Wasshoi! Magazine #7

WASSHOI! Interdisciplinary Magazine on Japan

W A S S H O I M A G A Z I N E . O R G / M A G A Z I N E • I S S U E 7, W I N T E R 2 0 2 3 / 2 4

S R E T S A S I D NATURAL

KEYNOTE

Impact of Earthquakes in 10th Century Literature

ARTICLE

Japan’s Disasters and the Age of Climate Change GRAPHIC NOVEL

A Visual Exploration of the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake

ARTICLE

Catfish, Quakes and Satire in Mid-19th Century Prints 1

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

EDITORIAL

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ESSAY

100 Years from the Great Kantō Earthquake: A Brief Historical Overview Au re l B a e le 8

LITERATURE

HISTORY / BILINGUAL / KEYNOTE

地震の〈記憶〉 ─平安文学における天変地異─ Yu k i k o F ujii

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ARTS

'Memories' of Earthquakes: Natural Disasters in Heian Literature (Transl. Ame lia Lipko)

LITERATURE

Falling Thunder and Flooding Rivers: The Disasters Portrayed in the Karmic Origins of Tenjin F e n g y u Wan g 42

ARTS

Beware of the Catfish!

Earthquakes and Satire in Mid-19 th Century Prints L u i g i Ze n i 54

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FILM

BILINGUAL / REVIEW

Tokyo Magnitude 8.0: Ritrarre una catastrofe attraverso l’animazione

Tokyo Magnitude 8.0: Depicting a Catastrophe Through Animation

C h r i s t i a n Es p o s it o

(Transl. Dœ lma Goldhorn)

FILM

BILINGUAL / REVIEW

Voices in the Wind I la r i a M a l yg u ine / ( Trans l. D œ lma Goldhorn)

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HISTORY

POLITICS / SOCIOLOGY

What Japan’s Past Disasters Can Teach About the Age of Climate Change J on a s R ü eg g

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MUSIC

HISTORY

Destruction and Creativity: Popular Music and the Great Kantō Earthquake Au re l B a e le

102

SOCIOLOGY

ESSAY

Living on the Edge: On Japanese Disaster Mitigation M a r t y B ors o t t i 116

SOCIOLOGY

ANTHROPOLOGY / POLITICS

The Politics of Gendered Activism: Women in the Japanese Anti-Nuclear Movement O livia Ch ollet 134

SHORT STORY

Burning Woodblocks D a w a L a ma 152

I llustrator: Enrico Bachmann

GRAPHIC NOVEL

Printing the Disaster: A Visual Exploration of the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake J or i s B u r l a

EDITORIAL Au rel Baele, Luigi Z e ni, Marty Borsotti

Greetings, dear reader! Winter has come and the temperatures have dropped after a record hot year. A well-deserved change for sure; And for anyone residing in Japan an excellent time to take a relaxing dip at a local onsen. Does a rotenburo surrounded by snow not sound enticing?

While 2023 was enjoyable for numerous reasons, such as Japan winning the world baseball championship, it becomes more and more apparent that the developing climate change is not to be ignored. While this looming manmade disaster has been building up slowly over the decades, natural disasters are often a sudden, unexpected shock.

Such was the Great Kantō Earthquake, which 100 years ago around noon on 1 September 1923 levelled Tokyo and left many casualties. One of the most serious disasters to ever strike Japan, it was heavily documented in photographs and well-reported in international news.

The country, which is not a stranger to earthquakes, suffered another blow in the previous decade. The Great Tōhoku Earthquake of 11 March 2011 saw many lives lost, not to speak of the catastrophe at the nuclear powerplant of Fukushima and the material damage to the Tōhoku region. Such calamities are, unfortunately, hard to predict, and for a nation like Japan that lies within the so-called ring of fire their impact is certainly great.

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Thus, this special thematic issue is entirely dedicated to the reception of natural disasters in Japanese culture and their influence on society from different viewpoints. The visual logo of this Wasshoi! edition is cracked and has a simple design that brings to mind Japan’s continuous confrontation with the raw power of nature. For our keynote Prof. Dr. Fujii Yukiko (Seisen Joshi University) explains how literary works of the Heian period (794 – 1185) can offer a detailed glimpse into the human experience of natural disasters in the past. Fengyu Wang’s essay on the relation between Sugawara no Michizane as tenjin (a heavenly deity) and natural disasters combines visual art and literature. After all, who would not want to blame the heavenly gods, right? Next, Luigi Zeni takes us on a visual tour with namazue (catfish prints from the mid19 th century) and explains how these creatures were thought to be the cause of earthquakes and tsunami in premodern Japanese popular culture. Two film reviews follow: one by Christian Esposito on the 2009 animated series Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 and its ties with the topic of exorcising terror after a natural disaster; and one by Ilaria Malyguine, who writes about the 2020 film Voices in the Wind, a realistic and complex production which emphasizes themes of loss and mourning.

Then, an article by Dr. Jonas Ruegg (Zürich University) asks a pertinent question – what can Japan’s past natural disasters teach us about the relationship between humans and our surroundings in the face of a climate crisis? After all, this menacing problem will test our capabilities as a species, and that of every other living creature in our world. Successively, Aurel Baele provides an overview of the audible landscape in Japan at the time of the Great Kantō Earthquake. Even if visual experience might be the most vivid to many, literature and music give a different type of impression. Bringing us to a more contemporary setting, Marty Borsotti describes in a more personal account how preparations against disasters help to mitigate the worst outcomes, although it means an almost continuous alertness and stress. Next, Olivia Chollet looks at how to understand female activism against nuclear energy which has developed in Japan in the wake of the 2011 Great Tōhoku Earthquake.

We are happy to announce the addition of a new type of content into our magazine, namely a graphic novel.

Joris Burla painted by hand 14 pages of watercolour drawings accompanied by short texts which focus on the striking impact of the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake on different media such as photography, woodblock prints and postcards. A special attention goes to Dawa Lama’s amazing short story with beautiful illustrations by Enrico Bachmann, which recounts the unfortunate experience of a woodblock printer during the earthquake of 1923.

So, without further ado, enjoy this rich and diverse special thematic issue.

And not to forget, the old chant: Wasshoi! Wasshoi! Wasshoi!

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ESSAY

100 YEARS GREAT KANTŌ EARTHQUAKE A Brief Historical Overview Aurel Baele

1 September 2023 marked the centenary of the Great Kantō Earthquake. This disaster struck Tokyo and its immediate surroundings just about a minute before noon on September 1, 1923. Buildings and housed were destroyed and many lives lost by the powerful destructive force of the earthquake. That was not the end. Charcoal and gas stoves were burning to prepare the lunch all over the city. Fires brook out in multiple places as these stoves tumbled in the collapsed wooden buildings. However, it was not only stoves. Chemicals and a dense network of electrical wires also played a role. The east side of the city, the shitamachi or low city area, was hit particularly hard with fires raging for two days.

In the immediate aftermath of the disaster news about the disaster reached places as far as Hokkaidō, but the nature of such information was rather unclear and chaotic. Although the estimated casualties counted more than 100.000 deaths, special attention was given to the situation of members of the imperial family such as Princesses Kananomiya Sakiko (1903–1920) and her unborn child, and high-ranking individuals from the government. An emergence cabinet was created to lead the country through the aftermath with Yamamoto Gonbee (1852–1933), a respected admiral and last surviving member of the Meiji Era Oligarchs, appointed as prime minister since his predecessor, Katō Tomosaburō (1873– 1923), died a week before the earthquake.

August Kengelbacher

On top of the uncertainty about the whereabouts of people much information was based on hearsay. Soon rumours were circulating such as that Koreans and socialists had started fires and poisoned wells. Fuelled in newspapers, by the police and the military, these stories led to the creation of vigilante groups that aimed to keep order and protect against looting in neighbourhoods. However, in the tense situation of mass destruction and socio-economic hardship thousands of Koreans who were discriminated against as immigrants were rounded up and executed while surveillance of left-wing movements increased.

The earthquake of 1923 also acted as a catalyst for the growing mass consumerism and entertainment. The reconstruction of the capital propelled massification in society. The term taishū or mass was often used in both theoretical discussions and everyday news, and referred to ‘the techniques of mass production, distribution, and consumption.’

The effects on culture were clearly visible as a promising future was presented in various media such as film, gramophone, magazines, advertising, etcetera. The newly built brick buildings with neon lights in Ginza, the first subway system (1927) running from Asakusa to Ueno and Ginza, and the introduction of the radio (1925) only confirmed such progress.

These material changes in society were also heavily discussed by contemporary critics, intellectuals, and artists. The famous author Tanizaki Junichirō (1886–1965) looked forward to the change that would follow the earthquake and hoped for something modern like Paris and New York. A moralistic view of ‘heavenly punishment’ (tenkan) also circulated in Japan propagating hat the earthquake was a result of the decadence and the decline of the social mores and norms. Scholars like Gonda Yasunosuke (1887–1951) and Kon Wajirō (1888–1973) attempted to make sense of the rise of this new, modern society through multiple surveys and studies.

Ultimately, the Great Kantō Earthquake was a disruptive force that created a road towards a modern Japan.

Contemporary newspapers reported widely on the Great Kantō Earthquake and relief efforts for the victims were organised abroad; for example, there was a parade in Antwerp, Belgium. However, not only the support beyond geographic borders contributed to the international dimension of this event.

Foreigners who survived the disaster in Tokyo documented in various way its aftermath. Among them was August Kengelbacher (1894–1971), a Swiss mechanic working in Japan during the Interwar Period. His photographs illustrate the destruction of the capital in fine detail. Some of his pictures are shown in a postcard format here and on the cover of this magazine.

Fig. 1 ‘Sue no Matsuyama’ hill, in Tagajō, Miyagi prefecture (picture taken in 2007).

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LITERATURE

HISTORY / BILINGUAL / KEYNOTE

地震の〈記憶〉 ─平安文学における天変地異─

'MEMORIES' OF EARTHQUAKES Natural Disasters in Heian Literature

藤井由紀子 / Yukiko Fujii

Transl. Amelia Lipko

一首の和歌をめぐる話をしよう。

Let’s talk about a certain poem.

君をおきてあだし心をわが持たば 末の松山波も越えなむ （『古今和歌集』巻二十・東歌・ 一〇九三・よみ人知らず）

Kimi o okite Adashigokoro o Wa ga motaba Sue no matsuyama Nami mo koenan If I should prove false And have a heart for any other Than for you, my love, Then at Sue waves will wash Across the pine-grown mountaintop.

(Kokinwakashū, part 20, Eastern poems, 1093, anonymous)

905年に成立した『古今和歌集』には、東国（ 現在の関東地方や東北地方）で歌われていた 「東歌」が 十三首収められている。この歌は、 その中の「陸奥歌」七首のうちの一首である。 「 陸 奥 」とは、現 在の 東 北 地 方の 太 平 洋 側の 地域を言う。この「陸奥」の国府が、現在の宮 城県に置かれており、多賀城と言った。その役 所のあったあたりが現在の多賀城市であり、 城跡が観光名所として整備されている。

The Kokinwakashū, compiled in 905, contains 13 ‘Eastern poems’ composed in the Eastern provinces (now the Kantō and Tōhoku regions). This one belongs to the seven Michinoku poems, Michinoku being a province located on the Pacific side of modern-day Tōhoku. Its administrative centre was located in modern-day Miyagi Prefecture, in the Tagajō fort. That area has now become the city of Tagajō, while the remnants of the fort have been turned into a sightseeing spot.

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この多賀城市内に小高い丘がある。それ が、この歌に詠み込まれている「末の松山」で あるとされているi 。多 賀 城 跡よりは海（ 仙 台 湾）に近く、内陸に約2km入ったところに位置 している。江戸時代、松尾芭蕉もここを訪れて おり、 『 奥の細道』にはそこに寺があったこと が記されている。その寺は現在も残っており、 宝国寺と言う。高台にある本堂の奥のさらに 高くなったところに二本の松の木がそびえ、 この場所が今も 「末の松山」 と呼ばれている。 その「末の松山」を詠み込んだこの歌は、 内容的には恋の歌である。解釈してみよう。 あなた以外の人に心を動かすような浮気 心を私が持ったならば 末の松山をきっと波も越えることでしょう わかりにくい歌である。なぜわかりにくい のかというと、上の句の「あなた以外の人を愛 する」 ことと、下の句の「末の松山を波が越す」 ことが、どう関係しているのかが判然としない からである。浮気心を起こすと、なぜ末の松山 を波が越えるのか。 この歌が 恋の歌であることは動かない。 だとすれ ば、 「 末の松山波も越えなん」とは、 絶対に起こらないことを表すと理解するのが わかりやすい。つまり、あなた以外の人を好き になったら、末の松山を波が越えるでしょう、 でも、末の松山を波が越すことは絶対にない のだから、私があなた以外の人を好きになる ことも絶対にありません、という解釈である。 ただ、そのように解釈したとしても、末の松山 を波が越すという現象が、なぜ 絶対に起こら ないことを表すのかが、結局は、よくわからな い。

1「末の松山」の場所については、諸説あ

る。岩手県にある浪打峠ではないかという説 も有名。

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There is a small hill in Tagajō. Some believe it to be the ‘pine-grown mountaintop’ of Sue referenced in the poem. 1 It is located approximately 2km inland, close to the sea at Sendai Bay. In the Edo period, Matsuo Bashō visited it and made note of a temple he found there in Oku no hosomichi (‘The Narrow Road to the Interior’). The temple, called Hōkokuji, remains to this day. Behind the main building on a hill, in an even higher spot, two pine trees tower over the surroundings. Nowadays, this place is still referred to as Sue no matsuyama, the Sue pine-grown mountaintop.

The poem we have at hand is a love poem. Let’s try interpreting it.

It is not an easy text to understand.

Where the difficulty lies is that ‘loving someone other than you’ does not clearly connect with the ‘waves washing across the mountaintop’. Why should the sea break over Sue if the speaker is unfaithful to his (or her) beloved?

There is no doubt that this is a love poem. Consequently, we can easily assume that waves washing across the pine-grown mountaintop at Sue is something that will never happen. In other words, according to this interpretation, if I fall in love with someone other than you, the sea will rise up over the mountain; but since that will never happen, I will only ever love you. Yet this still does not explain why the phenomenon should signify something impossible.

1 There are various theories about the location of ‘Sue no matsuyama’. One famous theory claims it is the Namiuchitōge in Iwate Prefecture.

平安時代の都の人たちも、そのことが理 解できなかったようで、 この歌の解釈はいくつ かの歌学書でも議論されている。 しかし、よく わからないながらも、恋の歌としてこの歌は愛 された。 「 末の松山」は、男女の変わらぬ愛情 を示す表現として、その後も盛んに和歌に詠 まれ、定着していくこととなる。現代でも、末の 松山を波は越さないものだという前提でこの 歌を捉えることが一般的であった。 しかし、この思い込みに、日本文学とはま ったく異なる分 野 の 研 究 者 から疑 問 が 投 げ かけられる。2007年、水工学者である河野幸 夫は、この歌に詠まれている 「波」は「津波」の ことではないかとする論文を発表する2 。河野 は、海底遺跡を調査し、平安時代に陸奥国で 起こった地震の実態に迫った。その地震はマ グニチュード8.2～3。多賀城付近にも8メート ルの津波が押し寄せたことが推測できるのだ という。

It seems that people of the Heian period capital also could not fully grasp it, since several scholarly books on poetry from the era discuss possible interpretations of the poem. Nonetheless, understood or not, it became a beloved love poem. The pine-grown mountaintop at Sue emerged as a popular element in waka poetry, establishing itself as a symbol of unwavering love between a man and a woman. In the modern times as well the most common interpretation of this poem was based on the assumption that the waves will never wash across the mountain at Sue. However, a researcher from a completely different field to Japanese literature has challenged this belief. In 2007, hydraulics expert Kōno Yukio published a thesis contending that the ‘waves’ mentioned in the poem actually refer to tsunami. 2 While investigating undersea ruins, he began to grasp the true scope of an earthquake that had struck the Michinoku Province in the Heian period, said to have been a magnitude 8.2–3. We can suppose that the vicinity of Tagajō was hit by waves eight metres high.

2 Kawano, Yukio. 'Utamakura "Sue no Matsuyama" to kaitei kōkogaku [Uta2 河野幸夫「歌枕「末の松山」 と海底考古学」

（『国文学』二〇〇七年十二月臨時増刊号）。

makura "Sue no Matsuyama" and submarine archeology].' Kokubungaku: kaiyaku to kyōzai no kenkyū 52, No. 16 (2007): 78-85.

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Fig. 2 Utsusemi 空蝉 from the Genji Monogatari Series by Hiroshige (1852).

河野が言う平安時代の大地震とは、869 年5月26日に起こった貞観地震のことである。 この地震については、歴史書である『日本三 代実録』に記録が 残っている。原文は漢文だ が、現代語訳で紹介する。

3 原文では、海から「数十百里」 とある。 この

数字の読み方にも諸説あるが、河野は7kmと している。

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陸奥の国が 大きく揺れた。昼間のように 明るくなった。 しばらく揺れがつづき、人々は 叫び 、伏したまま起き上がれなくなった。ある 者は家屋に押しつぶされ、ある者は割れた地 面に飲み込まれた。馬や 牛が狂ったように走 り、お互いに踏 みつけ合う。城郭や 倉庫は倒 れ、門・塀・壁は崩れ、その数は数えきれない。 海の入口が 鳴り響き、その音は雷のよう だった。激しい波が押し寄せる。川をさかのぼ り、さらに広がって、城下に至る。海岸からか なり内陸まで 3 波が広がり、その端がわからな い。野原も道もすべて海となった。舟に乗る余 裕もなく、山に登る時間もなかった。溺死した 者は千人ほど。財産もほとんど失われた。

This Heian period calamity that Kōno spoke about was the Jōgan earthquake, which struck on the 26 th day of the 5 th month in 869 CE. It was recorded in the history book Nihon Sandai Jitsuroku (‘The True History of Three Reigns of Japan’), originally written in classical Chinese (kanbun).

The province of Michinoku shook heavily. It became bright as day. The shaking persisted for a while, people were screaming, bent down, not able to get up. Some were crushed by fallen houses, some swallowed by the ground which split open. Horses and cows were running around in a frenzy, trampling each other down. Castles and warehouses collapsed, gates, fences and walls crumbled; the losses were countless.

The mouth of the sea reverberated, its sound resembling thunder. Tempestuous waves surged forward. They climbed up the river, spreading even further, arriving at the area around the office. They reached quite far inland, 3 without a clear end. Fields and roads all became one with the sea. There was no moment to get on a ship and no time to climb a mountain. About a thousand people drowned. Most of the property was lost, too.

Fig. 3 Matsu no shita no koi 松の下の鯉 by Maruyama Ōkyo (between 1890 and 1910).

3 The original text says that it is located ‘dozens of hundreds of ri’ from the sea. There are various theories about how to interpret this number, but according to Kōno it amounts to 7 km.

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たしかに、 ここには、大津波が陸奥国を襲 ったことが 詳しく記されている。河野は、この 記述が、 「 海底遺跡をもとにシミュレーション した結果と完全に合致する」ものであると述 べる。そして、 「 君をおきて」の歌は、貞観地震 の〈記憶〉をとどめるものなのだと指摘したの である。 しかし、私たち日本文学研究者は、この「 津波」説を積極的には認めていなかった。 『日 本三代実録』の津波の描写は、そうはいっても 多少大げさなところがあるのではないか。た とえそれが正確なものであったとしても、和歌 の解釈に援用できるものなのか。2007年の時 点で、津波説は半信半疑で受け止められてい たと言ってよい。

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This excerpt describes in detail a giant tsunami hitting the Michinoku Province. Kōno claimed that this account ‘corresponds perfectly to the results he obtained by conducting a simulation based on the undersea ruins’. He also asserted that the ‘If I should’ poem records the memory of the Jōgan earthquake.

Nonetheless, we, Japanese literature scholars, at the time were unwilling to accept his tsunami theory. After all, the description in Nihon Sandai Jitsuroku could be somewhat exaggerated.

And even if it was accurate, could it really be of help in interpreting a waka?

In 2007, Kōno’s hypothesis was received with much doubt.

─しかし。 そのわ ずか4年後、私たちは、 『 日本三代 実録』の記述が大げさではなかったことを、現 実の光景に照らし合わ せて、痛切に理解する ことになったのだった。 2011年3月11日。東日本大震災、発生。 いにしえの陸奥国、東北地方の太平洋側 を中心とした地域を襲った地震は、マグニチュ ード9、最大震度7という、恐ろしく巨大なもの だった。地震の揺れそのものによる被害より も、その直後に東北各地を襲った津波の被害 が大きく、多くの人々が津波にのまれて命を落 とした。10mを越す高い波が町を飲み込んで いく衝撃的な映像は、世界中で大きく報道さ れた。防波堤を乗り越えて海から陸へと押し 寄せる津波。いったん陸に上がった津波が非 常に速いスピードで進み、あっというまにあた り一面が水に沈んでいく光景は、 『 三代実録』 に描かれていた貞観地震の様子とまったく同 じものであった。

However, a mere four years later, we learned the hard way that the Nihon Sandai Jitsuroku account was not so improbably after all.

On 11th March 2011 the Great East Japan earthquake took place.

The earthquake that struck the Pacific seaboard of the Tōhoku area, once known as the Michinoku Province, reached magnitude 9 with a seismic intensity of 7. Its strength was dreadful.

Besides the shaking itself, most suffering was wrought by the subsequent tsunami that hit various parts of Tōhoku – thousands lost their lives. The devastating video of an over-10-metre-high wave engulfing the city was transmitted across the whole world. The tsunami breached the breakwater and surged towards land. It rose up and advanced with extreme speed, submerging the surrounding area instantaneously. It was exactly like the Jōgan earthquake described in Nihon Sandai Jitsuroku.

< Fig. 4 Print illustrating the tsunami that followed the 7.2 magnitude Meiji Sanriku earthquake of 1896.

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東日本大震災の際、 「 末の松山」はどのよ うな状態だったのか。 多賀城市も、大津波に襲わ れた。市内の ３分 の１が 浸 水し、死 亡 者 は1 8 8 人 4 。日本 文 学研究者である小林一彦のレポート5 によれ ば、津波は、宝国寺の石段まで押し寄 せたら しい。 しかし、さらに高台にある二本の松の場 所までは、津波は及ばなかった。つまり、東日 本大震災の津波は、 「 末の松山」を越えなかっ たのである。

But what happened to the pinegrown mountaintop at Sue during the Great East Japan earthquake?

Tagajō city was also hit by the great tsunami. One third of the town ended up underwater, resulting in the deaths of 188 people 4. According to a report

by Kobayashi Kazuhiko, 5 a researcher in Japanese literature, waves arrived at the stone stairway of the Hōkokuji temple. However, they did not reach the two pine trees, which were at a higher elevation. In other words, the tsunami caused by the Great East Japan earthquake did not wash across the Sue mountaintop.

4 'Summary of the damage from the 4 「多賀城市における東日本大震災の被害

状況概要（平成30年8月1日更新）」

5 小林一彦「講演録：末の松山波も越えな

む─東日本大震災と方丈記・源氏物語そして 古今和歌集─」 （『藝文研究』101号、2011年 12月）。

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2011 Great East Japan Earthquake (updated 1 August 2018)'.

5 Kobayashi Kazuhiko, ‘(kōenroku) Sue no Matsuyamanami mo koenamu: Higashi Nihon daijishin to Hōjōki, Genji monogatari soshite Konkin wakashū,’ Geibun kenkyū 101, No. 1 (2011): 63-79.

Fig. 5 Picture of a residential quarter of Tagajō showing the aftermath of the tsunami.

Taken one month after the 2011 great Tōhoku earthquake.

この事実は、感動的である。従来の「末の 松山」を波が越すことは絶対にないという解 釈が、間違ってはいなかったことを表している ようにも思われる。東日本大震災でも津波は「 末の松山」を越えなかったのだから、貞観地 震のときにもきっと越えなかっただろう、と推 測する研究者もいる。 しかし、そうだろうか。そ れは、 「 絶対に」起こらないことと言うには、あ まりにもギリギリの場所を指してはいないだ ろうか。あともう少し高い津波が来れば、丘の 頂上まですべて飲み込まれるのではないかと いう緊迫感があったはずの場所を、 「 絶対に」 越えないと言って、自分の愛の誓いとして堂々 と使えるものなのだろうか。

It is a stirring realisation. One could take it as proof that the conventional interpretation of waves never breaking over the Sue mountain was correct.

Some researchers presume that if the Great East Japan earthquake tsunami did not submerge the hill, then it cannot have done so in case of the Jōgan earthquake. However, is that really true? In saying that it will never happen, does the poem not point to a spot that is dangerously close to it? Can you so brazenly swear your love, claiming that a place that might have been submerged under a slightly higher wave would never end up underwater?

17

「末の松山」を、実際に波が 越したのか、 越さなかったのか、というのは、あまり重要な 問題ではないように思われる。重要なのは、 も し、 「 末 の 松 山 」までもが の み込まれてしまう 津波が来るとすれば、それは、貞観地震と同じ かそれ以上の大地震が起こる状況を指してい るという点である。そして、東国の人々は、それ が 非常に恐ろしいことであるということを理 解していたという点である。 つまり、この歌は、もし、恋の相 手を自分 が 裏切ることがあったら、恐ろしい災害が 起 こるだろう、と宣言する歌なのである。そして、 その宣言は、相手に対してなされるものでは なかった。神 に対 する宣 誓なのである。平 安 時代の人々は、大きな自然災害は、神が 引き 起こしたものであると考えた。 「 末の松山」を「 波が越す」のは、誓いを破った自分に対して神 が起こす罰なのである。和歌文学研究者であ る山本啓介は、この歌を「大災害への畏怖を 抱いた上での宣誓」と解す 6 。神に誓ってあな ただけを愛し続けるという約束が果たされな かったときに、神罰としての津波が起こる。で も、津波は起こらない。なぜなら私はあなたを 一生愛し続けるのだから─。そんな強い思い が、この歌には込められていると読むべきな のである。

6 山本啓介「「末の松山」を波は越えたの

か」 （『日本文学』60巻8号、2011年8月）。

18

Ultimately, it is insignificant whether the waves really traversed the pinegrown mountaintop at Sue or not. What matters is that if a tsunami swallowed up the hill, it would mean the coming of a calamity equal to or stronger than the Jōgan earthquake, and that the people of Tōgoku acknowledged it as something extremely frightening.

In other words, the speaker in the poem proclaims that if he or she betrays their beloved, a terrible disaster shall occur. And what’s more, the declaration is not addressed to the lover.

It is a pledge to the gods. People from the Heian period believed that natural disasters were caused by a higher power. The waves breaking over the mountaintop would be a punishment administered by the gods to the speaker, should the latter break their oath.

Yamamoto Keisuke, an expert in waka poetry, interprets it as ‘an oath made upon the dread of a great disaster’. 6 If I do not keep the promise I made to the gods to love only you, a tsunami, a divine punishment, will occur. However, that will not happen. Why? Because I will love you forever. Such is the kind of strong devotion that should be read from this poem.

6 Yamato Keisuke, ‘ ‘Sue no Matsuyama’ wo nami wa koeta no ka,’ Nihon bungaku 60, No. 8 (2011): 64-68.

Fig. 6 ‘The Poet Ariwara no Narihira (825–880) and Ono no Komachi’ from the series Five Colours of Love for the Six Poetic Immortals 『五色染六歌仙』 ( 在原業平と小野小町).

Kitagawa Utamaro 1789 ca.

19

陸奥国で生まれた「末の松山」の歌は、地 震と津波、そして神への恐れの感情を、愛の誓 いへと転化させたところにおもしろさがあっ た。命をかけた熱い思いが込められた歌だか らこそ、たくさんの人に歌われ、都にも伝わっ ていったのだと考えられる。 しかし、津波を目 の当たりにしたことのない都の人々にとって、 この歌の真の意味を理解することはできなか った。 「 末の松山」と 「波」の組み合わ せは、神 罰としての意味を失い、男女の変わらぬ愛を 示 す 表 現としての み受け入れられていく。東 日本 大 震 災をきっかけとして、この 歌 に込め られた津波の〈記憶〉が掘り起こされるまで、 じつに、1100年もの時間がかかったことにな る。 20

日本の歴史は、地震の歴史と言っても過 言ではない。その〈記憶〉が一首の和歌に刻ま れている。この歌は、これからの千年、貞観地 震だけではなく、東日本大震災の〈記憶〉もと どめながら、受け継がれていかなければなら ないだろう。

Fig. 7 Fig. 8 ‘Ghosts of the Taira at Daimotsu Bay’ (大物の浦平家 の亡霊) by Utagawa Kuniyoshi, 1849–1852.

The poem about the pine-grown mountaintop at Sue, composed in the Michinoku Province, is interesting because it transforms the dread of the earthquake, the tsunami, and the gods into a pledge of love. It might be because it conveys such willingness to surrender life for love, that it was read by so many people and eventually reached the capital. However, those city-dwellers who had never seen a tsunami could not comprehend its real meaning. The imagery of Sue mountain and the waves lost the implication of divine punish-

ment and came to be understood only as an expression of unwavering love between a man and a woman. 1100 years had to pass before the Great East Japan earthquake unearthed the memory of the tsunami written into this poem.

It would not be an overstatement to describe the history of Japan as the history of earthquakes. This memory was etched into a waka poem. Over the next thousand years, it must be passed on not only as a recollection of the Jōgan earthquake, but also that of the Great East Japan earthquake.

21

Fig. 8 Poems from the ‘Collection of Poems Ancient and Modern’, known as the ‘Murasame Fragments’. (Ndr: This poem does not correspond to the poem described in the present article). Traditionally attributed to Nijō Tameyo, early 14 th century.

付記 本稿は、2020年3月11日に、ルーヴェン・ カトリック大学で行った同題の講演の一部を 基にしたものです。講演会の開催にご尽力く ださった先生方、ご 清聴くださった日本学科 の学生のみなさんに、この場を借りてお礼を 申し上げます。そして、今、 この原稿を書いてい るのもまた3月11日。依頼をくださった本誌編 集部のみなさまに感謝すると同時に、12年前 の大地震で失わ れた多くの命に心から哀悼 の意を表します。

22

Note This article is based on a fragment of a lecture on the same topic which was conducted on 11 th March 2020 at KU Leuven. I would like to give thanks to the professors who did their utmost effort to organise the event and to the Japanology students who kindly participated. Three years have passed, and I am now writing this draft on 11 th March. Thankful to the editorial team who asked me for this contribution, I would also like to express heartfelt condolences for the many lives lost during the great earthquake 12 years ago.

Translator’s Note

The difficulty in interpreting this poem, as well as poetry in general, can also be illustrated by how different its various translations into English are.

I decided to base mine on the version

by Edwin Cranston since it corresponded best to the content of the article, although personally I was very moved

by Wayne P. Lammers’ translation. Here you can read five renditions, arranged chronologically.

if ever I should change my mind and banish you from my heart then would great ocean waves rise and cross Suenomatsu Mountain

Would I be the sort to cast you aside and turn to someone new?

Sooner would the waves traverse Sue-no-matsu Mountain.

If I should prove false And have a heart for any other Than for you, my love, Then at Sue waves will wash Across the pine-grown mountaintop.

Helen Craig McCullough, Kokin Wakashu: The First Imperial Anthology of Japanese Poetry: With ‘Tosa Nikki’ and ‘Shinsen Waka’ (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1985), 244.

If I ever, With fickle heart, turned away From you to another— It would be when the waves of the sea rose up To break over the pine mountains of Sué.

Wayne P. Lammers, The Tale of Matsura: Fujiwara Teika’s Experiment in Fiction (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992), 161.

Laurel Rasplica Rodd and Mary Catherine Henkenius, Kokinshū: A Collection of Poems Ancient and Modern (Boston: Cheng & Tsui, 1996), 372.

Edwin A. Cranston, A Waka Anthology, Volume Two: Grasses of Remembrance (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006), 12.

Were my heart false and I to turn my back upon my lord, the waves would reach beyond the peak of Matsu Mountain

Torquil Duthie, The Kokinshū: Selected Poems (New York: Columbia University Press, 2023), 222.

23

推薦図書 鴨長明『方丈記』 保立道久『かぐや姫と王権神話─『竹取物語』 ・天皇・火山神話』 （ 歴史新書ｙ 2010年） 保立道久『歴史のなかの大地動乱─奈良・平安の地震と天皇』 （ 岩波新書 三田村雅子・河添房江編『源氏物語をいま読みよく4 年）

2012年）

天変地異と源氏物語』 （ 翰林書房

2013

串田久治編『天変地異はどう語られてきたか─中国・日本・朝鮮・東南アジア』 （ 東方選書 年）

2020

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Suggested Readings Kamo, Chōmei. Hōjōki [An Account of My Hut]. Tōkyō: Itakuraya shobō, 1903.

Hotate, Michihisa. Kaguyahime to ōken shinwa: Taketori monogatari, Tennō, kazan shinwa [Princess Kaguya and the myth of royal authority: The tale of Taketori, the Emperor, and myths of volcanoes]. Tōkyō: Yōsensha, 2010.

Hotate, Michihisa. Rekishi no naka no daichidōran: Nara, Heian no jishin to tennō [Earthquakes in history: Earthquakes and emperors in the Nara and Heian periods]. Tōkyō: Iwanami shoten, 2012.

Mitamura, Masako, and Fusae Kawazoe (ed.). Tenpen chii to Genji monogatari [Natural disasters and the tale of Genji]. Tōkyō: Kanrin shobō, 2013.

Kujida, Hisaharu (ed.). Tenpen chii wa dō kataratekita ka: Chūgoku, Nihon, Chōsen, Nanboku Ajia [How are natural disasters told?: China, Japan, Korea, and North and South Asia]. Tōkyō: Tōhō shoten, 2020.

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Fig. 1 ‘Thunderbolts Striking the Seiryōden Palace’, the Metropolitan version of Tenjin engi emaki (Karmic Origin of the Deity Tenjin), Scroll b Section 7. Titled Illustrated Legends of the Kitano Tenjin Shrine; late thirteenth century; set of five handscrolls; ink, colour, and cut gold on paper; 28.8 × 571.4–894.5 cm. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

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ARTS

LITERATURE

FALLING THUNDER AND FLOODING RIVERS The Disasters Portrayed in the Karmic Origins of Tenjin Fengyu Wang (王風雩)

Lightning strikes at the imperial palace!

(Fig. 1) Breaching the roof, a thunder deity descends on black clouds. Raising his drumsticks in both hands, he blasts the space with thunder on the drums flanking him either side. Lightning bolts are unleashed in crooked, flaming strikes with gold flares. The courtiers flee and perish – one is struck down and thrown into the air, relinquishing his bow and arrows, wielded in vain defence; another, falling onto his back, has his face catch fire, his official cap tumbling and his hair queue wavering; others, too, succumb one after another, scattering around a raised tatami-mat in disarray.

1 The Seiryōden Hall was one of the main buildings in the Imperial

Palace (dairi 内裏) in the old capital

What is captured in this thirteenth-century image is one of the most iconic portrayals of natural disasters in Japanese art, ‘Thunderbolts Striking the Seiryōden Hall’ (Seiryōden rakurai 清涼殿 落雷). 1 It is a pivotal episode in a religious narrative called Tenjin engi 天神 縁起, or The Karmic Origins of the Deity Tenjin. Brought about towards the end of the twelfth century, the piece narrates the life of court official Sugawara no Michizane (菅原道真; 845–903), from his rise as a poetic prodigy and loyal statesman, to his political downfall due to a false accusation, and eventually, his apotheosis to Tenjin, the Heavenly Deity. Despite his peaceful image in modern times as a patron god of poetry, calligraphy, and scholarship – hence the annual pilgrimage of students visiting his shrine during exam seasons – he first manifested as the vengeful ghost of a bitter Michizane, wrecking the imperial capital with all kinds of calamities, before becoming an awe-inspiring god of worldly disasters who demanded to be pacified.

Heian (now Kyoto). Along with the Palace, it was burned down, abandoned, and rebuilt several times throughout history. Unlike the more ceremonious venue of the Shishin-

den Hall 紫宸殿, Seiryōden served as both the emperor’s habitual residence and a place where the imperial court gathered and other meetings took place – therefore, a fitting venue for the thunderous tragedy.

27

As the sacred text of Karmic Origins states at the end of the scene, ‘Thunderbolts Striking’,

Such were the deeds of King Karai Kakidoku 火雷火気毒王, the Deity of Flaming Thunder and Blazing Poisonous Gas, the third divine messenger, among all the one hundred sixty-eight thousand retainers, of Tenman Daijizai Tenjin 天満大自在天神, the Heavenly Deity of Great Unhinderedness Who Fulfills the Sky. What an inconceivable incident! 2

This ‘inconceivable incident’ actually took place in 930 and was duly noted in several historical records compiled in latter ages, such as the eleventh-century Nihon kiryaku (日本紀略 ‘A Brief History of Japan’). The string of tragedies that transpired in the two decades following Michizane’s death were not interpreted as mere coincidences, especially by the survivors involved in the late statesman’s downfall. It was to placate this divine personification of natural disasters that the so-called illuminated handscrolls (emaki 絵巻) of Tenjin were produced and reproduced over the centuries.

Emaki, a unique mounting format in East Asia that features alternating sections of scripts and paintings, narrates Karmic Origins not only textually but also through vivid visualisations. The selective scenic renderings and how they are executed forms a visual narrative out of the legendary story. Where emphasis is placed, therefore, reveals the social and political motivations of the producers of the scrolls, as well as the authors of the text. From the thirteenth to eighteenth centuries, the same story of Michizane’s life and miracles was repainted and renewed as offerings to the numerous Tenmangū Shrines (天満 宮), erected across Japan for the deity’s veneration. They were commissioned by patrons ranging from high court officials to village priests and monks, and executed by top ranking artists as well as ardent amateurs recruited from local communities. The result is nearly sixty extant sets of Tenjin engi emaki identified by the current scholarship, 3 making it the most prolific title from the ‘Karmic Origin’ genre.

2 All translations of the Karmic Orins of the Deity Tenjin in this article are mine and based on the Metropolitan version with supplements from the 1479 Sata-Bunmei version.

The quoted text is from Scroll b, Section 7 of the MET version. For a comprehensive analysis of Tenjin engi versions and their categorisa-

tion, see Suga Miho 須賀みほ, Tenjin engi no keifu 天神縁起の系譜 (Tokyo:

Chūō Kōron Bijutsu Shuppan, 2004).

3 Suga Miho, Tenjin engi no keifu (Tokyo: Chūō Kōron Bijutsu Shuppan, 2004), 4.

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Why would people repeatedly visualise these tragedies of natural disasters in the format of emaki? Why did certain scenes of impending floods and falling thunder become subjects of fascination for later ages? Among all the possible factors accounting for Tenjin engi’s popularity, this essay explores these questions from the perspective of human responses to natural disasters, which are, I argue, inevitably formed within their specific social and political contexts. I survey the pictorial renderings in a thirteenth-century set of Tenjin engi emaki from the Metropolitan Museum of Arts collection (abbr. the MET version). 4 I will examine how the shifting emphasis from the textual to the visual narrative belies a preferred power structure, where nature, at the time manifesting as a vindictive political enemy to the scrolls’ patrons, could be restored to its proper place and therefore placated.

4 The entire set of five scrolls of the MET version of Tenjin engi emaki can be viewed on the website of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, accessed June 29, 2023.

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From Michizane to Tenjin Born out of Disasters On a spring day in the year 903, Sugawara no Michizane passed away at his humble residence in the southwestern borderland of the country. He had been demoted and sent there in exile from the Heian capital after his political enemies, from the powerful Fujiwara 藤 原 clan, framed him for treason. Michizane would have remained an obscure Heian courtier who, among others, fell from grace in political struggles, were it not for a series of catastrophes and ill-fortunes that would befall the imperial court and, as literature scholar Stanleigh Jones puts it, ‘catapult him to a far more illustrious place in Japanese history and popular culture’. 5 As Michizane’s thunderclouds marched towards the capital, a series of natural calamities occurred in the years following his death. A drought was reported in 903 and prayers for rain were immediately arranged, only to be followed in the next year by thunderstorms and floods, with an epidemic breaking out in between. Soon, fatal events started to strike the imperial city. Within a single decade, the former enemies of Michizane passed away one after another, including, most significantly in 909, the most powerful court aristocrat Fujiwara no Tokihira (藤原時 平; 871–909), the mastermind behind the political scheme against Michizane.

However, unlike the colourful accounts of later centuries, the link between these incidents and a vengeful Michizane did

5 Stanleigh H. Jones Jr., Sugawara and the Secrets of Calligraphy (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), 4.

30

not fully transpire until the death of the crown prince, Tokihira’s nephew, in 923.

Measures to restore Michizane’s name and rank were quickly taken but to no avail. The death toll rose until almost all of Tokihira’s descendants had died out. In 930, a thunderstorm struck the imperial court.

It was these well-recorded misfortunes that propelled people in tenth-century Japan to attribute their meanings retrospectively, leading to the systematic deification of Michizane as the Tenjin deity. However, what is more telling is the addition of a fictionalised episode – another thunder god attack, long proceeding the one introduced above, except with an intriguing twist regarding its political message.

Striking Against Thunder: Court Intrigues and Restored Ordinance In an oblong composition that gradually unfolds from the right (Fig. 2), the palace compound is revealed from the parting ‘lance mists’ (すやり霞 suyari-gasumi). The impending turmoil is rendered in the swirling, unsettled clouds and forceful gusts, echoed by the billowing blinds of a nearby building. Two courtiers flee in a most embarrassing manner, one’s headgear having fallen and another’s shoe dropped. Only as the composition proceeds further, as the viewer gradually unfolds the handscroll, is an assaulting thunder god revealed. 6 Horned, menacing, unleashing golden thunderbolts, he stamps on the roof, breaking a timber lintel, and thrashes his clawed foot above startled statesmen in flight.

Fig. 2 ‘Tokihira Draws His Sword’, the MET version, Scroll b Section 4.

6 To view a handscroll, one must constantly roll up and unroll the scroll to create a ‘viewing window’, usually only slightly more than a shoulder’s length, creating a continuous space for temporal developments as well as visual narratives.

31

Among the chaos, one aristocrat stands tall, holding a sword above his shoulder, and, as if undaunted by the thunderous threat, returns his gaze under a cupped hand to the approaching terror (Fig. 3). He is none other than Tokihira, Michizane’s archenemy, who had risen to a higher rank and ousted the latter in their political clash. He does not shy away from verbally asserting this.

“Back when you served at the court, you stood at a lower rank than I did. Even if you are now divinized, it is still an outrageous impropriety to not restrain yourself in my presence!”

Tokihira shouted with a glare. 7

Fig. 3 Detail of ‘Tokihira Draws His Sword’.

7 Scroll b, Section 4.

32

This seemingly heroic moment, the fact that Tokihira can confront a thunder deity's attack unscathed only by citing court etiquette, emphasises the social and political ideal behind it: the social order at court should never be disturbed – even in the realm of gods and deified spirits. The visual device reinforces this message. Compared to other versions of Tenjin engi emaki, the exceptionally long composition builds up visual suspense for a dramatic revelation of the encounter. The assailing thunder god and four prostrate courtiers form a circular composition centring Tokihira, where the undulating garments of the fallen ones further underscore the latter’s unwavering, steady stance.

Adding to this well-observed courtly order is the depiction of another stoic figure, sitting in the middle of the turmoil with his official cap upright and his shaku 笏 sceptre firmly in his hands – Michizane’s old liege, Emperor Daigo ( 醍醐天皇; 885–930). Contrary to the textual description in the scripture, where the monarch awkwardly covers himself

with his outer garments and enquires about the guardian deity of the day, the pictorial rendering, which appeared in no other version of Tenjin scrolls, portrays him entirely at ease in the centre of the storm.

Here the script and painting diverge – a sacred scripture must be retained faithfully through transmission because of its devotional significance, but a painting is for visual communication with viewers. Despite the historical records and iconographical conventions, a painted scene has more leeway to cater to contemporary preferences.

For the thirteenth-century patrons and producers of the MET version, after two centuries of successfully transforming the god of all sufferings into a tutelary deity for arts and literature, it was the restored political ordinance over natural disasters that they wanted to see, both wishfully in their reality and neatly rendered in the pictorial world.

33

Fire and Floods The Dharmic Prowess of Tendai Monks It soon became apparent that obligations to court etiquette were not enough to curtail the rage of an apotheosised Michizane. In the Karmic Origins narrative, Fujiwara no Tokihira, ailing at the prime age of 39, had two azure dragons glide out of his ears and dissuade a monk from performing the healing ritual. Michizane’s nemesis swiftly perished. What followed was the near wipe-out of Tokihira’s entire lineage. It was Fujiwara no Tadahira (藤原 忠平; 880–949), Tokihira’s brother, and his offspring who devoted themselves most ardently to the pacification and worship of Michizane, to the extent that Tenjin eventually became the protective deity of Tadahira’s later descendants.

Among these Tenjin-revering Fujiwara was the aristocrat-turned-monk Jien (慈円; 1155–1225). He is credited with the creation of the Tenjin engi text itself, as well as the grandiose production of its earliest illuminated version, the 1219 Jōkyū 承久 set. 8 A four-time Abbot of the prestigious Enryakuji Temple 延暦寺, headquarters of the Tendai 天台 sect of Buddhism, Jien devised this most elaborately executed set of Tenjin engi emaki, art historian Ikumi Kaminishi argues, as a pedagogical tool to promote his thoughts on the Six Realms as well as Tendai Buddhist teachings. 9

notes 8 The Jōkyū version of Tenjin engi

carnated into based on the deeds

emaki is named after the reign

conducted in previous lives: celes-

name during which it was donated

tial beings, demigods, humans, ani-

to the Kitano Tenmangū Shrine. It

mals, hungry ghosts, and hell. Later

features the depictions of assault-

in the narrative, another Tendai

ing thunder gods that can boast

monk, nichizō, was given a tour of

being one of the best-known paint-

the Six Realms before encountering

ed scenes in Japanese art. See ‘Ten-

the deified Michizane in his heav-

jin-sama no engi emaki’ 天神様の縁

起絵巻, Kitano Tenmangū, accessed April 29, 2023.

9 In Buddhist cosmology, the Six Realms (六道 rokudō) are six forms of being that one might be rein-

34

enly palace. Ikumi Kaminishi, ‘The Political Culture of a Scroll: Jien’s Appropriation of Kitano Tenjin’, Ars Orientalis 44 (2014): 128.

Before Michizane embarked on his vendetta, he presented himself to the Abbot of Enryakuji Temple, Son’i (尊意; 866–940). The now-deified courtier disclosed that he had meant to do harm to Emperor Daigo, but was prevented by charms the monk had cast, and he pleaded to him to refrain from aiding the imperial household anymore. Upon hearing the Abbot’s rejection,

Michizane’s face changed, and his throat grew dry. Son’i offered him pomegranate to quench his thirst, but Michizane spat the seeds out onto the door, where they turned into flames and ignited the planks. The Senior Prelate Son’i performed the mudra gesture of spraying cleansing water, and the fire subsequently died out. 10

By quenching the flames, Son’i averted one of the most common disasters to have brought down temples and palaces throughout Japan’s history.

Temple fires had acquired a particular layer of meaning in the early medieval times as the thoughts about mappō 末 法, or ‘end of Dharma’, became wellspread from the tenth century. Supposedly, Dharma, or Buddha’s teachings, remains eternal, but it was feared that with the decline of ascetic and theological practices over the centuries, one might lose the capacity to understand them. 11

notes 10 Scroll b Section 3. The MET version text of this section is incomplete, and the painting is missing. In

11 Accordingly, the Three Ages

the usual iconography, the episode

following the historical Buddha’s

is rendered in an impressive contin-

death are called 正法 shōbō (Right

uous composition where the figures

Dharma), 像法 zōbō (Semblance of

of Michizane and Son'i are depicted

Dharma), and mappō (End of Dhar-

twice, usually separated by a view

ma). The calculation of each Age’s

of the garden to indicate the pas-

length varies according to different

sage of time. On one end, Michizane knocks on a door with Son'i behind it, while on the other, Michizane spits fire and Son’i, rendered emphatically in some versions, summons water from nearby jars.

traditions. See Yoshimura Toshiko 吉 村稔子, ‘Heian jidai chūki no saigai to mappō shisō’ 平安時代中期の災害

と末法思想, Kanda gaigo daigaku

nihon kenkyū kiyō 神田外語大学日 本研究所紀要 5 (2013).

35

In 1052, the year when mappō was calculated to begin, the burning down of the Hase-dera Temple 長谷寺 was taken as an indisputable sign by a contemporary diarist. 12 As Jien was well-known for his own pessimistic views on mappō, to him, Son’i’s defence of a temple fire also symbolised Tendai Buddhism’s dharmic power to keep the monastic settlement and community intact in an age of decline.

Another magnificent episode in the Tenjin engi narrative testifies to Tendai practitioners being the only force to counter the deity’s attacks directly.

When the Kamo River 鴨川, the major watercourse in and around the capital, flooded, Son’i was summoned by several imperial edicts. As the Tendai Abbot’s ox cart drove into the overflowing torrents, the floods receded on two sides, revealing a narrow path that closed right after passage. The text made this miracle explicit,

How marvellous is the dharma power of the Senior Prelate, and how prominent is the authoritative prestige of the imperial household? Because of the measures Son’i undertook [later at the palace], Tenjin was appeased for the moment. 13

12 Fujiwara no Sukesusa 藤原資房,

Shunki 春記, qtd. in Yoshimura, ‘Heian jidai no saigai to mappō shisō’, 45.

13 Scroll b, Section 3.

36

Fig. 4 ‘Son’i Crossing the River’, the MET version, Scroll b Section 3.

The painting dramatises this miraculous moment (Fig. 4). Son’i’s ox cart is centred in the composition, surrounded by ferocious waves delineated in dynamic curves and swirls, which concede to only a slight opening. Adding to the peril of this situation are the scattered timbers and wooden basin from a destroyed house, floating downstream with tremendous momentum to the image’s top. Yet Son’i’s vehicle stands firm and prominent: rendered with black sumi-ink in articulate forms, heavily coloured, and meticulously decorated, the entourage emerges out of the pictorial plane in stark contrast to the fading waves – just like the menacing disasters that fade and recede in the advance of a Tendai monk.

Michizane, all-mighty as he appears, is not exempt from the karmic cycles in this Buddhist worldview. Nor

is he unreceptive to dharmic teachings.

Later he would admit in the narrative, speaking of some genuine fear of inundation by the residents of the archipelago,

Initially, I thought of raising my sorrowful tears to submerge the realm of Japan and turn it into an ocean…. However, … onetenth of my hatred from the past has been alleviated by the power of the Exoteric and Esoteric Teachings of Buddhism. 14

14 Scroll c, Section 3.

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A Human at the Centre of the Storm He continues, maintaining that the country remains his enemy and that he cannot always keep his retainers of disaster gods and demons reined in. But with these threats that can manifest into natural catastrophes, the Heavenly Deity also offers solutions, both religious and political: explicitly, a demand that people should erect shrines and venerate him, but implicitly, also a reminder that one should not forget it was the Teachings of Buddhism that saved the day in the end.

Fig. 5 ‘Tokihira Draws His Sword’ adapted in the folding screen format. Titled The Origins of Kitano Tenjin Shrine, attributed to Tawaraya Sōtatsu, midseveteenth century, one six-panel screen, ink on paper, 132.3 × 345.2 cm.

15 For an excellent study on the Genji screens, see Melissa McCormick, ‘Beyond Narrative Illustration: What Genji Paintings Do’, in The Tale of Genji: A Japanese Classic Illuminated, exh. cat.

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During the Muromachi period (1336– 1573), adapting beloved scenes from illuminated handscrolls into enlarged compositions of six-panel folding screens became a common practice.

Contrary to an emaki’s more intimate, exclusive viewing experience, a standalone screen can be placed in a generous space, regarded by multiple people simultaneously, and therefore used to demonstrate the owner’s status and taste. Unlike the popular screens of The Tale of Genji, 15 There are only two known screens adapted from Tenjin engi, portraying the scenes, respectively, of ‘Son’i Crossing the River’ and ‘Tokihira Draws His Sword’ (Fig. 5). Instead of other episodes that feature the narrative’s protagonist, such as those of Michizane’s life stories or Tenjin’s miracles, the patrons and artists of both screens opted for the moments where a human figure confronts, if not overcomes, a natural disaster (Fig. 6).

(New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2019): 43–55.

Fig. 6 Detail of the screen ‘Tokihira Draws His Sword’. The human figure amidst the assualting thunder god is rendered in a dynamic pose and with great details, with special attention to his enlarged, glaring eyes.

The making of Tenjin engi was essentially a human effort to grapple with natural disasters and their seemingly erratic, arbitrary, occurrence. And through rendering these stories in their own narratives, scripted and illuminated, authors and artists could represent and promote their preferred power structures and agendas.

In the production of the Tenjin engi emaki, this article has shown that any response to natural disasters is inevitably embedded in the social and political fabric where human agents are

confined. This argument might resonate especially strongly today, with the frustrating political response to our global climate emergency. In fact, we can never remove the human factor because without humans, natural disasters are simply natural phenomena.

Therefore, natural disasters are just like the vengeful spirits or their illuminated handscrolls, where human actors are always at the centre of their conception and composition.

39

Suggested Readings Borgen, Robert. Sugawara no Michizane and the Early Heian Court. University of Hawaii Press, 1994.

Kaminishi, Ikumi. ‘The Political Culture of a Scroll: Jien’s Appropriation of Kitano Tenjin’. Ars Orientalis 44 (2014): 111–133.

Suga Miho 須賀みほ. Tenjin engi no keifu 天神縁起の系譜. Tokyo: Chūō Kōron Bijutsu Shuppan, 2004.

Takei Akio 竹居明男, ed. Kitano Tenjin engi wo yomu 北野天神縁起を読む. Tokyo: Yoshigawa Kōbunkan, 2008.

Watanabe, Masako. Storytelling in Japanese Art. Exhibition catalogue. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2011.

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Fig. 1 The god Kashima is holding down the big catfish with a keystone. Various small catfish in anthropomorphic form are shown apologising.

42

ARTS

BEWARE OF THE CATFISH! Earthquakes and Satire in Mid-19 th Century Prints Luigi Zeni

Catfish prints (namazue 鯰絵) are a distinct genre of quickly printed broadsheets or leaflets from the late Edo period (1603–1867). 1 The term ‘namazue’ is composed of two words: catfish (namazu 鯰) and picture (e 絵). Catfish are commonly seen as a possible cause of earthquakes in Japanese folktales, which is the main theme of namazue. As can be seen in Figure 1, this kind of print typically looks funny and is accompanied by inscriptions, such as personal thoughts, songs, dialogues, prayers, or puns. Lifting censorship after the Ansei earthquake in 1855 allowed for more freedom of expression, which led to the emergence of this satirical genre of prints, accompanied by rising hope for a more stable society rebuilt from the debris. This article aims to offer the basic knowledge necessary to understand and appreciate these unusual, humorous depictions of catfish. After briefly sketching the historical background wherein these prints were published, it will illustrate how catfish, humans, and gods were often portrayed in namazue – an example of layered irony in the mid-19 th century visual culture of Japan.

1 Two main sources used in this pa-

Historical Context The printing and distribution of catfish prints took place at the very end of the Edo period in a time span of two months. This socio-artistic phenomenon arose after the strike of the Ansei Edo earthquake (ansei edo jishin 安政江 戸地震) on November 11, 1855 (Fig. 2).

One of the consequences of the disaster was the temporary discontinuation of the censor’s involvement in woodblock printing, which allowed some publishers to print images more freely. In this context, unknown artists produced a large number of catfish prints with different functions and meanings which will be analysed later in the article. The production of such prints was terminated as soon as the magistrate was re-established. They were deemed to be inappropriate for distribution mainly due to their overly satirical connotations.

Many prints and wooden boards have been seized and burned.

rekishi minzoku hakubutsukan (ed.).

per are ‘Ouwehand, Cornelis. Nama-

Namazu-e no imajinēshon: Ōjaku bunko

zu-e and their Themes: An Interpretative

shozō – tokubetsu tenji. Sakura: Jinken

Approach to some Aspects of Japanese

bunka kenkū kikō kokuritsu rekishi

Folk Religion. Leiden: Brill, 1964’ and

minzoku hakubutsukan, 2021.’

‘Jinken bunka kenkū kikō kokuritsu

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Fig. 2 Utagawa Kuniyoshi (歌川国芳; 1798–1861). Two pages from a printed book entitled Reports of the great earthquakes of the Ansei era (Ansei kenmon shi 安政見聞志; 1855). Compiled by Kanagaki Robun (仮名垣魯文; 1829–1894).

The 1850s were a decade of social and political turmoil: in early 1854, the US fleet led by commodore Matthew C. Perry (1794–1858) penetrated deep into Edo Bay. The consequent establishment of the Treaty of Kanagawa on the 31 st of March officially enabled commercial trade at the Japanese ports of Shimoda and Hakodate. This added pressure from unequal power distribution between Japan and the West to the already unstable domestic position of the Japanese government. Such radical political changes and the occurrence of natural disasters – the Ansei Edo earthquake was just one of a series of earthquakes in the area – shook the population in Edo. One of the artistic vents to emerge in this period of upheaval was the man44

ufacture of catfish prints meant to be consumed by the broad public. It allowed a short time span of free expression with a fair load of satire, critique of the society, and sometimes subtle erotic implications. For an easier understanding of catfish prints, their subject matter is divided into five categories in this article: the catfish; god Kashima (kashimanokami 鹿島神); the keystone (kanameishi 要石); members of Edo society (carpenters, prostitutes, artisans, etc…); additional figures that emphasise satire in the prints (monkey with gourd, god of thunder, Ebisu, Daikoku, the horse from the Ise Shrine, etc…).

The Catfish (namazu 鯰)

Just as the name implies, the catfish was the main subject of namazue. In the popular imagery of the Edo period, a huge catfish was believed to live under the earth and its shaky movements were the cause of earthquakes around the whole country. The catfish appeared in prints in many ways: as a dead (Fig. 3) or living (Fig. 1 and 4) fish, in anthropomorphic form (Fig. 1 and 4), as a representative of various crafts, as a carrier for the gods (Fig. 7), as an evil-doer (Fig. 1 and 4), and much

more. Particularly after the 1855 Ansei Edo earthquake, the monstrous animal gained popularity acting as destroyer and restorer, eradicator and nourisher of life, being hated and adored. The catfish has an ambiguous role, representing both conflict and harmony: the fish is sometimes depicted as an enemy and sometimes as a saviour. When it appears as a cause of earthquakes, the catfish is abused and hated. At other times, the water creature is adored and seen as an avenger of social injustices.

Fig. 3 The catfish is lying dead on a cutting board. The god Kashima is stabbing the fish with Edo society members gathered around them.

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God Kashima (kashimanokami 鹿島神)

The Keystone (kanameishi 要石)

Kashima, the god worshipped at the Kashima shrine in modern-day Ibaraki prefecture, was another popular subject of catfish prints. He was considered to be the saviour and protector from the turbulent catfish at the time of earthquakes. Kashima is known as the thunder god, or sword god, and is therefore often portrayed stabbing the catfish with a sword to stop it from shaking (Fig. 3). He is also often paired with the keystone to completely block the catfish from moving (Fig. 1).

The keystone, also known as cornerstone of security, foundation stone, or pivot stone, is located in the precincts of the Kashima shrine. This particular stone is thought to hold the catfish on the ground and prevent it from shaking again (Fig. 1). The keystone thus plays an important role in helping god Kashima to control the relentless animal from raging and causing a disaster again.

Members of Edo Society (Carpenters, Prostitutes, Artisans, etc…)

The economic and social impact of earthquakes on the lives of Edo society members often differed depending on their professional occupation. Some profited from the reconstruction of the city and others suffered from the loss of clients or the destruction of their shops. Those who profited from the restoration were firefighters, carpenters, plasterers, landscapers, and roof tile makers, to name some. For example, firefighters were involved in extinguishing fires and dismantling destroyed houses, but also played an active role in cleaning up the debris after the blaze. Those troubled after the earthquake were mainly peo46

ple uninvolved in the reconstruction of the city, such as prostitutes, provincial samurai who lost their dwellings due to the shaking, storage house owners, kabuki actors, landlords, or inlaid shop owners.

This social distinction is reflected in the subject matter of namazue as can be seen in Figure 5. In catfish prints, the people who lost their homes, property, and families in the disaster are shown trying to beat up catfish whenever they find them, but people who made money in the so-called ‘earthquake recovery economy’ try to pacify such anger and rejoice together with the creature.

Fig. 4 This double print represents a scene of apology by the catfish towards Kashima and the gods of Edo. In the left print, the god Ebisu is helping the catfish to write a letter of apology marked by an official seal. In the right print, Kashima and the angry gods are waiting for the catfish to officialise their atonement.

Additional Figures that Emphasize Satire in the Prints (Monkey with Gourd, God of Thunder, Ebisu, Daikoku, Horse from the Ise Shrine, etc…)

Other figures which can be seen in catfish prints add symbolism and meanings to them. For example, near a catfish we might notice a monkey with a gourd (Fig. 5), sometimes trying to stop and control it. This particular scene derives from Zen humour, which was meant to provoke a new way of thinking or seeing in the viewer. In this case, the phrase referred to is: hyōtan de namazu wo osaeru 瓢箪で鮎をおさえる. It can be roughly translated to ‘to pin down a catfish with a gourd’, which may seem an impossible mission considering the slippery characteristic of the fish.

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Fig. 5 The catfish is being beaten and teased by a crowd composed of society members who suffered from the destruction. Besides, a few people are trying to protect the catfish from the crowd's violence. They are the ones who profited from the reconstruction of the city. Moreover, a drunk monkey is lying near the catfish with a gourd.

So how do we stop a slick catfish with a tiny gourd? This question needs to be answered by each viewer on their own.

The people of Edo had a saying that there are four things to be particularly scared of: earthquake, fire, thunder and father (jishin kaminari kaji oyaji 地震雷火 事親父). Thus, the god of thunder was sometimes depicted as offended for being ignored since Edo people were afraid of the earthquake and not of his thunder. For example, in Figure 6, the god of thunder (red figure on the left) is upset and farts on the keystone while complaining about being neglected.

Ebisu 恵比須 and Daikoku 大黒, two of the seven gods of good fortune (shichifukujin 七福神), contribute to the irony of the prints. Ebisu is sometimes depicted as a consultant or guide and

48

helps the catfish to write apology letters to God Kashima (Fig. 4) while Daikoku may be represented as a dispenser of wealth who grants happiness to the disaster profiteers (Fig. 7).

Finally, the sacred horse (shinme 神馬) from the Ise Shrine, current Mie prefecture, one of the most important Shintō shrines dedicated to the sun goddess Amaterasu, helps Kashima to subdue the catfish. It appears in the form of a carrier of Kashima (Fig. 6) or comes alone carrying the Ise flag to stop the enraged creature.

> Fig. 6 The catfish and the keystone with (presumably) Ebisu leaning on it. To the right god Kashima is riding the Ise horse and to the left the thunder god is farting in disappointment.

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Looking at a Catfish Print: ‘A Song to Protect from Earthquakes’ In this section, a specific catfish print and all the elements involved in it will be closely analysed. This print (Fig. 7) is entitled ‘A Song to Protect from Earthquakes’ and might have been intended as a provocative reaction to the consequences of the earthquake. It represents a critique of the society at that time by spotlighting those who were part of the economic recovery of the afflicted areas and profited from the disaster. There are four actors involved in this print: the catfish, Kashima (riding the water creature), Daikoku (above the clouds), and the labourers (carpenters, plasterers, etc.).

The catfish is smiling and has a rather peaceful attitude. At the same time, Kashima, who is riding the catfish, seems kind and friendly with a harmless facial expression. This composition is unusual because in a typical namazue representation a grim-looking Kashima is depicted trying to stop the catfish from moving. Here, however, he is pointing the sword towards the money on the ground and seems to rejoice with the other men about the coins being donated by Daikoku, the god of good fortune associated with wealth and abundance.

The only visual divider in this print is the cloud strip on the upper part of the composition. This hints at the fact that above the clouds there is a divine

sphere with an auspicious occurrence happening. In fact, above the clouds we see Daikoku holding a mallet in his right hand and standing in front of a large rice bag. The mallet and the rice bag are two typical iconographies linked with the god of wealth and abundance.

When shaking his mallet, Daikoku pulls out anything the subject desires: as can be seen in this print, he is raining money on the labourers.

Finally, we see a group of labourers in the lower part of the print next to Kashima and the catfish. They may be carpenters, plasterers, or lumberjacks in the process of picking up gold coins from the ground. The man on the right, who is running towards his colleagues to the left, is wearing a black robe with a big character written in bold lines. It says 當: tou or atari. One of its meanings is ‘success’ or ‘to succeed’. This detail does not only underline the joyful atmosphere that characterises this particular print, but also emphasises the fact that this group of people represents those who profited from the natural disaster and became richer. Such workers typically earned money in the form of wages based on the amount of labour. Even though they used to belong to poorer social classes, their efforts were highly required to rebuild the city, so they gained more wealth after the catastrophe.

> Fig. 7 ‘A Song to Protect from Earthquakes’.

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Let’s now read the inscription in the middle of the print:

地震よけの歌

Jishin yoke no uta

水かみの つげに いのちを たすかりて 六分の うちに 入るぞ うれしき

Mizukami no tsuge ni inochi wo tasukarite rokubu no uchini hairuzo ureshiki

The title of this poem is: ‘A Song to Protect from Earthquakes’.

However, the exact translation of this song is quite ambiguous. In fact, the text contains a double meaning with a joke related to the erotic sphere. In the first part of the song, mizukami no/ tsuge ni/inochi wo/tasukarite, the word ‘water god’ (mizukami) is connected to the concept of mizu shōbai, so it can be translated as ‘the god of the red-light district’. Also, the word tsuge is used here with the meaning of a ‘divine revelation’. This clearly shows the irony of the author behind this text because if we were to translate this first part it would read: ‘Our lives were saved by the divine revelation of the god of the red-light district and…’

The second part reads ‘rokubu no/ uchi ni/hairuzo/ureshiki’. The term rokubu was originally a word for pilgrims and pilgrimage, but in the Edo period it acquired the slang meaning of a ‘prostitute’. Therefore, this is how we could 52

translate the phrase rokubu no/uchi ni/hairuzo: ‘we go to the house of the prostitutes’. This is followed by ureshiki which means ‘We are so happy’ or ‘I am so happy’. The whole translation reads: ‘Our lives were saved by the divine revelation of the god of the red-light district and we go to the house of the prostitutes. We are so happy!’

While reading this song, it becomes clear that the author wants to criticise the behaviour of the labourers who seemed to use their newly found wealth to visit brothels. Summing up, seen in this print are Kashima and the catfish laughing, Daikoku endlessly sprinkling money onto the labourers, and a funny song with an ironic erotic double meaning. All these elements together create a joke, an image made by the artist who wanted to criticise the labourers who became richer after an earthquake and used their money on things like brothels, while most others suffered from the aftereffects of a devastating natural catastrophe.

The Catfish Nowadays

Although namazue became popular in a specific time frame and were the result of social instability and struggle, the idea of an earth-moving catfish existed before and continued to exist after the Ansei Edo earthquake and the turbulent months following it.

To this day, fascination for an imaginary realm connected to natural catastrophes has remained strong in Japan. Important subjects, such as the fear of the catfish and the cult of the keystone, have been romanticised and were turned into popular contemporary images.

For example, the catfish spread around the country in the form of cute road alert signs (Fig. 8).

The keystone, on the other hand, reappeared as the only means to rescue Japan from a series of devastating catastrophes, while at the same time being the origin of a turbulent but undeniable love story, in the animated movie Suzume (Fig. 9), the latest production of Makoto Shinkai (新海誠; 1973 –) in 2022.

The uncontrollable and frightening presence of earthquakes and other natural catastrophes in Japan is, and will probably always be, one of the main subjects in literature, movies, prints, paintings, and much more.

>

Fig. 8 Road alert sign in case of an earthquake in Kawasaki, Kanagawa prefecture.

Picture taken on February 12, 2023. > Fig. 9 Daijin, one of the keystones featured in the film Suzume directed by Makoto Shinkai in 2022.

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FILM

BILINGUAL / REVIEW

TOKYO MAGNITUDE 8.0 RITRARRE UNA CATASTROFE ATTRAVERSO L’ANIMAZIONE

TOKYO MAGNITUDE 8.0 DEPICTING A CATASTROPHE THROUGH ANIMATION

Christian Esposito

Da secoli il Giappone si serve dei prodotti di finzione per esorcizzare la paura. Nel 1855, dopo il terremoto a Edo – l’odierna Tokyo –, vennero prodotte stampe in cui il pesce gatto, ritenuto responsabile delle scosse, era raffigurato in situazioni tra il comico e il satirico; queste rappresentazioni permettevano alla popolazione di prendere le distanze dalla tragicità dell'evento. Nel 1954, per provare ad elaborare il trauma delle bombe atomiche sganciate dagli americani su Hiroshima e Nagasaki nel 1945, venne realizzato il primo film di Godzilla (Gojira ゴジラ), nel quale la distruzione di Tokyo ad opera del mostro alludeva alla crudeltà dell'umanità e ai pericoli del conflitto nucleare.

In questo contesto di esorcizzazione del terrore si colloca perfettamente Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 (Tōkyō Magunichūdo 8.0 東京マグニチュード8.0), serie animata di 11 episodi trasmessa dal 9 luglio al 17 settembre 2009 sull’emittente Fuji TV e realizzata dagli studi d’animazione Bones e Kinema Citrus. Lo studio Bones, attivo dal 1998 nel settore, tra le sue produzioni animate più acclamate annovera l’adattamento di Fullmetal Alchemist (serie del 2003-04 e del 2009-10), manga di Hiromu Arakawa considerato tra i capostipiti del battle shonen negli ultimi decenni. Kinema Citrus invece è una realtà più giovane: fondata nel 2008 e inaugurata proprio con Tokyo Magnitude 8.0, ha saputo imporsi nel panorama mainstream dell’animazione grazie a prodotti come Made in Abyss (2017), trasposizione dell’omonimo manga di Akihito Tsukushi.

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(Transl. Dœlma Goldhorn)

Fig. 1 Movie poster.

Directed by Tachibana Masaki Episodes 11 Duration 24 minutes Genre Drama Released date July 9 - September 19 2009

Fig. 2 Mirai durante il terremoto a Odaiba.

Fig. 2 Mirai during the earthquake in Odaiba.

Japan has a great tradition of using art as an instrument to exorcise fear: after the 1855 earthquake in Edo – today's Tokyo – prints were produced incorporating the catfish, a creature thought to be responsible for the tremors, in everyday comical and satirical situations, with the intent of disempowering the natural phenomenon in the eyes of the population. In 1954, to process the trauma of the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945, the first film of Godzilla (Gojira ゴジラ) was realised. As a work of science fiction it portrays the giant monster – or kaiju – destroying Tokyo, expressing the cruelty of humanity and the dangers of nuclear conflict.

Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 (Tōkyō Magunichūdo 8.0 東京マグニチュード8.0) fits perfectly within this context of exorcising terror. It is an 11-episode animated series aired from 9 th July to 17 th Septem-

ber 2009 on Fuji TV, and produced by the animation studios Bones and Kinema Citrus. Bones, active in the industry since 1998, boasts among its most acclaimed animated productions the adaptations of Fullmetal Alchemist (2003–04 and 2009–10), a manga by Hiromu Arakawa regarded as one of the pioneers of battle shōnen in recent decades. Kinema Citrus, instead, is a younger entity; founded in 2008 and launched with Tokyo Magnitude 8.0, it has established itself in the mainstream animation scene with productions like Made in Abyss (2017), an adaptation of the homonymous manga

by Akihito Tsukushi.

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Fig. 3 Mirai e Yūki esausti, circondati dai cittadini disperati di Tokyo.

Fig. 3 Mirai and Yūki exhausted, surrounded by the desperate citizens of Tokyo.

Della regia degli episodi si è occupato Masaki Tachibana, la cui carriera è costellata di progetti importanti, da Fullmetal Alchemist ad Attack on Titan e i film di Neon Genesis Evangelion, mentre la stesura della sceneggiatura è stata affidata a Kazuya Murata e Natsuko Takahashi, quest’ultima nata come animatrice in Akira di Katsuhiro Otomo nel 1988 e in seguito divenuta sceneggiatrice di prodotti legati a Mobile Suit Gundam e Samurai 7. Non stupisce, dunque, che una tale fucina di talenti abbia generato un’opera tecnicamente curata e in grado di suscitare emozioni sincere e riflessioni profonde.

Directing the episodes was Masaki Tachibana, whose career is filled with significant projects, from Fullmetal Alchemist to Attack on Titan and the Neon Genesis Evangelion films. Scriptwriting was entrusted to Kazuya Murata and Natsuko Takahashi. The latter began her journey as an animator on Katsuhiro Otomo's Akira in 1988 and she subsequently became a scriptwriter for productions related to Mobile Suit Gundam and Samurai 7. It should not come as a surprise, therefore, that such a force of talent would produce a technically accomplished work, capable of evoking profound emotion and reflections.

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Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 racconta del viaggio disperato di Yūki e Mirai, fratello e sorella di rispettivamente 9 e 12 anni che vivono a Tokyo con la loro famiglia.

A seguito di una fortissima scossa di terremoto i due bambini affronteranno numerosi ostacoli per tornare tra le braccia dei genitori; ad aiutarli ci sarà Mari, giovane madre incontrata casualmente durante il disastro.

La serie è una cronaca spietata ma non morbosa dell'abbattersi di un terremoto. L’utilizzo di grafica 3D per ricreare l’oscillazione del ponte di Odaiba, il crollo della Tokyo Tower, la devastazione generale che affligge la

città: tutto ciò che viene mostrato è verosimile ed è frutto delle approfondite ricerche effettuate da parte dello studio Bones su veri terremoti, anche con l’uso di simulatori – come recita il disclaimer all’inizio di ogni puntata –.

La tecnica d’animazione principale della serie è perlopiù quella tradizionale, che nella sua semplicità stilistica dona ai volti linee morbide – specialmente i bambini – e una maggiore espressività dovuta all’esagerazione dei tratti somatici propria degli anime, seppure i personaggi siano ben integrati all'interno degli ambienti realistici in cui vagano disperati.

The events of Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 focus on the desperate journey of Yūki and Mirai, a brother and sister aged 9 and 12, who live in Tokyo with their family. Following a severe earthquake, the two children must face an array of obstacles to return to the arms of their parents; assisting them is Mari, a young woman and mother who they happen to encounter during the disaster.

A distinctive feature of Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 is its ability to tell a story without glamourising the impact of the earthquake. The use of 3D graphics to depict the swaying of the Odaiba bridge, the collapse of Tokyo Tower, and the

widespread devastation that befalls the city - everything shown pertains to reality thanks to the thorough research on actual events undertaken by the Bones studio, as well as the use of earthquake simulators (as stated in the disclaimer at the beginning of each episode).

The primary animation technique of the series is, however, traditional, which in its stylistic simplicity allows for characters with softly drawn faces – especially the children – and enhanced expressiveness due to the exaggeration of facial features typical in anime.

Nonetheless, the characters are well-integrated into the detailed urban environments through which they wander in despair.

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L'anime descrive con precisione le conseguenze del terremoto: non solo i danni causati dalla scossa principale e le successive di assestamento ma anche gli incendi, l’acqua alta dovuta al crollo del ponte e l’interruzione delle linee di comunicazione. In mezzo a tutto questo, la prontezza delle istituzioni giapponesi nell’affrontare l’emergenza: le forze di polizia, l’esercito, i pompieri, gli operatori sanitari completamente a disposizione dei civili, posti di blocco per garantire la sicurezza generale, squadre di salvataggio, tendopoli e ospedali improvvisati, stand per distribuire razioni di cibo e medicine. La sventura di essere un Paese spesso soggetto a catastrofi naturali viene compensata in parte dall’efficienza dello Stato e dall'altruismo dei suoi cittadini che, con qual-

che eccezione, sono sempre disposti ad aiutare il prossimo tramite la collaborazione volontaria con le forze dell’ordine, ad esempio nella distribuzione di beni di prima necessità.

Per quanto il dramma venga gestito dignitosamente su larga scala, a livello individuale provoca conseguenze complesse e talvolta inattese. Nel caso di Mirai, per esempio, la scossa causa un cambio totale di prospettiva. Se la ragazzina prima era in uno stato di perenne apatia e sempre in conflitto coi genitori spesso assenti per lavoro, vedendo Tokyo in rovina, la morte per le strade e l'umanità dimostrata dalle persone è costretta a riconsiderare il valore di ciò che ha e a mettere in discussione il suo rapporto con la famiglia.

The anime depicts multiple aspects of the earthquake's aftermath, not just the damage caused by the main shock and subsequent aftershocks but also fires, rising water levels due to the bridge's collapse, the disruption of communication lines, and amidst all this the readiness of Japanese authorities to face the emergency. The police, the military, firefighters, and medical staff are entirely at the service of civilians.

Checkpoints are established to ensure everyone's safety, there are rescue teams, improvised shelter camps and hospitals, and stalls distributing food rations and medicine: all are executed promptly and with care. The misfortune of being a country subject to natural hazards is compensated in part by the efficiency of the state and its citizens, because the latter – apart from a few individuals lacking common sense –

are depicted as willing to help their neighbours by voluntarily cooperating with the authorities, for instance, in the distribution of essential supplies.

While the large-scale drama is somewhat manageable, it triggers complex and often unexpected repercussions on an individual level. In the case of Mirai, for instance, a complete shift in perspective regarding every facet of her life before the quake is witnessed. The young girl was previously aloof, disillusioned about the future, perpetually in conflict with her parents due to their frequent absences, bored with the school routine, and apathetic to everything else. In the days following the earthquake, however, she has the chance to reflect on what her family does for her on a daily basis and on her own ingratitude.

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Fig. 4 Da sinistra a destra: Mirai, Mari e Yūki sul traghetto di soccorso.

Fig. 4 From left to right: Mirai, Mari and Yūki on the rescue ferry.

She realises how fortunate she was to complain about things that, when compared to the tragedy she has found herself in, now seem insignificant. Her city in ruins, death on the streets, and acts of kindness from perfect strangers all allow her to contemplate what truly matters.

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Fig. 5 Foto di famiglia di Mirai e Yūki.

Fig. 5 Family photo of Mirai and Yūki.

Non è un caso che il suo nome sia Mirai (未来), che significa "futuro". Nel corso della storia saranno molte le riflessioni della ragazzina su questo tema: smetterà di aver paura di crescere ed inizierà, invece, a vedere il domani come un'opportunità per raggiungere dei traguardi. Durante questo percorso di crescita cambierà anche il suo rapporto con Yūki, che si rafforzerà sempre più. È anche per questo che l’ingiustizia dietro l’evento catastrofico risuona con prepotenza: il contrasto tra gli ideali incarnati dai bambini e la crudeltà del ruggito della terra, che non fa sconti a nessuno, rende ancora più impegnativo digerire le immagini di sofferenza continua cui l’anime sottopone i piccoli protagonisti.

Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 viaggia in equilibrio tra la spietatezza della rappresentazione del disastro e l’intensità empatica della narrazione, in un racconto intimo che porta anche lo spettatore a chiedersi come reagirebbe di fronte ad un terremoto. Perché è questo che fanno le calamità: mettono in discussione ogni certezza.

Dalle stampe col pesce gatto ai giorni nostri: Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 è l'ennesima dimostrazione della capacità del Giappone di usare l'arte per processare eventi drammatici come le catastrofi naturali.

Può essere questa, allora, la chiave per superare le difficoltà? Lasciare che l’arte svolga il suo compito di gestione del dolore collettivo, che si faccia carico del male e lo trasformi in energia per affrontare il domani.

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Mirai's thoughts on the future – future, being the meaning of her name (mirai 未来) – deserve to be explored.

As the story progresses, the young girl stops harbouring an aversion to the unknown awaiting her in adult life, because she begins to view it as an opportunity to achieve something positive, as opposed to a canvas never to be filled with colour. What aids her in this shift in perspective is the evolution of her relationship with Yūki, which strengthens with each episode, solidifying between the siblings a pure and innocent love only felt by children. This is also why the injustice behind the catastrophic event resonates so powerfully: the contrast between the ideals embodied by children and the cruelty of the earth's tremors makes it that much more challenging to observe the continuous suffering to which the young protagonists are subjected.

An intimate, delimited tale, Tokyo Magnitude 8.0 stands out for striking a balance between its ruthless portrayal of disaster and the empathetic intensity of its narrative. It prompts the viewer to question what truly matters in life and how they would respond faced with a scenario which, like an earthquake, shatters the world as they know it. In such situations our true moral fortitude is laid bare: when everyday life is challenging enough, it is remarkable how the most devastating events can at the same time bring about positivity and goodness of heart.

There is a need to fuel that little flame to prevent it from extinguishing.

In a world often dominated by cynicism and individualism, knowing that in the toughest times one can still rely on the kindness of others is a comfort. Consider the adults, worn down over time by such cynicism: how many would know how to keep the flame of hope burning, despite everything?

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FILM

BILINGUAL / REVIEW

VOICES IN THE WIND Ilaria Malyguine

(Transl. Dœlma Goldhorn) Fig. 1 Movie Poster

Voices in the Wind è un film del 2020 in cui il regista Nobuhiro Suwa (1960-) affronta il difficile tema della perdita irrecuperabile e del lutto, scelta coraggiosa, poiché la tematica considerata non riguarda la storia e il trauma di un singolo, ma di un’intera nazione. La prima cosa che appare ai nostri occhi all’apertura del film è il numero dei morti e dei dispersi causati dal terremoto e dal maremoto del Tohoku del 2011.

La visualizzazione delle cifre precise delle vittime, mostrate su uno sfondo nero prima della sequenza iniziale del film, rende lo spettatore immediatamente consapevole della scala enorme del lutto, del quale, tuttavia, solamente alcuni frammenti verranno rappresentati nel lungometraggio. Uno di questi frammenti, è la vita di Haru (interpretata da Serena Motola): protagonista della storia mostrata.

Haru è l’unica sopravvissuta di una famiglia rimasta vittima dello tsunami che colpì la città di Otsuchi, nella prefettura di Iwate, luogo dove la ragazza abitava con i genitori e con il fratello. Nei primi fotogrammi del film osserviamo gli spostamenti rigidi e lenti della ragazza, e gradualmente ci avviciniamo alla sua dimensione di sofferenza e difficoltà a coesistere con la realtà che la circonda. Rimasta orfana a 9 anni e presa in custodia dalla zia, la sua sfortuna raggiunge l’apice nel suo 17esimo anno di età, quando proprio la zia, ultima figura di riferimento rimastale, viene portata in ospedale a causa di un malore, e la ragazza si ritrova completamente sola.

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Written by Kyōko Inukai, Nobuhiro Suwa Starring Serena Motola e Hidetoshi Nishijima Directed by Nobuhiro Suwa Duration 2h 19 minutes Release January 24, 2020 Production Taro Hashimoto

Fig. 2 Serena Motola nei panni di Haru.

Fig. 2 Serena Motola as Haru.

Voices in the Wind is a 2020 film in which director Nobuhiro Suwa (1960–) tackles the challenging theme of irrevocable loss and mourning; a brave choice as the subject concerns not only the story and trauma of an individual but of an entire nation. The first thing that appears to the viewer is the recorded number of deaths and missing persons caused by the Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami of 2011.

This visualisation of the exact number of casualties, shown on a black background before the film’s initial sequence, makes us immediately aware of the enormous scale of the tragedy, of which only fragments are portrayed in the film. One such fragment is the life of Haru (played by Serena Motola): the protagonist of the story.

Haru is the sole survivor of a family that fell victim to the tsunami when it struck the town of Ōtsuchi in Iwate prefecture, the place where the young girl had been living with her parents and brother. In the first frames we observe the girl's stiff, slow movements and are gradually drawn into her painful life as she struggles to coexist with the reality that surrounds her. Orphaned at the age of 9 and taken into the care of her aunt, her misfortune peaks in her 17th year when the aunt, her last remaining pillar of support, is rushed to hospital with an illness and the girl finds herself utterly alone.

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Fig. 3 Haru nel suo viaggio di sofferenza e solitudine.

Oltre ad alimentare un già inevitabile e profondo senso di solitudine, quest’assenza darà però spazio a qualcosa di nuovo. Vediamo farsi strada un impulso della protagonista verso una liberazione dalla connessione con il presente. Incapace di assaporare la bellezza della vita nella sua attualità, e ancora priva della forza per volgersi verso il futuro, Haru è istintivamente portata a tornare emotivamente verso il passato e a ricercare i profondi legami affettivi che violentemente le erano stati portati via otto anni prima.

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Fig. 3 Haru on her journey of suffering and loneliness.

È così che inizia il viaggio della fanciulla, determinata a tornare sul luogo dove una volta sorgeva la casa in cui abitava con i genitori e con il fratello.

Con l’incoscienza tipica degli adolescenti, e con l’indifferenza che suole accompagnare qualcuno che sente di non avere più nulla da perdere, Haru decide di raggiungere la meta in autostop. Ad un certo punto del percorso la giovane incorre in una situazione di pericolo e viene soccorsa da un uomo (presentatoci attraverso l’immancabilmente solida interpretazione di Hidetoshi Nishijima), che casualmente si scopre essere originario di Fukushima.

L’entrata in scena di questo personaggio apre la narrazione ad un altro tema, sottilmente legato al dramma principale. Il giorno dopo avere soccorso Haru, l’uomo si reca portando con sé la ragazza, in un ristorante di Kebab gestito da curdi, ai quali mostra la foto di un uomo che aveva lavorato come soccorritore volontario durante il disastro di Fukushima e dal quale era stato aiutato; vorrebbe trovare quest’ultimo, ma scopre da alcuni clienti abituali del

bar, che l’uomo è tenuto in custodia dall’Ufficio Immigrazione da almeno un anno, e che la sua data di rilascio è a tutti sconosciuta. A seguire assistiamo a una scena dove i due vengono accompagnati dalla famiglia di Mehmet, che abita ancora nelle vicinanze, e in questa circostanza avviene uno scambio di storie e racconti molto personali legati alle vicissitudini delle persone coinvolte.

Beyond fuelling an inevitable and profound sense of loneliness, this absence creates space for something new. We see the protagonist's impulse towards liberation from her connection to the present. Unable to savour the beauty of life in its current form and still lacking the strength to face the future, Haru is instinctively driven to return emotionally to the past and seek the deep bonds that were so violently taken from her eight years earlier.

This is how the girl's journey begins.

She is determined to return to the place where her home once stood and where she lived with her parents and brother.

With the typical recklessness of a teenager and the indifference that often accompanies someone who feels they have nothing left to lose, Haru decides to hitch-hike to her destination. At one point she finds herself in a dangerous situation and is rescued by a man (presented to us through the solid per-

formance of Hidetoshi Nishijima) who coincidentally turns out to be originally from Fukushima.

The introduction of this character opens the narrative to another subject, which is subtly linked to the main drama. The day after rescuing Haru, the man takes her to a kebab restaurant run by Kurdish immigrants, where he shows some regulars a photo of a man named Mehmet who had helped him while working as a volunteer rescuer during the Fukushima disaster. He hopes to find this man, but learns that he has been held in custody, seemingly indefinitely, by the Immigration Office for over a year. Following this, we see the two accompanied by Mehmet's family, who still live nearby, and witness in these circumstances an exchange of very personal stories about the experiences of those involved.

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Fig. 4 I due protagonisti interpretati da Hidetoshi Nishijima e Serena Motola.

Oltre a permetterci di scoprire di più sulla vita dei protagonisti, questo episodio fa luce su un problema sociale sicuramente degno di maggiori attenzioni, ovvero la situazione degli immigrati curdi in Giappone. Così trapela chiaramente la volontà del regista di indirizzare un meritato fascio di luce sul contributo degli immigrati ai servizi di soccorso durante il disastro del 2011. Questo episodio, che si svolge verso circa la metà del lungometraggio, fa da punto di svolta e forse anche da nocciolo centrale del film. Catalizzatori di emozioni, questi incontri con i conoscenti e con la famiglia del soccorritore, aiutano i protagonisti a uscire dal loro stato di letargia depressiva. Secondo chi 66

scrive, si è trattato di una delle scene più toccanti ed emozionanti dell’intero film. Sarà infatti dopo questo episodio, che i due protagonisti scopriranno di condividere lo stesso lutto, e, in accordo silenzioso, decideranno di recarsi insieme a visitare le loro case abbandonate dopo la catastrofe. Più tardi, scopriremo che della casa di Haru non restano altro che fondamenta in cemento ancora semisommerse. La visualizzazione fisica di questo scenario non lascia che l’amara comprensione del fatto che si può soltanto andare avanti, e che il passato non ha assolutamente nulla da restituire. Haru può solo percorrere il suo presente.

Fig. 4 The two main characters played by Hidetoshi Nishijima and Serena Motola.

Aside from allowing us to discover more about the lives of the protagonists, this section of the film sheds light on a social issue that, without a doubt, is worth greater attention, namely the plight of Kurdish immigrants in Japan. It clearly reveals the director’s intention to shine a deserving spotlight on the contribution of immigrants to the rescue efforts that followed the 2011 disaster. This episode, unfolding around the midpoint of the film, serves as a turning point and is perhaps even the core of the film. These encounters with the rescuer’s acquaintances serve as catalysts of emotion that help the protagonists break free from their depressive lethargy. They are some of the

most touching, moving scenes in the entire film. In fact, after this event the two protagonists discover their shared grief and, in silent agreement, decide to visit their homes, left abandoned since the catastrophe. Later on, we find out that nothing remains of Haru's house except its half-submerged concrete foundations. The tangible depiction of this setting leaves us with the bitter realisation that one can only move forward, and that the past has absolutely nothing to give back. Haru can only navigate her present.

L’attrice principale, Serena Motola, ci ha donato un’interpretazione cristallina di un personaggio che ha il dovere di rappresentare più che soltanto sé stesso, poiché il suo dramma, è il dramma di molti. La sua interpretazione è infatti ciò che conferisce valore al finale, che, sebbene di qualità tematica interessante, non riesce a raggiungere un grado di intensità cinematografica che faccia davvero onore alla gamma dei sentimenti rappresentati. Un finale un po’ insapore, quello di Voices in the Wind, o forse semplicemente una rispettosa ritirata dei sensi, come il nostro udito insoddisfatto, che spera di riuscire a sentire qualcosa, come un suono o una voce, dal telefono della cabina telefonica verso la quale la protagonista si reca alla fine del suo percorso, nella speranza di sentire la voce dei propri cari. A questo punto però, il privilegio di sapere se è possibile entrare in contatto con coloro che sono rimasti nel passato (inteso come aldilà? o come un’espansione dell’immaginazione di una psiche traumatizzata? non lo sappiamo), è dato soltanto a Haru. A noi spettatori, non resta che assistere inermi al suo dolore, visto attraverso i vetri della cabina telefonica che fa da elemento protagonista della sequenza finale del film.

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Un’opera la cui necessità viene resa esplicita da un linguaggio filmico sintetico e modesto, privo di intenzionale estetizzazione, ma che riesce comunque a raggiungere una sua sincera bellezza nelle luci della realtà rappresentata.

Nobuhiro Suwa ci ha regalato un film capace di trattare temi complessi, accompagnato da un senso di rispettosa pacatezza che evita l’esacerbazione del sentimento. Quello che vediamo è un cinema che rivela frammenti e tonalità di una dolorosa realtà, dalla quale lo spettatore sceglierà istintivamente se distanziarsi o avvicinarsi emotivamente. Con Voices in the Wind si manifesta la volontà di creare una sensibilità e una comprensione del dolore e degli inevitabili traumi che continuano ad affliggere i sopravvissuti alla catastrofe naturale del Tohoku.

Fig. 5 Le fondamenta semisommerse della casa di Haru.

The lead actress, Serena Motola, has granted us a crystal-clear performance of a character who must represent more than just herself, as her tragedy is the tragedy of many. In fact, her portrayal is what adds value to the ending, which, although thematically interesting, fails to achieve a level of cinematic intensity truly honouring the range of depicted emotions. Voices in the Wind’s ending is a bit of a bland one, or perhaps it is simply a respectful withdrawal of the senses. This may be unsatisfying to viewers hoping to discern something – a sound or a voice – from the telephone booth inside which the protagonist finds herself at the end of her journey as she longs to hear the voices of her loved ones. At this point, however, Haru alone has the privilege of knowing if it is possible to connect with those left behind in the past. (Is this a reference to the afterlife, or the imagination of a traumatised psyche? We cannot know.)

Fig. 5 The semisubmerged foundations of Haru's house.

For the audience, all that remains is to witness her pain helplessly through the glass of the phone booth that takes centre stage in the film's final sequence.

A work of art whose necessity is made clear through a concise and modest filmic language, devoid of intentional aestheticism, yet which still manages to achieve a sincere beauty in light of the reality depicted. Nobuhiro Suwa has gifted us a film capable of addressing complex themes accompanied by a sense of respectful calm that avoids exacerbating the sentiment.

What we see is cinema that reveals fragments and shades of a painful reality, and viewers will choose instinctively whether to distance themselves from it or engage with it emotionally. With Voices in the Wind the intention is to cultivate a sensitivity and an understanding of pain and the inevitable trauma that continues to afflict survivors of the Tōhoku natural disaster.

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HISTORY

POLITICS / SOCIOLOGY

WHAT JAPAN’S PAST DISASTERS CAN TEACH ABOUT THE AGE OF CLIMATE CHANGE Jonas Rüegg

On 11 th March 2011, a giant tsunami overran the reactors of Fukushima Daiichi, a nuclear powerplant built on the shoreline of one of the most seismic zones on earth. With the triple disaster that ensued – an earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown – a broader awareness emerged in Japan and abroad that ‘natural’ disasters are never simply ‘natural’. To call ‘3/11’ an ‘enviro-technical disaster,’ as scholars suggested in the aftermath, expresses a more profound reconfiguration of the human relationship with an altered and transforming global environment.

With sea levels rising, a ‘mass extinction event,’ and an unprecedented hike in atmospheric CO 2, the global environment in the twenty-first century can no longer be separated from humans, their politics, and their biases.

Japan’s past disasters, and especially the generationally recurring large tsunamis of northeastern Japan, can help understand the discrepancy between an increasingly sophisticated risk awareness and collective decision making. As the global climate shifts, humanity is confronted with a changing ‘riskscape’ – a sociological term

< Fig. 1 The idyllic landscape of Jōdogahama, or ‘Pure Land Beach,’ near Miyako in Iwate Prefecture.

that describes dynamic geographies of heightened hazards and unequal abilities to cope with them – that pushes entire regions beyond insurability.

The rapid pace of irreversible environmental change contracts prospective geological change to a human time scale. Ancient and weathered warnings in the tsunami zones of northeastern Japan illustrate that lessons from the past can’t be learned by archiving.

Rather, collective decisions rely on the inclusion of marginalised voices in a pluralistic conversation.

Consortia of concerned scholars from various disciplines point out that living in the new ‘riskscape’ of climate change necessitates new, multi-disciplinary networks that transcend scientific and humanistic knowledge and are attuned to perceived realities on the ground. The efforts to recover unheard voices and forgotten experiences from Japan’s disaster archives, to which the authors in this issue of Wasshoi!

Magazine contribute, are therefore part of a holistic approach to understanding the human predicament in the age of climate change.

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Seismic Culture The Sanriku Coast of northeastern Japan is of deceptive beauty. Its tall promontories, sheer cliffs, and elongated bays have long inspired travellers to ponder the essence of art and aesthetics. It is said that the Buddhist monk Ryūko (竜 湖, ca. 1681–1727), having first glimpsed the precipices outside Miyako in today’s Iwate Prefecture, invoked the Buddhist Paradise – hence naming the littoral Jōdogahama: Pure Land Beach.

But at least since the devastating Jōgan tsunami of 869 CE, this pure land also harbours a dire history of disaster.

Generationally recurring tsunamis have been known to haunt the region. An unknown number have come ashore over the centuries, of which only the most destructive experiences have been recorded and passed on.

Fig. 2 The fishing village of Tarō, just about 5 kilometers north of the idyllic Jōdogahama, was among the hardest-hit in the tsunami of 1933.

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Near the harbour of Yagi in the northern reaches of Iwate Prefecture, a moss-covered epitaph memorialises one tsunami that struck the region in 1896. It tells of how the elderly recognised the ominous signs when the sea retreated in the wake of an earthquake.

Born from jolts in the ocean’s depths, the waves rapidly towered up as they entered the shallow waters, before bays and inlets directed them ashore.

This so-called Meiji Sanriku Tsunami demanded a toll of 22,000 lives. Yet moss had grown over the engraved admonishment by the time the next major tsunami struck the coast in 1933, again killing thousands and obliterating entire villages. Tarō, a village that lost three fourths of its population to the 1896 tsunami, was again struck particularly badly. With only eight buildings left intact, half of its 1,800 inhabitants went missing in 1933.

A few villages further down the coast, one survivor engraved yet another stone to lament his loss:

How forgetful is the human race! Those who will see this stela in days to come must remain cautious and careful not to be oblivious again!

This is my heartfelt wish. 1

What more does it take than a warning set in stone for us to remember disasters past? Or should we ask: what are the values and beliefs behind the decision to embrace, time and again, the danger associated with living on the shoreline?

1 Uesugi Hideyuki, 'Himei: Kaishū kinenhi [Epitaph: A tsunami monument],' Hikari takuhon database, Project of Epigraph Archiving, August 2019.

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Fig. 3 Moss-covered warnings from past disasters spot the shoreline of northeastern Japan.

Students of Japanese history will know that coping with disaster is a collective and therefore deeply political act of negotiating safety against possibility, and traditional knowledge against modern ambition. As historian Peter Duus once put it, ‘the pattern of reaction to catastrophic disaster can be broken down into several overlapping phases: blaming, coping, hoping, learning and forgetting’. 2 And what is more: as ‘natural’ as a disaster may seem at its origin, its impact is refracted across the tectonics of human society, following the fault lines of countless past decisions.

2 Peter Duus, ‘Dealing with Disaster,’ in Natural Disaster and Nuclear Crisis in Japan: Response and Recovery after Japan’s 3/11, ed. Jeff Kingston (New York, NY: Routledge, 2012), 176.

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Rationalising Disasters Seismic disasters – earthquakes and the tsunami they create – are moments in which human and geological timescales intersect, revealing a conflict between ‘rational’ reasoning, based on the brief human experience, and the disruptive power of an unpredictable environment.

In Europe, the attempt to ‘disenchant’ nature and to disentangle it from the apparent whims of a divine power became dominant in the eighteenth cen-

Fig. 4 A kawaraban newspaper telling of the great Ansei earthquake and ensuing fires in the city of Edo, November 1855.

tury, as a product of the Enlightenment.

Unlike earlier systems of knowledge, ‘enlightened’ science attempted to reduce natural systems to mechanical and therefore objectively determined processes. The assumption of a rational mind, unaffected by cultural or personal biases, emerged from this way of thinking.

In Japan, as well, attempts to rationalise suffering inspired mechanical explanations of earthquakes long ago.

While most terminology used to discuss science and technology in modern Japanese were coined in the so-called ‘Japanese enlightenment’ of the late nineteenth century, ‘rational’ explanations for natural phenomena circulated widely in early modern Japan.

In these discourses, rationalist concepts evolved around terms such as kotowari 理 and dōri 道理, approximate correspondents of ‘logic’ and ‘rationality’ in the modern language.

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The Kyoto-based writer Asai Ryōi (浅 井了意, ?–1691), for example, remarked in the aftermath of a 1662 quake that seismic jolts recurred cyclically and had been recorded for well over a millennium at his time. Vernacular explanations continued to relate calamities to social disorder or anthropomorphic divine powers, such as the giant cat-

Fig. 5 ‘Killing off Namazu:’ the population of Edo takes revenge on the giant catfish in revenge for the Kantō earthquake of 1854. The catfish Namazu was cited in vernacular, and sometimes satirical discourses to explain the recurrence of earthquakes. This popular picture stands in stark contrast with more academic attempts at the time to rationalise disasters.

fish Namazu whose movements on the ocean floor sent shockwaves through the land. Asai, however, chose a Chinese model that explained disasters as the effect of an imbalance between yin and yang: the imbalance needed to correct itself periodically in a sudden discharge of energy or ki. 3

3 Gregory Smits, ‘Earthquakes as Social Drama in the Tokugawa Period,’ in Environment and Society in the Japanese Islands: From Prehistory to the Present, ed. Philip C. Brown, and Bruce L. Batten (Corvallis: Oregon State University Press, 2015), 68–69.

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The historian Gregory Smits notes that this apparent energy transfer between ground and atmosphere was empirically affirmed: when the earth trembled in the destructive Ansei Earthquake of 1855 in Edo (Tokyo), skyward lightnings of ki were reported at Asakusa’s Sensōji Temple just moments before the onset of the initial jolts. 4 These theories, not too different in principle from the idea of plate tectonics, represent a process of rationalisation that removed the spiritual and whimsical from the ‘natural’ environment.

With the emergence of systematic meteorological observation in the Meiji period (1868–1912), earthquakes could be described and analysed with increasingly specific and combinable data. Besides accurate instruments, data compilation necessitated an international network of measuring stations and intellectual exchange. This is illustrated by the excited report to the Japanese government from a seismologist, working for the Smithsonian Institution in Hokkaido in 1872, on the discoveries gathered from macroscopic data evaluation:

On April 6 at 3:30 AM, we observed an acute earthquake here that rocked the furniture constantly for some twelve seconds, running from north to south. On the same day at 2 PM, a quake occurred in Manila – one of the islands of the Philippine archipelago – that ran north to south, so strong that temple bells rang by themselves, and clocks stopped working. Assuming that these are one and the same quake, we can infer that the speed of an earthquake is 120 miles per hour. 5

By the close of the nineteenth century, the earth quaked no longer in response to social disorder, bad government, or due to the movements of the giant catfish Namazu. Rather, the project of decoding nature according to mechanical laws had separated the human mind from its object of study and planted the promise of technological progress in the collective mind.

5 Manuscript booklet, ‘Antisell kem-

paku アンチセル建白 [Memorandum from Dr. Thomas Antisell],’ 1872,

イ14 A4564, Waseda University Repository, Waseda University 4 Ibid., 60–61.

Library, 18-18.2015), 68–69.

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The increasingly sophisticated knowledge of natural phenomena also signified a break with earlier, ‘non-scientific’ knowledge. By comparison, however, the modern perception of time was inherently shallow. The break with ‘premodern’ cultures of knowledge, and the task of studying the world through meticulously collected data, limited the framework of reference to decades or centuries at best – a heartbeat in geological terms. Even the Japan Meteorological Agency’s website only lists tsunami records from 1872 onwards, when exact data on magnitude, amplitude, and specific impact were collected. 6 The abstraction of empirical observations into a transferable and universally applicable format also alienated knowledge from its locally specific meaning.

Despite significant progress in statistical and hypothetical prediction of seismic disasters over the past century, one essential problem remains unchanged: science could not change the fact that collective decisions – such as where to build a power plant – remained subject to social and political dynamics.

In other words, protection from tsunamis depends not just on factual knowledge, but on the meaning assigned to scenarios of risk and opportunity.

6 Japan Meteorological Agency.

‘Kako no jishin tsunami saigai (Earthquake and tsunami disasters of the past),’ accessed May 2023.

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Fig. 6 Representation of a passenger ferry caught in the 1855 tsunami.

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Bias and Technology On 11 th March 2011, the entanglement of ‘natural’ and social disasters were laid bare in the most painful way. Within minutes of a magnitude 9.0 quake, waves up to 14 meters tall crashed over fields and towns and flooded an atomic power plant built right on the shoreline.

At the time the powerplant was built, in the late 1960s, the last major tsunami had been less than a decade prior, but the rapid progress in science and engineering gave reasons to believe that man would prevail over nature. The reactors Japan purchased were designed in the United States, and constructed to withstand the hazards best known to their American creators: tornadoes.

Prudently, the engineers positioned the generators at earth level, and the emergency aggregates were placed in the safety of the basement. 7 Japanese engineers, emulating the technological achievements of their American allies, were blinded to the obvious, too. As Tsuneo Futami, a former director of the plant, later confessed in the New York Times: ‘We can only work on precedent, and there was no prec-

7 Daniel P. Aldrich, Black Wave: How

edent. When I headed the plant, the thought of a tsunami never crossed my mind.’ 8 How come engineering decisions at the highest level could be so fatally decoupled from basic knowledge of the local environment?

The nuclear meltdown can all too easily be assigned to an unfortunate constellation of events, a so-called ‘black swan’, or to the greater power of unavoidable, ‘natural’ disasters. The assessment of risk, however, is more deeply rooted in the personal bias of those in charge. In Fukushima, local and experience-based knowledge was replaced by modern science and academic expertise. The centralisation of authority under an ‘iron triangle’ of ministries, corporations, and a self-righteous political establishment favoured decision-making oriented towards GDP growth, promoting a quasi-religious trust in nuclear technology that justified silencing local voices of concern.

The meltdown of 2011, in that sense, was the inter-generational bill for decisions that had fuelled the economic growth of decades past.

8 The New York Times, ‘Japanese

Networks and Governance Shaped Ja-

Rules for Nuclear Plants Relied on Old

pan’s 3/11 Disasters (Chicago: Univer-

Science’, March 26, 2011.

sity of Chicago Press, 2019), 7.

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Fig. 7 Radiation map in the exclusion zone around the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant, as of May 2018. Screenshot taken from Safecast.

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Risk is usually framed as the numeric probability that a conceivable hazard will materialise, relative to a defined time horizon. Accordingly, insurance companies interpret disasters as a contained interval between onset and end, resulting in a clearly definable toll of lives and goods. This definition has proven useful to insure damage from punctual incidents, such as a fire or an avalanche. But what if ‘disaster’ is no longer a punctual event, but rather a permanent state of affairs in an altered ‘riskscape?’ Is it still possible to speak of individual ‘disasters’ in view of the complex and slow-moving manifestations of global climate change? Can the chaotic transformations of the Earth System be objectified as a ‘regime change’, or are we confronted with one coherent ‘disaster’?

9 Julia Adeney Thomas, Mark Williams, and J. A. Zalasiewicz, The Anthropocene: A Multidisciplinary Approach (Cambridge UK: Polity Press, 2020), 3.

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For the foreseeable future, environmental risks are on the rise. As Julia Thomas and others have argued, ‘the Anthropocene’, the new geological epoch characterised by an impact of human society on the global environment, is not a problem, but a ‘predicament’: A problem may be solved, sometimes using a single physical or conceptual tool produced by experts in the only appropriate field, but a predicament presents a challenging situation requiring resources of many kinds. We don't solve predicaments; instead, we persevere with more or less grace and decency. 9

In other words, the Anthropocene is not only a material process that comes to us in the form of climate change, but also a cultural transformation that redefines the relationship between science and society, the living and the unborn, the affluent and those left behind.

Academic explanations of disaster have long worked to rationalise suffering. Yet the Anthropocene makes it increasingly difficult to distinguish disaster and non-disaster, as it is manifest not as a punctual moment of crisis, but in the gradual expansion of heightened environmental risks. In this sense, Japan’s historical experience with a seismically active and highly unpredictable environment may offer a window to the future of a planet in flux.

Japan and the Riskscape of a Slow-Moving Disaster If chaotic transformations within the global ecosystem are the product of human activity, can human decisions be upheld as autonomous vis-à-vis an unpredictable planet? The study of environmental disaster is inseparably tied to the study of the social structures that condition it: rising sea levels must be seen in the context of political choices that perpetuate fossil fuel dependence, and environmental health issues are critically linked to suppressed attempts to regulate polluting industries. In all these fields, Japan’s recent past offers rich objects of study, as the environmental historian Brett Walker, among many others, has shown. 10 In other words, climate change forces us to define ‘disasters’ on a greater spatial and temporal scale, and by way of it, to try and understand human actions, subjective, biased, and tied by material interests, on these expanded scales of cause and effect.

In Japan as elsewhere, climate change will profoundly alter landscape and economy within the foreseeable future. Even optimistic scenarios predict that by the end of the century, sea levels will rise up to 110 cm at a global average. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) warned in 2022 that weather events now occurring once in a century must be expected on an annual basis by 2050 in ‘many low-lying cities and islands at all latitudes’. 11 Japan, with many of its most fertile plains not far from the shore, will likely be a frequent victim of storms, salination, and inundation.

11 Hans-Otto Pörtner et al., ‘The Ocean and Cryosphere in a Changing 10 Brett L. Walker, Toxic Archipela-

Climate: A Special Report of the Inter-

go a History of Industrial Disease in

governmental Panel on Climate

Japan (Seattle: University of Washing-

Change’ (Cambridge, UK and New

ton Press, 2010).

York, NY, USA: Cambridge University Press, 2022).

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Fig. 8 Tsunami hazard map published by Chigasaki City, Kanagawa prefecture.

Note that only the light-orange zones are more than 10m above sea level.

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Climate change is slow-moving, man-made, and global in scale. Japan’s history of disaster illustrates how landscapes of hazard and moments of disaster time and again engender negotiations of subjective and objective approaches. As the Holocene earth abandons its climatic patterns and transitions to an unknown future equilibrium, humanity is growing aware of the unpredictable. Expanding scale and frequency of future disasters may necessitate a new culture of knowledge.

As consortia of scholars from various disciplines have concluded, living in the new ‘riskscape’ necessitates multidisciplinary systems of knowledge that transcend scientific and humanistic knowledge, and are attuned to realities on the ground. In this re-localisation of knowledge, subjective and culturally specific experiences will be a continual challenge to technocratic complacency.

Eventually, only an engaged civil society can give voice to moss-covered warnings and bring lessons drawn from past disasters into decisions of the future.

Suggested Readings Pritchard, Sara B. ‘An Envirotechnical Disaster: Nature, Technology, and Politics at Fukushima.’ Environmental History 17, no. 2 (2012): 219–243.

Thomas, Julia Adeney, Mark Williams, and J. A. Zalasiewicz.

The Anthropocene: A Multidisciplinary Approach. Cambridge UK: Polity Press, 2020.

Walker, Brett L. Toxic Archipelago a History of Industrial Disease in Japan.

Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010.

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Fig. 1 Postcard showing aftermath of the Great Kantō Earthquake in Nihonbashi, ca. 1923

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MUSIC

HISTORY

DESTRUCTION AND CREATIVITY POPULAR MUSIC AND THE GREAT KANTŌ EARTHQUAKE Aurel Baele

家（うち）は焼けても 江戸つ子の 意気は消えない 見ておくれ アラマ オヤマ たちまち並んだ バラックに 夜は寝ながらお月様ながめて エーゾエーゾ 帝都復興 エーゾエーゾ Uchi wa yaketemo edokko no iki wa kienai miteokure Arama oyama Tachimachi naranda barakku ni yoru wa nenagara o tsukisama nagamete Ēzo ēzo teito fukkō ēzo ēzo Even though our houses burned down, the Tokyoite doesn’t lose its spirit. You’ll see Arama oyama In the suddenly lined up barracks We watch the moon at night while lying down Ēzo ēzo The capital’s reconstruction ēzo ēzo (Soeda Satsuki, Fukkō bushi, 1923)

On the 1 st of September 1923, the Great Kantō Earthquake levelled the capital and left countless citizens homeless. In the days and weeks after the disaster barracks were erected to house people and organise relief efforts. Musical performances soothed the traumatised victims. Enka 1 artist Soeda Satsuki, who witnessed the utter destruction himself, composed Fukkō bushi soon after the event. The light and easy lyrics were written as a reflection of the victims’ experiences. Moreover, with its simple tune, it conveyed a message to listeners not to give in to the depressive mood and to persevere despite the destruction of their homes. The song became a big hit as a result and has been re-recorded multiple times by other artists.

1 Enka originally started as politically loaded songs in the Meiji Era (18681912) as a way to circumvent rules.

The genre is today better known for its early 20 th century transformation into a ballad genre that uses western instruments and Japanese scales with recurring themes of love, loss and yearning.

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While Fukkō bushi was popular in Tokyo, it is just one example of the music produced in the wake of the earthquake. The disaster worked as a catalyst for technological change and cultural development, notably in Japan’s music scene. The rapid change in Japan throughout the 1920s could be seen on all levels. These years saw the introduction of the radio (1925), electrical recording in sound (1925), and the first metro lines (1927), to name a few. This decade is considered part of the so-called Taishō democracy (ca.

1900-1930, spanning over the Taishō period of 1912-1926) as there was finally more representation in parliament, and governments were formed through party cabinets. 2 Furthermore, many movements strove for political reform, including women’s rights and universal suffrage, yet there were also crackdowns on socialist and Marxist activities. Meanwhile, the rise of mass consumerism and entertainment introduced new forms of livelihood and leisure. The associated imagery was cosmopolitan as new words, items, fashion

2 For an introduction to political and cultural characteristics of the Taishō democracy, see: Sharon A. Minichiello (ed.), Japan's Competing Modernities: Issues in Culture and Democracy, 1900-1930 (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1998).

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trends, dances, and sounds were introduced. Magazines, literature, and art envisioned a new, modern society on the horizon, set to the rhythm of contemporary technologies.

However, where does music fit into all these developments around the 1923 earthquake? Taking a brief historic trip through the musical soundscape of Japan in the context of the disaster offers a glimpse into what role music played and how it developed alongside a myriad of political, economic, and cultural issues. It becomes clear that the event was not purely a destructive force. It allowed new forms of creativity to sprout and take root, paving the way for cultural expression in the 1930s.

Business Before and After

The earthquake’s devastating effects were largely economic in nature. The music record and gramophone market was already precarious before the earthquake hit, the weak legal framework regarding copyright having brought the industry into a downturn over the previous decade. Counterfeited records wrought havoc as tumbling prices made manufacturing unprofitable. Although a reform of copyright law was adopted in the Diet on 19 th August 1920, 3 the recording business in Japan had become increasingly monopolised by the record company Nihon chikuonki shōkai (also known as Nipponophone in English and hereafter Nicchiku). By the start of 1923 it had absorbed several domestic companies such as the Kyōto based Tōyō chikuonki (Oriental Records), which had merged previously with Osaka chikuonki, Teichiku chikuonki (Imperial Records, not to be confused with Teichiku from the 1930s), and Tokyo chikuonki. There were only a few remaining competitors, among which was Kansai based Nittō chikuonki, the strongest rival of Nicchiku.

Unsurprisingly, this situation did not go unnoticed. According to a governmental document from early 1923 by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (gaimushō), the Anglo-American-led Nicchiku was thought ‘[to] intend to monopolize the Japanese gramophone world and provide these products to every urban retailer. Since they rely on a large amount of capital, intend to win, and are competitive, other companies declined in business altogether, so to escape this they benefitted from specialisation. On the contrary, even if they directly opposed large capital (…) they were bought out.’ 4

4 26. Eibeijin keiei chikuonki kaisha no katsuyaku ni kan suru ken [Case on the activities of an Anglo-American managed record company], 15 January 1923, B10074082100, 3 Kurata Yoshihiro, Nihon rekōdo

Gaikokukan gōbengaisha kankei

bunkashi (Tokyo: Tokyo shoseki kabu-

zakken, Japan Center for Asian

shikigaisha, 1979), 213-214.

Historical Records, 0194-0195.

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What was considered problematic was monopolisation of the recording market by Nicchiku and the simultaneous spread of mass entertainment. ‘[P]opular entertainment has spread to the social classes and it, too, has finally come to pose a serious threat and becomes a grave problem for social policies, and so countermeasures against it are being studied.’ 5 Bureaucrats worried that it would become impossible to

Fig. 2 & 3 Advertisement for gramophones after the Earthquake that reads: ‘A large gramophone for family meetings – Unprecedented great reconstruction sale with prizes ( 團欒の家庭にLARGE蓄音機―未曽有 の大景品附復興大売出し),’ ca. 1923.

Cover and back pages.

5 Ibid., 0194-0195.

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manage society and preserve what they deemed as true Japanese culture if one company could exert so much influence.

These ‘countermeasures’ should be read in the context of the social policies conducted by both the powerful Home Ministry and the Ministry of Education.

As will be discussed below, officials of the latter were involved in propagating morally ‘good’ sounds.

After the 1923 earthquake, record companies from in and around Tokyo faced a financial gap as their factories and studios lay in ruins. Like other businesses gramophones manufacturers and retailers ran so-called “reconstruction sales (fukkō uridashi)” advertisements. Fukkō was the contemporary buzz word for the reconstruction of the capital and the state’s economy. Despite such attempts at boosting morale and sales, the recording industry faced difficulties. For the hegemon Nicchiku this was not unsurmountable, as they had acquired the factory of the Kyōto-based Tōyō chikuonki during its takeover. However, the costs were high, and the recovery did not stop the company from being taken over by the global Anglo-American giant Columbia in 1927 with fresh capital. This takeover was the result of large foreign record companies reacting to decisions made by the Japanese state and striving to remain competitive in the Japanese market. Between 1920 and 1925, a gramophone boom took place in Japan and the import of records and gramophones made by foreign record companies like Columbia and Victor steadily increased.

For the reconstruction of Tokyo after September 1923, an enormous amount of capital was necessary, and the Japanese government thus considered it necessary to stem the outward flow of money from the country. Additionally, the aforementioned fear regarding the creeping influence of foreign companies in the Japanese record market played its role too. In 1925 the Japanese government raised the tariffs for foreign luxury products, including gramophones and records, to up to 100%, which became a serious hurdle for foreign companies. As a result of the high import duties, the major players, Columbia, Polydor, and the Victor Talking Machine Company established a presence in Japan through the takeover of an existing company or the founding of new ones.

These subsidiaries would dominate the Japanese market for years to come.

However, smaller domestic companies such as Asahi chikuonki would continue to operate. Nevertheless, the cards of the record market had been reshuffled.

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Value imported gramophones and records in Japanese Yen, 1917 - 1927 Value in Yen

1'800'000 1'600'000 1'400'000 1'200'000 1'000'000 800'000 600'000 400'000 200'000 0

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1917

1918

1919

1920

1921

1922

1923

1924

1925

1926

1927

Comfort through Music, but Morally ‘Good’ Music

Soon after the earthquake, music was being used to comfort citizens of Tokyo despite the rubble of destroyed buildings throughout the city. Barracks were set up to hold live performances and gramophone concerts. Initiatives to comfort victims included western music concerts, performances for children, and a concert led by foreign music teachers at Waseda University to collect relief money for students. Such charity and relief efforts continued until the end of 1923. 6 One initiative was undertaken by the Social Education department of the Ministry of Education. Within the framework of their so-called ‘Ministry of Education record recommendation and authorisation project’ (monbushō chikuonki rekōdo suisen nintei jigyō), the department had already been organising gramophone concerts in Hibiya Park in central Tokyo since May 1923. 7 Not long after the earthquake – as the department suffered losses as well – they restarted these concerts and also began holding live comfort concerts with their recommended artists in various parts of the capital, such as the music theatre at Meiji Jingu Gaienmae, the Kan’eiji temple in Ueno Park (behind the Tokyo National Museum), and even in Asakusa at the Bukkyō seinen dendōkan. 8

It is hard to detach these concerts from the intentions of the department before September 1923, as the latter were grounded in a modern conflict about how Japan’s society and its entertainment industry should be. The fear of the elite class was that new forms of popular mass culture would lead to a degeneration of ‘Japanese’ values. Instead, they sought to define mass entertainment themselves. To that end the Ministry of Education commenced their record recommendation and authorisation project as a means to control morality in society, particularly among the younger generations. The project’s committee members selected what they considered ‘excellent music’ (yūshū) based on the following vague criteria: ‘genuine art’ (junsuinaru geijutsu), ‘healthy entertainment’ (kenzennaru goraku), and having educational value (kyōikutekinaru kachi). 9 The selections were bundled in catalogues and regularly promoted in magazines. In other words, propaganda of ‘appropriate’ sounds. Moreover, as a part of a larger scheme called the ‘popular entertainment improvement project’ (minshū goraku kairyō jigyō) that included literature and theatre, bureaucrats considered new mass media such as cinema and the gramophone as necessary to achieve their goals.

8 ‘Monbushō suisen rekōdokai,’ Tokyo Asahi Shinbun, Morning Edition, 7 6 Hosokawa Shūhei, Kindai Nihon

December 1923, 6; ‘O-tegaru na onga-

no ongaku hyakunen: Kurobune kara

kukai,’ Tokyo Asahi Shinbun, Morning

shūsen made, Vol. 2. (Tokyo: Iwanami

Edition, 9 December 1923, 6.

shoten, 2021), 205-206.

7 Kurata, Nihon rekōdo bunkashi, 240.

9 Obi Hanji, ‘Chikuonki no kaizen oyobi riyō,’ Ongaku to chikuonki, October 1926, 4.

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Fig. 4 First catalogue of the ‘Record Recommendation Project’ of the Ministry of Education, 1923.

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The clash between Japanese and Western ideas simultaneously drew attention to their similarities. That is, debates on what was considered ‘true’ Japanese music resembled Western moralistic ideas about high versus low brow music. Indeed, the record project adopted similar ideas to what in America was known as music appreciation, as can be seen from advertisements and articles about it in contemporary newspapers and music magazines. 10 This education method aimed to cultivate among young children and adolescents an appreciation for music. This was done through examples of mostly European classical works. However, in the United States music appreciation was used in the context of the increasing popularity of African-American music, such as the blues and jazz. In Japan, the upper classes aimed for the conservation of their own ideas of ‘traditional’ Japanese values and divulging art to the masses. What was similar in both countries was that record companies profited from playing both sides. After all, it was the American Victor Talking

Machine company that pioneered in promoting the educational aspect of music to boost sales. 11 Ultimately, this clash of high versus low brow cultures in the 1920s could not be won by the record project. The latter was deemed too elite and bourgeois as Japan embarked on its own jazz age by the late 1920s and early 1930s.

10 Ongaku to chikuonki (Music and the Gramophone) regularly featured translation of American publications.

See for example Columbia social education department, ‘Kyōshitsu ni okeru chikuonki (The grafonola in the Class-room) (ongaku to shumi),’ trans. Nihon chikuonki sekai editorial department, Ongaku to chikuonki, August 1922, 59-93.

11 More specifically it was the pedagogue Frances E. Clarke who became head of the Education department of Victor. See Julia J. Chybowski, ‘Selling Musical Taste in Early Twentieth-Century America: Frances E. Clark and the Business of Music Appreciation,’ Journal of Historical Research in Music Education 38, no. 2 (2017): 104–127.

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Popular Music, the Masses, and Musicians in the Wake of the Earthquake While government bureaucrats sought to influence young people in their music tastes, there were also attempts to blame popular sounds for the earthquake and for societal issues. One particular hit of the early 1920s, known as Sendō kouta (‘The Boatman’s Ballad’) was a target for this sort of criticism.

Written by Ujō Noguchi and composed

by Nakayama Shinpei, the song was released by several record companies in 1922 and 1923, but it became a real success when a film was made out of it in 1923 by director Ikeda Yoshinobu.

In the aftermath of the earthquake, Sendō kouta was heavily criticised as an example of deteriorating social mores, even to the point that one critic even argued that the song had been a sign

of the coming earthquake. The composer, Nakayama Shinpei, took such comments to heart. When he was offered to choose representative songs for a radio program about hits of the Meiji (1868-1912), Taishō (1912-1926) and Shōwa Periods (1926-1989) in 1940, Nakayama did not choose Sendō kouta as one of them. However, the song was not shunned by the masses and was to remain popular for years to come.

The few cinemas still standing in Tokyo screened the film adaptation soon after the earthquake, and it was customary to accompany it with a live performance by musicians and a singer. In addition, new recordings were sold by record companies from 1924. 12

12 Nagamine Shigetoshi, Utau taishū to Kantō daijishin: ‘Sentō kobune’ ‘Kago no tori’ wa naze ryūkō shita no ka (Tokyo: Seikyūsha, 2019), 85-95.

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Besides hits and comforting music by enka masters like Soeda Satsuki, other more politicised songs were emerging. Already since the end of the Russo-Japanese war (1904-1905), left-wing thought had entered Japan, much to the fear of the elite. After the Red Flag Incident (Akahata Jiken) of 1908, repression from the state increased, but the left-wing movement continued to grow parallel with the industrialisation and urbanisation of the country. The destruction left by the earthquake did not make people’s livelihoods any easier.

In 1925 the cultural organisation ‘Proletarian Art Union’ (Puroretarian bungei renmei) was formed and soon came under the dominant influence of Marxism from the Soviet Union.

Fig. 5 Cover for the music sheets of the jazzy song (one-step) 'Sing me, Dearie!' by M.M Mita, 1923.

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Besides film and theatre, it used music for its cause. To inspire loyalty among followers and to mobilise them, there were compositions with titles such as Dōshi wa taorenu (‘Comrades will not be defeated’). For children, works like Mēdē gokko (‘Mayday game’) were used.

Music as a political tool during this period thus rose from the lowest levels of society.

While record companies reconstructed their factories and studios in Tokyo, and bureaucrats sought to influence young people in their music tastes, the capital saw an exodus of many musicians to the Kansai region. After all, the entertainment districts of Shinjuku and Asakusa were levelled and the lack of concert venues, cinemas, theatres, and opera halls meant no income. Osaka, which already boasted a rich cultural history, is generally seen to have benefitted from this exodus and became a modern centre for mass entertainment.

Here artists found dance halls, cafés, and movie theatres in the entertainment district, Dōtonbori, where their services were in need. But this was not only the case in Osaka. The Hanshin and Hankyū private railways connected Osa-

ka with Kōbe and Kyōto. Since the international trade port Kōbe possessed a fair number of entertainment facilities, musicians also made their way there.

Jazz musicians such as Hattori Ryōichi, Nanrio Fumio, and Maeno Kōzō honed their skills during nights spent at various venues. Moreover, the importance of Kōbe and Osaka for maritime trade brought musicians from abroad into the entertainment sector, such as Filipino bands who are said to have brought live jazz there. As an indirect result of the earthquake, the Kansai region as a whole began to flourish as a centre for mass entertainment. However, not all artists could make the move, and those who arrived had no guarantee of finding employment. Nor did it stop musical activities from continuing in Tokyo. 13

13 Taylor Atkins, Blue Nippon: Authenticating Jazz in Japan (Durham & London: Duke University Press, 2001), 57-59.

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The Reconstruction of Tokyo

After the death of the Taishō emperor in December 1926, mass entertainment in Osaka started to change as local authorities began to regulate dance halls and cafés with increasing severity. Their reopening immediately after the mourning period for the emperor was not taken lightly, and scandals regarding ‘vulgar’ behaviour were used to justify restrictions.

Many musicians chose to take their chances and return to the rebuilt capital. New entertainment venues with neon lights and modern infrastructure, such as the opening of the first metro line in Asakusa in 1927, gave the metropole the allure of a cultural centre. The foreign record companies founded their factories around Tokyo in 1927 and introduced new managerial strategies to produce music in a Fordian, industrial way. Popular songs were now released and sold before becoming a hit as opposed to afterwards. Before long Tokyo had once again taken central stage in Japan for popular music.

The natural disaster thus gave away to creativity and reconstruction.

Through the migration of artists, ideas and tastes were exchanged, enriching the music scene in Japan. Attempts by the state to regulate it and use it as tool for propaganda did not stop popular sounds from reverberating throughout 100

Fig. 6 Record sleeve of Tōa Records, ca. 1923-1925.

the Japanese soundscape. Nevertheless, music was not independent from political change, as the next decade would prove with the rise of the militarism and the imperial adventure in Asia. The Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923 was a transformative moment that sounded the coming of change.

Suggested Readings Aoki, Manabu. Kindai Nihon no jazu sensēshon. Tokyo: Seikyūsha, 2020.

Atkins, Taylor. Blue Nippon: Authenticating Jazz in Japan. Durham & London: Duke University Press, 2001.

Hosokawa, Shūhei. Kindai Nihon no ongaku hyakunen: Kurobune kara shūsen made.

Vol. 2. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 2020.

Kurata, Yoshihiro. Nihon rekōdo bunkashi. Tokyo: Tokyo shoseki kabushikigaisha, 1979.

Nagamine, Shigetoshi. Utau taishū to Kantō daijishin: ‘Sentō kobune’ ‘Kago no tori’ wa naze ryūkō shita no ka. Tokyo: Seikyūsha, 2019.

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Fig. 1 Picture from the The Great Hanshin-Awaji Earthquake (1995)

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SOCIOLOGY

ESSAY

LIVING ON THE EDGE On Japanese Disaster Mitigation Marty Borsotti

‘Natural disasters’ is a phrase heard quite often in Japanese daily life. This is not only due to the high frequency of such occurrences throughout the archipelago, but also, and most importantly, owing to the various practices implemented by nearly all political and societal spheres, from small municipalities to national broadcasters. From a young age, Japanese people learn how serious natural disasters can be, and most will have experienced at least one significant event before reaching adulthood. Such is the cruel reality of living in Japan. Moreover, in recent years, new climate-related phenomena have joined the list of natural hazards requiring preparation.

The purpose of this essay is to provide a glimpse of disaster mitigation practices in Japan. An important premise is that everyone has a different perspective on natural disasters and their prevention, by being a foreigner I was not exposed to the reality of natural disasters as much as I might have been had I lived all my life in the archipelago.

I should also clarify that the experiences I had in Japan are all post 2011, a year that certainly marked the Japanese collective consciousness regarding such events. I will not dwell too much on the 2011 Great Tōhoku Earthquake, but I will limit myself to a sole consideration regarding the matter: virtually everyone in the country has their own story of the fateful day. ‘It was almost 3pm when I heard a loud bang. I was in the kitchen, and it felt like the end of the world was happening’ recalls my mother-in-law, who lived in the Greater Tokyo Area at the time, where the same

earthquake was felt with an intensity of 6- on the Japanese seismic intensity scale. 1 ‘Someone said to turn on the TV. The whole office was speechless observing the updates delivered by the telecaster’ recalls a friend of mine who was in Fukuoka, where the ground barely rumbled. 3.11 is a date that marked Japan profoundly and raised further awareness of natural disasters. In other words, the archipelago is inhabited by 120 million Damocles, despite the sword being under their feet rather than over their heads.

1 Note that this is the 3 rd highest intensity in the Japanese seismic intensity scale, surpassed only by 6+ and 7, which measures the shaking of the ground rather than the energy released by the earthquake.

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Learn How to Be Prepared In 2018, I had a first insight into the ever-present danger of natural disasters in Japan and the importance of being prepared for them. One of the first mandatory trips offered by my host university was a visit to the local disaster emergency centre. The sole purpose of the facility, which is a common feature in Japanese cities, should be enough of an indication as to the value given to disaster mitigation and preparedness.

This trip was not simply a theorical lecture on disaster mitigation, but practical training aimed at instilling in us the basic attitudes and good practices to have in an emergency. The facility was equipped with machinery able to simulate the conditions of various hazards.

There was a smoke-filled dark room recreating a fire, an insulated chamber simulating the rains and winds of a typhoon, and our favourite ride: the earthquake simulator.

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Most of us completely fell for the recreational aspect of each activity, enjoying the day as an outing with friends rather than a serious teaching on which our lives could depend upon. We might not have taken the field trip with the seriousness required, but thinking back to that time I must salute the efficiency of the Japanese educational strategy. Important messages conveyed in a playful manner might be the best approach to disaster mitigation, especially since these types of facilities are designed to impart lessons to pre-teens, usually through their schools or privately with their families. While young minds shouldn’t be underestimated in their ability to absorb theoretical teachings, a playful, practical teaching style can have a stronger grasp on the subconscious. In times of need, these practices and attitudes will emerge as instinctive reactions, saving precious time during an emergency. Shouting ‘Kaji da! Kaji da! Nigero!’ (There’s a fire, run!) while operating a fire extinctor against an interactive wall is certainly akin to carnival activities, but it teaches you how to handle vital equipment. Likewise, experiencing the shaking of an earthquake might feel like a fairground ride, but it will prepare you in case of a real event, sparing you those few seconds of surprise to allow you to take proper cover in time.

Fig. 2 Earthquake simulator at Nagoya City Minato Disaster Prevention Center.

(Un)fortunately we were spared another staple experience in disaster prevention training provided to children: a swim in the pool, fully dressed. This training is meant to raise children’s awareness on how heavy wet clothes can become and allows them to actually feel the danger of being fully clothed in water. Although this training might seem anecdotal to some, water-related disasters have proven to be the deadliest, from tsunami to the increasingly

frequent floods and heavy rains. Since the mid-2010s, seasonal rains have gained intensity, to the point of being described as actual hazards. Heavy rains have proven to be a tragic occurrence through the years 2 and this tendency will increase. Thus, it should not be a surprise in the future to see floodings and heavy rains added to the programme list for disaster mitigation.

2 Since 2018, each year has witnessed at least a major flooding involving trillions of yen in damages and several hundreds of casualties, mainly concentred in Kyūshū island.

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Be Ready at any Time Disaster management in Japan does not operate solely through compulsory education. Rather, efforts are made to diversify the strategies aimed at instilling in the population the behaviour to adopt in case of an emergency. After the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake, one attempt garnered worldwide attention for the singularity of its message. According to news outlets at the time, a rather simple slogan, 'Tsunami Tendenko', was at the root of the almost miraculous survival of more than 2000 young people, between elementary and high-school ages, in Kamaishi, one of the most heavily hit regions. 3 Officially coined in the 1990s, 4 ‘Tsunami Tendenko’ is based on an old local saying that could be translated literally as: 'Tsunami: every man for himself ', a nod to the importance of getting to a secure, elevated location as quickly as possible. This concept encourages everyone to prioritise their own safety in an emergency, and not put themselves in danger by helping others or reuniting with family before reaching a safe place. ‘Tsunami Tendenko’ has been placed in opposition to another concept, ‘Tomo-daore’, roughly translated as ‘falling together’, which refers to how people can lose their lives trying to help others or by prioritising family reunion over seeking refuge.

3 Diane Alalouf, ‘ ‘Le miracle de Kamaishi’: les enseignements du tsunami de 2011 au Japon,’ Alternatives Humanitaires, no. 10 (2019): 148–16.

4 Yamashita Fumio, Tsunami tendenko: Kindai Nihon no tsunami shi [History of Modern Japanese Tsunami] (Tōkyō: Shin Nihon Shuppansha, Tokyo, 2008), 208.

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It goes without saying that the morality of ‘Tsunami Tendenko’ has raised some concerns, as it apparently goes against the human instinct of helping people and banding together in times of crisis. Despite this apparent immorality, ‘Tsunami Tendenko’ has been portrayed as one of the best strategies to minimise fatalities, if followed by the entirety of the population. The reasoning is quite simple: if everyone is aware that their relatives will prioritise seeking refuge, they will be more compelled to seek refuge themselves, rather than trying to meet in a dangerous place like their house. It might seem ironic that this, apparently individualistic, concept emerged from old Japanese sayings, in a country often celebrated for its collectivist culture and strong sense of community. However, going beyond this initial impression of individualism, couldn’t the purpose of ‘Tsunami Tendenko’, to save as many lives as possible in the community, be considered a rather collectivist attitude instead?

Fig. 3 Ishinomaki snowfall after earthquake (16/03/2011)

'Tsunami Tendenko' may be one of the most extreme examples of Japanese disaster mitigation strategies, but many others are well-established in the country. In the case of earthquakes, phones will play a loud siren moments before the first tremors, allowing precious seconds for people to perform the lifesaving measures they had been taught to do throughout their lives. In those same few instants, the national television channel, NHK, will immediately halt its planned broadcast and switch to an emergency news report, providing important information to both the regions concerned directly

by the event and to the whole country.

In the eventuality of a live programme being broadcasted during the incident, the telecaster will immediately switch his script to provide the information related to the event currently unfolding. 5

5 Of course, all television channels are set to switch into emergency mode when possible disasters strike, nevertheless NHK public broadcasting has been notoriously fast, being able to switch its programming schedule few moments after a major event.

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Coincidentally, as I was writing this essay, a tsunami evacuation drill was initiated in the city where I currently live – of which, evidently, I was completely unaware. I could hear a distant siren as I concluded the previous paragraph, but since similar sounds are not a rarity in the quite noise-polluted Japan, I ignored it. It did not take more than a few minutes before my phone emitted a sound I had never heard before, in a tone that fell somewhere between urgency and admonishment. The image on the screen was equally unfamiliar, a wall of text in Japanese with a simple title: ‘Tsunami Warning’. I was still putting all the pieces together when a robotic voice coming from the phone began shouting quite aggressively at me: ‘This is a tsunami training drill concerning those few districts that are more at risk in the case of a tsunami. If you hear this message, you are asked to seek refuge in the closest shelter. This is a drill’.

A couple of minutes had already passed since the first siren before I finally un-

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derstood what was happening. Another few minutes were spent trying to figure out the correct procedure, only to come to the realisation that I had not the faintest idea where the closest shelter was situated, nor had I yet grasped the planimetry of this city I had recently moved to. This stream of consciousness led me to consider my current apparel, as I was still in my pyjamas (it was a Sunday, don’t judge me!). If I had to join the drill, I would need to get changed, because there was no way I would meet my neighbours with such little decorum. Ten minutes had now passed since the ignored siren, three since the alarm on my phone; my chances of surviving this imagined disaster had significantly shrunk. I had nothing left to do but shrug my shoulders and return to my PC to relate this experience, but not without a renewed awareness that had a real disaster struck I would have been caught completely off-guard. Lesson learned, Japan.

Such was my very first tsunami drill experience, which I failed miserably. I thank the city I currently live in for this powerful lesson in how completely unprepared I was for the (un)predictable.

And I must doubly thank this city as it gave me the perfect transition for the next disaster mitigation strategy I wanted to contemplate: phone alerts. Japanese emergency lines are programmed to send alert broadcasts to every phone situated in an area concerned by a natural hazard. These messages vary from warnings not stepping outside during a typhoon to proper sirens, distinctive and unpleasantly familiar to every Japanese citizen, that wail moments before an earthquake. It is human nature to be stunned – even for a fraction of a second – in a sudden emergency, and one of the most important roles of these alarms is to generate enough time for people to process the information and take shelter before the event. A few moments that may prevent serious injury, if not death.

Fig. 5 An alert for heavy rains warning people to seek refuge away from rivers and landslide prone locations.

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Think About the Long Term… and Be Prepared!

I have spent some time describing mitigation strategies regarding those first few minutes of danger, which are arguably the most important, in the eventuality of a natural disaster. However, Japanese preparedness goes beyond that in envisaging possible – and probable – disaster scenarios. Once the earth has stop shaking, the tsunami alert has stopped, or the typhoon has passed, what are the secondary issues that could arise? Of course, many would think of the most dramatic situations, such as being trapped under debris, the tragic scenes of which were witnessed not so long ago following the earthquake

in Turkey and Syria. But many more issues are easily overlooked or not even considered. What if amenities such as electricity, gas, and running water were to be cut for several days? What if you were stranded away from home, unable to walk the distance that you easily covered by train to go to work that same morning? Similar scenarios are a tangible reality for Japanese people, many of whom have already experienced them to some degree during their lives, and for which mitigation measures have been prepared and are constantly updated.

Fig. 4 Print depicting a 19 th century tsunami hitting Miyagi Prefecture.

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It will be hard to ever forget the shock of our Japanese professor, during my university exchange, in learning that us Europeans students had little to no emergency provisions in our dormitory rooms. ‘You don’t even have some drinking water stocked?!’ she said worriedly to us, as though we were the most careless people she had ever met.

This is one of the key characteristics of Japanese preparedness: emergency provisions, like water, stored in easy to reach places to be used in times of necessity. These stashes often look similar to military rations: canned or instant food that can be consumed without any heating source. Emergency packages often include basic survival gear such as first-aid kits and useful tools – torches, batteries, and toilet paper being among the most commonly stocked items. On certain occasions, when the hazard can be anticipated, such as a typhoon, it is strongly recommended to fill the house bathtub with water, an additional measure in case clean running water becomes inaccessible.

This aspect of preparedness not only concerns households, but public spaces as well. Major train stations and malls, for example, are equipped with supplies to provide relief to those stranded in the immediate aftermath of a disaster. During the events of the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake, many news channels broadcasted images of Tokyoites stuck in stations and malls, where they spent that fateful night, as the whole metropolitan area was paralysed. These people were provided with basic items such as warm blankets and emergency rations. Lastly, vending machines, which cover the Japanese landscape like mushrooms, are programmed to distribute free water during the event of a natural disaster. Since these machines can be found literally everywhere, they grant efficient, free water distribution during an emergency. It is yet another effective disaster mitigation strategy that Japanese should be celebrated for.

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Don’t Forget that it Can and Will Happen I would like to mention one final dynamic of Japanese disaster mitigation: the ever-present certainty of disaster.

Specialists constantly remind the population of the peculiarity of Japan’s geology, and how the archipelago is prone to intense earthquakes. The occurrence of a ‘megaquake’ (megathrust earthquake), the intensity of which surpasses 9.0 in magnitude, like the Tōhoku Earthquake, is often brought up on television as a matter of when and where rather than if. It is said that such calamities will happen for sure, despite the impossibility of locating the exact place and time they will strike. A recurrent subject of television programmes is the near-certainty of both Tokyo and the central area of the main island being hit by one of these megaquakes within the next few decades. Local authorities are managing the most populous metropolis in the world with this awareness, and emergency plans are presented and revised continually according to the evolution of the capital. Other common dis-

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cussions are those of probability, which see the Nankai and Chūbu regions (Central Japan, from Shikoku Island to Shizuoka) as the next most probable areas to be hit by a major earthquake.

This prediction is based on past occurrences, earthquakes having hit the regions concerned with an eerie regularity, which has led specialists to warn of a high-magnitude earthquake striking within the next 30 years. Accordingly, local authorities have been organising concrete emergency plans, such as drills, in expectation of the fateful day.

On the 11 th March 2023, a 3-hour special program was broadcasted on NHK dedicated to this anticipated disaster and how citizens of every region should prepare. This programme alone should be enough of a giveaway as to the seriousness with which disaster mitigation is regarded in Japan.

Fig. 6 Japanese fire trucks line a road Friday in Sukuiso (18/03/2011).

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The frequency of hazards in Japan is already a strong reminder of the importance of being ready, with authorities and specialists alike mounting a constant effort to raise awareness regarding natural hazards and to improve survival rates. For example, Japan is probably one of the few countries in the world to have instituted a National Prevention Day (Bōsai no hi, 防災の日). Set on 1 st September, to commemorate the Great Kanto earthquake of 1923, this day serves also as an annual occasion for disaster prevention drills across the country.

It is 11 th March as I am wrap up the draft of this essay. Some may consider 10 years enough time for the memory to start fading away. In my country, Italy, the collective memory has already buried many similar occurrences of the past 10 years, despite the traces being still embarrassingly visible to this day. 6 Yet the memory here in Japan remains strong, despite the knowledge that it was but one of many disasters to have taken place, and that will take place in the future. As the clock struck 14:46, a respectful silence was broken by sirens

Fig. 7 Supermarket just behind Tohoku Region Pacific Coast Earthquake.

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6 The most shameful examples could be the 2006 earthquake that stroke

throughout Japan. The same sirens that rang out at that time 10 years ago. Homage was paid to the lives lost, and to those who are still registered as missing, who were never found and properly buried. By recognising this day so vividly we are all reminded once again how fragile life is here on the archipelago. This is, indeed, living on the edge.

l’Aquila, which city centre is still left exactly as the day after the disaster, or the many villages that are still in ruins following the Amatrice earthquake of 2016.

Fig. 8 Warehouse of the Shinagawa Chuo Park heliport containing disaster prevention supplies.

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Fig. 9 Ikiru, a documentary about the case of the Okawa elementary school, when 74 children lost their lives due to the unpreparedness of both the school council and the municipality.

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Suggested Movie Terada, Kazuhiro. ‘Ikiru’ Oogawa Elementary school, those who fought the Tsunami trial 「生きる」 ( 大川小学校 津波裁判を闘った人たち). Pao Network, 2022.

Suggested Readings Alalouf, Diane. ‘Le miracle de Kamaishi': les enseignements du tsunami de 2011 au Japon.’ Alternatives Humanitaires, no. 10 (2019): 148–16.

Kodama, Satoshi. Tsunami-tendenko and morality in disasters, Journal of Medical Ethics 41, no. 5 (2015): 361–363.

Yamashita, Fumio. Tsunami tendenko: Kindai Nihon no tsunami shi [History of Modern Japanese Tsunami]. Tōkyō: Shin Nihon Shuppansha, Tokyo, 2008.

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Fig. 1 Map of the instant radioactivity of the Fukushima reactor area, as measured from the air on April 29, 2011.

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SOCIOLOGY

ANTHROPOLOGY / POLITICS

THE POLITICS OF GENDERED ACTIVISM Women in the Japanese Anti-Nuclear Move ment Olivia Chollet

2023 marks the 12 th anniversary of the Fukushima nuclear meltdown, following the earthquake and tsunami that hit the Tōhoku region of Japan on 11 th March 2011. The accident led to widespread radioactive contamination in the area and initiated a wave of protests in the country, of a scale that had not been seen since the 1970s. Demanding the abolishment of nuclear energy, such protests were very visible in the news but had a limited impact on Japanese energy policy in the long run. However, the accident also triggered an increase in grassroots, anti-nuclear citizen science, in which women have been especially active.

In the context of an enduringly patriarchal society, this article explores how gendered grassroots activism can be understood as a politically-conscious compromise between contradictory societal expectations.

A Gendered Society The online Cambridge Dictionary defines 'gender' as 'the physical and/or social condition of being male or female'.

Acknowledging the variety of possible gender identities outside this binary, as well as the limited length of this article, 'women' will hereby refer to a group of people socially considered as such. This reflects the fact that gender remains a determinant social category in institutions such as the family, the workplace or the state, especially in the context of a Japanese 'myth of homogeneity'. 1

1 Most Japanese people still largely perceiving the population to be homogenous in terms of socio-economic or ethnic background.

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Notwithstanding the first wave of feminism that emerged in the Taishō era, as well as the abolition of legal barriers to the entry of women into the public sphere with the 1947 Constitution, a gendered division of labour was deeply embedded in the blueprint for Japan’s capitalist industrial development. As a result, the male breadwinner/female home-maker family model permeates state policies, the workplace structure, and the political system. The public sphere is dominated by men, and normatively modelled on 'male' values and patterns of behaviour. Meanwhile, women are considered 'second-class citizens' 2 and remain primarily associated with the home through their reproductive and caregiving roles. As in patriarchal societies elsewhere, motherhood has become an institution: a supposedly private affair, yet 'instrumentalised by the interests of government and business'. 3 In the workplace, this translates either into gender-segregated career tracks or into the quasi-obligation for 'career-women' to renounce being mothers. In politics, supposedly female issues frequently constitute the primary campaigning platform for female candidates, whose gender is strategically exploited for political aims, often at the initiative of male party leaders.

This is also reflected at a grassroots level, where women’s activism has frequently been framed around their roles as caregivers.

In the last few decades, neoliberal reforms and policies such as Shinzō Abe’s 'womenomics' have drawn attention away from conventional gender roles. However, rather than addressing gender discrimination as such, most reforms aim at stimulating economic growth and resolving socio-economic issues such as the workforce shortage, low birth rate, and aging population.

What results is an increased pressure on women to meet neoliberal capitalist expectations through (constrained) participation in the workforce, while still fulfilling gender roles through an overarching devotion to the home and the family. Gender roles thus insidiously remain a defining aspect of men and women’s everyday lives. This pattern of 'postfeminist gender settlement', 4 not unique to Japan, makes it more difficult to criticise entrenched power structures.

2 Yamaguchi Tomomi, ‘Gender Free' Feminism in Japan: A Story of Mainstreaming and Backlash,’ in Rethinking Japanese Feminisms, ed. Julia C. Bullock, Kano Ayako and James Welker (Hawaii: University of Hawai'i Press, 2014), 6885.

3 Phoebe Holdgrün and Barbara Holthus, ‘Babysteps Toward Advocacy: Mothers against Radiation,’ in Disasters and Social Crisis in Contemporary Japan, ed. Mark R. Mullins and Nakano Koichi(London: Palgrave Macmillan UK, 2016), 238–266.

4 Angela McRobbie, The Aftermath of Feminism: Gender, Culture and Social Change (Los Angeles & London: SAGE, 2009).

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Historical Context of Women’s Anti-Nuclear Activism: a 'Citizen-Focused Femininity' Historically, many women joined the anti-nuclear campaigns that emerged as part of the 1960s ‘New Left’ movement and were sustained by accidents such as Three Mile Island (1979) and Chernobyl (1986).

Notwithstanding a certain influence of the 1970s women’s liberation movement (ūman ribu ウーマンリブ) and their critique of gender roles, women remained primarily valued as homemakers, and many of them inscribed their activism into their everyday responsibilities as housewives and consumers.

Places such as Parent-Teacher associations or Consumer Cooperatives represented a means to be active politically.

Hence, anti-nuclear activism often involved questioning the role of nuclear power in their everyday lives, or using strategies such as refusing to pay electricity bills.

It could be argued that while female activists did not challenge their assignment to the home per se, they chose not to consider it as an obstacle to their citizenship. Instead, they actively turned gender roles into political tools, creating what researcher Ulrike

Wöhr calls a 'citizen-focused femininity'. 5 In this light, gendered activism can nevertheless be seen as an empowering platform for political participation.

On the other hand, the overwhelmingly male leaders of the anti-nuclear movement were keen on framing women’s activism around gender roles in order to benefit anti-nuclear campaigns: pamphlets and discourses referred to women as mothers, housewives, or critical consumers (shōhisha 消費者). They were still primarily depicted as victims of male-dominated 'nuclear civilisation', acting selflessly out of a supposed natural instinct to protect life. Such rationale reinforced rather than challenged gender roles, thus presenting less of a challenge to the conservative establishment.

Fig. 2 Peaceful anti-nuclear protest in Tokyo, Japan, escorted by policemen.

5 Ulrike Wöhr, 'Gender and Citizenship in the Anti-nuclear Power Movement in 1970s Japan,' in Gender, Nation and State in Modern Japan, ed. Andrea Germer, Vera Mackie, and Ulrike Wöhr Germer, Mackie and Wöhr (London: Routledge, 2014), 245.

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Fig. 3 Anti-Nuclear Power Plant Rally on 19 September 2011 at Meiji Shrine Outer Garden.

On the whole, the Japanese anti-nuclear movement had limited success, especially in contrast to other environmental movements. 6 However, activism during these decades is remembered as the 'pinnacle of housewife feminism', 7 and gendered framing remained in the repertoire of the anti-nuclear movement.

6 Such as the 1960s anti-pollution campaign, leading to then-groundbreaking environmental protection regulation, such as the Basic Law for Environmental Pollution (1967) or the establishment or the Environmental Agency (1971).

7 Takeda Hiroko, ‘Gendering the Japanese Political System: The Gender-Specific Pattern of Political Activity and Women’s Political Participation,’ Japanese Studies 26, No. 2 (2006): 192.

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Socio-Political Context of the Fukushima Disaster: A Missed Political Opportunity for the Anti-Nuclear Movement In the early 2010s, the so-called nuclear village (genshiryoku mura 原子力村) 8 managed to capitalise on economic rationality, as well as on long-held concerns regarding energy security and climate change, to increase reliance on nuclear energy: before the Fukushima disaster, the proportion of nuclear in the energy mix was planned to reach 50% by 2030. 9 However, the triple catastrophe that hit the Tōhoku region on 11 th March 2011 shattered the 'safety myth' surrounding nuclear energy. In the wake of the powerful earthquake and subsequent tsunami, deficient safety mechanisms failed to prevent the meltdown of three reactors at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant and the release of radioactive contaminants in the region. In addition to the accident itself being recognised as a 'man-made disaster' by the Japanese Diet, its aftermath highlighted dysfunctional aspects of the nuclear village: corruption, nepotism, reluctant

and incomplete disclosure of information to the general public, suspiciously low radiation measurements, or turnarounds as to which zones were deemed safe. This fostered a sense of doubt about the government’s handling of the disaster, adding to the uncertainty inherent to radiation science, and revived the anti-nuclear movement. Alongside a large majority of Japanese citizens quietly but consistently favouring a phasing-out of nuclear power after the accident, the most visible element of the renewed movement was protests of a scale unseen since the 1970s. Such rallies drew citizens who had until then remained mostly apolitical, such as women or young people. ​​

8 A collusive architecture between the Liberal Democratic Party (jiyū-minshutō 自由民主党) and the nuclear indus-

try, with the complicity of big businesses, mass media and the bureaucracy.

9 Vlado Vivoda and Geordan Graetz, 'Nuclear Policy and Regulation in Japan after Fukushima: Navigating the Crisis,' Journal of Contemporary Asia 45, No. 3 (2015), 491.

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​​​ public pressure could have reIf sulted in halting all of Japan’s nuclear reactors, this window of opportunity quickly closed as the pro-nuclear Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) managed to capitalise on the crisis to return to power in December 2012. Lacking a clear political agenda and relying mostly on non-professional, part-time activists, the anti-nuclear movement – faced with professional nuclear village lobbyists – ultimately failed to have much impact on energy policies. While some necessary, yet superficial, changes were made to the regulatory architecture of nuclear power, the very structure of the nuclear village was not threatened. As of 2023, in the context of energy security and climate change concerns, reactors deemed safe are in the process of being re-started, and nuclear is currently set to constitute a significant share of Japan’s energy mix. 10 In parallel to dwindling protests and ongoing lawsuits, a particular type of anti-nuclear activism has, however, persisted: grassroots anti-radiation groups, overwhelmingly comprised of women.

10 'Japan marks 12 years since quake and tsunami prompted Fukushima crisis,' The Japan Times, March 11 th, 2023.

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Fig. 4 Residents of Iitate village listen to Mayor Norio Sugano (back to camera) explain a government plan to evacuate residents from the village that's about 40 kilometers from the radiation-spewing Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear plant in northeastern Japan, on Wednesday April 13, 2011.

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Women’s Anti-Nuclear Activism Post-Fukushima: Citizen Science and Baby Steps Politics Women have undoubtedly been a part of mass rallies, but gendered activism can most clearly be observed in the case of so-called citizen scientists: laypeople taking the issue of radiation data into their own hands, acquiring substantial knowledge in the process. This phenomenon is inscribed in the history of 'information politics' and 'self-help' movements - autonomous groups of citizens organising themselves to obtain data to support advocacy or to deal with the consequences of a crisis, often in the case of ​​the state’s inaction.

In the wake of the Fukushima accident and in the absence of trustworthy information, numerous citizens found themselves in doubt as to the presence and the impact of radiation in their daily lives. As a result, many people took to checking radiation levels themselves.

Recalling women’s involvement in the 1970s anti-nuclear movement, mothers have been especially active, driven by their desire to ensure their children’s health.

11 Aya Hirata Kimura, Radiation Brain Moms and Citizen Scientists: The Gender Politics of Food Contamination after Fukushima (Durham: Duke University Press, 2016), 109.

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Grassroots mothers’ organisations (mama no kai ママの会) have flourished in the wake of the accident, organised as independent NPOs or as branches of the 'National Network of Parents to Protect Children from Radiation'. As of 2014, sociologist Aya Kimura counted seventy-four of them throughout the country. 11 Making use of informal networks, these organisations have been offering thyroid screenings, working with schools to ensure the safety of buildings and playgrounds, testing food products, or more generally spreading knowledge and reliable data on radiation science and levels of contamination. More recently, mothers’ organisations started measuring radioactivity levels in seawater, ahead of the planned release of radioactive water in the summer of 2023.

All in all, it is overwhelmingly women who have been dealing with the very real consequences of the accident in their everyday. As evident in the organisations’ names, such as 'Mothers' Radiation Lab Fukushima (Tarachine), 12 most of them frame their actions in relation to their responsibilities and concerns as mothers, and many indicate that their working husbands are too busy within the system to doubt the government’s reassurances or to act on any radiation concerns they may have.

Fig. 5 Food Action Nippon, poster saying ‘Let’s eat to support’. This national campaign aimed at appeasing food contamination fears and counterbalance so-called harmful rumors (fuhyōhigai 不評被害) after the Fukushima disaster.

12 Tarachine meaning mother, or someone fighting to protect their children, in Japan’s oldest poetry anthology, the ‘Man’yōshū’.

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An Apolitical Approach? 'Baby steps' Politics?

An Alternative Form of Politics?

Grassroots politics is often considered to have a limited impact on the 'real political world', understood as governmental institutions and high-level politics. In addition, most women have abstained from being too vocal, from formulating opinions on national-level energy policies, or siding with a political party. Many prefer to be seen as mothers rather than activists, and to focus on ‘science’ rather than ‘politics’.

One activist summed it up by stating that ‘radiation is a women’s issue, a life issue, not a political issue.’ 13 However, it can be argued that even doubting official radiation measures already veers ‘from the obedient mother ideal’. 14 Furthermore, many women still strive to influence low-level authorities through running petitions or fostering sustained contact with local politicians – albeit focusing on the issue of radioactivity hazards rather than on energy policies. Interestingly,​​ the most vocal among these groups are often the veteran protesters of the 1970s anti-nu-

13 Danzuka Haruka, Maya Houser, and Uno Satsuki. ‘Activist Mothers and Radical Women,’ Society for East Asian Anthropology, September 10, 2015.

14 Holdgrün and Holthus, ‘Babysteps Toward Advocacy,’ 240.

15 Kimura, Radiation Brain moms and Citizen Scientists, 129.

16 Tessa Morris-Suzuki, Japan’s Living Politics. Grassroots Action and the Crises of Democracy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), 201.

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clear demonstrations. A ‘self-gendering’ frame and a ‘baby steps’ approach to advocacy seem to represent a conscious trade-off between the contradictory demands of women’s gender roles.

Indeed, it has always been simultaneously required of mothers that they provide healthy food and a safe environment for their families, but also that they avoid ‘extremist’ behaviours that might trigger a backlash against them or their families – this includes being openly political. The Fukushima disaster has reinforced this dilemma, raising the threat of radiation while at the same time reminding citizens of the necessity of national unity, to not get in the way of disaster recovery policies and to abide by societal expectations, including gender roles. Thus a supposedly 'apolitical' approach avoids being categorised as ‘crazy mamas’ (kureima クレイ マ) or ‘radiation brain moms’ (nō-mama 脳ママ) - gendered designations playing on the stereotype of women as irrational, which could lead to their children being discriminated against.

However, if women citizen scientists can indeed be perceived as apolitical in contrast to more radical types of protest, Kimura argues that radiation-measuring ‘can itself be a form of politics’, which, when performed collectively, ‘legitimates a different understanding of reality than the government-sanctioned one’. 15 Furthermore, historian Tessa Morris-Suzuki underlines ‘the long history of the role that informal networking has played in empowering [women] in the context of Japan's patriarchal social structures’. 16

Fig. 6 Anti Nuclear Protest, Tokyo, December 2012.

And, however subtle, it seems that the politicalness of such activism has actually been well understood: a public discourse condemning the doubts of concerned citizens has emerged.

Cleverly dismissing anti-establishment activism and women’s voices at the same time, this nuclear village-friendly discourse described radiation concerns as 'harmful rumours' (fuhyō higai 不評被害). In doing so, they effectively blamed concerned mothers for the fact that Fukushima agricultural products were not selling anymore, rather than acknowledging the political establishment’s own responsibility in the disaster. This narrative reinforces the dilem-

ma in which women find themselves as mothers and as citizens, struggling to find a balance between contradictory gendered expectations in a time of crisis: must they stand up for their children or remain obedient ​​mothers?

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Fig. 7 A soil sample is being collected as part of an IAEA workshop exercise in the evacuated zone around TEPCO’s Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Station.

Double-edged Sword of Gendered Activism Gendered patterns of citizenship have not been fundamentally changed through women’s participation in the anti-nuclear movement. It is, however, important to underline the strategic and compromising dimension of gendered activism. Indeed, in the context of the Fukushima disaster, gender roles became entangled with the intimate and urgent need to protect loved ones.

Therefore, I argue that women anti-nuclear activists have subtly contributed to widening the scope of their gender role repertoire, by simultaneously taking action as women and redefining

17 Susan J. Pharr, Political Women in Japan: The Search for a Place in Political Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), 14.

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what woman can and should mean. In the 1970s, this arguably manifested itself through women adopting the role of critical consumers (including of nuclear energy), whereas post-Fukushima activist women have added citizen scientists to their gender roles identities.

Against this backdrop, one can speak of radiation-measurement as an empowering political act. In this way, as Susan Pharr puts it, ‘all political women, no matter how modest their degree of involvement or how carefully they may disguise their activism from any detractors, are agents of change’. 17 Although this appropriation of gender roles has the potential to foster empowerment at a micro-level, it might be a bit optimistic to consider it a direct challenge to male-dominated and pro-nuclear mainstream politics. Furthermore, it must be noted that cele-

brating the gendered-but-empowering strategies of women, without questioning the gendered structures of power behind nuclear power, further enables the male-dominated establishment to capitalise on women’s sacrifice to welfare, on men’s sacrifice to the workplace, and more generally to ignore the human and environmental costs of nuclear energy at the benefit of neoliberal market rationality. As anthropologist Joy Hendry noted of earlier women’s grassroots political activities, it is likely ‘that many of the women who feel so strongly about the disadvantages of the capitalist world of big business may actually be married to men who make their living (and, of course, that of their wives) in precisely this way’. 18 Indeed, it is often women whose quality of life and free time depend on husbands working within the system who are able to achieve the compro-

mise of meeting gender expectations while being active politically. Idealising gendered activism conveniently reinforces the ‘postfeminist gender settlement’ pattern as well as the ‘myth of homogeneity’ in Japanese society, obscuring the increasingly diverse citizenship experiences of people outside normative gender roles. Thus it could be argued that by adopting a small-steps, seemingly apolitical strategy of survival within ‘nuclear civilisation’, women anti-nuclear activists are alienating those whose sacrifice is sustaining the very system they are avoiding to question: single mothers, sub-contracted nuclear plant workers, precarious citizens with little time and energy to politicise their daily struggles and question their role in a nuclear society. After all, ‘nuclear civilisation rests on multiple axes of discrimination’. 19

18 Hendry Joy, ‘The Role of the Professional Housewife,’ in Japanese Women Working, ed. Janet Hunter (London: Routledge, 2003), 237.

19 Wöhr, ‘'Gender and Citizenship in the Anti-nuclear Power Movement in 1970s Japan,’ 247.

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Suggested Readings Holdgrün, Phoebe, and Holthus, Barbara. ‘Babysteps Toward Advocacy: Mothers against Radiation.’ In Disasters and Social Crisis in Contemporary Japan, edited by Mark R. Mullins and Nakano Koichi, 238-264. New York: Palgrave-Macmillan, 2016.

Kimura, Aya Hirata. Radiation Brain Moms and Citizen Scientists: The Gender Politics of Food Contamination after Fukushima. Durham: Duke University Press, 2016.

Takeda, Hiroko. ‘Gendering the Japanese Political System: The Gender-specific Pattern of Political Activity and Women's Political Participation.’ Japanese Studies 26, No. 2 (2006): 185-198.

Morris-Suzuki, Tessa. Japan’s Living Politics. Grassroots Action and the Crises of Democracy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020.

Wöhr, Ulrike. ‘Gender and Citizenship in the Anti-nuclear Power Movement in 1970s Japan.’ In Gender, Nation and State in Modern Japan, edited by Andrea Germer, Vera Mackie, and Ulrike Wöhr, 230-254. London: Routledge, 2014.

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ILLUSTRATED SHORT STORY

Burning Woodblocks Dawa Lama

Illustrator: Enrico Bachmann

W atanabe looked at himself in the mirror, meticulously shaving 1

the near non-existent facial hair on his chin. His eyes followed the movement of his hands, paying close attention not to cut himself. After finishing up, he rinsed the shaver and put it away. The man in his mid-thirties returned to the bedroom where Chiyo, his wife, was still tidying up the futon. Her dark, thick hair curled slightly at the nape of her neck, while the rest was put up into a loose topknot, fixed with a pin in the shape of a flower. She stowed away the pillows into the closet, and the futon and blanket were hung over the window sill, to air them for a while. As she opened the wooden-framed windows, a fresh wind slowly replaced the bedroom smell from a cool summer night. He took a deep breath and left, heading over to the kitchen, following the scent of freshly cooked rice. With a heavy creaking sound, he slid open the doors to find an already prepared breakfast for himself and his wife: small plates filled with pickled vegetables, some natto, one bowl containing comfortingly warm miso soup, and another with plain white rice. Before taking a seat on the tatami floor, he cautiously tucked his white shirt into his suit pants. Alone the sight of the meal made Watanabe smile as he reached out to pick up the chopsticks. Right then, Chiyo stepped into the kitchen, quickly closing the door behind her and sitting down opposite her husband. They clasped their hands together, whispered, 'Itadakimasu!' and started eating. For a while, they did so in silence, as he thought about all the things he had planned for today. It would be a rather busy Saturday: maintaining his existing business relation with the head of the local newspaper, stopping by his printing and publishing shop, picking up designs at an artist’s home, and meeting several clients.

1 Watanabe Shōzaburō (渡辺庄三郎; 1885–1962), who will be referred to by his family’s name in this short story, saw the potential in exporting woodblock prints to the West as popularity in Japan was at an all-time low. He gathered skilled carvers, printers and artists alike to design prints combining traditional Japanese techniques with elements of contemporary Western paintings. The term shin hanga is said to have been coined by him as well.

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Then his eyes wandered around the room, halting for a moment on his wife’s face. Her nose was still as delicate as ever, with a small mole on the left nostril; the same as when they had met many years ago.

She chuckled, having noticed him watching her.

'How are you, dear?' she asked, taking a mouthful of rice with natto.

He put down his chopsticks, crossed his arms, tilted his head to the left, and mumbled, 'I am well. Why shouldn’t I be?' Chiyo’s brown eyes showed a soft expression, trying to read her husband’s face.

Minutes passed and they kept their gaze on each other. Watanabe frowned, and Chiyo chuckled again. 'Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?' she answered, her eyes still on him.

While he was thinking about her question, she finished breakfast, got up, and retreated into the cooking area. Dishes clanked, water splashed, and she started humming. He finished up his meal, with an inaudible 'Gochisousamadeshita', before handing over his plates and bowls to her. As he turned around, ready to leave the kitchen, he remembered something. Her father had been a very busy man, often absent from home. It hadn’t taken long for him to overwork himself and become forced to take a break from work. Chiyo had never told her husband how that must have been for her. However, even if she had told him, he wouldn’t have understood. Having to work and letting it take up most of your life was just the way it was and always would be, he thought. For him, work was everything. He loved it with his whole body. The most exhilarating feeling came from successfully planning designs with artists, overseeing the carvers and printers, and at the end of a production cycle holding the finished print in his hands and applying his shop’s seal with a stamp.

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Ever since opening his own business 17 years ago, he had worked continuously on bettering his work relations, building connections with the western market, and gathering the best artists, carvers, and printers under his name, with only one goal in mind: making Japanese prints great once again.

Watanabe packed up all necessary things into his briefcase: some paperwork, his notebook, some designs he had taken home to have a look at, and an umbrella. At eight o’clock, before leaving the house, Chiyo helped him put on his jacket and straighten his tie.

'I’ll be late tonight, so you don’t have to prepare any dinner for me.

Have a nice day,' he said to her, as they looked at each other in the genkan, the entry way of their home. Chiyo nodded and handed him his fedora hat, which he took with a nod.

Putting on his shoes, he said, 'I’ll be on my way then,' and left the house. As her husband shut the door behind him, she unconsciously raised her right arm, reaching out, thinking, 'Be careful.'

By nine o’clock, Watanabe was already sat with Kitamura, the head of the local newspaper, drinking a cup of steaming hot tea and discussing work. The editor expressed interest in using some prints in a special feature, as he had done so before. Talks with this man, who was well past his fifties, were always a pleasure. He felt they shared the same outlooks on life and business. They would speak about potential designs which would often lead to heated arguments, but always ended in agreement. The two men laughed and joked about some young, inexperienced college graduate who had been trying to open up a newspaper shop close to Kitamura’s. Exactly one hour later, both of them shook hands and Watanabe left, making his way through Tokyo, the city as lively and busy as ever.

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When he arrived at his shop, some children were pressing their noses flat against the glass, looking inside and pointing at prints displayed there. As soon as they noticed him, the group ran off.

In the nearby alley way, some dogs were yowling and nervously pacing back and forth. High above in the sky he noticed a big flock of birds flying over the city. Frowning, he shrugged his shoulders and opened the door. All the employees greeted him with a loud 'Ohayou gozaimasu' and then quickly resumed their respective tasks.

A man with circular glasses, wearing a light blue hakama over a matching yukata, traditional Japanese clothing, walked up to him, shaking his hand with a firm grip.

'Good morning, good to see you,' he said, 'I hope you enjoyed the designs I gave you yesterday, and I expect, we have a lot to talk about.'

Before discussing the designs he received from Kawase the previous night, however, Watanabe wanted to oversee the progress of his employees.

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The shop was a long, rectangular shaped room, where five to six people were currently working, the youngest being an apprentice, learning under one of the carvers. Wood shavings covered the floor and the sound of carvers’ tools’ filled the air, while they worked rigorously on some woodblocks. Watanabe looked over the apprentice’s shoulder to inspect his work. Most of the lines seemed clean, but clearly didn’t meet the expected standard. He pursed his lips, threw one glance at the carver, who instantly understood. The man motioned the apprentice to move aside and he started lecturing him, showing him where exactly he went wrong.

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Content with the strict handling of his employee, he continued on to another artist who had been drawing design concepts for a few months now. The newest pieces showed different scenes from different districts all over Tokyo.

'I assume, you went there yourself and did some sketching first?' he inquired, surprising the man, who had been deep in thought and focused on his drafts.

The man nodded one too many times and Watanabe headed over to the printer’s corner. Numerous small ink bottles of all kinds of colours had been placed in a row, where nearby a man closely inspected a finished sketch. Handwritten notes by the artist on the paper served as instruction for the printer on what colour to use for which section of the design.

'Are these the last ones?' he asked, as Kawase and him had planned a limited-edition set of prints on Japanese sceneries.

The printer reached under the table, rummaging around, looking for something. He pulled out another sheet of paper and with a quick glance, dryly commented, 'Of course, only about 20 left to print.'

Without waiting for a response, he carried on studying the sketch, picking out the colours needed for the print and putting them aside.

Watanabe felt he could trust the printer, who had been a loyal employee for many years now, so he returned to Kawase, who was patiently tending to a customer. The woman explained that she was searching for a gift, the reason being her husband’s retirement party.

She quietly laughed at one of his jokes, covering her mouth with her hand out of politeness.

After the rather short conversation Kawase nodded, then they bowed and said goodbye. Next to the entrance was the calendar on the wall; it was 1 st September 1923. As soon as the door fell shut, Watanabe, with a serious expression, asked 'Do you mind if we go elsewhere? I have some thoughts I’d like to share with you in private.'

Kawase responded with a smirk and a simple 'You do know me, don’t you?'.

The two men packed up their belongings, briefly gave some more instructions to the others and left the store behind.

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A taxi took them out of the city centre, passing many shops, newsstands, entertainment businesses, and food stalls, until living quarters took over the scenery on the other side of the car window. Middle school teachers saw an opportunity on this warm day to spend some time out in the school yard with their pupils. The car stopped at a red light and Watanabe watched a girl sitting in the shade of a big tree, rubbing her eyes; she was crying. A boy, maybe a friend of hers, approached her hesitantly, touching her shoulders. Right then, the driver pushed down on the gas and the cab took off, leaving the school behind; leaving both the girl and the boy behind.

Arriving on the outskirts of Tokyo, they stopped in front of an old looking soba restaurant. Kawase rubbed his hands in anticipation, as the drive neared its end. Watanabe often brought business partners here. The owners were an older, childless couple who liked him a lot and would always treat him with kindness. He took comfort in that, although he couldn’t exactly name the reason, so he just did. They paid the cab driver, who then returned into the city, where he would surely find more customers. Entering the restaurant, a woman greeted them with a big smile.

'Watanabe-san, it’s so good to see you' she said, her voice filled with joy. She waved them into the seating area, showing them to their usual booth.

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Before sitting down onto the tatami mats, they took off their shoes.

Two cups of green tea and some warm, damp towels on the table were already waiting for them. Gratefully they accepted and wiped their hands. Kawase gulped down the whole cup in one go and the woman hurriedly filled up another for him. Wooden plaques on the wall named all the different dishes the restaurant had to offer. As always, the two men ordered a meal set with zaru soba, cold buckwheat noodles that come with a dipping sauce, an extra portion of yasai tempura, fried vegetables, and two cold beers.

Perfectly chopped spring onions on the cutting board, steamy noodles in a bowl, the sizzling sound of freshly prepared yasai tempura; the owner was in his element. Watanabe had loosened his tie and

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they started discussing the anticipated success of the last prints in the limited edition series, from time to time taking a sip of beer. When the older woman served them their dishes, the pair didn’t even look up. She quietly put down the trays and retreated into the kitchen, giving a hand to her husband. Slowly the restaurant started filling up with more customers, as the clock hands steadily moved closer to 12 o’clock.

Kawase was contently gobbling up half of his noodles, stuffing two pieces of tempura into his mouth and Watanabe was about to drink another sip of his beer. Suddenly the room jolted and the beer sloshed all over the table. An eery silence gave way to the wooden plaques banging against the walls, tables started rattling and people were calling out in surprise. In the kitchen, hung-up pans clanked loudly.

Somewhere, glass shattered. Without a second thought, everyone got up and quickly started pouring outside through the narrow doorway of the restaurant. Earthquakes weren’t unusual, so nobody seemed too worried. Yet the walls shook more heavily still, almost violently.

Watanabe crept along the walls, moving over to the kitchen area, because he wanted to make sure the older couple was safe. The two of them were hiding beneath a table, so he helped them get out and safely guided them outside with the help of Kawase. Everyone gathered on the street, while the earth continued to quake.

Threatening, rumbling sounds came from beneath them, the asphalt cracking up. Some of the buildings around them began to tear apart as easily as one could cotton wool. Others broke down as if they had been made out of paper. Tremor after tremor hit the area in waves. More and more people gathered outside on the streets; faces with expressions of bewilderment, shock and surprise. Soon after, the sound of crying joined the rumbling noise. In the neighbourhood people started yelling for help. By now, everyone had realised that it wasn’t one of those small earthquakes. Watanabe made sure Kawase was looking after the restaurants’ owners before he made his way through the crowd, shoving people aside, trying to grasp the situation. On the horizon, far away in the city centre, more and more columns of smoke welled up high into the sky. For a split second, he thought of his shop and his employees. But the thought was in-

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terrupted by a woman grabbing at his arm. Her face was contorted, blood trickling down her left cheek.

'Please, help me! My son is still in the house' she pleaded, tightening the grip on the man’s arm.

He thought of Chiyo, as the woman before him collapsed on the spot. Others rushed over, tending to her, as she fell in and out of consciousness. All the while he distanced himself from the scene, walking towards the house she had pointed to.

'Hopeless…' he whispered, inadvertently.

The house before him was in ruins. Desperately looking through the rubbles was a man, tears streaming down his face. He yelled out his son’s name, over and over again. Watanabe inched closer, reaching out and touching his back.

'You should find your wife, she’s just collapsed,' he informed the man, whose eyes seemed unfocused. He took a deep breath as more tears ran down his face. Then he sighed and sobbed, covering his face under his hands, which were dirty and bloodied from rummaging through the destroyed house. An older man had stepped up behind them, indicating with a nod that he would look after the crying father.

Splintered pieces of wood and broken up stone lay before Watanabe, as he thought about the chances of the boy’s survival. Nevertheless, he dug his hands into the rubble, grabbing and heaving. And he hadn’t even noticed that the earth stood still once again.

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On the first day of September 1923 the Kanto region was hit by one of the most destructive earthquakes in history. The restaurant’s neighbourhood represented only a glimpse of the catastrophe. But long after the earth had stopped shaking, thick, dark smoke continued to rise into the sky from inner Tokyo. Besides the damage the quake itself had caused, firestorms were raging throughout the whole city, burning down everything in their path, buildings and people alike.

It would take fire fighters several days to put it all out. Many hours passed of fearing for the worst and waiting for any kind of information, until a small rescue group arrived with tools, blankets, and first aid kits, among other things. And they brought news with them as well. After learning that most of the city centre was expected to be in complete ruins, Kawase broke down. He had been worried sick about his family and his home. Watanabe put his hand on his friend’s back who was crying now. Neither of them could picture the destruction, not before they were allowed to make their way back into the centre.

Watanabe first returned to his home, where he found a still quite shaken Chiyo. But she had found a welcome distraction.

The more or less intact house had given her reason to offer a family refuge at their home, as they hadn’t been so lucky. Their house had burned down completely, though fire fighters from a station just around the corner had been able to prevent it from spreading.

Most of the other homes were torn apart like those by the soba restaurant. For this reason, many people sought shelter in a nearby school building that had also survived the quake.

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As the sun sank and ultimately took cover beneath the horizon, smoke still hovered in the air. That night he held on tightly to his wife, while the two of them drifted into a deep, restless slumber. Morning brought forth a new day far too quickly. As he peeled himself out of the futon, his body felt heavy, dreading what the day would bring. Chiyo had already been up and about, tending to the family and preparing breakfast. They had a quick chat in the kitchen. Watanabe sipped some miso soup and then left.

It turned out to be more difficult to get to the store than expected.

Multiple times on his way into the city centre he had to pass officials of rescue, who would stop and ask him, why he insisted on returning.

Each time the young man would explain.

“I’m the owner of a store and I must absolutely see what state it is in; not to mention the employees that were present that day!”.

While the fires had been put out by that time, the rescue effort went on. A list with missing people’s names grew continuously longer.

With every street he crossed, his worries weighed more heavily.

To see the city he grew up, lived, and worked in completely ravaged by the sheer strength of the earthquake and the heat of the firestorms pained his heart deeply. As he turned the corner to where his shop was, only the burnt, ash covered skeleton of it awaited him. The air still felt thick with the smell of smoke as he stepped into the ruins of his store. Somewhere, a voice yelled, “You can’t enter! It’s not safe!”

Watanabe, however, paid no attention. Charred carving tools and a few ink bottles lay on the floor, while nothing remained of the woodblocks and prints. He didn’t dare think about his employees. Would he have to put their names on the list as well? One thing was clear to him: he would have to rebuild his business from scratch, hopefully with Kawase by his side.

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Text and images: Joris Burla

Text and images: Joris Burla Technique and material: watercolour on paper 152

We are currently living in the first years of the Pyrocene, an epoch in which huge fires are shaping the face of the planet.

Images of wildfires often form our idea of fires and natural disasters.

However, there is a completely different category of fire and disaster images: the many different views on the 1923 Great Kanto Earthquake.

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While I might have heard of the Great Kanto Earthquake, it is definitely not widely known in Europe. In Japan, of course, it’s engrained in the public memory.

Especially in Japanese prints, this earthquake marks a turning point – as I was about to find out.

With the 24 hour comic event approaching fast, I decided to look deeper into the different visual sources portraying the devastation.

It is, thus, by no means a complete or exact account of what happened, but rather a glimpse into the visual language of this disaster.

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Most of the story and the first 8 pages of this comic were written and drawn within 24 hours.

As I was scrolling through my social media feed, an entry caught my eye.

It was by a small private collection of Japanese prints in Amsterdam, announcing their newest exhibition:

‘In Memoriam | 100 years After the Quake‘

Both pictures attracted my attention, but the second one in particular set me off on a visual journey. In what ways does such a cataclysmic event effect artists?

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The first of September 1923 was a normal Saturday.

Circa two million people of the capital were looking forward to a warm lunch, heating up their coal and wood fired stoves

when at 11:58 a massive earthquake hit the region of Yokohama and Tokyo.

The earthquake had an estimated magnitude of 7.9 MW and supposedly broke the seismographs of the seismological society.

However, it wasn’t just the shaking earth causing destruction, but also the following three days of fire.

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Winds of a nearing typhoon quickly turned the many small fires caused by the burning stoves in traditional wooden houses into numerous big fires, which surpassed the capabilities of the fire brigades.

For 72 hours the flames burned, leaving nothing in their way but collapsed houses and bizarre sculptures of melted iron.

All in all, around 300’000 houses were destroyed.

The death toll ranged somewhere between 90’000 and 140’000 people. The better half of Tokyo was destroyed and with it, much of its art: especially the prints!

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Many of the prints published before 1923 that were in Tokyo at that time didn’t survive the raging fire, making the remaining copies even more precious. It wasn’t just the printed paper turning into ashes, but also woodblocks themselves.

With all this history gone, Japanese artists had a blank page to restart on their own. The disaster led to a rise of modernity in the traditional media of woodblock prints.

It goes so far that the modern prints, the shin hanga, can be roughly divided into two distinct categories:

Pre-Earthquake Landscapes and Post-Earthquake Landscapes

When seeing this distinction during my research, one thing stood out for me: Where are the images showing the earthquake in this categorisation?

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I found these prints and their representation of the disaster fascinating – especially since they could be compared to the abundant visual media depicting the first days of September 1923.

A quick google search reveals a plethora of bad scans of black and white photographs and postcards of rubble and ruins, often with an added layer of red or orange to enhance the viewer‘s experience.

From all the photos and prints of famous buildings and bridges in ruins, I find two of particular interest, as they present a different view of the disaster.

Next to the cheaply printed postcards, there are also lithographic prints that focus on the fires, painting the sky in bright yellows and orange, showing the famous fire tornadoes.

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Both show the devastation of the Hanayashiki District zoo and have an elephant at their center. The colour lithography also shows the twelve-story tower of Asakusa Park – now reduced to six – being engulfed in fire and smoke, and it is much more dramatic.

The print claims a documentary moment and shows the chaos and haste, but is at the same time sensational. The photograph, on the other hand, is the opposite of it.

While the sky is still red from the burning fire, the action is over: the elephant is standing still, looking back to a black skeleton of its cage.

In its calmness, the photography manages to touch on a completely different level – more similarly to a specific woodblock prints series.

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The series is called ‘Collection of Woodblock Prints of the Taishō Earthquake’ and was supposedly published by Hoshino Seki, who worked for the publishing house Gahōsha.

He invited six artists to produce six ‘paintings’ each, which then would be carved, printed and subsequently sold for as little as 1 yen 50 sen (about two cans of soup).

Already in the pre-publishing note, Hoshino Seki sought the comparison with the abundant photography,

but was sure that his artists could provide the better view on the events.

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The six artists were Nishizawa Tekiho, Kawasaki Shoku, Isoda Chisu, Oda Kancho, Tamura Saiten and – for me the most fascinating of them – Kiriya Senrin.

Their use of colour and how they display the voids left behind shows their personal experience.

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They all went out of their studios to draw witness accounts and capture the disaster in a much more personal way than the postcards did.

Looking at the diverse prints, it‘s easy to forget about the mastery of the carver and the printer, Nagashima Kiichi and Tamura Tetsunosuke, who were able to keep each artist‘s style clearly visible.

Some prints could almost be a modern expressionist landscape,

while others clearly echo the classical visual tropes of shin hanga.

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Kiriya Senrin – a classical trained buddhist painter – stands out for his choice of motifs: He is not interested in modern ruins, but in human suffering and resilience.

Yet, in his depictions of the suffering, he is never voyeuristic.

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Perhaps, out of all the artists, he fulfills Hoshino Seki‘s claim the most: It‘s not the ruins that he needed to depict, as there was photography for that.

Moving away from the grandeur of the ruins, I think he has the most modern approach: Tokyo is not just the buildings, streets and bridges, but the people living in it.

‘People are the focus once again in the wide, wide streets of a town for today‘s men‘*

*From: Andy Tillison: Four Egos, One War, 2010

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'Memories' of Earthquakes:

Living on the Edge: On Japanese Disaster

Natural Disasters in Heian Literature

Mitigation

Fig. 1 © Tak1701d

Fig. 1 © The city of Kobe

Fig. 2 © National Diet Library Digital Collection

Fig. 2 © Save the Children Canada

Fig. 3 © Library of congress

Fig. 3 © KAMUI

Fig. 4 © UCB Library

Fig. 4 © UCB Library

Fig. 5 © ChiefHira

Fig. 7 © Dick Thomas Johnson

Fig. 6–8 © The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Fig. 8 © GuchuanYanyi Fig. 9 © PAO NETWORK INC

Falling Thunder and Flooding Rivers: The Disasters Portrayed

The Politics of Gendered Activism:

in the Karmic Origins of Tenjin

Women in the Japanese Anti-Nuclear Movement

Fig. 1 © The Metropolitan Museum of Art Fig. 5 © The Trustees of the British Museum

Fig. 2 © Susanna Lööf / IAEA

Beware of the Catfish! Earthquakes and

Fig. 5 © Kyodo News

Satire in Mid-19

Fig. 7 © BBC World Service

th

Century Prints

Fig. 1, 3–7 © National Museum of Japanese History (Rekihaku 歴博)

Fig. 2 © Museum Rietberg Destruction and Creativity: Popular Music and the Great Kantō Earthquake Fig. 2, 3, 5, 6 © Aurel Baele

ISSN 2813-3617 Wasshoi!

Contact Chief editor: Luigi Zeni Georg-Kempfstrasse 6 8046 Zurich Switzerland

Fig. 4 © 保守

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