyama area, and the plutonium of Nishiyama has been examined by groups of scientists from soon after the atomic bombing. In June 1988, Nagasaki City and Nagasaki Prefecture established the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Survivorship Study Group, chaired by Okajima Shunzo of Nagasaki University, consisting of six academic experts in the fields of medicine and physics, to find a scientific basis for expanding the bombed area. The Okajima Group collected soil samples and measured plutonium in six areas in Nishiyama, 48 areas on the east side downwind from the hypocenter, and sixteen areas with a low probability of radioactive fallout, mainly in the areas requested for designation and expansion in Nagasaki. In June 1991, the “Report on the Survey of Plutonium Remaining in the Atomic Bombed Area of Nagasaki” was compiled and submitted to the MHW by Nagasaki City and Nagasaki Prefecture. An expert panel commissioned by the MHW reviewed the report and the MHW concluded in December 1994 that the estimated radiation dose of 2.5 cmGy did not affect the health of the residents, and the Okajima Group found no evidence of human health effects due to radiation. At the turn of the century, large-scale municipal and prefectural surveys of people outside the bombed area were conducted in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. From the end of 1999 to the following year, Nagasaki City and Nagasaki Prefecture conducted a “testimonial survey of undesignated areas exposed to the atomic bombings” and pointed out the psychological effects of the atomic bomb experience on residents of undesignated areas. Because of the testimonial survey and other efforts, the area within twelve kilometers of the hypocenter excludes the area which was already designated as A-bombed area—the area which was designated as the special A-bombed area (special health checkup area) in 2002—and those who were in the area at the time of the atomic bombing became eligible to receive a Type 2 Health Checkup Certificate, which allows them to receive an annual health checkup free of charge. They were labeled as hibaku taikensha (lit., “those who had experienced the atomic bombing”). Of these, those with specific illnesses related to health effects caused by psychological factors can apply for a Certificate for A-bomb Survivor Mental Health Care. However, recognition of only psychological effects was not what the people who were considered to be hibaku taikensha were seeking. Hiroshima City established the Hiroshima City Study Group on Atomic Bombing in 2001 and conducted a questionnaire survey from 2001 to 2004. The questionnaires were sent to 10,000 citizens, asking about their experience of black rain, psychological effects, and health conditions, suggesting that the experience of black rain affected the body and mind. From 2008 to 2010, Hiroshima City conducted the second survey on the damage caused by the atomic bombing, including a survey on the health awareness of atomic bomb survivors and a study on the actual situation of radioactive fallout. In the former, with the cooperation of Hiroshima Prefecture, questionnaires were sent to about 37,000 inhabitants of Hiroshima City and its suburbs by postal mail, and 23,780 responses were received. Interviews were also conducted with 900 people. It was found that the black rain survivors in the undesignated areas had the same poor mental and physical health as the atomic bomb survivors. It also suggested that the black rain fell more extensively than in the Uda rainfall area. Based on the survey, Ohtaki Magu, a statistician at Hiroshima University, suggested the new rainfall area which is called as the Ohtaki rainfall area.17 94

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Compiling “the “Report on the Health Awareness of A-bomb Survivors and Others”, in 2010, Hiroshima City, Hiroshima Prefecture, and other neighboring municipalities requested to the central government that the designated area be expanded. However, the Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare (MHLW: the Ministry of Health and Welfare and the Ministry of Labour were merged into the Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare as a result of the reorganization of central government ministries in 2001) report issued in July 2012 stated that no radioactive fallout from the Hiroshima atomic bomb was found in the area where the request for expansion was made, and it did not consider that there was any radiation exposure that would be problematic from the perspective of health effects. It further concluded that the deterioration of the mental health of the group which experienced black rain was not directly caused by radiation exposure but may have been caused by anxiety and worry about radiation exposure. The following year, 2013, in response to the report of the study group, the “Black Rain Survivor Consultation and Support Project” was launched. Like hibaku taikensha in Nagasaki, black rain survivors in Hiroshima were separated from hibakusha and were designated as eligible for medical assistance from the government when only they develop certain diseases thought to be caused by psychological factors. As is described in this section, there was a contrast between the municipalities’ investigations aimed at expanding the A-bombed area and the government’s (MHLW’s) response that there was no scientific causal relationship between the bombing and the diseases. Though the large-scale municipal and prefectural surveys of people outside the bombed area were conducted at the turn of the century and the new support systems for these people were launched, they were separated from hibakusha, categorized as hibaku taikensha or black rain survivors.

Class Action Lawsuit Starting in the 1970s, under the MHW’s policy of not increasing the number of hibakusha and patients with diseases caused by the bombing (atomic bomb disease patients), many applications for the Hibakusha Health Card were rejected, and only a limited number of people were certified as having bombing-related diseases supported by the Medical Law. In the examination for certification of atomic bomb disease patients, the application for certification was rejected if the estimated radiation doses of survivors fell below the “threshold” doses set for each disease. Since 2001, the MHLW has established a “probability of cause” in the examination of atomic-bomb-related disease patient certification, which indicates the proportion of illnesses of individual A-bomb survivors attributable to radiation exposure after calculating their individual radiation doses. In order to be certified, the individual radiation dose estimated from DS86 was required. The problem with the dosimetry system was that it neglected the external and internal radiation exposure due to residual radiation. If individual radiation doses are scientifically determined according to the dosimetry system, it would be concluded that survivors beyond 2 km have had little or no effect from radiation. This problem was an important point of contention in the court. Beginning in 2003, at the call of the Japan Confederation of A- and H-Bomb Sufferers Organizations, multiple class-action lawsuits for atomic bomb disease patient certification were launched by survivors who had been denied certification. The point of dispute in the lawsuit was the issue of external and internal radiation exposure due to residual radiation,

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which is ignored in DS86. The plaintiffs’ arguments were accepted by the court, and the class action lawsuit ended with 19 consecutive victories for the plaintiffs in both the first and second trials. In response to the court rulings, in 2008, a new policy concerning the criteria for the certification of atomic bomb disease patients was announced, in which hibakusha who were exposed to the atomic bombing within 3.5 kilometers of the hypocenters or who entered the cities within a 2-kilometer radius within 100 hours of the bombings would be actively certified as atomic bomb disease patients if they suffer from specific diseases. As a result of this review of the criteria, the number of patients certified as atomic bomb disease patients rose quickly from the previous number of about 2,000 to the 8,000 range. In another lawsuit which began in 2007, 395 plaintiffs in the category of hibaku taikensha appealed to the Nagasaki District Court to seek recognition as hibakusha. In 2011, Honda Kouya, a medical doctor who supported the plaintiffs in the Hibaku Taikensha Lawsuit, discovered that the ABCC had the data of the interviews with more than 100,000 survivors from 1949 to 1961, which included the investigation of the health effects of black rain. In response to Honda’s discovery of the ABCC report, the RERF announced in December 2012 that they could not find significant difference in cancer or leukemia incidence between Hiroshima survivors exposed to black rain and those not exposed. Honda also found the “Final Report of Findings of Manhattan District Atomic Bomb Investigating Groups at Hiroshima and Nagasaki,” which was compiled by the US military based on field surveys in September 1945, revealed the radiation doses at 284 sites throughout Nagasaki. From this report, which listed air doses over a wide area of Nagasaki, it was inferred that even undesignated areas had significant air doses at the time of the bombing.18 In 2016, the Nagasaki District Court ruled that those calculated to have been exposed to 25 millisieverts or more of ionizing radiation from the atomic bombs qualified as having significant health risk and that 10 of 161 survivors should be issued hibakusha certificates. However, the Fukuoka High Court overturned the Nagasaki ruling in December 2018, and the Supreme Court upheld the Fukuoka High Court’s decision in November 2019. Honda points out that the Fukuoka High Court’s position in the lawsuit was that, even if the lawsuit was based on scientific data from the ABCC and the US military, there was no health damage from exposure doses of 100 millisieverts or less, that internal exposure was minute, and that the testimony of the survivors was biased.19 As of September 2022, the third group of plaintiffs, who have not given up on hibakusha certification, continued their trial. In Hiroshima, as already mentioned, the Black Rain Lawsuit started in 2015 and in July 2021, the Hiroshima High Court admitted 84 plaintiffs exposed to black rain outside areas subject to government aid as hibakusha, and therefore eligible for healthcare benefits. The government’s response differs between black rain survivors of Hiroshima and hibaku taikensha of Nagasaki. Relief for Nagasaki survivors is now being sought.20

Conclusion This chapter has examined how environmental radioactivity has been measured and how its damage to human has been considered by various actors, including the scientists, the government and the judiciary. As we have seen, there have been many kinds of scientific research on radiation contamination and its human exposure. The results vary depending on the method used. Recalling the case of Masuda Yoshinobu, who greatly expanded the rainfall

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area, it was because of his diligent interviews that he was able to expand the area where the black rain fell—a survey that took many years to complete. It is only when researchers wish to reveal the whole picture that we are able to better understand the reality of the situation. The difficulty of revealing the full extent of damage to the environment and humans is evident in many historical cases of disease caused by environmental contamination. Clarifying radioactive contamination in the environment and people requires knowledge that spans a wide range of disciplines, including physics, chemistry, meteorology and medicine. The interpretation of these findings may vary according to which of these fields is emphasized. It is therefore important to consider the results of various scientific surveys within the context in which they were conducted. Despite the denials of the health impact of residual radiation by the MHLW and the RERF, the plaintiffs won their case in the Hiroshima Black Rain Lawsuit, and all plaintiffs were issued Hibakusha Health Card. This achievement is due to activists who were able to influence public opinion. On the other hand, no compensation has been given to those who were not plaintiffs but were in the surrounding areas, nor the plaintiffs of Nagasaki. From the court’s rulings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, we can see the conflict between justice and science. The scientific data on residual radiation in Hiroshima was not as compelling as that of Nagasaki’s questioned area yet the Black Rain Lawsuit in Hiroshima ended in victory, and the case in Nagasaki has been lost so far. Scientific data is not the determining factor. It is unclear how much of this has to do with the trial, but the medical scientists at Nagasaki University are adamant in their theory that radiation effects below 100 millisieverts are not considered dangerous and therefore the claims cannot be accepted. Some of these same scientists were sued after the Fukushima nuclear power plant meltdowns in 2011 because they claimed that there are no health effects below 100 millisieverts. Though the effect of low-dose radiation exposure has not been well understood, only a minority of contemporary global research on radiation effects indicates that up to 100 millisieverts is safe.21 Since the TEPCO Fukushima nuclear accident in 2011, lawsuits have been filed by people who were forced to evacuate their homes in Fukushima. The lawsuits over hibakusha certification that continue to this day make one wonder how far we are from a resolution of the Fukushima issue in the future. Tomonaga Masao, a leading physician and peace activist from Nagasaki, points out the problem as follows: “I think the government’s decision not to recognize the effects of radiation unless a person has been directly exposed to more than 100 millisieverts is wrong. However, if the government admits that there is an effect at 20 millisieverts, it will save a lot of people outside the exposed areas. It doesn’t stop there. The number of people exposed to low doses of radiation in Fukushima will increase. So, the government takes this into consideration.” 22 If Tomonaga’s supposition is right, the court supports the government, and the plaintiffs of the Black Rain Lawsuit might have prevailed because they focused on the validity of the exposed area and personal experience rather than making it an issue out of individual exposure doses. Biological citizenship is a concept introduced by Adriana Petryna from her ethnographic research in the aftermath of the Chernobyl disaster. She defines the term as “a massive demand for but selective access to a form of social welfare based on medical, scientific and legal criteria that both acknowledge biological injury and compensate for it.” 23 This concept of biological citizenship is becoming increasingly important in today’s society. Though it might not tell anything by itself, there is a great deal of scientific data and knowledge available to help us understand environmental contamination and its effects, and we can learn Chapter 6: Black Rain, Lawsuits and Compensation

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many things from the activities to illuminate the damage. The efforts of those who have been clarifying the radioactive contamination and its health impact will give us, who are already stakeholders of the nuclear issue, strength to live.

Notes 1

The term atomic bomb disease (genbakushō, genbakubyō) is a concept that encompasses all diseases resulting from the atomic bombings. 2 Naono Akiko, “The Origins of Hibakusha as a Scientific and Political Classification of the Survivor,” Japanese Studies 39, no. 3 (2019): 333–52. Strictly speaking, compensation as a legal process requires a clear victim and clear perpetrator. Hibakusha are ineligible for substantive compensation because the perpetrators of the crimes that victimized them cannot be held legally accountable because of the Treaty of San Francisco. Thus, contributions made by the Japanese government to their welfare are framed in terms of medical “support” or “relief ” rather than compensation. See Shi Lin Loh, “Defining Hibakusha in Postwar Japan: The Boundaries of Medicine and the Law,” ZINBUN 49 (2019): 81–92. As for compensation of hibakusha, see: Naono Akiko, Hibaku to hoshō: Hiroshima, Nagasaki soshite Fukushima [Radiation exposure and compensation: Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Fukushima] (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2011). Ozaki Hironao, “‘Yuiitsu no hibakukoku’ de tsuduku higai no bundan” [The continuing fragmentation of damage in the “Only Country to Have Suffered Atomic Bombs”] in Houshanouosen ha naze kurikaesarerunoka [Why is radioactive contamination repeated], ed. Fujikawa Ken and Yokemoto Masafumi (Tokyo: Tōshindō, 2018). 3 Olga Kuchinskaya, The Politics of Invisibility: Public Knowledge about Radiation Health Effects after Chernobyl (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2014), 11. 4 The report of the Special Committee for the Investigation of the Atomic Bomb Disaster was partly published in 1951 and fully published in 1953. The investigation encompassed nine scientific fields, and the report of the investigation was divided into two parts—physics and biology (part 1) and medicine (part 2)—and became an important publication for understanding the Japanese scientists’ activities at the bombsites. Japan Science Council, ed., Genshi bakudan saigai chōsa hokoku [Collection of investigation reports on atomic bomb disaster], Vols. I & II, (Tokyo: Japan Society for the Promotion of Science, 1953). 5 Nakagawa Yasuo, Zoho hoshasen hibaku no rekishi: Amerika genbaku kaihatsu kara fukshima genpatsu jiko made [History of radiation exposure: From the development of the US atomic bomb to the Fukushima nuclear accident] (Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 2011). 6 In a tautological definition, dosimetry is the measurement of a dose by dosimeters. Dosimetry requires the measurement of an adequate number of parameters of a radiation field to permit the calculation of an absorbed dose and/or dose equivalent in the organs of humans irradiated by the field. 7 The first attempt was the tentative 1957 dose (T57D), created using the data from US nuclear tests conducted in Nevada and information from the ABCC. 8 E. Marshall, “New A-Bomb Studies Alter Radiation Estimates,” Science, Vol. 212 (1981). 900–3. 9 Imanaka Tetsuji. Teisenryō hōshasen hibaku: Cherunobuiri kara Fukushima he [Low-level radiation exposure: From Chernobyl to Fukushima] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012). 10 Sawada Shoji. “Cover-up of the Effects of Internal Exposure by Residual Radiation from the Atomic Bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki,” Medicine, Conflict, and Survival, 23, no. 1 (2007): 58–74. 11 The House of Representatives (Japan), The Act on Medical Care of the Atomic Bomb Survivors (Law No. 41 of 1957), accessed 21 February 2023, https://www.shugiin.go.jp/internet/itdb_housei.nsf/html/houritsu /02619570331041.htm# 12 Naono, “The Origins of Hibakusha,” 343. 13 In 1995, the current Atomic Bomb Survivors’ Support Law (Survivors’ Support Law) was formulated by integrating two Medical Laws and the Special Measures Law. About the Survivors’ Support Law, see: Yamada Toshinori, Katsumi Furitsu, Takemine Seiichiro, “Compensation Measures for Sufferers of the Atomic Bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki: An Explanation of the Atomic Bomb Survivors’ Support Law,” CPHU Research Report Series No. 35 (2022): 109–25.

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14

Uda M., H. Sugawara H. and I. Kita, “Report on Hiroshima atomic bomb disaster concerning meteorology,” in Collection of Investigation Reports on the Atomic Bomb Disaster (Vol. 1), ed. The Committee for the Publication of the Investigation Reports (Tokyo: Japanese Science Promotion Society (1953), 98–135. 15 Yoshinobu Masuda, “A review of Masuda’s re-investigation of ‘black rain’ after the Hiroshima A-bomb,” in Revisit the Hiroshima A-bomb with a Database: Latest Scientific View on Local Fallout and Black Rain, ed. M. Aoyama and Y. Oochi Eds., (Hiroshima: Hiroshima City, 2011), 125–30. 16 Yoshinobu Masuda, “Re-investigation about “Black Rain” after Hiroshima A-bomb,” Tenki, 35, (1989): 69–79. 17 Research Group on the Black-rain Fallout of the Hiroshima A-bomb, ed. Current status of studies on radioactive fallout with “black-rain” due to the Hiroshima atomic bomb. Interim report of research group on the black-rain fallout of the Hirohsima A-bomb, (2010); Ohtaki M. “Re-construction of spatial-time distribution of ‘black rain’ in Hiroshima based on statistical analysis of witness of survivors from atomic bomb,” in Revisit the Hiroshima A-bomb with a database: latest scientific view on local fallout and black rain, eds. Aoyama M and Oochi Y. (Hiroshima: Hiroshima City, 2011). 18 Honda Kouya “Hibaku ‘taikensha’ wa hibakusha da!” [A-bomb “experienced persons” are hibakusha!] Shōgen: Hiroshima Nagasaki no koe, 27 (2003): 188–202. 19 http://www.hhk.jp/senmonbu/seisaku/201215-182430.php. 20 There are ongoing attempts by scientists to clarify the internal radiation exposure and environmental radiation of Nagasaki. Kazuko Shichijo, Toshihiro Takatsuji, Manabu Fukumoto, Masahiro Nakashima, Mutsumi M. Matsuyama, and Ichiro Sekine, “Autoradiographic analysis of internal plutonium radiation exposure in Nagasaki atomic bomb victims,” Heliyon, 4 (2018) e00666; Masayoshi Yamamoto, Kouya Honda, Takahiro Takatsuji, Aya Sakaguchi, Satoru Endo, Noriyuki Kawano, and Masaharu Hoshi, “Atomic Bomb Fallout and ‘Black rain’ at Manose District (Hirama-cho) Located Northeast of Nagasaki City,” Hiroshima Peace Science, 40 (2018): 17–32. 21 The ICRP (International Commission on Radiological Protection), which makes recommendations on permissible radiation doses, sets reference levels between 20 and 100 millisieverts per year for the general public and promotes the reduction of radiation exposure. The Japanese Ministry of the Environment has declared that the dose of exposure with confirmed health effects on human is considered to be 100 millisieverts or higher. 22 Interview conducted by the author. Nagasaki Genbaku no Rekishi o Nokosu Kai, ed. Genbaku go no Nanajugo nen [Seventy-five years after the Atomic Bomb] (Tokyo: Shoshi Tsukumo, 2021), 261. 23 Adriana Petryna, Life Exposed: Biological Citizens after Chernobyl (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), 6.

Bibliography Honda, Kōya. “Hibaku ‘taikensha’ wa hibakusha da!” [A-bomb “experienced persons” are hibakusha!]. Shōgen: Hiroshima Nagasaki no koe, 27 (2003): 188–202. Imanaka, Tetsuji. Teisenryō hōshasen hibaku: Cherunobuiri kara Fukushima he [Low-level radiation exposure: From Chernobyl to Fukushima]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2012. Koyama, Misa. Kuroiame soshō: Naze hibakusha tachiwa hirisuteraretanoka [Black rain lawsuit: Why were hibakusha cut off?]. Tokyo: Shueisha, 2022. Kuchinskaya, Olga. The Politics of Invisibility: Public Knowledge about Radiation Health Effects after Chernobyl. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2014. Lindee, Susan. Suffering Made Real: American Science and the Survivors at Hiroshima. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1994. Loh, Shi Lin. “Defining Hibakusha in Postwar Japan: The Boundaries of Medicine and the Law.” ZINBUN 49 (2019): 81–92. Masuda, Yoshinobu. “Re-investigation about “Black Rain” after Hiroshima A-bomb” Tenki, 35 (1989): 69–79. ———. “A review of Masuda’s re-investigation of ‘black rain’ after the Hiroshima A-bomb,” In Revisit the Hiroshima A-bomb with a Database: Latest Scientific View on Local Fallout and Black Rain, edited by Aoyama M. and Oochi Y., 125–30. Hiroshima: Hiroshima City, 2011.

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Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare (MHLW). “Gehshi bakudan hibakusha engo shisetsu no gaiyō oyobi taishō chiiki ni tsuite” [Outline of A-bomb relief facilities and target areas]. Daiisshi kenko shindan tokurei kuiki nado no kensho ni kansuru kentokai (No. 1) Shiryo 2 (2020). Nakagawa, Yasuo. Zoho hoshasen hibaku no rekishi: Amerika genbaku kaihatsu kara Fukshima genpatsu jiko made [History of radiation exposure: From the development of the atomic bomb in the US to the Fukushima nuclear accident]. Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 2011. Naono, Akiko. “The Origins of Hibakusha as a Scientific and Political Classification of the Survivor.” Japanese Studies, 39, no. 3 (2019): 333–52. ———. Hibaku to hoshō: Hiroshima, Nagasaki soshite Fukushima. [Radiation exposure and compensation: Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Fukushima]. Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2011. Nakao, Maika. “Knowledge and Culture Behind the Dosimetry System: Japanese Scientists and the Technologies for Measuring Radioactivity in the 20th Century.” In Humans & Machines in Medical Contexts: Case Studies from Japan, edited by Susanne Brucksch and Kaori Sasaki, 55–83. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2021. Ohtaki, M. “Re-construction of spatial-time distribution of ‘black rain’ in Hiroshima based on statistical analysis of witness of survivors from atomic bomb.” In Revisit the Hiroshima A-bomb with a database: latest scientific view on local fallout and black rain, edited by Aoyama M. and Oochi Y. Hiroshima: Hiroshima City; 2011. Okajima, S., Fujita S., and J.H. Harley. “Radiation doses from residual radioactivity.” In US-Japan joint reassessment of atomic bomb radiation dosimetry in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, edited by W.C. Roesch. Hiroshima: Radiation Effects Research Foundation; 1987. Ozaki, Hironao. “‘Yuiitsu no hibakukoku’ de tsuzuku higai no bundan” [The continuing fragmentation of damage in the “Only Country to Have Suffered Atomic Bombs”]. In Houshanouosen ha naze kurikaesarerunoka, [Why is Radioactive Contamination Repeated], edited by Fujikawa Ken and Yokemoto Masafumi. Tokyo: Tōshindō, 2018. Petryna, Adriana. Life Exposed: Biological Citizens after Chernobyl. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002. RERF. DS02: A revised system for atomic bomb survivor dose estimation. Hiroshima: Radiation Effects Research Foundation, 2005. Research Group on the Black-rain Fallout of the Hiroshima A-bomb, ed. Current status of studies on radioactive fallout with “black-rain” due to the Hiroshima atomic bomb: Interim report of research group on the black-rain fallout of the Hirohsima A-bomb. 2010. Sakata, R, E.J. Grant, Furukawa K., Misumi M., H. Cullings, Ozasa K. and R.E. Shore. “Long-Term Effects of the Rain Exposure Shortly after the Atomic Bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” Radiation Research, 182 (2014): 599–606. Sato, Kyoko. “What was the bomb has done: victim relief, knowledge and politics.” In Living in a Nuclear World: from Fukushima to Hiroshima, edited by Bernadette Bensaude-Vincent, Soraya Boudia and Sato Kyoko, 23–44. London: Routledge, 2022. Sawada, Shoji. “Cover-up of the Effects of Internal Exposure by Residual Radiation from the Atomic Bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” Medicine, Conflict, and Survival 23, no. 1 (2007): 58–74. Uda, M. H. Sugawara, I. Kita. “Report on Hiroshima atomic bomb disaster concerning meteorology.” In Collection of Investigation Reports on the Atomic Bomb Disaster (Vol. 1), edited by The Committee for the Publication of the Investigation Reports, 98–135. Tokyo: Japanese Science Promotion Society, 1953.

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Chapter 7 Environmental Problems Caused by the Shinkansen in Nagoya City Aoki Soko Shinkansen pollution problems are a general term for the noise, vibration, sunlight interference, television reception problems and water issues that occur as a result of the high-speed running of the Shinkansen. In the areas along the Tokaido Shinkansen line, serious damage has been caused from the time of the line’s opening. This chapter discusses what kind of damage the Shinkansen pollution problem has caused and how local residents have resisted against it, using the Shinkansen pollution that occurred in Nagoya City as a case study.

Introduction The Shinkansen (literally “new trunk line”), known in the West as the “bullet train,” is the high-speed rail system now crisscrossing much of Honshu and extended to Kyushu and parts of Hokkaido. Compared to conventional trains, the Shinkansen is much quieter and less bumpy, making it a more comfortable ride. In Japan, the first Shinkansen line was opened between Tokyo and Shin-Osaka in 1964, just in time for the first Tokyo Olympics. A few years later, the following song became popular in kindergartens: Whoosh, whoosh, running. The blue light super express. 250 kilometers per hour. It’s a slippery run. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, running! 1 The Shinkansen was a dream vehicle that brought together the best science and technology of the time. However, this was only for the passengers who rode it. People living along the Shinkansen lines suffered from noise and vibration. In this chapter, I will discuss what kind of damage the Shinkansen pollution caused and how people resisted it, using the Shinkansen pollution that occurred in Nagoya as a case study.

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Outline of the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution problem Since the opening of Japan’s first bullet train, the areas along the Tokaido Shinkansen line have suffered serious damage, mainly from noise, vibration and loss of daylight problems, as well as TV reception problems.2 In particular, the area along the so-called “Nagoya 7-kilometer section” (hereafter referred to as the “7km section”), which spans Atsuta-ku, Nakagawa-ku, and Minami-ku in Nagoya City, a densely populated area, is a traditional urban area where people live. The Shinkansen ran through this area at a speed of around 200 km/h on an elevated track without soundproofing walls, and the damage to the residents was enormous. Figure 7.1 Tokaido Shinkansen at the time of its opening (running on an elevated track with no sound barriers yet installed)

Source: Nagoya Shinkansen Pollution Lawsuit Lawyers’ Group (1996) (used with permission)

The noise level near the track was 80–90 dB, comparable to the noise level in a running subway car, and near the railroad bridge it exceeded 100 dB. Although the noise decreased farther away from the track, it was still above 65 dB at a distance of 100 meters. Vibration exceeded 70 dB (equivalent to a seismic intensity 2 tremor) near the track, and 60 dB (standing on the ground and feeling the shaking) at a distance of 100 meters. Residents along the line were constantly exposed to this kind of noise and vibration every five to seven minutes from 6:00 a.m. to near midnight every day. Various kinds of negative effects and damage were reported, including mental/emotional issues such as “irritability,” physical issues such as headaches, gastrointestinal problems, and increased blood pressure, sleep disturbance, interference with daily life such as the “inability to carry on family conversations,” and physical

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damage to houses. Epidemiological studies have reported a tendency toward autonomic nervous system dysfunction.3 Moreover, the residents were not informed of the possibility of the occurrence of any of these issues in advance. From the early planning stages the residents along the railway line were not fully informed, and only a few residents were informed about the construction schedule. As for the running of the bullet trains, the operator, Japan National Railways (JNR), only said that there was no negative impact and that the trains were very quiet, and did not mention the possibility of damage. The phrase “It’s quiet enough for a thief to pull out and insert his foot under the pillow” was also used.4 As the lyrics quoted above show, the Shinkansen was considered to be a vehicle that “glided” and “ran.” However, when the train actually started running, the damage, particularly from noise and vibration, was enormous, and the residents along the line suffered. Unable to bear the effects, the residents along the line started a residents’ movement, mainly in the 7km section. The residents’ movement eventually led to the establishment of the Nagoya Shinkansen Pollution Lawsuit Plaintiffs’ Group (hereinafter referred to as the “Plaintiffs’ Group”), which developed into a court battle (filed in 1974) to stop the noise and vibration by slowing down the Shinkansen. In the 1960s, damage caused by the Shinkansen was not limited to Nagoya, but occurred all over Japan. For example, in the cities of Yokohama, Gifu, Fukuoka, and Amagasaki, there were opposition movements by residents. However, the only area along the Shinkansen line where a lawsuit was filed to stop the pollution was the 7km section in Nagoya. In both the first and second instances, courts ruled against the plaintiffs’ request for an injunction against noise and vibration, but efforts inside and outside the courts during the litigation process produced various results. For example, in June 1974, a little over two months after the lawsuit was filed, JNR formulated pollution control measures, and in December of the same year, JNR proposed to purchase an additional 20 meters of land on either side of the track in the plaintiffs’ residential area. In addition, we cannot overlook the fact that the lawsuit had an impact on the subsequent development of the Shinkansen. In the construction of the Sanyo Shinkansen (Osaka to Fukuoka) and the Tohoku Shinkansen (Tokyo to Aomori), measures against noise and vibration along the lines were studied in advance, based on the Nagoya experience, and measures were actually taken to reduce the weight of the elevated structures. In April 1986, a settlement was reached between the Plaintiffs’ Group and JNR, and the lawsuit itself ended without proceeding to the Supreme Court. The settlement agreement between the Plaintiffs’ Group and JNR included, in addition to the payment of the settlement amount, that JNR would do its utmost to reduce noise and vibration, and that this would not worsen the noise and vibration levels (non-worsening of the current situation), and that JNR would make active efforts to preserve the good environment under the elevated railway tracks and at the relocation site.5

Never-ending damage to areas along the railway line So, did the settlement between the Plaintiffs’ Group and JNR end the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution problem? The answer is “no.” The plaintiffs’ and lawyers’ groups, which should have been disbanded if the issue had been resolved, are still in existence with actual activities. The plaintiffs’ group and the lawyers’ group hold monthly meetings to discuss the issue, as

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well as negotiations with the Ministry of the Environment in June, Aichi Prefecture and Nagoya City in July and August, and with JR Tokai, the successor to JNR, in March. Since the settlement, the Plaintiffs’ Group and JR Tokai have held 35 meetings every year (as of March 2021). The reason for this is that damage still occurs along the railway line and issues remain to be resolved. Noise and vibration problems The settlement agreement clearly stated the obligation of JNR (now JR Tokai) to make efforts with regard to the noise and vibration issue—a central issue since the time of the lawsuit. The Plaintiffs’ Group has continued to “monitor” whether or not JR Tokai would fulfill its obligation to make efforts for the 7km section. The measures to be taken against the source of the problem can be roughly divided into two categories: measures to be taken against the track structure and overhead wires, and improvements to the rolling stock. For the former, JR Tokai installed lambda-type sound barriers, grinding rails, changing to overhead lines with reduced hanger spacing, and laying ballast mats in accordance with the settlement agreement. These measures have been effective, and regular monitoring by the City of Nagoya6 showed that the noise level in the plaintiffs’ residential area (7km section) cleared the provisional target of 75 dB in 1990. The Plaintiffs’ Group have given a certain amount of credit to JR Tokai’s noise control measures. However, the environmental standard of 70dB has not been met even within the 7km section in some years, and even when it has been met, it has sometimes exceeded the previous year’s level.7 As for vibration, although the 7km section has cleared the emergency guideline value of 70dB, the emergency guideline value is only an emergency standard, and more than 40 years have already passed since the recommendation was issued in 1976. The Plaintiffs’ Group demanded that the government should immediately set an environmental standard lowered to 65 dB and that JR Tokai should comply with it.8 In response to this demand, JR Tokai has repeatedly replied since the first round of talks that “the mechanism of vibration generation and conduction is not fully understood and is still under study,” and this stance has not changed. The Plaintiffs’ Group have also pointed out that there has been no progress in the development of technology to prevent vibration.9 As a countermeasure for the rolling stock, JR Tokai has been working on improving the pantographs and reducing the weight of the carriages, both of which have been successful. However, the Plaintiffs’ Group pointed out that the effect of reducing noise and vibration by reducing the weight of rolling stock has been offset by the fact that the speed of trains has been increased at the same time. The speed of the Shinkansen has increased with each new train, and with the introduction of the 300 series, the maximum speed has increased to 270 km/h. Next, a schedule was set for all trains in the Tokai section to run at 270 km/h. This increased the noise level in the entire Tokai section. As a matter of course, the noise on the 7km section also increased. … [JR Tokai has] implemented various measures that have been effective, but the increased speed has cancelled them out.10

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In addition, in recent years, extraordinary nighttime running of the Shinkansen has emerged as a new problem. This is a problem where, due to an accident or bad weather, the schedule is shifted to nighttime and the Shinkansen runs until 2–3 a.m., sometimes even 4 a.m. Residents along the line suffer from noise and vibration until 4:00 a.m., when the first train starts running less than two hours later. In response to this problem, the Plaintiffs’ Group are calling on JR Tokai to suspend nighttime running and to slow the trains down when nighttime operation is unavoidable.11 Relocation sites issues In 1974, while the dispute was still ongoing, JNR announced a proposal to purchase 20 meters of land on either side of the track in the plaintiffs’ residential area. The residents who accepted compensation for relocation left the area. There are 110 such sites scattered along the 7km section. The settlement agreement states that JR Tokai will “make active efforts to utilize, manage and use these sites for the purpose of preserving a good environment” and that they will be “used in a way that contributes to the environment.” However, the sites vary in size and shape, and many of them are irregularly shaped, making them difficult to use. Sites that are relatively large or facing wide roads are leased free of charge from JR Tokai to the city of Nagoya for use as bicycle parking lots, and are also leased through the city to local neighborhood associations for use as vegetable gardens, small parks, and disaster prevention storage areas. However, only about 30 of the 110 sites are being used in this way (as of February 2021). Other sites are left vacant, and although JR Tokai personnel patrol the sites and weed them regularly, it is not enough.12 The 7km section is dotted with “wasteland.” The issue of the relocation sites has been on the agenda at every meeting with JR Tokai, and in recent years, a free transfer of ownership of the sites to Nagoya City has been proposed. This is because, for the Plaintiffs’ Group, the ideal way to utilize the relocation sites would be for Nagoya City to receive them from JR Tokai and then purchase the surrounding land to create a buffer zone of several dozen meters in width along the railway line.13 For this reason, the Plaintiffs’ Group have also asked Nagoya City to place the relocation sites under its control and use them in an environmentally friendly manner. The transfer of the sites to Nagoya City is also desirable for JR Tokai, as it will eliminate the need to pay property taxes. However, from Nagoya City’s point of view, the transfer of the relocation sites to Nagoya City means a decrease in tax revenue from the property tax, as well as higher management costs. For Nagoya City, these relocation sites, especially the narrow and irregular sites with limited use, are a nuisance. Takagi Teruo, a member of the defense team, reviewed the efforts of the Plaintiffs’ Group and the defense team, using the word “regret” to refer to the relocation sites in the 7km section.14 At the time of settlement, the main concern was noise and vibration control. The plaintiffs’ and defense lawyers’ attention was inevitably focused on how to reduce noise and vibration levels. There was a delay in addressing the issue of the sites, either by conducting questionnaires with the residents or in making concrete proposals for their use. As a result, after the noise and vibration problems were resolved, the relocation sites became the focus of attention as a remaining issue, and in the meantime, the financial situation of Nagoya City changed dramatically. Although the issue of relocation sites was included in the settlement

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agreement, and had been an issue since the beginning of the settlement, it was unexpected for the plaintiffs and their lawyers that this remained an issue more than 30 years after the settlement.

The never-ending movement In addition to the issues of noise and vibration and the relocation sites mentioned in the previous section, the Plaintiffs’ Group and their lawyers have a mountain of other issues to deal with, such as land use due to the abandonment of the southern freight track, reflected noise under the girders of the Rokubancho railroad bridge, asbestos scattering from the old soundproof walls, and the issue of passing on memories. Most of these did not exist or were not apparent at the time of the settlement, but they have become problems or have become apparent with the passage of time. None of these issues were expected at the time of the settlement, so the fact that the plaintiffs’ and lawyers’ groups are still active more than 30 years after the settlement was unexpected even for them. Effects of prolonged movement The prolonged movement has brought various burdens to its bearers—physical, economic and mental. The first is the physical burden that comes from having to engage in the movement while working, raising children and taking care of the elderly. All of the six plaintiffs who are still active as core members have been struggling to balance work and childcare with the movement since immediately after the settlement.15 Although some of them have retired and seem to have more time on their hands, they are now busy taking care of their parents, raising their grandchildren, or have chronic illnesses of their own. The physical burden of the plaintiffs’ activities is not small for plaintiffs who are in their 70s and 80s.16 Second, there is the financial burden. Since the settlement, the Plaintiffs’ Group has been using part of the settlement money to pay for their activities. However, the Plaintiffs’ Group has been struggling with financial difficulties since around 2009, as the movement has gone on longer than expected.17 At the very least, the Plaintiffs’ Group needs to pay for the use of the venue for the monthly meetings, contributions to the National Action Committee for Pollution Victims and transportation costs (round trip from Nagoya to Tokyo) for discussions with the Ministry of the Environment and the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure and Transport. In order to fund these expenses, the six core members have been saving a certain amount every month since 2017. More than half of the core members have already retired, and the fact that they have to continue the campaign at their own expense is in stark contrast to JR Tokai employees and local government employees who are responding to the Plaintiffs’ Group as part of their duties (while earning salaries). In addition, there is the psychological burden, mainly caused by relationships in the community. The core members of the Plaintiffs’ Group have built good relationships with local residents by acting as a liaison between them and JR, handling inquiries and requests.18 However, even in this context, the core members have experienced, for example, being misunderstood about the settlement money by residents who did not participate in the Plaintiffs’ Group, or being asked face-to-face, “How much money did you receive?” 19 Residents who used to work together as plaintiffs have also asked, “Are you still [campaigning]? What are 106

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you doing?” 20 Whenever they are reminded that for the majority of the local community and plaintiffs, the bullet train pollution problem is “over,” the core members feel increasingly frustrated. What is more serious is that these burdens tend to be concentrated on a few core members. The plaintiffs, who numbered 575 at the time of filing the lawsuit, have either died in the course of the 12 years of litigation or withdrawn from the activities at the time of settlement. Although their names are still on the list, many of them have left the group, and only about six plaintiffs are still active as core members. The core members are getting older, but due to the nature of the organization as a “plaintiffs’ group,” they cannot recruit new residents who were not plaintiffs at the time of the lawsuit, and cannot be replaced. The physical, economic and mental burden is concentrated on the remaining core members, who cannot stop the movement because of the problems that are still unresolved or that may worsen if left unresolved. While the number of the core members of the Plaintiffs’ Group has not increased—nor have they been replaced by new members—the management at JR Tokai is changed every two-to-three years. Although a relationship of partial trust has been established between the Plaintiffs’ Group and JR Tokai, the Plaintiffs’ Group is unable to end their movement because JR Tokai is unable on their own to make the decisions and take the actions necessary without being monitored by the Group. This is a common problem for local residents who are forced to coexist with the source of pollution, not just in the case of the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution problem. Change in relationship with JR Tokai In the course of the 30 years since the settlement, the Plaintiffs’ Group and JR Tokai have built a tense but delicate “relationship of trust,” and the following statements have been made at the talks with JR Tokai: From the time the settlement was reached until today, we have had 17 rounds of consultations, and it is rare in Japan to be able to confirm the progress of implementation step by step. This is due to the efforts and trust of the plaintiffs and the employees in charge of the environment at JR Tokai. … [emphasis added]21 Today, more than 20 years after the settlement, the time of quarreling about being a victim or a perpetrator has passed. It is important for us to get along and talk with each other from the standpoint of eliminating pollution from the Shinkansen. [emphasis added]22 However, this does not mean that the Plaintiffs’ Group have complete confidence in JR Tokai. There is definitely a sense of tension as seen in the following statement by the secretary general of the plaintiffs’ group (in 2008). I believe that the relationship of trust between JR Tokai and the Plaintiffs’ Group has been established. However, in order to fully implement the settlement agreement, it is not enough to simply get along. New problems have emerged, such

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as the issue of the relocation sites and the issue of the urban expressway on the Rokubancho railroad bridge. We must proceed with a sense of urgency. [emphasis added]23 These words—addressed to the person-in-charge at JR Tokai but also seemingly a reminder to themselves—express the complex feelings that the plaintiffs have toward JR Tokai. For the Plaintiffs’ Group, the 30-odd years since the settlement have been a process of continuous monitoring of JR Tokai, as well as a process of working with JR Tokai to achieve the common goal of improving the environment along the railway lines. The Plaintiffs’ Group believe that this process demonstrates the significance of their activities and they also give a certain amount of credit to JR Tokai. However, the Plaintiffs’ Group are not completely satisfied with the response of JR Tokai, as the staff on the JR Tokai side change every few years and, especially in recent years, they have had to discuss the issues with staff who do not know what was going on at the time of the lawsuit.24 As well, new problems have surfaced many times in the areas along the railway lines. Although they have gradually built up a relationship of trust over the 30-odd years since the settlement, the Plaintiffs’ Group still regard themselves as “observers” of JR Tokai, and the relationship between the Plaintiffs’ Group and JR Tokai over the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution issue is based on a delicate balance between trust and tension. As Mr. A, a member of the Plaintiffs’ Group, said, “We don’t know what they will do if we stop [our activities].” It is recognized that “monitoring” must continue.25 In this case, the aging of the Plaintiffs’ Group is seen as a problem. Mr. A’s statement above was also made in response to the current situation where the number of active members in the Plaintiffs’ Group is decreasing. As it becomes difficult to pass on the movement to the next generation without the participation of their children and grandchildren, the question of “how to close the curtain” is becoming a topic of discussion among the Plaintiffs’ Group. However, “closing the curtain” here does not mean the end of monitoring JR Tokai. The ideal scenario as envisioned by the Plaintiffs’ Group is to pass on the task of monitoring to Nagoya City on behalf of the Plaintiffs Group. So how can Nagoya City respond to this demand?

Scenarios for the “closing of the curtain” of the movement and challenges to it Among the administrative organizations of the city of Nagoya, the Air Quality Division of the Community Environment Department of the Nagoya City Environment Bureau has been directly involved in the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution problem. In the past, the main issues were noise and vibration measurements and measures to deal with the relocation sites, but in recent years, the inheritance of memories (that is to say, the passing down of the causes and effects of the issues and the lessons learned from them from one generation to the next) has been added to these issues. Nagoya City’s response to noise, vibration and relocation sites issues Nagoya City has been conducting regular noise and vibration monitoring at six points along the Shinkansen line in the city every year, and has announced the results. The measurements

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are based on a clause in the settlement agreement that states, “In implementing the measures described in the preceding items, Japan National Railways shall respect the results of measurements taken by the national and local governments regarding noise and vibration on Shinkansen trains.” This is based on the expectation of the Plaintiffs Group since the time of the settlement that Nagoya City will take the initiative in continuously monitoring noise and vibration.26 In response, Nagoya City has taken the stance of playing a coordinating role. The Shinkansen pollution is basically an issue between the plaintiffs and JR Tokai, and “it is difficult for [Nagoya City] to take the lead.” 27 So far, even though the results of noise and vibration measurements have exceeded environmental standards and emergency guidelines, the city of Nagoya has not issued any recommendations or guidance to JR Tokai. The city of Nagoya has been mediating between the local neighborhood associations, JR Tokai, and the Plaintiffs’ Group in the case of the relocation sites. Specifically, when the local neighborhood association of a former site makes a request for use of the site, the city of Nagoya passes the request on to the Plaintiffs’ Group. After receiving the request, the Plaintiffs’ Group examines whether the use of the site is “environmentally friendly” and decides whether or not it can be used. After receiving the response from the Plaintiffs’ Group, the city of Nagoya informs the neighborhood association of the possibility of use, and at the same time, the city receives the site on loan from JR Tokai. In this way, by 2009, nine of the 110 relocation sites were being used. After that, however, the number of applications from local neighborhood associations for use of the sites came to a standstill, and Nagoya City began to actively work toward their utilization. In particular, from 2014 to 2016, the staff in charge of the project went to local neighborhood associations to hold briefing sessions on the use of the relocation sites, talked to JR Tokai for initial maintenance of the sites once they began to be used by local residents, and considered the use of the sites by Nagoya City itself as a space for street trees. The results were groundbreaking: by March 2018, more than 20 new sites had been selected for use. In addition, by the end of March 2019, a total of 34 sites were in use or expected to be in use, including those in process or under consideration. However, it is expected that there will be a ceiling in the future, and there is a limit to what the Environment Bureau can do on its own to further expand the use of these facilities. Cross-departmental cooperation with the Housing and Urban Development Bureau is necessary. Efforts to pass on memories In addition to dealing with noise, vibration and the relocation sites, the city of Nagoya has recently taken on a new initiative: the passing on of memories. The Environmental Planning Division of the Environmental Planning Department of the Nagoya City Environment Bureau has been promoting this project as part of environmental education. Specifically, the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution problem is being addressed in environmental education for fifth-year elementary school students in Nagoya City, and an exhibition on the problem is being set up at the Eco Pal Nagoya, the environmental learning center. For the project, the Nagoya City Environment Bureau first prepared a textbook entitled “Pollution in Nagoya and Its History.” Commenting on this, Mrs. E, a former member of the Regional Environmental Affairs Department who spearheaded the preparation of the

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text, said, “I [thought] it was strange, because the textbook that elementary school students in Nagoya read when they learn about pollution only mentions water pollution in Kyoto as a case study, and never mentions Nagoya.” 28 Thus, in April 2017, a 20-page textbook was created to “let elementary school students in Nagoya know about pollution problems in the city,” including pollution from the Nagoya Shinkansen and air pollution in southern Nagoya. In addition to text-based information, the narratives of pollution victims will be used in the “Pollution Learning Course: Learning about the History of Pollution in Nagoya” for elementary school students. In a pilot pollution learning program launched in 2017, pollution victims acted as storytellers and shared their experiences. A few classes of fifth graders from elementary schools in Nagoya City visited Eco Pal Nagoya and listened to a 20-minute talk by a storyteller after an explanation from a staff member. In fiscal year 2018, 790 children in 15 schools listened to the storytellers. The storytellers, along with victims of air pollution in the southern part of Nagoya, were members of the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution plaintiffs’ group. There will also be a video of Mr. D, the head of the Plaintiffs’ Group, speaking as a storyteller in the virtual studio of Eco Pal Nagoya. Eco Pal Nagoya was renovated in 2018, and the exhibits in the museum were completely renewed. In the exhibition room adjacent to the virtual studio, materials related to the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution problem are on display. The number of schools participating in the storytelling program for elementary school students is limited, and the exhibition space at Eco Pal Nagoya is quite modest compared to other pollution museums, but it is noteworthy that the term “pollution” is consciously used in these efforts. By using the word “pollution” instead of “environment,” Mrs. E wanted to “make people pay attention to the negative aspects of the environment, instead of studying it in a clean way.” 29 This effort to pass on the memories of the victims is a modest response to the plaintiffs’ demand for an archive and a pollution museum. Although there is still room for improvement in the fact that the museum is a part of the Environmental Learning Center rather than an independent one like other pollution museums, the memory of the damage and the record of defiance against it are being preserved publicly and are being passed on to future generations which makes the core members of the Plaintiffs’ Group feel that their campaign has been rewarded and that it has been worthwhile. This alleviates, however slightly, the mental burden associated with the activities pointed out earlier.30 What can be said of these efforts by the city of Nagoya is that the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution problem may be partially brought to a close. With regard to noise and vibration, Nagoya City is not expected to be actively involved at this point, and it is therefore difficult to envision a scenario in which Nagoya City continues to monitor JR Tokai on behalf of the plaintiffs and their lawyers. On the other hand, the city of Nagoya has been proactive about the relocation sites and the passing on of memories, so we can expect closure in this area. However, the intentions of Nagoya City and the plaintiffs are not necessarily in agreement on the utilization of the relocation sites. In addition, it should be noted that the proactiveness of the City of Nagoya depends largely on the attitude of Ms. E, the former director of the Community Environmental Affairs Department, her successor and the surrounding staff.

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Conclusion: The lesson of “the unexpected” happens What the prolonged campaign for the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution issue has brought about is a situation in which the various burdens of the campaign are concentrated on a small number of core members of the Plaintiffs’ Group who are still engaged in the campaign. The number of core members of the Plaintiffs’ Group has not increased, nor have they been replaced by new members. In fact, the number of members has decreased over time. Although a relationship of partial trust has been established between the Plaintiffs’ Group and JR Tokai, the group still cannot end their movement because JR Tokai is still an opponent that “we don’t know what it will do if we stop monitoring it.” This is a common problem for local residents who are forced to live with the source of pollution, not only the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution problem. Secondly, active intervention by the government is necessary to bring this prolonged residents’ movement to a close. In the case study in this chapter, the scenario drawn by the core members of the Plaintiffs’ Group was that the city of Nagoya would come to play the role that the residents’ movement had played. In contrast, Nagoya City’s involvement in the noise and vibration issue is limited to measuring their levels. During the annual negotiations with the Ministry of the Environment, the plaintiffs have also requested the Ministry to provide guidance to JR Tokai, but the Ministry’s approach to JR Tokai has been only superficial.31 With regard to the issue of the relocation sites and the passing on of memories, the department in charge at Nagoya City has been proactive, suggesting the possibility of a handover from the residents’ movement. Like JR Tokai, local governments change their staff every two to three years. At the Air Pollution Control Division of the Community Environmental Affairs Department of the Nagoya City Environment Bureau, newly assigned staff members are given study sessions based on the textbooks of the Nagoya Shinkansen Pollution Lawsuit Plaintiffs’ Group (1991) and the Nagoya Shinkansen Pollution Lawsuit Lawyers’ Group (1996), and are familiar with the various problems in the area. The Plaintiffs’ Group has experienced many times that the response to the Shinkansen pollution problem has regressed due to the change of the person in charge.32 In addition, as in the case of the relocation sites issue, cooperation among departments remains an issue. In general, pollution and environmental problems have been addressed under the law and the situation has improved dramatically compared to the past. However, there are still areas where problems exist. In particular, there are people who are destined to coexist with the source of pollution for the foreseeable future, even when the problem is considered to be “over,” as in the case of the Shinkansen pollution discussed here. It is necessary that a system be created or improved so that the sources of pollution can continue to be controlled. In terms of noise and vibration issues, the fact that environmental standards for vibration have not yet been set should be addressed as soon as possible, and in this sense, thorough institutionalization is required. The Shinkansen was built using the most advanced science and technology of the time. As mentioned earlier, the operator, JNR, claimed that there would be no impact on the local residents. However, when the Shinkansen started running, damage occurred that the JNR had not foreseen. If we believe JNR’s claim that “the damage was unforeseeable,” then the Shinkansen pollution problem was beyond the imagination of science.

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Uncertainty is inherent in science. Even with the most advanced science and technology, there are still risks that cannot be removed (residual risks). Even today, there are numerous large-scale projects such as nuclear power plants and the central linear bullet train, that have been carried out using all the science and technology available at the time and at present, while preparing for all possible scenarios. However, we should look back at the history of the Shinkansen pollution problem, which began in 1960 and has continued to the present, and learn from it that there is no such thing as “100% safety.” There are always residual risks, and therefore unexpected events can occur. Once such unexpected negative effects arise, the damage will be prolonged because it takes time to deal with the unexpected. As we have shown in this chapter, if the damage or the movement is prolonged, it is the people who are affected and who will be forced to suffer. Therefore, when “unexpected” adverse effects are foreseen or revealed, it is important to proceed with the project while making course corrections each time to avoid or minimize such adverse effects. The project should be designed with the possibility that such course corrections can be made, and that there is room for adaptive science and technology to contribute to such a project.

Notes 1

From the song “Run, Super Express Train (Hashire chō tokkyū)” written by Hisashi Yamanaka in 1972. Strictly speaking, the damage caused by noise and vibration began when the elevated construction of the Shinkansen began in 1959. 3 Nagoya Daigaku Shinkansen Kōgai Kenkyū Gurūpu, eds., Shinkansen kōgai (dainihan) [Shinkansen pollution, 2nd ed.] (Nagoya: Nagoyadaigaku Iggakubu kōshū Eisei Kyōshitsu, 1972); Nakagawa Takeo, “Shinkansen kōgai to chiiki jūmin” [Shinkansen pollution and local residents], Kōshū eisei 39, no. 3 (1975): 150–54; Nakagawa Takeo, “Shinkansen sōon shindō ni yoru jūmin higai” [Damage to residents due to Shinkansen noise and vibration], Gijutsu to ningen 8, no. 7 (1979): 52–60. 4 From interviews with Mr. Takeo Nakagawa, counsel for the Plaintiffs’ Group (November 25, 2008 and August 11, 2009). 5 The relocation site is the vacant land after the residents who accepted the above proposal by the Japanese National Railways to buy 20 meters of track width from the railroad moved out. The residents along the line were divided in their decision, some moved and some did not. As a result, there were 110 vacant lots scattered irregularly along the line. 6 Nagoya City has been measuring noise and vibration at 60 points along the route every five years since 1976. Since 1986, when the settlement was reached, six monitoring points have been set up along the railway line, and noise and vibration are measured regularly every year. The results of these periodic measurements are used in the discussions between the Plaintiffs’ Group and JR Tokai. 7 The settlement agreement clearly states the policy of the Japanese National Railways (JR Tokai) to “not worsen the current situation of outdoor noise and vibration in the 7km section” (the principle of nonworsening of the current situation). According to this policy, for example, if the noise level is 68 dB in a certain year, it must be 68 dB or lower in the following year. In reality, however, this is not the case, and there have been cases where noise levels that were 68 dB have risen to 69 dB or 70 dB the following year. The plaintiffs see this as a violation of the principle of non-degradation of the status quo. 8 From interviews with Mr. Takeo Nakagawa, counsel for the Plaintiffs’ Group (November 25, 2008 and August 11, 2009) and Mr. Teruo Takagi, a member of the layer’s group (December 12, 2008). 9 For example, at the time of the talks in 2007, a representative from JR Tokai said, “There are no conclusive research results on vibration. We are continuing to study this issue as a major theme in our laboratory.” In the subsequent consultation in 2008, the response was “The same as last year with regard to vibration countermeasures.” 10 This is a statement made by the Plaintiffs’ Group the year before the introduction of the new N700 series trains, quoted from the minutes of the 21st round of talks held on December 21, 2006. According to the minutes from 2007 to 2018, the same point has been repeated in every round of talks with JR Tokai. 2

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11

From the minutes of the 32nd meeting held between the Plaintiffs’ Group and JR Tokai on March 12, 2018. From the handout of the general meeting of the sponsors held on March 6, 2016. 13 According to interviews with Mr. Takeo Nakagawa, an advisor to the plaintiffs’ group (November 25, 2008 and August 11, 2009) and with Mr. Teruo Takagi, a member of the defense team (December 12, 2008). Similar statements have been made by other plaintiffs’ group members at caretaker meetings. 14 Based on the results of an interview conducted on December 12, 2008. 15 For example, Mr. A, a core member of the Plaintiffs’ Group, said, “I can’t make time for this. I can’t go out when the deadline is approaching.” (Iwata Nanase, “Issho ni motto chikara o awasete: A-san,” [Let’s work together more: Mr. A], in Nagoya shinkansen kōgai o ikiru: genkoku shien-sha-tachi no raifuhisutorī [Living the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution: Life history of plaintiffs and supporters], ed. Aoki Soko kenkyūshitsu, (Nagoya Daigaku shakai-gaku kōza, (2017): 59–72). Mr. B also said, “Financial issues and time issues are necessary for long term activities like this to some extent. Do I value my family? Do I value my work, or do I value my Shinkansen [activities]? I was worried about that.” (Hashimoto Yoji, “Gimu-kandesu ne, yaranakucha ikenai tte iu: B-san” [It’s a sense of duty, I have to do it: Mr. B] in Nagoya shinkansen kōgai o ikiru: genkoku shien-shatachi no raifuhisutorī [Living the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution: Life history of plaintiffs and supporters] ed. Aoki Soko kenkyūshitsu (Nagoya Daigaku shakai-gaku kōza (2017): 27–38). 16 For example, Mrs. C, a core member of the Plaintiffs’ Group, said about her activities while taking care of her grandchildren, “I used to take even my grandchildren [to the meetings] at night, but now that they are enrolled in school, I can’t make them stay up late at night for meetings until almost 8 or 9 o’clock.” (Chen Tianxuan, “On’na wa ne, katei no koto shika kangae toran mon: C-san,” [A woman thinks only about her family: Mrs. C] in Nagoya shinkansen kōgai o ikiru: genkoku shien-sha-tachi no raifuhisutorī [Living the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution: Life history of plaintiffs and supporters] ed. Aoki Soko kenkyūshitsu (Nagoya Daigaku shakai-gaku kōza (2017): 73–87). 17 From the handout at the general meeting of the Plaintiffs’ Group held on December 5, 2009. 18 According to the results of an interview with Mr. D, the head of the Plaintiffs’ Group, conducted on September 12, 2017. 19 Quoted from Iwata “Issho ni motto chikara o awasete: A-san.” 20 From Mrs. C’s narrative above (Chen, “On’na wa ne, katei no koto shika kangae toran mon: C-san,” 83). 21 Quote from the plaintiffs’ side at the 17th round of talks on December 9, 2002. 22 I quoted the then head of the plaintiffs’ group at the 21st round of consultations on December 12, 2006. 23 I quoted the opening remarks made by the then Secretary General of the Plaintiffs’ Group at the 23rd round of talks on December 10, 2008. Until that time, the talks between the Plaintiffs’ Group and JR Tokai had been held every year in December. 24 For example, there was a case where the person in charge at JR Tokai had misunderstood “non-worsening of the current situation” and the plaintiffs pointed out the error at the meeting and confirmed the original meaning (from the minutes of the 18th meeting held on December 8, 2003 and the 19th meeting held on December 7, 2004). 25 Other core members of the plaintiffs’ group have also made similar statements at sponsor meetings, etc., and it can be concluded that this recognition is shared by the plaintiffs. 26 Nagoya Shinkansen Kōgai Soshō Bengodan, Shizuka-sa o kaese! Monogatari shinkansen kōgai soshō [Return the quietness! Story of Shinkansen pollution proceedings] (Nagoya: Fubaisha, 1996), 245. 27 According to the results of an interview conducted on September 11, 2009 with a person in charge of the Air Quality Control Division, Community Environmental Affairs Department, Nagoya City Environment Bureau. 28 From remarks made during a meeting with the author on September 26, 2016. 29 From remarks made during a meeting with the author on September 26, 2016. 30 In fact, Mr. B and Mr. D, who conducted the storytelling activities, happily read the “messages to the storytellers” written by elementary school students after the course. Other core members also positively evaluated the creation of the exhibition space and the “storyteller” activities. 31 From the March 3, 2019 meeting materials. 32 For example, at a meeting with the Nagoya City Environmental Bureau held on March 3, the Plaintiffs’ Group made the following comment: “The previous directors of the bureau were reluctant to do anything.” The same point was repeatedly raised in the meeting. 12

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Bibliography Chen, Tianxuan. “On’na wa ne, katei no koto shika kangae toran mon: C-san” [A woman thinks only about her family: Mrs. C]. In Nagoya shinkansen kōgai o ikiru: genkoku shien-sha-tachi no raifuhisutorī [Living the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution: Life history of plaintiffs and supporters], edited by Aoki Soko kenkyūshitsu. Nagoya Daigaku shakai-gaku kōza (2017): 73–87. Hashimoto, Yoji. “Gimu-kandesu ne, yaranakucha ikenai tte iu: B-san” [It’s a sense of duty, I have to do it: Mr. B]. In Nagoya shinkansen kōgai o ikiru: genkoku shien-sha-tachi no raifuhisutorī [Living the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution: Life history of plaintiffs and supporters], edited by Aoki Soko kenkyūshitsu. Nagoya Daigaku shakai-gaku kōza (2017): 27–38. Iwata, Nanase. “Issho ni motto chikara o awasete: A-san” [Let’s work together more: Mr. A]. In Nagoya shinkansen kōgai o ikiru: genkoku shien-sha-tachi no raifuhisutorī [Living the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution: Life history of plaintiffs and supporters], edited by Aoki Soko kenkyūshitsu, (Nagoya Daigaku shakaigaku kōza, (2017): 59–72. Nagoya Daigaku Shinkansen Kōgai Kenkyū Gurūpu, eds. Shinkansen kōgai (dainihan) [Shinkansen pollution, 2nd ed.]. Nagoya: Nagoyadaigaku Iggakubu kōshū Eisei Kyōshitsu, 1972. Nagoya Shinkansen Kōgai Soshō Bengodan. Shizuka-sa o kaese! Monogatari shinkansen kōgai soshō [Return the quietness! Story of Shinkansen pollution proceedings]. Nagoya: Fubaisha, 1996, 245. Nagoya Shinkansen Kōgai Soshō Genkokudan. Shizuka-sa o motomete 25-nen: Nagoya shinkansen kōgai tatakai no kiroku [25 years in search of quietness: Record of the Nagoya Shinkansen pollution fight]. Nagoya: Tōkai Kyōdōinsatsu, 1991. Nakagawa, Takeo. Shinkansen kōgai to chiiki jūmin, [Shinkansen pollution and local residents]. Kōshū eisei 39, no. 3 (1975): 150–54. ———. Shinkansen sōon shindō ni yoru jūmin higai, [Damage to residents due to Shinkansen noise and vibration]. Gijutsu to ningen 8, no. 7 (1979): 52–60.

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Part 3 Between Nature and Humans

Chapter 8 Epidemiological Landscape and Medical Theories: Focusing on a History of Smallpox in Early Modern Japan Kozai Toyoko In the Japanese archipelago, smallpox unfolded a very diverse epidemiological landscape. In some areas, the epidemic occurred once every few decades and caused devastating damage, while in others, it was year-round and attacked only children. In the face of this mysterious phenomenon, people in each era developed their own theories on the causes of the epidemic and ways to deal with it. This paper reviews the history of such etiologies and coping strategies prior to the widespread use of vaccination in modern times.

Introduction: The historical perception of epidemics—how infectious diseases have been defined and dealt with The phenomenon in which members of a population all fall ill at once has been seen time and time again throughout history, and the Japanese archipelago is no exception. Historical records dating back to antiquity prove that this bow-shaped island chain to the east of mainland China has indeed been the site of outbreaks of infectious diseases.1 In the Nihon shoki (日本書紀), Japan’s oldest officially compiled history, the following is recorded to have taken place in the year Sujin 5 (Estimated circa 1st century B.C.), during the tenth Emperor’s reign. “The disease spread throughout the country, taking people’s lives, and the greater part of the population at that.” 2 To have suffered an epidemic of such proportions must have been catastrophic for the nascent country. What could cause a large number of people to suffer from the same afflictions at the same time? Ancient people believed the spread of epidemic diseases to be a supernatural phenomenon and so tried to suppress them by calling upon the power of divine spirits. Given their circumstances, this was the most “rational” way to approach the situation. How we deal with infectious diseases is always informed by how we define them. In the 21st century, we understand the spread of infectious diseases as a chain reaction that starts with a physical pathogen entering the human body, causing it to suffer various symptoms.

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Measures are taken accordingly: we remove disease-causing pathogens through disinfection and sterilization, we halt the spread of disease through quarantine and travel-related control measures, and we develop our immunities against disease (whenever possible, through vaccination) to prevent infection. Even in ancient times, infectious diseases were dealt with based on how they were defined. If the spread of a disease were deemed the result of divine retribution, efforts would be made to shape the status quo to comply with supernatural will. Or, if an infectious disease were believed to be caused by the grudge of a nobleman, a ceremony would be held to worship and appease the spirit. Infectious diseases were defined according to the most “rational” interpretations of the time, and it was hoped that they could be brought to an end by the “rational” measures derived from the definitions. Take for example the following account of an event that occurred during the dawn of Buddhism in Japan, documented in the above-mentioned Nihon shoki.3 When an epidemic disease broke out during the reign of the 29th emperor (mid-6th century), certain aristocratic clans contended that it was a sign that traditional Japanese deities had been angered by the spread of Buddhism in Japan, and this led to the destruction of Buddhist statues and temples. When another epidemic broke out during the reign of the 30th emperor, Buddhist statues and temples were burned down once again. This time, however, the epidemic did not subside, and the country was filled with people suffering, often fatally, from high fevers and severe pain. Taking this as a sign, other aristocratic clans argued that the epidemic was in fact divine retribution for not respecting the Buddha. As a result, the custom of praying to the Buddha for the suppression of epidemic diseases became established. Thus, interpretations as to how epidemics are caused and what can be done to quell them have changed throughout history. Now, let us look at a specific case: how were infectious diseases defined and dealt with since the medieval period in the Japanese archipelago? In this chapter, I will examine the history of smallpox, known as “ten’nentō” 天然痘, (or “mogasa” もがさ, “hōsō” 疱瘡, or “tōsō” 痘瘡), a disease for which records dating back to ancient times remain.

Smallpox epidemics in the Japanese archipelago during the early modern period Epidemic patterns of smallpox varying by place Smallpox is, to put it in modern terms, a viral infection. It is no longer a naturally occurring disease following its eradication in 1980, but in the past it ran rampant throughout the world. Epidemics of smallpox are in large part to blame for the decimation of Native American peoples and the collapse of their civilizations from the late 15th century. One of the characteristics of the smallpox virus is its low rate of mutation. This meant that, once a person had been infected with smallpox, he or she would not contract it again for the rest of his or her life. However, the mortality rate after infection was very high, and patients would suffer from a slew of symptoms beginning with a fever. First, the virus’s effects on the internal organs would cause a high fever, followed by the development of a pustular rash on the face and limbs. Even if the patient managed to overcome this dangerous stage,

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he or she would have to endure a terrible itch for several days until the rash suppurated and eventually peeled off as scabs. And even if the patient managed to survive the entire ordeal, they would be left with “abata” 痘痕 pockmarks on their skin or even blindness. It was because of its uniquely merciless symptoms and high mortality rate that smallpox epidemics were documented in many parts of the world, including in the Japanese archipelago. Smallpox seems to have become endemic to various parts of the Japanese archipelago by the 16th century, during the late medieval period. It was also around this time that people started to note smallpox not as an epidemic that would occur once every few decades, but as a childhood disease that would attack only those who had not already contracted it in infancy. For instance, the Nippo jisho 日葡辞書, a Japanese to Portuguese dictionary compiled by Jesuits in the early 17th century to facilitate Christian missionary activities, includes entries for the terms “otona” 大人 (votona) and “otona-goto o suru” 大人事をする (votonagotouo suru), which were commonly used in Kyoto and Osaka.4 These entries define each word to mean “smallpox” and “to fall ill with smallpox,” respectively. The fact that the Japanese word for “adult” was synonymous with the word for “smallpox” implies that in the densely populated areas of Kyoto and Osaka, contracting smallpox was seen as part and parcel of becoming an adult. In some large cities, smallpox was no longer a rare disease or a cause for panic, but had become a rite of passage that everyone was forced to contend with before adulthood. The Japanese archipelago consists of thousands of islands, both large and small, stretching from north to south in a long, narrow chain. Roughly 70% of the land on each of the main islands—from Honshū, the largest of the islands, to Kyūshū, Shikoku and the rest—is made up of mountainous terrain. Naturally, only the plains along the coast and the valleys were inhabitable, which caused the population to be dispersed between these areas. Accordingly, the administrative regions under the central government were small, numerous, and highly localized. During the early modern period (from the 17th to the mid-19th century), there were about 260 political and administrative regions throughout the country, with a limited amount of movement between them. As a result, the epidemic patterns of smallpox varied from region to region. Early modern doctors wrote about the varying epidemic cycles seen in different parts of the archipelago. Their observations consistently identified three types: the “tokai-gata” 都会 型 urban type seen in the cities; the “kingō-gata” 近郷型 rural type found in the outskirts of population centers; and the “mutō-gata” 無痘型 remote type, where outbreaks of smallpox would rarely occur. Let us examine each of the three in turn. The “tokai-gata” urban epidemic pattern of smallpox Often cited as the sites of the urban epidemic pattern were the “santo” 三都, a term which collectively refers to the three largest cities of the Edo period: Kyoto, the capital of Japan for much of the country’s history, located in the Kyoto Basin; Edo, the political and cultural center of the early modern period, located on the Kantō Plain, the largest plain in the Japanese archipelago; and Osaka, an economic center of the early modern period, located on the Osaka Plain. According to estimates, each of these cities had a population of several hundred thousand or more; Edo appears to have been a city with a population of one million by the mid-modern period. Chapter 8: Epidemiological Landscape and Medical Theories

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According to records written by doctors from the early modern period, smallpox was a constant presence in these large cities. They reported that, of every 100 people affected, 30 died of severe symptoms, 30 suffered severe long-term sequelae (scarring, visual impairments, hearing impairments, motor dysfunctions, etc.), 30 recovered from the disease through prayer and/or medical treatment and 10 were only mildly affected. Because smallpox was always just around the corner, infants were susceptible to catching it in their own neighborhoods soon after birth. As a result, people did not try to avoid smallpox, but instead assumed that they would contract it before adulthood and prayed that they would suffer only mildly. Temples and shrines were built throughout urban areas, offering blessings for smallpox by distributing good luck charms and talismans. It was also customary to visit each other’s children when they came down with smallpox, and there were picture books and sweets sold specifically for this purpose. When rare animals (donkeys, ostriches, etc.) came to Japan from abroad, many people would go to see them, lured by the showmen who claimed that witnessing these wonders would protect them from the worst symptoms of smallpox. In urban areas, smallpox was known as a common infectious childhood disease. This perception was the result of patterns of thought and behavior that directed efforts not toward the prevention of smallpox, but toward the minimization of symptoms following infection. The “kingō-gata” rural epidemic pattern of smallpox The rural epidemic pattern was observed in outskirts that lay some distance away from urban centers. Since rural populations were not as large, smallpox was not the constant presence it was within urban areas. But once every few years, when the disease would spread from the cities, a smallpox epidemic would occur. Doctors of the mid-modern period described it as a roughly seven-year cycle. In reality, an analysis of the “kakochō” 過去帳 (a register in which each temple records the genealogy, family structure, year of birth, year of death, cause of death, etc., of the people in its jurisdiction) of small villages in the Hida region reveals that the smallpox epidemic cycle was closer to once every 10 years.5 Because the epidemic cycles were longer in rural areas than they were in the cities, smallpox would attack and kill people of all ages. As a result, any news of smallpox was met with much greater loathing and fear in rural areas. Whenever word of an ongoing epidemic arrived from neighboring areas, measures were taken to try and keep it at bay. “Shimenawa” 注連縄 sacred ropes were placed around a house or village, to serve as a purifying barrier. Talismans, such as certificates written by “the god of smallpox” to declare that this house shall not be invaded, or a bamboo broom indicating that the god of smallpox was already inside of the house, were placed near the front door. If a child nevertheless contracted the disease, the parents would worship the god of smallpox with fervor; if the child survived the disease, the neighbors were invited to a feast in celebration. In the early modern period, not only were overland routes developed to connect various parts of the archipelago, but sea routes were also developed to transport large quantities of goods to distant cities. Smallpox epidemics, which were endemic in urban areas, continued to trickle through the archipelago alongside the flow of goods and people. It was against this background that smallpox came to be recognized as an unavoidable childhood disease, even in rural areas.

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The “mutō-gata” remote epidemic pattern of smallpox Meanwhile, there were a few places in the Japanese archipelago that were virtually free of smallpox. In these areas, many of which were remote islands or mountainous regions, smallpox cases would not occur for several decades at a time. Doctors of the time would give as examples Ezo (present-day Hokkaido), Hachijō-jima, an island roughly 300 kilometers south of Edo, villages scattered across the mountain ranges of Honshū such as Ontake, Akiyama, Shirakawa and Kumano, and the Gotō Islands and Amakusa Islands of western Kyūshū. For example, Hachijō-jima was home to several thousand people during the early modern period, but smallpox epidemics were not common. According to records from this period, the island’s first epidemic occurred without warning in the mid-15th century, leading to the deaths of roughly 600 people.6 Starting in the 17th century, Hachijō-jima had been used as a penal colony to which officials transported criminals from Honshū several times a year, but even then, outbreaks rarely occurred. This was probably because the criminals and officials who grew up in Honshū had already been exposed to smallpox. Island records show that epidemics occurred once in the 17th century, four times in the 18th century, and twice in the 19th century, but these instances were caused by the crews of castaway ships arriving from Honshū, or by islanders traveling to and from Honshū. During each epidemic, people of all ages were affected, producing hundreds of casualties. In remote environments, smallpox was never thought of as a common childhood disease because epidemics happened so infrequently. Instead, it was a disaster that struck the entire population once every few decades, causing mass deaths every time. In Hachijō-jima, the people began to take drastic measures after undergoing this tragedy several times. They moved patients to huts on the outskirts of the village, cut off all traffic to known sites of outbreak, and even left infected individuals in the village to fend for themselves while those unaffected by the disease fled into the mountains. In the past, smallpox was known as a disease that invaded from abroad and attacked all those who had not yet been infected, leaving a massive number of casualties in its wake. It gradually became endemic in densely populated areas, and even during Japan’s so-called sakoku period of isolation in the early modern period, it spread throughout the archipelago according to its own epidemic cycles. The various epidemic patterns of smallpox that arose in different parts of the archipelago led to the development of equally varied definitions of smallpox and measures to counteract the spread of disease.

Preventative measures against smallpox during the early modern period Preventative measures against smallpox in urban and rural areas In urban and rural areas, the most widespread medical definition of smallpox understood the disease as the manifestation of the “doku” 毒 (toxic matter) that infiltrates the body at birth, so the most popular option for dealing with smallpox was to treat only its symptoms and pray for healing. The view that smallpox is essentially a “poison” in the body is in accordance with the medical science introduced from China in the late Middle Ages. Traditional

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Japanese medicine viewed smallpox as a type of fever or a symptom of fever. However, after new methods of diagnosis were introduced from China in the late 16th century, smallpox came to be generally regarded as a separate disease caused by a congenital “poison.” The belief that smallpox is essentially a “poison” in one’s body was compatible with the reality of urban and rural areas, where most people would contract smallpox during their childhood. Everyone suffered from smallpox once, but those who recovered were guaranteed never to get it again. People understood this phenomenon as the process of the removal of the “poison” lurking in their bodies. To ensure that their patients would survive this once-ina-lifetime illness, doctors would carefully note the symptoms of smallpox. They gave each of the various forms of “poison” they observed a diagnostic name, and devised treatments and drug prescriptions for each. However, physicians were divided as to the extent to which they could intervene in the supernaturally foreordained length of a human life, and this led to controversy in the middle of the early modern period. This was also the time when “baidoku” 梅毒 or syphilis, a strange, new disease, started to become a problem in Japan. The ethics of physicians were called into question: was it better to suspend the treatment of patients in untenable conditions so as not to unnecessarily burden them, or was it better to try all possible remedies until patients took their very last breath? As for the effective treatment of smallpox, some doctors argued that it was better to use milder medications to help the patient’s body fight the “poison” using its natural defenses, while others argued that in order to expel the “poison” from the body, harsher medications should be used, even if it risked harming the body in the process. As a result of the doctors’ trial and error, methods of diagnosing and treating the effects of this “poison” in the body gradually became more detailed, and by the end of the 18th century, a new department specializing in smallpox was established at the medical school located in the jurisdiction of the Edo shogunate. In this department of smallpox studies, the Ikeda family served as professors for generations. Ikeda Zuisen, the first from the family to do so, was a smallpox specialist who practiced medicine in the cities of western Japan including Iwakuni and Kyoto, and was invited to become a professor at the shogunate medical school in recognition of his excellent treatment record. Ikeda Zuisen emphasized the importance of examining the tongue, lips, and face in order to diagnose the state of the smallpox “poison” in the body. By looking at the color and condition of the tongue and lips, as well as the location of the smallpox rash on the face, he was able to read the ever-changing nature and momentum of this “poison” in the body. The symptoms were classified into eight categories. “Dokuyō” 毒壅 (in which the “poison” remains in the body and the fever has not yet dissipated), “ketsunetsu” 血熱 (in which the fever is too high for the body to control), “kikyo” 気虚 (in which the body is too weak to send the “poison” to the skin), “kekkyo” 血虚 (in which the patient lacks sufficient blood to carry the “poison”), “hyōjitsu” 表実 (in which a blockage at the surface of the body causes an inability to push out the “poison” as a rash), “hyōkyo” 表虚 (in which vital energy is leaking from the surface of the body, causing an inability to pull the “poison” up to the skin), “rikyo” 裏虚 (in which there is a lack of vital energy and blood due to weak internal organs), “rijitsu” 裏実 (in which the patient is unable to move due to “poison” or heat trapped in the internal organs). Beginning with Zuisen, the Ikeda family doctors examined patients in great detail on a daily basis and prescribed medicines according to their diagnoses.

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Preventative measures against smallpox in remote areas As described above, in urban and rural areas, smallpox was regarded as an inevitable disease caused by “poison” in the body, and emphasis was placed on the minimization of symptoms post-infection. On the other hand, in remote areas, where epidemics of smallpox were rather rare and their consequences were often catastrophic, preventative measures differed vastly from those taken in urban or rural areas. In mountainous areas and on islands, for example, on the rare occasion that a case of smallpox did occur, it was customary to quickly build a hut in a remote area, quarantine the patient there, and not return him or her to the village until no sign of the symptoms remained. The care of the patient and the transportation of food and necessities to the hut were left to those who had already had smallpox, or to beggars living near the hut. Since the top priority was the removal of infected people from the village, there were many cases in which patients were not treated or cared for sufficiently. In some other places, it was customary to do the opposite: those who had never been infected with smallpox fled from their villages, leaving the victims behind. Such a case is recorded at Hachijō-jima, but it was also seen in Ezo and on the Amakusa Islands. In Ezo, the outbreak of smallpox cases was regarded as an attack by the god of smallpox “Pakorokamui” パコロカムイ. The people would burn down any house that became the site of an outbreak and immediately leave their village, shooting arrows behind them as they fled to prevent Pakorokamui from following in pursuit. The patients left behind had to find a way to survive on their own. There were other places where the practice of separating the infected from the uninfected had been adopted as an official system. These were the Iwakuni domain (in the western part of present-day Hiroshima Prefecture) and the Ōmura domain (in the southern part of present-day Nagasaki Prefecture). Both of these clans had large castle towns with major highways, but as a result of their thorough systems of isolating smallpox patients, neither experienced any large-scale epidemics throughout the early modern period. In the case of the Iwakuni clan, once a smallpox case was confirmed by a specialist, the clan would pay to transfer the patient to a designated village away from the castle town. At this village, a doctor appointed by the clan was stationed to treat the patients. Even after they were cured, the patients themselves and their caregivers were not allowed to approach the castle town or the castle where the feudal lord lived for around 100 days. The other people living in the house that the patient was removed from were also forbidden to go outside for several dozen days. In the case of the Ōmura clan, smallpox patients were transported to temporary huts in the distant mountains. Unlike the Iwakuni clan, in the Ōmura clan, the cost of transporting and caring for patients was not covered by clan funds, but was borne entirely by the patients. The Ōmura clan also had a period of observation after the patient had healed, and upon leaving the lodge, the patient had to spend seven days with a mountain ascetic to “cleanse himself ” of the sickness. The customs of remote areas, where even immediate family members did not care for patients at home, was often regarded as “fujin” 不仁 (against humanity, unethical) by people from other parts of the country. However, what must be taken into consideration is the tremendous human toll of smallpox in remote areas where epidemics rarely occurred. For much of the early modern period, there were only two options for dealing with smallpox: Chapter 8: Epidemiological Landscape and Medical Theories

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either to accept coexistence, as those in urban and rural areas did, or to reject it outright, as those in remote areas did. The partial implementation of variolation There was, however, a third option—that of “jintōshutō-jutsu”人痘種痘術 variolation—to prevent the transmission of smallpox . This technique, which involved the insertion of smallpox scabs or pus into the body of an uninfected patient, was introduced first through the Chinese method in the mid-18th century, followed by the Dutch method in Nagasaki at the end of the 18th century. (Japan during the early modern period was closed off to the world politically, but trade was allowed exclusively with China and the Netherlands). In the former method, powdered scabs were blown into the body through the nostrils, while in the latter, a cut was made on the arm into which the pus from a smallpox rash would be applied. Both of these methods are based on the idea that it is preferable to remove the smallpox “poison” from the bodies of uninfected people by applying smallpox “ki” 気 when their physical conditions and the weather are favorable, compared to contracting smallpox naturally. Because this method was said to draw out the “poison” from deep within the body up to the surface, variolation was also called “intō” 引痘. While variolation had the advantage of being able to be administered whenever conditions were favorable, there was also the danger that, if the timing of administration was misjudged or if the procedure failed, the inoculated person could die from the smallpox “poison.” In fact, several doctors, including Ikeda Zuisen of Igaku-kan (the shogunate medical school), recorded instances in which inoculated persons suffered adverse reactions or died after undergoing variolation. Once awareness grew of the possible dangers of variolation, its spread slowed to a halt in the archipelago, with only a few masters in each region passing on the technique to future generations. There was no large-scale implementation of variolation at the clan level. The one exception could be found in the Ryūkyū Kingdom (present-day Okinawa Prefecture). Until the Meiji era, the Ryūkyū Kingdom had implemented a regular national program of variolation. It began in the mid-18th century. Since the beginning of the 18th century, the Kingdom of Ryūkyū had been repeatedly attacked by smallpox epidemics. In 1766, the royal government ordered Uezu Rinkan, a doctor who had been studying in Satsuma (presentday Kagoshima Prefecture), to learn the art of smallpox variolation and to bring back scabs collected from smallpox patients. After returning to the Ryūkyū Kingdom, the doctor successfully induced a mild form of smallpox in his own child, but this accidentally triggered a smallpox epidemic which then spread throughout the country. Even after this experience, the Ryūkyū Kingdom continued to order scabs of smallpox patients from Satsuma once every twelve years, in accordance with the Chinese zodiac cycle, and conducted variolations at the national level. The human toll of variolation and the smallpox epidemics left in its wake were most likely considerable. In spite of this, the Ryūkyū Kingdom continued to conduct regular smallpox variolation throughout the following century. To understand the reason why the royal government continued to implement universal variolation, let us examine historical records of the second round of variolation, which had also been carried out under the direction of Uezu Rinkan.

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The following passage has been translated from an excerpt from the official records of his family: In 1778, smallpox began to spread locally, starting with a patient from the Satsuma domain. The royal government initially moved every patient into the mountains, but eventually ceased efforts to try and control the spread of the epidemic. Meanwhile, I, Rinkan, continued to collect scabs from mildly ill patients and prepared for variolation. When everything was ready, I advised the royal government to implement variolation widely throughout the country. A high-ranking royal official asked me if variolation could really end the epidemic soon. He was worried that the people were tired in the summer, and because Shinobose [仕 上世] (the time during which the Kingdom delivered its tribute to the Satsuma Domain), was approaching. So, I replied that variolation would immediately end the epidemic and would not hinder Shinobose. In this way, it was decided to implement smallpox vaccination. My two disciples and I each took charge of one-third of the main island, and carried out the variolation of the inhabitants. Shortly thereafter, the epidemic ended and Shinobose was conducted successfully.7 From this entry, we can glean that the royal government was very concerned about the timing of Shinobose. The Ryūkyū Kingdom had been under the tributary system of China since its formation in the early 15th century. The Kingdom was then invaded by the Satsuma domain in the early 17th century, and had been forced to make tributary contributions to them as well. In other words, for much of the early modern period, the Ryūkyū Kingdom had been subject to double tribute to both China and the Satsuma Domain. When smallpox arrived in the Ryūkyū Kingdom in the 18th century, it arrived in a country already heavily burdened by its foreign affairs. The royal government had its tributary obligations in mind when deliberating whether to implement wide-scale variolation, and consciously made use of it as a tool to keep smallpox from spreading at inconvenient times when it might interfere with important events like Shinobose. In other words, variolation was implemented in the Ryūkyū Kingdom not from the standpoint of its medical effectiveness, but in order to accommodate the geopolitical strategy of the Kingdom. The case of the Ryūkyū Kingdom, though it unfolded on a relatively small scale, is an extremely rare example of a nation or administrative unit regularly imposing compulsory variolation on its inhabitants, which contrasted even with policies seen during that time period. Though variolation allowed the government to artificially induce milder outbreaks of smallpox, that did not mean that it could control them. The only thing people could do was to care for those infected with the disease, and wait for it to subside naturally following its spread throughout the country.

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The cowpox vaccine and its half-century delay It was in the mid-19th century, at the end of the early modern era, that the status quo of preventative measures against smallpox began to change. A clan-level effort to introduce the “gyūtōshutō” 牛痘種痘 cowpox vaccine had begun to develop. Since the beginning of the 19th century, information about the cowpox vaccine trickled into Japan through the doctors at the Dutch trading post and through Japanese fishermen who had drifted abroad and returned. The vaccine was said to function in the same way that variolation does—by extracting the smallpox “poison”—but was known to be much safer than variolation. In the first half of the 19th century, more detailed facts on the cowpox vaccine arrived in Japan in the form of books. Some doctors tried to order the vaccine from abroad. Most doctors, however, continued to feel that it was more appropriate to treat the symptoms of the disease once the patient was infected, than to take the risk of “extracting the poison” beforehand. Members of the public were generally unaware that the prevention of smallpox was even possible, and so continued to expect to contract the disease once before adulthood. As a result, it was difficult to use the vaccines ordered from abroad to vaccinate a critical mass of people. However, in the mid-19th century, after rural populations across Japan were devastated by outbreaks of smallpox that took place concurrently with a nationwide famine, momentum grew among the Saga and Fukui clans to order vaccines and implement the cowpox vaccine. In 1849, a vaccine was imported from Indonesia, then a Dutch colony, and was subsequently spread throughout the Japanese archipelago. This was half a century after the cowpox vaccine was made commercially available by Edward Jenner in England at the end of the 18th century. Perhaps it makes practical sense that the business of bringing vaccines to Japan would emerge from neither the urban nor the remote areas, but from rural areas where controlling the spread of smallpox was a near-impossible task. In the urban areas during the early modern period, smallpox was not seen as a matter of life or death to most members of society, as people were infected by smallpox on a daily basis. Most doctors did not believe preventative measures were worth the risk, and instead adopted the strategy of treating the disease as best they could. The urban doctors who did attempt to popularize the cowpox vaccine have documented across the board how difficult it was to do so. On the other hand, in the mountainous regions and on the remote islands to which smallpox was a rare visitor, there was no push for the introduction of cowpox because there simply was no need for it. The penetration of smallpox into these regions was naturally suppressed by the harsh terrain and underdeveloped networks of transportation. But even among these remote regions, the Iwakuni and Ōmura clans, which artificially created smallpox-free conditions, were enthusiastic about introducing and popularizing the cowpox vaccine. When it became available in Japan in 1849, both clans immediately prepared and implemented vaccination in their territories. In 1868, the Japanese political system was reformed, and this began the modern period of Japanese history. Under the new political system, the public health system was led by Nagayo Sensai, who came from a family of public variolation doctors of the Ōmura domain. As the first director of the Health Bureau of the Ministry of Home Affairs, his first project was the compulsory cowpox vaccination of all citizens.

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Smallpox in Japan from the modern period onward Cowpox vaccination was made compulsory for the population in 1876, and continued to be for exactly one century until 1976, when the “shutō-ka” 種痘禍 (vaccination accident) became a major social problem8. During that period, there were three epidemics in the Japanese archipelago in which the death toll exceeded 10,000. But since 1900, smallpox has ceased to be the cause of any large-scale epidemics. The epidemic patterns of smallpox in Japan changed drastically during the decades since the start of the modern period. At the same time, the characterization of smallpox has changed dramatically. Smallpox came to be regarded not only by physicians but also by the general public as an infectious disease that can be prevented by a vaccine, rather than as an inevitable childhood illness. As soon as Japan resumed trade and diplomacy with other countries at the end of the early modern period, various infectious diseases such as cholera, typhoid fever and influenza swept through the Japanese archipelago, and together with these, smallpox was redefined as a “densenbyō” 伝染病, an infectious disease. Under the new legal system, smallpox became the subject of state surveillance to monitor outbreaks whenever they would occur. Thereafter, in addition to the cowpox vaccine, Western-style public hygiene measures such as quarantine stations at ports of entry, medical isolation, travel-related control measures, disinfection, maintenance of water and sewage systems and sludge disposal in urban areas were introduced to Japan. The formerly diverse epidemiological landscape of the Japanese archipelago was gradually leveled out following the modern period, bringing us to the present day.

Notes 1 Unless otherwise noted, the descriptions in this paper are based on the following book. Kozai Toyoko, Shutō toiu eisei: Kinsei Nihon ni okeru yobōsesshu no rekishi [The road to immunization: A history of smallpox in early modern Japan] (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 2019). 2 Kuroita Katsumi and Kokushitaikei Henshūkai, eds., Nihon shoki: Zen-pen [Chronicles of Japan, part 1] (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1989), 158. 3 Kuroita Katsumi and Kokushitaikei Henshūkai, eds., Nihon shoki: Kō-hen [Chronicles of Japan, part 2] (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1990), 78–115. 4 Doi Tadao, Morita Takeshi and Osanami Minoru, eds., Hōyaku Nippo-jisho [Japanese-translated JapanesePortuguese dictionary] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1980), 165. 5 Kozai, Shutō toiu Eisei, 99–105. 6 Editor unknown, “Hachijō-jima, Kojima, Aoga-shima nendaiki: Eikyō-nenchū yori Tenmei 9 tori-doshi made 362 nen” [Chronicles of Hachijojima, Kojima, and Aogashima 1429–1789], in Nihon Shomin-seikatsu Shiryō-shūsei Vol.1: Tanken, kikō, chishi Nantō-hen [Compilation of materials on the lives of common people in Japan], ed. Miyamoto Tsuneichi, Harada Torao and Higa Shuncho (Tokyo: Sanichi Shobō, 1968). 7 Naha-shi Kikaku-bu Shishihensyu-shitsu ed., Naha-shi shi: Shiryo-hen [The history of Naha city], vol. 1, no. 8 (Okinawa: Naha-shi Kikaku-bu Shishihensyū-sitsu, 1983), 365. 8 For a description of this section, see the following paper. Kozai Toyoko, “Yobōsesshu no fukuhan’nō wo meguru ronsō: 1970 nendai no shutō-ka ronsō kara” [Controversy over side effects of vaccination: A case study of the 1970s “vaccination epidemic” controversy], in Yamai to kenkō wo meguru semegiai: Kontesutēsyon no iryō-shakaigakui [The conflict over health and disease: Medical sociology on the contestation of concepts], ed. Satō Junichi, Mima Tatsuya, Nakagawa Teruhiko and Kuroda Kōichirō (Kyoto: Minerva-shobō, 2022).

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Bibliography Doi, Tadao, Morita Takeshi and Osanami Minoru, eds. Hōyaku Nippo-jisho [Japanese-translated JapanesePortuguese dictionary]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1980. “Hachijō-jima, Kojima, Aoga-shima nendaiki: Eikyō-nenchū yori Tenmei 9 tori-doshi made 362 nen” [Chronicles of Hachijojima, Kojima, and Aogashima 1429–1789]. In Nihon Shomin-seikatsu Shiryō-shūsei Vol.1: Tanken, kikō, chishi Nantō-hen [Compilation of materials on the lives of common people in Japan]. Edited by Miyamoto Tsuneichi, Harada Torao and Higa Shuncho. Tokyo: Sanichi Shobō, 1968. Kuroita, Katsumi and Kokushitaikei Henshūkai, eds. Nihon shoki: Zen-pen [Chronicles of Japan, part 1]. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1989. ———. Nihon shoki: Kō-hen [Chronicles of Japan, part 2]. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1990. Kozai, Toyoko. Shutō toiu eisei: Kinsei Nihon ni okeru yobōsesshu no rekishi [The road to immunization: A history of smallpox in early modern Japan]. Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 2019. ———. “Yobōsesshu no fukuhan’nō wo meguru ronsō: 1970 nendai no shutō-ka ronsō kara” [Controversy over side effects of vaccination: A case study of the 1970s “vaccination epidemic” controversy]. In Yamai to kenkō wo meguru semegiai: Kontesutēsyon no iryō-shakaigakui [The conflict over health and disease: Medical sociology on the contestation of concepts]. Edited by Satō Junichi, Mima Tatsuya, Nakagawa Teruhiko and Kuroda Kōichirō. Kyoto: Minerva-shobō, 2022. Naha-shi Kikaku-bu Shishihensyu-shitsu ed. Naha-shi shi: Shiryo-hen [The history of Naha city], vol. 1, no. 8. Okinawa: Naha-shi Kikaku-bu Shishihensyū-sitsu, 1983.

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Chapter 9 Between Nature and Human: History of the Use of “Night Soil” in Japan Yuzawa Noriko This chapter describes the history of the use of “night soil” in Japan, using agricultural manuals and records left by individuals dating from the Edo period to the modern period in order to consider possible future developments. The use of human excreta as fertilizer evolved in terms of the objectives and the techniques utilized, and it remained in use until the period of high economic growth. With the rapid technological innovation in the field of toilets and sewage systems after WWII, recycling systems have been reevaluated in recent years and efforts have been made to improve and promote the use of sewage sludge by companies that specialize in recycling technologies.

Introduction With advanced toilet and sewerage technologies, many people in today’s modern society believe that discussing human excrement is taboo, and people have almost no opportunity to engage in an in-depth discussion of the topic. This predicament, however, has developed relatively recently in society. In the past, human waste was used as fertilizer in Japanese farmland. The technique of returning composted human waste (known as shimogoe in Japanese and “night soil” in English) was prevalent and was actively utilized, particularly in suburbs of major urban centers such as Osaka and Edo (the former name of Tokyo). Watanabe, for example, wrote about the relationship between vegetable cultivation and the use of urban waste, including night soil, that developed in the suburbs of the city of Edo, as part of his historical exploration of fertilization in suburban areas during the Edo period (1603–1867). This also included a comparison between Osaka and Kyoto in the West. Watanabe concluded the following: “local systems of organic material circulation formed between the early modern cities and the surrounding agricultural villages; the return of returned urban waste to the surrounding villages.” 1 Watanabe also discussed how, during the Taishō period (1912–1926), the commercialization of urban human waste began to fade away gradually, and human waste was relegated to the status of waste. The relationship that had existed between urban and suburban areas finally ended during the post-WWII period of

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high economic growth. Thus, the use of night soil in Japan did not end with the Edo period but continued through the early modern period and up until the post-WWII period of rapid economic growth. Here, I would like to consider the history of the use of “night soil” in Japan, as well as future developments from two perspectives: “the material cycle” and “people’s lives.”

Night soil in Edo Japan and the “cyclical world” Development of agriculture and the use of human waste as fertilizer Human waste was material that, as previously stated, was the object of awe in mythology during the pre-Edo medieval period and, while it was regarded valuable in relation to manners and customs as well as magic, in many cases, it was not valued as useful resources and was frequently discarded. During the Edo period, however, the use of human waste became established as an important skill to increase agricultural production, and fermented human waste became a widely used farming resource. As a result, prices were ascribed to human waste, and it was bought and sold on the market. Far from being just “waste,” human waste came to be actively traded as a valuable “commodity.” This moment in the history of human waste differs substantially from the circumstances that existed in both the medieval and the modern worlds. Agricultural technologies saw significant advancements in Japan from the latter half of the 17th century to the early 18th century (i.e., the mid-Edo period). This was a time when new arable developments and the cultivation of commercial agricultural products flourished. This was due to the pursuit of highly productive agricultural technologies to support the growing population at the time. During this time, the production of raw cotton and other agricultural commodities became a prosperous business. Fertilizers such as gyohi (fertilizer made from fish parts) and aburakasu (fertilizer made from oil dregs) were adopted in line with the rise of this new business. Because these had to be purchased, they were dubbed “commercial fertilizers.” Traders engaged in the collection and distribution of fertilizers emerged throughout Japan, creating a new market. In contrast, manure (animal waste) and night soil (human waste), which came into widespread use as suburban vegetable cultivation areas expanded, were fertilizers that farmers could supply to themselves, thus eliminating the need to purchase them. Since agricultural businesses faced financial hardships when they relied exclusively on commercial fertilizers, from the latter half of the 17th century, self-sufficient fertilizers based on fermented human waste were used, in addition to those which were purchased. This was a time when a large number of books on agricultural technologies—somewhat like technical manuals—were published. Innovations in the use of fertilizers were made in order to maximize the efficiency of cultivating agricultural products as much as possible and the use of night soil (human waste) was one of these innovations. The fact that books on agricultural technology published during this period use the term “fun” (human waste) to indicate “fertilizer” confirms the use of human waste as fertilizer.

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Edo economy and night soil In discussions on environmental history, the Edo period has been lauded as having been “a society that took the environment into consideration.” These words of praise, however, are based merely on modern values, and it would be more accurate to see this era as one in which economic activities arose as a result of the enormous profits that could be made by circulating a variety of materials. A wide variety of organic materials such as seashells, seaweed, fish, grass, brushwood, animal manure, straw and rice husks were used as fertilizers to increase soil productivity in a time of population growth and the introduction of new commercial agricultural products. In the suburbs of Edo and Osaka, where the supply of such organic materials was scarce, the enormous amount of available human waste was recognized as an important resource and was thus used as fertilizer. As agriculture developed, demand for fertilizers increased, and night soil became actively traded. Based on historical materials of the time, it is reasonable to assume that this was an astonishingly big business. Meticulous collection contracts were systematically made, and disputes over attendant rights arose regularly. Although it is difficult to estimate the market size accurately, that is, the amount of human waste used for this purpose, we can assess the overall scale of the market based on the numbers recorded in documents created when farmers negotiated for lower prices. We then attempt to ascertain the amount of human waste produced in Edo and its uses by calculating the concrete numbers.2 For example, in the mid-16th century, the cost of a year’s worth of night soil generated by 100 people was approximately two gold Japanese ryo. Given Edo’s population of approximately one million at that time, it is reasonable to assume that an annual total of 20,000 ryo worth of night soil was traded. If these figures are adjusted to modern values, it will imply that the market was worth between 800 million and 1.2 billion yen. When we convert these into the volume, we get 270 million liters, sufficient to fill approximately 560 25-meter swimming pools. This was not discarded as waste; instead it was sold as fertilizer for farming purposes; therefore, it was returned to the agricultural fields of the surrounding farming villages. The next issue that needs to be considered is how this massive resource circulation system became viable. In Edo, the collection of human waste was referred to as shimo sōji (literally “sewer cleaning”), and those who were engaged in this activity as transporters of human waste were known as “sewer cleaners.” Many of them were farmers living in the areas surrounding the city of Edo. The sewer cleaners entered into contracts with samurai residences, temples and shrines, and merchants for the right to collect the human waste from these areas in exchange for monetary or material compensation (vegetables, pickles, for example). They formed unions in their villages and exchanged protocols related to sewer cleaning. Thus, they had a highly developed process for systematized trading and comprehensive regulations governing how this trading should be conducted. Night soil as seen in agricultural technical manuals What were the views of the people at the time on the usage of night soil in agriculture? Let us examine the agricultural technical manuals of the Edo period. In his work Nokahibairon

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(Theory of agriculture, husbandry, fertilization, and cultivation), Okura Nagatsune, who wrote many agricultural technical manuals, noted the following: The most important factor in agriculture is “excreta soil” (i.e., fertilizer). This is made throughout the heavens and earth, that is, in the whole of the natural world. When provided to a variety of grains around the world, it supports people and sustains their lives. No human being, from the noblest to the ordinary people, not even birds, animals, insects, and fish, can live active lives without eating.3 Within the endeavor of agriculture, not only humans but also all birds, animals, insects, and fish form a single “cycle” through food and excreta soil. This term “cycle” (or “circulation”: 環) has a different connotation from the modern term “environment” (which, in Japanese, uses the character that means “cycle”: 環境). The term “environment” frequently refers to the relationship that exists between humans and their natural surroundings. However, what is described in the agricultural technical manuals mentioned above is that humans are valued equally with all other living things. It was a world in which a close relationship was cultivated between human waste and the “life” it supported via the soil. In this chapter, I interpret this relationship slightly differently from what the modern word “environment” implies. I interpret it as the “cyclical world.” Assessment of “night soil” from a Western perspective Waterways and canals that crisscross Osaka, famed as the “City of Water,” were utilized to transport night soil. In 1769, 2,000 boats were registered to transport night soil. On May 9, 1826, the German physician and naturalist Philipp Franz von Siebold wrote the following in his diary entry (in his “Travelogue of my Visit to Edo”) about what he witnessed in Osaka: Fertilizer transportation boats specially built for this purpose routinely arrive from Osaka City. People stockpile this fertilizer in the summer and use it for a variety of garden trees and even grains throughout Japan. As a result, throughout June, July, and August, areas throughout Japan, particularly regions surrounding large urban areas, are frequently inundated with this filthy material. Therefore, this material is a terrible impediment to enjoying Japan’s beautiful scenery.4 The arrival and departure of boats transporting night soil were an “obstacle” to the beautiful scenery for Siebold. This could be due to the implied revulsion at the usage of human waste in farming. In addition to Siebold, several other westerners documented the usage of night soil during the period between the 17th and 19th centuries. Edward S. Morse, a biologist who came to Japan from the United States, praised Japanese agricultural techniques for their “diligent” and “skilled” utilization of every available type of fertilizer, including human waste. He had high praise from a medical standpoint because, unlike a city in the United States (Boston), Japan had few diseases caused by human waste.

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However, the majority of the records describe the odor of night soil as virtually intolerable. What we deduce from these descriptions is that human waste were materials that were “hidden” and “discarded” in western society due to their classification as “hazardous materials.” Therefore, all extant records demonstrate an attitude against the use of night soil, emphasizing the idea that human waste are by no means utilized as fertilizer in other countries.5 Human waste has a history of playing an essential role as an agricultural fertilizer in the East Asian region, which includes Japan. This is particularly true in the regions surrounding urban areas. On the other hand, in western society, human waste was seen as a waste product that must be disposed of because it might transmit infectious diseases, rather than as fertilizer, a thing of value.6

Night soil as a resource in the cities of modern Japan Night soil recorded in historical materials related to textile factories The next issue to explore is how the usage of night soil evolved following the Edo period, as discussed above. In this section, I examine how the structure of the material cycle established in the early modern period changed during the industrial revolution of the modern period. The subject of this survey is Aichi Prefecture, as this region allows examining the relationship between cities and agricultural villages during the industrial revolution. The region, known as Bisai in Aichi Prefecture (present-day Ichinomiya City), evolved as a hub of textile production during the modern period, particularly from the Taishō period (1912–1926). As a result, there was an abundance of factories employing large numbers of female laborers. There are two ledgers titled “Fertilizer Transfer Records” among the historical materials related to the management of these factories.7 The upper row of the page is titled “large” (大), the lower row is titled “small” (小), and each row records the amounts traded. These titles indicate feces (written as 大便 in Japanese) and urine (written as 小便 in Japanese). In other words, they are records of trade in the human waste of factory workers. It is interesting to note that, after it was converted into a sum of money, it was listed as “payment-in-kind” with daikon (Japanese radishes). If we tabulate the figures recorded in this ledger, we see that this factory had business relationships with about ten local farmers for the sale and transfer of fertilizer during the periods from 1900 to 1905 and from 1913 to 1921. This demonstrates that even during the industrial revolution, “human waste” was bought and sold in the same way as they had been during the Edo period for use as fertilizer. There are two points of interest in the trends observed in the sale and transfer of fertilizer from factories to farmers. First, fertilizers were subdivided into those derived from feces and those derived from urine. These were calculated in two time periods, spring and autumn. If we convert the figures for feces and urine during one of these periods into barrels, we observe that approximately 200 barrels of feces and 400 barrels of urine were sold and purchased practically every year. Moreover, feces had a high monetary value. The second point is that payment was not made in cash but agricultural products such as straw, daikon, wheat seeds and chicken eggs, or by working in textile factories. Textile factories procured agricultural products from farmers or paid them a per diem allowance. The remainder of the money after these deductions was deemed payment for the fertilizer. Chapter 9: History of the Use of “Night Soil” in Japan

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The human waste produced by factory workers was sold and transported to the surrounding agricultural villages in exchange for daikon from the farmers. This daikon was prepared as side dishes and pickles in the factory kitchens that the workers then ate. The energy gained was subsequently used as labor in the production of textile. Our examination of the “Fertilizer Transfer Records” reveals a cyclical relationship between the agricultural villages and the factories. According to an interview survey, the factories also procured vegetables, firewood and charcoal from the farmers in addition to requesting that farmers, from whose families the factory workforces were drawn, work in the cultivation of vegetables in factories’ fields, and the making of pickles. Thus, in modern Japan, material circulation, i.e., a cyclical relationship was established between the agricultural villages and the factories involving food, fuel and fertilizer. Scientific knowledge and the use of night soil Although night soil was used in the same way as it had been during the Edo period, people in the modern period had access to new scientific knowledge. Let us continue to examine the trends in Aichi Prefecture. At the turn of the 20th century, agriculture in Aichi Prefecture underwent significant changes. First, the adoption of vegetable and fruit cultivation, as well as husbandry (specifically, poultry farming) aimed at consumers in Nagoya City and cities in the Keihanshin region (Kyoto, Osaka, Kobe), instigated the shift to commercial agriculture.8 In particular, there was a remarkable rise in the cultivation of daikon and other vegetables. Under these circumstances, expenditures on fertilizer used in Aichi Prefecture rose annually, with expenditures on commercial fertilizers alone reaching 3.4 million yen (price per tan [a unit of area equivalent to approximately 992 m2] = 2.4 yen) in fiscal 1906, before rising to 5.8 million yen (price per tan = 3.3 yen) in 1912 and 7.6 million yen (price per tan = 4.8 yen) the following year.9 However, an increase in fertilizer expenditures did not increase productivity. This is believed to be because farmers lacked sufficient knowledge about the use of fertilizer, according to the Prefectural Agriculture Experiment Station. As a result, in 1916, the Aichi Prefectural Agriculture Experiment Station published a technical manual entitled “Hiryou no hanashi” (About fertilizer).10 According to this work, in an age of sparse populations and vast swathes of land, it would be possible to leave fields fallow for as long as four or five years before cultivating them, allowing the soil to restore its fertility. However, due to the increase in population, the same land would be subjected to overuse (cultivation of crops two or three times per year), resulting in lower yields. Thus, there was an increased need to fertilize land following each harvest to maintain the soil’s fertility. In particular, the work emphasized the three components of fertilizer: nitrogen, phosphoric acid, and potassium. The technical manual entitled “Shimogoe” (Night soil), published in 1914, included descriptions of the components found in human waste, fermentation methods, storage methods, fertilizer application methods and deodorant and disinfection methods. It also discussed the scientific rationale for using human waste as night soil. The fact that scientific techniques and logic were added indicates that the use of night soil had advanced to a new stage in the modern world.

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Farmers were recommended to utilize selfsufficient fertilizers, including night soil, in order to maintain their finances since the new commercial fertilizers that arrived on the market around this time were extremely expensive. Based on data estimated by the Aichi Prefectural Agriculture Experiment Station (Figure 9.1) in 1913, commercial fertilizer accounted for 13.4 percent while self-sufficient fertilizer accounted for 86.6 percent by quantity, indicating that selfsufficient fertilizer was widely utilized. Human waste, as a self-sufficient form of fertilizer, was the most commonly used type (38.4 percent). On the other hand, when looking at the money spent, commercial fertilizer accounted for 67.7 percent, compared to 32.3 percent for self-sufficient fertilizer. In other words, while fertilizer consumers in Aichi Prefecture relied on vast volumes of selfsufficient fertilizer at the time, it was being used in combination with expensive commercial fertilizer.

Figure 9.1 Consumption of fertilizer in Aichi prefecture (1913)

Purchased fertilizer, 13.4% Human waste, 38.4% Self-sufficient fertilizer, 48.2%

Source: Aichi Prefectural Agricultural Experiment Station “Story of fertilizer” 1916

Hygiene issues associated with expanding urban areas As we have discussed up to this point, night soil was still in use even in the modern age. It has nevertheless come to be perceived as a problem in urban areas. During the industrial revolution, the influx of laborers in urban areas resulted in enormous quantities of human waste accumulating in the cities and regions with factories. This quantity already surpassed what could be returned to the agricultural villages, and thus the processing of excess human waste began to emerge as a major social issue in the cities. The accumulation of human waste in the cities which continued to grow also came to be seen as a problem, as it served as a breeding ground for cholera, dysentery and other diseases. Figure 9.2 depicts fluctuations in the population of Nagoya City from the Taishō period to the early Shōwa period (1926–1989), revealing a rapid increase in population. The population grew markedly, particularly after 1920, when it rose by approximately 200,000 people every ten years. When we examine the expansion of the urban area of Nagoya City during this period, we observe that rail lines had already been built by 1900. New rail lines were built to surround the urban area in 1923, and by 1935, the urban area expanded beyond the rail lines (Figure 9.3). As the urban areas of Nagoya rapidly developed, urban pollution and environmental problems became apparent, prompting the prefectural government of Aichi to establish “the Health Association Guidelines” on June 24, 1887. Health associations are a type of public association aimed at educating people about public health and improving its quality. Starting from around 1897, these associations became deeply involved in the prevention of infectious diseases.

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Figure 9.2 Population transition of Nagoya city from Taishō period to early Shōwa period Hundred thousand people 1,500

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Source: Nagoya city open data “Trends in the number of households and population”

Figure 9.3 Expansion of urban area centered on Nagoya City (1900-1935) 1900

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Source: 1 / 50,000 topographic map “Northern Nagoya”, “Southern Nagoya”

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In March 1900, Japan passed its first law related to waste, known as “Obutsusōjihō” (Waste Sanitation Act), in response to the cholera outbreaks centered in the cities of Kobe and Osaka from November 1899 to January of the following year. This law obliged those who owned or utilized private land, as well as municipal governments in the case of public land to “clean waste and maintain sanitary conditions” and stated that municipal governments would “be responsible for processing collected waste.” Local governments have been responsible for garbage collection since that time and continue to do so to this day. Human waste was included among the items considered “waste” in Kobe, which was the first city in Japan to be designated as an “infectious disease outbreak area” due to a cholera outbreak. However, because the use of human waste as fertilizer was well established in Aichi Prefecture and elsewhere, human waste was removed from the items classified as “waste” at this point. In 1930, the Waste Sanitation Act was amended, and human waste was categorized as “waste.” Despite this, the use of night soil persisted. The Shōwa Depression hit Japan in the 1930s, and one of the national Shōwa Depression agricultural policies recommended utilizing selfsufficient fertilizer as part of the economic recovery efforts. As a result, human waste began to be seen as an extremely important type of self-sufficient fertilizer. Following World War II, shortages and skyrocketing fertilizer prices caused human waste to resurface as a valuable commodity. Most of the human waste was distributed to suburban agricultural villages, where it was used as fertilizer. In Japan, the system of using night soil and human waste sanitation and processing ceased to exist before the onset of the period of high economic growth.

The widespread use of sewage processing technologies during the period of high economic growth and prospects Development of sanitation and sewage processing technologies As stated previously, human waste had been utilized as fertilizer in Japan for hundreds of years. However, during periods of high economic growth, flushing toilets and sewage processing technologies rapidly became commonplace. Human waste became subject to processing, and in 1954, “the Waste Sanitation Act” was repealed and replaced by “the Sanitation Act” (Seisōhō). After that, a network of environment and sanitation legislation continued to evolve. The Japan Environmental Sanitation Association (currently known as the Japan Environmental Sanitation Center) was founded following the enactment of the Sanitation Act. The Sanitation Administration made significant strides once the two subcommittees known as the Human waste Processing Subcommittee and the Trash Processing Subcommittee were constituted. The “activated sludge process,” which breaks down sewage by injecting it with large amounts of oxygen, became commonplace after it became feasible to use large amounts of electric power in sewerage technologies. Following this process, chlorine is added as a disinfectant, allowing the resulting treated waste water to be released. Currently, disinfection methods utilizing ultraviolet irradiation are being tested. In 1970, the Sewerage Act was partially revised, and an additional objective, “preserving the water quality of public waters,” was added, resulting in the creation of the sewerage system that exists today.11 In summary,

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sewage processing technologies in Japan after World War II were mainly developed to emphasize the processing and reuse of water. Attempts to process sludge and transform it into resources. Sludge produced by sewage processing plants, on the other hand, was dried using crude petroleum, burned, and turned into ash. This was then used for land reclamation or dumped into the ocean. However, reusing the dried sludge as compost is not technically impossible. Even in Tokyo, experiments to convert sludge into resources began in 1974. In 1976 the “Compost Research Project Team” began its investigations, and by 1980 a factory producing 2 to 3 tons of compost per day was operational in the Minami Tama Processing Plant, which then began selling the material through Japan Agricultural Cooperatives.12 However, as of

Figure 9.4 Trends in status of processing and effective use of sewage sludge Thousand DS-t 2,500

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Source: Documents on “Resource and Energy Utilization in Sewerage” by the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism

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2021, this fertilizer is no longer available for sale. This is because the municipal government is unable to keep up with the city of Tokyo’s ever-increasing amount of sludge without depending upon incineration. According to the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Bureau of Waterworks, sludge is no longer sent to agricultural areas as “fertilizer;” instead, it is reused as a cement admixture, a lightweight concrete building material, and a component in cement and asphalt. A portion of it is said to be used as soil in rooftop greening projects. Considering the shifts in the “status of processing and effective use of sewage sludge” from materials published by the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism (Figure 9.4), we can see that in recent years, an increasing percentage of sewage sludge has been recycled. Examination of the details reveals that the most prevalent use is as construction materials followed by landfills. Although its use in greening projects has increased modestly in the last few years, the overall percentage remains low. The use of sludge in greening projects is likely to be defined as the “21st-century use of night soil,” yet, the percentage of sludge used for this purpose remains low in Japan. The Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism recently announced its “Bistro Sewerage” measure, which aims to actively convert sewage sludge into compost and use it in agriculture. Saga City (Saga Prefecture) and Tsuruoka City (Yamagata Prefecture) are two of the most advanced regions involved in the practical application of these measures. Tsuruoka City is continuing the project to turn sludge into compost, which was discontinued in Tokyo. Using rice husks as a resource—abundant in regions where rice is cultivated—by mixing them with sludge, fermenting the mixture at high temperatures and creating compost for agricultural use has continued since 1986. This laid the framework for the development of the Bistro Sewerage project. Sewage sludge is now classified as industrial waste, necessitating innovative technologies to process it. In collaboration with the “Sustainable Food Systems” formulated by the Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries in 2021, the use of sewage sludge in greening projects may expand in the future.

Conclusions In this chapter, I have described the history of the use of night soil in Japan from two perspectives—material circulation and in the daily lives of people—using agricultural technical manuals and records left by individuals dating from the Edo period to the modern period in order to consider possible future developments. The results can be summarized as follows: The first point is that, while the use of human waste as night soil evolved in terms of the objectives and the techniques utilized, it remained in use until the period of high economic growth. Economically, the use of “night soil” in Japan constituted a sizeable and significant market until the first half of the 20th century. The second point is that during the industrial revolution of the early modern period, rapid urbanization and population growth led to greater demand for food and fertilizers, and the subsequent rapid population growth resulted in the production of excess amounts of human waste. This enormous amount of human waste caused social problems throughout the first decade of the 20th century, as it was the cause of offensive odors and an unhygienic environment. These issues arose as a result of the rapid increase in human waste, which led

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to the breakdown of the circulation system that had been in place until that point. The breakdown of this circulation system created during the Edo period, in which the use of night soil established a “life cycle” through the use of human waste in the soil, was one consequence of this situation. The third point is that rapid innovations in the fields of toilets and sewerage systems after World War II resulted in a return to a circulatory system of reuse. After being processed at sewage processing plants, human waste was reused as water, and most of the sludge that settled as sediment was converted into ash through incineration processing. This ash was then utilized in landfill projects and as a construction material. However, the percentage of greening projects continues to be low. The system of material circulation ceased to exist, and therefore it is difficult to assert that the “21st-century use of night soil” has become a fixture in Japan. However, in recent years, the inclusion of “recycling of sewage sludge” in waste management policies has become a major international concern. As a result, efforts have been made to improve and promote the use of sewage sludge by companies that specialize in recycling technologies. For example, data from 2004 shows that while the recycling rate of sewage sludge into green agriculture in Japan remained stagnant at 14 percent, over 60 percent of bio-solids in England were recycled into green agriculture.13 Over the last two decades, the public and private sectors have worked together to develop recycling projects. In an attempt to establish guidelines for such projects, the UK Sludge [Use for Agriculture] Regulation and other similar laws were enacted in 1989. Finally, in terms of prospects, I would like to highlight the significance of current research in the field of environmental history in light of the above discussion. The fact that night soil was used in Japan until the early period of high economic growth means that we still have direct accounts of those experiences and the period when night soil was utilized. Further investigation into these times and into the history of the use of night soil by paying close attention to the activities taking place in the soil beneath our feet does not merely review the past; rather, it has a high degree of significance for the present day, as it enables us to create new uses for resources and recreate systems of circulation.

Notes 1

Watanabe Zenjiro, Toshi to nōson no aida: toshi kinkō nōgyōshi ron [Between cities and agricultural villages: A historical theory of suburban agriculture] (Tokyo: Ronso-sha, 1983), 347. 2 See Nesaki Mitsuo, “Edo no shimogoe ryūtsū to shi’nyō kan” [The human manure distribution of the Edo era and the view of raw sewages], Ningen kankyō ronshū 9, no. 1 (2008): 1–21 for the figures shown below. 3 Tokunaga Mitsutoshi, ed., Nihon nōsho zenshū, Vol. 69, Nōsangyoson Bunka Kyōkai Press, 1996. 4 Philipp Franz Balthasar von Siebold, Edo sampo kiko [Travels to Edo], Trans. Makoto Saito (Tokyo: Toyobunko, Heibonsha Press, 1967). 5 Recently, Mitsumata Nobuko, “A comparison of excreta economics in Japan and the UK: A discussion from the perspective of material circulation,” Economics Review 61, no. 1 (2009): 173–93 and other works have outlined the history of the use of night soil in the UK. 6 Onjo Akio, “Changes in the relation between cities and agricultural villages seen from trade in excreta: Case study of Hiroshima City in the 1920s and 1930s,” Space, Society, and Geographical Thought no. 23 (2020): 37–51. A. Rockefeller, “Civilization and Sludge: Notes on the History of the Management of Human Excreta,” Capitalism, Nature, Socialism 9, no. 3 (1998): 3–18. 7 Suzuki Takashi family papers 0873, 0874.

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8

Yuzawa Noriko, “Kindai nihon no sangyō chiiki keiseiki ni okeru nōkakeizai kōzō no henka: Aichiken “Nōka keizai chōsa” ni miru nōka no kurashi” [Changes in the structure of farmers’ economics during the early modern period of the formation of industrial regions in Japan: The daily lives of farmers seen from Aichi Prefecture’s “Farmers’ economic Survey”], Shirin 99, no. 1 (2016): 177–208. 9 Aichi Prefectural Agriculture Experiment Station, About Fertilizer (1916). The following discussion depends primarily on this source. 10 Aichi Prefectural Agriculture Experiment Station, About Fertilizer, 7. 11 Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism homepage “Gesuidō no reikishi” [History of sewerage], accessed March 11, 2020, www.mlit.go.jp/crd/city/sewerage/data/basic/rekisi.html. 12 Gesuidō Tokyo 100-nenshi Iinkai, eds., Gesuidō Tokyo 100-nenshi [100 years of history of the Tokyo sewerage system] (Tokyo: Tokyo Gesuidōkyoku, 1989), 273–74. 13 Mitsumata Nobuko, The uses of sewerage sludge in green agriculture: Environmental policies in England, Journal of Material Cycles and Waste Management Research 20, no. 1 (2009): 22–28.

Bibliography Aichi Prefectural Agriculture Experiment Station. About Fertilizer. 1916. Gesuidō Tokyo 100-nenshi Iinkai, eds., Gesuidō Tokyo 100 nen shi [100 years of history of the Tokyo sewerage system]. Tokyo: Tokyo Gesuidōkyoku, 1989. Mitsumata, Nobuko. “A comparison of excreta economics in Japan and the UK: A discussion from the perspective of material circulation.” Economics Review 61, no. 1 (2009): 173–93. ———. “The uses of sewerage sludge in green agriculture: Environmental policies in England.” Journal of Material Cycles and Waste Management Research 20, no. 1 (2009): 22–28. Nesaki, Mitsuo.“Edo no shimogoe ryūtsū to shi’nyō kan” [The human manure distribution of the Edo era and the view of raw sewages]. Ningen kankyō ronshū 9, no. 1 (2008): 1–21. Onjo, Akio. “Changes in the relation between cities and agricultural villages seen from trade in excreta: Case study of Hiroshima City in the 1920s and 1930s.” Space, Society, and Geographical Thought no. 23 (2020): 37–51. Rockefeller, A. “Civilization and Sludge: Notes on the History of the Management of Human Excreta.” Capitalism, Nature, Socialism 9, no. 3 (1998): 3–18. Tokunaga Mitsutoshi, ed. Nihon nōsho zenshū, Vol. 69. Nōsangyoson Bunka Kyōkai Press, 1996. von Siebold, Philipp Franz Balthasar. Edo sampo kiko [Travels to Edo]. Translated by Makoto Saito. Tokyo: Toyobunko, Heibonsha Press, 1967. Watanabe, Zenjiro. Toshi to nōson no aida: toshi kinkō nōgyōshi ron [Between cities and agricultural villages: A historical theory of suburban agriculture]. Tokyo: Ronso-sha, 1983. Yuzawa, Noriko. “Kindai nihon no sangyō chiiki keiseiki ni okeru nōkakeizai kōzō no henka: Aichiken “Nōka keizai chōsa” ni miru nōka no kurashi” [Changes in the structure of farmers’ economics during the early modern period of the formation of industrial regions in Japan: The daily lives of farmers seen from Aichi Prefecture’s “Farmers’ economic Survey”]. Shirin 99, no. 1 (2016): 177–208.

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Chapter 10 Agricultural Technology and the Environment in Modern Japan Fujihara Tatsushi In this chapter, I show the development history of modern Japanese agricultural technology, focusing on rice breeding, tractors, chemical fertilizers and the spread of pesticides. To that end, we must consider not only the mainland of Japan, but also the transformation of the former colonies. Furthermore, the short history of organic farming and Teikei (“partnership”) movement to connect producers and consumers, which was born to compete with these modern agricultural techniques, is also touched upon.

Introduction The Japanese archipelago, surrounded by the sea, has a mild and humid climate. About twothirds of the country is mountainous forested area and the remaining is plains. Most Japanese people live and have lived on the plains, amid rivers and natural and human-made ponds of various sizes, cultivating rice, wheat, soybeans and many kinds of vegetables. Currently, the total area of cultivated land in Japan is about 2.4 million ha of paddy fields and about 2 million ha of plowed fields, occupying about 12 percent of the total area of Japan. If one travels across the Japanese archipelago by rail and sees the landscape through the window of the train, it would not be strange to regard Japan as a rich agricultural country with its many paddy fields with systematic irrigation and plowed fields for other crops. It is not difficult to identify mandarin orange orchards on the sides of hills, well-manicured tea fields, apple orchards, and vineyards in the rural areas of Japan. In Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Japan, which has a humid continental climate, there are vast fields of potatoes, onions, soybeans, red beans and sugar beets, while subtropical island regions such as Okinawa have fields of sugarcane and pineapple. However, from an economic point of view, agriculture does not now comprise a significant sector in Japan as compared with other industrial countries. According to 1970 statistics, the percentage of Japan’s GDP accounted for by agricultural production was about 5.56 percent; but according to 2018 statistics, it is only about 0.86 percent.1 In addition, the area of cultivated land per operator averages 2.87 ha (2017) in Japan,2 as compared to 179 ha (2016)

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in the United States, 58.6 ha (2013) in Germany, and 16.1 ha (2013) in the European Union as a whole. Although Japan has only a small amount of agricultural land compared with countries such as the US, Australia, Canada and Germany the Japanese government has aimed for the industrialization of agriculture in the midst of high economic growth since the 1960s. In 1961, the Agricultural Basic Law (Nōgyō kihonhō) was enacted. It aimed at rapid industrialization of agriculture through the introduction of a large amount of modern high-yield seed, chemical pesticides and fertilizers. The national government also encouraged mechanization of all kinds of operations, such as planting, cultivating, harvesting, threshing and drying. These developments advanced side by side with the spread of agricultural monocultures; moreover, by introducing these ways of modernization, agriculture in Japan came to depend deeply on oil, to operate machines and greenhouses and produce chemical fertilizers and pesticides. The industrialization of agriculture led to an increase of oil imports from the Middle East. This, in turn, led to growth in the petrochemical complex—big chemical companies which produced fertilizers and pesticides. And this increase in production created ocean and air pollution which brought about health impacts such as “Yokkaichi pollution,” where oil from the Yokkaichi Industrial Complex contaminated fish and the factory smoke caused a large number of asthma cases in the city of Yokkaichi. This chapter discusses some examples of the influence on the environment of the drastic changes in agricultural methods in modern Japan (and the Japanese empire), in both the countryside and cities. In the first section, I will focus on the history of rice breeding in the Japanese empire, in particular Hokkaido and Taiwan, because related techniques and technologies not only helped set the framework of modernization of Japanese agriculture but also prepared some crucial conditions for agricultural modernization after the Pacific War.3 In the second section, I describe the advent of tractors in Japan after World War II. At first, most farmers used walking tractors and then gradually moved to small riding tractors. The wide-spread use of the latter type in Japan was closely related to land improvement because they required a more ordered farmland which then led to drastic changes in the landscapes in rural districts. In the third section, I look at how chemical fertilizers and pesticides were introduced and how they polluted rural and urban areas. Since the 1920s, the Japanese chemical industry has made rapid progress with these products, as is the case in Western countries. In the last section, I trace the history of organic and natural farming movements in Japan. Serious pollution that contaminated food in the 1960s increased participation in such movements, especially direct delivery from the farm (teikei). The Teikei movement eventually became known all around the world.

Rice breeding in the Japanese empire Imperial self-sufficiency Rice is said to be the staple food for the Japanese people. As one of the most important ceremonial acts of the Tennō or “emperor” involves fertility rites of rice, this grain has become one of the most recognizable national symbols of Japan. From ancient times, the development of paddy fields and usage of weeds as fertilizer for rice production changed the landscape of Chapter 10: Agricultural Technology and the Environment in Modern Japan

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the plains, forests and mountain areas of the country. However, not all people in the Japanese islands have a rice culture: the Ainu, who are the indigenous people of Hokkaido, formerly Ezo, long hunted a variety of living things, such as bears, deer and orcas. However, after the Meiji Restoration in 1867, the Meiji government tried to force Ainu to cultivate paddy fields as part of its efforts to construct a more unified nation-state. As this reflects, rice was seen as a means and a symbol of the unification of the peoples of the archipelago.4 However, prior to the Meiji era (1868–1912), poorer rural and urban Japanese could seldom eat rice. Generally speaking, Japanese people longed to eat white japonica rice all the time and viewed it as superior, as noted by Tōbata Seiichi, one of the most influential agricultural economists in Japan in the years after World War II.5 Accordingly, from the beginning of the 20th century progress in rice breeding technology had come to be seen as an obligation of the Japanese government. Following the “Rice Riot” (Komesōdō) of 1918, the policy of “Imperial Self-Sufficiency” was implemented to increase rice production in the Japanese empire, particularly the colonized and peripheral areas of Hokkaido, Taiwan and Korea, in order to import rice from these regions into the so-called home islands. At this time, in farm villages in these regions, various technologies of rice production existed but were underdeveloped. There was a lot of room to increase production. Above all, the quality of rice seeds still needed to be improved. Following the “rediscovery” of Mendel’s laws in 1900 (he had written about his experiments and discoveries in an article in 1865, but for 35 years his theories were largely ignored), research in plant breeding at agricultural experimental stations (AESs; nōjishikenjō) in the Japanese home islands created, one after another, new varieties of rice which were more tolerant of cold weather and disease, had higher yields, and tasted better for most Japanese. But it was on the frontier, in the colonies and Hokkaido, that rice seeds would be most improved. It is no wonder that the Japanese government thought of the new rice breeding technologies and the efforts in these regions as key to imperial self-sufficiency. There were two reasons: first, many traditional varieties of rice could not tolerate cold weather, disease, or increases in the use of fertilizer as well as the new varieties developed in the AESs. Secondly, even if the government did not improve the environment of farmers’ labor, the productivity of their land would usually rise with the use of modern seeds; in other words, new rice varieties did not demand as much effort, money or knowledge as other agricultural technologies (e.g., agricultural machinery) to expand yields and improve quality. Although farmers—not only Japanese, but Taiwanese and Korean farmers as well—occasionally were adamant in their opposition to new things from outside, the penetration of rice breeding was successful on the whole. “Farmers’ fever” for a new variety: Fukoku in Hokkaido We shall now look more carefully into the penetration of rice technology into producers’ daily lives. New varieties of a crops often give farmers the hope of increasing the output of agricultural products more and more easily. Having suffered from rice diseases and typhoons, it is natural that they would come to want a new variety strong enough to be able to resist these ills. Fukoku, meaning “rich country,” was one such variety, deeply appealing to the peasantfarmers. In the spring of 1935, this hybrid rice variety, the first successful one in Hokkaido,

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was created at Kamikawa AES and was officially decided to be a “good seed” by the central AES in Hokkaido. To some extent it was tolerant of mass fertilization. It had higher productivity than any other variety grown in Hokkaido. The Shōwa Tennō (Emperor Hirohito) ate Fukoku when he came to Hokkaido to command military maneuvers in the autumn of 1936. The local peasant-farmers were proud of this event. They pooled their resources to cover the construction costs of a “Fukoku-house,” which comprised laboratories and rooms in which to conduct the full course of rice-growing, following the completion of its building in 1946. In addition, they created and sang a “Fukoku-Song.”: Fukoku, outstanding variety in progressive Hokkaido, Is worthy of this name. Its birthplace is Nagayama in Kamikawa. This year it becomes 10 years old, yields well, has a good taste, Is very strong and never falls on the ground. You are really fortunate. Soon after graduating, you do your important duty for our country, Remember this honor and make our country much richer, Much more prosperous.6 As this song implies, Fukoku was treated in some ways as the farmer’s child. That is to say, they expected that Fukoku would bring them riches and fulfill their desires, as a real child could. Fukoku rapidly became the most-grown rice in Hokkaido from 1939 to 1940. It yielded so much grain—beyond expectations—that sacks in which to put it ran short. After 1941, however, the acreage of Fukoku was reduced drastically. The first reason was environmental: cold weather that brought a mold, Pyricularia—Imochi disease—to the paddy fields in the Kamikawa basin. Mold spores increase if too much fertilizer is used and this ultimately kills the rice plants. The farmers’ financially bullish attitude and willingness to risk their supply of fertilizer were also significant factors. Sasaki Takio, a rice breeder in Kamikawa AES, said that Fukoku had a strong stem, did not fall down easily, and responded quickly to fertilizers. Farmers therefore hoped for more production with more fertilizing.7 After 1941, however, many farmers came to Kamikawa AES to complain. They said that the AES had encouraged them to use Fukoku and more fertilizer, and now they were suffering from the disease because the Fukoku crop had failed because of their overuse of fertilizer. Fukoku was also grown in Manchukuo to some extent, but there’s no documentary evidence of how farmers there adapted to growing it. However, these types of rice varieties which induced a fever towards greater productivity were typical in colonial areas in the Japanese empire, as was Horai-mai in Taiwan, mentioned in the next section. Horai-mai: Iso Eikichi and Taiwanese farmers Taichung No. 65, a hybrid japonica rice variety created in Taichung AES, in Taiwan, in 1927, was one of the most successful rice seeds in the Japanese empire because of its relatively good taste for Japanese people and high productivity. Indeed, this variety changed the fields of Taiwan ecologically. Until the appearance of this variety, only indica (long-grain) rice was grown on the island of Taiwan. As most Japanese preferred japonica to indica rice for

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Figure 10.1 Change in production of Horai-mai and local rice varieties 100,000 koku 60

50

40

30 Horai-mai Local rice 20

10

0 1900

1905

1910

1915

1920

1925

1930

1935

Year

Source: Taiwan Sōtokufu Beikokukyoku [Rice Bureau of the Governor-General of Taiwan], Taiwanbeikokuyoran [Outline of rice in Taiwan] 1940, 9–12.

its stickiness, the development of a japonica rice that could grow in Taiwan was seen as a responsibility of the colonial government and particularly of the AESs in Taiwan, because generally rice seeds which grow in Japan do not adapt to subtropical areas like Taiwan. Not only its perceived good taste but also its hardiness against the heavy use of fertilizers, which often causes Imochi disease, was among Taichung No. 65’s distinguishing features. Taichung No. 65 and other new japonica varieties were called Horai-mai, or “HoraiIsland rice,” meaning Taiwan. The 10th Governor-General of Taiwan, Izawa Takio, adopted this name on May 5, 1926. As Figure 19.1 indicates, Horai-mai prevailed very rapidly. It was Iso Eikichi who most contributed to this triumph of Horai-mai. After graduating from the agricultural department of Tōhoku Imperial University (in Sendai, Miyagi Prefecture), at Sapporo, in Hokkaido, he became a rice-breeder with the AES associated with the Governor-General of Taiwan. Here he researched local varieties and made a new hybrid variety, Taichung No. 65. Afterward, he became a professor of Agriculture at Taihoku [Taipei] University in Taiwan. Iso was respected by many Taiwanese farmers because Horai-mai brought them a lot of cash. He was called “the guide of farmers” (nōmin dōshi) by Taiwanese farmers. However, his attitude to local people was always paternalistic and adapted easily to the colonial intention of improving agriculture in Taiwan for Japan. 146

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Mechanization of Japanese agriculture Agricultural machines in Japanese history Until the 1950s, when the period of the Japanese “economic miracle” began, the main power sources used in Japanese agriculture were livestock such as cows and horses as well as humans themselves. Of course, large farms in the home islands and the colonies introduced some agricultural machines, such as large tractors and threshing machines but these were too expensive for small or tenant farmers to buy. Moreover, with its physically narrow plots of agricultural land, there was little merit to agricultural mechanization in Japan compared to Europe and the United States. It was difficult to use agricultural machinery in cramped, muddy paddy fields, and so the spread of machinery in the agricultural field was delayed, except for the tea industry, especially in Shizuoka Prefecture. Hokkaido is a relatively large land mass and had generally used horses as a power source, and some machines such as tractors were imported from Europe and the United States before World War II, but the full-scale shift to agriculture using large agricultural machines was in the 1950s. As examples, the number of electrical motors for agricultural power sources in the home islands rose from 685 in 1920 to 600,744 in 1950 and 1,365,700 in 1964. Threshing machines rose from 29,820 in 1927 to 827,944 in 1950 and 3,085,100 in 1964. Power sprayers, used for spraying pesticide, rose from 394 in 1933 to 15,790 in 1950 and 1,311,390 in 1975.8 Advent of walking tractors As in other industrial countries, tractors played an important role in the modernization of Japanese agriculture. However, in the case of Japan, the type of tractor prevailing was totally different from those in other countries. Western countries such as the US, and communist bloc countries such as the Soviet Union, from the beginning of tractor history, preferred riding tractors. In Japan, on the other hand, walking tractors initially prevailed because large tractors didn’t accord with the typical Japanese agricultural landscape, with small fields spread all around hamlets. Especially in the hilly and mountainous areas, farmland was of different shapes, at different altitudes and scattered all around. Therefore, instead of the riding tractors adapted to square plots, walking ones with a small turning radius were useful. Inventors in areas where the old Japanese way of steel production from iron sand (tatara seitetsu) had been around since ancient times, such as in Okayama and Shimane Prefectures, developed walking tractors. Vertical pumps had long been used in the reclaimed land of Okayama. The blacksmiths and small ironworkers that had made the vertical pump for paddy fields invented a walking tractor that could be used even on the humid and heavy soil of Japan, based on the garden tractors used in Switzerland and other countries. In Shimane Prefecture, a son of a farmer developed a similar tractor in a mountain village, using the knowledge he had learned at an abacus factory. These types of tractors underwent numerous improvements. They were most often used for tilling work but also transporting crops and farm equipment and other jobs. Therefore, they were sometimes called “universal tractors” in Shimane.

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Table 10.1 Top 5 countries in terms of the number of tractors per 1000 ha of cultivated area over time. Year Rank 1

1965 Country Germany

No. 66

1985 Country Japan

No. 315

Country Japan

2000 No. 386

107

2

Austria

55

Austria

Austria

114

3

Denmark

53

Germany

90

Italy

105

4

Sweden

44

Italy

72

Serbia/Montenegro

71

5

France

29

Yugoslavia

62

Poland

71

Source: FAOSTAT Note: 1965 and 1985 data are totals for East and West Germany

As the table indicates, “tractor density” in Japan has been remarkable. One reason is that there are more tractor owners on smaller plots of land than those in European countries and the US. Nevertheless, big tractor companies sold a lot of smaller tractors to them using the large-scale financing structures of the Agricultural Cooperative Association (Nōkyō). Table 10.2 indicates the tractor trends in Japan from 1931 to 2005. It helps us to understand the difference between walking and riding tractors by trend in number of tractors. At the beginning of the second half of the 20th century in Japan, walking tractors were more popular than riding tractors because the former were more suitable for wet rice fields in East Asia, as riding tractors were too heavy and big to move without stress on the operator. A famous inventor of walking tractors is Fujii Yasuhiro, born on reclaimed land in Kojima Bay, facing the Seto Inland Sea, in Okayama. Beginning in the Edo period, Kojima Table 10.2 Changes in number of tractors in Japan 1931–2005 Year 1931

Walking tractors 98

Riding tractors –

Number of farm households 5,633,800

1935

211

–

5,610,607

1947

7,680

–

5,909,227

1951

16,420

70

–

1955

88,840

1,036

6,042,945

1961

1,019,590

–

6,056,630(1960)

1966

2,725,430

38,510

5,664,763(1965)

1973

3,313,290

292,750

–

1975

3,279,747

647,616

4,953,071

1980

2,751,000

1,472,000

4,661,384

1985

2,579,197

1,853,599

4,228,738

1990

2,185,400

2,142,210

3,834,732

1995

1,717,627

2,123,000

3,443,550

2000

1,047,789

2,027,674

3,120,215

2005

–

1,910,724

2,848,166

Sources: Fujii, Kokusan Kounki no Tanjo [The birth of tractors made in Japan: Life of Yonehara Kiyoo], p. 12. FOASTAT (each year); Nogyo Kikai Nenkan [Yearbook of Agricultural Machinery] (each year), Agriculture and Forestry Census (each year)

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Bay was reclaimed for new paddy fields, larger and squarer than the average paddy fields on Honshu. Also, since the altitude of the reclaimed land was low, the iron vertical pump had been used since the Meiji era to pump the water needed for the rice fields. Therefore, there were many blacksmiths and ironworkers in this area. Fujii developed the first mass production model for walking tractors: Masurao, meaning a “brave man.” Next, his company produced Fuji-Kōunki (tractor), where “Fuji” stemmed from Mount Fuji. After the 1970s, his company was integrated into Yammer Nōki, which is still now a representative company making agricultural machines. Prevalence of riding tractors It was not until the 1970s that riding tractors started to become common in the Japanese archipelago (Table 10.2), even as the number of farm household decreased drastically. There are a number of reasons for this inverse proportion such as the mobilization of the population from the countryside to the cities. An agricultural system which depends on automation such as tractors also contributed to the decrease of farm households because they are no longer as labor-intensive, requiring less human and animal power. The tractors enabled farmers to work in smaller numbers and on farmland that was larger and more uniform in shape. Tractors were responsible for great changes in the agricultural structure of Japan in the second half of the 20th century. As Table 10.2 suggests, the number of farm households declined after high economic growth, as advances in agricultural mechanization increased agricultural production. However, due to the resulting overproduction of rice, along with the gradual westernization of the Japanese diet, an agriculture reduction (gentan seisaku) policy was adopted from 1970, and farmers’ motivation to engage in agriculture declined because they couldn’t cultivate their own fields if they hoped to grow more rice. Though farmers who found it difficult to scale up often supplemented their income by taking on second jobs, purchasing expensive agricultural machinery with loans, and continuing to produce rice, gradually more people quit farming. Agricultural land and irrigation were developed with subsidies from the national and local governments to facilitate the introduction of agricultural machinery, but rural areas became depopulated and empty land accumulated. The big tractor companies, such as Yanmar, Iseki, Mitsubishi and Kubota, developed smaller riding tractors that were appropriate not only for Japan’s wet fields but also for those of other Asian countries to which they were exported, such as Taiwan, Thailand, Indonesia and Burma. They were also sold to the US and European countries as garden tractors. On one hand, tractors reduced the pain and muscular fatigue of manual agricultural labor, but on the other hand, they brought frequent accidents, noise and vibration (the main causes of health issues in operators), heavy agricultural loans to pay for the tractors, and soil compaction and erosion. In particular, in the mountainous areas of Japan, farmers cultivate fields on farmland created on mountain slopes, so there are many accidents such as falls of agricultural machinery, whereas in a vast land like Hokkaido, there are accidents caused by dozing while driving on the unvarying terrain.

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Chemicalization of Japanese agriculture and resulting pollution History of fertilizer Up into the Edo period and even after the Meiji Restoration, farmers spread various organic fertilizers, such as grass pulled from commons, on their small fields. Therefore, it is said that there were more bald mountains than at present. In addition, peasants in those days used organic matter such as herring, sardines, and human, cow, and horse excrement as fertilizers. Herring, sardines, and human excreta, after squeezing the oil, were sold as commercial products, “commercial fertilizers” (kinpi). In addition, soybeans were planted around the rice fields. At that time, it was not known scientifically that rhizobia coexisted with legumes and fixed nitrogen in the air, but empirically, farmers knew to plant soybeans on ridges around paddy fields to fertilize them. Soybeans were thus not only a huge part of the basis of Japanese cuisine as raw materials for soy sauce, miso, natto, tofu, etc., but also plants with an important fertilizing function. Since the Edo period was a time when samurai ruled, there were overwhelmingly many horses whose ancestors had been used for military purposes. Especially in the Tohoku (northeast) region of Honshu, horses were also bred and used as farm horses, and their manure was composted and used on agricultural land. Cattle were often bred in western Japan but, unlike in Western Europe, Japanese people rarely ate cows and horses—they were useful not only as a power source for agricultural work but also as a fertilizer source. However, of course, the number of farmers who could buy cows and horses was limited. In September 1913, an ammonia synthesis plant was built in Opau, in Germany, on the banks of the Rhine. Carl Bosch put Fritz Haber’s invention to fix nitrogen in the air into practical use. Since then, nitrogen synthetic fertilizer factories have been established in industrialized countries around the world, and ammonium sulfate has become the global standard for nitrogen fertilizers. At first, Japan imported ammonium sulfate from Germany and the United Kingdom, but beginning in the 1920s it gradually increased its domestic production because, with the First World War, it stopped importing chemical fertilizers from Western countries. In 1934, Japan accounted for 10.5 percent of the world’s ammonium sulfate production, making it the third-largest producer in the world. The Japanese colonies then became a focus of attention as a potential market for the ammonium sulphate industry. Of particular importance was Nippon Nitrogen Fertilizer Co., Ltd. In 1908, a hydroelectric power plant and a nitrogen fertilizer factory were set up in Minamata, Kumamoto Prefecture, where the company dumped mercury into the ocean which caused Minamata disease in 1950s. This company supported the production of ammonium sulfate and explosives in the Japanese empire. Its founder, Noguchi Shitagau, established Chosun Nitrogen Fertilizer Co., Ltd. in the colonized Korean Peninsula in 1926. He built a large-scale hydroelectric power plant and an artificial city, Hungnam, near the existing city of Hamhung, on the west coast of present-day North Korea, and lived there. Chosun Nitrogen Fertilizer Co., Ltd., supported the consumption of chemical fertilizers in rural areas of Korea and Manchukuo. In addition, a large amount of Japanese chemical fertilizer was exported to Taiwan, and became an important production material there for Horai-mai rice.

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Of course, this chemicalization of fertilizer in Japan was not universally adopted. Farmers usually grew vegetables using human excrement as a fertilizer. During the Great Depression, national and local governments encouraged farmers to return to using compost in order to save money for the war, as the chemical nitrogen industry had to produce gun powder for the war instead of nitrogen fertilizer. In June 1942, the Regulation of Agricultural Production Encouragement (Nōgyō seisan shōrei kisoku) came into force; by this regulation, the government made grants to the “Movement for Doubling Compost Production” (Taihi seisan baika undō). After World War II, the number of fertilizers grew drastically, hitting a peak in the 1970s. However, beginning in the 1980s, these decreased gradually. For example, according to FAO statistics, the amount of agricultural nitrogen fertilizer used in Japan was 633,400t (1961), 777,000t (1979), and 369,400t (2019). That of phosphoric acid was 453,990t (1961), 831,000t (1979), and 338,100t (2019). That of potassium was 496,780t (1961), 736,000t (1979), and 270,000t (2019).9 The declines were because of reductions in the area of cultivated land and control of the amount of fertilizer applied per unit area. In any case, Japan continues to be basically a fertilizer-type agriculture country. According to OECD statistics, the number of nitrogenous fertilizers used per 1 ha of cultivated area in Japan in 2007 is 10.6 percent—the second-largest in the world. (The first is Korea, at 16.9 percent; the third is Germany, at 9.4 percent. In the US, it accounts for use of only 2.8 percent.) History of pesticide In Japan, which has hot, humid weather conditions as mentioned above, the need for the removal of fecund weeds and control of various pests has long plagued farmers. Weeds were manually removed under the scorching sun until the advent of herbicides in the 1960s. Insect pests and diseases were controlled in the Edo period with whale oil (geiyu) that was sprinkled on rice to get rid of planthoppers (unka), and by mushiokuri (a ritual of insect chasing) done by walking while bearing torches and beating drums in rice fields. Since the Meiji era, scientific research on pesticides has of course progressed, and the use of chemicals derived from natural as opposed to artificial products has increased. In the Katsunuma region of Yamanashi Prefecture in central Japan, which started full-scale grape production for the first time in Japan in the mid-1870s, a Bordeaux mixture derived from France (a mixed solution of copper sulfate and slaked lime) was spread. And in other areas chrysanthemum and nicotine sulfate as insecticides and a lime sulfur mixture as a fungicide were used by farmers in the precursor period to industrial agriculture. In addition, after World War I, Japan shifted to full-scale production of inorganic pesticides, and general chemical companies such as Nippon Soda, Nissan Chemical and pharmaceutical companies such as Sankyō began producing inorganic pesticides. Since the Taishō era (1912–1926), Sankyō had produced chloropicrin as an insecticide against maize weevils, and during the Second Sino-Japanese war beginning in 1937 inorganic pesticides were exported into Manchuria and Korea. During World War II, in a controlled economy, pesticide production rose, as did chemical fertilizers, but this has also been an ongoing phenomenon since 1941.

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After the Occupation period, which ended in 1952, the Japanese government supported the chemical industry as a key to economic recovery. Chemical pesticides in particular experienced great expansion during the period of high economic growth, especially after the Basic Agriculture Law in 1961 which stated that the government should advance agricultural technology and stabilize the prices of agricultural production inputs. As mentioned below, chemical pesticides drastically changed Japanese agriculture. Farmers were gradually freed from the task of removing weeds by hand. However, they sometimes also had health troubles related to chemical pesticides, which polluted water and soil in the countryside. Currently, 44 percent of pesticides used in Japan are sprinkled in paddy fields.10 According to OECD statistics, the number of pesticides used per 1 ha cultivated area in Japan in 2007 is the second-highest in the world, 1.16t per ha. (In first place is South Korea with 1.27t, and third place is Italy with 0.55t. Germany, which has many global chemical companies, uses only 0.19t, the United States 0.07, and Canada only 0.06.) 11 Chemical industry and pollution The strong dependence of Japanese agriculture on chemicals such as pesticides and fertilizers contributed to the pollution of the Japanese archipelago. Ishihara Sangyō Inc., which is still one of the most influential chemical companies, occupied one of the first industrial complexes created on the sea, in Yokkaichi, Mie Prefecture. However, not only did the wastewaters pollute the sea, causing strong protests among local fishermen, but smoke exhaust also polluted the atmosphere. Many asthma cases occurred among the local residents and some of these patients died. This was “Yokkaichi Asthma,” said to be one of the “four major pollution diseases” caused by chemicals in Japan, along with Itai-itai disease (cadmium pollution in Toyama Prefecture caused by Mitsui Mining Inc.), Kumamoto Minamata disease as mentioned earlier, and Niigata Minamata disease (mercury pollution by Shōwa Denkō Inc.). Before pollution became a social problem, few people looked at the health and environmental damage caused by pesticides and fertilizers. One exception was physicist Tsuchida Ryūtarō. He observed agriculture in Toyama Prefecture, where he had been evacuated during the war, and found that after neutralizing the sulfuric acid left over after the absorption of ammonium from ammonium sulphate with lime, gypsum remained, and was degrading the soil. Based on his experience, he published a book A Guideline for Rich Harvest: Measure to Fertilize in 1948 and criticized Japan’s agricultural policy, which relied on ammonium sulfate.12 In addition, Yanase Giryō, a medical and agricultural practitioner in the city of Gojō, Nara Prefecture, published a book about his research on agricultural poisons at his own expense in February 1959.13 While diagnosing farmers as a medical doctor, he found that the effects of pesticides were detrimental to his health. He became one of the first in the country to devote himself to an agricultural movement that did not use fertilizers or pesticides. Moreover, Wakatsuki Toshikazu of Nagano Prefecture, the founder of rural medicine in Japan, published Harms of Pesticides and Their Prevention in 1965, and Mizuno Hajime, a journalist, published Theory of the Collapse of the Country Caused by Chemical Pesticides in 1966.14 Both of them complained about the toxicity of pesticides not only directly to the human body but also to the agricultural environment.

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It was difficult to criticize pesticides because of the close relationships between companies and universities in this industry, especially in faculties of agriculture and engineering. However, there were exceptions. At Kyoto University, an extracurricular “Agricultural Chemicals Seminar” was born under the guidance of Ishida Norio, at that time a research assistant. On June 14, 1967, Matsumoto Satoru, a student at an agricultural high school in Wakayama Prefecture, died because of Nissol poison. Satoru’s parents sued the country and Nippon Soda, a chemical company in Japan. Ishida was asked by Matsumoto’s parents to help with the trial and agreed; in the end, the trial was settled with the company. Ishida, with his students, began to develop ways to help mandarin orange farms use pesticides as little as possible and helped the Matsumoto family to establish Satoru House, where students could attend seminars on the Matsumoto farm and tackle environmental problems.

Natural farming and organic farming Pioneering history Organic farming in Japan started on a large scale in the 1970s, but pioneering organic farming attempts had already begun during World War II. Okada Mokichi, the founder of a religious group “World Messianity Church” (Sekaikyūseikyō), researched production of vegetables without the use of any fertilizer, including human manure, from 1935. In 1942, he tried to grow rice without any fertilizer, to “bring out the original power of the soil” by keeping it clean. After a long period of experiments, he proposed a “fertilizer-free method” in the magazine Heaven on the Ground in 1948. In 1950, his farming method became called “natural farming.” Fukuoka Masanobu was the most influential of Japanese natural farmers During the war, he taught farmers scientific farming methods at the AES in Kochi Prefecture. He also used his spare time to conduct comparative studies of natural and scientific farming. He insisted that farmers should not plow their fields and should not use any pesticide or any chemical fertilizers. He said in his successful book The One Straw Revolution, published in 1983 and translated into more than 20 languages, “I ultimately reached the conclusion that there was no need to plow, no need to apply fertilizer, no need to make compost, no need to use insecticide.” 15 His “natural farming” is different from “organic farming,” which uses organic fertilizer. He regarded making compost as a waste of effort, and thought it would be sufficient to sprinkle straw on farmland in spring and autumn so they could naturally compost on the ground. He said that people interfered with nature, and, try as they may, were able not to heal the resulting wounds. Their careless farming practices drained the soil of essential nutrients, and the result was yearly depletion of the land. In contrast, if left to itself, the soil maintained its fertility naturally, in accordance with the orderly cycle of plant and animal life.16 Yanase Giryō was also a key person in the rise of organic farming in Japan. As mentioned above, he criticized chemical pesticide as a Buddhist and as a doctor who treated pesticide damage in farmers in 1959. He began experimenting with pesticide-free farming while treating farmers. In addition, together with neighbors in Gojō, Nara Prefecture, who supported pesticide-free farming, Yanase and his followers formed a “Health Protection Association” (Kenkō wo mamoru kai), set up a sales office, and conducted educational activities on the harmful effects of pesticides. In 1970, Yanase and his associates renamed the association Chapter 10: Agricultural Technology and the Environment in Modern Japan

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“Jiko-kai.” Jiko means both the light emitted by the Buddha and by sunlight; kai means association. Initially, the corporation had 300 members on a five-hectare farm, but in about four years the number of members had increased to 1,200, and additional farms were expanded. The descendants of figures mentioned above continue their attempts to increase the organizations’ number of members and expand sales channels. Nationwide expansion of organic farming In addition to the results of the pioneering attempts at alternative agriculture mentioned above, several important books influenced the development of nationwide alternative agriculture in Japan. One was Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring, published in 1962. In Japan, it was translated by Shinchōsha in 1964 under the title Sei to shi no myōyaku: Shizen kinkō no hakaisha “kagaku yakuhin” [The mysterious medicine of life and death: “Scientific medicine” as the destroyer of natural equilibrium]. This book, which discussed the dangers of chemicals such as DDT, also brought about a sensational reaction in Japan. In 1974, the novelist Ariyoshi Sawako published Fukugō osen (Complex pollution), which alluded to the possibility of synthetic chemical substances becoming virulent when mixed in nature. In this book, Ariyoshi introduced Yanase’s attempt at the Jiko-kai and praised it as an example of social construction that did not rely too much on synthetic chemicals. In 1971, the Japan Organic Agriculture Study Group was formed. Leaders of organic farming and consumers who had practiced all over the country gathered and published the magazine Soil and Health. In addition to introducing Albert Howard, an advocate of organic farming in the United Kingdom, and Jerome Irving Rodale, a proponent of Howard’s farming method in the United States, to Japan, the group promoted the Teikei movement (“partnership movement”) to connect producers and consumers. The Teikei movement not only encouraged consumers to buy crops directly, without going through major retailers and distributors, but also deepened their interaction with farmers and their interest in agriculture. This movement became famous around the world, and the Japanese word Teikei came to be used in foreign countries. However, because there was no socially common definition for organic processed foods, various types of agricultural products that claimed to be organic agricultural products were sold. Therefore, from 2001, a new organic classification was introduced in the Japanese Agricultural Standard (JAS) system, which had been in operation for some time. As a result, Japan was able to keep pace with Western countries where organic certification systems had already been established. This kind of expansion of organic farming was a double-edged sword. On one hand, organic farming, including natural farming, became popular in and through a variety of mass media. Pollution problems in particular gave socially conscious consumers an incentive to buy organic produce. On the other hand, when organic agricultural products began to be distributed as products in high-end supermarkets, the number of groups that became socially critical of them grew and the relationship between consumers and producers that had been maintained in the early days of organic farming gradually decreased. Organic crops also tend to appeal to wealthy consumers, which has also led to social division through food.

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Conclusion Wide mountain areas. Many slopes. Narrow farmlands. The environmental condition of Japanese agriculture, which is disadvantageous for Western-standard agriculture, has given a unique character to the development of Japanese agricultural technology. Rice breeding technology, which can easily lead to increased production even in small-scale agriculture, was developed on an imperial scale, centering on paddy rice, with the rediscovery of Mendel’s laws in 1900 seen as an opportunity. Investment in breeding technology by the state transformed colonized areas such as Taiwan and Korea against the backdrop of the growth of the powerful synthetic nitrogen fertilizer industry, and in that sense can be said to be the forerunner of the “Green Revolution” of the 1960s. In fact, both rice and wheat varieties developed to increase yield by Japan were used for breeding in the Green Revolution. Agricultural machinery in Japan also achieved its own development. Large tractors such as those in Europe and the United States were not widely used before the war, as noted, with the exception of Manchuria. Walking tractors, such as the garden tractors in Western countries, were improved by local artisans to have the ability to cultivate even the heavy, moist (but fertile) soil of paddy fields in Japan. Riding tractors have been popular throughout the country since the 1960s, but the main players were small tractors, except in Hokkaido. In mountainous rural areas with many slopes, riding tractors with 10 horsepower or less were purchased in large quantities with loans, and a situation called “mechanization poverty” occurred as a result. On the other hand, Japan, which used labor-intensive high-fertilizer agriculture in the pre-modern era, actively produced chemical fertilizers, exported them to its colonies, and used them in various places, especially after the 1920s. Some companies produced synthetic nitrogen fertilizer with extensive support of the government because it was necessary for the production of explosives for the war. During the war, there was thus a shortage of chemical fertilizers, and the government instructed people to increase the production of compost, but after the war, the production decreased again. In the 1960s, the production of pesticides also began to increase, supported by the development of petrochemicals. This was because the agricultural environment in Japan was so humid and rainy that farmers suffered greatly from insect damage and the toil of weed removal. However, the rapid production of pesticides after the war to deal with this situation came in turn to be regarded as a cause of health damage and destruction of nature, and in the midst of the enormous pollution damage, chemical substances such as chemical fertilizers and pesticides have come to be used less. This has brought about the development of alternative agriculture which is not just about changing farming methods, but about production, distribution and consumption. It was introduced to Western countries, and indeed at present, the ratio of cultivated land area where for organic farming is only 0.2 percent in 2017 in Japan but is 15.4 percent in Italy, 8.9 percent in Spain, and 8.6 percent in Germany.17 Only in 2021 did MAFF (Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries in the Japanese Government) at last formulate a“Strategy for Sustainable Food Systems”; it aims at “30 percent reduction in chemical fertilizer use” and “increase in organic farming to 1 Mha (equivalent to 25 percent of farmland)” in Japan.18 This slowness may indicate the weakness of the Japanese government’s interest in organic farming compared to Western countries. The government still now place priority on industrialization agricultural.

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Generally speaking, the Japanese government has aimed for a Western-style scientific agriculture, using pioneering biological and chemical technology. However, the rise in Japan’s agricultural competitiveness to the level of Europe and the United States is hampered by the topographical conditions unfavorable for large-scale farming. Alternative agriculture, which utilizes Japan’s blessed natural environment for small farmers, has been another worldpioneering Japanese-led attempt to change agriculture for the better, but has been hampered by the government’s inactivity.

Notes 1

MAFF (Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries), Reiwa gannen nōgyō shokuryō kanren sangyō no keizai keisan [Economic calculation of agriculture and food related industries, 2019], accessed September 1, 2021, https://www.maff.go.jp/j/tokei/kouhyou/keizai_keisan/attach/pdf/index-5.pdf. 2 The exception is Hokkaido, which has a cool climate and a low population density, with an average area of cultivated land of 20.5 ha. 3 I have previously described the rice breeding project of the Japanese empire. See Fujihara Tatsushi, Ine no dai tōa kyōeiken: Teikoku Nihon no “midori no kakumei’ [Great East Asian Co-prosperity area of rice: The “green revolution” of the Japanese empire] (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2013). 4 Harada Nobuo, Rekishi no naka no kome to Niku [Rice and meat in history] (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2005). 5 Tōbata Seiichi, Kome (Tokyo: Chuō Kōronsha, 1940), 246–47. 6 Yamaguchi Kenzō, “Kamikawa shijō de ikuseishita nisan no suitō hinshu no omoide” [Memory on a few varieties I developed in Kamikawa agricultural experimental station], Mūberu no. 7, 1977. Translation mine. 7 Sasaki Takio, Kita no ine hinshukairyō: Shōwa zenhan shōki [Northern rice breeding: abstract from the first half of the Shōwa period] (Hokkaido: Shuppankikaku Center, 2003), 31. 8 Nōsei Chōsa Iinkai, (ed.), Kaitei Nihon nōgyō tōkei [Basical Japanese agricultural statistics, revised version] (Tokyo: Nōrin Tōkei Kyōkai, 1977), 168–69. 9 FAO, statistics on fertilizers by nutrients, 1961, 1979 and 2019. 10 Kawamura Hiroshi and Tsuji Machiko, Kurashi no Nakano nōyaku osen: Tabemono mizu kara sumai machi made [Pollution of chemical pesticide in our life: food, water, house and town] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2004), 60. 11 OECD Environmental Performance Reviews: Japan 2010, 82, accessed March 3, 2022. https://www.oecd -ilibrary.org/docserver/9789264087873-en.pdf. 12 Tsuchida Ryūtarō, Hosaku heno shishin: Hiryōtaisaku [A guideline for a rich harvest: Measure to fertilize] (Osaka: Zōshinsya, 1948); Tsuchida Atsushi and Tsuchida Takashi, (eds.), Tsuchida Ryūtarō no iken [Opinions of Tsuchida Ryūtarō] (Kyoto: Kagakudōjin, 1976), 84–112. 13 Yanase Giryō, Yūki nogyō kakumei: Kegarenaki tsuchi ni make [Revolution of organic farming: Sow seeds in clean soil] (Tokyo: Daiyamondosha, 1975), 5. 14 Tsuchida and Tsuchida (ed.), Tsuchida Ryūtarō no Iken. 15 Fukuoka Masanobu and Larry Korn (ed.) The One-Straw Revolution: An Introduction to Natural Farming (New York: New York Review Books, 2009), 15. 16 Fukuoka, The One-Straw Revolution, 34. 17 MAFF, Yūki nogyō wo meguru jijō [Circumstances surrounding organic farming], 2019, accessed March 4, 2022, https://www.maff.go.jp/j/council/seisaku/kazyu/r01_5/attach/pdf/index-8.pdf. 18 MAFF, Strategy for Sustainable Food Systems, MeaDRI, accessed March 4, 2022. https://www.maff.go.jp/e /policies/env/env_policy/meadri.html.

Bibliography Agriculture and Forestry Census. (https://www.maff.go.jp/j/tokei/census/afc/2015/top.html) for each year. Carson, Rachel. Silent Spring. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1962. FOASTAT. (https://www.fao.org/faostat/en/#home) for each year.

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Fujihara, Tatsushi. Ine no dai tōa kyōeiken: Teikoku Nihon no “midori no kakumei” [Great East Asian CoProsperity area of rice: “Green revolution” of the Japanese empire]. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2013. ———. Torakutā no sekaishi: Jinrui no rekishi wo kaeta “tetsu no uma” [A world history of tractors: The “iron horse” changed the history of humankind]. Tokyo: Chūō Kōron Shinsha, 2017. Fujii, Masahiro. Kokusan kōunki no tanjyō: Yonehara Kiyoo no shōgai [The birth of tractors made in Japan: Life of Yonehara Kiyoo]. Tokyo: Shinjinbutsu Ōraisha, 1990. Fukuoka, Masanobu and Larry Korn, eds. The One-Straw Revolution: An Introduction to Natural Farming. New York: New York Review of Books, 2009. Harada, Nobuo. Rekishi no naka no kome to niku [Rice and meat in history]. Tokyo: Heibonsha, 2005. Ishida, Norio. Mikanyama karano shōnōyaku dyori [Letters from less-pesticide orange farm]. Tokyo: Hokuto Shuppan, 1988. ———. Genba to tsunagaru gakusha jinsei: Shimin kankyō to tomoni hanseiki [A scholarly life connected to the field: Half a century with the citizen environmental movement]. Tokyo: Fujiwara Shoten, 2018. Kawamura, Hiroshi and Tsuji Machiko. Kurashi no nakanno nōyaku osen: Tabemono mizu kara sumai machi made [Pollution of chemical pesticide in our life: food, water, house and town]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2004. Masugata, Toshiko. Yūkinōgyō Undo to ‘Teikei’ no Nettowāku [Organic farming movement and network of Teikei]. (Tokyo: Shinyōsha), 2008. Matsunaka, Shōichi. Nihon ni okeru nōyaku no rekishi [A history of pesticide in Japan]. Tokyo: Gakken Shuppan Sentā, 2002. Mizuno, Hajime. Nōyaku bōkokuron: Ichiokunin no jintaijikken [Theory of the collapse of the country caused by chemical pesticides: Human experimentation of 100 million people]. Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1966. Nogyō Kikai Nenkan [Yearbook of agricultural machinery]. Tokyo: Shin Nōrinsha, each year. Nōsei Chōsa Iinkai. [Agricultural Policy Research Committee] (ed.), Kaitei Nihon Nōgyō Tōkei [Basical Japanese Agricultural Statistics, revised version] (Tokyo: Nōrin Tōkei Kyōkai), 1977. OECD. OECD Environmental Performance Reviews: Japan, 2010. Okada, Tomohiro. Senjika no nogyō seisan shizai mondai [Problem of agricultural production materials in wartime]. The Journal of Agricultural History, vol. 39, 2005. Sasaki, Takio. Kita no ine hinshukairyō: Shōwa zenhan shōki [Northern rice breeding: Abstract from the first half of the Shōwa period]. Hokkaido Shuppankikaku Center, 2003. Taiwan Sōtokufu Beikokukyoku [Rice bureau of the Governor-General of Taiwan], Taiwanbeikokuyoran [Outline of rice in Taiwan], 1940. Tsuchida, Atsushi and Tsuchida Takashi, eds. Tsuchida Ryūtarō no iken [Opinions of Tsuchida Ryūtarō]. Kyoto: Kagakudōjin, 1976. Tsuchida, Ryūtarō. Hosaku heno shishin: Hiryōtaisaku [A guideline for a rich harvest: Measure to fertilize]. Osaka: Zōshinsha, 1948. Yanase, Giryō. Yukinogyō kakumei: Kegarenaki tsuchi ni make [Revolution of organic farming: Sow seeds in clean soil]. Tokyo: Daiyamondosha, 1975.

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Part 4 Seas, Lakes and Shores

Chapter 11 Regional Environmental History: The Lake Biwa Region Hashimoto Michinori This paper presents three arguments about how to construct a “regional environmental history,” focusing on crucian carp in Lake Biwa. First, I look at the “encoded view of nature.” Next, using a theory of consumption, I focus on “sophistication” and “abolition.” Finally, referencing a theory of livelihoods, I focus on “involution.” These three approaches demonstrate that it is important to grasp the linkage between nature, views of nature, consumption and livelihoods.

Introduction: The Lake Biwa region Located in the Kinki district in the center of the Japanese archipelago, Lake Biwa is the largest lake in Japan. The lake’s name, bestowed around the 16th century during the Muromachi period, derives from its shape, which resembles a musical instrument called the biwa.1 It has an area of around 670 square kilometers, making it the 188th largest lake in the world and is located in Shiga Prefecture, occupying one sixth of the prefecture’s total area of 4,017 square kilometers. Moreover, it holds 27.5 billion cubic meters of water and currently supplies water to a downstream population of around 14.5 million people. The lake is divided into southern and northern sections at its narrowest point, with the water depth in these sections averaging 4 meters and 43 meters respectively. The deepest point of the lake, located in the northern zone, is 103.58 meters. Numerous waterways flow into Lake Biwa, 117 of which are classified as Class A rivers.2 These include the Yasu, Ado, and Takatoki Rivers. In this paper, the term “Lake Biwa region” is used to refer to Lake Biwa itself and its catchment area, which corresponds almost completely to the territory of Shiga prefecture itself. The Lake Biwa region also overlaps for the most part with the area known as the Ohmi Basin. This is a topographical basin bordered on the north side by the Nosaka Mountains (also known as the Arachi or Kohoku Mountains), the highest peak of which is Mt. Sanjo, at 973.9 meters. To the east are the Ibuki Mountains topped by Mt. Ibuki at 1,377.3 meters, and the Suzuka Mountain Range that runs south to north for a length of 55 kilometers and is crowned by the 1,247-meter Mt. Oike. To the west are the Hira Mountains with Mt.

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Bunagatake the highest point at 1,214.4 meters, and to the south is the Shigaraki Highland, which rises to 600 meters at Mt. Tanakami. Close to one half of Shiga prefecture’s total area is forested, and around one quarter is cultivated land. Important to note here is that with a circumference of 235 kilometers, Lake Biwa has a very long shoreline (referred to as the “coast” in this paper). This is a crucial point in relation to the spawning of crucian carp fish (genus Carassius; funa in Japanese), described later in this paper. Another important fact is that there are naiko, satellite lakes, in the area surrounding the lake. A naiko is a type of lagoon, defined as “a body of water that was formerly part of Lake Biwa but became separated by bars, spits, or ridges, or by sediment carried by rivers, but remains connected with the lake system through channels and the like.” 3 Maps of Lake Biwa with a scale of 20,000 to 1 produced in the Meiji period identify no less than 103 naiko.4 These naiko also provide spawning sites for crucian carp. The features of Lake Biwa described above can be summarized in three points for this chapter’s purpose of providing an environmental history of the lake. The first is that Lake Biwa is large and home to a diverse range of environments. Nishino Machiko writes that the ecological structure of Lake Biwa can be divided primarily into a littoral zone and a limnetic zone, and the lake bed into littoral, sub-littoral, and profundal zones.5 The limnetic zone can be further classified on the basis of the presence or absence of light into a productive layer (euphotic zone) and a sublevel layer (aphotic zone), as well as on the basis of water temperature into epilimnetic, metalimnetic (also known as thermocline), and hypolimnetic zones. Lake Biwa is home to 66 species of freshwater fish, excluding introduced species, and it has been confirmed that 28 of these were fished in the Meiji period.6 The lake’s ability to nurture such varied ichthyofauna is attributable to its lengthy coast and limnetic zone—a deep, expansive offshore area that is one of its distinguishing attributes of the lake. The second feature is that it is an ancient lake with a history spanning approximately four million years. The lake is said to have assumed its present-day form around 430,000 years ago,7 but in terms of the continued presence of a body of water in the area that the lake currently occupies, Lake Biwa existed four million years ago. Some of the species found in the lake have evolved over this 4-million-year period, and some are found nowhere else on earth today. These are known as “endemic species” whose distribution is restricted to a specific area. There are 16 endemic species among the lake’s freshwater fish life alone.8 DNA analysis has revealed that the lake’s ichthyofauna profile became basically stable some 100,000 years ago.9 The existence of these endemic species is a significant factor when considering the local history of the lake encompassing the aggregate of relationships involving humans and nature. The Suzuka Mountain Range is thought to have emerged around 1.8 million years ago10 and the emergence of the Hira and Hiei Mountains to have become more active around 400,000 years ago.11 The chapter therefore dates the formation of the Lake Biwa region at around 400,000 years ago. The third point is that Lake Biwa is close to Kyoto, the former national capital. The population of the Lake Biwa region is estimated to have been around 102,000 in the eighth century.12 Estimates thereafter are precluded by a lack of reliable historical materials, but over the course of two centuries between 1721 and 1940, the district’s population was stable at around 650,000, residing in around 1,500 communities.13 While not addressed directly in this chapter, I consider the rapid optimization of population during this period to have its origins in the 13th century, when cash currency came into circulation and agriculture, forestry, 162

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fisheries and all other industries were intensified,14 leading to a geographical reorganization and formation of small communities.15 The significant point here is that the Lake Biwa region was situated in an economic region that included Japan’s capital city. The foregoing paragraphs have provided an outline of the key attributes and distinguishing features of the Lake Biwa region. How, then, can the environmental history of this region be told? It is not yet possible to furnish a complete history, so this chapter’s historical account focuses on the crucian carp found in the lake. This focus has been selected because ever since the Heian period of the eleventh century, if not earlier, crucian carp have been positioned as the foremost product among all the many and varied items produced in the Lake Biwa region.

The crucian carp of Lake Biwa The classification of crucian carp is known to be difficult, but it is safe to say that there are three varieties of crucian carp living in Lake Biwa: the endemic species, white crucian carp (Carassius cuvieri; gengorō-buna in Japanese), the endemic subspecies, round crucian carp (Carassius buergeri grandoculis; nigoro-buna) and the silver crucian carp (Carassius buergeri langsdorfii; ginbuna). Each of these differs from the others in both morphological and ecological terms. The white crucian carp is a deep-bodied, flat fish that is relatively easy to identify. It has a tall head and medium caudal height, and its large mouth has an underbite and narrow opening. Other than in spawning season, it generally inhabits the surface and midwater zones offshore, where it eats phytoplankton. The round crucian carp, on the other hand, has a small body depth, and a low caudal height despite its relatively large head, giving it a stubby appearance. It has a large mouth with an underbite and narrow opening. It lives in the deeper offshore waters, eating zooplankton and lakebed-dwelling fauna. The silver crucian carp has a relatively deep body, low head depth, and high caudal height. The mouth is small, slightly downturned, and obtruding. This fish can be found elsewhere too, but in Lake Biwa it lives mainly in the littoral zones and naiko, with a diet consisting primarily of lakebed-dwelling fauna. Surprisingly, Shiga prefecture retains fishing statistics dating back as far as 1883. Until 1986, crucian carp were recorded as a single grouping, but from the following year each species has been identified separately, with the largest catches recorded for round crucian carp, followed by white crucian carp, then silver crucian carp.16 However, this order is best viewed not as a reflection of the overall population of each species, but rather of an active preference for fishing round crucian carp, which are considered ideal for use in the dish funazushi—a type of narezushi made from crucian carp. There is one more important ecological factor: fish migrate in search of food, in search of optimal conditions for spawning and in order to avoid unfavorable environments in winter. Hosoya Kazumi has found that the place in which the fish of Lake Biwa live is different in almost all cases from their spawning grounds. They migrate between the main lake, the naiko, rice paddies, agricultural irrigation channels, and rivers, and these migrations can be classified into eight patterns.17 Pattern A is settled habitation in Lake Biwa; B is migration between Lake Biwa and the naiko; C is migration between Lake Biwa, the naiko, and rice paddies; D is migration between the naiko and rice paddies; E is migration between Lake

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Biwa and the rivers that flow into it; F is migration between Lake Biwa, the rivers that flow out of it, and Osaka Bay; G is settled habitation in Lake Biwa and the naiko; and H is settled habitation in the rivers. White crucian carp fall under Pattern B, round crucian carp Pattern C, and silver crucian carp Pattern B. It is notable that white crucian carp only migrate as far as the naiko, but round crucian carp migrate upstream to the rice paddies. Round crucian carp are one species of fish that has flourished by using the man-made environment of rice paddies.

Opportunistic views of nature The Japanese views of nature have been the subject of extensive discussion thus far. I organize these into two types.18 The first, which I have named the theory of views of nature based on the history of science, is founded on a contrast between Japanese and European views of nature. Representative of this type is the work of Watanabe Masao, who writes of “Japanese people’s traditional views of nature, which involves treating nature as a companion, inserting oneself into nature, and seeking to become one with nature.” 19 As observed by critics such as Hojo Katsutaka, however, this type tends to deploy arguments based on stereotypes.20 The other type is the theory of views of nature in the lifeworld, which has been developed by folklorist Yasumuro Satoru.21 Yasumuro argues that “even if something exists in the natural world, it is not ‘nature’ to any given person unless it has some connection with that person’s life.” This view, however, is not compatible with environmental history, which treats the workings of nature itself as one axis of investigation. There is a need for a third way of theorizing views of nature grounded in environmental history. This is because views of nature have an influence on people’s livelihood through consumption, and may motivate changes in behavior that impacts the natural world. Here, drawing on ecocriticism—a mode of literary criticism that emerged out of interest in the same issues as environmental history—we can turn our attention to “coded views of nature”: the tropes that have been used in relation to nature. Haruta Naoki, who established the study of livelihood history of medieval Japan, defines livelihood as “activities that extract value in labor and lifestyle terms from the diverse functions of the natural world,” 22 but if this is so, as a prerequisite to livelihood, and to consumption, there are surely coded values with regard to nature, and the generation and destruction of these codes was surely the driving force for the refinement of consumption modes and intensification of livelihood discussed later in this paper. What kinds of “codes” were accorded to the crucian carp of Lake Biwa? Kanjinhijiri 23 is a Kyogen comic play that is performed during the interval in the Noh song Shirahige, which uses the motif of the shrine to the deity of Lake Biwa region, Shirahige. Kanjinhijiri tells the story of a Buddhist monk who solicits donations from pilgrims traveling through Lake Biwa by boat on their way from the northlands to the Kiyomizu Temple in Kyoto. The pilgrims’ refusal to donate enrages the spirit of a giant crucian carp which appears to the pilgrims and causes them to take off their own clothing and donate it. The play is incontrovertible evidence that crucian carp were recognized as a creature symbolic of Lake Biwa. The oldest written record of crucian carp is found in a wooden tablet dated 736 AD.24 It reveals that crucian carp were used as gifts presented to the imperial court by certain regional domains. The Engishiki, a manual for administration of the ancient state of the Heian

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period in the tenth century, lists the domains that used crucian carp as presents in this way: Ohmi (present-day Shiga prefecture), Mino (Gifu prefecture), and Chikuzen and Chikugo (Fukuoka prefecture).25 This appears to provide evidence that crucian carp from Lake Biwa were already considered a local specialty of the Lake Biwa region at the time. They are named as a specialty of the Ohmi (Shiga) region in both Shin sarugakuki, an essay written in the 11th century during the Heian period, and in Teikin orai, a textbook produced in the 14th century during the Nanboku-chō period. The first documentary evidence of a major transformation in the relationship between humans and Lake Biwa crucian carp dates from the 13th century, during the Kamakura period. This is shown in the following waka poem: The immense wisdom of the people of olden times A letter placed inside a dish of stuffed Katata crucian carp 26 This poem is the work of the nobleman and poet Kinugasa (Fujiwara) Ieyoshi, and was published in the collection Shinsen rokujō daiwaka completed in 1244. It appears to be the oldest historical record of Katata crucian carp. The poem’s subject matter is a story about the Jinshin War27 from the Uji shūi monogatari collection of tales. The story tells how the Princess Tōchi, daughter of Prince Ōama and the empress consort to Prince Ōtomo, distraught at the prospect that her father may be assassinated, wrote him a warning letter and hid it in the belly of a stuffed crucian carp. It is highly unlikely that this tale is true, and the original source, the Uji shūi monogatari that was completed in the first half of the 13th century during the Kamakura period at latest, does not even mention Katata crucian carp. Yet the poet Ieyoshi explicitly names the fish as a white crucian carp from Katata. I interpret this as evidence that Katata crucian carp had gradually become more strongly associated with the imperial court, and were employed as a new “code” by Ieyoshi and his contemporaries in the early 13th century.28 Katata is located at the narrowest point of Lake Biwa, the so-called neck, between the northern and southern sections of the lake. The first historical record of this locale is late and dated 1051 in the Tōnanin monjo, and it is thought to have been a new harbor town. Another official record, the Kamosha shokoku kanbeki, shows that by around 1090, if not earlier, the fishermen of Katata were engaged in net fishing even as far as the Ado River under the authority of the Shimogamo Shrine in Kyoto. I understand Katata at that time to have been a vulnerable settlement that required livelihood support from the urban lords.29 By the 13th century, however, Katata succeeded in giving birth to the local specialty Katata crucian carp, based on a story connected with the authority of the imperial court. Katata crucian carp began to be sold in the capital, Kyoto, by the 15th century, and even supplied to the imperial palace (as evidenced in Sarugenji sōshi, a 15th-century short story). It has not been possible thus far to locate historical materials confirming that Katata crucian carp was considered a local specialty in the 16th century. Nonetheless, the status of crucian carp from Lake Biwa as a specialty product was elevated dramatically from the 17th century onward. The Kefukigusa, a collection of rules for haiku poetry published in 1645, lists a number of crucian carp-related specialty products including “Yamadamaru crucian carp,” Chapter 11: Regional Environmental History

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“Gengorō crucian carp and sushi made from it,” “Katata koito crucian carp,” and “Funaki Omizo Autumn Leaf crucian carp and its deboned sushi,” confirming the rising value of crucian carp from Lake Biwa. None of the varieties listed above, however, is considered a local specialty today. They were simply “codes” rather than actual product types. “Gengorō crucian carp,” for example, is a code assigned only to crucian carp 30 centimeters or longer selected from a group of dozens of fish, while “Autumn Leaf crucian carp” is a code for crucian carp found with bleeding between their scales after being caught in a fishing net.30 These codes were assigned not at the point of production but rather where the fish were consumed or distributed, by wealthy and educated people in the Kyoto area. The use of these codes reflects competition among different locales of production. These kinds of coded views of nature can be said to be highly opportunistic and flexible.31 They are also interlinked with consumption.

Changing consumption trends Consumption is a significant issue that has been largely overlooked by scholars of history in Japan.32 However, in response to the arguments of Ishige Naomichi et al.,33 focusing on the transformation of the fermented fish product narezushi into a luxury item, Haruta Naoki notes the importance of perspectives on how “changes in dietary habits relate to the distribution conditions of food product, and how new trends in demand influence changes in fishing practices, and ultimately in the way that the environment is used,” and argues that this is “one of the directions that environmental historical research should go in.” 34 Research in this area is gradually beginning to advance.35 Consumption is subject to limitations such as topography, climate, flora and fauna profile, ecosystem and other natural conditions, but at the same time it develops independently in accordance with the principles of social integration, market economy, and other factors, and can potentially bring changes to the aggregate of relationships involving humans and nature. Thus, there is a need to establish a theory of consumption that adopts an environmental history perspective: an “environmental historical consumption theory,” as I have named it elsewhere.36 In terms of food consumption, for example, this approach means comprehending consumption not from the vocational standpoint, but through a reverse approach that begins with the “refinement” of consumption through developments such as shifts in food preparation and processing systems including the establishment of new preparation methods, advances in preparation and processing technology and innovation of preparation tools. This approach seeks thereby to highlight the historical developments and characteristics of the aggregate of relationships involving humans and nature in each period and region. The meaning of “refinement” here can be explained using the example of narezushi. It refers primarily to the way the process of manufacturing the product became detached from the realm of home-made preserved foods and shifted to large-scale production as a luxury good, but also to the specification of particular species of fish (refinement of fish types), and the transformation of narezushi into a product used for gifts among ordinary people and to the nobles (refinement of uses). In this way it is closely interconnected with commercialization and the emergence of specialized manufacturers, leading to further standardization and codification of production methods.37 How, then, were the crucian carp of Lake Biwa consumed?

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The sole historical document that offers insight into consumption patterns of Lake Biwa crucian carp during the Kamakura period in the 13th century is the waka poem mentioned above. There is a recipe for stuffed crucian carp in a recipe book dating from the Muromachi period in the 15th century, titled Shijōryū hōchōsho. The recipe calls for fish that are five to six sun (approximately 15 to 18 centimeters) long, which should be gutted, and the cavity filled with knotted kelp, dried persimmon, sesame, poppy seed and millet. The fish is then sewn up, cooked in a light bonito broth and seasoned with salt and sake before serving. The dish was served on occasions such as major turning points in life and for soldiers going off to battle.38 Meanwhile, the Honpukuji atogaki, a chronicle of the history of Katata produced during the Muromachi period in the 15th century, records dishes made with crucian carp that were served to injured soldiers. It lists sushi (which at this time referred to narezushi—a fermented fish dish rather than the modern style of sushi), soup, and a vinegared dish known as namasu, but there is no mention of stuffed crucian carp. Namasu made with crucian carp from Lake Biwa also makes an appearance in the Kyogen play Kanjinhijiri, so it is thought to be one of the three classic examples of Lake Biwa crucian carp cuisine in the 15th century. The recipe in Shijōryū hōchōsho calls for the stuffed crucian carp dish to be simmered, but this is questionable given that the Japanese name of the dish, tsutsumiyaki, is usually used for baked or grilled dishes. This, together with the fact that the recipe does not appear in any subsequent primary historical materials other than recipe books, suggests that it was a fabricated recipe that fell out of use at some point.39 In contrast, in the diaries of Yamashina Tokikuni, head of the household in charge of preparing meals for the emperor in the 15th century, around 90 percent of entries on freshwater fish are about sushi. Moreover, crucian carp were the second most frequently consumed freshwater fish in the 15th century, behind sweetfish (ayu).40 By the 16th century, however, in the diaries of a later Yamashina household head, Tokitsugu, entries on the consumption of crucian carp appear more often than any other freshwater fish.41 It is inconceivable that this change was the result of a decline in biomass of sweetfish. A more plausible hypothesis is that expanding consumption in the 16th century was a result of increased value-adding of Lake Biwa crucian carp production. This hypothesis is substantiated by the refinement of the dish funazushi during the Edo period in the 17th century. Narezushi is made from at least fourteen different types of freshwater fish in the Lake Biwa region today,42 but among these, funazushi has a distinct valueadded status and is sold as a local specialty. The processes for manufacture of funazushi are diverse, but can be classified into four steps: (1) catching, (2) salting, (3) rice-bedding, and (4) opening.43 In the 15th century (Muromachi period), the fish are thought to have been laid down for fermenting as soon as they were caught in the spring spawning season (as recorded in primary documents from the time, such as the Yamashina keraiki), but today the manufacture of funazushi follows a distinct method which involves (1) catching the fish during the spring spawning season, (2) curing them in salt for an extended period, (3) fermenting them in a bed of rice for an extended period beginning in summer, and (4) opening the fermenting vessel and removing the finished product in winter. According to classic studies by the likes of Shinoda Osamu44 and Ishige Naomichi, et al.,45 which centered on genealogy, distribution, and diffusion, funazushi was the original form of sushi in the Japanese archipelago. Since Hibino Terutoshi46 advanced a critique of this view, however, research on this topic has progressed rapidly.47 The most important authority in Chapter 11: Regional Environmental History

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this research is the Gōrui nichiyō ryōrishō, a recipe book published in 1689. No mention can be found in this book of step (2), salting: it simply instructs fermentation in brown rice for at least 70 days beginning in the coldest season of the year (December in the old calendar). This seasonal information also leads inevitably to the conclusion that the recipe envisioned the fishing (step 1) of species of cold season crucian carp other than round crucian carp, which inhabit deep offshore waters during the winter season. Because this method of preparing funazushi differs so greatly from the one used today, I refer to it as the “old type of funazushi,” and believe that it was refined through dramatic advancements in manufacturing techniques for the purpose of sale in urban markets from the 17th century.48 It can be ascertained from another recipe book, Manbō ryōri himitsubako, that the old type of funazushi was being manufactured in the Ishiba district of Otsu, adjacent to Lake Biwa, in the 18th century, but it likely went out of favor subsequently, as its existence cannot be confirmed today. It thus seems safe to conclude that consumption trends changed over time, and that flexible approaches to fish as a food source led to repeated processes of refinement and decline. These are reflected in fisheries patterns.

Involution of livelihood Among all the forces brought to bear on the natural environment, the heaviest emphasis in historical studies has been placed on “development.” Kuroda Hideo defines development as “the totality of all practices designed to put nature to work in human lifestyles and production,” describing it broadly as “the active workings of humans on nature at a variety of levels, not only the cultivation and re-cultivation of farmland, but also the development of mountainous areas, fishing grounds, transportation, and so on; development is all activities that help expand the sphere of activity of human societies.” 49 Naturally, development should be the most crucial point of discussion in environmental history as well. This view, however, is surely the product of direct human-centric understanding. My focus here is on the following problem, raised in 1990 by Amino Yoshihiko, one of Japan’s leading medieval historians:50 A key challenge for the new approach to history is to undertake a re-assessment of nature, which thus far has been treated by historians exclusively as the object of development. We must explore the diverse interactions between nature and humans and shed light from a variety of angles on the infinite depth of the natural world, the subtleties of humans who sensed this depth and adopted an approach to engaging with nature that differs from the control and management by development, and the forms of engagement that are distinct from development. The greatest shortcoming of developmental history is that it sees nature only as an object of development, and does not attend to nature outside the scope of development. When the focus is shifted to “the aggregate of relationships involving humans and nature,” this approach to nature appears rather biased. Overcoming this problem requires addressing “forms of engagement that are distinct from development.” While Amino does not use the term “livelihood” directly, this author believes that livelihood can be considered one “approach to engaging with nature that differs from the control and management by development.”

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In general terms, livelihood (nariwai in Japanese) refers to a “vocation for the purpose of earning a living; a means of making one’s way in the world.” 51 There are two key theories surrounding the concept of livelihood. The first is the theory of complex livelihood, advanced by Yasumuro Satoru, who showed that rural communities and management entities established a means of living strategically by combining multiple vocations.52 The second is the theory of livelihood communities or livelihood history, advanced by Haruta Naoki who shed light on the historical development of livelihood in rural communities.53 As noted earlier, Haruta, in particular, defines livelihood as “activities that extract value in labor and lifestyle terms from the diverse functions of the natural world,” and proposes an approach to comprehending the totality of human interventions in nature, which has not been achievable through conventional approaches based on the social division of labor. Haruta’s success also lies in the relativization of developmental history research which included the illusion that history is simply about progress. What, then, was the nature of the relationship between crucian carp and livelihood? In the Middle Ages, fishing was already an integral part of livelihood for the residents of communities in the Lake Biwa region.54 From around the 13th century, however, fishing, which had previously been one simple component of livelihood, began a process of significant technological development. There is a device called an eri that is used to catch a variety of fish including crucian carp. An eri is a fixed-point fishing device that is “placed in a pathway that fish follow along a river, lake or the like, and involves moving a slatted board made of bamboo (for example) in a spiral or winding motion to utilize the natural features such as the direction and speed of the current to guide fish into an enclosure and catch them in a hand-held net when they go into a final enclosure (trap called tsubo).” 55 Eri were made in both a simple type for use in everyday life, and an involuted type that can also be used commercially. This involuted type appeared in the 13th century, and I argue that it played a role in community reorganization (establishment of small settlements).56 This technological progress began in the naiko where the waves are gentle, but in the 17th century people began extending their slatted boards toward the offshore areas of Lake Biwa.57 Sano insightfully notes the relationship between this development of eri and the growth of uncooked crucian carp cuisine in Kyoto.58 It seems that demand was the precursor for changes in livelihood. Katata comprised three groups of fishermen: the anglers (tsuri ryōshi), the west catchers (nishinokiri ryōshi) and the east catchers (higashinokiri ryōshi), with the latter two groups engaged in koito net fishing.59 A koito net is a type of gillnet made from fine silk, which is spread up-and-down in the water like a curtain. Fish are caught when they become stuck in the net’s mesh or tangled up in it.60 This technique was used in Katata only. Historiographical evidence of the Katata fishing industry has been found in places including the Ado River, Otowa, Chomeiji, and Sugaura, and shows that Katata’s fishermen were in competition with other communities’ fishing activities as well as conflicting with Buddhist bans on killing living things. Based on this evidence, I estimate that the history of fishing in Katata dates back to the 11th century. However, this competition was over access to the water surface bordering the land, and I cannot concur with Sano’s estimate that koito net fishing was already taking place in Katata in the 12th century.61 Nonetheless, I support the conclusion that it dates back to the 16th century. It was in the 16th century that major technological advancements appear to have been made toward the use of offshore zones as fishing Chapter 11: Regional Environmental History

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grounds. If this is the case, it accords with the prominence of entries on crucian carp in the aforementioned 16th-century diaries of Yamashina Tokitsugu. In other words, the unique advances made in fishing in Lake Biwa were driven by the growth in demand for crucian carp in the capital Kyoto. This technological progress connected in turn with the emergence in the 17th century of the use of Katata koito crucian carp as a “code,” and with the old type of funazushi that is presumed to be the main form in which these fish were consumed.

A proposal for regional environmental history Above I have examined changes in ecology, views of fish, consumption and fishing, with a focus on the crucian carp of Lake Biwa. What I wish to emphasize here is not that consumption and views of fish changed as a result of linear expansion of fishing—that is, “development” in a broad sense—but rather that fishing practices were altered in response to changing views of fish and consumption trends. The distinct old type of funazushi, which involved direct fermentation in winter, rather than prior salting, of difficult-to-find winter crucian carp, was undoubtedly predicated on the practice of fishing during the winter season, but there is also a need to stress the fact that the success of this old type of funazushi prompted further fishing in the winter months, which had an impact on the natural environment. In this regard, it is important to grasp the totality of geographical and climatic conditions, flora and fauna profile, ecology and other locally distinct attributes. The profile of freshwater fish in the Japanese archipelago, for example, is characterized by a diverse range from cold water to tropical species, resulting from the length of the archipelago north to south. Another is the differences in local profiles arising from the mountainous terrain, which restricts opportunities for migratory dispersion.62 The latest research using molecular genetic markers divides the Japanese archipelago into 25 different areas in total.63 This means that each of the 25 areas must have its own distinct ecology, and have been home to unique outlooks on fish, consumption patterns and livelihood practices. We must shed light on a “history of the aggregate of relationships involving humans and nature” in all of these areas one by one. I believe it is essential to develop environmental history grounded in local environments that each have distinctive ecological features and have fostered their own patterns of relationship between humans and nature. I call this “regional environmental history” to distinguish it from approaches such as national environmental history and global environmental history.64 Historical studies in Japan have traditionally lacked analysis of views of nature, ignored theories of consumption, and overlooked livelihood perspectives. A study of the developmental history will naturally remain important into the future, but it is insufficient on its own to constitute a “history of the aggregate of relationships involving humans and nature.” A limitation of this chapter is that it was not able to address questions of geoscientific change such as crustal variation and fluctuation in air temperature, water temperature and rainfall, nor ecological changes such as regime shift. In recent years, however, researchers have identified changes in air temperature and rainfall with a high degree of precision, down to year-on-year comparisons.65 I hope to address the relationships between fishing practices and factors including water and air temperature changes, fluctuations in rainfall and water levels, and regime shift in the near future.

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Notes 1

Kimura Yoshihiro, Biwako—sono koshō no yurai [Lake Biwa: the origins of its name] (Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2001). 2 Naito Masaaki (supervising ed.), Biwako handobukku santeiban [Lake Biwa handbook, 3rd rev. ed.] (Shiga: Shiga Prefectural Government, 2018). 3 See, among others, Nishino Machiko, et al., “Naiko no tokusei to hozen no hōkōsei ni tsuite” [Characteristics of the naiko and directions in their conservation] Lake Biwa Research Institute Bulletin 20 (2003). 4 See, among others, Azuma Yoshihiro, “Meiji jidai chikeizu kara mita kogan chikei no henka” [Changes in lakeshore topography as seen in topographical diagrams from the Meiji period], in Torimodose! Biwako/ yodogawa no genfūkei [Recapturing the original landscapes of Lake Biwa and the Yodo River], ed. Nishino Machiko (Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2009). 5 Nishino Machiko, et al., eds., Biwakogan kara no messēji—hozen saisei no tame no shiten [A message from Lake Biwa shore: Approaches to conservation and regeneration] (Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2017). 6 Hashimoto Michinori, “Ōmi suisan zufu o yomu—Biwako gyorō no kōzu” [Reading the Ōmi suisan zufu: composition of fishing in Lake Biwa] Rekishi to minzoku 33 (2017). 7 For an approachable guide to the formation and transformation of Lake Biwa, see: Satoguchi Yasufumi, Biwako hakubutsukan bukkuretto (7) Biwako wa itsu dekita—chisō ga tsutaeru kako no kankyō [Lake Biwa Museum booklet (7): When was Lake Biwa formed? The environment of the past as revealed in geological strata] (Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2018). 8 Nishino Machiko, “Mizuumi no seitaigakuteki kōzō to Biwako no seibutsu tayōsei” [Ecological structure of lakes and the biodiversity of Lake Biwa], in Biwakogan kara no messēji—hozen saisei no tame no shiten [A message from Lake Biwa shore: approaches to conservation and regeneration], ed. Nishino Machiko, et al. (Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2017). Another view is that there are 15 endemic species. See Nakabo Tetsuji, Nihonsan gyorui kensaku—zenshu no dōtei—dai 3 ban [Compendium of fish in Japan: identification of all species, 3rd ed.] (Kanagawa: Tokai University Press, 2013). 9 Tabata Ryoichi, et al., “Phylogeny and historical demography of endemic fishes in Lake Biwa: the ancient lake as a promoter of evolution and diversification of freshwater fishes in western Japan,” Ecology and Evolution 6, no. 8 (2016). 10 Satoguchi, Biwako hakubutsukan bukkuretto (7) Biwako wa itsu dekita. 11 Personal communication between the author and Satoguchi Yasufumi, Lake Biwa Museum. 12 Kito Hiroshi, “Chōsa: Meiji izen nihon no chiiki jinkō” [Regional population in Japan before the Meiji era: An estimation], Sophia Economic Review 41, No. 1–2 (1996). 13 Hashimoto Michinori, ed. Shizen, seigyō, shizenkan—biwako no chiiki kankyōshi [Nature, livelihood, and views of nature: A regional environmental history of Lake Biwa] (Kyoto: Chiisagosha, 2022). 14 Intensification refers to changes made in order to utilize limited resources in limited space in more sophisticated and elaborate ways. 15 Hashimoto, Shizen, seigyō, shizenkan. 16 Fujioka Yasuhiro, “Kindai biwako gyogyō no gyokakuryō no chōkitekina hensen—hitobito wa biwako de nani o totte kita ka” [Long-term trends in fishing catch volumes in Lake Biwa in the modern period—what did people catch in Lake Biwa?], in Shizen, seigyō, shizenkan—biwako no chiiki kankyōshi [Nature, livelihood, and views of nature: A regional environmental history of Lake Biwa], ed. Hashimoto Michinori (Kyoto: Chiisagosha, 2022). 17 Hosoya Kazumi, “Biwako no tansuigyo no kaiyū yōshiki to naiko no yakuwari” [Mobility patterns of freshwater fish in Lake Biwa and the role of naiko], in Naiko kara no messēji—biwako shūhen no shicchi saisei to seibutsu tayōsei hozen [Messages from the naiko: wetland regeneration and biodiversity conservation in the environs of Lake Biwa], ed. Nishino Machiko and Hamabata Etsuji (Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2005). 18 Hashimoto Michinori, “Chiiki kankyōshi no shizenkanron—Biwako san funazoku no kōdoka o megutte” [Views of nature in regional environmental history: Coding of crucian carp in Lake Biwa], in Kansekai no jinbungaku—sei to sōzō no tankyū—[Humanities of the Umwelt: exploring life and creation], ed. Ishii Miho, Iwaki Takuji, Tanaka Yuriko and Fujihara Tatsushi (Kyoto: Jimbun Shoin, 2021). 19 Watanabe Masao, Nihonjin to kindai kagaku—seiyō eno taiō to kadai [Japanese people and modern science—challenges and responses to the west] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1976).

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20

Hōjō Katsutaka, “’Fusai’ no hyōgen” [Expressions of indebtedness], in Kankyō toiu shiza—nihon bungaku to ekokuritishizumu [The standpoint of environment—Japanese literature and ecocriticism], ed. Watanabe Kenji et al. (Tokyo: Benseisha Publishing, 2011). 21 Yasumuro Satoru, Shizenkan no minzokugaku—seikatsu sekai no bunrui to meimei [Folklore of views of nature: classification and naming of the lifeworld] (Tokyo: Keiyūsha, 2016). 22 Haruta Naoki, Nihon chūsei seigyōshiron [Livelihood history in medieval Japan] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2018). 23 Reproduced in Kyōgen shūsei [Kyogen compendium], ed. Nonomura Kaizo and Ando Tsunejiro (Tokyo: Nohgaku Shorin, 1974). 24 Wooden Tablet Database by Nara National Research Institute for Cultural Properties. 25 Shibusawa Keizō, “Shikinai gyomei” [Names of ceremonial fish], in Shibusawa Keizō chosakushū daiikkan—saigyodō zatsuroku saigyodō zakkō [Collected works of Keizo Shibusawa vol. 1] ed. Amino Yoshihiko et al. (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1992). 26 Shinsen kokka taikan Editorial Committee, Shinpen kokka taikan vol. 3 [New collection of national waka poems vol. 3] (Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten, 2012). 27 A civil war that broke out in 672 following the death of the Emperor Tenji, between the emperor’s younger brother Prince Ōama and his son Prince Ōtomo. The former was victorious and acceded to the throne as Emperor Tenmu. 28 Hashimoto Michinori, Nihon chūsei no kankyō to sonraku [Environment and rural communities in medieval Japan] (Tokyo: Shibunkaku, 2015). 29 Hashimoto, Nihon chūsei no kankyō to sonraku. 30 Hashimoto, “Chiiki kankyōshi no shizenkanron.” 31 Hashimoto, “Chiiki kankyōshi no shizenkanron.” 32 Kawakita Minoru, “Shijō to shōhi” [Markets and consumption], in Rekishigaku jiten 1 kōkan to shōhi [Dictionary of history 1: Exchange and consumption], ed. Kawakita Minoru (Tokyo: Koubundou Publishers, 1994). 33 Ishige Naomichi, et al., Gyoshō to narezushi no kenkyū—monsūn ajia no shokuji bunka [Research on fish sauce and Narezushi: culinary culture of monsoon Asia] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990). 34 Haruta Naoki, “Bunkenshigaku karano kankyōshi” [Environmental history from a historiographical perspective], Atarashī rekishigaku no tameni 259 (2005). 35 Watanabe Takashi, ed. Seisan, ryūtsū, shōhi no kinseishi [A history of production, distribution, and consumption in the early modern times] (Tokyo: Benseisha Publishing, 2016); Haruta Naoki, Nihon chūsei seigyōshiron [Livelihood history in medieval Japan] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2018). 36 Hashimoto Michinori, “Shōhiron kara mita chūsei sugaura” [A consumption theory perspective on Sugaura in the middle ages], Shigaku zasshi 129, no. 6 (2020). 37 This definition of “refinement” was formulated in collaboration with Yukino Ochiai. Hashimoto Michinori, “Shōhi kara gyorō o kangaeru—biwako no funazushi no senrenka o megutte” [Considering fishing practices from consumption: the refinement of Lake Biwa Funazushi], Rekishi to minzoku 38 (2022). 38 Ogura Shigeji, “Tsutsumareta tabemono no rekishi—kodai nihon o chūshin toshite” [The history of wrapped foods—centering on ancient Japan], vesta 117 (2020). 39 Hashimoto Michinori, Nihon chūsei no kankyō to sonraku. 40 Hashimoto Michinori, Nihon chūsei no kankyō to sonraku. 41 Iwanaga Hirokazu, “‘Tokitsugu kyoki’ ni miru 16 seiki no gyokairui shōhi” [Fish consumption in the 16th century as seen in “Tokitsugu Kyoki”] (unpublished). 42 Kashio Tamaki, “Deta-bēsu kara mita narezushi no tokuchō to tayōsei” [Characteristics and diversity of narezushi seen from databases] (unpublished). 43 Kojima Tomoko, “Ōmi no funazushi” [Funazushi of Ohmi], Dentō shokuhin no kenkyū 3 (1986). 44 Shinoda Osamu, Sushi no hon [The book of sushi] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002). 45 Ishige, Gyoshō to narezushi no kenkyū. 46 Hibino Terutoshi, “Ōmi no funazushi no ‘genshosei’—wagakuni ni okeru narezushi no purototaipu o megutte” [The primordial of funazushi in Ohmi: About the prototype of narezushi, fermented fish, in Japan], Bulletin of the National Museum of Ethnology 18, no.1 (1993). 47 Hashimoto Michinori, ed. Saikō funazushi no rekishi [The history of Funazushi: A reconsideration] (Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2016).

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48

Hashimoto, “Shōhi kara gyorō o kangaeru.” Kuroda Hideo, Nihon chūsei kaihatsushi no kenkyū [Research on the history of development in medieval Japan] (Tokyo: Azekura Shobo, 1984). 50 Amino Yoshihiko, “Rekishi to shizen/kakai no yakuwari—soshiete 21 no hakkan ni yosete” [History and the role of nature, seas and rivers—on the occasion of the launch of SOCIÉTÉ 21],” in Amino Yoshihiko chosakushū dai 12 kan muen, kugai, raku [Collected works of Amino Yoshihiko, vol. 12: Extraneousness, public, and pleasure] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2007). Originally published 1990. 51 Kitahara Yasuo, et.al., Nihon Kokugo Daijiten, dai 2 han [Japanese Dictionary, 2nd ed.] (Tokyo: Shogakukan, 2003). 52 Yasumuro Satoru, “Fukugō seigyōron” [A theory of complex livelihood], in Kōza nihon no minzokugaku dai 5 kan seigyō no minzoku [Lectures on the folklore of Japan, vol. 5: The folklore of livelihood] (Tokyo: Yūzankaku, 1997). 53 Haruta Naoki, Nihon chūsei seigyōshiron [Livelihood history in medieval Japan] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2018). 54 Hashimoto, Nihon chūsei no kankyō to sonraku. 55 Hashimoto, “Ōmi suisan zufu o yomu. 56 Hashimoto, Nihon chūsei no kankyō to sonraku. 57 Sano Shizuyo, “Kinsei/kindai shiryō ni yoru biwako no eri hattatsushi no saikentō” [A reconsideration of the history of development of eri in Lake Biwa from early modern and modern historical materials], in Chūkinsei no seigyō to satoumi no kankyōshi [Environmental history of livelihood and satoumi in the medieval and early modern eras] (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kobunkan, 2017). Originally published 2011. 58 Sano Shizuyo, “Satoumi no seitaikei to kinsei toshi no shōhi seikatsu—biwako to kyō o megutte” [The ecology of satoumi and consumer life in early modern cities: Lake Biwa and Kyoto],” in Chūkinsei no seigyō to satoumi no kankyōshi [Environmental history of livelihood and satoumi in the medieval and early modern eras] (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kobunkan, 2017). Originally published 2016. 59 Kamatani Kaoru, “Kinsei biwako no gyogyō to gyoson—katata ryōshi o jirei ni” [The fishing industry and fishing villages of Lake Biwa in the early modern era: the example of the fishermen of Katata] Rekishi to minzoku 29 (2013). 60 Shigaken Naimubu Shōkōsuisanka, Shigaken gyogu no setsumei to gyogyō tetsuzuki [Explanation of fishing equipment and fishing procedures in Shiga prefecture] (Shiga: Internal Affairs Department, Shiga Prefectural Government, 1934). 61 Hashimoto, Shizen, seigyō, shizenkan.. 62 Tabata Ryoichi and Watanabe Katsutoshi, “Nihon no gyoruisō—tansuigyo” [Ichthyofauna in Japan— freshwater fish], in Gyoruigaku no hyakkajiten [Encyclopedia of ichthyology], ed. The Ichthyological Society of Japan (Tokyo: Maruzen Publishing, 2018). 63 Watanabe Katsutoshi, “Faunal structure of Japanese freshwater fishes and its artificial disturbance,” Environmental Biology of Fishes 94 (2012). 64 Hashimoto Michinori, “Chiiki kankyōshi no kadai” [Issues in regional environmental history], Nihonshi kenkyū 649 (2016). 65 Nakatsuka Takeshi, supervising ed., Kikō hendō kara yominaosu nihonshi (4) kikō hendō to chūsei shakai [Re-reading Japanese history through climate change (4): Climate change and medieval society] (Kyoto: Rinsen Book Co., 2020). 49

Bibliography Amino, Yoshihiko. “Rekishi to shizen/kakai no yakuwari—soshiete 21 no hakkan ni yosete” [History and the role of nature, seas and rivers—on the occasion of the launch of SOCIÉTÉ 21]. In Amino Yoshihiko chosakushū dai 12 kan muen, kugai, raku [Collected works of Amino Yoshihiko, vol. 12: Extraneousness, public, and pleasure]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2007. Originally published 1990. Azuma, Yoshihiro. “Meiji jidai chikeizu kara mita kogan chikei no henka” [Changes in lakeshore topography as seen in topographical diagrams from the Meiji period]. In Torimodose! Biwako/yodogawa no genfūkei [Recapturing the original landscapes of Lake Biwa and the Yodo River], edited by Nishino Machiko. Tokyo: Sunrise Publishing, 2009.

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Fujioka, Yasuhiro. “Kindai biwako gyogyō no gyokakuryō no chōkitekina hensen—hitobito wa biwako de nani o totte kita ka” [Long-term trends in fishing catch volumes in Lake Biwa in the modern period— what did people catch in Lake Biwa?]. In Shizen, seigyō, shizenkan—biwako no chiiki kankyōshi [Nature, livelihood, and views of nature: A regional environmental history of Lake Biwa], edited by Hashimoto Michinori. Kyoto: Chiisagosha, 2022. Haruta, Naoki. “Bunkenshigaku karano kankyōshi” [Environmental history from a historiographical perspective]. Atarashī rekishigaku no tameni 259 (2005). ———. Nihon chūsei seigyōshiron [Livelihood history in medieval Japan]. (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2018. Hashimoto, Michinori. Nihon chūsei no kankyō to sonraku [Environment and rural communities in medieval Japan]. Tokyo: Shibunkaku, 2015. ———. ed. Saikō funazushi no rekishi [The history of funazushi: A reconsideration]. Tokyo: Sunrise Publishing, 2016. ———. “Chiiki kankyōshi no kadai” [Issues in Regional environmental history]. Nihonshi kenkyū 649 (2016). ———. “Ōmi suisan zufu o yomu—Biwako gyorō no kōzu” [Reading the Ōmi suisan zufu: Composition of fishing in Lake Biwa]. Rekishi to minzoku 33 (2017). ———. “Shōhiron kara mita chūsei Sugaura” [A consumption theory perspective on Sugaura in the middle ages]. Shigaku zasshi 129, no. 6 (2020). ———. “Chiiki kankyōshi no shizenkanron—Biwako san funazoku no kōdoka o megutte” [Views of nature in regional environmental history: Coding of crucian carp in Lake Biwa]. In Kansekai no jinbungaku—sei to sōzō no tankyū [Humanities of the Umwelt: exploring life and creation], edited by Ishii Miho, Iwaki Takuji, Tanaka Yuriko and Fujihara Tatsushi. Kyoto: Jimbun Shoin, 2021. ———. ed. Shizen, seigyō, shizenkan—biwako no chiiki kankyōshi [Nature, livelihood, and views of nature: A regional environmental history of Lake Biwa]. Kyoto: Chiisagosha, 2022. ———. “Shōhi kara gyorō o kangaeru—biwako no funazushi no senrenka o megutte” [Considering fishing practices from consumption—the refinement of Lake Biwa Funazushi]. Rekishi to minzoku 38 (2022). Hibino, Terutoshi. “Ōmi no funazushi no ‘genshosei’—wagakuni ni okeru narezushi no purototaipu o megutte” [The primordial of funazushi in Ohmi: About the prototype of narezushi, fermented fish, in Japan]. Bulletin of the National Museum of Ethnology 18, no.1 (1993). Hōjō, Katsutaka. “‘Fusai’ no hyōgen [Expressions of indebtedness]. In Kankyō toiu shiza—nihon bungaku to ekokuritishizumu [The standpoint of environment: Japanese literature and ecocriticism]. Tokyo: Benseisha Publishing, 2011. Hosoya, Kazumi. “Biwako no tansuigyo no kaiyū yōshiki to naiko no yakuwari” [Mobility patterns of freshwater fish in Lake Biwa and the role of naiko]. In Naiko kara no messēji—biwako shūhen no shicchi saisei to seibutsu tayōsei hozen [Messages from the naiko: wetland regeneration and biodiversity conservation in the environs of Lake Biwa], edited by Nishino Machiko and Hamabata Etsuji. Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2005. Ishige, Naomichi, et al. Gyoshō to narezushi no kenkyū—monsūn ajia no shokuji bunka [Research on fish sauce and Narezushi: culinary culture of monsoon Asia]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990. Iwanaga, Hirokazu “‘Tokitsugu kyoki’ ni miru 16 seiki no gyokairui shōhi” [Fish Consumption in the 16th century as seen in “Tokitsugu Kyoki”]. (unpublished). Kamatani, Kaoru. “Kinsei biwako no gyogyō to gyoson—katata ryōshi o jirei ni” [The fishing industry and fishing villages of Lake Biwa in the early modern era: the example of the fishermen of Katata]. Rekishi to minzoku 29 (2013). Kawakita, Minoru. “Shijō to shōhi” [Markets and consumption]. In Rekishigaku jiten 1 kōkan to shōhi [Dictionary of history 1: Exchange and consumption], edited by Kawakita Minoru. Tokyo: Kōbundō Publishers, 1994. Kimura, Yoshihiro. Biwako—sono koshō no yurai [Lake Biwa: the origins of its name]. Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2001. Kito, Hiroshi. “‘Chōsa’ Meiji izen nihon no chiiki jinkō” [Regional Population in Japan before the Meiji era: An estimation]. Sophia Economic Review 41, No. 1–2 (1996). Kojima, Tomoko. “Ōmi no funazushi” [Funazushi of Ohmi]. Dentō shokuhin no kenkyū 3 (1986). Kuroda, Hideo. Nihon chūsei kaihatsushi no kenkyū [Research on the history of development in medieval Japan]. Tokyo: Azekura Shobo, 1984.

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Naito, Masaaki. supervising ed. Biwako handobukku santeiban [Lake Biwa handbook, 3rd rev. ed.]. Shiga: Shiga Prefectural Government, 2018. Nakabo, Tetsuji. Nihonsan gyorui kensaku—zenshu no dōtei—dai 3 ban [Compendium of fish in Japan: identification of all species, 3rd ed.]. Kanagawa: Tokai University Press, 2013. Nakatsuka, Takeshi, supervising ed. Kikō hendō kara yominaosu nihonshi (4) kikō hendō to chūsei shakai [Re-reading Japanese history through climate change (4): Climate change and medieval society]. Kyoto: Rinsen Book Co., 2020. Nishino, Machiko. “Mizuumi no seitaigakuteki kōzō to Biwako no seibutsu tayōsei” [Ecological structure of lakes and the biodiversity of Lake Biwa]. In Biwakogan kara no messēji—hozen saisei no tame no shiten [A message from Lake Biwa shore: approaches to conservation and regeneration], edited by Nishino Machiko, et al. Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2017. Nishino, Machiko, et al., eds. Biwakogan kara no messēji—hozen saisei no tame no shiten [A message from Lake Biwa shore: approaches to conservation and regeneration]. Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2017. ———. “Naiko no tokusei to hozen no hōkōsei ni tsuite” [Characteristics of the naiko and directions in their conservation]. Lake Biwa Research Institute Bulletin 20 (2003). Nonomura, Kaizo and Ando Tsunejiro, eds. Kyōgen shūsei [Kyogen compendium]. (Tokyo: Nohgaku Shorin, 1974). Ogura, Shigeji. “Tsutsumareta tabemono no rekishi—kodai nihon o chūshin toshite” [The history of wrapped foods—centering on ancient Japan]. vesta 117 (2020). Sano, Shizuyo. Chūkinsei no seigyō to satoumi no kankyōshi [Environmental history of livelihood and satoumi in the medieval and early modern eras]. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kobunkan, 2017. Originally published 2011. Satoguchi, Yasufumi. Biwako hakubutsukan bukkuretto (7) Biwako wa itsu dekita—chisō ga tsutaeru kako no kankyō [Lake Biwa Museum Booklet (7): When was Lake Biwa formed? The environment of the past as revealed in geological strata]. Shiga: Sunrise Publishing, 2018. Shibusawa, Keizō. “Shikinai gyomei” [Names of ceremonial fish]. In Shibusawa Keizō chosakushū daiikkan—saigyodō zatsuroku saigyodō zakkō [Collected works of Keizo Shibusawa vol. 1], edited by Amino Yoshihiko et al.Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1992. Shigaken Naimubu Shōkōsuisanka. Shigaken gyogu no setsumei to gyogyō tetsuzuki [Explanation of fishing equipment and fishing procedures in Shiga prefecture]. Shiga: Internal Affairs Department, Shiga Prefectural Government, 1934. Shinoda, Osamu. Sushi no hon [The book of sushi]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002. Tabata, Ryoichi, et al. “Phylogeny and historical demography of endemic fishes in Lake Biwa: the ancient lake as a promoter of evolution and diversification of freshwater fishes in western Japan.” Ecology and Evolution 6, no. 8 (2016). Tabata, Ryoichi and Watanabe Katsutoshi. “Nihon no gyoruisō—tansuigyo” [Ichthyofauna in Japan—freshwater fish]. In Gyoruigaku no hyakkajiten [Encyclopedia of Ichthyology], edited by The Ichthyological Society of Japan. Tokyo: Maruzen Publishing, 2018. Watanabe, Katsutoshi. Faunal structure of Japanese freshwater fishes and its artificial disturbance. Environmental Biology of Fishes 94 (2012). Watanabe, Masao. Nihonjin to kindai kagaku—seiyō eno taiō to kadai [Japanese people and modern science— challenges and responses to the west]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1976. Watanabe, Takashi, ed. Seisan, ryūtsū, shōhi no kinseishi [A history of production, distribution, and consumption in the early modern times]. Tokyo: Benseisha Publishing, 2016. Yasumuro, Satoru. “Fukugō seigyōron” [A theory of complex livelihood]. In Kōza nihon no minzokugaku dai 5-kan seigyō no minzoku [Lectures on the folklore of Japan, vol. 5: The folklore of livelihood]. Tokyo: Yūzankaku, 1997. ———. Shizenkan no minzokugaku—seikatsu sekai no bunrui to meimei [Folklore of views of nature: Classification and naming of the lifeworld]. Tokyo: Keiyusha, 2016.

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Chapter 12 The 20th Century around Tokyo Bay: Life, Production, and Environment Kobori Satoru This chapter provides an overview of the history of life, industry and the environment in the Tokyo Bay area during the 20th century. Throughout this period, much of the Tokyo Bay area was reclaimed and large factories which consumed a great deal of imported resources and energy were built. This contributed to Japan’s rapid economic growth, a precursor to the East Asian miracle, but it also brought environmental destruction, such as air pollution and destruction of the natural coastline, as well as keeping ordinary citizens and fishermen away from the seashore. However, there have been some attempts to correct these external diseconomies, and this chapter also introduces some of these attempts to provide some hints for achieving sustainable growth in the 21st century.

Introduction Tokyo Bay is located at the center of Greater Tokyo, the world’s largest megacity with a population of 38 million people. The bay has a total area of 1,380 km2 and a total coastline of 775 km. It is sandwiched between the Bōsō Peninsula in Chiba Prefecture to the east, the Miura Peninsula in Kanagawa Prefecture to the west, and the Kanto Plain including the Tokyo metropolis and surrounding areas to the north. More precisely, the sea area is north of the line connecting Sunosaki in Tateyama City, Chiba Prefecture, on the Bōsō Peninsula and Kenzaki in Miura City, Kanagawa Prefecture, on the Miura Peninsula. The area north of the line connecting Cape Futtsu in Futtsu City, Chiba Prefecture, and Kannonzaki in Yokosuka City, Kanagawa Prefecture, is called the Inner Bay, and the area to its south is called the Outer Bay.1 Tokyo Bay has a variety of sights, such as a group of factories including a petrochemical complex, a fish market in Toyosu (formerly located in Tsukiji, near Ginza) in Tokyo, Tokyo Disney Resort in Urayasu City, Chiba Prefecture, New Tokyo International Airport in Haneda, Ota Ward, and a beach in Miura City, Kanagawa Prefecture. Yokosuka City in Kanagawa Prefecture is also home to a US Navy base, the only non-US homeport for an aircraft carrier. With such a variety of sights along the coast of Tokyo Bay, this chapter traces the changes in life, production, and the environment throughout the 20th century from the perspective

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of the “East Asian Miracle”—the rapid economic growth after World War II which had a great impact on the global environment today, made possible only by utilizing coastal industrial zones. It was the area around Tokyo Bay where this characteristic first became apparent. Industrialization in the Tokyo Bay area began around 1910, and along with it came changes in lifestyle and many environmental problems, for which there were some attempts to correct and to some extent, were successful. After discussing the importance of the coastal industrial zone in Japan’s role in the “East Asian Miracle,” the current situation in Tokyo Bay is reviewed. An explanation of the pre- and post-World War II history of Tokyo Bay, including the waterfront industrial zone, follows, after which, after briefly mentioning the developments since the oil crisis of 1974, when the creation of the waterfront industrial zone came to an end, I will summarize the implications of this chapter.

The East Asian Miracle and the coastal industrial zone Mechanism The East Asian Miracle refers to the industrialization and economic growth in Asia that began in earnest after World War II. The first example of this was the high economic growth that occurred in Japan from 1955 to 1973. Since the 1970s, industrialization and economic growth have spread to Newly Industrialized Economies (NIEs), such as South Korea and Taiwan, and Association of South-East Asian Nations (ASEAN) countries such as Thailand and Indonesia, with China taking over the role of the center of industrial production. In this way, Asia has become the world’s factory, replacing the United Kingdom (UK) and the United States of America (USA). In this process, the position of Japan, which was the first to industrialize in Asia, has been in relative decline since the 1990s. In today’s historiography, the economic growth of modern Japan is understood not as an exceptional phenomenon in non-Western regions, but as part of and the precursor to the economic growth of Asia.2 Among the heavy and chemical industries, the machinery industry has played a major role in the industrialization of Asia. In the early stages of industrialization, the main industry was the textile industry, a labor-intensive light industry. Eventually, the machinery industry—inclusive of home appliances, automobiles, shipbuilding, and machine tools—grew. These industries are characterized as labor- and skill-intensive among heavy industries, and they take advantage of the strength of Asia’s industrious labor force. However, the growth of the machinery industry is not possible only with an industrious workforce; energy and basic materials with which to work are also essential. Resourceintensive industries, such as steel, oil, electricity and cement, which supplied energy and basic materials, also grew in Asia, and this was made possible by the massive and stable imports of natural resources and fossil fuels from abroad after World War II. The East Asian Miracle was made possible only by combining foreign resources with an industrious domestic labor force. How was the utilization of overseas resources made possible? While it cannot be overlooked that international conditions such as US hegemony, the low cost and large supply of Middle Eastern crude oil by international oil capital, and the increasing size of tankers came together in the late 1950s, an important domestic factor was the utilization of coastal Chapter 12: The 20th Century around Tokyo Bay

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industrial zones. Japan’s industrial zones were clustered along the seaside with deep-water ports, which made it possible to import large quantities of overseas resources by large ships. The shallow coastal waters around major cities, in areas such as Tokaido and Setouchi, were reclaimed and dredged to make room for large ships. This is the so-called Pacific Belt Zone. Many of the resource-intensive industries throughout Asia are competitive due to their waterfront locations. Waterfront reclamation sites were also ideal for the export and logistics bases needed to secure foreign currencies, such as dollars, for resource imports. In contrast, the heavy and chemical industrial zones of Western Europe developed before World War I along rivers near domestic resources and were, therefore, at a disadvantage compared to Asia in terms of importing overseas resources and fossil fuels using large ships.3 Environmental destruction The rapid industrialization propelling the East Asian Miracle was, however, accompanied by several side effects. These include the rapid decline in energy self-sufficiency, depopulation of rural villages, and the intensification of urban problems such as overcrowding, pollution and destruction of nature. In fact, around 1970, when Japan became the world’s secondlargest economy, it was among the worst in the world in terms of air and water pollution (Table 12.1). For Japan, being an economic superpower simultaneously meant being a pollution superpower. The development of coastal industrial zones has Table 12.1 The amounts of pollution realso separated the seaside from the lives of local lease per habitable area in Japan and four countries around 1970 (ton/thousand m2) residents and destroyed natural coasts and seagrass beds through reclamation and dredging, resulting Country (year) SO2 BOD in a decline of the fishing industry. According to the Japan (1970) 36.0 21.0 1976 national survey, 59.6 percent of the coastline USA (1967) 2.3 1.3 in Japan, excluding island areas, was purely natuUK (1968) 9.1 4.5 ral. The breakdown by prefecture was 0.0 percent France (1965) 4.0 2.5 for Tokyo, 2.1 percent for Osaka, 6.6 percent for West Germany (1970) 17.5 9.1 Hiroshima, and 14.7 percent for Aichi, pointing to Source: Keizai Kikaku-chō, ed., Keizai the disappearance of natural coasts as remarkable, Hakusho: Shōwa 49-nen [Economic white especially in Tokyo Bay, the Seto Inland Sea, and paper, 1974] (Tokyo: Ōkurashō Insatsu4 Ise Bay. Overseas natural resources and fossil fuels kyoku, 1974), 293. were secured by destroying hydrophilic space and Note: SO₂, sulfur dioxide, an air quality indicator; BOD, biochemical oxygen fishery resources, and the same phenomenon prodemand, a water quality indicator. gressed to some degree in other Asian countries as well.

Tokyo Bay: Surrounded by concrete As mentioned earlier, industrialization based on the coastal industrial zone first took place in earnest in Tokyo Bay. The Inner Bay is almost completely reclaimed, and the period of largescale reclamation was the period of rapid economic growth from 1955 to 1973. Since the Meiji era, 250 km2, or about 20 percent of Tokyo Bay, has been reclaimed (Figure 12.1). According

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to a survey conducted between 1985 and 1987, the natural coastline of the Inner Bay was only 3.4 percent of its total length, and most of it was covered with concrete.5 It is important to examine the industrial layout around Tokyo Bay. In Kanagawa Prefecture on the west coast, various heavy and chemical industries have developed in Kawasaki and Yokohama, and in Chiba Prefecture on the east coast, resource-intensive industries such

Figure 12.1 Reclamation of Tokyo Bay, 1868–2014

Tokyo Metropolis

Chiba

Haneda Airport Kawasaki Tsurumi Ichihara

Sodegaura Yokohama

Kanagawa Prefecture

Negishi Bay

Kimitsu

Chiba Prefecture

Cape Futtsu

Kannonzaki

Approved or under construction 2005 – 2014 1986 – 2004 1976 – 1985 1966 – 1975 1956 – 1965 1946 – 1955 1927 – 1945

Kenzaki

1868 – 1926 0 1 2 3 4 5

10 km

Source: Kokudo Kōtsūshō Kanto Chihō Seibikyoku, Tōkyō Wan mizukankyō saisei keikaku kaiteiban [Rehabilitation plan of the water environment in Tokyo Bay, revised ed.] (Tokyo: Kokudo Kōtsūshō Kanto Chihō Seibikyoku, 2015), 68–69.

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as steel, oil refining, petrochemicals and thermal power generation have developed in Chiba, Ichihara, Sodegaura and Kimitsu. In the Tokyo coastal areas, however, there are fewer resource-intensive industries compared to those in Kanagawa and Chiba, and warehouses and distribution centers are more prominent. In Tokyo, labor-intensive and skill-intensive industries, such as machinery, have developed inland, supported by energy and basic materials supplied from the coastal industrial zone. However, since the 1990s, labor-intensive industries in Tokyo have been declining, and knowledge-intensive, high-value-added industries such as finance, information, and communication are increasing.6 The concentration of factories and logistics centers on the waterfront also means that the seaside has become occupied by businesses. According to the aforementioned survey, only 21.4 percent of the coastline along the Inner Bay is accessible to the public.7 The main period of reclamation was during the period of rapid economic growth; however, coastal industrial zones had been created prior to that. Moreover, Tokyo Bay did not develop as an industrial zone immediately after Tokyo became the capital of Japan at the time of the Meiji Restoration (1868) and the start of modernization. The following two sections, will carefully examine how Tokyo Bay became a coastal industrial zone: the start of land reclamation in the area between Tokyo and Yokohama (Keihin) in the pre-war period, and later, during the war and in the postwar periods, the start of land reclamation in the area between Tokyo and Chiba (Keiyō) and the increase in the scale of land reclamation in the Keihin area.

Land reclamation in Keihin Keihin recreational zone One of the documents that tell us about the situation of Keihin in the early 20th century is Keihin yūran annai [Keihin recreational guide] published by the Keihin Electric Railway in 1910. In 1898, the Keihin Electric Railway (the predecessor of today’s Keikyu Corporation) connected Shinagawa and Kanagawa (located north of Yokohama), and Keihin yūran annai was a pamphlet to encourage people to enjoy and live along the line. It advertised the line as a place where one could “enjoy the blessings of nature” with “clean air with the hills to the northwest and Tokyo Bay to the southeast.” The pamphlet also advertised the area as the best place to enjoy cherry blossom viewing, sea bathing, and hot springs, but also an area that was blessed with public facilities such as transportation, telephones and schools. Although it was only an advertisement, Keihin was described not as an industrial zone but as a recreational zone full of natural beauty.8 In fact, until around the 1920s, various recreational facilities were found in the Keihin area. One example is the Shin-Koyasu Beach in Koyasu Town (incorporated into Yokohama City in 1911). The beach was opened in 1910 by local residents with the cooperation of a newspaper company and the Keihin Electric Railway, which set up a station near the beach. The interesting thing about Shin-Koyasu Beach is that it was built on reclaimed land, not on a natural beach. Therefore, there was no sandy beach, and visitors had to go down stairs on the wharf to enter the sea (Figure 12.2). Tide pools could be enjoyed at low tide. In addition, Haneda, Tokyo, where one of two international airports serving the greater Tokyo area is now located, was an even livelier recreational space than Koyasu. The Anamori Inari Shrine, which was located at the current site of Haneda Airport, was the hub of this 180

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Figure 12.2 Shin-Koyasu Beach

Source: Yokohama City Library Digital Archive http://www.lib.city.yokohama.lg.jp/Archive/ (used with permission)

activity. The shrine was built in the first half of the 19th century to pray for the preservation of the embankment, but after 1885, the number of worshippers began to increase, and a large torii gate and hot spring were built. The worship of Anamori Inari was not spontaneous, but the result of a deliberate effort by the shrine, the local community and entrepreneurs; by 1900, it became a popular tourist destination for Tokyo residents, with teahouses and inns lining the streets. The development of tourism in Haneda was furthered by the Keihin Electric Railway, which laid a line to Anamori Inari to attract tourists to the area in 1902. In addition, they reclaimed the tidelands north of Anamori Inari and built a playground, tennis courts and an amusement park; they also opened a swimming beach. The Keihin Electric Railway created a complex recreational space at the seaside around Haneda.9 From recreational zone to industrial zone: Asano Sōichirō’s entrepreneurial activities How did the movement toward a coastal industrial zone in Keihin proceed? The entrepreneur who pulled the trigger was Asano Sōichirō (1848–1930). Asano was running a cement factory in Fukagawa, Tokyo, and one of the problems around the Fukagawa factory was that the local residents complained about dust from cement production. Therefore, Asano’s idea was to move the plant to the periphery of Tokyo City. In the end, the Fukagawa factory continued to operate due to the success of its dust collection system; however, Asano turned his attention to the waterfront areas of Kawasaki and Tsurumi and built a new plant in the Kawasaki waterfront area in 1917 which allowed for the dispersal of the cement dust in an unpopulated area.10 Chapter 12: The 20th Century around Tokyo Bay

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Asano’s outstanding achievement as an entrepreneur was that while building a new cement plant, he also conducted a coastal reclamation project to create and sell land for the plant. It is said that the reclamation was due to Asano’s fascination with modern port facilities during his trip to Western Europe. However, while most Western ports were built by digging into rivers, Asano’s port was built by reclaiming the sea surface.11 In 1912, Asano organized the Tsurumi Reclamation Association and began reclamation in the Tsurumi-Kawasaki area of Kanagawa Prefecture. The union was reorganized into the Tokyo Bay Landfill Corporation (now Toa Corporation) in 1920, and the initial plan was completed by the end of the 1920s. Asano also developed the infrastructure of the reclaimed land: he built breakwaters and dredged the seabed to facilitate use by large ships and laid railroads for freight and passengers. In the 1920s and the 1930s, the land reclaimed by Asano became the site of major factories for shipbuilding, steel production, oil refining and thermal power generation.12 The spread of industrial ports: Suzuki Masatsugu and Yokohama City Asano’s reclamation projects for creating industrial zones became famous in the 1920s and 1930s. More importantly, Asano’s project was given the name “industrial port,” which became the model for other similar civil engineering projects. Suzuki Masatsugu (1889–1987) was the driving force behind the naming of the industrial port. Suzuki was a technical bureaucrat in the Civil Engineering Bureau of the Ministry of Home Affairs, which was in charge of civil engineering administration at the time. Suzuki proposed that ports such as the reclaimed land in Asano, which were dedicated to factories and where ships directly unloaded raw materials for the factories and loaded finished products from them, should be called industrial ports so as to be clearly distinguished from conventional commercial ports. He named industrial ports where multiple factories were located as collective industrial ports and emphasized that the construction of such ports in various parts of Japan would have three advantages. First, large ships could be linked directly to factories, lowering transportation costs, and increasing the competitiveness of companies. Second, areas could now be successfully industrialized and developed by building an industrial port and constructing factories. Third, with the building of industrial ports the lack of raw materials in Japan would no longer be a disadvantage for industrial development. The cost of marine transportation was considerably less than the cost of land transportation. So, if a country surrounded by sea, such as Japan, would build an industrial port, it could import raw materials from all over the world at an extremely low freight rate. Naturally, there were costs involved in building an industrial port, but in Japan, there are many shallow coasts, which can be dredged and reclaimed using the dredged soil, so the benefits of an industrial port were significant. Suzuki was the first person to theorize about coastal industrial zones from the perspective of civil engineering, and for this achievement, he was the first civil engineer to be awarded the Order of Culture in 1968.13 Influenced by Suzuki’s industrial port concept, industrial ports were built in several areas in the 1930s. A representative example is Yokohama City’s coastal industrial land development project south of Tsurumi. Yokohama was hit hard by the Great Kanto Earthquake in 1923 and consequently, as part of the reconstruction project, the city aimed to transform the port of Yokohama from a commercial port that mainly exported raw silk into an industrial port. In 1927, Yokohama City began reclaiming 204 hectares of land in the sea in front of

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the Shin-Koyasu Beach. Subsequently, large factories for automobiles, oil refining, and other industries moved into the reclaimed land. Yokohama City actively sold the reclaimed land and worked to improve the infrastructure by building roads and canals, as well as laying freight lines for the National Railways at the city’s expense. These efforts clearly imitated those of Asano; moreover, as it was not a private company, it succeeded in selling the land at a lower price than that which Asano sold. As reclamation projects became increasingly larger during the war years, the main reclamation operators shifted from private companies to the public sector.14 Impact of industrial ports on the environment and industry The spread of industrial ports and land reclamation had a knock-on effect on prior industries such as fishing and recreation. For example, the waters around Shin-Koyasu, where the ShinKoyasu Beach was located, by around 1920 had already been seriously polluted by Tsurumi’s factory effluence and heavy oil dumped from ships. The fishery industry in Haneda also began to suffer from sewage pollution from the 1920s onward as the industrialization of Kawasaki on the other side of the Tama River progressed.15 In 1973, five years after Suzuki Masatsugu received the Order of Cultural Merit, a jurist criticized his award as “symbolizing that [the Japanese] are economic animals,” 16 but the damage caused by coastal industrialization had already occurred before Suzuki began to advocate for industrial ports. Existing industries responded to pollution by either withdrawing or continuing their business by adding high value. For example, the Shin-Koyasu Beach was discontinued at the end of the 1920s, when Yokohama City started reclamation whereas the swimming beach in Haneda chose to survive. The Keihin Electric Railway opened a huge beach house for 10,000 people in 1932, and by putting various innovations into it, they also tried to maintain the value of Haneda as a recreational area. The railway company set up a land playground, entertainment hall, stores, and a huge bath in the beach house; it also opened a “purified seawater pool.” The fact that seawater was “purified” could be seen as a response to the decline in water quality in the surrounding seas. The fisheries of Haneda, which were mainly engaged in laver cultivation, continued to fish by improving cultivation techniques and protesting against factories and local administrative bodies.17 While the recreational facilities in Keihin were forced to cope with industrialization, the recreational facilities located on the periphery of Keihin grew. This growth was made possible by the development of transportation systems connecting the city center to the surrounding areas, as well as by the efforts of transportation companies, local governments and entrepreneurs. In the Tokyo Bay area, the Miura Peninsula and the coast of Chiba Prefecture are noteworthy. The development of the Miura Peninsula coast was promoted by the Shōnan Electric Railway, which was an affiliate of the Keihin Electric Railway and connected Yokohama with the Miura Peninsula in 1930. The Shōnan Electric Railway opened swimming beaches on the Miura Peninsula along the coast of Tokyo Bay to attract tourists from Yokohama and Tokyo. At this time, it was advertised that swimmers could experience the sound of fighter planes blasting into the blue sky and see warships coming in and out of Yokosuka Military Port, in an attempt to utilize military facilities as tourism resources.18

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On the Tokyo Bay coast of Chiba, the National Railways opened as far as Awa Hōjō (now Tateyama) in 1919, and Yasuda and Tateyama in Minamibōsō became busy as stay-at-home swimming beaches. In Yasuda, for example, there were dressing rooms and resting places, as well as Western restaurants and ice water shops on the beach. The coastline between Chiba and Tokyo also grew as a day-trip swimming beach.19

Establishing Keiyo, expanding Keihin From starch to steel One of the characteristics of Suzuki Masatsugu’s theory of industrial ports was his belief that industrialization was possible even in agricultural and fisheries regions. Suzuki’s argument contained some fallacies, as the actual development of rural areas after World War II showed the difficulty of industrialization in areas far from the Pacific belt, such as the Tohoku area. However, in some areas, the industrialization of farming and fishing villages based on the coastal industrial zone has been realized. A typical example is Chiba. Even though it is located next to Tokyo, Chiba Prefecture was an agricultural and fisheries prefecture before World War II. The Second Sino-Japanese War beginning in 1937 triggered the creation of a coastal industrial zone in Chiba Prefecture. The Japanese government, planning to expand military production, focused on the waterfront area as a location for heavy and chemical industries. In 1940, the Ministry of Home Affairs decided to promote the creation of a coastal industrial zone on its policy menu, and one of the projects was the Tokyo Bay Coastal Industrial Zone Project. This project was a plan to expand the industrial zone in Keihin and simultaneously reclaim 2,000 hectares of the coastline from the Edogawa River at the border of Tokyo and Chiba prefectures to the Yōrō River in Chiba Prefecture. This was the first official blueprint for the Keiyo Coastal Industrial Zone. However, most of the wartime plans for coastal industrial zones could not be completed due to the lack of materials. In Keiyo, 200 hectares of land along the coast of Chiba City were reclaimed, and Hitachi Aircraft Manufacturing only started operations in 1944.20 Moreover, Chiba, similar to Yokohama and Tokyo, was severely damaged by US military air raids. The symbol of Chiba’s recovery from the defeat in World War II, and the forerunner of constructing the coastal industrial zone, was the Chiba Works of Kawasaki Steel Corporation, which began operations in 1953 on this reclaimed land. The Chiba Works was made possible by the ambitious vision of Nishiyama Yatarō, the president of Kawasaki Steel, and the aggressive policy of Chiba Prefecture to attract companies to the area; it was an epochmaking integrated steel works with a compact layout.21 It is said that the tallest smokestack in Chiba City was that of a starch factory before the Kawasaki Steel Corporation moved in. 22 Chiba’s main manufacturing industry had shifted from starch to steel. Land reclamation competition around Tokyo Bay From the war to the period of rapid growth, the industrial area expanded in Keihin. During the war years, the recreational facilities at Haneda were finally closed and turned into an

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airfield, and the lodgings for tourists around the recreational facilities were converted into blue-collar lodgings.23 After World War II, more land reclamation was carried out in Tokyo, Kawasaki and Tsurumi, and many fishing industries were closed down. Land reclamation also spread to the southern part of Yokohama City, and in 1959, reclamation began in Negishi Bay, where laver cultivation was flourishing. In addition to oil refining and thermal power generation, the shipbuilding industry moved into reclaimed land. The shipbuilding was run by Ishikawajima-Harima Heavy Industries, which had docks that could accommodate the largest tankers in the world. The Negishi industrial zone was an important regional development project, which promoted a rapid energy shift from domestic coal to foreign fossil fuel in Japan.24 Why did the development of coastal industrial zones progress rapidly after World War II? Three factors can be mentioned. First, local governments, which were the main development entities, competed with each other and shared the same development concept. The democratization of ports under GHQ/ SCAP during the postwar Occupation led to local governments taking over the management of ports instead of the national government, and each local government became clearly aware of the need to attract industry to the coastal areas as a means of development. Consequently, local governments began to compete with each other in developing reclamation plans and attracting factories. For example, Yokohama City was very aware of Kawasaki City, the Tokyo Metropolitan Government, and Chiba Prefecture as its competitors. Chiba Prefecture also set a clear goal to make its industrial structure comparable to that of Kanagawa Prefecture through development.25 Moreover, the technical bureaucrats involved in this competition, that is, the technical bureaucrats of each municipality who drew up specific plans for reclamation and the technical bureaucrats of the Ministry of Transport who coordinated the plans of each municipality, were people who shared the industrial port concept that had existed since before World War II. For example, the Negishi Bay reclamation policy was to attract factories that required a waterfront in principle, because Yokohama City’s port engineers voluntarily agreed to the following Ministry of Transport concept, “The only places left in Tokyo Bay where we can build an industrial port are Chiba and this place [Negishi Bay]. Therefore, we want to somehow attract factories that require ships and water here.” 26 In line with this vision, resource-intensive industries were attracted to both Yokohama and Chiba. Second, reclamation and dredging technologies were greatly improved in the late 1950s and the 1960s.The technological innovation of dredgers enabled deeper dredging of the seabed and a larger supply of sand for reclamation, both of which were previously impossible. Third, water pollution worsened. The reason fishermen along the Tokyo Bay coast agreed to relinquish their fishing rights and accept compensation after the campaign against reclamation was not only because of the increase in compensation but also because seawater pollution had already progressed at that time. The serious damage to laver cultivation caused the fishermen to abandon fishing and to change their minds about accepting new businesses. In addition, Yokohama City consciously used worsening water pollution as a means of persuading fishermen to switch jobs.27 As Ui Jun, one Japan’s most famous environmentalists, pointed out, industrial pollution was not only the result of high-speed growth but it also enabled it through ignorance and accommodation.28

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Challenges and contradictions in improving amenities Innovation and environmental destruction The pollution in Tokyo Bay worsened as operations progressed in the coastal industrial zone and while ignoring pollution was already occurring. A prime example of this is the Kawasaki Steel Chiba Works. The air pollution caused by the soot and dust from the Kawasaki Steel Chiba Works became serious from around 1957, and the local residents lobbied for a solution. However, no drastic measures were taken; in fact, the pollution worsened as the steel plant expanded. Consequently, patients and local residents filed a lawsuit against Kawasaki Steel in 1975, demanding compensation for damages and an injunction against the operation of Blast Furnace No. 6. In 1988, the Chiba District Court rejected the injunction but found a causal relationship between air pollution and Kawasaki Steel, and in 1992, a settlement was reached at the Tokyo High Court. At the beginning of the pollution outbreak, the biggest factor that caused serious air pollution at the Kawasaki Steel Chiba Works was the use of oxygen in the steelmaking process (oxygen steelmaking).29 Oxygen steelmaking was one of the major technological innovations in the steel industry in the 1950s, intending to reduce fuel consumption and improve steelmaking efficiency. In other words, the development of energy-conservation technology led to the worsening of air pollution. 30 Kawasaki Steel was the most proactive steelmaker in implementing oxygen steelmaking.31 The Kawasaki Steel Chiba Works, a symbol of postwar reconstruction and innovation, also symbolized the neglect of pollution in Japan. The birth of the Yokohama method As can be seen from the case of Chiba, pollution in the Tokyo Bay area was serious, but not all pollution was left unchecked. In some cases, preventive measures were taken, and in other cases, amenity-oriented environmental policies were implemented. The Yokohama city administration during the period 1963–1978, under Asukata Ichio’s leadership, is a typical example. Asukata had been a delegate of the Japan Socialist Party before becoming the mayor of Yokohama City. When Asukata became the mayor of Yokohama, some factories that had come to Negishi began their operations; subsequently, some residents became anxious about the air pollution caused by the plants. Asukata instituted the Yokohama method to resolve Negishi pollution issues. The Yokohama method was an anti-pollution policy based not on an ordinance but on a pollution-related contract between Yokohama and factories. Yokohama negotiated with each energy-intensive large enterprise that planned to establish a new plant in Negishi and succeeded in concluding agreements that imposed more stringent regulations than were possible through legal regulation. Each plant had to install an advanced method to prevent air pollution. For instance, Tokyo Electric Power Company established a liquefied natural gas (LNG)-fired power plant, the first in the world. The success of the Yokohama method can be attributed to the residents’ movement based on neighborhood associations, the skillful work of Asukata, who was a qualified lawyer, and the scientific investigation and prediction of pollution damage conducted by Yokohama City.32

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The Yokohama method has since spread to other municipalities throughout Japan. It can be regarded as a pioneering Japanese example of the voluntary approach to environmental policies and is a world-renowned policy tool.33 Emphasis on living and its contradictions Asukata also worked to secure living spaces. At the time he took office, there was a Mitsubishi Heavy Industries shipyard at the center of Yokohama City. There was also pollution associated with the mix of housing and industry. Therefore, Asukata decided to get rid of the shipyard and small and medium-sized factories from the city center and increase the value of central Yokohama as a living space. He also envisioned opening up the waterfront to the public by converting the waterfront area from a factory to a park. Asukata succeeded in the relocation, and the development of the Minato Mirai 21 district, one of Yokohama’s current commercial, residential and tourist districts, began in 1983 after he left office. However, Asukata’s policy contained two contradictions. The first was the massive reclamation of the southernmost part of Yokohama City (Kanazawa) to secure a relocation site. This reclamation left Yokohama with only 500 meters of natural coastline. In other words, anti-pollution measures and the securing of living space led to the destruction of nature. Asukata’s policy was certainly more life-oriented than the previous coastal industrial zone development, which took advantage of the pollution, but it also showed that pollution control does not necessarily lead to nature conservation. In fact, there was a movement against the Asukata project, and a local member of the conservative Liberal Democratic Party, Shinbori Toyohiko (1931–2021), played a major role. It is not always the case that left-leaning politicians are against development, and conservatives are for it.34 We can find other discrepancies as well. The reclaimed soil and sand were procured from the Bōsō Peninsula on the other side of Tokyo Bay. On the Bōsō Peninsula, the process for extracting mountain sand to use for reclamation began around 1965 and increased rapidly after 1970. The sand was used in Tokyo and Kanagawa Prefecture; it was also used for the Kanazawa reclamation in Yokohama. Subsequently, in the Bōsō Peninsula, the decrease in mountain forests due to the extraction of mountain sand, as well as the pollution and traffic accidents caused by its transportation, became serious issues. Asukata’s policy of focusing on pollution control and livelihood was inextricably linked to the increasing environmental burden on the Bōsō Peninsula.35

Toward a post-East Asian Miracle in Tokyo Bay? As economic growth slowed after the 1973 oil crisis and other East Asian countries developed economically, the creation of coastal industrial zones stagnated, and the movement to use coastal areas as parks and other living spaces became more widespread than during the period of high economic growth. Nowadays, factories are also used as tourist attractions. Efforts to restore the environment to the way it was before reclamation, such as preserving tidal flats, restoring seaweed beds, and passing on the laver cultivation technology, are being made in various parts of Tokyo Bay. However, to what extent these efforts will bear fruit and whether Tokyo Bay, the first stage of the East Asian Miracle, can also be the first stage of East Asia’s transition to a sustainable Chapter 12: The 20th Century around Tokyo Bay

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society, remains to be seen. There are two reasons for this somewhat skeptical position. First, despite the increase in seaside living space, a look into the sea reveals that the revival of fishery resources has not yet progressed. This is because the loss of natural beaches and seagrass beds during the high economic growth era continues to have a major impact on marine ecosystems.36 Second, the reclamation of Tokyo Bay has continued even in 2023. One example is the Shin-Honmoku Wharf in Yokohama City, which is under construction for completion in 2027. The project aims to build a container terminal, which is more than 18 m deep, to develop a logistics hub. Notably, two-thirds of the project cost will be borne by the Central Japan Railway Company, which is constructing the maglev Chuo Shinkansen. This is because the Shin-Honmoku Wharf is expected to receive and dispose of 10 percent of the residual soil from the construction of the maglev Chuo Shinkansen.37 There are several concerns about the maglev Chuo Shinkansen: high energy consumption, accelerating population concentration in Tokyo, and the destruction of nature, such as the large amount of residual soil, estimated at 57 million m3.38 The utilization of residual soil was proposed by Central Japan Railway because it “had to hurry to secure the place to receive the soil generated by the Chuo Shinkansen project,” and Yokohama City approved the proposal because it “enables [wharf] construction in a short period of time.” 39 At least at the moment, the wharf is a prerequisite for the construction of a linear railway line, and the two highly environmentally burdensome projects of landfill and linear railway construction are being developed in an interdependent manner. At a time when Asia’s maritime logistics hub has long since shifted to China and Singapore, and Japan’s population is declining, is there still a need for a large-scale container terminal project? Is the maglev Chuo Shinkansen necessary when energy conservation is increasingly required today? Are these projects really necessary for the sustainability of Japan and Asia? This chapter cannot predict the future of Tokyo Bay, but the historical review can highlight the enthusiasm of local governments for the seaside transformations during the period of high growth, regardless of whether the development was for industrial or living spaces. Nowadays, however, local governments are less enthusiastic compared to the period of high growth. First, it is necessary to regain this enthusiasm. Decentralization may be a way to achieve this goal. However, it is not obvious what lies beyond the enthusiasm of local governments. The fact that Asukata developed the Yokohama method, while coastal development and pollution were promoted through inter-municipal competition, shows that local governments can play a major role in both environmental destruction and environmental conservation. Moreover, the reclamation by Asukata shows that environmental protection policies may cause pollution in other areas and irreversible loss of natural beaches. We should build a system in which local governments can move in a sustainable direction by competing with each other, and in which policy decisions are made with an awareness of the disadvantages to other regions and future generations.40

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Notes 1

Kokudo Kōtsūshō Kanto Chihō Seibikyoku, Tōkyō Wan mizukankyō saisei keikaku kaiteiban [Rehabilitation plan of the water environment in Tokyo Bay, revised ed.] (Tokyo: Kokudo Kōtsūshō Kanto Chihō Seibikyoku, 2015), 5. 2 Sugihara Kaoru, “The Asian Path of Economic Development: Intra-regional Trade, Industrialization and the Developmental State,” in Emerging States and Economies: Their Origins, Drivers, and Challenges Ahead, eds., Shiraishi Takashi and Sonobe Tetsushi (Singapore: Springer, 2018), 73–99; Hori Kazuo and Hagiwara Susumu, eds., Sekai no kōjō e no michi: 20 seiki Higashi Ajia no keizai hatten [The road to the “factory of the world”: Economic development of East Asia in the 20th century] (Kyoto: Kyoto University Press, 2019). 3 Sugihara, “The Asian Path of Economic Development,” 90–93. 4 Wakabayashi Keiko, Tōkyōwan no kankyōmondai-shi [History of environmental problems in Tokyo Bay] (Tokyo: Yuhikaku, 2000), 2–20. 5 Ichiyanagi Hiroshi, Daremo shiranai Tōkyōwan: Edomae no umi to sakana wa ima [The Tokyo Bay nobody knows: The sea and fish in front of Edo] (Tokyo: Nōbunkyō, 1989), 192–95. 6 Sugihara, “The Asian Path of Economic Development,” 90–91; Arai Mamoru and Nakano Takamoto, “Menseki shirabe de miru Tōkyōwan no umetate no hensen to umetatechi no mondaiten” [Transition of land reclamation area along Tokyo bayside using land area survey by GSI and problem of land reclamation area], Kokudochiriin Jihō 124 (2013): 105–15. 7 Ichiyanagi, Daremo shiranai Tōkyōwan, 192–95. 8 Chizuka Reisui, ed., Keihin yūran annai [Keihin recreational guide] (Kawasaki: Keihin Denki Tetsudō, 1910), 5–7. See also: Suzuki Yūichirō, “Kōgai kōrakuchi no seisui [The rise and fall of the outdoor amusement facility in a suburban area], in Toshi to goraku [City and entertainment], eds., Oku Sumako and Haneda Hiroaki (Tokyo: Nihon Keizai Hyōronsha, 2004), 233–34. 9 Suzuki, “Kōgai kōrakuchi no seisui,” 234; Kobori Satoru, Keikyū ensen no kingendai-shi [The modern and contemporary history along Keikyu Railway] (Tokyo: Cross Culture Publishing, 2018), 30, 55–56. 10 Kawasaki-shi, ed., Kawasaki-shi-shi tsūshi-hen 3 [The history of Kawasaki City, vol. 3] (Kawasaki: Kawasaki-shi, 1995), 332–6; Kagawa Yūichi, “Kōjō no ritchi to iten ni miru keikan no imi zuke no henka” [Change in meaning of landscape observed in location and relocation of factories], Kokuritsu Rekishiminzokuhakubutsukan Kenkyū Hōkoku 156 (2010): 97–121. 11 Kobori Satoru, “Rinkai kōgyō chitai no tanjō to fukyū: Doboku gijutsu-sha Suzuki Masatsugu no kiseki, 1920–1970” [Development of coastal industrial areas in Japan during 1920–1970: Focus on a civil engineer Masatsugu Suzuki], Notre Critique: History and Criticism 5, no. 8 (2012): 2–30. 12 Watanabe Keiichi, “Senkanki Keihin kōgyō chitai ni okeru tetsudō yusō mondai: Tsurumi Rinkō Tetsudō no seiritsu to tenkai” [Railway transportation problems in the Keihin industrial area: A case of Tsurumi Coastal Industrial Railway Co. during the interwar period], Keiei shigaku 46, no. 2 (2011): 3–27. 13 Kobori, “Rinkai kōgyō chitai no tanjō to fukyū,” 4–11 14 Watanabe Keiichi, “Keihin kōgyō chitai no umetate” [Landfill of Keihin industrial area], in Nihon fudōsangyō-shi: Sangyō Keisei kara posuto-baburu-ki made [History of the real estate business in Japan], eds., Kikkawa Takeo and Kasuya Makoto (Nagoya: The University of Nagoya Press, 2007), 103–17; Kobori Satoru, Keikyū ensen no kingendai-shi, 61–63. 15 Kobori, Keikyū ensen no kingendai-shi, 30, 63. 16 Remarks by Kawai Yoshikazu in Dai 71 Kokkai Sangiin kōgai taisaku oyobi kankyō hozen tokubetsu iinkai kaigi-roku [Minutes of the 71st Diet House of Councilors pollution control and environmental conservation special committee] (10), July 6, 1973, 12. 17 Kobori, Keikyū ensen no kingendai-shi, 30–35, 63–64. 18 Kobori, keikyū ensen no kingendai-shi, 96–98, 114–15, 128–29. 19 Miura Shigekazu, Takabayashi Naoki, Nagatsuma Hiroshi, and Yamamura Kazushige, Chiba-ken no hyakunen [100 years of Chiba Prefecture] (Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 1999), 225–26. 20 Anonymous, “Doboku kaigi kōwanbu kaigi” [Civil works commission, port division], Kōwan 18, no. 8 (1940): 66–69; Kobori, “Rinkai kōgyō chitai no tanjō to fukyū,” 11–15. 21 Chibaken Shiryo Kenkyū Zaidan ed., Chibaken no rekishi: Tsūshi-hen kingendai 3 [The modern and contemporary history of Chiba prefecture, vol. 3] (Chiba: Chiba-ken, 2009), 375–85. 22 Miura et. al., Chiba-ken no hyakunen, 261–62, 268, 301–4, 312–15. 23 Kobori, Keikyū ensen no kingendai-shi, 32–35.

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24

Kobori Satoru, Nihon no enerugī kakumei: Shigen shōkoku no kingendai [The energy revolution in Japan during 1920–1960], (Nagoya: The University of Nagoya Press, 2010), 321–31. 25 Chibaken Shiryo Kenkyū Zaidan, Chibaken no rekishi: Tsūshi-hen kingendai 3, 347. 26 Tsurumi Shun’ichi, “Yokohama-shi Kōwan-kyoku Umetatejigyō-kyoku to Un’yushō Daini-kōwankensetsu-kyoku to no uchiawase kiroku” [Record of meeting between Yokohama City Port Bureau, Landfill Business Bureau and Ministry of Transport Second Port Construction Bureau], 3 June, 1957, in Kōwan keikaku kaigi kankei tsuzuri [Port planning meeting file]. 27 Kobori, Nihon no enerugī kakumei, 313–16, 319–20, 326–29, 333–34. 28 Ui Jun, Kōgai genron: Gappon [The theory of pollution: Collection in one volume] (Tokyo: Aki Shobō, 2006), 22–35. 29 Odaka Susumu and Tanaka Yoshimi, “Kōgai kankyōmondai to gijutsu kyōiku: Chiba Kawatetsu Kōgai Soshō no kyōiku-teki imi” [Technology education and environmental pollution: some educational phases of the Chiba Kawatetsu Air Pollution Case], in Tōkyō Gakugei Daigaku Kiyō, Dai 6 Bumon, Gijutsu Kasei Kankyō Kyōiku 47, (1994): 31–38. 30 Kobori Satoru, “When Energy Efficiency Begets Air Pollution: Fuel Conservation in Japan’s Steel Industry, 1945–60,” Technology and Culture 63, no. 2 (2022): 411–19. 31 Anonymous, “Heiro haigasu no jojin sōchi” [Waste gas dust removal device of open-hearth furnace], Tekkō-kai 10 no. 3 (1960): 46–47. 32 Kobori Satoru, “Rinkai kaihatsu, kōgai taisaku, shizen hogo: Kōdo seichō-ki Yokohama no kankyōshi” [Seafront development, anti-pollution policy and nature conservation: An environmental history of Yokohama in the period of high-speed growth], in Sengo Nihon no kaihatsu to minshushugi: Chiiki ni miru sōkoku [Development and democracy in postwar Japan: Conflicts at local settings], ed. Shōji Shunsaku (Kyoto: Shōwadō, 2017), 71-104. 33 Matsuno Yu, “Pollution Control Agreements in Japan; Conditions for Their Success,” Environmental Economics and Policy Studies 8, no. 2 (2007): 103–41. 34 Kobori, “Rinkai kaihatsu, kōgai taisaku, shizen hogo, 85–97. 35 Sakuma Mitsuru, Aa danpu kaidō [Oh dump road], (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1984); Kobori, Keikyū ensen no kingendai-shi, 101–6. 36 Kokudo Kōtsūshō Kanto Chihō Seibikyoku, Tōkyō Wan mizukankyō saisei keikaku kaiteiban, 24–59; Kimura Takashi, Tokai no satoumi Tōkyō Wan [Tokyo Bay: Satoumi in the megalopolis] (Tokyo: ChuokoronShinsha Inc., 2016), 17–26; Arai and Nakano, “Menseki shirabe de miru Tōkyōwan no umetate no hensen to umetatechi no mondaiten,” 109–10. 37 Kangawa Shinbun, December 14, 2018; Asahi Shinbun, Yokohama edition, December 14, 2018. 38 Yamamoto Yoshitaka, Rinia chūō shinkansen wo megutte: Genpatsu jiko to korona pandemikku kara minaosu [On the maglev chuo shinkansen: Rethinking from the viewpoints of nuclear accident and the COVID-19 pandemic] (Tokyo: Misuzu Shobō, 2021). 39 Remarks by Itō Shinsuke, the Director of Port Bureau, Yokohama City in “Yokohamashikai kokusai keizai kōwan iinkai [Yokohama City Council International, Economic and Port Commission]” (9), December 13, 2018. (last access date: December 15, 2022) (http://giji.city.yokohama.lg.jp/tenant/yokohama/MinuteView. html?council_id=604&schedule_id=15&minute_id=220&tab=plain). 40 As an attempt to build sustainable institutions from the perspective of experimental economics, see, Saijo Tatsuyoshi ed., Future Design: Incorporating Preferences of Future Generations for Sustainability, (Singapore: Springer, 2020).

Bibliography Anonymous. “Doboku kaigi kōwanbu kaigi” [Civil works commission, port division]. Kōwan 18 no. 8 (1940): 66–69. ———. “Heiro haigasu no jojin sōchi [Waste gas dust removal device of open-hearth furnace]. Tekkō-kai 10, no. 3 (1960): 46–47. Arai, Mamoru and Nakano Takamoto. “Menseki shirabe de miru Tōkyōwan no umetate no hensen to umetatechi no mondaiten” [Transition of land reclamation area along Tokyo bayside using land area survey by GSI and problem of land reclamation area]. Kokudochiriin jihō no. 124 (2013): 105–115.

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Chibaken Shiryo Kenkyū Zaidan, ed. Chibaken no rekishi: Tsūshi-hen kingendai 3 [The modern and contemporary history of Chiba prefecture, vol. 3]. Chiba: Chiba-ken, 2009. Chizuka, Reisui, ed. Keihin yūran annai [Keihin recreational guide]. Kawasaki: Keihin Denki Tetsudō, 1910, in Yokohama City Library Digital Archive http://www.lib.city.yokohama.lg.jp/Archive/. Hori, Kazuo and Hagiwara Susumu, eds. Sekai no kōjō e no michi: 20 seiki higashi Ajia no keizai hatten [The road to the “factory of the world”: Economic development of East Asia in the 20th century]. Kyoto: Kyoto University Press, 2019. Ichiyanagi, Hiroshi. Daremo shiranai Tōkyōwan: Edomae no umi to sakana wa ima [The Tokyo Bay nobody knows: The sea and fish in front of Edo]. Tokyo: Nōbunkyō, 1989. Kawasaki-shi, ed. Kawasaki-shi-shi tsūshi-hen 3 [The history of Kawasaki City, vol. 3]. Kawasaki: Kawasakishi, 1995. Kagawa, Yūichi. “Kōjō no ritchi to iten ni miru keikan no imi zuke no henka” [Change in meaning of landscape observed in location and relocation of factories]. Kokuritsu Rekishiminzoku-hakubutsukan Kenkyū Hōkoku no. 156 (2010): 97–121. Keizai Kikaku-chō, ed. Keizai hakusho: Shōwa 49-nen [Economic White Paper in 1974]. Tokyo: Ōkurashō Insatsu-kyoku, 1974. Kimura, Takashi. Tokai no satoumi Tōkyō Wan [Tokyo Bay: Satoumi in the megalopolis]. Tokyo: ChuokoronShinsha Inc., 2016. Kobori, Satoru. Nihon no enerugī kakumei: Shigen shōkoku no kingendai [The energy revolution in Japan during 1920–1960]. Nagoya: The University of Nagoya Press, 2010. ———. “Rinkai kōgyō chitai no tanjō to fukyū: Doboku gijutsu-sha Suzuki Masatsugu no kiseki, 1920–1970” [Development of coastal industrial areas in Japan during 1920–1970: Focus on a civil engineer Masatsugu Suzuki]. Notre Critique: History and Criticism no. 5 (2012): 2–30. ———. “When Energy Efficiency Begets Air Pollution: Fuel Conservation in Japan’s Steel Industry, 1945–60.” Technology and Culture 63, no. 2 (2022): 401-426. ———. “Rinkai kaihatsu, kōgai taisaku, shizen hogo: Kōdo seichō-ki Yokohama no kankyōshi” [Seafront development, anti-pollution policy and nature conservation: An environmental history of Yokohama in the period of high-speed growth]. In Sengo Nihon no Kaihatsu to Minshushugi: Chiiki ni Miru Sōkoku [Development and democracy in postwar Japan: Conflicts at local settings], edited by Shōji Shunsaku, 71-104. Kyoto: Shōwadō, 2017. ———. Keikyū ensen no kingendai-shi [The modern and contemporary history along Keikyu Railway]. Tokyo: Cross Culture Publishing, 2018. Kokudo Kōtsūshō Kanto Chihō Seibikyoku. Tōkyō Wan mizukankyō saisei keikaku kaiteiban [Rehabilitation plan of the water environment in Tokyo Bay, rev. ed.]. Tokyo: Kokudo Kōtsūshō Kanto Chihō Seibikyoku, 2015. Matsuno, Yu. “Pollution Control Agreements in Japan; Conditions for Their Success.” Environmental Economics and Policy Studies 8, no. 2 (2007): 103–141. Miura, Shigekazu, Takabayashi Naoki, Nagatsuma Hiroshi, and Yamamura Kazushige. Chiba-ken no hyakunen [100 years of Chiba Prefecture]. Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 1999. Odaka, Susumu and Tanaka Yoshimi. “Kōgai kankyōmondai to gijutsu kyōiku: Chiba Kawatetsu Kōgai Soshō no kyōiku-teki imi” [Technology education and environmental pollution: Some educational phases of the Chiba Kawatetsu Air Pollution Case]. Tōkyō Gakugei Daigaku Kiyō Dai 6 Bumon, Gijutsu Kasei Kankyō Kyōiku no. 47 (1994): 31–38. Saijo, Tatsuyoshi, ed. Future Design: Incorporating Preferences of Future Generations for Sustainability. Singapore: Springer, 2020. Sakuma, Mitsuru. Aa danpu kaidō [Oh dump road]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1984. Sugihara, Kaoru. “The Asian Path of Economic Development: Intra-regional Trade, Industrialization and the Developmental State.” In Emerging States and Economies: Their Origins, Drivers, and Challenges Ahead, edited by Shiraishi Takashi and Sonobe Tetsushi, 73-99. Singapore: Springer, 2018. Suzuki, Yūichirō. “Kōgai kōrakuchi no seisui” [The rise and fall of the outdoor amusement facility in suburb area]. In Toshi to goraku [City and entertainment], edited by Oku Sumako and Haneda Hiroaki, 217-42. Tokyo: Nihon Keizai Hyōronsha, 2004. Tsurumi, Shun’ichi. “Yokohama-shi Kōwan-kyoku Umetatejigyō-kyoku to Un’yushō Daini-kōwan-kensetsukyoku to no uchiawase kiroku” [Record of meeting between Yokohama City Port Bureau, Landfill

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Business Bureau and Ministry of Transport Second Port Construction Bureau], 3 June, 1957. In Kōwan Keikaku Kaigi Kankei Tsuzuri [Port planning meeting file]. Yokohama-shi Kakuka Monjo no. 7798, owned by Yokohama-shi-shi Shiryō-shitsu). Ui, Jun. Kōgai genron: Gappon [The theory of pollution: Collection in one volume]. Tokyo: Aki Shobō, 2006. Yamamoto, Yoshitaka. Rinia chūō shinkansen wo megutte: Genpatsu jiko to korona pandemikku kara minaosu [On the maglev chuo shinkansen: Rethinking from the viewpoints of nuclear accident and the COVID-19 pandemic]. Tokyo: Misuzu Shobō, 2021. Wakabayashi, Keiko. Tōkyōwan no kankyōmondai-shi [History of environmental problems in Tokyo Bay]. Tokyo: Yuhikaku, 2000. Watanabe, Keiichi. “Keihin kōgyō chitai no umetate” [Landfill of Keihin industrial area]. In Nihon fudōsangyō-shi: Sangyō keisei kara posuto-baburu-ki made [History of the real estate business in Japan], edited by Kikkawa Takeo and Kasuya Makoto, 103-17. Nagoya: The University of Nagoya Press, 2007. ———. “Senkanki Keihin kōgyō chitai ni okeru tetsudō yusō mondai: Tsurumi Rinkō Tetsudō no seiritsu to tenkai [Railway transportation problems in the Keihin industrial area: A case of Tsurumi Coastal Industrial Railway Co. during the interwar period]. Keiei Shigaku 46, no. 2 (2011): 3–27.

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Chapter 13 Tuna Fisheries and Thermonuclear Tests, 1954–1963 Yuka Tsuchiya Moriguchi This chapter focuses on the US thermonuclear tests in the Pacific and their influences on Japanese tuna fishermen between 1954 and 1963. Besides the well-known Daigo Fukuryu Maru [Lucky Dragon 5], many other tuna vessels were contaminated by radioactive fallout, but very little is known about who those fishermen were, where they came from, and why they needed to risk their lives to catch tuna. This chapter explores the complicated history and structure of the Japanese tuna fishing industry, and shows which part (and which people) of the multi-layered industry were the most vulnerable to radioactive contamination. It further examines why the victimized fishermen were invisible in the mainstream anti-nuclear movement in Japan, and shows the alternative ways in which they expressed their dissent.

Introduction Japanese tuna fisheries date back to ancient times. Tuna bones have been excavated even in the remains of Jōmon period (12,000–13,000 years ago) villages.1 In the Japanese language, maguro—typically referring to bluefin tuna (hon-maguro), but also including bigeyes (mebachi), yellowfins (kiwada), and albacores (binchō) depending on the situation—are distinguished from katsuo (skipjacks), although all these species are often indiscriminately called tuna in English. This distinction is important because it is relevant to the theme of this chapter: who and what were affected by thermonuclear tests in the Pacific during the early Cold War era. Daigo Fukuryū Maru [Lucky Dragon 5] and other vessels contaminated by radioactive fallout were smaller tuna boats mostly targeting bluefins, but not skipjacks or albacores. Skipjacks have traditionally been processed into katsuobushi, which is the dried fillet essential for various Japanese recipes as an ingredient in broth. Historical records show that it was produced as far back as the 8th century, but it was a luxury item until the early 20th century. Kochi and Wakayama Prefectures were famous producers of katsuobushi, and it was also produced in Yaizu (Shizuoka Prefecture), Kagoshima, Okinawa, and in the Japanese colonies and mandate islands.2 A historian of Taiwanese fisheries says that the colonial Japanese government encouraged the production of katsuobushi (as well as sōdabushi, a less expensive

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version made from different species of skipjack) in Taiwan, and 85 percent of the product was sent to Japan, while the remaining 15 percent was consumed in Taiwan. Taiwanese katsuobushi/sōdabushi was also exported to Japanese-ruled Korea and Manchuria.3 By contrast, maguro was not a popular seafood in Japan until the late Edo period (early 19th century), when sushi became popular among the urban population.4 This chapter focuses on maguro fisheries, which became especially important and lucrative businesses in the immediate aftermath of World War II. Since the rapid development of maguro fisheries coincided with American (and to some degree British) thermonuclear tests in the Pacific, the first of which was Operation Ivy in 1952, that were repeated until the Partial Test Ban Treaty (PTBT) in 1963, tuna fishermen were constantly faced with health hazards from radioactive fallout. Although skipjacks are generally caught in the coastal waters surrounding Japan, maguro, especially bluefins, are pelagic species, and therefore, maguro fishermen needed to embark upon distant-water operations, often near the nuclear test grounds. Moreover, they were forced to dispose of their catch when they were found to be contaminated. However, the relations between tuna fisheries and nuclear tests have been grossly underexplored by historians, though there are a good number of publications by journalists and anti-nuclear activists. This chapter first explains the development of tuna fisheries in Japan up until they became thriving businesses in the postwar period. It will show that the development of Japanese tuna fisheries was closely related to the growth of the US tuna canning industry. Additionally, it draws attention to the important distinction between albacore and bluefin fisheries. Albacore, the smaller tuna with light-colored-meat, were best for canning. They were exported to US canneries in large quantities by Japanese seafood companies such as Nissui (Nippon Suisan), Nichiro and Nichirei, which owned large ships with plenty of freezer space. In contrast, bluefin, the larger tuna with dark-colored meat, were sold at high prices in Japanese markets as quality materials for sushi and sashimi. Therefore, medium to small tuna boats with smaller freezers often targeted them to maximize the profit. The second section of this chapter provides an overview of US thermonuclear tests in the Pacific, showing how the histories of US nuclear development and Japanese deep-sea fisheries intersect. It will discuss radioactive contamination of the Lucky Dragon 5 and other tuna vessels. The third and final section will explain the relationship between the Japanese anti-nuclear movement and tuna fishermen. After the Lucky Dragon 5 incident in 1954, the anti-nuclear movement flared up in Japan, involving various citizen groups. However, fishermen, who were most directly victimized by the thermonuclear tests, were largely invisible within the movement. This chapter explains why this was the case and illustrates some examples in which fishermen and their families and friends did speak up against thermonuclear tests.

The history of Japanese tuna fisheries and US canneries Japanese and Japanese-American tuna fisheries Although there is a wide range of existing literature on industrial, economic and marine biological studies of Japanese tuna fisheries, especially in Japan, literature in the historical disciplines is not so abundant. Representative scholarly works include Nadin Hee’s article on fisheries diplomacy which focuses on the continuity of Japanese knowledge and policy on 194

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tuna fisheries from the imperial era to the Cold War.5 Carmel Finley published two volumes on the global history of fisheries: one focusing on the development (and failure) of the maximum sustainable yield (MSY) concept, and the other on the broader issues covering war, imperialism and the industrialization of fishing. Since the concept of MSY was first deployed in the management of Japanese fisheries during the Allied Occupation (1945–1952), and also because Japan was one of the first countries to industrialize fisheries, Finley extensively discusses the history of Japanese tuna fisheries in these volumes.6 Sayuri Guthrie-Shimizu also deals with the fisheries policies in Allied-occupied Japan from 1945 to 1952, in which tuna (alongside salmon and whale) was an important issue.7 As all these authors indicate, Japanese commercial fishing was already highly developed in the interwar years, and Japan began to export frozen and canned tuna around 1931. The Imperial Japanese government had encouraged pelagic fisheries from the 19th century, and in 1898 it introduced the Pelagic Fisheries Encouragement Act (Enyō gyogyō shōrei hō). As a result, in the 1930s, Japanese fishing boats were already navigating the North and South Pacific, the Indian Ocean, and parts of the Atlantic and Arctic Oceans.8 In 1931, a joint venture company between Mitsubishi Shōji and Kyōdō Gyogyō started a business exporting frozen tuna. In 1934, this company further established a skipjack and tuna fishing and canning company on Mindanao Island in the Philippines. In 1939, Nissui established mothership-type tuna fisheries in Hualien, Taiwan.9 Japanese canned tuna sold well in the US because it was cheaper than tuna from the US, and together with the Depression, it tormented the California tuna industry.10 The prosperity of prewar Japanese tuna exports was short-lived, however, because the outbreak of the Pacific War completely brought them to an end. Interestingly, fishermen of Japanese origin were catching tuna on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. The Imperial Japanese government encouraged emigration, and the town of Taiji in Wakayama Prefecture was one of the places constantly sending immigrants to the US. Taiji was traditionally a whaling community, and the fishermen there were also engaged in katsuo and maguro fisheries. Japanese immigrants from Taiji formed a fishing community on Terminal Island in San Pedro, Los Angeles, a mecca of the US tuna canning industry. Historian Konno Yuko conducted a historical study of the Japanese immigrants from Taiji who built “Little Nippon” on Terminal Island, which prospered along with the development of the US tuna canning industry. American canneries favored Japanese fishermen because their polefishing method did not damage the tuna meat. The canneries provided Japanese fishermen with land, housing and decent salaries. At its peak, 4,000 Japanese immigrants lived on Terminal Island and formed “the most un-Americanized Japanese community in the US.” This community was complete with Japanese shops, schools, restaurants, barbers, bathhouses and shrines.11 The Japanese fishermen also organized unions and negotiated with the canneries about salaries and work conditions.12 When other West Coast Japanese immigrants were faced with anti-immigration sentiment culminating in the anti-Japanese Immigration Act of 1924, tuna fishermen and their families on Terminal Island were relatively protected because of their special knowledge and techniques. However, their prosperity also suddenly came to an end with the outbreak of war. Just a few hours after the Pearl Harbor attack by Japan on December 7, 1941, FBI officers stepped into Little Nippon and arrested their leaders, including shipowners, teachers and martial arts masters. Japanese were prohibited from going fishing from that day on. When President Roosevelt signed Presidential Order 9066 on February 19th of the following year, the residents of Little Nippon were ordered to leave their homes within 48 hours, and most of them Chapter 13: Tuna Fisheries and Thermonuclear Tests, 1954–1963

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were sent to the internment camp at Manzanar, California. Their homes and shops were bulldozed by the US Navy, and Little Nippon literally disappeared off the face of the earth.13 After the war, many of the former residents of Little Nippon did not resume their tuna fishing businesses because they had lost their property and their tuna boats, which were left decaying in the bay after being commandeered by the US Navy during the war. With no money to buy new boats or build new houses, many left San Pedro, and some became gardeners.14 The histories of both Japanese and Japanese-American tuna fisheries show the degree to which the tuna fishing industry defined the destiny of many Japanese fishermen, both in and out of the country. In the postwar years, tuna fisheries involved more Japanese fishermen and influenced their lives both positively and negatively. Post-WWII expansion of Japanese tuna fisheries Japanese fisheries were devastated by the war, as most fishing boats were commandeered by the Japanese Navy, many of which were sunk due to gun-fire. Moreover, in the postwar Allied Occupation, many fishing industry leaders were purged for their cooperation with the Imperial Japanese government. The Allied Occupation authorities (mostly comprised of US occupation forces) first limited the Japanese fishing zone strictly to the coastal waters of Japan (the so-called MacArthur line). As the Cold War set in, reconstructing the Japanese economy became an important issue, and the Occupation authorities gradually lifted restrictions: exports of canned tuna to the US were permitted in 1948, and frozen tuna in 1949. They even opened a trade office in New York for importing Japanese canned tuna.15 Japanese longline tuna fisheries emerged as thriving businesses. As the US consumption of canned tuna continued to grow, Japanese seafood companies embarked on tuna fishing expeditions one after another. Freezing technology and engines improved, and in 1950, mothership-type fisheries were resumed. A large mothership of 2,000 tons or more, owned and operated by seafood companies, would be accompanied by 6–12 small boats lent by independent shipowners. By that time, Japanese fishing vessels were navigating as far as the equator to the south and 180 degrees to the east.16 In 1951, Japan exported 100,000 cans of tuna, and in 1952, 116 million pounds of frozen tuna. When the San Francisco Peace Treaty was concluded and Japan regained sovereignty, all restrictions on fisheries were lifted and Japanese fisheries expanded rapidly. Especially because Japan’s access to salmon and halibut in the North Pacific was limited by the fisheries treaty of 1952 signed by Japan, Canada, and the US, and further by the treaty with the Soviet Union in 1956, the Japanese fishing industry became even more interested in tuna.17 Japanese fishing companies also sought to build new overseas bases by establishing business partnerships with foreign capital. They had already built a substantial number of overseas fishing bases in the prewar era in Japanese colonies and mandate islands. However, these companies lost all their bases at the end of the war, so they needed a new start by using whatever connections they had from the colonial era. By December 1962, Japan had built 98 bases, of which 36 were located in Latin America and 39 in Southeast Asia.18 By 1973, the total number of bases was 85, but geographical distribution had dramatically diversified to include Africa, North America, Australia and Europe. By that time, harsh competition with other countries over tuna fishing grounds had forced Japanese companies to expand into

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formerly underexplored areas such as the Atlantic Ocean and the African coast, and they built fishing bases in these regions as well. US canneries and the trade conflict with Japan Tuna was never a popular fish in the US until the mid-20th century. In San Pedro, California, Italian and Portuguese immigrants were engaged in fisheries from the 19th century, and Japanese immigrants joined them in the early 20th century when they discovered a good abalone fishing ground, as abalone was an expensive food in Chinese communities in California. Some Japanese immigrants moved to Terminal Island. Fishermen of those ethnic communities sometimes caught tuna, but this was mostly consumed within their communities because Americans of West European origin disliked the dark-red tuna meat and regarded it as a fish of little value. However, to exploit the abundant tuna supply off the California coast, the California Fish Company invented a new type of canned tuna in 1903. Albacore tuna, which has light-colored meat, looked and tasted like white-meat chicken when steamed for many hours before canning. The company hoped that Americans who previously did not like tuna fish might like this “chicken-like tuna.” Since Japanese immigrants’ pole fishing was less likely to damage the meat than Italian immigrants’ net fishing, the California Fish Company signed a contract with Japanese fishermen. The “chicken-like tuna” gradually expanded the market, and in 1913, nine companies were producing 128,000 cans annually. Tuna fisheries became an important source of income for Japanese immigrants in San Pedro, and in 1914, 150 Japanese fishermen were operating out of 50 fishing boats.19 In the meantime, Gilbert Van Camp, the son of a Dutch immigrant who ran a pork and beans cannery in Indianapolis, came to California when his father’s business came to a standstill. Finding possibilities in the future of canned steamed albacore, he bought up the California Fish Company and established the Van Camp Seafood Company in 1914. The company grew, and in 1930 the famous “Chicken of the Sea” brand was established.20 The French Sardine Company, another cannery established by a Croatian immigrant in 1917, also launched “Starkist” brand canned tuna in 1942, and later renamed the company itself to Starkist Food.21 Thus, the two largest tuna canneries in the United States made their home on Terminal Island.22 The Great Depression and the Second World War increased the American consumption of canned tuna as a cheap source of quality protein. Furthermore, the outbreak of war with Japan also helped US canneries because the import of canned tuna from Japan stopped. However, as we have already seen, the dramatic growth of Japanese tuna exports in the postwar years threatened the US tuna fishing and canning industries. By 1957, Japanese exports of frozen tuna to the United States amounted to 277 million pounds a year, or 47 percent of the annual consumption of tuna in the United States.23 American tuna fishing and canning businesses reacted to the rapid expansion of Japanese tuna exports in a complicated way. On the surface, US fishermen and canneries launched the “Buy American Tuna Campaign,” complaining that Japan was dumping frozen tuna and the Japanese tuna industry was controlled by a few powerful cartels. They lobbied Washington lawmakers to restrict Japanese tuna by raising tariffs. However, many canneries welcomed cheap and high-quality tuna from Japan (and later from other developing countries), and the US government under the Eisenhower administration promoted free trade. The US government was supporting

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Japan’s entry into the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT), and therefore did not intend to increase tariffs against Japan. It was probably only American fishermen, shipowners and longshoremen who were suffering from the increase in imported tuna. Still, canneries cooperated with the fishermen’s and longshoremen’s unions in lobbying because many of the cannery workers were related to tuna fishermen, and they were picketing the canneries to stop them from buying Japanese tuna. To placate the striking workers and keep canneries operating, the cannery owners supported the Buy American Tuna Campaign, albeit superficially.24 Van Camp Seafood, in search of a cheaper labor force, expanded its canneries to American Samoa, Puerto Rico and Ecuador, among other countries. It also built freezing facilities and fish-landing bases in Senegal, Sierra Leone and the Ivory Coast.25 US canneries were also tying up with Japanese companies on those overseas bases. For example, Japanese tuna ships owned by Taiyō Gyogyō carried tuna to Freetown, Sierra Leone, where the fish were stored at Van Camp’s freezing facility. Van Camp then sent the frozen tuna to a company-owned cannery in Puerto Rico.26 In addition, both Van Camp and Starkist built canneries in American Samoa, where Japanese shipowners “lent” their tuna boats and fishermen to American companies. At its peak, 30–40 Japanese tuna boats embarked on albacore fishing expeditions from the port of Pago Pago in American Samoa. In this way, US canneries could avoid paying high salaries to American fishermen and cannery workers and produce canned tuna at a 20–25 percent lower cost.27 Finley explores the history of Samoa from the 19th century up to the Van Camp’s operation of cannery on the island, and argues that American Samoa became the “focal point for Japanese tuna to enter the United States,” which ultimately led to the demise of the West Coast tuna canning industry.28 American consumers were largely nonchalant about the contamination of tuna by thermonuclear tests. Although the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA) and private canneries were carrying out spot checks of imported frozen tuna for contamination, occasionally detecting abnormally high radioactivity, such radioactivity was within the range of the “maximum permissible dose,” and therefore was not publicized.29 Although American consumers were concerned about radioactive fallout from domestic nuclear tests—for example, those conducted in Alamogordo, New Mexico—the Pacific testing grounds were too far away to conceptualize the influence on their food. Consumers probably did not imagine that the “Chicken of the Sea” and “Starkist” tuna in their sandwiches came from Japanese tuna boats operating near the Pacific nuclear test ground. Ironically, American tuna consumption was partly increased by anxiety over nuclear weapons. During the 1950s, the Federal Civil Defense Administration (FCDA) encouraged American families to build nuclear shelters in their backyards in preparation for enemy nuclear attacks. The Cold War culture created an enthusiasm for storing nonperishable foods at home and in shelters, and canned foods were typical nonperishables.30 It was tragic that Japanese fishermen, exposed to the hazards of radioactive fallout, caught a lot of contaminated tuna (although the contamination was below the “maximum permissible doze” of radioactivity most of the time), and Americans stored this in their shelters out of fear of nuclear attack. However, fishermen on large tuna ships targeting albacores were comparatively safe because they could avoid the Pacific test ground and navigate much farther, for example, to the Indian or Atlantic Oceans. Smaller tuna boats targeting bluefins were more likely to be exposed to nuclear fallout because the maximum distance they could navigate was around the Marshall Islands, which had good bluefin fishing grounds. 198

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The dual structure of Japanese tuna fisheries As tuna fisheries developed into a profitable industry, seafood companies built larger, betterequipped ships of over 1,000 tons. The largest tuna ships were motherships as large as 10,000 tons, each accompanied by 6–8 smaller tuna boats. Sometimes small boat owners “lent” their boats and crews for this type of operation. The crew never got on board the mothership except during storms, living and working on the small ships at all times, and only receiving food and fuel from the mothership. In 1957, a new type of mothership was introduced, which was equipped with small “catcher boats” on the deck of the ship. The boats were unloaded once the mothership arrived at the fishing ground. Large tuna ships, including motherships, were based at large-scale ports, typically Misaki, in Kanagawa Prefecture. Fishermen from all over Japan came to Misaki Port as migrant workers to work onboard large tuna ships. They navigated to Tasmania, South Africa and the Atlantic Ocean, among others, in search of good fishing grounds. These ships overwhelmingly targeted albacores for export, although they also caught bluefins and other species when available. Some of the large tuna ships operating in the Atlantic had home ports in foreign countries and sold their catch to foreign markets, mostly for canning. For example, there were landing stations in Las Palmas (Canary Islands), Abidjan (Ivory Coast), Tema (Ghana), Freetown (Sierra Leone) and Port of Spain (Trinidad). From these ports, frozen tuna was exported to the United States, Italy, and Yugoslavia.31 In contrast, many of the small- to medium-sized independently owned tuna ships between 100 and 400 tons were typically based in places like Yaizu in Shizuoka Prefecture and Muroto in Kochi Prefecture. These communities were traditionally engaged in skipjack fishing and katsuobushi production, as mentioned at the beginning of this chapter. Until the 19th century, skipjack boats sometimes caught other types of tuna species because they were so plentiful that they inhabited not only pelagic, but also coastal waters. As bluefins and other tuna species became more profitable than skipjacks, shipowners in those areas converted their skipjack boats into tuna boats and embarked beyond the coastal waters. Since they could not catch and store a large volume of fish, they targeted species that were more profitable in Japanese markets, especially bluefins. Well into the 1970s when tuna fisheries lost momentum because of the oil shock and overfishing, more than 70 percent of the annual tuna sales in Yaizu came from bluefins, and albacores made up only a small portion.32 This pattern is completely different from the mothership-type or overseas base-type fisheries, which are overwhelmingly dependent on albacore tuna. The 100- to 400-ton ships could not avoid the danger of nuclear fallout. It is no accident that the Lucky Dragon 5 was a small tuna boat from Yaizu, which had been converted from a skipjack boat. In addition, dozens of tuna ships from Muroto, Kochi Prefecture, were exposed to radioactive fallout not only in the 1954 test series, but also in the 1956 Operation Redwing and 1958 Operation Hardtack. It is important to understand the dual structure of Japanese tuna fisheries in the 1950s and 1960s. The large-scale operations were based on the modern capitalist system where fishermen were salaried employees of private firms. In contrast, many of the small-scale tuna fisheries were based on the traditional, family- or community-oriented system, in which shipowners were regarded as the “master,” and crew members were positioned in a vertical hierarchy with the chief fisherman at the top. Fishermen were employed mostly through introductions from families and acquaintances, and their reward system was the traditional buai-sei, or commission system. The shipowners paid “preparation money” to the crew Chapter 13: Tuna Fisheries and Thermonuclear Tests, 1954–1963

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before their departure, which they would use to buy food, clothes, and other necessary items for the expedition. When they caught a shipload of fish, they would return to any Japanese port where the market price of fish was good. The total sales, after deducting fuel and bait expenses, were divided between the shipowner and crew members, typically 60–40. The 40 percent was then further divided among the crew, depending on their rank. The preparation money was deducted from each of their salaries. Fishermen’s wives were also integrated into the organic structure of the tuna-fishing business by taking care of everything during their husbands’ long absences, sometimes up to one or two years. The shipowner, the crew, and their families consisted of a large “family” united by a common cause.33 Their relationship with tuna fisheries was very different from that of migrant workers on board the large ships owned by seafood companies.

US nuclear tests in the Pacific and the Lucky Dragon 5 incident The Manhattan Project and thermonuclear bombs In the late 1930s, several teams of scientists in the United States, France, Germany, the Soviet Union and Japan were striving to initiate the world’s first nuclear chain reaction. On December 2, 1942, it was achieved by a team led by Enrico Fermi, an Italian émigré scientist at the University of Chicago, in a laboratory specially built under the stands at Stagg Field, originally a racket court. Leo Szilard, another émigré scientist from Hungary who was also in Fermi’s team, was concerned with Nazi Germany’s development of nuclear bombs. He and two of his Hungarian colleagues asked his mentor, Albert Einstein, to write a letter to President Roosevelt to warn him of the prospect of a German atomic bomb. Soon thereafter, the Manhattan Project, “a vast nuclear weapons development program directed by the US, British, and Canadian governments” was organized, with Lieutenant General Leslie R. Groves of the US Army as its director.34 The Manhattan Project succeeded in creating the world’s first nuclear explosion at Alamogordo, New Mexico on July 16, 1945, and within one month two atomic bombs—one using uranium and the other plutonium as fuel—were detonated over the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The US monopoly of nuclear weapons did not last long, as the Soviet Union succeeded in the detonation of their first atomic bomb on August 29, 1949. US defense advisors advocated for the rapid development of thermonuclear bombs (hydrogen bombs) using nuclear fusion, which was expected to be a thousand times the power of a bomb using nuclear fission. Scientists were split over the development of thermonuclear bombs. The leading proponent of the new bombs was Edward Teller, another Hungarian émigré scientist who worked for the Manhattan Project in the Los Alamos laboratory during the war and moved to the University of Chicago after the war. By contrast, Robert Oppenheimer, wartime Director of the Los Alamos laboratory and head of the General Advisory Committee (GAC) of the postwar Atomic Energy Commission (AEC), believed that thermonuclear bombs should not be developed even if they were technically possible, since “testing such a weapon would expose the entire world to dangerous levels of radioactive fallout,” as he stated in the GAC report. However, with the support of the US government, especially the Pentagon (Department of Defense), thermonuclear bombs were developed. Oppenheimer’s opposition to the development of

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hydrogen bombs was “used against him as evidence of his dubious loyalty,” and the AEC declared him “a security risk” and removed his security clearance.35 The first thermonuclear bomb test, Operation Ivy’s Mike test, was conducted on November 1, 1952, on Eniwetok Atoll, located in the Marshall Islands in the Northwest Pacific. The second one, Operation Castle’s Bravo test, conducted on March 1, 1954, on Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands, led to the Lucky Dragon 5 incident. Well before the detonation, the AEC had staked out a danger area around the test site, but the blast “proved to be more than twice as powerful as planned and generated vast quantities of highly radioactive debris.” The radioactive fallout rained down on the Marshall Islands outside the danger area, where the residents were not informed about the potential health hazards. They developed “low blood counts, skin lesions, and hemorrhages under the skin and ultimately suffered a heavy incidence of radiation-linked illness, including thyroid cancer and leukemia.” 36 The victims included not only Marshall Islanders but also the Japanese tuna fishermen operating just outside the danger area. The Lucky Dragon 5 incident and thereafter The Lucky Dragon 5, a small 140-ton tuna boat with a crew of twenty-three men, was operating 160 km east of the hypocenter of American thermonuclear test “Bravo” on March 1, 1954. When the blast occurred, the radioactive fallout rained down on the crew, and they all showed symptoms of acute radiation sickness. They promptly navigated back to the boat’s mother port, Yaizu in Shizuoka Prefecture, which was one of the largest tuna-landing ports in Japan. The crew was immediately hospitalized and transferred to the University of Tokyo Hospital for specialized medical treatment. Kuboyama Aikichi, the ship’s chief radio operator, died six months later after suffering from multiple symptoms of radiation sickness. Although the most immediate cause of his death was said to be hepatitis contracted through blood transfusion, his death symbolized the inhumanity of thermonuclear tests and incited great sorrow and anger among Japanese citizens.37 The news of Lucky Dragon 5, and Kuboyama’s subsequent death, sent shockwaves through Japanese society and a large-scale anti-nuclear movement involving ordinary citizens, trade unions and religious organizations broke out, first in Suginami Ward in Tokyo, then spreading to all corners of the country. The US government, wishing to resolve the situation, paid $2 million in solatium to the Japanese government, which accepted the payment and tentatively settled the matter. However, atmospheric thermonuclear tests continued until the enactment of the PTBT in 1963. During Operation Redwing, which took place from May to July 1956, and Operation Hardtack, from April to September 1958, many Japanese fishing boats sailed in the surrounding waters, particularly long-liners from pelagic tuna fisheries. Both the US and Japanese governments were concerned that if a “second Bikini incident” was to occur, it would intensify the anti-nuclear and anti-American movements, and the Soviet Union and other communist countries would use it as propaganda, inevitably undermining America’s national image and strengthening leftist political power in Japan. While the US government attempted to take all possible measures to prevent radiation exposure, it was almost impossible to ensure the complete safety of all ships sailing in the vicinity of the test sites.

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Hundreds of tuna boats, especially small long-liners with a maximum navigation extending to the Marshall Islands, were exposed to radioactive fallout from 1954 to 1963. These fishermen were mostly from traditional tuna-fishing towns such as Yaizu and Muroto in Kochi Prefecture, where there were many independent shipowners who operated small tuna boats of 100–300 tons just like Lucky Dragon 5. When they returned to their home ports, the Japanese government sent officers with Geiger counters to check the radioactivity of the boats, crew and fish. When radioactivity was higher than the maximum permissible dose, the fishermen were forced to dispose of the catch. They did not receive compensation, and they did not receive any information about the results of the blood tests they were obliged to take. There are so many testimonies of fishermen with health problems strongly suspected to have been radiation sicknesses such as leukemia, cancer, fatigue and heart diseases, followed by death at a young age from one or more of these conditions.38 However, for reasons we will see in the next section, the fishermen and their families did not report these incidents to the authorities, and the government did not try to collect information either. As a result, no efforts were made to investigate the causal relationship between the fishermen’s illnesses and radiation, and no compensation was provided. Also, scarcely any existing scholarly works explore the impact of the nuclear testing on tuna fisheries, with an exception of Finley’s second book which briefly mentions the Lucky Dragon 5, but the rest of her discussion is centered on the Marshall Islanders, the most immediate victim of the radioactive fallout.39

Figure 13.1 Lucky Dragon 5 just returned to Yaizu (1954)

Source: Mainichi Shinbun (used with permission).

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Anti-nuclear test movement and tuna fishermen Absence of fishermen in the mainstream narrative of the Japanese anti-nuclear movement Fishermen are largely invisible in the mainstream narrative of the Japanese anti-nuclear movement after the Lucky Dragon 5 incident. The typical narrative is that a group of housewives in Suginami Ward in Tokyo, shocked and angered by the contamination of seafood by American thermonuclear tests, started to collect signatures to petition the Japanese government to stop the tests. By the time of Kuboyama’s death, the movement had spread all over Japan. By the fall of the next year, 32 million signatures, or roughly one-third of the entire Japanese population, had been collected. According to this narrative, the center of the antinuclear movement in Japan was urban, middle-class housewives aligned with intellectuals, students and teachers, whereas fishermen did not play a major role. There is some truth to this narrative because there were certain reasons why fishermen had difficulty participating in the anti-nuclear movement even though they were the victims of the thermonuclear tests. First, tuna fishermen from traditional fishing communities such as Yaizu and Muroto lived in a vertical hierarchy, which made it difficult for them to express dissent or protest. Second, these fishermen were the most dramatically affected by the drop in market prices caused by the nationwide panic over “radioactive tuna.” Fishermen and shipowners, hoping to tame public anxiety over radioactive tuna as quickly as possible, had no choice but to remain silent.40 Discrimination against hibakusha, or the victims of radiation, constituted another reason why tuna fishermen had to remain silent. Unlike urban, middle-class anti-nuclear activists, tuna fishermen and their families could not directly express their anger and fear toward the nuclear tests.41 Moreover, tuna fisheries on small boats were high-risk, high-return jobs because when the catch was good, a fisherman could build a house for his family from the earnings of one expedition. In exchange for this high income, their work was severe: long work hours, sometimes extending up to 14–15 hours consecutively, and constant battles against natural dangers, always risking their lives even without the thermonuclear tests. Therefore, for many fishermen, thermonuclear tests were just another risk alongside many others. Constantly faced with danger, fishermen had developed a fatalist mentality, as well as a kind of machoism to disregard danger. This was probably another reason why they did not complain about thermonuclear testing.42 Furthermore, compared to fishermen from Yaizu and Muroto, migrant fishermen from small villages all over Japan who were employed by large seafood companies were less aware of the danger of radioactive fallout. The large tuna ships they worked on usually navigated far from the test sites, and they did not have opportunities to talk with the fishermen who actually saw the blasts or “white rain” containing radioactive ash. Even if they were accidentally exposed to radioactive fallout while passing by the test grounds or fishing contaminated tuna, at least on the surface they did not feel any imminent danger in the protection of big, sturdy ships and companies. In the author’s interviews with retired fishermen, many migrant fishermen responded that they “were unaware of the nuclear tests” or they thought “the tests were already over” when they went on expeditions (which was actually not the case).43

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Fishermen, survivors, and their families who spoke up There were cases, however, in which tuna fishermen and their families and friends protested. One example is the “Villagers’ Voice” movement, a grassroots initiative to oppose nuclear tests and demand compensation. Residents of Yoshinaga Village, six miles south of Yaizu port and home to five of the twenty-three Lucky Dragon 5 crew members, collected approximately 2,000 signatures out of the 6,000 villagers in less than a month, then submitting them to the village authorities and Yaizu City’s Ad Hoc Headquarters for Handling the Lucky Dragon 5 Incident.44 The movement was led by Yamada Tomihisa, a former classmate of some of the Lucky Dragon 5 fishermen. Yamada did not have any previous experience in political or civic activism, but he was a young working-class man who graduated from a technical school and worked for a hardware store.45 When the Lucky Dragon 5 incident happened, he wanted to do something for his friends. He gained the support of Ōba Etsurō, a junior high school teacher and leader of the Yoshinaga Village Youth Organization, and Tomoda Tetsu, a candy shop owner and leader of the village women’s organization. Many of the young people in Yoshimura Village, including Yamada, had been engaged in a progressive literary movement to write poems, novels, and opinion pieces and published an independent journal called the Monthly Yoshinaga. Apparently, this experience helped them publicly express their opposition to nuclear tests.46 Ōishi Matashichi, chief freezing technician of the Lucky Dragon 5, Kuboyama Suzu, Aikichi’s widow, and Misaki Yoshio, chief fisherman of the Lucky Dragon 5, are other examples. Ōishi, until his death in March 2021, published many books and gave lectures at schools and various conferences on his experience as a Lucky Dragon 5 crewmate.47 However, it was not until he was over 60 that he began to testify about his experiences. Until then, he did not speak about his experience to anyone, even his wife, in fear of the discrimination against hibakusha and to forget the nightmare-like memories.48 Kuboyama Suzu was a simple housewife who was not accustomed to public attention until her husband became a victim of the thermonuclear test. Although she was tormented by media attention and the jealousy of other fishermen’s families who did not receive any compensation (since Suzu received a portion of the US solatium for the accident), she began to speak up against nuclear tests at women’s clubs and anti-nuclear conferences. While doing so, she grew to become a peace activist in her own right.49 Although she joined the peace movement out of her genuine desire to oppose nuclear weapons, she was upset at the political party lines drawn on the movement. Although the Japanese peace movement started as a broad coalition of citizens regardless of political affiliations, it became increasingly dominated by the communist and socialist parties, until finally the movement split over political party lines in 1961.50 Communist and socialist anti-nuclear activists played a tug-of-war over Suzu’s patronage, while she became tired and finally withdrew from the movement. Even thereafter, she was willing to talk to students and children who occasionally visited her house to learn about the Lucky Dragon 5 incident.51 Misaki Yoshio participated in anti-nuclear rallies and ceremonies with Suzu out of his genuine belief in peace activism, although he too began to feel that they were being exploited by political parties and organizations. He was also hurt because other Yaizu residents, who had suffered from the drop in fish prices, extreme media attention in their hometown and the town’s negative image by association with radiation sickness, turned suspicious eyes toward the Lucky Dragon 5 survivors who were treated as the symbols of the peace movement.52 204

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Ōishi, Kuboyama, and Misaki show the complicated relationship between nuclear test survivors and the peace movement, where survivors had difficulty speaking up even if they strongly opposed nuclear tests.53 There were also examples from other cities. Crew members of the Kōei-maru, a 119-ton tuna boat that had been near the danger area of Bikini Atoll five days after the thermonuclear test, returned to Misaki Port and received the government inspection for radioactivity. To the crew’s surprise, extraordinarily strong radioactivity was detected on the boat and the fish, and the fishermen were ordered to abandon their catch. Some fishermen suffered from exhaustion and a loss of appetite, but they did not receive any compensation or medical treatment. The frustrated fishermen wrote up an “Appeal to fellow citizens” and publicized it. They demanded government compensation, asked for the sympathy and support of Japanese citizens, criticized the US nuclear policy and emphasized the importance of peace.54 The Kōei-maru crew’s appeal was noteworthy as spontaneous activism by fishermen themselves. However, the group ultimately disbanded without any further action; tuna fishermen in a big port town like Misaki were migrant workers from all over the country, and once they got off board, they went home to different parts of Japan or got on board other ships. Therefore, it was difficult to sustain their activism as a unified movement.55 According to the historical records of Miura City, where Misaki Port is located, more than 150 tuna ships in the city were exposed to nuclear fallout from the 1954 test, and many fishermen actually became sick. Although the cause and effect between radiation and sickness was difficult to identify in most cases, detailed diaries kept by captains sometimes helped identify such connections. A 25-year-old crewmember of the Junkō-maru 8 died of leukemia in 1955. The detailed diaries of the ship’s captain indicated that the ship was sailing very close to the danger zone exactly when the bomb was detonated in March 1954, and therefore, a connection between radiation and the leukemia was strongly suspected. However, no investigation was carried out by the Japanese government, and no compensation was provided.56 These examples show that it was not that fishermen did not protest nuclear tests, but that their voices were sometimes drowned out by political quarrels, gradually worn out because of the practical difficulties of a fisherman’s lifestyle or simply ignored. However, their deepburied regret and anger surfaced some 60 years later when a group of tuna fishermen filed a lawsuit against the Japanese government. The court case by fishermen and their families in Kochi Prefecture On July 20, 2018, Japanese newspapers reported that the Kōchi Regional Court had dismissed a lawsuit filed by forty-five tuna fishermen and their families demanding state compensation for lost opportunities for medical treatment some sixty years prior. They had argued that government officials failed to disclose records concerning their exposure to radioactive fallout. The plaintiffs appealed to the Takamatsu High Court, but the case was again dismissed in December 2019. However, the High Court expressed sympathy for the plaintiffs, saying that it was “understandable that they demand the same kind of relief that was provided for the Hiroshima and Nagasaki nuclear bomb victims,” and “the possibilities for such relief should be considered” outside of the court.57 In 2020, the plaintiffs, now 14 fishermen and their families, opened a new court case—this time against the National Health Insurance Association—demanding the cancelation of the previous decision not to recognize exposure to radioactive fallout as a work-related injury. Still another case was filed against the Japanese Chapter 13: Tuna Fisheries and Thermonuclear Tests, 1954–1963

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government demanding compensation for lost opportunities for demanding compensation from the US government. The last two cases are still pending as of January 2023.58 Although most Japanese people did not pay much attention to these lawsuits made by retired fishermen from a remote town—and probably quickly forgot about it in the midst of many tragedies from Covid-19, natural disasters, and resulting economic hardship—the court case is a reminder of the suffering of deep-sea fishermen long neglected by the government. A filmmaker from Ehime Prefecture, which is the neighboring prefecture to Kōchi, has produced a documentary film about the hundreds of fishermen who were exposed to radioactive fallout from the US thermonuclear tests in the Pacific, Hōshasen o abita X-nengo [X years after exposure to radiation; English title, Fallout?; vol. 1 in 2012 and vol. 2 in 2015].59 The testimonies of survivors captured in this film remind us that this is not yet a dead issue. The tuna fishermen did not remain silent because they wanted to; there were reasons why they could not speak up back then. The tuna fishermen’s experiences remain an important reservoir of historical lessons about the environmental and humanitarian disasters caused by military science during the Cold War.

Notes 1

Tanabe Satoru, Maguro no bunkashi [Cultural history of tuna] (Tokyo: Keiyū-sha, 2010), 62. Wakabayashi Yoshikazu, Katsuo no sangyō to bunka [The skipjack industry and culture] (Tokyo: Seizandō Shoten, 2004), 83; Miyauchi Taisuke and Fujibayashi Yasushi, Katsuobushi to nihonjin [Katsuobushi and the Japanese] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013), 16–50. 3 Xumei Lin, “Senzenki Taiwan no katsuobushi to higashi-ajia” [The prewar Taiwanese katsuobushi and East Asia], Shigaku Kenkyū, no. 304 (October 2019): 30–57. 4 Tanabe, Cultural History of Tuna, 12, 39. 5 Nadin Heé, “Negotiating Migratory Tuna: Territorialization of the Oceans, Trans-war Knowledge and Fisheries Diplomacy,” Diplomatic History 44, no. 3 (2020): 413–27. 6 Carmel Finley, All the Fish in the Sea: Maximum Sustainable Yield and the Failure of Fisheries Management (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2011); All the Boats on the Ocean: How Government Subsidies Led to Global Overfishing (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2017). 7 Sayuri Guthrie-Shimizu, “Occupation Policy and the Japanese Fisheries Management Regime, 1945–1952,” in Democracy in Occupied Japan: The U.S. Occupation and Japanese Politics and Society, ed. Mark E. Caprio and Yoneyuki Sugita (London: Routledge, 2007), 48–66. 8 Udagawa Masaru and Uehara Masahiko, supervision, Nippon Suisan hyakunenshi: digital-ban [A History of Hundred Years of Nippon Suisan Kaisha, Ltd.: Digital Version] (Tokyo: Nippon Suisan, 2014. original version, 2011), 23, 29, 84, 127. 9 Nippon Suisan hyakunenshi, 11, 85–86, 152. 10 Finley, All the Fish in the Sea, 40; Andrew F. Smith, American Tuna: The Rise and Fall of an Improbable Food (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012), 109–10. 11 Konno Yuko, “Trans-Pacific Localism: Taiheiyō sensō mae no Wakayama-ken Taiji-chō to California-shū Terminal-tō o tsunaida kokyō no chikara” [Trans-Pacific Localism: Power of hometown connecting Taiji, Wakayama Prefecture and Terminal Island, California in the Pre-World War II Period], Journal of American and Canadian Studies, vol. 29 (March 2012): 29–57; Konno Yuko, “Nihonjin gyomin no kokusai-idō to kyōdōtai keisei” [Japanese fishermen’s transnational migration and community formation], Rekishi Hyōron, no. 792 (April 2016): 33–45; Yoneyama Hiroshi and Kawahara Norifumi, eds., Nihonjin no kokusai-idō to taiheiyō sekai: Nikkei imin no kingendai [The Japanese transnational migration and the Pacific world: The modern history of Japanese immigrants] (Kyoto: Bunrikaku, 2015), Part 3; Naomi Hirahara and Geraldine Knatz, Terminal Island: Lost Communities of Los Angeles Harbor (Los Angeles: Angel City Press, 2015), 154, 170–81, 192–219. Also see August Felando and Harold Mediina, “The Origins of California’s High-Seas Tuna Fleet,” The Journal of San Diego History 58, no. 1 & 2, (Winter/Spring 2012): 5–8. 2

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Smith, American Tuna, 53–60. Hirahara and Knatz, Terminal Island, 248–49; Smith, American Tuna, 66–67. 14 Susan Moffat, A Paradise Lost, Never Forgotten,” Los Angeles Times, January 5, 1994. 15 Finley, All the Fish in the Sea, 100–1. 16 Hoshi Tetsuo, ed., Katsuo maguro gyogyō no subete [Everything about skipjack and tuna fisheries] (Tokyo: Dōmei Tsūshin-sha, 1974), 37. 17 Finley, All the Fish in the Sea, 109–10. 18 Hoshi, Katsuo maguro gyogyō no subete, 107; Nakai Akira, ed., Kaigai gyogyō gōben jigyō no gaikan [Overview of the overseas fisheries joint ventures] (Tokyo: Kaigai Gyogyō Kyōryoku Zaidan, 1995), 13. 19 Hirahara and Knatz, Terminal Island, 151; Felando and Mediina, “The Origins of California’s High-Seas Tuna Fleet,” 5; Smith, American Tuna, 30–31, 35, 46–47. 20 Smith, American Tuna, 36–37. 21 National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), “Historical Overview: Tuna Fishing & Canning in San Pedro—Terminal Island,” http://www.westcoast.fisheries.noaa.gov/fisheries/migratory_species /san_pedro_ti_tuna_industry_historical_overview.html, accessed on December 18, 2022. 22 Chicken of the Sea website, http://chickenofthesea.com/company, accessed on December 18, 2022; Smith, American Tuna, 45. 23 Nippon Suisan hyakunenshi, 187, 227; Smith, American Tuna, 110–11. 24 “Fleet Ordered to Stay in Port to Avoid Tuna Glut,” San Pedro News-Pilot, March 13, 1956; “Dispute Between Union, Boat Owner Blocks Star-Kist Gates,” San Pedro News-Pilot, July 18, 1957, cited in Tsuchiya Yuka, “Maguro enyō-gyogyō to tuna-kan sangyō o meguru nichibei-kankeishi: 1950-60-nendai no bōeki-masatsu, suibaku-jikken, soshite senzenki karano renzokusei” [US-Japan relations through tuna fishing and canneries: The trade conflict of the 1950s–60s, nuclear tests, and continuity from the prewar era] Chushikoku American Studies, vol. 8 (2017): 111–31; Robert M. Roesti, “An Economic Analysis of the Tuna Canning Industry,” Journal of the West, 537, 537. 25 Roesti, “An Economic Analysis of the Tuna Canning Industry,” 524. 26 Van Camp Buys Africa Tuna Base,” San Pedro News-Pilot, April 2, 1960. 27 Plants to Use Japan Vessels for Operation,” San Pedro News-Pilot, August 2, 1962. 28 Finley, All the Boats on the Ocean, Kindle. 29 Department of State, Memorandum of Conversation, July 6, 1954, Document 12, 60th Anniversary of Castle BRAVO Nuclear Test, the Worst Nuclear Test in U.S. History, Nuclear Vault, National Security Archive, the George Washington University, https://nsarchive2.gwu.edu/nukevault/ebb459/docs/doc%2012%20hot %20tuna.pdf, accessed on July 4, 2022. 30 Elaine Tyler May, Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War Era (New York: Basic Books, rev. ed. 2008. 1st ed. 1988); Robert A. Jacobs, The Dragon’s Tail: Americans Face the Atomic Age (Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 2010). 31 Hoshi, Everything about Skipjack and Tuna Fisheries, 79, 113. 32 For example, a 1979 publication of Yaizu Fisheries Cooperative Association shows that 77 percent of the annual sales came from bluefins, while only 3.2 percent came from albacores. Yaizu Fisheries Cooperative Association, ed. Tsuiho Yaizu gyogyō-shi [History of fisheries in Yaizu: Supplement] (1979), 475. 33 Author’s interviews with retired fishermen in Muroto, Kōchi Prefcture, in Tsuchiya Yuka and Miura Chiemi, eds., Shiryōshū: Kōchi-ken Muroto-shi ni okeru maguro enyō gyogyō-sha eno kikitori chōsa [Interviews with deep-sea tuna fishermen in Muroto, Kōchi Prefecture], (unpublished printed material, 2019); Hoshi, Everything about Skipjack and Tuna Fisheries, 86. 34 Lawrence S. Wittner, Confronting the Bomb: A Short History of the World Nuclear Disarmament Movement (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009), 1–3. 35 Audra J. Wolfe, Competing with the Soviets: Science, Technology, and the State in Cold War America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013), 17–21. 36 Wittner, Confronting the Bomb, 52. 37 For more details, see the Tokyo Prefectural Daigo Fukuryū Maru Exhibition Hall website, http://d5f.org/en /about.html, accessed on July 1, 2022. 38 Yamashita Masatoshi, Kaku no umi no shōgen: Bikini jiken wa owaranai [The testimonies of the nuclear sea: The Bikini Incident never ends] (Tokyo: Shin-nihon Shuppan-sha, 2012). Testimonies are also included in the documentary film X Years After Exposure to Radiation which will be introduced later in this chapter. In 13

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the author’s oral history interviews with retired tuna fishermen in Kōchi Prefecture, some interviewees also mentioned their neighbors and relatives suffered from leukemia. Tsuchiya and Miura, Shiryōshū: Kōchi-ken. 39 Finley, All the Boats on the Ocean, Kindle. 40 Kondo Yasuo, ed., Suibaku jikken to nihon gyogyō [Thermonuclear tests and Japanese fisheries] (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1958), 2, 326; Yaizu Fish Wholesalers and Processors Cooperative Association, ed., Yaizu Suisanshi [The history of Yaizu fisheries], vol. 2 (1985), 459, 477. 41 These points will be explored more in detail in a forthcoming book chapter, Yuka Tsuchiya Moriguchi, “Voices of Deepsea Tuna Fishermen in the Japanese Anti-nuclear Test Movement in the 1950s and early 60s,” in Resisting the Nuclear, eds. Elyssa Faison and Alison Fields, forthcoming 2023. 42 Tsuchiya and Miura, Shiryōshū: Kōchi-ken. 43 Tsuchiya Yuka and Miura Chiemi, eds. Shiryōshū: Ehime-ken nanbu ni okeru maguro enyō gyogyō-sha eno kikitori chōsa [Interviews with deepsea tuna fishermen in southern Ehime Prefecture], (unpublished printed material, 2017). 44 “Sonmin no koe” [Villagers’ Voice], petition to the authorities, May 31, 1954, courtesy of the Yaizu History and Folklore Museum. Also cited in Kato Kazuo, Yaizu Heiwagaku Nyūmon: Bikini jiken to daigo fukuryūmaru [Introduction to Yaizu peace studies: The Bikini Incident and the Lucky Dragon] (Tokyo: Ronsōsha, 2012), 182–83. 45 “Shimin tachi ga atsumeta gensuibaku hantai no koe” [Anti-nuclear Voices Collected by Citizens], February 10, 2013, NHK Archives, accessed on February 9, 2020, https://www2.nhk.or.jp/archives/shogenarchives /postwar/shogen/movie.cgi?das_id=D0001810406_00000. 46 Kato Kazuo and Akiyama Hiroko, eds., Hiroshima Nagasaki Bikini o tsunagu: Yaizu-ryū heiwa no tsukurikata II [Networking Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Bikini: Yaizu way of peace building] (Tokyo: Shakai Hyōronsha, 2012), 47–54. More details on the Villagers’ Voice movement will be given in the aforementioned book chapter, Yuka Tsuchiya Moriguchi, “Voices of Deepsea Tuna Fishermen.” 47 Ishizaki Shoko, “Hibaku to dansei: Bikini hibakusha Ōishi Matashichi no kiseki” [Radiation and Men: Bikini hibakusha Ōishi Matashichi’s Trajectory] in Genbaku to genpatsu, sono saki: Josei-tachi no hikaku no jissen to shisō [Atomic weapons, atomic power and beyond: Women’s anti-nuclear practice and philosophy], (Tokyo: Ochanomizu Shobō, 2016), 39–53. 48 “Shiroi hai no kiou: Ōishi Matashichi ga ayunda michi” [The Memory of White Ash: The Path of Oishi Matashichi], NHK, ETV Special, on air. July 24, 2021. 49 Iizuka Toshihiro, Shi no hai o koete: Kuboyama Suzu san no michi [Beyond the deadly ashes: The path Kuboyama Suzu has taken] (Kyoto: Kamogawa Shuppan, 1993), 145–63. 50 For the domestic politics behind the Japanese anti-nuclear movement, see for example, Toshihiro Higuchi, “An Environmental Origin of Antinuclear Activism in Japan, 1954–1963: The Government, the Grassroots Movement, and the Politics of Risk,” Peace & Change 33, no. 3 (July 2008): 333–67. 51 Shizuoka Newspaper, ed., Daigo Fukuryū-maru, kokoro no kiseki [The Lucky Dragon No. 5: The course of souls] (1993), 41–45. 52 Shizuoka Newspaper, ed., The Lucky Dragon No. 5, 4–7. 53 The cases of Ōishi, Kuboyama, and Misaki will be further explored in the aforementioned book chapter, Yuka Tsuchiya Moriguchi, “Voices of Deepsea Tuna Fishermen.” 54 Miura City, ed., Bikini jiken Miura no kiroku [The Bikini Incident: The records of Miura City] (1996), 121–33. 55 Miura City, ed., The Bikini Incident, 134–35. 56 Miura City, ed., The Bikini Incident, 154–57. 57 Mainichi Shinbun, December 13, 2019, February 12, 2020; Kōchi Shinbun, December 13, 2019. 58 Mainichi Shinbun, September 5, 2021; Asahi Shinbun, December 17, 2022. 59 Hōshasen o abita X-nengo [X years after exposure to radiation. English title, Fallout?, vol. 1 in 2012; vol. 2 in 2015, dir. Hideaki Ito.

Bibliography Asahi Shinbun, December 17, 2022. Chicken of the Sea website, http://chickenofthesea.com/company.

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Felando, August and Harold Mediina. “The Origins of California’s High-Seas Tuna Fleet.” The Journal of San Diego History 58, no. 1 & 2, (Winter/Spring 2012): 5–8. Finley, Carmel. All the Fish in the Sea: Maximum Sustainable Yield and the Failure of Fisheries Management. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2011. ———. All the Boats on the Ocean: How Government Subsidies Led to Global Overfishing. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2017. Guthrie-Shimizu, Sayuri. “Occupation Policy and the Japanese Fisheries Management Regime, 1945–1952.” In Democracy in Occupied Japan: The U.S. Occupation and Japanese Politics and Society, edited by Mark E. Caprio and Yoneyuki Sugita, 48–66. London: Routledge, 2007. Heé, Nadin. “Negotiating Migratory Tuna: Territorialization of the Oceans, Trans-war Knowledge and Fisheries Diplomacy.” Diplomatic History 44, no. 3 (2020): 413–27. Higuchi, Toshihiro. “An Environmental Origin of Antinuclear Activism in Japan, 1954–1963: The Government, the Grassroots Movement, and the Politics of Risk.” Peace & Change 33, no. 3 (July 2008): 333–67. Hirahara, Naomi and Geraldine Knatz. Terminal Island: Lost Communities of Los Angeles Harbor. Los Angeles: Angel City Press, 2015. Hōshasen o abita X-nengo [X years after exposure to radiation]. (English title, Fallout?) vol. 1 in 2012; vol. 2 in 2015, dir. Hideaki Ito. Hoshi, Tetsuo, ed. Katsuo maguro gyogyō no subete [Everything about skipjack and tuna fisheries]. Tokyo: Dōmei Tsūshin-sha, 1974. Iizuka, Toshihiro. Shi no hai o koete: Kuboyama Suzu san no michi [Beyond the deadly ashes: The path Kuboyama Suzu has taken]. Kyoto: Kamogawa Shuppan, 1993. Ishizaki, Shoko. “Hibaku to dansei: Bikini hibakusha Ōishi Matashichi no kiseki” [Radiation and Men: Bikini hibakusha Ōishi Matashichi’s Trajectory]. In Genbaku to genpatsu, sono saki: Josei-tachi no hikaku no jissen to shisō [Atomic weapons, atomic power and beyond: Women’s anti-nuclear practice and hilosophy], edited by Hayakawa Noriyo and Esashi Akiko, 39–53. Tokyo: Ochanomizu Shobō, 2016. Jacobs, Robert A. The Dragon’s Tail: Americans Face the Atomic Age. Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 2010. Katō, Kazuo. Yaizu heiwagaku nyūmon: Bikini jiken to daigo fukuryū-maru [Introduction to Yaizu peace studies: The Bikini Incident and the Lucky Dragon]. Tokyo: Ronsōsha, 2012. Katō, Kazuo and Akiyama Hiroko, eds. Hiroshima Nagasaki Bikini o tsunagu: Yaizu-ryū heiwa no tsukurikata II [Networking Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Bikini: Yaizu way of peace building]. Tokyo: Shakai Hyoron-sha, 2012. Kōchi Shinbun. December 13, 2019. Kondō, Yasuo, ed. Suibaku jikken to nihon gyogyō [Thermonuclear Tests and Japanese Fisheries]. Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1958. Konno, Yuko. “Trans-Pacific Localism: taiheiyō sensō mae no Wakayama-ken Taiji-chō to California-shū Terminal-tō o tsunaida kokyō no chikara” [Trans-Pacific localism: Power of hometown connecting Taiji, Wakayama Prefecture and Terminal Island, California in the pre-World War II Period]. Journal of American and Canadian Studies 29 (March 2012): 29–57. ———. “Nihonjin gyomin no kokusai-idō to kyōdōtai keisei,” [Japanese fishermen’s transnational migration and community formation]. Rekishi Hyōron, no. 792 (April 2016): 33–45. Lin, Xumei. “Senzenki Taiwan no katsuobushi to higashi-ajia” [The prewar Taiwanese katsuobushi and East Asia]. Shigaku Kenkyū, no. 304 (October 2019): 30–57. May, Elaine Tyler. Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War Era. New York: Basic Books, rev. ed. 2008. 1st ed. 1988. Mainichi Shinbun. December 13, 2019; February 12, 2020; September 5, 2021. Miura City, ed. Bikini jiken Miura no kiroku [The Bikini Incident: The records of Miura City]. 1996. Miyauchi, Taisuke and Fujibayashi Yasushi. Katsuobushi to nihonjin [Katsuobushi and the Japanese]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2013. Moffat, Susan. “A Paradise Lost, Never Forgotten.” Los Angeles Times, January 5, 1994. Moriguchi, Yuka Tsuchiya. “Chapter 8: Voices of Deepsea Tuna Fishermen in the Japanese Anti-nuclear Test Movement in the 1950s and early 60s.” In Resisting the Nuclear, edited by Elyssa Faison and Alison Fields. Forthcoming 2023. Nakai, Akira, ed. Kaigai gyogyō gōben jigyō no gaikan [Overview of the overseas fisheries joint ventures]. Tokyo: Kaigai Gyogyō Kyōryoku Zaidan, 1995.

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National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). “Historical Overview: Tuna Fishing & Canning in San Pedro—Terminal Island.” http://www.westcoast.fisheries.noaa.gov/fisheries/migratory_species/san _pedro_ti_tuna_industry_historical_overview.html. Roesti, Robert M. “An Economic Analysis of the Tuna Canning Industry.” Journal of the West, n.d. Available at the San Pedro Bay Historical Society. San Pedro News-Pilot. “Van Camp Buys Africa Tuna Base.” April 2, 1960; “Plants to Use Japan Vessels for Operation,” August 2, 1962. “Shimin tachi ga atsumeta gensuibaku hantai no koe” [Anti-nuclear voices collected by citizens]. February 10, 2013, NHK Archives, https://www2.nhk.or.jp/archives/shogenarchives/postwar/shogen/movie .cgi?das_id=D0001810406_00000. “Shiroi hai no kiou: Ōishi Matashichi ga ayunda michi” [The memory of white ash: The path of Ōishi Matashichi]. NHK, ETV Special, on air. July 24, 2021. Shizuoka Shinbun, ed. Daigo Fukuryū-maru, kokoro no kiseki [The Lucky Dragon No. 5: The course of souls]. 1993. Smith, Andrew F. American Tuna: The Rise and Fall of an Improbable Food. Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2012. “Sonmin no koe” [Villagers’ Voice], petition to the authorities. May 31, 1954. Courtesy of the Yaizu History and Folklore Museum. Tanabe, Satoru. Maguro no bunkashi [Cultural history of tuna]. Tokyo: Keiyū-sha, 2010. Tokyo Prefectural Daigo Fukuryū Maru Exhibition Hall website, http://d5f.org/en/about.html. Tsuchiya, Yuka. “Maguro enyō-gyogyō to tuna-kan sangyō o meguru nichibei-kankeishi: 1950-60-nendai no bōeki-masatsu, suibaku-jikken, soshite senzenki karano renzokusei” [US-Japan Relations through tuna fishing and canneries: The trade conflict of the 1950s–60s, nuclear tests, and continuity from the prewar era]. Chushikoku American Studies 8 (2017): 111–31. Tsuchiya, Yuka and Miura Chiemi, eds. Shiryōshu: Kōchi-ken Muroto-shi ni okeru maguro enyō gyogyō-sha eno kikitori chōsa [Interviews with deepsea tuna fishermen in Muroto, Kochi Prefecture]. Unpublished printed material, 2019. ———. eds. Shiryōshu: Ehime-ken nanbu ni okeru maguro enyō gyogyō-sha eno kikitori chōsa [Interviews with deepsea tuna fishermen in southern Ehime Prefecture]. Unpublished printed material, 2017. Udagawa, Masaru and Uehara Masahiko, supervision. Nippon Suisan hyakunenshi: digital-ban [A History of Hundred Years of Nippon Suisan Kaisha, Ltd.: Digital version]. Tokyo: Nippon Suisan, 2014. origin. ver. 2011. US Department of State, Memorandum of Conversation, July 6, 1954. Document 12, 60th Anniversary of Castle BRAVO Nuclear Test, the Worst Nuclear Test in U.S. History, Nuclear Vault, National Security Archive, the George Washington University. https://nsarchive2.gwu.edu/nukevault/ebb459/docs/doc%20 12%20hot%20tuna.pdf. Wakabayashi, Yoshikazu. Katsuo no sangyō to bunka [The skipjack industry and culture]. Tokyo: Seizando, 2004. Wittner, Lawrence S. Confronting the Bomb: A Short History of the World Nuclear Disarmament Movement. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009. Wolfe, Audra J. Competing with the Soviets: Science, Technology, and the State in Cold War America. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013. Yaizu Fish Wholesalers and Processors Cooperative Association, ed. Yaizu Suisanshi [The history of Yaizu fisheries], vol. 2. 1985. Yaizu Fisheries Cooperative Association, ed. Tsuiho Yaizu gyogyō-shi [History of fisheries in Yaizu: Supplement]. 1979. Yamashita, Masatoshi. Kaku no umi no shōgen: Bikini jiken wa owaranai [The testimonies of the nuclear sea: The Bikini Incident never ends]. Tokyo: Shin-nihon Shuppan-sha, 2012. Yoneyama, Hiroshi and Kawahara Norifumi, eds. Nihonjin no kokusai-idō to taiheiyō sekai: Nikkei imin no kingendai [The Japanese transnational migration and the Pacific world: The modern history of Japanese immigrants]. Kyoto: Bunrikaku, 2015.

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Part 5 Forestry

Chapter 14 Japanese Swidden Agriculture (yakihata): Environmental History of Grassland, Forest and Fire Komeie Taisaku This chapter explores the environmental history of Japanese swidden agriculture or yakihata, which has not received much attention from historians. Yakihata was not a primitive agriculture without change, but a technique that used fire to bring diversity to the ecosystem. One effect was to encourage the development of agroforestry, and from the 18th century onward, swidden agriculture became the foundation of plantation forestry. Ironically, modern forestry policy was insensitive to yakihata and sought to eliminate it to conserve forestry.

Introduction Yakihata (or, alternatively, yakibata), a Japanese term for swidden agriculture or shifting cultivation, involving the clearing of forested lands in order to use them for agricultural purposes, provides an interesting perspective on the environmental history of Japan. Swidden cultivation works directly on the natural environment since it involves the burning of existing plants for the cultivation of useful crops for humans. Compared to standard agriculture on continuous farmland, yakihata cultivation seems to be relatively wild and destructive. Conversely, it seems to represent a very wise relationship between people and the environment, using fire to skillfully alter and exploit the natural environment. According to Stephen Pyne, an advocate of an environmental history of fire, shifting cultivation is a prime example of how humans create ecological conditions to their advantage through man-made burning.1 Yakihata agriculture can be a touchstone for considering the relationship between humans and the environment; it has been evaluated both positively and negatively in the past. This chapter provides a basic overview of the environmental history of swidden agriculture in Japan as well as some interesting research points, with reference to the author’s research.2 Many historians have understood swidden farming in Japan not as a mainstream agricultural practice but a marginal one, while historical geographers have largely compensated for the lack of research on yakihata.3 Some historians have recently begun to reconsider

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the swidden fields.4 These geographical and historical studies have been inspired by the ethnographical interest in shifting cultivation, which became dominant during the second half of the 20th century. Sasaki Kōmei (1929–2013), a key scholar in rediscovering swidden agriculture, attempted to understand yakihata as the basis of Japanese culture with an origin in the mountainous area of Southeast Asia.5 Although Sasaki’s idea has not necessarily been accepted by historians, interdisciplinary research on yakihata has nevertheless gained prominence. The 2011 collection, An Environmental Science of Swidden Agriculture, is a recent example of multidisciplinary research on history, geography, ethnography, and agronomy.6 Focusing on the history of swidden agriculture in Japan rather than other countries or regions has several advantages, especially considering the richness of historical resources. The existence of yakihata agriculture can be traced back to 867 when some people burned a sacred forest surrounding the Isonokami Shrine to plant millets.7 Wamyō ruijū-shō, a dictionary edited in the early-10th century, also referred to the swidden field with regard to the term yaihata (curiously not described as yakihata). The Japanese invention of a kanji or Chinese character for the swidden field by the 12th century suggests that it was recorded frequently in Japanese society.8 Starting from the end of the 16th century, we can examine the swidden landscape and land ownership in detail from land survey documents. Compared to swidden agriculture in the tropics that had limited historical resources, we can gain abundant insight into its environmental history by focusing on Japanese yakihata. One is the fact that, contrary to the preconceived notion of “primitive agriculture,” Japanese swidden farming has undergone historical changes. For example, the introduction of arboriculture, which developed into agroforestry and gave rise to Japan’s unique cultivated forestry industry by the 18th century, is an important aspect related to Japanese shifting cultivation. Meanwhile, the agricultural calendar of yakihata farming has also changed to coexist with the mainstream agriculture of Japan, rice cultivation. In contrast, in remote mountainous areas, intensive swidden agriculture with a relatively long cultivation and fallow period was sustained until modern times. These historical changes have also been reflected in the treatment of yakihata cultivation in society. Rotating between natural environments and artificial fields, shifting cultivation is a tricky subject to deal with land tenure systems. However, yakihata fields could be successfully managed within collective land tenure and were harmonious with iriaichi or the commons. By the 12th century, swidden agriculture became the cause of concern for lords as an integral part of the economy of territorial control of land. The concept of “yakihata” took root in the 18th century after it was treated variously in the land survey system of the early modern period. This history demonstrates that Japanese swidden agriculture was not gradually relegated to the margins, but on the contrary, was clearly incorporated into society. However, when the national government began to promote forestry after the Meiji Restoration, yakihata cultivation gradually became difficult, triggered by the development of scientific forestry. In imperial Japan, yakihata farming in the mainland was authorized under the purview of agroforestry, while colonial shifting cultivation was criticized as the cause of environmental destruction. This history vividly illustrates the changing politics of fire-based agriculture. Before elaborating these arguments, including historical geography, land ownership, ecological conditions, and modern politics of swidden agriculture, the next section illustrates how active yakihata farming survived in the 20th century.

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Yakihata in the 20th century To confirm that swidden agriculture was active until the middle of the 20th century, let us examine the 1950 Census of Agriculture, which are the only reliable statistics on shifting cultivation in Japanese history, and were considered an important starting point for Sasaki Kōmei’s work. Figures 14.1 and 14.2 show the acreage of swidden land and the number of households engaged in shifting cultivation by municipality (city, town, and village). Although Sasaki only illustrated cities and counties with more than five chō (4.96 hectares) of Figure 14.1 Area of swidden fields by municipal area in 1950

Swidden Area (chō) 1 5 10 50 100

0

200 km

Source: Nōrinshō Tōkei-chōsabu and National Land Information 9 Note: 1 chō equals 0.992 hectare or 0.00992 square kilometer. Southern parts of Krill Islands and Ryukyu Islands are not included because of lack of the Japanese rule in 1950.

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swidden fields in his Nihon no Yakihata, he presented eight predominant areas of burning fields: (i) the eastern (Kitakami Mountains) and (ii) western (Ou and Dewa Mountains) parts of the Tōhoku region; (iii) the northeastern (Jōetsu Mountains), (iv) the northern (Hinōetsu Mountains), and (v) the southeastern side (Akaishi and Tanzawa Mountains) of the Chūbu region; and (vi) the northern (San’in Mountains), (vii) the southern (Shikoku Mountains), and (viii) the southwestern (Kyūshū Mountains) parts of western Japan.10 The uneven distribution of swidden-dominant areas has been illustrated by the distribution of farmers, as shown in Figure 14.2. Figure 14.2 Number of swidden households by municipal area in 1950

Swidden Households 1000 500 0

0

200 km

Source: Nōrinshō Tōkei-chōsabu and National Land Information 11 Note: Southern parts of Krill Islands and Ryukyu Islands are not included because of lack of the Japanese rule in 1950.

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Apart from the eight areas above, shifting cultivation also survived in lowlands and islands. Figure 14.1 shows small areas of shifting cultivation in many municipalities, especially in hilly and suburban areas, and the islands in the Pacific Ocean and Sea of Japan. This indicates that yakihata agriculture was not limited to isolated mountain villages but was widespread across Japan. Such a small size of swidden agriculture was often called kirikaebata (shifting fields), with regular movement between cultivated land and fallow. The area of yakihata in the 1950 census included kirikaebata owing to the similarity between the former and the latter. It is also important to note that swidden fields were found in Hokkaido. Some of them were created by Japanese settlers while some, such as the large area in central Hokkaido, were used for cultivating new land. Most of the swidden agriculture seen in Figure 14.1 declined in the second half of the 20th century and ceased to exist in the early-21st century. The decline can be attributed to several reasons, including the elimination of food shortages as experienced during World War II, the expansion of afforestation pushed by the government and the outflow of population from mountain villages. In their quest for higher income and educational opportunities, mountain villagers planted trees in the mountains and sought work elsewhere.12 However, yakihata agriculture in Japan has not disappeared altogether. It is still practiced in a few mountain villages in the prefectures of Fukui, Kochi and Miyazaki. The swidden area in Miyazaki Prefecture is an important feature of the Takachihogo-Shiibayama Mountainous Agriculture and Forestry System, Globally Important Agricultural Heritage Systems (GIAHS) recognized by the FAO in 2015.13 Another significant example is Tsuruoka City in Yamagata Prefecture, where red turnips for pickles are cultivated using swidden methods. In the southern part of this city, known as Atsumi, yakihata fields are found everywhere because red turnips have a high commercial value and are suitable for swidden agriculture. The existence of today’s swidden fields suggests that their decline was not caused by agriculture itself but rather the changes in economic and political conditions. Regional types and “evolution” of swidden farming It is the more intensive system of swidden agriculture, mainly found in isolated mountainous areas that has attracted the attention of researchers. Sasaki Kōmei proposed a regional typology of yakihata, focusing on the rotation of crops and the timing of sowing.14 1. Araki-type in the eastern Tōhoku region: Spring-sown millets and soybean, with a long cultivation period. 2. Kano-type in the western Tōhoku region: Summer-sown buckwheat and turnips. 3. Nagihata-type in the Chubu and northern Kinki regions: Spring-sown millets, especially foxtail millet (awa) and Japanese barnyard millet (hie). 4. Koba-type in southwestern Japan: Spring-sown millets and root vegetables, and autumn-sown wheat. 5. Root vegetable-type in Pacific islands: Spring-sown taro and sweet potato. Among these, Sasaki considered the nagihata and koba types to be most typical of Japanese swidden agriculture, with the kano type possibly having lost the spring-sowing crops to make it easier to coexist with rice cultivation in paddy fields, which require much input of labor in the spring. He also suggested that the araki type remained on the frontier of settlement with a long cultivation time over ten years. In addition to the above, Sasaki also considered Chapter 14: Japanese Swidden Agriculture (yakihata)

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yakihata agriculture linked to forestry as an “evolution” of land use, calling it the pre-forestry cultivation type, which was difficult to record in the 1950 agricultural census because it was most likely categorized as forest, not farmland. However, swidden agriculture was once active in areas where forestry had developed, such as the Kii Peninsula in the southern Kinki region, which had only small areas of yakihata fields, as shown in Figure 14.1. Sasaki Kōmei’s typology is also insightful from a historical perspective, suggesting that shifting cultivation may have changed by region in the past for introducing appropriate crops or coexisting with other stable agriculture such as rice farming. Although Sasaki regarded the araki type as quite peculiar, it allows us to expand the definition of swidden farming since it appears to lie somewhere between the more typical yakihata and ordinary field cultivation. As demonstrated in Figure 14.1, small-scale yakihata or kirikaebata was also found in the hilly and suburban areas. How did the Japanese swidden agriculture, including yakihata lands in the broader sense of the term, become differentiated and “evolve” regionally? Fukui Katsuyoshi’s suggestion on “the evolution of swidden agriculture in Japan” is an important contribution to this question.15 According to Fukui’s assumption, there was an “evolution” of swidden farming from the stage of what he characterized as “succession field,” which began with semi-domestication of useful plants brought about through artificial burning, to cultivation with rotation of millets, and subsequently to “intensive” agriculture with the effective use of beneficial trees during the fallow period. How can we relate this “evolution” of swidden agriculture to the regional differentiation shown by Sasaki? The answer to this question is not yet known, but at the very least, the static understanding of “primitive agriculture,” which has remained unchanged since ancient times, is not appropriate for Japan’s yakihata farming. This also makes it difficult to explain Sasaki’s own theory, which attempts to associate swidden agriculture with the origins of Japanese culture, especially in the mountainous regions of Southeast Asia. No one can confirm whether the same swidden practices Sasaki investigated in the 20th century were present before the introduction of rice cultivation in pre-rice or Jomon Japan. How did swidden agriculture in Japan change, evolve, and develop? What kind of relationship did it create with the environment?

Reconstruction of swidden landscape Sasaki Kōmei’s research triggered interest in the history of swidden agriculture. Even before his study, researchers in the history of agricultural economics, such as Ono Takeo and Furushima Toshio, approached the history of swidden in the 1940s.16 They understood yakihata farming as “primitive agriculture” for poor peasants that were not subject to taxation, although they did not have enough perspective on environmental history. The research based on the points made by Sasaki and Fukui has been conducted mainly from the perspective of historical geography. The first key to this has been the analysis of early modern kenchichō or land registers to approach the landscape of burned fields. Pioneered by Chiba Tokuji and Fujita Yoshihisa, historical geographers reconstructed the widespread landscape of yakihata in early modern mountain villages.17 Among them, Mizoguchi Tsunetoshi, who was also interested in population history, discovered that in Shirakawa-gō in Hida Province (today’s northwestern area of Gifu Prefecture) in the early modern period, the area under shifting cultivation increased as the population grew.18 This discovery contradicted the preconceived notion that swidden farming, which was considered

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“primitive agriculture,” declined with time. In the early modern era, yakihata cultivation was actively used by mountain villagers to secure food, and it was not limited to poor peasants. Mizoguchi further found that swidden farming was also practiced in the coastal areas of islands such as Yakushima in Kagoshima Prefecture, showing that the understanding of shifting cultivation as a way of life in isolated mountain villages is misleading. Meanwhile, Komeie Tasisaku demonstrated that the kano type of swidden in the western Tōhoku region was practiced not only in the mountains, but also in the foothills and lowlands during the early modern period.19 It changed the sowing season gradually from spring to summer in order to coexist with rice cultivation. However, this was not the livelihood of poor peasants. Many farmers chose it as one of their multiple economies. Although modern researchers have paid much attention to yakihata in highland forest, lowland swidden cultivation is another important type in Japan. The term kano mentioned above comes from a combination of “cut” (karu) and “grassland” (no). It may not have been uncommon in the past for villages to be surrounded by grasslands, where shifting cultivation was practiced. A handbook written by early modern agricultural officials explains swidden agriculture, where the cultivation period is only one year and the fallow period is only for a few years. For example, Jikata hanreiroku, compiled by Ōishi Hisataka in 1794 states: [Yakihata] is difficult to cultivate in the same place every year. The field cultivated this year should be abandoned the next year and left to grow grass. Subsequently, another area is burned to create a field. The areas where grass has grown will be burned the next year or the year after that, depending on how the grass is growing. This is also called “kirikaebata” because the process shifts every year or two.20 In contrast, the handbook continues, the mountain villages in Kai Province (present-day Yamanashi Prefecture) had a special type of yakihata called karyō, in which the land is left fallow for five to ten years, until the regeneration of the forest. Although most modern researchers of swidden agriculture may regard the karyō as a typical yakihata in a deep forest similar to the nagihata type in the Sasaki typology, the early modern Japanese were familiar with the shifting cultivation practiced in the grasslands with rapid rotation of lands. The intensive swidden agriculture in the deep mountains such as karyō was possibly one type of yakihata that had developed in a suitable temperate forest environment. Medieval swidden fields of Yamahata Since early modern swidden fields were recorded on land registers, modern researchers could reconstruct the yakihata landscape. Although we must always bear in mind the existence of unrecorded lands, it is not correct to understand that burned fields were not taxed, and thus were a source of livelihood for poor peasants. How was shifting cultivation treated in society before the end of the 16th century, when early modern land registration began? The key to answering this question lies in the Chinese character invented in Japan for swidden cultivation by the 12th century.21 Itō Toshikazu, who has studied examples of the use of this character, points out that starting from the 13th century, the word yamahata (or, alternatively, yamabata) or mountain field was used to describe swidden lands.22 According to Itō, the provinces where this letter can be confirmed to have been used are mostly in the Kinki region, where many historical documents Chapter 14: Japanese Swidden Agriculture (yakihata)

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have been handed down, including in Iga, Kii, Ōmi, Settsu, Tamba, Yamashiro, Yamato and Wakasa provinces. Other examples can be found in the provinces of Kyūshū Island (Bungo, Chikuzen and Satsuma) and eastern Japan (Echigo, Kazusa and Michinoku). One of Ito’s important points is the fact that in 1232, the Kamakura shogunate guaranteed to jitō (the local warriors appointed as chiefs of land) that they would share the ownership of the mountain fields with the existing lord of the estate or manor. This is believed to be related to the drastic change in the land system that occurred during the transition from ancient to medieval times in the 12th century, when lords not only owned individual plots of land, but also ruled over the region territorially. The rights to temporary cultivated fields are unlikely to be permanent after they are left as grassland. However, in the case of territorial manors, they can be understood as agriculture that utilizes the land contained in the region. The word yamahata was probably used in this medieval land system to claim the rights and interests of swidden fields. The medieval customs of ownership and taxation of swidden fields were passed down into early modern society to a significant degree. Several documents describing the guidelines for surveying the land of yamahata in accordance with previous treatment survive from the transition period from the medieval to the early modern era at the end of the 16th century. Starting from the Middle Ages, swidden agriculture was not considered a free activity outside the control of society, but was rather clearly positioned within the society. The reason early modern land registers recorded burning fields so well is probably because they inherited these medieval practices.

Succession and semi-domestication in swidden The relationship between swidden agriculture and the environment lies in the use of fire to create a variety of vegetation, both temporally and spatially. This is also the key to considering how Japanese yakihata evolved. This section examines the Kii mountain range as an example, where we can infer that the nature of shifting cultivation changed significantly over time. Figure 14.3 shows the land use and cover in the mid-19th century, as estimated by Fujita Yoshihisa. The central part of the peninsula has an elevation of nearly 2,000 meters and is covered with coniferous or broad-leaved forests, considered to be a natural form of vegetation. Swidden cultivation was also observed, but the area was not vast. However, the figure illustrates tree plantations spread in some areas; these represent areas of agroforestry based on shifting cultivation, which occupied the upper reaches of rivers that were suitable for transporting timber. Conversely, pine forests, bushlands and grasslands were found in the foothills of the Kii Mountains and in areas closer to the coast. These represent landscapes created by the human use of plants. Was swidden agriculture involved in anthropogenic vegetation? Figure 14.4 plots the records of burning fields in the medieval and early modern periods. The middle part of the Kinokawa River is more of a foothill than a mountainous area, but there are several medieval manors that recorded the Chinese characters for yakihata in documents regarding land rights disputes after the 12th century, which suggests that the existence of swidden farming. The landcover along the Kinokawa River was transformed into red pines and grasslands by the mid-19th century, as shown in Figure 14.3. By burning existing forests artificially, swidden cultivation creates secondary vegetation after the fields have been used for agriculture. The comparison of Figures 14.3 and 14.4 allows us to assume the same was true in the western

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Figure 14.3 Land use and cover, Kii Peninsula, mid-19th century

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Mixed or Coniferous Forest Broad Leaved Forest ∧ ∧ ∧ ∧

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E°136

Source: Fujita Yoshihisa, “Kinsei-matsu (1850 nen goro) no rin’ya riyō”23 Note: The mesh is separated by 1 minute north-south and 1 minute 30 seconds east-west and represents the land use/cover that is presumed to be dominant in each cell.

and southeastern coastal areas of the Kii Peninsula, where early modern swidden fields overlap secondary vegetation, including red pine. It should be noted that Figure 14.4 relies only on known records and does not represent all the villages where yakihata farming existed. We can suppose that swidden agriculture had a significant impact on vegetation change in the Kii Peninsula. Swidden agriculture not only created farmland, but also a variety of vegetation. This was not the natural result of secondary vegetation, but rather the intentional creation of useful vegetation. Shiraya Village in the Kii Mountain Range (see Figure 14.4) has some interesting historical records on this point.24 According to a mura-ezu, or village map, drawn up in 1677, the Shiraya settlement was located on a hillside overlooking the Kinokawa River, surrounded by burned fields and grasslands.25 Among them, Noborio-yama, located near the border with the neighboring village of Takigi, had a common grassland in Shiraya, where people from Takigi had been renting land and burning it since 1654. However, in 1715, a dispute arose between Shiraya and Takigi since the former refused the latter’s demand to plant trees in the field. A petition Shiraya Village submitted to the regional officer of the lord, the Tokugawa shogunate, stated the following: Chapter 14: Japanese Swidden Agriculture (yakihata)

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Figure 14.4 Swidden lands, Kii Peninsula, medieval and early modern periods

Shiraya Village

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Kinokawa River n

Ise Province

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Ido Village

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Altitude 400m and more Medieval manors recorded swidden cultivaiton k: Kaseda-no-sho, n: Nate-no-sho, s: Suda-no-sho

Village Land suevey regsitering swidden lands

0

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1697

Source: Komeie Taisaku, Mori to hi no kankyōshi26

Within the territory of Shiraya Village, there is a place called Noborio-yama, where 23 plots of yamahata have been leased to Takigi Village. Shiraya Village does not allow people to burn fields for 20 years because it is used by the Shiraya villagers to dig kudzu vine and warabi bracken, to produce charcoal, and to cut kaya grass for roofing, namely, to make a living. After 20 years, they can slash and burn the land for three years of cultivation… But now they [Takigi villagers] are going to plant cedar trees. We [Shiraya villagers] will never accept this.27 The fallow land for shifting cultivation was covered with vine and bracken, grass and broadleaf trees, which were used for making starch, roofing materials and charcoal, respectively. The vegetation went through ecological succession from open land to grassland, then bush, and finally woodland. In addition, by shifting plots one by one every year, the villagers were able to allot three plots constantly for swidden agriculture, and the other 20 plots consisted of a variety of vegetation used for the Shiraya villagers’ subsistence economy. The case of Shiraya Village shows that swidden agriculture not only facilitated millet production, but also helped cultivate useful secondary vegetation. The villagers semi-domesticated the vegetation, expecting the growth of specific useful plants after burning the previous green cover. Therefore, the village allowed swidden agriculture by neighboring villagers, but objected to the planting of cedar there. 222

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Agroforestry in the commons Understanding swidden agriculture as a combination of crop cultivation and semidomestication, we can suppose that a more efficient way of land use would be to introduce new plants artificially during the fallow period. The case of Ido, one of the neighboring villages of Shiraya (see Figure 14.4), illustrates a different kind of relationship between swidden land and plants.28 The land register of Ido in 1679 recorded swidden lands surrounding the settlement, some of which were described as having plants such as tea trees (cha), lacquer trees (urushi), and paper mulberry (kōzo). They were specially recorded because of their commercial value and were probably planted after swidden cultivation, making them an important part of fallow vegetation.29 Similar to the case of Shiraya, deliberate burning of vegetation led to the natural growth of a variety of useful plants. In addition, the secondary vegetation included artificially introduced plants such as tea, lacquer, and paper mulberry, which played a significant role in the succession from swidden land to woodland. The beginning of plantation forestry in the 18th century was easy to understand in the context of the efficient use of the fallow period. Planting cedar is another new option for the fallow period. Similar to Shiraya Village, Ido Village allowed neighboring villagers to use their swidden fields, mainly in the outer area of the territory. However, unlike the Shiraya case, Ido Village allowed the afforestation of cedar in the early 18th century by making a new rental rule for the fallow period. The external factors that prompted the beginning of afforestation in swidden fields was urbanization and population explosion that occurred parallel to the establishment of Pax Tokugawana in the 17th century, where industries and urbanism developed in peaceful society under the Tokugawa shogunate. The rapid increase in demand for timber led to the temporary development of the forestry industry in the Kiso area (southwestern area of the present Nagano Prefecture) run by lords such as the Owari Domain, but within a century, the resources were depleted. The feudal lords who had forests had no choice but to cut them down gradually and systematically, and wait for the vegetation to recover naturally. The decline in the supply of timber encouraged mountain villagers located upstream of rivers with suitable transportation to enter the forestry industry. Therefore, swidden farmers took up the challenge of agroforestry, despite the cost of planting trees. In addition to the Kii Mountains mentioned here, such areas include the northern part of Kyūshū, the eastern part of Shikoku, the southern part of the Chūbu region, and the western part of the Kantō region. Forestry in the upper region of the Kinokawa River, which came to be called Yoshino Forestry after the name of the upper region of the river, was appreciated by scientific foresters, as mentioned in the following section. However, as observed in the case of Shiraya Village, planting trees on fallow land interferes with the collection of various plants that grow in the process of ecological succession. The case of Ido Village shows how this problem can be solved. Similar to Shiraya Village, the people in the neighboring village of Hitoji requested Ido to allow the planting of cedar trees on the yakihata lands in the early 18th century. This issue was solved in 1715 under a newly formed rule: payment of 10 percent of the selling price of lumber at the time of tree felling. This suggests that Ido Village allowed the fallow land to be planted with cedar in exchange for profit from timber. The afforestation of cedar made the mountain villagers rethink how to control commons. In Ido Village, swidden lands temporarily belonged to the cultivators during cultivation, so that patched papers showing the cultivators’ names are on the land Chapter 14: Japanese Swidden Agriculture (yakihata)

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register of 1679. The areas during the fallow period, which were under succession from open field to grassland and woodland, were not owned personally but were village commons. However, afforestation with cedar led to land being occupied for at least 15 years. As the trees grew, the area became a pure forest of cedar, which could not be used by other people and for other purposes, such as gathering useful plants or making charcoal. Cedar afforestation affected not only the plant cultivation system but also the management of the commons. The significant influence of afforestation on the landownership of commons was observed in the village record book of Ido, which started in 1708 with a description of rules about how to treat swidden lands, especially lands on which cedar was planted by neighboring villagers. It recorded the amount of land rent received by the village for swidden agriculture and afforestation. By the end of the early modern period, most of the mountain territory of Ido Village had gradually been divided into personally owned lands, where the combination of swidden agriculture and afforestation was repeated. When modern landownership was instituted by the Meiji government in the late 19th century, the territory of Ido consisted of many small lots of mountainous land surrounding the settlement, which originated in early modern swidden agroforestry. The above examples of Shiraya and Ido illustrate that swidden agriculture is a form of land use that is closely related to vegetation succession. The relationship between yakihata farming and the environment cannot be understood by focusing only on the period of cultivation. There are various possibilities for anthropogenic control of vegetation transition. Japanese swidden cultivation has evolved by introducing not only food crops, but also trees with commodity value. However, the introduction of trees to obtain timber also simplified the vegetation during the fallow period and eliminated a variety of land uses. Sasaki Kōmei’s concept of pre-forestry swidden cultivation can be understood as a form in which forestry is the mainstay, and swidden farming is secondary. Swidden agriculture made Japan a unique country which developed plantation forestry in the steep mountains quite early in its history, although it evolved eventually to minimize the agricultural aspect and ecological variety instead of maximizing the part of forestry both temporally and spatially.

Concept and politics of yakihata The relationship between yakihata and environmental problems is not a pressing issue in Japan today, where the area of burning cultivation is limited. However, in contemporary tropical societies, swidden agriculture is regarded as one of the causes of environmental destruction and a factor in the acceleration of global warming. Tropical states regard shifting cultivation as a serious problem, placing restrictions on economies that rely on intentional burning of forests. Simultaneously, the question as to how to balance the conservation of the environment with sustainability of society is being questioned.30 Although this situation seems to be a new phenomenon in the course of history, the negative evaluation of swidden agriculture was already formed by the 18th century in Japan and established in forestry science in the early 20th century. In this section, we will examine the political position of swidden agriculture in Japanese society, especially the emergence of the negative evaluations, paying attention to the changes in the concept of yakihata. As mentioned earlier, a kanji (or Chinese character) for swidden fields was created in Japan, and by the 13th century, yamahata had become an object of control for lords. The

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understanding that burned fields were also subject to taxation was carried over to the early modern land survey. Oddly enough, the term yakihata did not become a representative word for swidden farming until the 18th century, coinciding with the loss of the custom of using the Chinese character only for burned fields.31 In the land survey of the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the term yamahata was used to describe swidden fields, while terms such as kano, kirihata, nagihata and karyō were also used. These terms are derived from the practice of clearing plants to create fields. Along with these, the term yakihata was also used in certain cases, especially in the southern part of the Chūbu region (Kai and Izu Provinces).32 This suggests that the term yakihata was originally just one of the local terms to describe burning fields. A handbook on agricultural administration, Jikata hanreiroku of 1794, mentioned in the preceding section, presents yakihata as a generic term in response to such lexical confusion: “There are different names in different regions, such as kirikaebata, kanohata, karyōbata, etc., with relatively different methods, but they are all yakihata.” 33 This can be attributed not only to the motivation to systematize the knowledge necessary for agricultural policy, but also to the fact that yamahata was unclear as a vocabulary for swidden agriculture since yamahata literally means an arable field in the mountain, and can include farmland without deliberate burning. The change in terminology from yamahata to yakihata, with its emphasis on burning (yaki), was also related to the view of swidden agriculture as a special type of farming. In the Jikata hanreiroku mentioned above, it is stated that there is a special type of swidden agriculture called karyō in Kai Province with the fallow period spanning five to ten years. For the author of the handbook, yakihata farming in isolated mountain villages was considered quite special. Another exceptional understanding of yakihata can be seen in the official topography of Musashi Province, Shinpen Musashi fudokikō, which was compiled by the Tokugawa shogunate in 1830. It includes the following description of the mountain villages in the Chichibu region in the western part of the province: Swidden agriculture is found on the slopes and tops of the mountains. Foxtail millet, Japanese barnyard millet, soybeans, red beans and buckwheat were cultivated. They farm in rain, heat and fog, and can only get enough food for six or seven months. Therefore, they also use tochi [Japanese horse chestnut] and chestnuts as food.34 Such a landscape of intensive swidden farming in remote mountain villages has become a rare sight for officials and intelligent readers of topographies. The idea of seeking “improvements” in swidden agriculture, or a lack of understanding of its meaningful relationship with the environment, can be seen in the middle of the 18th century. An advisory document released by a shogunate official to Shiibayama in Hyūga Province (present-day Shiiba Village, Miyazaki Prefecture) in 1749, Shiibasannai nōgyō kasegikata sonohoka shinajina kakitsuke, urged the people of the mountain village, whose economy was mainly based on yakihata cultivation, to break away from it.35 In order to harvest their food, such as buckwheat, Japanese barnyard millet and foxtail millet, the people in Shiibayama mainly practice yakihata and use the surplus to cultivate ordinary arable fields inside the settlements. For this reason, the farmlands in the village, which are only limited in area, seem to be in Chapter 14: Japanese Swidden Agriculture (yakihata)

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disrepair. This is an incorrect way of thinking. First, we must take good care of the main fields in the settlements and not neglect their maintenance. If there is too much time, we can create a swidden field. Shogunate officials believed that shifting cultivation was unproductive and that a shift to a more stable farming method was necessary. This was based on the idea of seeking more land-productive agriculture, and not on an understanding of the significance of swidden agriculture in mountain villages, which skillfully controlled the natural environment. Although many nōsho or agricultural textbooks were compiled in early modern Japan to introduce more productive agriculture with new farming methods and crops, there are few that mention swidden agriculture and none proposed improvements or innovations in yakihata methods. Swidden farming was understood as a subject to overcome the problem of an unproductive fallow period. However, there is no evidence that the people of Shiibayama followed the advice of the shogunate, and as mentioned earlier, swidden agriculture continues to be practiced even today. Yakihata as “destructive” farming The conception that swidden agriculture is “destructive” to the environment was also evident in early modern times. The Sansen-okite or the Code of Mountain and River in the Kinki region (Yodo River system), which was issued several times in the latter half of the 17th century by the Tokugawa shogunate, had an additional provision that prohibited the new cultivation of yakihata.36 The officials believed that cultivation on mountainous land driven by a population explosion during the Pax Tokugawana caused soil erosion in the upper regions and flood damage to the lower area, especially in Osaka and its suburban area. Simultaneously, in the upper reaches of the Ōigawa River in the southern Chūbu region, a new ban on shifting cultivation was ordered, making it practically impossible to expand burned fields.37 Those who practiced swidden farming demanded that the shogunate lift the ban. In the forestry business run by feudal lords, such as in the Owari domain, there were cases where the intentional burning of swidden land was controlled by a notification system even outside of the enclosed forestry area amid concerns of causing forest fires.38 However, even in these cases, swidden agriculture itself was not completely banned. The administrators understood that it was impossible to impose strong restrictions on yakihata agriculture, which supported the livelihood of mountain villages. However, the view that swidden agriculture damages forest resources restricted farming with intentional burning. We can find this in the advisory document to Shiibayama in 1749, as mentioned above: Although both thick and thin trees were burned without distinction to create swidden fields in the past, from now on, trees of fir, tsuga, zelkova, pine, podocarp, kashiwa oak and katsura with trunks thicker than 2 shaku [0.61 m] at eye level should not be burned. Burning land with large trees yields only a small amount of grain for a year or two. It’s not much of a livelihood. It takes 40 to 50 years for the tree trunk to grow to 3 shaku [0.91 m] in thickness. The trees should not be damaged to grow millets for only a year or two.39

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The understanding in the document seems to ignore the possibility that plantation forestry can develop from a swidden system. However, to the lord, it would have made more sense to conserve existing trees. The negative understanding of swidden agriculture became clear after modern forestry science was imported to support the national forestry policy in the Meiji era (1868–1912). A typical example can be seen in Honda Seiroku (1866–1952), who became a professor of forestry at Tokyo Imperial University. Honda conducted a survey of vegetation in the highlands of Taiwan, which was annexed by Japan in 1895 after the Sino–Japanese War, and believed that indigenous people’s shifting cultivation caused the loss of original vegetation and the formation of grasslands and sparse forests.40 He wrote his doctoral thesis on the correspondence between climate and forest vegetation zones, and believed that much of the actual vegetation had been modified into secondary vegetation by human use of plants. In the framework of original vegetation and its anthropogenic change, the continuation of grasslands by intentional burning was regarded as “devastation” of forests. His belief in restoring lost forest became an environmentalist basis for national forestry policy in both the mainland and the colonies of the Japanese empire. Although Japanese colonial forestry policy did not immediately penetrate the mountainous areas of Taiwan, which were dominated by indigenous people, the idea of swidden farming as the cause of environmental destruction was developed in the Korean Peninsula, which was later annexed in 1910.41 Saitō Otosaku (1866–1936), who was in charge of the vegetation survey in Taiwan with Honda, created a vegetation map of the Korean Peninsula in 1910 and calculated that 26 percent of the forest area was devoid of trees and 42 percent had only younger seedlings. Honda supposed that the cause of the Korean thin vegetation was intentional burning in hwajeon or Korean swidden agriculture. “Disposal of hwajeon” became a central, but very difficult issue for the forestry policy of colonial Korea. The environmentalist view presented by forestry science has shaped the theory that intentional burning should be restricted in order to conserve forests. In 1910, the same year as the annexation of Korea, the Tone River in the Kantō region experienced major flooding, and when asked for his opinion, Honda stated that yakihata farming in the upstream areas was one of the causes. His Forestry for subsidiary products published the following year contains both his views on Korean hwajeon and Japanese yakihata.42 In both cases, Honda proposed a linkage with forestry as a way to improve swidden agriculture. The model for this was the Yoshino Forestry, a plantation forestry industry that developed on the basis of swidden agriculture in the upper reaches of the Kinokawa River, as mentioned in the preceding section. Honda recommended “agriculture-mixed forestry,” in which swidden agriculture is combined with forestry, and hoped that, if this were to succeed, forestry would gradually become more important than swidden farming, and eventually people would be able to live on forestry alone. The idea of expanding forests and suppressing shifting cultivation in order to control floods was a specific focus of the first phase of the Shinrin chisui jigyō or Forest Project for Flood Control, which was managed by the Forest Bureau from 1911 to 1935. The Report on Swidden Agriculture and Shifting Cultivation, compiled by the Forest Bureau at the conclusion of the project in 1936, was the first national study on Japanese yakihata agriculture. The preface describes the problem of swidden agriculture as follows:43 The total area of swidden fields in Japan is over 77,000 chō [764 square kilometers]. They are generally located in steep mountainous terrain, causing Chapter 14: Japanese Swidden Agriculture (yakihata)

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landslides and depletion of water sources, which not only has a great impact on national land conservation, but many are also not economically appropriate land uses. However, it is not possible to suddenly ban shifting cultivation in mountain villages. Therefore, it is necessary to activate the economy of mountain villages through the improvement of swidden agriculture and to pursue flood control through afforestation. The report distinguishes between two types of swidden agriculture: one is cultivation without combining forestry and the other is agroforestry. It condemned the former but saw economic potential in the latter, suggesting a successful transition from the former to the latter. Ironically, the report attracted the attention of geographers and ethnographers, whose academic research on swidden agriculture was followed by economic historians in the 1940s. The findings they gathered were an important premise for Sasaki Kōmei’s research, as mentioned earlier. Eventually, Japanese swidden agriculture declined in the latter half of the 20th century. This was not because it evolved successfully into agroforestry in the manner scientific foresters and the Forest Bureau had hoped, but because of the decline of Japan’s plantation forestry industry, which lost out to imported timber, depopulated mountain villages and reduced the number of people who could carry out shifting cultivation. This is also due to the loss of flexibility of land use, including various plants. The plantation of cedar or cypress has generated uniform vegetation of specific trees only for forestry. Swidden agriculture lost ecological diversity instead of “evolution,” creating a monocultural landscape that cannot be changed with ease. It did not have the resilience to respond flexibly when external crises arose in forestry. Today’s Japan, covered with deep green anthropogenic conifers, has become what forestry scientists and the national government expected in terms of land conservation. However, the relationship between people and nature has not only become very simple and rigid, but has also reduced the number of local people directly involved in the natural environment. How should we evaluate this historical change in landscape and how should we deal with forests in the future are not easy questions that Japan must continue to face. For tropical societies that are still dealing with active swidden agriculture, Japan’s experience can serve as a lesson on how to consider the role of the state in trying to manage human engagement in vegetation.

Notes 1 Stephen J. Pyne, Fire: A Brief History (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2001); Stephen J. Pyne, Fire: Nature and Culture (London: Reaktion Books, 2012). 2 Komeie Taisaku, Chū-kinsei sanson no keikan to kōzō [Landscape and structure of mountain villages in medieval and early modern Japan] (Tokyo: Azekura Shobō, 2002); Komeie Taisaku, Mori to hi no kankyōshi: Kinsei, kindai Nihon no yakihata to shokusei [An environmental history of forest and fire: Swidden agriculture and vegetation in early modern and modern Japan] (Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 2019). 3 Chiba Tokuji, Kinsei no sankan sonraku [Early modern mountain villages] (Tokyo: Meicho Shuppan, 1986); Fujita Yoshihisa, Okumikawa sanson no keisei to rin’ya [A making of mountain village in northern Mikawa] (Tokyo: Meicho Shuppan, 1992); Mizoguchi Tsunetoshi, Nihon kinsei, kindai no hatasaku-chiiki kenkyū [A study on dry field cultivation regions in early modern and modern Japan] (Nagoya: Nagoya University Press, 2002); Komeie, Chū-kinsei sanson no keikan to kōzō; Komeie, Mori to hi no kankyōshi.

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4

Harada Nobuo, “Rekishi-gaku kara mita yakihata no haaku to nōhō” [Recognition and farming system of swidden agriculture from an historical viewpoint], Kikan Tōhoku-gaku 11 (May 2007): 35–49; Charlotte Von Verschuer, Rice, Agriculture, and the Food Supply in Premodern Japan (London: Routledge, 2016), chapter 2. 5 Sasaki Kōmei, Inasaku izen [Before rice cultivation] (Tokyo: Nihon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai, 1971); Sasaki Kōmei, Nihon no yakihata: Sono chiikiteki hikaku-kenkyū [Japanese swidden agriculture: A regional comparative study] (Tokyo: Kokon Shoin, 1972). 6 Harada Nobuo and Kurata Takashi, ed., Yakihata no kankyō-gaku: Ima yakihata toha [An environmental science of swidden agriculture: Yakihata at present] (Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 2011). 7 Hatai Hiromu, Ritsuryō, shōen-taisei to nōmin no kenkyū: Yakihata, hayashida nōgyō to yachi-keiei [A study of farmers in the regime of the risturyo codes and manor system: Swidden, forestry and land management] (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1981). 8 The Japanese term hata (hatake), or dry field for agriculture, has two Chinese characters which were invented in Japan: 畑 and 畠. Originally, the former, consisting of two parts for fire (火) and field (田), stands for swidden field, while the latter, consisting of white (白) and field (田) suggesting ordinary dry arable field. Although the two characters had been distinguished by the 17th century, they came to be used without distinction. 9 Nōrinshō Tōkei-chōsabu, 1950 nen sekai nōgyō census: Shichōson-betsu tōkeihyō [World agricultural census in 1950: Municipal statistics] (Tokyo: Nōrin Tōkei Kyōkai, 1955); Gyōsei kuiki data [Municipal area data], National Land Information, National Spatial Planning and Regional Policy Bureau, MLIT of Japan. https:// nlftp.mlit.go.jp/ksj/gml/datalist/KsjTmplt-N03-v2_3.html. 10 Sasaki, Nihon no Yakihata, part 1. 11 Nōrinshō Tōkei-chōsabu, 1950 nen sekai nōgyō census; Gyōsei kuiki data [Municipal area data]. 12 Yoshida Kunimitsu, “Kumamoto-ken, kuroiwa shūraku ni okeru jinkōrin-ka ni tomonau sampuku shamen keikan no hen’yō” [Changes in mountain slope landscape by expanding artificial forests in Ashikita, Kumamoto Prefecture: Focusing on the working styles of residents before and after the decline in shifting cultivation], Geographical Review of Japan 90, no. 5 (September 2017): 38–44. 13 GIAHS Takachihogo-Shiibayama Site. https://takachihogo-shiibayama-giahs.com/home-en. 14 Sasaki, Nihon no Yakihata; Yokoyama S., Hirota I., Tanaka S., Ochiai Y., Nawata E. and Kono Y., “A review of studies on swidden agriculture in Japan: Cropping system and disappearing process.” Tropics 22, no 4 (March 2014): 131–55. 15 Fukui Katsuyoshi, Yakihata no mura: Shōwa 45-nen, Shikoku sanson no kiroku [A record of swidden settlement: a mountain village in Shikoku Island in 1970] (Tokyo: Shūfūsha, 2018), part 2. 16 Ono Takeo, Nihon nōgyō kigen-ron [The origin of Japanese agriculture] (Tokyo: Nihon Hyōron-sha, 1942); Furushima Toshio, Kinsei nihon nōgyō no kōzō [Structure of Japanese agriculture] (Tokyo: Nihon Hyōronsha, 1943). 17 Chiba Tokuji, Kinsei no sankan sonraku; Fujita Yoshihisa, Okumikawa sanson no keisei to rin’ya. 18 Mizoguchi Tsunetoshi, “Slash-and-burn field cultivation in pre-modern Japan: With special reference to Shirakawa-go,” Geographical Review of Japan Series B 62, no. 1 (June, 1989): 14–34; Mizoguchi Tsunetoshi, Nihon kinsei, kindai no hatasaku-chiiki kenkyū, chapter 8. 19 Komeie, Mori to hi no kankyōshi, chapter 2. 20 Komeie, Mori to hi no kankyōshi, 169. 21 See note 8. 22 The term yamahata ( 山畑) literally means swidden land (hata 畑) in the mountains (yama 山). Itō Toshikazu, “Heian, Kamakura jidai no ‘yamabata (yakihata)’ ni kansuru rekishi-chirigaku-teki kenkyū” [A historical-geographical study on yamabata in the Heian and Kamakura Period], Memoirs of Japan Women’s University: Faculty of Literature 45 (March, 1996): 79–95. 23 Fujita Yoshihisa, “Kinsei-matsu (1850 nen goro) no rin’ya riyō,” [Forest use during the late years of early modern times. c. 1850] in Atolasu: Nihon rettō no kankyō-henka [Atlas: Environmental change in modern Japan], ed. Himiyama Yukio et al. (Tokyo: Asakura Shoten, 1995) 78–79. 24 Komeie, Chū-kinsei sanson no keikan to kōzō, chapter 3; Komeie, Mori to hi no kankyōshi, chapter 1. 25 Shiraya District, Shiraya-ku-shi [Description of Shiraya District] (Kawakami Village: Shiraya District, 1991). Villagers in early modern Japan often drew maps of villages in response to the demands of feudal lords. See also: Komeie Taisaku, “Self-portrait of a village,” in Cartographic Japan: A History in Maps, ed. Kären Wigen, Sugimoto Fumiko, and Cary Karacas (Chicago: The University Press of Chicago, 2016), 56–58.

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Komeie Taisaku, Mori to hi no kankyōshi, 46. Kawakami-sonshi Hensan-iinkai. Kawakami-sonshi: Shiryō-hen, Jō [A history of Kawakami Village: Archives, Vol.1] (Kawakami Village, 1987), 393. 28 Komeie, Chū-kinsei sanson no keikan to kōzō, chapter 4; Komeie, Mori to hi no kankyōshi, chapter 1. 29 Yamacha or wild tea trees in highlands in western Japan are supposed to have been introduced artificially, especially through swidden agriculture, and then became wild. Matsushita Satoru, Yamacha no kenkyū: Nihon-cha no kigen [A study on wild tea trees: The origin of Japanese tea] (Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 2002). 30 Malcolm Cairns, ed. Shifting Cultivation Policies: Balancing Environmental and Social Sustainability (Oxford: Centre for Agriculture and Biosciences International, 2017). 31 See note 8. 32 Komeie, Mori to hi no kankyōshi, chapter 3. 33 Komeie, Mori to hi no kankyōshi, 170. 34 Ashida Koreto ed., Dai-nippon chishi taikei 12: Shinpen Musashi fudokikō 12 [Japanese topography collection, vol. 12: New topography of Musashi Province, vol. 12] (Tokyo: Yūzankaku Shuppan, 1958) 294–95. 35 Yamada Tatsuo, Iinuma Jirō, Oka Mitsuo, and Morita Shirō, eds., Nihon nōsho zenshū 34 [The Japanese collection of agricultural books, vol. 34] (Tokyo: Nōsangyoson Bunka Kyōkai, 1983) 293–94. 36 Tsukamoto Manabu, Chiisana rekishi to ōkina rekishi [Big history and small history] (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1993), 186-213. 37 Itō Toshikazu, “Kinsei ni okeru yakihata kōsaku no jittai ni tsuite no saikentō: Ōigawa no jōryū chiiki wo jirei to shite” [Re-investigation of the actual conditions of swidden farming in the early modern period], Memoirs of Japan Women’s University: Faculty of Literature 63 (March, 2014): 71–83. 38 Ōsaki Akira, “Owari-han kiso rinsei Kyōhō kaikaku-go no ryōmin einō to kirihata” [Agricultural management and swidden fields in Owari Domain after forestry reformation of Kyoho], Bulletin of the Tokugawa Institute for the History of Forestry 40 (March, 2006): 15–37. 39 Yamada Tatsuo et al, Nihon nōsho zenshū 34, 301–302. 40 Honda Seiroku, Honda zōringaku, kōron no 1: Fukusanbutsu zōrinhō [Honda’s silviculture part 3, volume 1: Forestry for subsidiary products] (Tokyo: Miura Shoten, 1911) chapter 1, section 2. 41 Komeie Taisaku, “Colonial environmentalism and shifting cultivation in Korea: Japanese mapping, research and representation,” Geographical Review of Japan 79, no. 12 (October, 2006): 664–79; Komeie Taisaku, “Japanese colonial forestry and treeless islands of Penghu: Afforestation project and controversy over environmental history,” Geographical Review of Japan Series B 93, no. 2 (March 2021): 50–65; Komeie Taisaku, “Devastation and indigenous people in colonial forestry: Representations of Taiwanese and Korean vegetation change in the Japanese empire,” in Perspective on Environmental History in East Asia: Changes in Land, Water and Air, ed. Liu Ts’ui-jung and Michah S. Muscolino, (London: Routledge, 2021), 61–83. 42 Honda Seiroku, Honda zōringaku, kōron no 1: Fukusanbutsu zōrinhō. 43 Nōrinshō Sanrin-kyoku. Yakihata oyobi kirikaebata ni kansuru chōsa [A report on swidden agriculture and shifting cultivation] (Tokyo: Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry Bureau, 1936), preface. 27

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Harada, Nobuo. “Rekishi-gaku kara mita yakihata no haaku to nōhō” [Recognition and farming system of swidden agriculture from an historical viewpoint]. Kikan Tōhoku-gaku 11 (May 2007): 35–49. Harada, Nobuo and Kurata Takashi, eds. Yakihata no kankyō-gaku: Ima yakihata toha [An environmental science of swidden agriculture: Yakihata at present]. Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 2011. Hatai, Hiromu. Ritsuryō, shōen-taisei to nōmin no kenkyū: Yakihata, hayashida nōgyō to yachi-keiei [A study of farmers in the regime of the risturyo codes and manor system: Swidden, forestry and land management]. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1981. Honda, Seiroku. Honda zōringaku, kōron no 1: Fukusanbutsu zōrinhō [Honda’s silviculture part 3, volume 1: Forestry for subsidiary products]. Tokyo: Miura Shoten, 1911. Itō, Toshikazu. “Heian, Kamakura jidai no ‘yamabata (yakihata)’ ni kansuru rekishi-chirigaku-teki kenkyū” [A historical-geographical study on yamabata in the Heian and Kamakura Period]. Memoirs of Japan Women’s University: Faculty of Literature 45 (March, 1996): 79–95. ———. “Kinsei ni okeru yakihata kōsaku no jittai ni tsuite no saikentō: Ōigawa no jōryū chiiki wo jirei to shite” [Re-investigation of the actual conditions of swidden farming in the early modern period]. Memoirs of Japan Women’s University: Faculty of Literature 63 (March, 2014) 71–83. Kawakami-sonshi Hensan-iinkai. Kawakami-sonshi: Shiryō-hen, Jō [A history of Kawakami Village: Archives, Vol. 1]. Kawakami Village: Board of Education, Kawakami Village, 1987. Komeie, Taisaku. Chū-kinsei sanson no keikan to kōzō [Landscape and structure of mountain villages in medieval and early modern Japan]. Tokyo: Azekura Shobō, 2002. ———. “Colonial environmentalism and shifting cultivation in Korea: Japanese mapping, research and representation.” Geographical Review of Japan 79, no. 12 (October, 2006): 664–79; ———. “Self-portrait of a village.” In Cartographic Japan: A History in Maps, ed. Kären Wigen, Sugimoto Fumiko, and Cary Karacas, 56–58. Chicago: The University Press of Chicago, 2016. ———. Mori to hi no kankyōshi: Kinsei, kindai Nihon no yakihata to shokusei [An environmental history of forest and fire: Swidden agriculture and vegetation in early modern and modern Japan]. Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 2019. ———. “Japanese colonial forestry and treeless islands of Penghu: Afforestation project and controversy over environmental history.” Geographical Review of Japan Series B 93, no. 2 (March 2021): 50–65. ———. “Devastation and indigenous people in colonial forestry: Representations of Taiwanese and Korean vegetation change in the Japanese empire.” in Perspective on Environmental History in East Asia: Changes in Land, Water and Air, ed. Liu Ts’ui-jung and Micah S. Muscolino, 61–83. London: Routledge, 2021. Matsushita, Satoru. Yamacha no kenkyū: Nihon-cha no kigen [A study on wild tea trees: The origin of Japanese tea]. Tokyo: Iwata Shoin, 2002. Mizoguchi, Tsunetoshi. “Slash-and-burn field cultivation in pre-modern Japan: With special reference to Shirakawa-go.” Geographical Review of Japan Series B 62, no. 1 (June, 1989): 14–34. ———. Nihon kinsei, kindai no hatasaku-chiiki kenkyū [A study on dry field cultivation regions in early modern and modern Japan]. Nagoya: Nagoya University Press, 2002. Nōrinshō Sanrin-kyoku. Yakihata oyobi kirikaebata ni kansuru Chōsa [A report on swidden agriculture and shifting cultivation] (Tokyo: Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry Bureau, 1936). Nōrinshō Tōkei-chōsabu. 1950 nen sekai nōgyō sensusu: Shichōson-betsu tōkeihyō [World agricultural census in 1950: Municipal statistics]. Tokyo: Nōrin Tōkei Kyōkai, 1955. Ono, Takeo. Nihon nōgyō kigen-ron [The origin of Japanese agriculture]. Tokyo: Nihon Hyōron-sha, 1942. Ōsaki, Akira. “Owari-han Kiso rinsei Kyōhō kaikaku-go no ryōmin einō to kirihata” [Agricultural management and swidden fields in Owari Domain after forestry reformation of Kyoho]. Bulletin of the Tokugawa Institute for the History of Forestry 40 (March, 2006): 15–37. Pyne, Stephen J. Fire: A Brief History. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2001. ———. Fire: Nature and Culture. London: Reaktion Books, 2012. Sasaki, Kōmei. Inasaku izen [Before rice cultivation]. Tokyo: Nihon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai, 1971. ———. Nihon no yakihata: Sono chiikiteki hikaku-kenkyū [Japanese swidden agriculture: A regional comparative study]. Tokyo: Kokon Shoin, 1972. Shiraya District. Shiraya-ku-shi [Description of Shiraya District]. Kawakami Village: Shiraya District, 1991. Tsukamoto, Manabu. Chiisana rekishi to ōkina rekishi [Big history and small history]. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1993.

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Von Verschuer, Charlotte. Rice, Agriculture, and the Food Supply in Premodern Japan. London: Routledge, 2016. Yamada, Tatsuo, Iinuma Jirō, Oka Mitsuo and Morita Shirō, ed. Nihon nōsho zenshū 34 [The Japanese collection of agricultural books, vol. 34]. Tokyo: Nōsangyoson Bunka Kyōkai, 1983. Yokoyama, S., Hirota I., Tanaka S., Ochiai Y., Nawata E. and Kono Y. “A review of studies on swidden agriculture in Japan: Cropping system and disappearing process.” Tropics 22, no. 4 (March 2014): 131–55. Yoshida, Kunimitsu. “Kumamoto-ken, kuroiwa shūraku ni okeru jinkōrin-ka ni tomonau sampuku shamen keikan no hen’yō” [Changes in mountain slope landscape by expanding artificial forests in Ashikita, Kumamoto Prefecture: Focusing on the working styles of residents before and after the decline in shifting cultivation]. Geographical Review of Japan 90, no. 5 (September 2017): 38–44.

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Chapter 15 A History of Tree Planting in Modern Japan: Resource Utilization and Environment Conservation Takemoto Tarō In this chapter, the history of forests and forestry in Japan is introduced, covering the Totman forest transition theory, as well as imperial forestry. The concept of mountains and forests in Japan and the concept of forest management are summarized from the perspective of resource utilization and environmental conservation. While “forestry history”—the history of wood resource utilization—from the early modern period, remains important, academic interest has shifted to “forest history,” which is the history of environmental conservation in mountains and forests. Finally, the progression of afforestation in Japan’s satoyama during the 150 years since the Meiji era, when modernization progressed, is explained from the perspective of the spread of the greening campaign.

Introduction: Some issues in the field of environmental history Probably the most widely known historical study of Japanese forests in the world is Totman’s The Green Archipelago.1 This ground-breaking book has been widely read in Japan, thanks in part to the excellent translation and commentary by the eminent forestry scholar Kumazaki Minoru. However, as Kumazaki recently recounted, very little research on the history of Japanese forests and forestry has been disseminated abroad, not only before Totman but also afterwards, despite the vast accumulation of work written in Japanese.2 For this reason, this book is almost the only reference available to overseas researchers who cannot read Japanese. For example, Williams, who provided a global history of deforestation, and Bennett, who covered the modern history of the plantation and protected areas worldwide, also lacked depth in their descriptions of Japan.3 Totman was primarily concerned with the use and production of building materials in the pre-modern period and did not cover the full history of Japanese forests and forestry, particularly missing the resource utilization and environmental conservation in the modern period that is directly relevant to the present. Totman wrote about forests and forestry in Japan from the modern period onwards,4 but

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this is inadequate. Also, the forestry administration by clans in the early modern period was probably not as smooth as Totman’s suggests.5 Secondly, the forest transition theory is a way of illustrating the impact of human activities on forests. This theory hypothesizes that afforestation and environmental conservation will lead to an increase in forest area after a long-term decline due to overuse of resources.6 Geographers and other researchers have analyzed the situation in many parts of the world, making comparisons easier. In Japan, forestry policy scholars Nagata et al. tested the U-shaped hypothesis, which places economic development on the X-axis and area or growing stock on the Y-axis, slightly different from the theory of forest transition, which places time on the X-axis and area on the Y-axis.7 The results suggest that the bottom of the U-shape or the turning point in Japan (inland including Hokkaido) was around 1915, but the unreliability of long-term statistical data and a lack of analysis of the factors involved in the transition are issues that need to be addressed. Concerning this, Saitō, referring to Pomerantz’s The Great Divergence, compared Prussia, traditional China and Japan, and attributed Japan’s ability to maintain its forests to the power of the commons as well as the market and the state.8 Finally, modern forestry, which developed globally, has been noted as one of the sources of current environmentalism. Among other things, the management of forests in India under the British empire has attracted much attention as a research subject.9 In regard to research on forest management in the Japanese empire and its colonies, Morris-Suzuki provided an overview of each colony with reference to statistical data,10 and Fedman wrote about forest management in colonial Korea from the perspective of the conflict between modernity and tradition.11 In Japanese, Hagino compared the colonies comprehensively, but his main interest was in the use of wood resources, and there were insufficient data on environmental conservation.12 In his recent work, Komeie analyzed cartography and vegetation surveys in the colonies, while examining academic knowledge on traditional swidden agriculture (fire paddy in Korea) and fire pits.13 Nakashima investigated the changes in forestry policy and the development of experimental forestry research in Taiwan under Japanese rule concerning the “southward expansion” of Japanese territory.14 Takemoto examined Taiwan in the early years of Japanese rule, and Yamanashi Prefecture after the enactment of the Forest Law in 1897, focusing on the thoughts and practices of the forester Saitō Otosaku.15 In Taiwan, there has been much interest in forest management under Japanese rule,16 including Liu et al.’s work on conservation forests.17 Also involved in the theory of forest transition, Lee statistically analyzed forest changes during the colonial period in Korea,18 showing a different view from Bae et al., who used only statistics after 1927 and found that forest transition in growing stock occurred after independence from Japan.19

From forestry history to forest history Forests and wood Japan is a mountainous country with few plains, and most of the forests are located in mountainous areas. The word sanrin (山林 , mountain and forest) is used to describe this situation. In some parts of the Kanto Plain, even the rare flatland forests that have been grown for agricultural use are referred to as yama (山, mountain).20 When the Meiji government came 234

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to power, the administrative department for mountains and forests was named the Sanrin kyoku (山林局, Mountains and Forests Bureau from 1879), which after the Second World War became the present Rinya chō (林野局, Forests and Wilderness Bureau in 1945 then 林 野庁, Forests and Wilderness Agency in 1949). The word rinya (林野) is a combined concept of forest and wilderness. This is because, although today’s mountains are almost entirely covered with trees, in the past there were many grassy mountains and vegetation that were somewhere between forest and grassy mountains. The work of Fujita, who showed the use of rinya on a map of Japan, provided a glimpse of the transformation of grassy mountains into plantations from the late modern period to the present.21 Note that according to the 2020 Census of Agriculture and Forestry, 24.77 million hectares, or about two-thirds of Japan’s total land area, is rinya, of which 24.44 million hectares is forested and only 0.33 million hectares is non-forested grassy mountains.22 Similarly, when people think of forest resources, they think of building materials, but in fact, Japan’s mountains were rinya, so there was a wide variety of resources. First, wood is divided into two main categories: timber and fuelwood. Timber includes building materials and, since modern times, paper pulp, packaging materials and railway ties. Building materials are also divided into solid wood, laminated wood, plywood and boards. In Japan, where the climate is warmer than in Europe, firewood and charcoal were mainly used for cooking stoves and fireplaces, rather than for heating in hearths and stoves.23 In addition to wood, grass and fodder were essential for rural dwellers to collect fertilizers and fodder for agriculture and roofing materials. The collection of wild vegetables and mushrooms and the hunting of birds and animals were also a blessing from the mountains. Moreover, the value of today’s forests is constantly changing, as they are regarded as a tourist resource and an ecosystem service. What is forest management? The concepts related to forest management are illustrated in Figure 15.1, where the horizontal axis is the utilization of (wood) resources. Forestry that simply exploits natural forests is on the left of Figure 15.1, and if this exploitation continues, resources will be depleted. Natural regeneration forestry, which utilizes the resilience of nature, is located in the middle and includes the nurturing of young coniferous trees through felling restrictions, and broadleaved fuelwood forests in satoyama (里山, mountains near villages). Forestry that plants and grows trees to ensure a sustainable supply of timber, on the right in Figure 15.1, is called regeneration forestry together with natural regeneration forestry (sometimes only plantation forestry is referred to as regeneration forestry). The search for efficiency leads to intensive plantation forestry, which is not always successful. A sustained yield of timber resources is explained by the concept of hozoku (保続, German Nachhaltigkeit, English sustainability), which was introduced to Japan from Germany during the Meiji period, but this is not the same as the current practice of forest management, which pursues sustainability in terms of both environment and resources. The vertical axis of Figure 15.1 shows environmental conservation. On this axis is the conservation of the degraded sanrin environment for the safety of people. The restoration of the environment from natural and human-induced disasters and the prevention of such disasters are located below the vertical axis. The restoration and prevention are called chisan (治山,

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Figure 15.1 Concepts concerning forest management Environment (sanrin) conservation

Protected

Commons (Grassy mountain)

Depleted

Protection (Natural forest)

Forest management

Exploitation forestry (Natural forest)

Regeneration forestry (Natural regeneration forest)

Regeneration forestry (Planted forest)

Commons (Bald mountain)

Restoration (Bald mountain)

Abandonment (Planted forest)

Resource (wood) utilization

Sustained

Devastated Source: Created by the author.

or 治山治水 chisan-chisui when it includes flood prevention). Without erosion prevention, mountains and forests will be devastated. Deep in the forest where human intervention and natural disturbances are scarce, and natural resilience is strong, mixed forests and coppices are prevalent. At the upper side of the scale is the designation of forests as national parks or protected forests, or their incorporation into conservation forests called hoanrin (保安 林). Conservation forests are a system of felling regulations and management requirements to conserve water sources and prevent landslides. The content and extent of protection are adjusted to take account of socio-economic activities. Forest management is one concept that relates to both axes in Figure 15.1. In a broad sense, all parts of the diagram can be regarded as forest management, but in a narrower sense, it is forest management with the aim of maximizing the utilization of wood (timber) resources while maximizing conservation of the sanrin environment, which is located in the upper right-hand corner of Figure 15.1. There is also the concept of the commons, based on the idea of sharing within the community; this is called iriai (入会) in Japanese. More than just collecting timber, rural dwellers enjoyed benefits of the forests through collecting fertilizer, fodder and fuel to support agriculture and their daily living. To maintain the grassy mountains, they have artificially suppressed the transition of vegetation by burning, but the environment has been conserved to some extent by the strict rules of extraction imposed by the community itself. The commons, which can be seen as both a resource and an institution,

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is in the upper left-hand corner of Figure 15.1. However, the government regarded the mountains under the rule of the commons as a factor in flooding so that the commons are also located in the lower left-hand corner. Furthermore, contemporary issues are placed at the bottom right. These are forests that have been planted to produce timber, but which have been devastated by disasters or abandoned because socio-economic changes have made forestry unviable. What is forestry history? First of all, ringyō (林業, forestry) is an economic activity on the horizontal axis of Figure 15.1, so even if we move from “exploitation forestry,” in which only natural trees are extracted, to “regeneration forestry,” in which natural regeneration is used and trees are planted, the importance of felling and transport remains unchanged. No matter how good the forest is, if it cannot be felled because of its topography, or if it cannot be transported when it is felled, or if the cost is too high, the forest industry will not be viable. In a planted place I recently visited, hinoki cypress trees planted on flat land along rivers, and that can easily be floated, have reached the age of maturity but are not being harvested. This is because when the trees were planted, the area was ideal for felling and water transporting, but now it is inaccessible and inconvenient for building forestry roads. Logging and transport are crucial to forestry, and it is under these conditions that forestry areas were established and developed. Table 15.1 lists the characteristics of the main forestry areas at the end of the Meiji period. First, there is a significant division between forestry areas that developed before and after the

Table 15.1 Characteristics of the forestry areas for timber production at the end of the Meiji period Developed before Meiji Most advanced

Famous

Privately managed

Near metropolis

Yoshino in Nara

Sanbu in Chiba, Kitayama in Kyoto, Tama and Oume in Tokyo, Nishikawa in Saitama

Owase in Mie

Noto in Toyama, Hita in Ooita, Shingu in Wakayama, Chizu in Tottori

Water transportation

Developed during Meiji Most rapidly Famous developed

Partly clan (han) managed

Obi in Miyazaki

Clan (Han) managed

Privately managed

Upper Yoneshiro River in Akita, Kiso in Nagano, Hida in Gifu

Others Mainly railway transportation

Tenryu in Shizuoka

Upper Fujigawa River in Yamanashi, Nasu in Tochigi, Kaneyama in Yamagata, Kizu in Tokushima, Oguni in Kumamoto

Source: Modified from Washio, “Ringyo hattatsu keitai no chiiki-sei ni kansuru kenkyu,” 60.

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Meiji period. The forestry areas that developed in the early modern period, such as Yoshino (Nara Prefecture) and Nishikawa (Saitama Prefecture), were in the vicinity of metropolitan cities with good access to rivers and harbors, whereas the forestry areas that developed after the beginning of the Meiji period were located in remote areas where conditions were improved by new transportation systems such as railways. Although not included in Table 15.1, for example, the first forest railway in Japan was introduced in 1909 in the remote and undeveloped forests of the Tsugaru Peninsula,24 and in 1912 the Alishan Forest Railway was established in colonial Taiwan. Totman identified the building boom of the Nara and Heian periods as “ancient exploitation” and the building boom after Hideyoshi’s national unification at the end of the 16th century as “early modern exploitation.” This was the first nationwide logging by a central authority. By the mid-17th century, competition between lords and villagers for the use of resources had intensified, and regulations were tightened. By the end of the 18th century, planting and nurturing techniques for “regeneration forestry” had become established and widespread.25 This model basically follows that of Nishikawa and Tokoro,26 but Nishikawa’s main point is that there were two types of regeneration forestry that spread from the Kanbun to the Kyōhō period (1661–1736) due to the depletion of natural forests: “lordly forestry” and “peasant forestry.” Another important distinction in Table 15.1 is whether the forest was owned by a clan or privately, corresponding to the two categories of “lordly forestry” and “peasant forestry”.27 Kiso (Nagano Prefecture), the upper Yoneshiro River (Akita Prefecture) and Hida (Gifu Prefecture), which were managed by han (藩, clan), were characterized by regeneration forestry that encouraged natural reproduction by forbidding logging, and not by the vicinity of metropolitan cities. In contrast, in privately-owned Yoshino, Owase (Mie Prefecture), Nishikawa and other areas, techniques for planting and nurturing artificial forests developed. To understand the reasons for these differences, forestry historians have compared the development of technologies for logging, transporting timber and planting trees, as well as the development of institutions for capital, land and labor in different forestry areas. For example, Washio studied the development of the profit-sharing forest or bubunrin (部分林) in the Obi area (Miyazaki Prefecture), which is a type of forestry area between the two types.28 The profit-sharing forest was a system in which the profit of timber grown by the private sector on clan or state land was shared at harvest time. Shioya also revealed the nationwide development of this system from the early modern period to the present day.29 What is forest history? What, then, is forest history? If forestry is the category on the horizontal axis of Figure 15.1, then forest history focuses on protected areas and disaster recovery on the vertical axis. There is obviously a dearth of research on this subject compared to the history of forestry, but systems such as conservation forests hoanrin, which conserve the environment of sanrin and save people’s lives from disaster, have been established in many places since the early days.30 More recently, the Tokugawa Institute of Forestry History examined such systems during the Edo period, and its volume of information and organization are worthy of being called a forest history.31 In addition, Murakushi discussed the national park system, which started in 1931, within the framework of nature conservation and tourism use.32 Chiba, a

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geographer, is famous for his historical study of “bald mountains,” while Ōta, an expert on landslide prevention, described the history of the restoration and prevention of devastated sanrin and pointed out the abandonment of planted forests.33 Because of the growing interest in environmental history, we can expect to see more such studies, in addition to the forest transition theory and imperial forest management introduced at the beginning of this chapter, but resource utilization should not be completely overlooked. Forest history is, therefore, fundamentally positioned on the axis of environmental conservation in Figure 15.1. However, if we are not concerned about whether environmental conservation is treated seriously, we can call it the history of forest management in a broad sense, since everything in Figure 15.1 can be covered. There is a vast amount of research on forest history in the context of the history of forest management, but here I briefly summarize some of the research conducted mainly in the modern period. First, in Kōda’s work, Nihon kindai rinsei nenpyō [Chronological table of Japan’s modern forest policies] note that matters are listed by “forest administration and privately owned forests,” “state-owned forests etc.” and “colonies.” 34 When the central government came to power in the Meiji period, land ownership was clarified to impose taxes, and sanrin were roughly divided into two categories: state-owned (and imperial) and privately owned. This led to the classification of sanrin into national (and imperial) and private ownership, and the focus of research was no longer on a limited number of forestry areas, but on the entirety of the sanrin, which covered approximately two-thirds of the country. In a series of studies by Hagino, modern forestry policy was discussed on three bases: national forest policy, forest legislation policy and timber resource policy (private forest policy). Hagino also dealt with the supply and demand of timber, considering imports and exports. This is because, unlike the early modern period when timber resources were limited to the domestic market, modern timber supply and demand has become increasingly important in relation to foreign countries and colonies, thereby affecting domestic forest policy.35 A longterm analysis of timber supply and demand showed that timber imports exceeded exports in 1921.36 Figure 15.2 shows the movement of coniferous timber and broadleaf timber in 1934. In Taiwan and the Korean Peninsula, imports from mainland Japan exceeded exports, while in Sakhalin and Hokkaido, exports exceeded imports. In particular, the transfer of coniferous trees from Sakhalin to mainland Japan was noteworthy, amounting to about 1.63 million cubic metres. More than one million cubic metres of coniferous trees were also imported from North America.37 Only a limited amount of forestry areas, both state and privately owned, have been developed, the remainder being the deeper mountains and the iriai commons. At the same time as modern land ownership was introduced into the sanrin areas, the actual use of resources changed due to socio-economic influences. Fukushima et al. documented in detail how the use and ownership of iriai commons changed in nine hamlets in Kotakari Village, Gifu Prefecture.38 The rights of membership were often disputed, most famously in the Kotsunagi case dealt with by the jurist Kainō.39 To avoid such disputes, Shimada suggested that communal ownership and use, such as iriai commons, should be made into “forest associations.” 40 Naguri village in Nishikawa, a famous forestry area, has a comprehensive history of the development of forestry from iriai commons and the life of the mountain village dwellers, which highlights the importance of the socio-historical element.41 A multitude of these sanrin, called satoyama, were familiar landscapes and places of life to the Japanese. As shown next, satoyama was transformed from grassy mountains to coppices for fuelwood and Chapter 15: A History of Tree Planting in Modern Japan

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Figure 15.2 Status of import and export of timber in 1934

Sakhalin

51

154

Mainly broadleaf timber Mainly coniferous timber

16

Hokkaido

97 Korea

30

16 30

650

65

Unit: thousand cubic meters

Mainland

British Canada 330

USA

27 0

59

710

Taiwan

0

1000 km

Source: Sanrin kyoku (1936) Note: Transfers to and from Manchuria, Kwantung, China and Russian Asia are omitted.

then to planted forests, and this was also the history of the government’s promotion of the importance of planting trees.

Planting and greening in Japan since the Meiji era: Why people planted trees As already discussed, even during the Meiji period, there were only a limited number of areas where forestry had developed to grow coniferous trees such as sugi cedar and hinoki cypress. Naturally, this was because, even with the development of logging, transport and silvicultural techniques, forestry was difficult unless the elements of capital, land and labor were available. In addition, the forestry industry is quite different from other economic activities in that it requires a long period, at least several decades, between the investment of capital and the harvest and it is not easy to enter. Despite this, Japan’s satoyama landscape is currently dominated by planted forests. This article outlines how the use of rinya by rural dwellers has changed since the Meiji period in the face of state control. Why did people plant trees? A key factor that provides an answer to this question lies in the spread of the idea of greening. 240

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Conversion from grassy mountains The materials collected by rural dwellers from the grassy and shrubby mountains are called koshiba-shitakusa (小柴下草). These include kaya (茅), kari-shiki (刈敷), firewood and fallen leaves. Kaya is Japanese silver grass that was used as fodder for cattle and horses used in ploughing and other agricultural work, and as a material for roofing. Kari-shiki, the budding branches of broad-leaved trees that sprouted in early spring, were trampled into nurseries and rice fields as green manure. Firewood was used as fuel for boiling and cooking, and the ashes after burning were used as fertilizer, to remove lye and as a dye mordant. Fallen leaves were also used as compost in the fields. The sanrin, from which the small bushes and grasses needed for daily life were gathered, were often in the form of iriai commons, which were jointly managed by the commoners. The population in the latter half of the Edo period stagnated at around 32 million;42 however, in order to share the limited resources of the sanrin with as many people as possible, it was necessary to firmly establish rules regarding the duration, equipment, members and quantity of collection by the authority of the iriai commons. Table 15.2 shows the vegetation and the degree of devastation of the iriai commons in the Midai River watershed area surveyed by Yamanashi Prefecture in the late Meiji period.43 The Meiji government and the prefectures considered the unforested mountains to be a factor in flooding and regarded them as devastated. Since the Meiji era, this area had been designated as imperial-owned land. Thus, permission from the imperial office was required to collect materials. Still, most rural dwellers used them without permission. The “grassy mountain” was not only easily accessible but it was also a completely devastated area where grass and fodder were collected exclusively from the viewpoint of the prefecture. The “deciduous forest,” which borders grassy mountains, was a degraded woodland that was mostly overcut. Kari-shiki and bushes were harvested near the grassy mountains, and fuelwood was cut down in inconvenient places at the back of the broad-leaved forest adjacent to the grassy area. In the “native coniferous forest,” a small amount of building material was harvested close to the summit. The “newly planted area” was planted by rural dwellers under the guidance of the prefecture and was only four or five years old. Overall, more than 90 percent of the area was considered by the prefecture to be devastated or half-devastated. Table 15.2 Vegetation of the 36 hamlets’ iriai commons on imperial property Vegetation Grassy mountain

Area (Cho) 1,129

Rate (%) 28%

Deciduous forest

2,628

64%

Native coniferous forest Newly planted area Total

263

6%

84

2%

4,103

100%

Source: Yamanashi Prefecture, Midai gawa iri hoanrin hennyu chōsa sho, 25–27 Note: 1 Cho is 0.991 ha

Tsuchiya summarized the reasons for the decline of these grassy mountains in three ways: introduction of purchased fertilizer, restrictions on burning and development of forestry.44 In regard to purchased fertilizers, in addition to fish meal and soybean meal, which Chapter 15: A History of Tree Planting in Modern Japan

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have been used since early modern times, soybean meal from Manchurian soybeans became available in large quantities at low prices after the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905) and chemical fertilizers such as ammonium sulfate became available around the time of the First World War. Relatively speaking, the consumption of self-sufficient fertilizers such as green manure decreased. In the aforementioned case study of Yamanashi Prefecture, the cost of fertilizer (e.g., human excrement, superphosphate and lime) other than kari-shiki and grasses collected from the iriai common was investigated, and it was shown that the fertilizer could be purchased for about half the price of the kari-shiki and grasses, assuming that labor was paid for collecting them.45 Restrictions on burning were enacted from the beginning of the Meiji period, and the Forest Act was amended in 1911 to provide for a de facto ban on burning in sanrin, which could only be carried out with permission in designated areas approved by the Minister. The development of forestry is particularly important in charcoal production. In the early Meiji period, the ratio of charcoal to firewood in terms of energy consumption was 10:1, by the mid-Taishō period it was 5:1–6:1 and by the early-Shōwa period it was 3:1.46 This was due to the development of railways and other means of transport. In fact, many grassy mountains were converted to coppices for fuelwood during this period, but some of the new villages that were formed as a result of village mergers in the middle of the Meiji period were quick to start planting sugi cedar and hinoki cypress in their village-owned rinya.47 This was due to the active promotional campaign facilitated by the Sanrin Bureau and the Ministry of Home Affairs. The Forest Act of 1897 provided for a system of conservation forests in response to the frequent flooding that occurred throughout the country at this time, but for the Mountains and Forests Bureau, the prevention of floods and landslides remained an urgent issue. At the same time, the Ministry of Home Affairs needed to prepare the financial basis of the villages to establish the new local government system after the village mergers. The 1911 Forest and Flood Control Project, therefore, encouraged the transfer of iriai commons to village property and the planting of trees on them. In 1920, in order to accelerate afforestation, the Mountains and Forests Bureau established the Act on Official Afforestation of Publicly Owned Forests (Kōyū-rinya kankō-zōrin hō), under which the state would plant trees in publicly owned rinya, including village-owned rinya, and share the proceeds with the village at the time of harvest. The actual work of planting and nurturing the trees was implemented by the rural dwellers, who were compensated with a cash income.48 In some cases, the village chiefs and other influential people united the communities in planting trees, while in other cases, the iriai commons were protected by resisting the state and the new villages. An interesting case is the school forests for primary schools, as discussed in the next section. The school forest was a useful impetus in convincing the people to plant trees. Diffusion of tree planting It is well known that Arbor Day in the United States was started in 1872 by J. S. Morton, Governor of Nebraska. In Japan, “School Arbor Day,” introduced by B. G. Northrop of Connecticut, was arranged by Nobuaki Makino, Vice-Minister of Education, and started in 1895. Makino’s instructions indicated that not only the educational benefits of tree planting but also the creation of property and the restoration of devastated sanrin through tree planting were important. In response to Makino’s instructions, School Arbor Day was held on the

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Table 15.3 Planted trees by species for the commemorative tree planting in colonial Korea, 1911–1940 Time Year

Aspen

Black Locust

Red Pine or Black Pine

Sawtooth Chestnut Oak

Others

Sum

Participants

1st 1911

1,296

527

883

1,075

239

633

4,652

–

2nd 1912

1,749

1,165

4,167

1,787

119

1,177

10,165

606

3rd 1913

4,994

1,768

1,606

1,042

425

2,595

12,431

606

4th 1914

3,766

2,962

3,284

1,142

480

1,933

13,567

570

5th 1915

3,840

3,347

3,493

937

536

3,231

15,384

664

6th 1916

3,070

6,549

6,580

1,043

649

2,585

20,476

751

7th 1917

3,158

5,583

5,283

3,171

1,722

2,906

21,824

639

8th 1918

2,708

3,873

6,957

2,569

1,373

2,922

20,402

648

9th 1919

5,470

2,571

5,368

2,247

2,104

3,378

21,138

452

10th 1920

4,067

1,752

7,242

2,018

1,294

1,308

17,680

387

11th 1921

3,988

848

7,594

1,954

914

1,493

16,791

410

12th 1922

1,843

532

6,660

2,056

529

2,235

13,855

406

13th 1923

3,077

276

9,997

2,345

595

1,916

18,206

402

14th 1924

3,608

286

10,930

2,142

440

2,557

19,962

499

15th 1925

2,377

282

10,763

1,991

751

742

16,905

380

16th 1926

1,558

191

6,567

1,833

620

2,302

13,071

379

17th 1927

1,581

200

6,718

1,986

821

1,863

13,169

348

18th 1928

2,269

159

5,578

2,499

1,005

3,530

15,040

578

19th 1929

2,739

91

5,316

2,363

1,378

6,951

18,838

451

20th 1930

5,490

75

3,175

1,504

1,113

4,607

15,965

444

21st 1931

6,659

58

4,931

1,615

500

1,034

14,798

445

22nd 1932

5,667

56

2,579

1,312

370

3,368

13,351

506

Populus sp.

Red Pine

Black Sawtooth Chestnut Pine Oak

Larch

Korean Pine

Grey Alder

Others

23rd 1933

28,846

–

762

765

1,656

434

2,030

475

253

937

36,159

612

24th 1934

30,421

–

846

650

1,044

422

1,982

343

639

1,018

37,365

778

25th 1935

25,637

–

663

599

1,616

430

1,907

306

572

4,640

36,369

976

26th 1936

16,300

–

431

373

990

361

2,230

246

1,130

2,964

25,024

863

27th 1937

21,930

–

695

165

748

365

1,749

263

539

2,606

29,060

894

28th 1938

19,220

–

457

398

583

296

1,299

329

542

3,544

26,667

1,026

29th 1939

19,917

–

574

193

556

329

1,173

205

398

3,317

26,662

1,135

– 1,228

1,271

982

282

2,187

25,237

31,187

–

135,739

48,807

20,895

14,556

99,529 596,163

16,855

30th 1940

Total 237,244 33,152

2,168

4,072

Source: Chōsen Sōtoku-fu, Chōsen Sōtoku-fu Tōkei Nenpō, 1934, 134; 1942, 75; Oka, “Kinen shokuju no kaiko,” 44–45. See also Takemoto, Gakkorin no kenkyū, 168–69

Emperor’s birthday in primary schools throughout the country and was linked to the school forest as basic school property, which had already been established following the mergers of villages. With the advent of modern education, the cost of building primary school buildings was a heavy burden on the local population, and communities that had been reluctant to forsake their iriai commons to the new village cooperated by planting school forests.49

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With the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War, in addition to School Arbor Day, school forests and tree planting in commemoration of the war increased rapidly. Between 1903 and 1905, the number of school forests in municipal primary schools surged from 2,093 to 4,486, and the area from 5,042 to 13,354 hectares, more than doubling the number and area of school forests in just two years. As there were about 25,000 primary schools, these represented considerable numbers. Furthermore, in Korea under the Japanese occupation, “commemorative tree planting” on 3 April, The First Emperor Jinmu’s Festival, and school forests were introduced by Saitō Otosaku, the first Chief of the Forest Division of the Governor-General, with the aim of spreading the idea of “Loving Forest” (愛林 airin). Up to 1932, commemorative tree planting was dominated by species used for the recovery of bald mountains (aspen and black locust) and broadleaf trees for fuelwood; however, from 1933, coniferous trees (larch and pine) and Populus became prominent, and the total number of trees planted tripled (Table 15.3). It is likely that by this time the environmental conservation of the devastated mountains had been achieved and the change in tree species was mainly to produce timber resources.50 In response to similar tree-planting days in other parts of Japan, the Japan Forestry Association launched a nationwide “loving-forest” campaign in 1934, which included awards. This was known as “Loving-Forest Day” and was held 2–4 April, but after 1938 it became a national event and was designated on 4 April. After a hiatus during the war, the day was resumed in 1947 by the Federation for the Protection of Forests with the permission of the Forestry Department of the GHQ Natural Resources Bureau. This was the first time that the Crown Prince (Akihito) participated. The Shōwa Emperor, Hirohito, and Empress participated for the first time in the following year, 1948. In 1970, the event was renamed as the “Tree Planting Festival” and has continued to this day as an event in which the Emperor and Empress participate.51 Rapid expansion of planted forests The reforestation of logging sites that had been devastated by excessive felling during and immediately after the Second World War is known as “restoration-reforestation.” At the end of 1947, unplanted areas represented 0.25 million hectares of state forest and 1.2 million hectares of private forest. To solve this urgent problem, a five-year reforestation plan was launched in 1949 to plant about 0.7 million hectares of state forest and 1.7 million hectares of private forest, for a total of 2.4 million hectares. This was also preceded by school plantations. “The First Five-Year Plan for School Planting” aimed at planting about 10,000 hectares annually. In the five years from 1949 to 1953, a total of 26,195 schools planted a total of 46,448 hectares, and more than 5 million students participated.52 School planting played a leading role in the national effort to restore and reforest the country, while instilling the positive idea of “greening” in schoolchildren. In Japan today, we rarely see the term “loving forest” (愛林), but “greening” (緑化 ryokka) is widely used. So, when did use of the term “greening” begin? In 1941, Sonobe, a professor at Tokyo Imperial University, wrote an article entitled “Kokudo no ryokka” [The greening of the national land], in which he referred to Arbor Day, School Arbor Day, Loving-Forest Day and commemorative tree planting as a “propaganda campaign for the greening of the national land.” 53 Thus, although the term “greening” was used before the war, it was newer

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than “loving forest.” The Forest Protection Federation, which restarted the Loving-Forest Day after the war, developed into the National Land Greening Promotion Committee in 1950. It was at this time that the word “greening” was used in the name of the committee. After the war, the use of “greening” gradually replaced “loving forest,” which was strongly associated with the war.54 After the end of the restoration-reforestation in the mid-1950s, the government launched an expansion of afforestation, aiming for 10 million hectares of planted forests to meet the rapidly increasing demand for timber in the wake of rapid economic growth.55 The expansion of afforestation literally means the expansion of planted forest areas. However, it does not refer to reforestation, as in the case of restoration-reforestation, but to the conversion of natural forests, such as coppices, or natural forests in deep mountains, into planted forests. In 1950, the total area of planted forest was about 5 million hectares, and the government aimed to double this area, which was achieved in 1985. Many of the sawtooth oak and konara oak trees used for fuelwood in rural areas were converted to sugi cedar, hinoki cypress and karamatsu larch because of this policy, but there is a complex background to this. Firstly, there was the energy revolution. In addition to the pre-war use of coal, there was a rapid increase in the use of oil for energy, and demand for wood and charcoal fell sharply in the 1960s. The production of charcoal and firewood reached their highest levels around 1940, both of which slumped after the end of the war, but recovered to around 80 percent of their pre-war peaks in the 1950s. In other words, even after the war, charcoal and firewood were widely used for a while. In the 1960s, however, demand fell sharply, and by 1970 it was less than 10 percent of its peak.56 In rural areas, propane gas became available around the time of the first Tokyo Olympics in 1964, and firewood for cooking became obsolete. Secondly, there was the demand for paper pulp. Before the war, paper pulp was mainly made from long-fibre coniferous timber. In 1941, todo fir and ezo spruce from Sakhalin Island accounted for 52 percent of total consumption, and the loss of these colonies, together with the dissolution of the big conglomerates known as zaibatsu, was a considerable disadvantage to postwar paper companies. However, the development of short-fiber broadleaf timber, which had been underway since before the war, was put to practical use after the war in the 1950s. In 1963, the volume of broadleaf timber surpassed that of coniferous timber,57 giving a new role to broadleaf coppices and deep mountains as a resource for paper pulp. Thirdly, there was the policy of forestry promotion. The Fundamental Act of Forestry (Ringyō kihon hō) of 1964 aimed to improve the productivity of the forestry industry and forestry labor, and stated that “the forestry production should be changed to meet the trend of the increasing demand for forest products, and the forestry use of the rinya should be improved,” and that “the forest land should be collectivized, mechanized, the scale of smallscale forestry management should be increased and the forestry management should be modernized, taking into consideration the differences in the management forms classified according to the scale of forestry management.” 58 Specifically, the government launched the Forestry Structural Improvement Project.59 This explicitly outlined the policy of producing timber, and the planting and management of trees in production forest cooperatives organized by iriai commons and privately owned forest areas, with the capital and labor of rural dwellers themselves, was strongly encouraged. In this way, the present satoyama landscape, mainly planted forests, originated in the mid-1960s. However, following the liberalizing of roundwood imports in the mid-1950s, Japan’s timber self-sufficiency rate fell below 50 percent in 1969,60 and timber prices continued to Chapter 15: A History of Tree Planting in Modern Japan

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fall. In addition, the 1965 Act for the Promotion of Mountain Villages improved the living infrastructure of rural villages, but the outflow of rural dwellers to cities has remained unabated to this day, leading to depopulation and the loss of forestry labor. As a result, it has become unprofitable to log and extract trees even when they have reached harvest maturity. The age composition of the forest, which should be balanced for sustainable management, has become distorted, with a small number of young trees and a large number of older trees. However, the landscape is covered with fine coniferous trees. Recently, clear cutting has been implemented to reduce costs, but ironically new problems, such as the abandonment of reforestation, have emerged.

Concluding remarks In the 150 years since the start of the Meiji period, the landscape of satoyama has changed dramatically from grassy mountains to coppices, then to planted forests. This is simply because people’s demands have changed from green manure and fodder to firewood, charcoal, paper pulp and building materials. It is true that Japan has a long history of using wood resources from its sanrin, but the number of places where regeneration forestry was established was limited, and it was not until the mid-1960s that it spread to communally and privately owned forests of rural dwellers. The exceptions were village-owned forests and school forests, planted since the early 20th century. The point made by Nagata et al. at the beginning of this chapter, that the nadir of forest transition occurred around 1915,61 is seemingly true, but has complex underlying factors, including energy supply and demand, timber trade with colonies and foreign countries, forestry policies that promoted environment conservation and the spread of the greening concept. Unravelling these factors in relation to resource utilization and environmental conservation is one challenge for modern forest history and awaits future exploration.

Notes 1 Conrad Totman, The Green Archipelago: Forestry in Preindustrial Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989). 2 Kumazaki Minoru, “Ki no renaissance to ringyō no shorai (6): C. Totman ‘Midori no rettō’ kara ‘Nihon kankyō-shi’ he” [Wood Renaissance and the future of forestry (6): C. Totman’s “Green Archipelago” to “Environmental History of Japan”], Sanrin 1639 (2020): 19–28. 3 Michael Williams, Deforesting the Earth: From Prehistory to Global Crisis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003); Brett Bennett, Plantations and Protected Areas: A Global History of Forest Management (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2015). 4 Conrad Totman, Japan: An Environmental History (London: I.B. Tauris, 2016), 231, 235, 275–80. 5 Wakino Hiroshi, Nihon ringyō gijutsu shi no kenkyū [The historical study of the technology for forestry in Japan] (Osaka: Seibun-dō, 2006), 175–205. 6 A.S. Mather, “The Forest Transition,” Area 24, no. 4 (1992): 367–79. 7 Nagata Shin, Inoue Makoto, Oka Hiroyasu, “Shinrin shigen ni kansuru U-ji kasetsu no kentō” [An examinataion of U-shaped hypothesis on forest resources], Ringyō keizai kenkyū 123 (1993): 100–4. 8 Saitō Osamu, Kankyō no keizai-shi [The economic history of environment: forest, market and state], (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2014); See also Saitō Osamu, “Forest History and the Great Divergence: China, Japan, and the West Compared” Journal of Global History 4 (2009): 379–404.

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9

For example, Gregory Barton, Empire Forestry and the Origins of Environmentalism. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 10 Tessa Morris-Suzuki, “The Nature of Empire,” Japanese Studies 33, no. 3 (2013): 225–42. 11 David Fedman, Seeds of Control (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2020). 12 Hagino Toshio, Chōsen Manshū Taiwan ringyō hattatsu-shi ron [The theory of forestry development in Korea, Manchuria and Taiwan] (Tokyo: Rinya Kosaikai, 1965). 13 Komeie Taisaku, Mori to hi no kankyō shi [The environmental history of forest and fire] (Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 2019). 14 Nakashima Koji, “Nihon teikoku ni okeru shinrin no kaihatsu to hozen: Taiwan wo jirei ni” [Development and conservation of forests in the Japanese empire: The case of Taiwan], Ringyō keizai kenkyū 67, no. 1 (2021): 3–15. 15 Takemoto Taro, “Nihon teikoku ni okeru shokumin-chi shinrin-kan no shisō to kōdō: Saitō Otosaku no zenhanki no sokuseki kara” [Thoughts and practices of Saitō Otosaku, a colonial forester, during his early years in the Japanese empire], Ringyō keizai kenkyū 67, no. 1 (2021): 16–30. 16 Hung Kuan-Chai, “When the Green Archipelago Encountered Formosa” in Environment and Society in the Japanese Island, ed. B. Batten and P. Brown (Corvallis, OR: Oregon State University Press, 2015): 174–93. 17 Liu Ts’ui-junga, Liu Shi-yung “A Preliminary Study on Taiwan’s Forest Reserves in the Japanese Colonial Period,” Taiwan Historical Research 6, no. 1 (1999): 1–34. 18 Lee Wooyoun, “Kankoku ni okeru sanrin shoyūken no hatten to rinsō no henka 1392–1987” [History off forest, forest rights and forestry in Korea, 1392–1987], The Annual Report, Research Center for Korean Studies 18, (2018): 62–86. 19 Bae J.S., Joo R.W. and Kim Y.S., “Forest transition in South Korea,” Land Use Policy 29, no. 1 (2012): 198–207. 20 Inui Tadashi, Kantō heiya no heichi rin [The flatland forests in Kanto plain] (Tokyo: Kokon Shoin, 1992), 105, 109. 21 Fujita Yoshihisa, “Rinya riyō no henka” [Change in the use of forest land] in Atolasu: Nihon retto no kankyō henka [Atlas: Environmental change of Japanese archipelago], ed. Himiyama Yukio et al. (Tokyo: Asakura Shoten, 1995). 22 2020 Census of Agriculture and Forestry, accessed September 9, 2022, https://www.e-stat.go.jp/stat-search ?page=1&toukei=00500209. 23 Shinho Eizo, Stove Hakubutsukan [The stove museum] (Sapporo: Hokkaido Daigaku Tosho Kankōkai, 1986). 24 Wakino, Nihon ringyō gijutsu shi no kenkyū, 223–80. 25 Totman, The Green Archipelago. 26 Nishikawa Zensuke, “Ringyō keizai shi ron (5): Ryōshu teki ringyō chitai” [The theory of economic forestry history (5): Lordly forestry area], Ringyō keizai 14, no. 2 (1961): 1–12; Tokoro Mitsuo, “Saishu ringyō kara ikusei ringyō he no katei” [The process from extractive forestry to regeneration forestry], Tokugawa rinsei-shi kenkyū-jo kiyō 4 (1970): 1–26. 27 Nishikawa, “Ringyō keizai shi ron (5): Ryoushu teki ringyō chitai,” 1–12. 28 Washio Ryoji, “Ringyō hattatsu keitai no chiiki-sei ni kansuru kenkyū: Obi ringyō hattatsu-shi ron” [The study on locality related with the development of forestry areas: The development theory of Obi forestry], Utsunomiya Daigaku nōgakubu gakujutsu hōkoku tokushu 34 (1979): 1–128. 29 Shioya Tsutomu, Bubun-rin seido no kenkyū [The study of the profit-sharing forests] (Tokyo: Rinya Kyosaikai, 1959). 30 Endō Yasutarō, ed., Nihon sanrin shi: Hogorin hen [The history of forests in Japan: Protected forests] (Tokyo: Nihon Sanrin-shi Kankō-kai, 1934–1936). 31 Tokugawa Rinsei-shi Kenkyūjo, ed., Shinrin no edo gaku 2: Tokugawa no rekishi sai hakken [Edo-study of forest 2: Rediscovering the history of Tokugawa] (Tokyo: Tokyodō, 2015). 32 Murakushi Ninzaburo, Kokuritsu kōen seiritsu shi no kenkyū: Kaihatsu to shizen hogo no kakushitsu wo chūshin ni [The study on the history of the establishment of national parks: Focusing on the conflict between development and nature conservation] (Tokyo: Hōsei Daigaku Shuppan Kyoku, 2005). 33 Chiba Tokuji, Hage yama no kenkyū [The study of bald mountains] (Tokyo: Soshiete, 1991); Ōta Takehiko, Shinrin houwa: Kokudo no henbou wo kangaeru [Saturated forest: Thinking of the changed country] (Tokyo: NHK Shuppan, 2012).

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Kōda Tetsuya, ed., Nihon kindai rinsei nenpyō: 1867–2009 zōho-ban [Chronological table of modern Japanese forest policy: 1867–2009 augmented edition] (Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 2011). 35 Hagino Toshio, Nihon kindai rinsei no kiso kōzō: Meiji kōchiku-ki no jisshō teki kenkyū [The basic structure of modern Japanese forestry policy: An empirical study of the early Meiji period] (Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 1984); Hagino Toshio, Nihon kindai rinsei no hattatsu katei: sono jissho teki kenkyū [The development of modern forest policy in Japan: an empirical study] (Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 1990). 36 Akai Hideo, Mokuzai sijou no tenkai katei [The development of the timber market] (Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 1968). 37 Takemoto Taro, “Shokumin-chi no shinrin kanri” [Forest management in the colonies], in Shinrin gaku no hyakka jiten, ed. Nihon Shinrin Gakkai (Tokyo: Maruzen, 2021), 412–15 38 Fukushima Masao, Ushiomi Toshitaka, Watanabe Yōzō, eds., Rinya iriai–ken no honshitsu to yōsō: Gifu ken Yoshiki gun Kotakari mura no baai [Principles and features of the rights of commons: A case study of Kotakari village, Yoshiki, Gifu prefecture] (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1966). 39 Kainō Michitaka, Kotsunagi jiken: sandai ni wataru iriai-ken funsō [The Kotsunagi case: The conflict for the right of common over three generations] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1964). 40 Shimada Kinzō, Shinrin kumiai ron [The theory of forest associations: Based on the study of common lands] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1941). 41 Hannō-shi Naguri Son-shi Hensan Iinkai, ed., Naguri no rekishi [The history of Naguri] (Hanno: Hannoshi Kyōikuiinkai, 2008–2010). 42 Kitoh Hiroshi, Jinko kara yomu nihon no rekishi [History of Japan from the viewpoint of demography] (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2005). 43 Takemoto Taro, “Nihon teikoku ni okeru shokumin–chi shinrin-kan no shisō to kōdō: Saitō Otosaku no zenhanki no sokuseki kara” [Thoughts and practices of Saitō Otosaku, a colonial forester, during his early years in the Japanese empire] Ringyō keizai kenkyū 67, no. 1 (2021): 16–30. Also refer to Yamanashi Prefecture, Midai gawa iri hoanrin hennyu tyousa sho [The report for incorporation of the Midai River valley into conservation forest] (1903). 44 Tsuchiya Toshiyuki, “Sanson” [Mountain village] in Nihon sonraku shi kouza 3 kan keikan 2 kinsei kingendai [Series of hamlet histories in Japan, Vol. 3: Landscape, 2, early modern and modern] ed. Nihon Sonraku -shi Kōza Henshū Iinkai (Tokyo: Yūzankaku, 1991). 45 Takemoto Taro, “Nihon teikoku ni okeru shokumin-chi shinrin-kan no shisō to kōdō: Saitō Otosaku no zenhanki no sokuseki kara”. 46 Furushima Toshio, Daidokoro yōgu no kindai shi [The modern history of kitchen utensils: consumer’s lifestyle from the viewpoint of production] (Tokyo: Yuhikaku, 1996). 47 Endō Jiichirō, Kōyu rinya [Public-owned forest and wilderness] (Tokyo: Nihon Chisan Chisui Kyōkai, 1955). 48 Takemoto Taro, “Shinrin ringyō no saisei” Revitalisation of forest and forestry] in Nōsanson saisei ni idomu: riron kara jissen made, ed. Odagiri Tokumi (Tokyo. Iwanami Shoten, 2013): 123–42. 49 Takemoto Taro, Gakkō rin no kenkyū: mori to kyōiku wo meguru kyōdō kankei no kiseki [The study of school forests: The history of the community connected with forests and education] (Tokyo: Nōsangyoson Bunka Kyōkai, 2009), 57–68. 50 Takemoto, Gakkō rin no kenkyū, 83–86, 161–72. 51 Takemoto, Gakkō rin no kenkyū, 185–89, 252–58, 272. 52 Takemoto, Gakkō rin no kenkyū, 259–68. 53 Sonobe Ichirō, “Kokudo no ryokka” [The greening of the national land], Sanrin 702 (1941): 5–9. 54 Takemoto Taro, “Sanrin shijō ni okeru gakkōrin, airin-bi, ryokka-undō: Sonobe Ichirō no hatsugen wo chushin ni” [School forests, the loving-forest day, greening movement in the Sanrin magazine: Focusing on discourses of Sonobe Ichirō], Sanrin 1506 (2009): 18–27. 55 Ōuchi Yukio, “Kakudai zōrin seisaku no rekishi-teki tenkai katei” [The historical development of the policy for expansion of afforestation] Ringyō keizai kenkyū 111 (1987): 3–11. 56 Furushima, Daidokoro yōgu no kindai shi. 57 Nomura Isamu, Nihon ringyō no reizokuteki tenkai [The subordinate development of forestry in Japan] (Tokyo: Chikyu-sha, 1974). 58 Referrence to article 2 and article 3 of The Fundamental Act of Forestry (https://www.shugiin.go.jp /internet/itdb_housei.nsf/html/houritsu/04619640709161.htm).

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Yamamoto Nobuyuki, “Shinrin kanri to hō seido seisaku” [The legal system and policy of forest management] in Shinrin kanri seido ron [The theory of institution for forest management] ed. Shiga Kazuhito (Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 2016): 279–83. 60 Tachibana Satoshi, “Mokuzai shijo no tankai to mokuzai sangyo” [Timber industries and the development of the timber market], in Shinrin kanri seido ron [Timber industries and the development of the timber market] ed. Shiga Kazuhito (Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 2016): 65. 61 Nagata et al., “Shinrin shigen ni kansuru U-ji kasetsu no kentō.”

References Akai, Hideo. Mokuzai shijō no tenkai katei [The development of the timber market]. Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa kai, 1968. Bae, J. S., Joo R. W. and Kim Y. S. “Forest transition in South Korea.” Land Use Policy 29, no. 1 (2012): 198–207. Barton, Gregory. Empire Forestry and the Origins of Environmentalism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Bennett, Brett. Plantations and Protected Areas: A Global History of Forest Management. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2015. Chiba, Tokuji. Hage yama no kenkyū [The study of bald mountains]. Tokyo: Soshiete, 1991. Chōsen Sōtoku-fu. Chōsen Sōtoku-fu Tōkei Nenpō [Statistical yearbook of Government-general of Korea]. Keijō: Chōsen Sōtoku-fu, 1911–1944. Endō, Jiichirō. Kōyu rinya [Public-owned forest and wilderness]. Tokyo: Nihon Chisan Chisui Kyōkai, 1955. Endō, Yasutarō, ed. Nihon sanrin shi: Hogorin hen [The history of forests in Japan: protected forests]. Tokyo: Nihon Sanrin-shi Kanko-kai, 1934–1936. Fedman, David. Seeds of Control. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2020. Fujita, Yoshihisa. “Rinya riyō no henka” [Change in the use of forest land]. In Atorasu: Nihon retto no kankyō henka [Atras: environmental change of Japanese archipelago], edited by Himiyama Yukio, et al. Tokyo: Asakura Shoten, 1995. Fukushima, Masao, Ushiomi Toshitaka and Watanabe Yōzō, eds. Rinya iriai-ken no honshitsu to yōsō: Gifu ken Yoshiki gun Kotakari mura no baai [Principles and features of the rights of commons: A case study of Kotakari village, Yoshiki, Gifu prefecture]. Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1966. Furushima, Toshio. Daidokoro yōgu no kindai shi [The modern history of kitchen utensils: Consumer’s lifestyle from the viewpoint of production]. Tokyo: Yuhikaku, 1996. Hagino, Toshio. Chōsen Manshū Taiwan ringyō hattatsu-shi ron [The theory of forestry development in Korea, Manchuria and Taiwan]. Tokyo: Rinya Kōsaikai, 1965. ———. Nihon kindai rinsei no kiso kōzō: Meiji kōchiku-ki no jisshō teki kenkyū [The basic structure of modern Japanese forestry policy: An empirical study of the early Meiji period]. Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 1984. ———. Nihon kindai rinsei no hattatsu katei: sono jisshō teki kenkyū [The development of modern forest policy in Japan: An empirical study] Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 1990. Hanno-shi Naguri Son-shi Hensan Iinkai, ed. Naguri no rekishi [The history of Naguri]. Hanno: Hannō-shi Kyōikuiinkai, 2008–2010. Hung, Kuan-Chai. “When the green archipelago encountered Formosa.” In Environment and Society in the Japanese Island, edited by B. Batten and P. Brown, 174–93. Corvallis, OR: Oregon State University Press, 2015. Inui, Tadashi. Kanto heiya no heichi rin [The flatland forests in Kanto plain]. Tokyo: Kokon Shoin, 1992. Kaino, Michitaka. Kotsunagi jiken: sandai ni wataru iriai-ken funsō [The Kotsunagi case: The conflict for the right of common over three generations]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1964. Kitoh, Hiroshi. Jinko kara yomu nihon no rekishi [History of Japan from the viewpoint of demography]. Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2005. Koda, Tetsuya, ed. Nihon kindai rinsei nenpyō: 1867–2009 zōho-ban [Chronological table of modern Japanese forest policy: 1867-2009, augmented edition]. Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 2011. Komeie, Taisaku. Mori to hi no kankyō shi [The environmental history of forest and fire]. Kyoto: Shibunkaku Shuppan, 2019.

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Kumazaki, Minoru. “Ki no runessansu to ringyō no shōrai (6): C. Totman ‘Midori no retto’ kara ‘Nihon kankyō-shi’ he” [Wood renaissance and the future of forestry (6): C. Totman’s “Green Archipelago” to “Environmental History of Japan”]. Sanrin 1639 (2020): 19–28. Lee, Wooyoun. “Kankoku ni okeru sanrin shoyūken no hatten to rinsō no henka 1392–1987” [History of forest, forest rights and forestry in Korea, 1392–1987]. The Annual Report, Research Center for Korean Studies 18, (2018): 62–86. Liu, Ts’ui-junga and Liu Shi-yung. “A preliminary study on Taiwan’s forest reserves in the Japanese colonial period.” Taiwan Historical Research 6, no. 1 (1999): 1–34. Mather, A.S. “The Forest Transition.” Area 24 no. 4 (1992): 367–79. Morris–Suzuki, T. “The Nature of Empire.” Japanese Studies 33, no. 3 (2013): 225–42. Murakushi, Ninzaburo. Kokuritsu kōen seiritsu shi no kenkyū: kaihatsu to shizen hogo no kakushitsu wo chūshin ni [The study on the history of the establishment of national parks: Focusing on the conflict between development and nature conservation]. Tokyo: Hosei Daigaku Shuppan Kyoku, 2005. Nakashima, Koji. “Nihon teikoku ni okeru shinrin no kaihatsu to hozen: Taiwan wo jirei ni” [Development and conservation of forests in the Japanese empire: The case of Taiwan]. Ringyō keizai kenkyū 67, no. 1 (2021): 3–15. Nagata, Shin, Inoue Makoto and Oka Hiroyasu. “Shinrin shigen ni kansuru U-ji kasetsu no kentō” [An examinataion of U-shaped hypothesis on forest resources]. Ringyō keizai kenkyū 123 (1993): 100–4. Nishikawa, Zensuke. “Ringyō keizai shi ron (5): Ryōshu teki ringyō chitai” [The theory of economic forestry history (5): Lordly forestry area]. Ringyō keizai 14, no. 2 (1961): 1–12. Nomura, Isamu. Nihon ringyō no reizokuteki tenkai [The subordinate development of forestry in Japan]. Tokyo: Chikyu-sha, 1974. Ohta, Takehiko. Shinrin hōwa: Kokudo no henbō wo kangaeru [Saturated forest: Thinking of the changed country]. Tokyo: NHK Shuppan, 2012. Oka, Eiji. “Kinen shokuju no kaiko” [Memoirs of the commemorative tree planting] Chōsen Sanrin Kaihō 184 (1940): 44–50. Ōuchi, Yukio. “Kakudai zōrin seisaku no rekishi-teki tenkai katei” [The historical development of the policy for expansion of afforestation]. Ringyō keizai kenkyū 111 (1987): 3–11. Saitō, Osamu. Kankyō no keizai-shi [The economic history of environment: Forest, market and state]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2014. ———. “Forest History and the Great Divergence: China, Japan, and the West Compared.” Journal of Global History 4 (2009): 379–404. Sanrin Kyoku. Sanrin yōran dai 7 ji [The handbook of forests: 7th ed.] (1936). Shinho, Eizō. Stove hakubutsukan [The stove museum]. Sapporo: Hokkaido Daigaku Tosho Kankōkai, 1986. Shimada, Kinzō. Shinrin kumiai ron [The theory of forest associations: based on the study of common lands]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1941. Shioya, Tsutomu. Bubun-rin seido no kenkyū [The study of the profit-sharing forests]. Tokyo: Rinya Kyosaikai, 1959. Sonobe, Ichirō. “Kokudo no ryokka” [The greening of the national land]. Sanrin 702 (1941): 5–9. Tachibana, Satoshi. “Mokuzai shijō no tankai to mokuzai sangyō” [Timber industries and the development of the timber market]. In Shinrin kanri seido ron [The theory of institution for forest management], edited by Shiga Kazuhito. Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 2016. Takemoto, Taro. Gakkō rin no kenkyū: mori to kyōiku wo meguru kyōdō kankei no kiseki [The study of school forests: The history of the community connected with forests and education]. Tokyo: Nōsangyoson Bunka Kyōkai, 2009. ———. “Sanrin shijō ni okeru gakkōrin, airin-bi, ryokka-undō: Sonobe Ichirō no hatsugen wo chūshin ni” [School forests, the loving-forest day, greening movement on the Sanrin magazine: Focusing on discourses of Sonobe Ichirō]. Sanrin 1506 (2009): 18–27. ———. “Shinrin ringyō no saisei” [Revitalization of forest and forestry]. In Nōsanson saisei ni idomu: riron kara jissen made [Searching for rural revitalization: from theory to practice], edited by Odagiri Tokumi, 123–42. Tokyo. Iwanami Shoten, 2013. ———. “Shokumin-chi no shinrin kanri” [Forest management in the colonies]. In Shinrin gaku no hyakka jiten [The encyclopedia of forestry], edited by Nihon Shinrin Gakkai, 412–15. Tokyo: Maruzen Shuppan, 2021.

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———. “Nihon teikoku ni okeru shokumin-chi shinrin-kan no shisō to kōdō: Saitō Otosaku no zenhanki no sokuseki kara” [Thoughts and practices of Saitō Otosaku, a colonial forester, during his early years in the Japanese empire]. Ringyō keizai kenkyū 67, no. 1 (2021): 16–30. Tokoro, Mitsuo. “Saishu ringyō kara ikusei ringyō he no katei” [The process from extractive forestry to regeneration forestry]. Tokugawa rinsei-shi kenkyū-jo kiyō 4 (1970): 1–26. Tokugawa Rinsei-shi Kenkyūjo, ed. Shinrin no edo gaku 2: Tokugawa no rekishi sai hakken [Edo-study of forests 2: Rediscovering the history of Tokugawa]. Tokyo: Tokyodō, 2015. Totman, Conrad. The Green Archipelago: Forestry in Preindustrial Japan. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989. ———. Japan: an Environmental History. London: I.B. Tauris, 2016. Tsuchiya, Toshiyuki. “Sanson” [Mountain village]. In Nihon sonraku shi kōza 3 kan keikan 2 kinsei kingendai [Series of hamlet history in Japan, Vol. 3: Landscape 2, early modern and modern], edited by Nihon sonraku shi kouza henshū iinkai, 181–97. Tokyo: Yūzankaku, 1991. Wakino, Hiroshi. Nihon ringyō gijutsu shi no kenkyū [The historical study of the technology for forestry in Japan]. Osaka: Seibun-dō, 2006. Washio, Ryōji. “Ringyō hattatsu keitai no chiiki-sei ni kansuru kenkyū: Obi ringyō hattatsu-shi ron” [The study on locality related with the development of forestry areas: The development theory of Obi forestry]. Utsunomiya daigaku nōgakubu gakujutu hōkoku tokushū 34 (1979): 1–128. Williams, Michael. Deforesting the Earth: From Prehistory to Global Crisis Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003. Yamamoto, Nobuyuki. “Shinrin kanri to hō seido, seisaku” [The legal system and policy of forest management]. In Shinrin kanri seido ron [The theory of institution for forest management], edited by Shiga Kazuhito, 229–98. Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 2016. Yamanashi Prefecture. Midai gawa iri hoanrin hennyū chōsa sho [The report for incorporation of the Midai River valley into conservation forest]. 1903.

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Chapter 16 Empire Forestry Endures: The Development and Continuity of Japanese Forestry in Southeast Asia, 1930–1970 Nakashima Kōji This chapter attempts to illuminate the continuities and linkages between Japan’s forestry development in Southeast Asia before and after the end of the Asia-Pacific War. It first describes a brief history of the development of tropical forestry by Japanese corporations and Japan’s state forestry policy during the wartime. Second, it elucidates how the utilization of tropical forests has been attracting attention in relation to the depletion of forest resources in mainland Japan during the war years. Finally, it examines the political and environmental context in which tropical forestry and imports from Southeast Asia were resumed by Japanese capital in the 1950s and 1960s and suggests continuities and linkages between wartime and postwar Japan’s forestry development in Southeast Asia.

Introduction In recent years, one of the most fertile areas of inquiry for environmental history has been the intertwined histories of imperialism and environmentalism. A growing number of studies have shown that modern environmentalism—from its key concepts to its practices and networks—is deeply embedded in the history of empire.1 Most of these studies have focused on the British empire and its colonies. Recently, however, a few researchers have begun to turn attention to the case of the Japanese empire; that is, to the distinctive interrelation between Japanese imperialism and environmentalism. For example, in her generative study of the forest policies of the Japanese empire, Tessa Morris-Suzuki contrasts the forest policies of the Japanese mainland with those of its colonial territories to bring to light the contradictory interfusion of rationalism and romanticism in the environmental vision that lay at the heart of colonial modernity.2 Another example is David Fedman’s pathbreaking study of Japan’s forest conservation practices in colonial Korea which suggests forestry and

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silviculture brought about by the Japanese empire functioned as a vital dimension of state power in colonial Korea.3 In order to understand the politics of forest management in Korea, Fedman suggests to “look beyond the peninsula itself ” and to “track the broader circulation as they were transfigured into the ligneous commodities that vitalized Japan’s continental expansion.” 4 As Mark Peattie points out, the Japanese empire had one distinctive feature: its geopolitical structure was shaped by geographical expansion to neighboring countries to achieve the imperative of security.5 This distinctive feature brought about complex environmental interactions, including flows of natural resources, intertwined environmental policies, exchanges of scientific knowledge and cross-pollination of environmental attitudes between the mainland and colonies. These environmental interactions between the mainland and colonies (including occupied areas), however, did not end even after the Japanese empire collapsed. While Japan lost direct control of its overseas colonies and occupied territories as a result of its defeat in the Asia-Pacific War, a part of the resource supply lines established under colonial rule remained intact. For example, the main sources of tropical timber imports to Japan during the postwar period were the Philippines, Malaysia and Indonesia, which were formerly occupied territories of the Japanese empire. The vast majority of the tropical forests in these regions were, as described in following sections, already logged by Japanese companies and the tropical timber was exported to Japan mainly in the wartime of the 1930s.6 After the end of the AsiaPacific War, these tropical forests have again become the target of Japanese forestry capital from the postwar 1950s. Some environmentalists and researchers argued that the large amount of the tropical timber imports from Southeast Asia and the South Pacific to Japan from 1960-1990 by Japanese general trading companies and forestry companies resulted in large scale deforestation in these regions.7 Peter Dauvergne examines Japan’s complex engagement with commercial timber management in Indonesia, East Malaysia and the Philippines, and criticizes it for triggering unsustainable logging and widespread deforestation.8 He frames this overseas environmental impact by Japan on the forests of Southeast Asia as a “shadow ecology,” a relation wherein the ecological impacts of one country on resource management abroad are made invisible through governmental activities, corporate practices, investment, technology transfers and trade factors.9 Through this shadow ecology, Japan and the tropical forests of Southeast Asia are interrelated with each other. In that sense, Dauvergne discloses the environmental interaction undertaken during the Japanese colonial era between the Japanese mainland and its former occupied territories even after the postcolonial era. In regard to the development of the forest resources by Japanese companies in Southeast Asia, Japanese forestry historian Hagino Toshio emphasizes the differences between the large-scale postwar projects aided by government-managed financial institutions and the smaller-scale projects conducted in the prewar and wartime period by independent corporations.10 He asserts that the prewar and wartime type of Japanese companies’ tropical forestry came to an end along with the war.11 In contrast, Japanese agricultural historian Noda Kimio argues that Japan’s postwar resource use was strongly influenced by the resource mobilization system developed by the Japanese empire to survive total war during the Asia-Pacific War.12 In short, Noda highlights the importance of the resource mobilization system constructed under the total war regime for understanding the development of postwar resource

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use. Similarly, some Japanese historians argue for a continuity of social mobilization system between wartime and post-wartime Japanese society.13 This chapter attempts to illuminate the continuities and linkages between Japan’s forestry development in Southeast Asia before and after the end of the Asia-Pacific War. The following section first narrates a brief history of the development of tropical forestry by Japanese corporations from the 1910s through the wartime and clarifies Japan’s state interventions into the development of tropical forestry during the war. Second, through critical analysis of Japanese forestry companies, media, experts and politicians’ discursive framing of tropical timber, this chapter elucidates how these actors conceptualized tropical timber in relation to Japanese mainland domestic forests during the war years. Finally, through examination of the political context in which tropical forestry and imports from Southeast Asia were resumed by Japanese capital in the 1950s and 1960s, the chapter suggests continuities and linkages between wartime and postwar Japan’s forestry development in Southeast Asia. It thereby demonstrates that the social and economic system of resource mobilization for total war throughout the Japanese empire stirred a new sense of environmental thought; namely, the way of understanding the relationship between forest conservation and forestry development that has guided postwar tropical forestry development by Japanese companies in Southeast Asia. Mizuno Shoko argues that the “ecological paradigm,” which emphasizes the balance between development and environment, developed by colonial scientists in British colonies was inherited by the postwar international development organizations and led to the emergence of international developmental aid for developing countries.14 In other words, environmentalism initiated during Western imperialism and colonialism has survived and been reproduced even after the end of empire. This chapter attempts to delineate another intertwined history of imperialism and environmentalism, the case of the Japanese empire.

A brief history of Japan’s importation of tropical timber and development of tropical forestry Japan’s importation of tropical timber Japanese imports of tropical timber began in earnest in response to timber shortages caused by large-scale reconstruction of the nation’s capital in the wake of the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923. Subsequently, tropical timber imports to Japan rapidly increased in the mid 1930s. Along with growing demand for construction materials and the corresponding development of the domestic plywood industry in the 1920s,15 the demand for tropical timber (above all for the lauan,16 a round-timber used to produce plywood) increased dramatically. However, the amount of tropical timber imported to Japan rapidly decreased in the late 1930s as the war economy took hold, wherein civilian demands were suppressed to fulfill military demands. As a result, tropical timber imports drastically decreased in the early 1940s and utterly ceased in 1942 due to intensification of the war. As illustrated by Figure 16.1, the regions that supplied Japan with tropical timber in the 1930s were mainly the Philippines, British Borneo and the Dutch East Indies (mainly Dutch Borneo). Before the 20th century, the most commonly imported timbers to Japan were

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Figure 16.1 Transition of the volume of imported tropical timber to Japan by supplying region in the 1930s Thousand m3 800

Others

700

Dutch East Indies

600 British Borneo 500 Philippines

400

Data of 1931 indicates the total of regions

300 200 100 0 1931

1932

1933

1934

1935

1936

1937

1938

1939

Year

Source: Department of Forestry, Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry ed., Sanrin Yōran

“karaki” or “tōboku” (both words are written as 唐木), including tropical hardwoods such as rosewood (Dalbergia spp.), ebony (Diospyros ebonum) and sandalwood (Santalum album), which provided materials for expensive furniture and Buddhist altars. Those precious hardwoods were imported from the tropical regions of South and Southeast Asia to Japan through the Chinese market. In the early years of the modern Japanese nation, particularly after the First Sino-Japanese War (1894-1895), teakwood (Tectona grandis) began to be imported from Southeast Asia to Japan as a material for shipbuilding. Later from the 1920s onwards, and in tandem with the development of the domestic plywood industry, lauan wood came to occupy the largest percentage of imported tropical timber, and most of this timber was procured from the Philippines, British Borneo and the Dutch East Indies. Postwar tropical timber imports to Japan were resumed in 1948 by the then-Trade Agency of the then-Ministry of Commerce and Industry. Most tropical timber imports in the late 1940s were sourced to supply the Allied Powers with construction materials. After private foreign trade was permitted in 1950, the volume of tropical timber imports gradually increased as a result of the special procurements spurred by the Korean War (1950–1953) and the rising demand for materials to produce exportable goods, particularly plywood exported to the United States. Later, from the 1960s through the early 1970s, tropical timber imports to Japan rapidly increased from the 1960s through the early 1970s in accordance with Japan’s “high economic growth,” in which domestic demand for housing construction materials rapidly increased. The total volume of imported tropical timber recorded the postwar maximum volume of over 25 million cubic meters in 1973 (Figure 16.2). In regard to this, some environmentalists and environmental activists harshly criticized Japan as a destroyer of the tropical rain forests of Southeast Asia and the South Pacific.17 Chapter 16: Empire Forestry Endures

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Figure 16.2 Transition of the volume of imported tropical timber to Japan by supplying region from the 1950s to the 1980s Million m3 30 25 20 15 10 5 0 1950

1955

1960 Indonesia

1965 Sarawak

1970

1975 Sabah

1980

1985

Year

Philippines

Source: Nihon Gōhan Kōgyō Kumiai Rengōkai, Gōhan hyakunen shi

Even after the war, the basic characteristics of the tropical timber supplying regions have remained unchanged. As shown in Figure 16.2, the main supplying regions of tropical timber to Japan have been the Philippines and the island of Borneo (Sabah and Sarawak) and Kalimantan (Indonesia).18 The main region of supply of tropical timber to Japan in the 1950s and 1960s was the Philippines. Then, the volume of tropical timber imports from Indonesia rapidly increased in the early 1970s, and Sabah also became one of major supplying areas in the 1970s. Finally, timber imports from Sarawak increased in the 1980s and 1990s. In short, the key supply regions of tropical timber in the postwar era were inherited from patterns of wartime timber supply. In that sense, Japan’s postwar tropical timber channels are a continuation of those developed during wartime. Development of tropical forests in Southeast Asia by Japanese companies It was the middle of the 1910s when Japanese timber companies first launched their logging business in Southeast Asia. Their main working areas were the Philippines, British Borneo and Dutch Borneo. Kubota Senmai established the “Kubota Plantation”—a large plantation consisting of palm trees, Manila hemp and rubber trees financed by Mitsubishi Corporation—in Tawau, British Borneo in 1916. Mizobe Nagao, the founder of Tibungco Lumber, acquired a logging concession for forests in Davao, Philippines in 1916, and launched a logging business with the financial backing of Furukawa Development. Furthermore, Borneo Bussan Trading launched their logging operations at Balikpapan, Samarinda, and Berau, Dutch Borneo in 256

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1918. In addition to these Figure 16.3 Distribution of leading Japanese timber companies in Philiplogging companies, Kuha- pines and Borneo from the 1910s through 1930s ra Mining started a rubber N Work Type plantation at Tawau, Britlogging ish North Borneo in 1916 Luzon purchasing of timber and then later launched logging and sawing logging operations as well. Year of Foundation As illustrated in Fig1910s ure 16.3, leading Japanese Mindoro 1920s timber companies were 1930s located at Luzon, MindCebu oro, Mindanao and on the Negros east coast of British North Borneo and Dutch BorBritish North neo. Roughly two thirds of Borneo Davao these companies launched Mindanao Brunei their logging operations Tawau in the 1930s. However, the Tarakan operation and business Sarawak Berau conditions of each region Sangkulirang was quite variable. In the Samarinda Dutch Borneo Philippines, Japanese companies first launched their Balikpapan Celebes businesses on Mindanao. In fact, Davao, the largest 0 500 km city on Mindanao, once held the largest Japanese town in Southeast Asia. Source: Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyūsho, Nanpō ringyō kankei kigyō-sha shirabe; In the early 20th century, Tahira Kan, Nanpō no mokuzai shigen; and Takayama Keitaro, Nan’yō no many Japanese nationals ringyō (a large portion of them from Okinawa) migrated to Davao and engaged in cultivation of Manila hemp (Abaca: Musa textilis).19 A famous Japanese entrepreneur Ōta Kyōzaburo founded Ōta Enterprise at Davao in 1907 and managed hemp plantations and a factory.20 Subsequently, various Japanese migrants launched businesses in Davao, and Davao became the economic center of Japanese enterprises in the Philippines. Although some Japanese timber companies (Tibungco Lumber, Philippines Lumber Export, Tagon Trading and Pacific Lumber) acquired logging concessions in the Philippines from the 1910s through the 1920s, most of the logging businesses backed by foreign capital became strongly restricted by the Forest Act (1930) and the Constitution of the Philippines (1935) wherein foreign companies were required to be made up of more than 60 percent American and Philippine capital to acquire the logging rights.21 As a result, most Japanese timber companies could not conduct independent logging businesses and instead established Japan-Philippines joint venture companies to conduct their operations. In British Borneo, most logging rights were monopolized by the British Borneo Timber Company (B.B.T.) which was jointly founded by Harrisons and Crosfield Limited (a British Chapter 16: Empire Forestry Endures

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trading company) and the British North Borneo (Chartered) Company in 1920. In the realm of British North Borneo, most timber companies (except for those holding concessions as vested rights) had to purchase a sub-license from B.B.T. to conduct logging operations.22 Consequently, unlike in the Philippines, Japanese timber companies, such as Yamada Taneaki Trading and Nomura Borneo Trading, were not able to participate in logging operations in British Borneo, but instead only engaged in purchasing timber from B.B.T. and the North Borneo Trading Company.23 Only Kubota Plantation (later Tawau Industry) and Kuhara Mining (later Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō), which had launched their logging operations at Tawau before the incorporation of B.B.T., were engaged in independent logging operations.24 In Dutch Borneo, Japanese companies’ logging operations were not so strictly prohibited until the 1920s. For example, Borneo Bussan Trading and Yukimoto Trading acquired logging concessions from the Dutch government of Borneo in 1918 and again in the late 1920s. However, from the 1930s, the Dutch government of Borneo imposed various conditions and limitations on the logging operations of Japanese companies amidst the international political context of Japan’s withdrawal from the League of Nations in 1933 and the German invasion of the Netherlands in 1940. For instance, although Nan’yō Ringyō had acquired a logging concession on Tarakan, a forest area on the east coast of Borneo, and launched logging operations in 1932, the Dutch government of Borneo suddenly ordered Nan’yō Ringyō to move out of Tarakan in 1933, since there was an oil field on Tarakan and the Dutch government was concerned that the company of a hostile country might threaten such a strategically important place.25 As a result, Nan’yō Ringyō acquired a logging concession at Sangkulirang, about 350km south of Tarakan, as a substitute site and Nan’yō Ringyō started logging at Sangkulirang from 1934. Finally, in July 1941, the governments of the Philippines, and British and Dutch Borneo decided to freeze Japanese companies’ assets in these areas and most Japanese companies were consequently compelled to cease operations until Japan’s military occupation of these areas. Forest resource development as state policy Among Japanese timber companies engaged in forestry operations in Southeast Asia during the 1920s and 1930s, two companies—Nan’yō Ringyō and Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō—were deeply involved in implementing the resource polices of the Japanese state. Nan’yō Ringyō was directly managed by a colonial development company, Tōyō Takushoku (Oriental Development Company) which was originally established to promote colonization by Japanese peasants in Korea in 1908 with strong backing from the Japanese government. This company later expanded its area of operation to include Manchuria, Mongolia, Siberia, China, the Malay Peninsula, the Philippines and Micronesia. Nan’yō Ringyō was one of the subsidiary companies of Tōyō Takushoku, which aimed to import tropical timber from Dutch Borneo to Japan. Prior to the establishment of Nan’yō Ringyō, Tōyō Takushoku established another subsidiary company Nan’yō Kōhatsu (“South Seas Development”) in 1921 and launched various development projects in the mandated territory of Micronesia. Timber production by Nan’yō Ringyō was one of these development projects. Although Nan’yō Ringyō had a serious deficit problem in 1935 due to faulty management, Tōyō Takushoku continued to

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financially support Nan’yō Ringyō, and promoted new experimental plantation projects in Borneo aimed at developing pulp materials.26 The predecessor of Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō was Nihon Sangyō Gomu (“Japan Industry Rubber”), which was originally launched as “Tawau Plantation,” a section of Nihon Sangyō group. This large financial conglomerate (zaibatsu) moved to Manchuria at the strong urging of the Japanese government, and established Manchuria Heavy Industry Development in 1937. Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō also played a role in promoting state policy. The Department of Overseas Affairs ordered Nissan Norin Kogyo to implement a hemp cultivation project in Northern Borneo in 1937. The Department of Overseas Affairs planned to clear fifty thousand acres of agricultural land in Tawau. Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō launched this development project and cleared one thousand acres of land, and 121 households consisting of 784 persons settled there before 1941.27 Furthermore, Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō was engaged in a “Silvicultural Experiment of Pulpwood in the South Seas” organized by the Teikoku Shinrin-kai (Imperial Forest Association) and implemented at Tawau Plantation with full cooperation from Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō between 1938 and 1942. This experimental project aimed to utilize tropical timber as raw material for pulp industries and paper manufacturing in Japan. In the 1930s, Japan was in urgent need of a pulp material supply to substitute for those lost as a result of serious deforestation on Karafuto (Sakhalin). Tropical timber was targeted as an alternative raw material source for the domestic pulp industry. This experimental project was conducted in close cooperation with Department of Overseas Affairs and Ōji Paper Company, but was discontinued due to the intensification of the war. In key directives such as “Standards for National Policy” and the “Imperial Diplomatic Policy” decided at the Ministerial Conference in August 1936, expansion into the “South Seas” was designated as a national policy, and it was clearly stated that the “South Seas” were a geopolitically important region for Japan and Manchuria, a resource supply zone essential to achieving self-sufficiency in resources and raw materials for the Japanese empire.28 Along with the expansion of Japanese imperialism, Japanese forestry companies became increasingly involved in the wartime resource mobilization system and played a significant role as agents of Japan’s empire forestry.29

Tropical forest resources and the imperial gaze Since the middle of the 1930s, when southern expansion was adopted as a national policy of the Japanese empire, interest in the “South Seas” became more and more intensified in Japan. Given this context, the discursive framing of tropical timber resources by forestry companies, media, experts and politicians became increasingly imperialistic; that is, tropical timber was subject to an imperial gaze in which it was framed as property of the empire. Tropical timber as a “quasi-domestic timber” As described in the previous section, Japanese timber companies have been engaged in the logging and trading of tropical timber in Southeast Asia since the 1910s. Based on this long history of tropical timber operations by Japanese companies, some individuals connected to the forestry industry tended to attribute a different meaning and significance to tropical timber, as compared to timber imports from other regions. Chapter 16: Empire Forestry Endures

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Tahira Kan, chief director of the Hanshin Tropical Timber Industry Association, emphasized in a book titled Nanpō no mokuzai shigen (Timber resources in the South), a detailed research report on actual conditions of tropical forest resources and history of Japanese forestry companies in the South Seas published in 1942, that the forest resources of the South Seas became valuable only after Japanese companies had developed a forestry industry there. “The Philippines became an important timber supplier in the Orient only after Japanese companies began to log these forests in the 1920s.” 30 Furthermore, he emphasizes the distinctive characteristics of tropical timber imported to Japan: “As most tropical timber imported to Japan is a product of Japanese production and investment at the local sites, it is therefore not to be considered as the same with other ordinary imports.” 31 The same viewpoint is suggested by the Japanese financial newspaper, Chūgai Shōgyō Shinpō in 1937: Tropical timber can be seen as quasi-domestic timber because the logging, planting and exportation of this timber is all conducted by Japanese people in the South. Even though these businesses are conducted outside Japan, they are in fact the same as the domestic transactions. In this respect, tropical timber is different from other foreign timber, and has a great significance for Japan which is short of domestic timber.32 The term “quasi-domestic timber” 33 implies Japan’s proprietary right to occupy tropical forest resources. Furthermore, it is also important to note that the significance of tropical timber for Japan is defined in relation to the shortage of Japanese domestic timber. In other words, the notion of “quasi-domestic timber” is important not only for Japan’s national interests and rights in Southeast Asia but also for making up for a shortage of domestic forest resources. Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyūsho (Institute of South Seas Economy)34 published many research reports on tropical resources in the South during the late 1930s and early 1940s that explained the conditions of forest resources and the forestry industry in each region of Southeast Asia. Regarding the forestry in Borneo, the institute emphasized the significance of tropical timber, “Now is not the time to debate whether or not tropical timber is important to Japan. Rather, it is common sense to utilize the affluent tropical timber of the South Seas as quasidomestic timber rather than relying on the devastated forests of the Japanese mainland.” 35 We can see that the framing of tropical timber as quasi-domestic timber reflects a sense of crisis about the then current state of forest resources in the wartime Japanese mainland where forests were devastated due to over-cutting to fulfill military demand and the exportation of domestic timber to Japan’s overseas territories. According to Sanrin Yōran (General Survey of Forests) published by the Department of Forestry, although the amount of timber imported into Japan had exceeded that of timber exported from the Japanese mainland up until 1937, the latter began to exceed the former beginning in 1938.36 The rapid industrialization of Japan’s colonies and occupied territories in East Asia (including Korea, Taiwan, Kwantung leased territory, Republic of China and Manchukuo) increased local demand for timber materials in the 1930s. However, unexpected scarcity of forest resources and difficulties in forest development in those regions made local procurement of forest resources difficult. As a result, in order to maintain the management of its overseas territories, the Japanese homeland had to provide more timber materials to those regions in addition to military demands. 260

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Consequently, forest resources in the homeland became exhausted and devastated, and the Japanese empire had to seek a substitute resource. The tropical timber of Southeast Asia was expected to substitute for the domestic forests of the Japanese mainland. Tropical forests as a substitute for domestic forests At the Standing Committee on Budget, House of Peers of the 67th Imperial Diet on March 9, 1935, in response to a question regarding the deficiency of forest resources in the mainland, Kodama Hideo, the Minister of Colonial Affairs, answered as follows: “To make up for the shortages of timber in the mainland, the timber supply from Karafuto is insufficient, however, in the new territories of the South Seas that belong to the Japanese interests, there are some promising places where we could obtain timber.” 37 While Karafuto had been expected to supply the mainland paper manufacturing and pulp industries with timber resources, by the 1930s the island was experiencing serious forest devastation due to over-cutting, forest fires and insect pests. In the Minister’s response we see tropical forests framed as a substitute for the exhaustion of the forest resources of Karafuto and the Japanese mainland. We can find similar discursive framings in works published by forestry officials and forestry journalists. Hayashi Tsuneo, a technical expert of Hokkaido Prefecture and the managing director of Dai Nippon Sanrin-kai (Japan Forestry Association), made a similar statement at a roundtable discussion conducted under the title “Greater East Asia, talking about future forestry” that was published in the February 1942 issue of “Sanrin,” the bulletin of the Japan Forestry Association. “Everyone is seriously concerned about the future damage caused by over-cutting of Japan’s domestic forests. So, the forests of the homeland need to be rested for a while, and we need to search for alternative resources in other regions.” 38 Hayashi suggests that tropical and North Sea (Primorskaya Oblast) timber could provide a possible alternative to domestic timber. In “Report from the South,” a roundtable discussion published in the March 1942 issue of Sanrin, Nihei Heiji, a technical expert of the Ministry of Colonial Affairs, also proposed tropical timber as an alternative to domestic timber, adding however that the potential of this resource was limited due to transportation issues in Southeast Asia.39 Another forestry specialist Tanahashi Sadao, Director of Mokuzai Keizai Kenkyūjo (Institute of Timber Economy),40 suggests a similar understanding of tropical forests in the context of “The Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere” (大東亜共栄圏 Dai Tōa Kyōei-ken), a geopolitical ideology developed by the Japanese empire that aimed to construct a political bloc of East Asians, Southeast Asians, South Asians and Oceanians under Japanese hegemony. “The domestic forest resource needs to take a rest from over-cutting though it has well met great demands since the Second Sino-Japanese War. … Of course, the development of tropical forest resources needs to meet military demands, furthermore, it needs to contribute to the cultivation of domestic forests and play a major role in the supply and demand of timber within the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.” 41 Under the national mobilization regime of Japan’s total war, tropical timber was clearly situated within the conceptual orbit of “The Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.” Forestry journalist Fukuhara Kazuo proposed a “Comprehensive Plan for the Greater East Asia Forestry” that aimed to establish zones of a self-sufficient forestry and a national defense forestry within the Greater East Asia Coprosperity Sphere with Japan as its leader.

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The fundamental principle for establishing the Comprehensive Plan for the Greater East Asia Forestry is to make the land of Japan green and to draw a concentric plan for Greater East Asia Forestry with a focus on Japan’s land and forestry industry. Then, the land of Japan is at the core, both geographically and spatially, around which the core sphere of Japan, Manchuria, and China is constructed, and the southern and northern spheres are built on its outskirts.42 In this discourse, we can see an imperialistic view of forest resource development. It describes a geopolitically-charged scheme for forest resource development aimed at surviving total war. In that sense, it reflects the prevailing ideology of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. However, what is more important in this discourse is the particular relationship it establishes between forest conservation and development. As quoted above, Fukuhara, Tanahashi and other Japanese forestry specialists proposed the conservation of Japan’s domestic forests by means of exploiting tropical forest resource as a substitute for domestic timber. Thus, the development of forest resources in Southeast Asia was cast in relation to the conservation of domestic forests in Japan. This particular approach of relating forest conservation and development was carried over into postwar Japanese forestry.

Development and conservation of forest resources in postwar Japan Fears of forest degradation in postwar Japan: GHQ/SCAP and NFRC After Japan’s defeat in 1945, Japanese forestry was confronted with two vexing problems: devastation of domestic forests and a shortage of timber for postwar reconstruction. As noted in previous sections, on one hand, Japan had exhausted domestic timber resources for military use and industrialization of its colonies and occupied territories during the war. On the other, timber imports from outside the empire had ceased due to intensification of the war. Plans to develop empire forestry, such as the Plan for Greater East Asia Forestry noted above, were never implemented and ended up being only the dreams of wartime planners. The combined result of these factors was a vast area of deforested land in postwar Japan. Faced with this difficult situation, the General Headquarters, the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers (hereinafter GHQ/SCAP), which occupied postwar Japan until the Treaty of Peace came into effect in 1952, issued two important documents in 1950: “Statement of Fair Trade Practices” and “Management of Private Coniferous Forests of Japan.” The former document concerns revision of the forestry program and reformation of the Forest Owners’ Association that mainly focuses on ways of implementing a forestry program in postwar Japan. The latter document surveys the critical condition of Japan’s domestic forests. Although both documents deeply influenced postwar Japanese forestry policy and led to the amendment of the Forest Act in 1951,43 this section focuses on the latter document because it clearly demonstrates GHQ’s understanding of the critical conditions of domestic forests in the postwar Japan.44 Two American foresters, Joseph C. Kircher and Albert K. Dextor, were dispatched from the United States to the Forestry Division of GHQ/SCAP Natural Resources Section. They conducted extensive field research for thirty-seven days on the actual conditions of forests and forestry in Japan. The results of their field research formed the basis for “Management 262

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of Private Coniferous Forests of Japan” in 1950. This document concluded that most private coniferous forests in Japan had been seriously devastated due to perennial over-cutting and that the forest resources of Japan would disappear within fifteen years if current over-cutting continues.45 This view of Japanese forests was shared by other GHQ/SCAP staff. For example, Harold B. Donaldson, Chief of the Agriculture and Forestry Division, Natural Resource Section of GHQ/SCAP, pointed out the troubling conditions of the devastated forests of Japan and warned against the future disappearance of domestic forests in Japan.46 Kircher and Dextor strongly recommended to restrict logging areas and to reforest devastated forest land including clear-cut sites and grasslands and also to convert broad-leaved forests to coniferous forests. These GHQ/SCAP’s recommendations led to the introduction of a new Forest Planning System into Japanese forest policy and subsequent afforestation policies focused on reforestation and extensive forestation.47 In response to the GHQ’s recommendations, Shinrin Shigen Sōgō Taisaku Kyōgikai (National Forest Resources Council: hereinafter NFRC) was established in January 1951 with the support of the government, political parties, various government agencies and industrial circles. The NFRC aimed to fulfill the two seemingly contradictory goals of maintaining and cultivating forest resources in Japan while also increasing logging to meet booming demand for postwar reconstruction materials.48 Accordingly, and more concretely, the NFRC was engaged in a two-pronged strategy. On one front, the council aimed to conserve and enhance forest resources through promotion of afforestation and improvement of silvicultural techniques. On another front, the council worked to increase the timber supply through the exploitation of intact forest resources in remote mountainous areas, construction of forest roads and by increasing timber imports from abroad through participation in tropical forest development projects. Additionally, the council also sought to rationalize wood use through economization of wood consumption.49 Although, as noted above, GHQ/SCAP also recommended the conservation and an enhancement of forest resources in line with the NFRC, it did not go so far as to propose the timber imports. Rather, the NFRC resorted to the resumption of timber imports from abroad as a countermeasure for the forest crisis; in short, they turned to timber supplies from overseas forests to make up for the shortage of domestic timber in Japan. The most effective and immediate measure for redressing the imbalance between timber supply and demand is to enhance our ability to source imported timber from abroad. … Considering the current state of the timber supply in Japan, production of domestic timber has been decreasing year by year, and we need to maintain the balance of timber supply and demand by relying on foreign timber for some time until the domestic forests planted after the war reach time for harvesting.50 Here, we can see a sense of crisis regarding forest degradation that is quite similar to that of the war years. Moreover, we see that again the development of overseas forests is proposed in relation to the conservation of Japan’s domestic forests. Based on this sense of crisis, the NFRC launched develop-and-import project schemes51 in Alaska and Kalimantan beginning in the 1950s. The following section analyzes these forest development projects in Kalimantan.52

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Japan’s tropical forestry development projects in Kalimantan, 1950–1960s Along with the rising sense of crisis regarding forest degradation in postwar Japan, tropical forests once again became a target for forestry development by ex-leaders of Japan’s empire forestry. In 1952, the year after establishment of the NFRC, a new forestry development company “Nanpō ringyō” (Southern forestry) was incorporated by three forestry business leaders: Fujiwara Ginjirō (1869–1960: former president of Ōji Paper), Kobayashi Jun’ichirō (1887–1980: former vice president of Ōji Paper), Kuribayashi Tokuichi (1896–1981: former president of Nan’yō Kōhatsu, former director of Ōji Paper). These three individuals were former directors of Ōji Paper Corporation, a leading paper manufacturing company deeply involved in the development of tropical forestry during the war. From 1938 to 1942, the “South Seas Afforestation Experiment Project” had been conducted in Tawau, British Borneo by Teikoku Shinrin-kai and financed by Ōji Paper. This project aimed to explore methods of utilizing tropical timber as material for the pulp industry and paper manufacturing in Japan. Fujiwara, then president of Ōji Paper, decided to participate in this project and Kobayashi, then chief of the forestry section of Ōji Paper, was in charge of the project. Kuribayashi was then president of Nan’yō Kohatsu and collaborated with Ōji Paper on the forestry development of Dutch New Guinea during the war.53 Those three persons continued to pursue the development of tropical forestry in the postwar era and set out to realize this goal through the development plan of Nanpō Ringyō. The establishment prospectus of Nanpō Ringyō refers to the devastated forests and short timber supply of postwar Japan, noting as follows: Karafuto, the largest timber supplying region in the prewar era, was lost [as a result of Japan’s defeat] and North Sea [Primorskaya Oblast] timber imports, and American and Canadian timber imports could not be counted on [due to insufficient trade relations between Japan and the Soviet Union and a prohibition of unprocessed timber exports from the US and Canada]. We believe there is no other choice than the South Seas, where unexploited forest areas remain. We, the professionals of Japanese forestry, have a long history of forest management in the South Seas from the prewar era and have some experiences and documents on it.54 It is easy to identify in this statement a continuing ambition to develop tropical forestry that stretched from the war years to the postwar period. Even after the collapse of the Japanese empire, these forestry business leaders did not abandon their plans for development of tropical forestry. Nanpō Ringyō organized a forestry development field survey in East Kalimantan in 1953 and, after negotiations with the Indonesian government, made a plan for forestry development. Although this plan was not realized due to the deterioration of diplomatic relations between Japan and Indonesia,55 Nanpō Ringyō’s efforts suggest an important link between Japan’s prewar and postwar development of tropical forestry. In 1963, nine years after the collapse of Nanpō Ringyo’s development plan, a new project for forestry development was initiated. This was a large-scale forestry development project across four areas (Nunukan, Tarakan, Berau and Sangkulirang) of East Kalimantan (Figure 16.4). Among these four areas, Tarakan and Sangkulirang were former logging sites of the 264

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Japanese logging company Figure 16.4 Logging sites of Kalimantan Forest Development Cooperation Nan’yō Ringyō in the 1930s N and Berau was a logging site for Borneo Bussan Trading Sabah Brunei in the 1910s. In that sense, this project of forestry deNunukan velopment in part follows Tarakan as an extension of prewar Sarawak Berau development projects. This development projSangkulirang ect was conducted by the newly founded Japanese Kalimantan company “Kalimantan Forestry Development Cooperation” (hereinafter FDC). FDC was managed under 0 200 km the leadership of Japan’s major trading companies such as Nisshō Iwai, Itōchū, Source: Hagino Toshio, Nihon kokusai ringyō kankei-ron, 225 Sumitomo Shōji, Mitsubishi Shōji and Ataka Sangyō. One key feature of FDC’s project was a unique collaboration between FDC and the Indonesian State Forestry Corporation (Perhutani) in which FDC provided technical support and developmental machines through yen credit, and Perhutani provides local currency (rupiah), Indonesian workers and production sites. Seventy percent of timber production in this project was exported to Japan, and a portion of the export price was applied to credit payment.56 This FDC project was originally planned by Anan Sangyō (“Anan Industry”), a successor company of the prewar Borneo Bussan Trading that had launched its logging business in Dutch Borneo. In 1958, Anan Sangyō’s managing director Yamaga Hiroshi asked Miura Ihachirō (a specialist of tropical forestry and former Professor of Tokyo Imperial University) and Miyamoto Shizuo (a former member of the Imperial Army Staff in occupied Indonesia) to negotiate with Indonesian officials regarding plans for forestry development in Indonesia. Miura reported that negotiations had been successful, and in response to this result, the “Southern Forestry Development Committee” was organized as the nucleus of this project in 1959 under the strong support of Japanese government, with their office located within the NFRC. Thereafter the Southern Forestry Development Committee successfully carried on negotiations with the Indonesian government and was renamed the “Kalimantan Forestry Development Promotion Committee” that was enlarged to include leading trading companies, plywood manufacturers, and lumber suppliers, and lastly led to the establishment of FDC in 1963.57 The chairperson of the “Southern Forestry Development Committee” was Kobayashi Jun’ichirō, one of the founders of Nanpō Ringyō, the company that led to the resumption of Japan’s tropical forestry development during the postwar years. This suggests that FDC’s project was a kind of realization of unfinished projects inherited from the prewar era. Although FDC’s project itself could not achieve such large timber imports as were initially planned, it provided an opportunity for later Japanese companies to launch into Indonesia.58 Chapter 16: Empire Forestry Endures

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Conclusion As mentioned in the introduction, the development of tropical forestry by Japanese companies in the prewar and postwar periods has continuities and linkages, particularly the conceptualized relationship between domestic forests of the Japanese homeland and the tropical forests of Southeast Asia. As examined in this chapter, prewar forestry specialists argued for the conservation of Japan’s domestic forests by means of exploiting tropical forest resources. We can see a similar recognition in the sense of crisis regarding forest degradation in postwar Japan, particularly in the NFRC’s responses to the critical conditions of domestic forests and the imbalance between timber supply and demand in postwar Japan. They promoted, on the one hand, conservation of domestic forests and enhancement of forest resources in Japan and, on the other, timber imports from abroad and forestry development projects in Kalimantan. In short, the development of forest resources in Southeast Asia was conducted in relation to the conservation of domestic forests in Japan. We can see a nationalistic view of environmentalism in which conservation and development form two sides of the same coin. British anthropologist John Knight criticizes this contradictory relation between Japanese overseas forestry development and homeland forest conservation.59 On the one hand, Japan has imported large amounts of tropical timber since the 1960s, triggering deforestation in Southeast Asia and South Pacific Islands to provide resources for its own demand. On the other hand, it has practiced a nationalistic forest conservation policy domestically since the late 1950s, represented by the National Land Afforestation Campaign that has strongly promoted forestation and tree planting in both rural and urban areas of Japan.60 These contradictory situations of forestry development and forest conservation were in accordance with the NFRC’s responses to the critical conditions of domestic forests, and originate in the imperialistic view of forest resource development represented in wartime forestry-related discourses. Conservation of forests seems to be a global concern at the present time. It has been one of major topics of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC). Development of global environmentalism, as Mizuno suggests, reflects a history of Western colonialism and imperialism through which knowledge and networks of colonial sciences brought about ecological understanding of environment.61 This chapter delineated a different type of environmental thought through tracing the history of Japan’s tropical forestry development in Southeast Asia. What was identified is a nationalistic environmentalism, one which differentiates domestic and foreign environments, giving priority to conservation of the former. This nationalistic environmentalism has emerged through the historical process of the Japanese empire’s territorial expansion to neighboring Asian countries, and its encountering and interacting with different natures in Asia. It survived even after the empire collapsed and lost overseas territories, and was revived in Japan’s postwar tropical forestry development in Southeast Asia. Furthermore, as Knight notes, it led to the contradictory situation of forest conservation in the homeland and large scale deforestation in Southeast Asia and the South Pacific from the 1960s through the 1980s. Nationalistic environmentalism produced within empire forestry endures even in the postcolonial world.

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Acknowledgement This chapter is based on two papers presented at the Third and Sixth Biennial Conferences of East Asian Environmental History in 2015 and 2021. I would like to thank all the participants of these conferences who gave me constructive comments and questions. Furthermore, this chapter owes much to the thoughtful and helpful comments and suggestions of Jay Bolthouse. This work was supported by the JSPS Kakenhi Grants: Number 18H00642 and 21H00502.

Notes 1 Gregory Barton, Empire Forestry and the Origins of Environmentalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2004); S. Ravi Rajan, Modernizing Nature: Forestry and Imperial Eco-Development, 1800–1950 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); William Beinart and Lotte Hughes, Environment and empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); Mizuno Shoko, Igirisu teikoku kara mita kankyōshi: Indo shihai to shinrin hogo [Environmental history from the perspective of the British empire: colonial rule in India and forest protection] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2006). 2 Tessa Morris-Suzuki, “The nature of empire: forest ecology, colonialism and survival politics in Japan’s imperial order,” Japanese Studies 33, no. 3 (December 2013): 225–42. 3 David Fedman, Seeds of Control: Japan’s Empire of Forestry in Colonial Korea (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2020), 7. In addition to works of Morris-Suzuki and Fedman, the following works focus on the relations of Japanese imperialism and environmentalism. Komeie Taisaku, “Colonial environmentalism and shifting cultivation in Korea: Japanese mapping, research and representation,” Geographical Review of Japan, 79, no. 12 (October 2006): 664–679; Komeie Taisaku, “Japanese Colonial Forestry and Treeless Islands of Penghu: Afforestation Project and Controversy over Environmental History,” Geographical Review of Japan Series B, 93, no. 2 (March 2021): 50–65. 4 Fedman, Seeds of Control, 10. 5 Mark Peattie, Shokuminchi: 20 seiki nihon, teikoku 50 nen no koubou [Japanese colonies: 20th-century Japan, the rise and fall of empire in 50 years], trans. Asano Toyomi (Tokyo: Jigakusha Shuppan, 2012). 6 Relying on recent arguments in Japanese history, this chapter uses the word of “wartime” suggesting the era of the “Asia Pacific War,” which encompasses a series of wars from the Manchurian Incident in 1931 and the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937-1945) which followed, and the Pacific War (1941-1945) as a continuous total war conducted by the Japanese empire. The “postwar” time suggests the period from 1945 through the 1960s. Kurasawa Aiko, Sugihara Toru, Narita Ryuichi, Tessa-Morris Suzuki, Yui Daizaburo and Yoshida Yutaka eds. Iwanami kōza ajia taiheiyō sensō 1: Naze, ima ajia taiheiyō sensō ka [Iwanami seminar, the Asia Pacific War 1: why the Asia Pacific War now?] (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2005). 7 Kuroda Yoichi and François Nectoux, Nettai-rin hakai to Nihon no mokuzai bōeki [Devastation of tropical forests and Japan’s timber trade] (Tokyo: Tsukiji Shokan Publishing Co., Ltd., 1989); Shimizu Yasuko, Nihon ga keshita Papua Nyu Ginia no mori [Forest of Papua New Guinea erased by Japan] (Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 1994). 8 Peter Dauvergne, Shadows in the Forest: Japan and the Politics of Timber in Southeast Asia (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1997). 9 Dauvergne, Shadows in the Forest. 10 Hagino Toshio, Nihon kokusai ringyō kankei-ron [Japan’s international relations of forestry] (Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 2003), 134–35. 11 Hagino, Nihon kokusai ringyō kankei-ron, 153. 12 Noda Kimio ed., Nōrin shigen kaihatsu no seiki: “shigenka” to sōryokusen taisei no hikakushi [The century of agricultural and forest resource development: a comparative history of “resourcing” and the total war system] (Kyoto: Kyoto University Press, 2013). Noda defines the word “resourcing” as pursuing the possibilities of everything for resource to produce the goods society needs. 13 Yamanouchi Yasushi, Victor Koschmann, and Narita Ryuichi eds., Sōryokusen to gendaika [Total war and modernization] (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō Publishing, 1995).

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Mizuno Shoko, Ekorojii no seiki to shokuminchi kagakusha: Igirisu teikoku, kaihatsu, kankyō [The century of ecology and colonial scientists: The British empire, development, and environment] (Nagoya: The University of Nagoya Press, 2020). 15 The number of plywood factories in Japan drastically increased from 15 in 1931 to 187 in 1937, and the volume of plywood board produced in Japan increased from 8,950,000 m3 in 1931 to 716,040,000 m3 in 1937. Nihon Gōhan Kōgyō Kumiai Rengōkai, Gōhan hyakunen shi [A hundred years of plywood] (Tokyo: Nihon Gōhan Kōgyō Kumiai Rengōkai, 2008). 16 Lauan is a general term of various broad-leaved trees of Dipterocarpaceae spp. in tropical forests. 17 Kuroda and Nectoux, Nettai-rin hakai to Nihon no mokuzai bōeki Shimizu, Nihon ga keshita Papua Nyu Ginia no mori. 18 “Kalimantan” is the Indonesian name of “Borneo.” 19 Sawada Ken, Hōko Mindanao [Mindanao, a treasure trove] (Tokyo: Taiheiyo Kyōkai, 1943). 20 Nomura Aisei, Ōta Kyōzaburō: Dabao no chichi [Kyōzaburō Ōta: The father of Davao] (Tokyo: Kaiseisha, 1942). 21 Hagino Toshio, Nan’yō-zai keizaishi-ron [Essay on economic history of tropical timber] (Tokyo: Rin’ya Kyōsai-kai, 1961). 22 Ross Ibbotson, The History of Logging in North Borneo (Kota Kinabalu: Opus Publications, 2014). 23 North Borneo Trading Company was a British-capitalized company and had the vested right of the logging concession in North Borneo. 24 Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyūsho, Nanpō ringyō kankei kigyō-sha shirabe [Survey on the forestry companies in the south] (Tokyo: Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyūsho, 1942); Tahira Kan, Nanpō no mokuzai shigen [Timber resources in the South] (Tokyo: Shichijō Shoin, 1942). 25 Tahira, Nanpō no mokuzai shigen, 201. 26 Osaka Mainichi Shinbun newspaper, 11th August 1936, accessed 28 September 2021, http://www.lib.kobe-u .ac.jp/das/jsp/ja/ContentViewM.jsp?METAID=00212054&TYPE=IMAGE_FILE&POS=1&LANG=JA. 27 Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō, Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō Sha-shi [History of Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō] (Tokyo: Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō, 1985), 34–36. 28 Ueno Takao, “Kindai nihon gaikō-shi ni okeru ‘hokushin’ to ‘nanshin’” [‘Northern expansion’ and ‘Southern expansion’ in the modern history of Japanese diplomacy] Wakō Daigaku Gendai Ningen-gakubu Kiyō 1 (March 2008): 114. 29 However, as Hagino Toshio notes, most of the mobilization projects of Japanese forestry companies in Southeast Asia remained only in the processes of research and preparation and ended without realization of the projects. Hagino Toshio, Nihon gunsei to nanpō senryō-chi rinsei [Japanese military administration and forestry policy in the southern occupied territory] (Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 1997), 171–249. 30 Tahira, Nanpō no mokuzai shigen, 176. 31 Tahira, Nanpō no mokuzai shigen, 177. 32 Chūgai Shōgyō Shimpō (September 28, 1937), emphasis added. 33 Original Japanese expression of “quasi-domestic timber” is “jun kokusan-zai” ( 準国産材). 34 Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyūsho (Institute of South Seas Economy) is a private thinktank that published the bulletin “Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyū” (The South Seas Economy Research) (1942-1945) and over 200 issues of research reports. Tanno Isao, “Meiji, Taishō, Shōwa-shoki no Nihon kigyō no nan’yō shinshutsu no rekishi to kokusai keiei” [History of southern expansion of Japanese companies and their international management in Meiji, Taishō, and early Shōwa era] Kokusai Keiei Foramu 27 (December 2016): 51–91. 35 Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyūsho, Nanpō ringyō kankei kigyō-sha shirabe [Survey on the forestry companies in the south] (Tokyo: Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyūsho, 1942), 36, emphasis added. 36 Department of Forestry, Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry ed. Sanrin Yōran [General survey of forests] (Tokyo: Department of Forestry, 1931–1939). 37 Dai 67-kai Teikoku Gikai Kizoku-in, Yosan Iinkai Giji Sokkiroku [Proceedings of Standing Committee on Budget, House of Peers of the 67th Imperial Diet], 11 (March 1935), 5, accessed August 18, 2021, https:// teikokugikai-i.ndl.go.jp/. 38 Dainihon Sarin-kai, “Zadan-kai, daitōa asu no ringyo wo kataru” [The round table meeting: Greater East Asia, talking about future forestry], Sanrin 711 (February 1942): 38. 39 Dainihon Sarin-kai, “Zadan-kai, nanpō genchi hōkoku [The round table meeting: Report from the South], Sanrin 712 (March 1942): 47.

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Mokuzai Keizai Kenkyujo (Institute of Timber Economy) is a private thinktank that was established in 1940 and has published research reports and books concerning forestry and the timber business. Mokuzai Keizai Kenkyujo, Rin/Zai-kai wa ikani susumu bekika [Where should forestry and timber business proceed?] (Tokyo: Mokuzai Keizai Kenkyūjo, 1940). 41 Tanahashi Sadao, Introduction. In Fukuhara K. Nanpō ringyō keizai-ron [Southern forestry economics] (Tokyo: Kasumigaseki Shobō, 1942), 2. 42 Fukuhara Kazuo, Nanpō ringyō keizai-ron [Southern forestry economics] (Tokyo: Kasumigaseki Shobō, 1942), 14. 43 Hagino Toshio, Nihon gendai rinsei no sengo katei: Sono gojū-nen no jissho [The postwar history of Japanese modern forest policy] (Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 1996); Yamamoto Nobuyuki, “Nihon ni okeru shinrin keikaku seido no kigen” [The origin of the forest planning system in Japan], Nihon shinrin gakkai-shi 102 (March 2020): 24–30. 44 Japanese forestry historian Ohta Ikuo suggests that GHQ’s strong sense of crisis about wood dearth comes from American foresters’ experiences in the United States. Ohta Ikuo, “Shinrin no shigenka to sengo rinsei eno amerika no eikyō” [Resourcing of forest and influences of the United States on the postwar forest policy], in Nōrin shigen kaihatsu no seiki: “Shigenka” to soryokusen taisei no hikakushi [The century of agricultural and forest resource development: a comparative history of “resourcing” and the total war system], ed. Noda, Kimio (Kyoto: Kyoto University Press, 2013), 175–225. 45 Joseph C. Kircher and Albert K. Dextor, Management of private coniferous forests of Japan (Tokyo: GHQ/ SCAP Natural Resources Section Preliminary Study 43, 1950). 46 Donaldson made this statement at the inaugural meeting of Shinrin Shigen Sōgō Taisaku Kyogikai on January 18, 1951. Shinrin Shigen Sōgō Taisaku Kyogikai, Rin-sō-kyo-shi [History of National Forest Resources Council] (Tokyo: Shinrin Shigen Sōgō Taisaku Kyogikai, 1975), 20. 47 Yamamoto, “Nihon ni okeru shinrin keikaku seido no kigen”; Ohta, Shinrin no shigenka to sengo rinsei eno amerika no eikyō. 48 Shinrin Shigen Sōgō Taisaku Kyogikai, Rin-sou-kyo-shi, 19–20. 49 Shinrin Shigen Sōgō Taisaku Kyogikai, Rin-sou-kyo-shi, 5–6. 50 Shinrin Shigen Sōgō Taisaku Kyogikai, Rin-sou-kyo-shi, 108. 51 “Develop-and-import” scheme refers to a trade system in which developed countries provide developing countries with funds and technology to develop resources into products, and the developed countries then import the products produced by these resources. 52 Hagino Toshio made historical research on forest development projects in Alaska, Kalimantan and Brazil as representative cases of Japan’s large-scale develop-and-import scheme of timber production during the postwar era. Hagino, Nihon kokusai ringyo kankei-ron, 157–250. 53 Hagino, Nihon kokusai ringyo kankei-ron, 143–44. 54 Nanpō Ringyō, Setsuritsu shuisho [Establishment prospectus] (Tokyo: Nanpō Ringyō, 1952), 1. 55 Hagino, Nihon kokusai ringyo kankei-ron, 152–54. 56 Tachibana Satoshi, “Tōnan ajia no mokuzai sanshutsu chiiki ni okeru shinrin kaihatsu to mokuzai yushutsu kisei seisaku” [Forest exploitations and timber export restrictions in Southeast Asian countries] Chiiki seisaku kenkyū 3, no. 1 (July 2000): 55–56, 62. Hagino, Nihon kokusai ringyō kankei-ron, 220–224. 57 Hagino, Nihon kokusai ringyō kankei-ron, 196–222. 58 Masuda Misa and Morita Manabu, “Indonesia ni okeru shinrin kaihatsu no tenkai” [Forest development in Indonesia] Kyoto Daigaku Nogakubu Enshurin Hōkoku [Bulletin of the Kyoto University Forests] 53 (November 1981): 105–15. 59 John Knight, “A tale of two forests: Reforestation discourse in Japan and beyond,” Journal of Royal Anthropological Institute, (N.S.), 3 (December 1997), 711-30. 60 Although the National Land Afforestation Campaign has been conducted by a private organization of the National Land Afforestation Promotion Committee (later the National Land Afforestation Promotion Organization), the campaign was carried out in close collaboration with the Forestry Agency and forestry departments of local government across Japan. Nakashima Koji, “Production of forest and the green landscape: representation and practice of the afforestation campaign in Japan, 1950s–1960s,” in East Asia: a critical geography perspective ed. Tang Wing-Shing and Mizuoka Fujio (Tokyo: Kokon Shoin, 2010), 161–75. 61 Mizuno, Igirisu teikoku kara mita kankyōshi: Indo shihai to shinrin hogo; Mizuno, Ekorojii no seiki to shokuminchi kagakusha: Igirisu teikoku, kaihatsu, kankyō.

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Bibliography Barton, Gregory. Empire Forestry and the Origins of Environmentalism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2004. Beinart, William and Lotte Hughes. Environment and Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Dai Nippon Sanrin-kai. “Zadan-kai, Daitōa asu no ringyō wo kataru” [The round table meeting: Greater East Asia, talking about future forestry]. Sanrin 711 (February 1942): 37–50. ———. “Zadan-kai, nanpō genchi hōkoku” [The round table meeting: Report from the South]. Sanrin 712 (March 1942): 36–65. Dauvergne, Peter. Shadows in the forest: Japan and the politics of timber in Southeast Asia Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1997. Department of Forestry, Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry, ed., Sanrin Yōran [General survey of forests]. Tokyo: Department of Forestry, 1931–1939. Fedman, David. Seeds of Control: Japan’s Empire of Forestry in Colonial Korea. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2020. Fukuhara, Kazuo. Nanpō ringyō Keizai-ron [Southern forestry economics]. Tokyo: Kasumigaseki Shobō, 1942. Hagino, Toshio. Nan’yō-zai keizaishi-ron [Essay on economic history of tropical timber]. Tokyo: Rin’ya Kyōsai-kai, 1961. ———. Nihon gendai rinsei no sengo katei: sono gojyu-nen no jisshō [The postwar history of Japanese modern forest policy]. Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 1996. ———. Nihon gunsei to nanpō senryō-chi rinsei [Japanese military administration and forestry policy in the southern occupied territory]. Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 1997. ———. Nihon kokusai ringyō kankei-ron [Japan’s international relations of forestry]. Tokyo: Nihon Ringyō Chōsa-kai, 2003. Ibbotson, Ross. The History of Logging in North Borneo. Kota Kinabalu: Opus Publications, 2014. Kircher, Joseph C. and Albert K. Dextor. Management of private coniferous forests of Japan. Tokyo: GHQ/ SCAP Natural Resources Section Preliminary Study 43, 1950. Knight, John. “A tale of two forests: reforestation discourse in Japan and beyond.” Journal of Royal Anthropological Institute, (N.S.), 3 (December 1997): 711–30. Komeie, Taisaku. “Colonial environmentalism and shifting cultivation in Korea: Japanese mapping, research and representation.” Geographical Review of Japan, 79-12 (October 2006): 664–79. ———. “Japanese Colonial Forestry and Treeless Islands of Penghu: Afforestation Project and Controversy over Environmental History.” Geographical Review of Japan Series B, 93, no. 2 (March 2021): 50–65. Kurasawa, Aiko, Sugihara Toru, Narita Ryuichi, Tessa-Morris Suzuki, Yui Daizaburo and Yoshida Yutaka, eds. Iwanami kōza ajia taiheiyō sensō 1: naze, ima ajia taiheiyō sensō ka [Iwanami seminar, the Asia Pacific War 1: why the Asia Pacific War now?] Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2005. Kuroda, Yoichi and François Nectoux. Nettai-rin hakai to Nihon no mokuzai bōeki [Devastation of tropical forest and Japan’s timber trade]. Tokyo: Tsukiji Shokan Publishing Co., Ltd., 1989. Mizuno, Shoko. Igirisu teikoku kara mita kankyōshi: Indo shihai to shinrin hogo [Environmental history from the perspective of the British empire: Colonial rule in India and forest protection]. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2006. ———. Ekorojii no seiki to shokuminchi kagakusha: Igirisu teikoku, kaihatsu, kankyō [The century of ecology and colonial scientists: The British empire, development, and environment]. Nagoya: The University of Nagoya Press, 2020. Mokuzai Keizai Kenkyūjo (Institute of Timber Economy), Rin/Zai-kai wa ikani susumu bekika [Where should forestry and timber business proceed?]. Tokyo: Mokuzai Keizai Kenkyujo, 1940. Morris-Suzuki, Tessa. “The nature of empire: forest ecology, colonialism and survival politics in Japan’s imperial order.” Japanese Studies 33, no. 3 (December 2013): 225–42. Nakashima, Koji. “Production of forest and the green landscape: representation and practice of the afforestation campaign in Japan, 1950s–1960s.” In East Asia: a critical geography perspective, edited by Tang Wing-Shing and Mizuoka Fujio, 161–75. Tokyo: Kokon Shoin, 2010. Nanpō Ringyō. Setsuritsu shuisho [Establishment prospectus]. Tokyo: Nanpō Ringyō, 1952. Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyūsho. Nanpō ringyō kankei kigyō-sha shirabe [Survey on the forestry companies in the south]. Tokyo: Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyusho, 1942.

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Nihon Gōhan Kōgyō Kumiai Rengōkai. Gōhan hyakunen shi [A hundred years of plywood]. Tokyo: Nihon Gōhan Kōgyō Kumiai Rengōkai, 2008. Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō. Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō Sha-shi [History of Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō]. Tokyo: Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō, 1985. Noda, Kimio, ed. Nōrin shigen kaihatsu no seiki: “shigenka” to sōryokusen taisei no hikakushi [The century of agricultural and forest resource development: A comparative history of “resourcing” and the total war system]. Kyoto: Kyoto University Press, 2013. Nomura, Aisei. Ōta Kyōzaburō: Dabao no chichi [Kyōzaburō Ōta: The father of Davao]. Tokyo: Kaiseisha, 1942. Ohta, Ikuo. “Shinrin no shigenka to sengo rinsei eno amerika no eikyō” [Resourcing of forest and influences of the United States on the postwar forest policy]. In Nōrin shigen kaihatsu no seiki: “shigenka” to sōryokusen taisei no hikakushi [The century of agricultural and forest resource development: A comparative history of “resourcing” and the total war system], edited by Noda, Kimio, 175–225. Kyoto: Kyoto University Press, 2013. Peattie, Mark. Shokuminchi: 20 seiki nihon, teikoku 50 nen no kōbō [Japanese colonies: 20th-century Japan, the rise and fall of empire in 50 years], translated by Asano Toyomi. Tokyo: Jigakusha Shuppan, 2012. Rajan, S. Ravi. Modernizing Nature: Forestry and Imperial Eco-Development, 1800–1950. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Sawada, Ken. Hōko Mindanao [Mindanao, a treasure trove]. Tokyo: Taiheiyō Kyōkai, 1943. Shimizu, Yasuko. Nihon ga keshita Papua Nyu Ginia no mori [Forest of Papua New Guinea erased by Japan]. Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 1994. Shinrin Shigen Sōgō Taisaku Kyōgikai. Rin-sō-kyō-shi [History of National Forest Resources Council]. Tokyo: Shinrin Shigen Sōgō Taisaku Kyōgikai, 1975. Tachibana, Satoshi. “Tōnan ajia no mokuzai sanshutsu chiiki ni okeru shinrin kaihatsu to mokuzai yushutsu kisei seisaku” [Forest exploitations and timber export restrictions in Southeast Asian countries]. Chiiki seisaku kenkyū 3, no. 1 (July 2000): 49–71. Tahira, Kan. Nanpō no mokuzai shigen [Timber resources in the South]. Tokyo: Shichijō Shoin, 1942. Tanahashi, Sadao. “Introduction.” In Fukuhara, K. Nanpō ringyō Keizai-ron [Southern forestry economics]. Tokyo: Kasumigaseki Shobo, 1942. Tanno, Isao. “Meiji, Taishō, Shōwa-shoki no Nihon kigyō no nan’yō shinsyutsu no rekishi to kokusai keiei” [History of southern expansion of Japanese companies and their international management in Meiji, Taishō, and early Shōwa eras]. Kokusai keiei foramu 27 (December 2016): 51–91. Ueno, Takao. “Kindai nihon gaikō-shi ni okeru ‘hokushin’ to ‘nanshin’” [‘Northern expansion’ and ‘Southern expansion’ in modern history of Japanese diplomacy]. Wakō Daigaku Gendai Ningen-gakubu Kiyou 1 (March 2008): 105–22. Yamamoto, Nobuyuki. “Nihon ni okeru shinrin keikaku seido no kigen” [The Origin of the Forest Planning System in Japan]. Nihon shinrin gakkai-shi [Journal of the Japanese Forest Society] 102 (March 2020): 24–30. Yamanouchi, Yasushi, Victor Koschmann and Narita Ryuichi, eds., Sōryokusen to gendaika [Total war and modernization]. Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobō Publishing, 1995.

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Index A Abe, Shinzō 45 Act for the Protection of Cultural Properties (1950), 44 Act for the Protection of Historic Sites, Places of Scenic Beauty and Natural Monuments, 36, 37, 44 Act on Medical Care for Atomic Bomb Survivors (Genshi bakudan hibakusha no iryō nado ni kansuru hōritsu; “Medical Law”), 86, 87, 90, 91, 95, 98 n13 Act on Official Afforestation of Publicly Owned Forests, 242 AEC (US Atomic Energy Commission), 88, 89, 200, 201 afforestation, xv, xvi; Act on Official Afforestation of Publicly Owned Forests, 242; during the Edo period, 223–24; and forest transition theory, 234, 239; as government policy, 217, 242, 245, 263; in Japan, 28, 266; in Korea, 25; National Land Afforestation Campaign, 266, 269 n60; South Seas Afforestation Experiment Project, 264 Agano River: and methylmercury discharge, 71, 72, 74, 82 Agricultural Basic Law (Nōgyō kihonhō), 143 Agricultural Cooperative Association (Nōkyō), 139, 148 agricultural experimental station (AES; nōjishikenjō), 135, 144–46, 153 agriculture: Ashio mine pollution effects on, 56, 64; in Hokkaido, 21, 22; in Karafuto, 22; organic, xiv, 153–54; relationship with forestry, 235, 237; swidden, xv, 213–28 passim, 234; use of human waste as fertilizer for, 129–40 passim; use of technology in, 142–56 passim Ainu, 21–22, 144

Index

albacore (bincho maguro), 193, 194, 197, 198, 199, 207 n32 Allied Occupation of Japan, 88, 152, 185, 195, 196 Arbor Day, 25, 26, 27, 242, 244 Asano Sōichirō, 181–83 passim Ashio Copper Mine, 53–64 passim Asukata Ichio, 186–87, 188 atomic bombings: Act on Medical Care for Atomic Bomb Survivors (Genshi bakudan hibakusha no iryō nado ni kansuru hōritsu), 86, 87, 90, 91, 95, 98 n13; Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission (ABCC), 88, 89, 96; Bikini incident, 90, 201, 205; black rain, xiv, 86, 91, 97; hibaku taikensha, 94, 95, 96; hibakusha, 86, 87, 90, 91, 95–97 passim, 203, 204; Hibakusha Health Card, 90, 91, 95, 97; Hiroshima, xv, xvi, 86–87, 91, 92, 94, 97, 200, 205; Nagasaki, xv, xvi, 86–88, 90, 91, 92, 94–96, 97, 200, 205; Radiation Effect Research Foundation, 93; radiation effects, 86, 87, 97 radioactive fallout / contamination, xiv, 87, 88, 89, 91, 94, 95, 97, 98, 99 n17, 193, 194, 198–206 passim Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission, see atomic bombings

B Bandō Katsuhiko, 74, 76 Bikini incident, see atomic bombings black rain, see atomic bombings British North Borneo, 257, 258 Burma, 149

C Carson, Rachel, 154 certification, charcoal, 9, 134, 222, 224, 235, 242, 245, 246

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Chernobyl, 87, 97 cherry blossoms, xiv, 23–24, 180 Chiba Tokuji, 218 Chisso (Corporation), 77–83 passim circulation (material) / circulation system, xv, 129, 131, 132, 134, 139, 140 coastal industrial zones, 177–88 passim Cold War, xiv, 88, 193, 195, 196, 198, 206 colonialism / colonies, xiv, xvi, 18–28 passim, 142–47 passim, 150, 155, 193, 196, 214, 227, 234, 238, 239, 245, 246 commemoration: and tree-planting, 244 commons, 150, 214, 234, 237 239, 241, 243, 245; and agroforestry, 223–24, 236, 242 consumption: of agricultural products, 155; of canned tuna, 196, 197, 198; changing trends of, 166–68; of contaminated fish, 70, 75, 82; of fertilizer, 135, 150, 242; of fuel / energy, 186, 188, 242; of sugar, 20; theory of, 161, 164, 170; of wood / paper pulp, 245, 263 Conwentz, Hugo 36–37 crucian carp, 161–70 passim cultural landscapes, xiv, 3–15 passim; differences among, xvi; and swidden agriculture, 228 cyclical world, 130–34 passim

D development: of agricultural technology / techniques, xiv, 12, 130, 142–56 passim; of coastal industrial zones / Tokyo Bay, xiv, xvi, 178–88 passim; economic, xvii; of environmental history, xvi, 168–70; of fishing industry / tuna fisheries, 194–95; of food preparation, 166; of forestry / agroforestry, xv, 213, 214, 223, 234, 238, 240–42, 245, 252–66 passim; of industry / industrial sites, 74; of investigative journalism, 64; of national park system, 34–45; nuclear, 88, 89, 200; of organic farming, xiv; of sanitation and sewerage technologies, 137–39; of the Shinkansen, 103; of swidden farming, xiv discrimination: of atomic bombing / radiation exposure survivors, xiv, 86, 203, 204; of Minamata disease victims, 70, 74, 76, 79–82; as a social issue, 54 doku, 121 dosimetry, 87, 89–90, 95, 98 n6

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Dutch Borneo, 254, 256, 257, 258, 265

E ecocriticism, 164 ecological imperialism, 21 economic miracle, 147 Edo / Edo period, xvi, 62, 119, 129, 148, 150, 151, 167, 194, 239, 241; and “night soil”, 129–33, 139, 140 Ehime Prefecture, xiv, xvi, 8–11, 57, 206 empire forestry, see forestry Enomoto Takeaki, 66 n29 environmental history: global, xvii; national, xiii, xv–xvii, 131, 213–28; regional, xiv, 161–70 epidemics (smallpox): and devastation to Ainu, 21; history of (in Japan), 117–18, 119, 127; patterns of, 118–21; prevention of, 121–23; and variolation, 124–25 epidemiological landscape, 117–27 passim epidemiological studies: for conditions related to Shinkansen pollution, 102; for Niigata Minamata disease, 73; for nuclear radiation, 88 eri, 169 Ezo (Hokkaido), xv, 18, 21, 121, 123, 144

F fake patient, 80 fallout (radioactive), see atomic bombings feng shui, 14 fertilizer: chemical, xiv, 11, 19, 135, 142–43, 150– 51, 155; effect of overuse, 145, 146; history of (in Japan), 150–51, 241–42; other organic, 131, 143, 235, 237, 241; as pollutant, 152; sale and transfer of, 133–34; use in organic farming, 153; use of dried fish as, 9, 19, 130, 241; use of excreta / human waste as, xiv, xv, 129–40; use of oil dregs as, 130 firewood, 5, 9, 134, 235, 241, 242, 245, 246 fodder, 235, 236, 241, 246 Forest Act, The, 242, 257, 262 forest / forestry history, see forests and forestry forest management, see forests and forestry forest transition theory, see forests and forestry forests and forestry, xiii, xiv, xv, xvi, 42, 43, 45, 162; afforestation, 25, 28, 217,

Handbook of Environmental History in Japan

223–24, 234, 242, 245, 263, 264, 266, 269 n60; deforestation and environmental degradation, 53, 55, 56, 63, 187, 233, 253, 259, 262, 266; empire forestry, 252–66 passim; “forest love” (airin), 25, 26; history of, 233–46; management of, 233, 234, 235–37, 239; patriotic planting of, 26–27; planted, 25, 26, 217, 223, 236–46 passim; policy, 20; reforestation, 62, 244–45, 246, 263; school forests, 242, 243, 246; and swidden agriculture, 213–28 passim; transition theory, 234, 235, 239 four big pollution diseases, 74, 77; lawsuits stemming from, 73, 77 Fujii Yasuhiro, 148–49 Fukoku (rice variety), 144–45 Fukuoka Masanobu, 153 Fukushima nuclear disaster, 63, 87, 97 Funabashi Harutoshi, 82 funazushi, 163, 167–68, 170 Furukawa Ichibē, 54–62 passim Furushima Toshio, 218

G General Headquarters, the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers (GHQ/ SCAP), 185, 262–63, 269 n44 Germany, 23, 37, 143, 148, 150, 151, 152, 155, 178, 200, 220, 235 GIAHS (Globally Important Agricultural Heritage Systems), 217 Gotō Shinpei, 59, 66 n32 grape production: and the use of pesticide, 151 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, 34, 43, 261, 262 green manure, 241, 242, 246, greening, xiv, 18, 25–28, 139, 140, 240–46

H Hara Takashi, 55 Health Protection Association (Kenkō wo mamoru kai), hibaku taikensha, see atomic bombings hibakusha, see atomic bombings Hibakusha Health Card, 90, 91, 95, 97 Hibino Terutoshi, 167

Index

Higashi-kusano, 3, 4, 5–8 Hiroshima, 123, 178; atomic bombing of, xv, xvi, 86–87, 91, 92, 94, 97, 200, 205; and “black rain”, xiv, 86, 91, 97 Hokkaido, 15, 29, 62, 101, 121, 147, 149, 155, 217, 234, 239, 261; and Japanese imperialism, 18–23 passim; rice-breeding in, 142–46, Honda, Seiroku, 38, 40 Honshu, xvi, 20, 25, 119, 148, 150; and remote epidemic patterns, 121; Shinkansen route on, 101 Horai-mai (rice variety), 145–46, 150 Hosokawa Hajime, 71, 75 Howard, Albert, 154 human excreta / waste: as fertilizer, xiv, xv, xvi, 129–40, 150 Hunter-Russell Syndrome, 72, 79 hwajeon (Korean swidden agriculture), 227 hydrogen bomb (test), xiv, xv, xvi, xvii, 200, 201

I Ibuki Mountains, 5, 6, 161 Imadomari, xiv, 3, 4, 5, 11–14, 15 Imochi disease, 145, 146 imonbukuro, 27 Imperial Self-Sufficiency, 28, 143–44, 259, 261 Indonesia, 126, 149, 177, 253, 256, 264–66 industrial port, 182–85 involution, 161, 168–69 Ishige Naomichi, 166, 167 Ishimure Michiko, 75 Itai-itai disease, xv, 65 n5, 70, 73, 74, 77, 152

J Japan National Railways (JNR), 103, 104, 111, 112 n7 Jikata hanreiroku, 219, 225 JR Tokai, 104–11 passim, 112 n7, n9, n10, 113 n11, n23, n24

K Kalimantan Forestry Development Cooperation (FDC), 265–66 Karafuto (Sakhalin), 18, 20, 22–23, 259, 261, 264 Karihama, xiv, 3, 4, 5, 8–11

275

Katata, 165, 167, 169–70 Katsunuma (Yamanashi), 173 katsuobushi, 193–94, 199 Kawamoto Teruo, 78 Kawasaki Steel Chiba Works (Chiba Works of Kawasaki Steel Corporation), 184–85, 186 Keihin, xvi, 180–84, 185 Keiyō, xvi, 184–85 Kiso (Nagano), 223, 237, 238 Kochi Prefecture, 153, 193, 199, 202, 205–6 koito net fishing, 165, 169, 170 Kojima Bay, 148 Korea, 27; and fertilizer manufacturing / use, 150, 151, 152; and forestry / forest management, 234, 239, 243–44, 252–53; as Japanese colony, xiv, 18, 20, 21, 23, 25, 28, 155, 194, 258, 260; Koreans used as forced labor, 62; as Newly Industrialized Economy (NIE), 177; and rice production, 144; and swidden farming, 227, 234 Kuboyama Aikichi, 201, 203 Kuboyama Suzu, 204 Kuroshio, xii Kuwabara Shisei, 75 Kuwano Chugo, 74 Kyoto, 81, 110, 119, 122, 129, 134, 162, 164, 165, 166, 169, 238 Kyōto kaigi, 73, 74, 83 n12 Kyoto (Imperial) University, 88, 153

L Lake Biwa, xiv, xvi, 6, 161–70 land survey, 214, 225 liquefied natural gas (LNG), 187 livelihood: and cultural landscape, 3–14 passim; involution of, 168–69; and pollution, 54, 75, 187; and swidden farming, 219, 226; theory of, 164, 165 Lucky Dragon 5 (Daigo Fukuryū Maru): contaminated by radioactive fallout, 193, 194, 199, 200–6

M maglev Chuo Shinkansen, 188 Manchukuo (Manchuria), 194; colonial environment of, 18–28 passim; and fertilizer

276

manufacturing / use, 150, 151, 242; and forestry / forest management, 258, 259, 260; Manchurian Incident, 40; and rice production, 145; timber imports, 240; and tractor use, 155 mandarin orange, 8, 11, 142, 153 Manhattan Project / Manhattan Engineer District, 88, 96, 200 Masuda rainfall area, 91–93, 97 Masuda Yoshinobu, 91, 97 material cycle, 130, 133–39 passim Matsumoto Eiko, 60 Matsumoto Satoru, 153 Meiji era: agriculture in, 149, 150; forestry policies during, 227, 235–39 passim, 241, 242; and Hokkaido, 21–22, 144 Meiji Restoration, 144, 150, 180, 214 Mendel’s law, 144, 155 mercury pollution, see pollution Mie Prefecture, 65 n5, 152, 238 mimaikin contract, 71, 74, 75, 76, 77 Minamata Convention on Mercury, 82 Minamata disease, xiv, xv, xvi, 65 n5, 70–82; Chisso Corporation, 71, 73, 75–81 passim; discrimination against victims of, 70, 74, 76, 79–82; lawsuits resulting from, 73, 76–77, 78, 81; Niigata Minamata disease, xiv, xv, xvi, 65 n5, 70–82 passim, 152; photographs by Eugene Smith, xv; Shōwa Denkō, 71, 72, 73, 74, 77, 78, 81, 152; Special Measures Law of Minamata Disease (Minamata-byō tokuso hō / Minamata-byō tokubetsu sochi hō / Minamata-byō higaisha no kyū sai tokubetsu sochi), 82, 91, 98 n13; symptoms of, 72–73, 78, 79, 80 Mining Laws (Kōgyō jōrei), 57, 59 Ministry of Health and Welfare (Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare), 41, 43, 44, 47 n39, 71, 76, 87, 91, 92, 94, 95, 97 Ministry of Home Affairs, 37, 38, 41, 126, 182, 184, 242 Misaki (Kanagawa Prefecture), 199, 205 Misaki Yoshio, 204, 205, 208 n53 Miyoshi, Manabu, 36–38, 39, 40, 45 mobilization: for Arbor Day, 26, 28; for war, 28, 62, 261; from rural to urban, 149; of resources, 26, 253–54, 259 monoculture: agicultural, 143

Handbook of Environmental History in Japan

moyai naoshi (restoration of relatioinships), 80 Muroto (Kochi Prefecture), 199, 202, 203 Mutsu Munemitsu, 55, 57

N Nagasaki: atomic bombing of, xv, xvi, 86–88, 90, 91, 92, 94–96, 97, 200, 205; and “black rain”, xiv, 86, 91, 97; and epidemics, 123, 124; Nagoya: agriculture in and around, 134; and environmental history, xvi; and pollution, 135; population increase of, 135–36; and Shinkansen, xvii, 101–12 passim, 112 n6 Nakijin castle, 12, 13 Nan’yō Kōhatsu, 258, 264 Nan’yō Ringyō, 257–59, 265 Nanpō Ringyō, 257, 264, 265 Nara Prefecture, 152, 153, 237, 238 narezushi, 163, 166, 167 narratives of pollution victims, 110 National Forest Resources Council (NFRC), 263 National Parks Act (Kokuritsu kōen hō, 1931), 38, 40, 43, 45 National Parks Association, 39–44 passim natural monument(s), 34, 36–38, 39, 43, 44, 45 Natural Parks Act (Shizenkōen hō, 1957), 34, 35, 45 Nature Conservation Act (Shizenkankyō hozen hō, 1972), 35, 45 night soil, see human excreta / waste Niigata Minamata disease, see Minamata disease Niigata Minamata Disease Community Welfare Promotion Ordinance (Niigata Minamatabyō chiiki gukushi suishin jōrei), 82 Nippon Nitrogen Fertilizer Co., Ltd., 150 Nishiyama Yatarō, 185 Nissan Nōrin Kōgyō, 258–59 Nihon Suisan (Nissui), 194, 195 Noguchi Shitagau, 150 noise pollution, see pollution Numata Makoto, 45

O Ōishi Buichi, 78 Ōishi Matashichi, 204 Ōji Paper, 259, 264 Okada Mokichi, 153

Index

Okayama Prefecture, 147, 148 Okinawa Prefecture, xiv, xvi, 3, 5, 11–14, 20, 23, 124, 142, 193, 257 Operation Castle (Bravo test), 201 Oyashio, xii

P paddy field, 21, 56, 142–55 passim, 163, 164, 214, 217, 234 pesticides, xiv, xvi, xvii, 142, 143, 147, 151, 152–54, 155 Philippines, 195, 253–58 passim, 260; and agriculture, 55–56, 58, 61, 62–63, 143, 150–55 passim pollution: air, xiv, xvii, 55, 143; Ashio mine, xiv, 53–64; atomic / nuclear, xvii, 86–98; disease resulting from, xiv, 70–83, 86–98 passim; and Itai-itai disease, xv, 65 n5, 70, 73, 74, 77, 152; mercury, xiv, xv, 54, 56, 65 n5, 70–83 passim, 84 n29, 150, 152; and Minamata disease, 70–83; museum exhibition on, 110; National Action Committee for Pollution Victims, 106; noise and vibration, xiv, xvii, 101–12 passim; origins / history of, xv; and population growth, 135; Tokyo Bay, xvi, 178, 183, 185–88; traffic-related, xiv; water, xiv, xvii, 20, 53–64 passim, 110; Yokkaichi industrial area, 65 n5, 73, 74, 77, 143, 152 Pollution Parliament, 78 public good (kōeki), 53, 57, 64, 66 n23 Pyne, Stephen, 213

R Radiation Effect Research Foundation, see atomic bombings radioactive contamination, see atomic bombings reclamation, 10, 22, 138; of / around Tokyo Bay, 178–88 passim reforestation, see forests and forestry relocation sites issues (Shinkansen), 105–6, 108–9, 110 residual risks, 112 rice: and agricultural technology, 148–53; breeding, xiv, 142–56 passim; consumption, 20; contamination by pollution, 62; cultivation alongside swidden farming, 214,

277

217, 218, 219; Fukoku, 144–45; Horai-mai (Taichung No. 65), 145–46, 150; husks used as fertilizer, 131, 139; and Imochi disease, 145, 146; imports, 20; and natural / organic farming, 153–54; paddy fields, 21, 56, 163, 164, 214, 217; use in fermentation, 164, 167 River Law (Kasenhō), 62 Rudorff, Ernst, 36

S Sasaki Kōmei, 214, 215, 217, 218, 219, 224, 228 Sasaki Takio, 145 satellite lakes (naiko), 162–64, 169 satoyama, 233, 235, 239, 240, 245, 246 school forests, see forests and forestry semi-domestication: of useful plants, 220–22 sewer cleaners, 131 sewerage, 129 Shibusawa Eiichi, 137–40 Shiga Prefecture, xiv, xvi, 3, 5–8, 161–65 passim Shiibasannai nōgyō kasegikata sonohoka shinajina kakitsuke, 225 Shimane Prefecture, 147 Shinbori Toyohiko, 187 Shinkansen, xiv, xvii, 101–12, 188 Shinoda Osamu, 167 Shinpen Musashi fudokikō (Topography of Musashi Province), 225 Shizuoka Prefecture, xvii, 147, 193, 199, 201, 237 Shōwa Denkō, K.K., 71–81 passim, 152 Shōwa Tennō (Emperor Hirohito), 145, 243 skipjack (katsuo), 193–95, 199 smallpox, xiv, 21, 117–27, Smith, Eugene, xv, 79 snow, 5–8, 14 social issue (shakai mondai), 54 South Seas Mandate, 18, 23 Soviet Union, 147, 196, 200, 201, 264 soybeans, 142, 150, 242 spawning (of crucian carp), 162, 163, 167 Special Measures Law of Minamata Disease, see Minamata disease Statement of Creating an Environment in Hometowns, 81 sushi, 163, 165, 167, 194 Suzuki Masatsugu, 182–84

278

swidden farming (yakihata), xiv, xv, xvi, 213–28, 234 Switzerland, 147

T Taichung No. 65 (rice variety), see rice Taishō era: energy consumption during, 242; and human waste / excreta, 129; increased industrialization during, 133; and insecticide production, 151; population increase in Nagoya, 135, 136 Taiwan, 11; agricultural technology exports to, 149, 150; Alishan Forest Railway, 238; and cherry trees, xiv; as colony, 18, 20, 194; forestry research in, 234; Governor-General of, 146; as Newly Industrialized Economy (NIE), 177; rapid industrialization in, 260; rice-breeding in, 143–46; as supplier of sugar and rice, 20, 21, 23; and timber industry / timber imports, 28, 239, 240; and tree planting, 26; tuna fisheries, 195; vegetation in, 227 Taiyō Gyogyō, 198 Tamura Tsuyoshi, 38, 39, 42, 43, 45 Tanaka Shōzō, 53, 57, 58, 60, 61, 62, 64 n1 Tani Kanjō, 58 Teikei movement, 142, 143, 154 Teikoku Shinrin-kai (Imperial Forest Association), 259, 264 terrace field, 8–11 Thailand, 149, 177 Tōbata Seiichi, 144 Tokugawa period / Tokugawa shogunate, 9, 19, 21, 60, 62, 221, 223, 225, 226 Tokugawa Satotaka, 37 Tokugawa Yorimichi, 36 Tokyo Bay, xiv, xvi, xvii, 176–88 Tokyo Electric Power Company, 187 Tone River, 55, 61, 227 Totman, Conrad, xvi, 233–34, 238 Toyama Prefecture, xv, 152, 237 Tōyō Takushoku (Oriental Development Company), 258 tractor, xiv, xvii, 142, 143, 147–49, 155 tree planting, 14, 25–26, 233–46, 263, 266 tropical timber, 253–66 passim Tsubaki Tadao, 72

Handbook of Environmental History in Japan

Tsuchida Ryutarō, 152 tuna (maguro), xiv, xvi, xvii, 193–206

U Uda rainfall area, 91, 92, 94 Ueki Kōmei, 72 Ui Jun, 77, 186 unexpected, the, 111–12 United Kingdom, 150, 154, 177 Uwakai Sea, 8

V vaccination, xvii, 117, 118, 125, 126, 127, 127 n8 Van Camp Seafood Company, 197–98 variolation, 124–26 vibration, 101–5, 106, 108–9, 110, 111, 149 views of nature, 165–66 Villagers’ Voice movement, 204

W Wakatsuki Toshikazu, 152 Walker, Brett L., xv, xvi, 21, 22 Wamyō ruijū-shō (dictionary), 214 Watarase River, xiv, 55, 56, 61, 62, 65 n14 World War I, 19, 23, 150, 151, 178, 242 World War II, xvi, 10, 18, 20, 23, 25, 28, 35, 37, 38, 79, 143, 144, 147, 151, 153, 177, 184, 185, 194, 197, 217, 235, 244

Y Yaizu (Shizuoka Prefecture), 193, 199, 201, 202, 203, 204 Yamada Tomihisa, 204 Yamanashi Prefecture, 151, 219, 234, 238, 241, 242 Yanaka village (Tochigi Prefecture) 61–62 Yanase Giryō, 152, 153, 154 Yokkaichi (industrial complex, pollution), 65 n5, 73, 74, 77, 143, 152 Yokohama, 103, 180, 182–84, 185, 186, 187, 188 Yokohama method, 186–87, 188 Yoshino (Nara Prefecture) / Yoshino Forestry, 223, 227, 237, 238

Index

279