History, as an old axiom goes, it written by the victors. Through either good fortune, careful planning, meticulous execution (in all meanings of that word) or some other advantage, certain persons are destined to be remembered for their merits while others stand condemned for their sins. Yet the wheel of history sometimes turns in favour of the ‘wicked’, and on occasion reputations can be raised up from the mire of infamy and cast into the light of redemption. Japanese history is no exception to this trend, and recent scholarship has brought about a reinterpretation of the motives and methods used by certain historical individuals in pursuit of their interests. This blog has explored one of those figures, Akechi Mitsuhide, whose name was synonymous with ‘traitor’ for having rebelled against and ultimately caused the death of Oda Nobunaga (who himself might be regarded as a historical ‘villain’), yet many others come to mind – from Fujiwara no Kaneie, to Taira no Masakado, Taira no Kiyomori, Nichiren, Hōjō Masako, Hōjō Takatoki, Kō no Moronao, Ashikaga Takauji, Ashikaga Yoshimitsu, Ashikaga Yoshimasa (noticing a trend here?), Hino Tomiko, Saito Dōsan, Kennyo, Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, the list goes on.

The figures outlined above are notable for the fact that in some way or another they fought against and on occasion prevailed against the perceived wisdom and authority of their day, whether it be the Imperial court, other warrior houses, influential religions, or social mores. In insisting on their rights and views, they collided with other prominent historical figures of their day, and their misfortune was to be on the losing side when the historical record came to be written (or lost).
Take, for example, the case of Hino Tomiko.  Here was a woman born into an aristocratic family tied to the Ashikaga shōgunate, who was married to the 8th Ashikaga Shōgun Yoshimasa at the age of 16. In the early 1460s Tomiko gave birth to a number of girls, but was unable to have any sons. This state of affairs was obviously a concern for the continuation of the Ashikaga household, so much so that Yoshimasa’s brother, originally known by his Buddhist name Gijin (as he had taken the tonsure and retired from public life), was brought back from the monastery, given the name Ashikaga Yoshimi, and was expected to succeed Yoshimasa in the position of shōgun.

However fate can sometimes conspire to play cruel tricks on mere mortals. In 1465 Tomiko gave birth to a son, Yoshihisa, which set off a series of events that would eventually lead to the Ōnin War. You see, Yoshimi had a powerful supporter in the form of Hosokawa Katsumoto, who believed that Yoshimi’s claim to the position of shōgun superseded that of Yoshihisa and so Yoshimi should become the 9th Ashikaga shōgun and was prepared to back him in that claim.

Tomiko had other ideas, however. Having tried for years to have a son, and with one finally available, Tomiko declared that Yoshihisa, as the son of Yoshimasa, had more claim to the shōgunate than Yoshimi. In order to support her claim, she appealed to Hosokawa rival Yamana Sōzen as well as her own Hino aristocratic family. This led to a direct standoff between the Hosokawa and Yamana clans, which in turn branched out to affect relations between other warrior and aristocratic families not only in the capital but also in the provinces, leading in turn to an outbreak of violence between supporters of the Hosokawa and Yamana in Kyoto in 1465.   

This conflict, known as the Ōnin War, would last for approximately 11 years, during which much of Kyoto burnt to the ground, Katsumoto and Sōzen both died, and the power of the central aristocratic and military families waned as regional warlords rose to take their place. Tomiko would survive all of this, and would see Yoshihisa succeed as the 9th shōgun, albeit to a much weakened government and an unstable realm.  Nonetheless, in her capacity as the wife of one shōgun and the mother to another, for which she was normally referred to as the ‘Midai-dokoro’ (御台所), she wielded considerable power for a woman in an age when women were not expected to play a prominent role in political and societal affairs (it certainly helped that she may, or may not, have also been secretly corresponding with Emperor Go-Tsuchimikado and carrying on a relationship with him, thus increasing her authority among the organs of state in the capital).

This in part explains why Tomiko’s reputation underwent such a hammering by later generations of historical scholars. Other causes are related to the fact that in the aftermath of the Ōnin War, Tomiko, as the real source of authority, ordered the installation of toll gates at the seven entrances to Kyoto in order to collect funds for the rebuilding of the Imperial palace – the ‘Dairi’ (内裏) – as well as to celebrate the end of hostilities and the return of peace to the capital. It does appear, however, that the collection of tolls was used to increase Tomiko’s personal fortune, a situation that created resentment and resulted in 1480 in the outbreak of a tokusei ikki (a form of protest which demanded the forgiving of debts and other financial burdens) during which the toll gates were destroyed. Not to be thwarted, Tomiko ordered the toll gates to be re-established at the city entrances, thereby making her a target of anger from not only commoners but also members of the aristocracy.
For a state still recovering from the effects of war and famine, and given the precarious state of the Ashikaga shōgunate at this period in time, it does seem foolish of Tomiko to have provoked popular anger by imposing financial hardship on the residents of the capital (Tomiko was also linked to the decision by Yoshimasa to embark on the construction of the ‘Hana no Gosho’ (Ginkakuji) during the great famine of Chōroku-Kanshō from 1459 to 1461, a move for which Yoshimasa was harshly criticized and admonished by Emperor Go-Hanazono).   On the other hand, the Imperial palace was restored, although it would be another 30 years before any festivals were held in the capital.

It does seem that historical memory has conspired to ensure that Hino Tomiko’s memory remains forever tied to villainy, for her selfishness, her greed, and her indifference to the suffering of the people. Yet for around 40 years she managed to thrive in a society in a state of chaos, at the focal point of political and military power, dominating the shōgunate in a manner never to be repeated by any of the male successors to that position. Her rapacious nature may have been one born of necessity, given that the relative power of the shōgunate was waning in the face of challenges from other military houses which forced her to be ruthless. Yet she was loyal to those who served her interests, and her fortune enabled the Ashikaga shōgunate to continue into the sixteenth century until its eventual demise in the 1570-80s.  As stated at the outset, history is written by the victors, and Tomiko’s misfortune was to be a powerful woman in an era where the instruments of state, overwhelmingly dominated by men, were falling apart. Her like would not be seen again until the emergence of Yodo-dono (also known as Cha-cha, concubine of Toyotomi Hideyoshi, and mother of Toyotomi Hideyori) in the late sixteenth century, whose reputation would be the subject of slander in the same manner as Tomiko.  

I’ve been assiduously trying to avoid writing about this topic for the past two weeks, however the amount of hullabaloo about it in Japan’s domestic media has made me feel that I should jot down my two cents about what really should have been a non-event. Recently, during an American football game between Nihon University and Kwansei Gakuin University, a defensive player for Nihon made what has been described as an “egregious” or “malicious” tackle on the quarterback of the opposing side, ostensibly putting that quarterback out of action for three weeks (although he subsequently returned to play a week later). After the game, the Kwansei Gakuin coaching staff lodged a protest with the Japan American Football Association, pointing out that the quarterback had already thrown the ball and was effectively not involved in the play when he was tackled by the Nihon player from behind, causing the quarterback to tear a knee ligament. Kwansei’s coaching staff thus demanded an apology from Nihon University and the suspension of the player and the Nihon University football team for the remainder of the season.

Then things become murky. Nihon University’s coaching staff, mainly consisting of former head coach Uchida Masahito and coach Inoue Tsutomu, initially denied that they had instructed the player to deliberately perform a dangerous tackle on the opposing quarterback. This did little to placate the coaching staff of Kwansei or the father of the injured quarterback, who held their own press conference in which they voiced their anger at how Nihon University was treating the matter. They were particularly incensed by former coach Uchida’s comments made to sections of the media following the game, in which he said that “if you don’t do that, you won’t win”, thereby admitting some involvement in the decision to make the tackle.  Pressure continued to build on the Nihon University coaching staff, so much so that Uchida was eventually forced to resign from his position not only as a coach but also as a member of the university’s executive committee.   

Yet the matter did not end there. Kwansei Gakuin pointed to a section of a letter received from Nihon University which ostensibly apologised for the incident, but stated that the problem had occurred because there was “a gap in understanding between the directions issued by the coaching staff and the manner in which the player received them”, thereby hoisting the blame for the tackle onto the Nihon player. The injured player’s father also made a reappearance in the media, stating that his son had submitted an aggravated assault complaint against Nihon University with the Osaka Prefectural Police and that he wanted to know whether the Nihon coaching staff had issued a directive for their player to make the dangerous tackle.

The Nihon player then held his own press conference in Tokyo (such was the level of interest in the story from across Japan, as a video of the tackle had been posted to Youtube and had subsequently been picked up by the major news networks), where he apologised to Kwansei Gakuin’s team, the injured player, and revealed that he had been directed by the coaching staff of Nihon to make the tackle after being warned that if he didn’t he would be left out of any subsequent matches.  One day later, Uchida and Inoue fronted the media once more, in which they denied giving any directions to deliberately injure the opposing quarterback, although during the same press conference Inoue did admit that he told the Nihon player to ‘crush the opposing quarterback’. Inoue added a proviso to this, however, saying that his expression had been ‘misinterpreted’ by the Nihon player.   

To cut a long story short, the Kansai Students American Football Association eventually met on the 30th of May, where Uchida and Inoue both had their qualifications as coaches revoked and Nihon University found its football team suspended for the remainder of the season, along with an obligation to reform its internal practices to ensure no repeat of the incident.

Japanese university team clubs generally conform to the ethos of fair play and responsible conduct, and so the this entire episode served as a focal point for (somewhat obsessive) commentary about the perceived decline in morals within Japanese society and a ‘win-at-all-costs’ mentality by which reputation means nothing and victory must come no matter what. It was also used to demonstrate that despite the passing of 70 or more years, Japanese society still possesses a mindset that puts obedience to hierarchy above all else even though it may be against one’s own best interests and/or morals (a topic that segues nicely into the scandals currently plaguing the Abe government). 

That might be reading too much into it, however. What is clear is that the coaching staff of Nihon gave their 19 or 20 something year old player an ultimatum that, given previous comments he presumably received regarding his performance, left him with little choice but to conclude that if he didn’t take out the opposing quarterback he’d be off the team. In hindsight that conclusion appears ironic, but for a young university football player desperate to show his talents and remain on the team, the decision was clear-cut.  Of course, the player could have chosen to just tackle the quarterback in a more conventional style, such as after the snap, but maybe he felt that this wouldn’t be enough to satisfy his coaches.

If there is any fault to be found here, it is in the way Nihon University dealt with the problem. Instead of issuing a blanket apology to Kwansei Gakuin, investigating the incident from all sides, and suspending the coaching staff while the investigation was underway, Nihon preferred to remain silent, then contrite, and then attempted to blame the player for the incident. It was cowardice on the part of Nihon to avoid taking responsibility for its actions, although in the current political climate, perhaps that’s only to be expected.

In the past I’ve written about the apparent apathy displayed by Japanese youth (or should that be ‘young people’) towards politics, but apathy may play less of a role than the relentless progress of population decline, particularly in rural areas. Evidence of the sharp decline in even relatively young people participating in regional politics because of the sheer lack of people of appropriate age to stand as candidates was made all the more evident by this article that appeared in the Nishi Nihon Shimbun on Wednesday.  Gokasechō, located in northern Miyazaki Prefecture, is set to have a town election in order to elect new members, yet as of the 22nd not a single person has put up their hand as a candidate. This is, according to the prefectural electoral office, the first time this has happened since records started to be collected on local elections in 1982, and speaks volumes about the crisis in ageing that affects rural districts across Japan.

In this state of affairs, any incumbents who happen to sit on town or village councils will presumably be re-elected by default, given there are no other candidates standing for election. The current mayor of Gokasechō, Ogasa Mayumi, says that they tried to get some young people and women to stand as candidates, yet were rebuffed with reasons such as not wanting to quit work or that it would be a burden on the family. Another reason highlighted in the article is that the remuneration for sitting on the town council is a mere 188,000 yen a month, which is well below the standard living wage and is the lowest such wage among all councils in the prefecture.

For those younger people living in rural areas, which in the case of Japan is something of a rare phenomenon, politics does not have much of a lure, for unlike city or even prefectural councils the decisions made at the local level are rarely influential and lack any of the ‘glamour’ associated with high-profile councils. Local council members often have to finance their own campaigns, which puts an additional burden on them when, in the case of younger town or village residents, they are still trying to establish their place in society and have other debts to consider.

Demographic squeeze is a problem that Japan has faced for over a decade, but the effects of that have mostly been confined to the welfare and education sectors. The steady regression in political participation in the regions has yet to be replicated in major urban centres, but it is only a matter of time before it does.  When that happens, expect to see a whole lot more advertising from the traditional political parties trying to make up for lost time and depict politics as ‘cool’, but by then the ship will have well and truly sailed. 

In a system dominated by access to party funding and generational politicians, the position of the independent representative will mostly depend on personal wealth and popularity, which is why politics will become a platform for entertainers and high-profile celebrities. This will serve to only emphasise the politics on urban areas and exacerbate the drop in political participation in rural areas. And this trend will continue unabated, for without an influx on new representatives local councils will stagnate and disappear, further marginalising the rural vote to the benefit of an entrenched and aging political class.  

Here’s an idea for a potential thesis. I wonder if anybody has taken the time to track the attitude towards women expressed by members of Japan’s ruling political class (aka, the LDP) and see if they have undergone any sort of progress in the last 30 years, because judging by commentary made this week by (serial gaffe meister) Asō Tarō and Lower House member for Nagasaki Kato Kanji, things don’t appear to have changed much at all. This is, after all, a party whose past members have condoned gang rape, proposed national awards for women who have more than 4 children, said that women were “machines to give birth”, said that women have ‘narrow vision’, said that women who don’t have children shouldn’t receive social welfare benefits, and so on (there are plenty more examples, but time constraints mean only the most recent and prominent could be assembled here).

For a party that has a specific platform to help women play a greater role in society, clearly something is amiss.  It might derive from the fact that Japan has the fourth lowest level of female participation in parliamentary politics among the OECD nations, with it ranked 159 out of 193 countries. A national assembly that has so little female representation is not likely to put much emphasis on issues concerning women, and most of those women in such parliaments find themselves pressured to conform to the views of the majority of their colleagues. 

It may also derive from the fact that a majority of those in the executive of the LDP are from a wealthy, privileged background, and whose privilege means that the women around them are likely to either have no formal employment or income source of their own, and whose only role has been that of mother (and briefly at that, given the prevalence of nannies and maids in these households). Any women they have come into contact with have been junior staff in their parliamentary offices, or general administrative staff in companies they have (briefly) worked for or in the Diet building. Their expectations towards women have been formed by their narrow interactions with them, and so their concept of women’s societal role is confined to ‘baby maker’ and little else.

What would be interesting to compare is whether these kinds of gaffes were as common or more prevalent in the past or whether awareness of them has only increased as a consequence of the spread of social media.  It would also be interesting to compare the type of commentary made to see whether any progress has been made in attitudes, or whether attitudes have remained fixated on certain select topics.  Of course not all members of the LDP share these views, and those comments made by LDP members that discriminate against women appear to be more of a reflection of their individual prejudices than an actual political platform, but their comments do their party no favours.

What a set of circumstances these are. In the wake of the resignation last week of Secretary of the Ministry of Finance Fukuda Junichi following allegations that he had engaged in sexual harassment towards a female journalist (from Asahi Television), the Abe government on Tuesday (24th April) agreed to accept Fukuda’s resignation. The only problem here is that Fukuda has never admitted that he did sexually harass the journalist, which essentially means that he’s escaped any imposition of punishment for his actions (and kept his pension).  In the meantime the opposition parties in the Japanese Diet are clamoring for the head of Finance Minister Aso Tarō, declaring that since Aso was the minister responsible for the ministry under which Fukuda was employed, he must have known of the allegations raised against Fukuda but did nothing to address them. 

The issue of sexual harassment is one that touches a very sensitive nerve in Japanese society, but the reaction to it illustrates the type of social attitudes that are more prevalent than not. While serial linguistic bomb thrower Aso has so far managed to avoid getting himself caught up in any gaffes, the same could not really be said for former Education and Science Minister Shimomura Hirofumi, who said that anyone (from a television station) who secretly records a conversation and then sells that to a weekly tabloid magazine has essentially committed a crime.  Keidanren chairman Sakakibara Sadayuki followed this up on Monday when he questioned the methods used by the female journalist when speaking to Secretary Fukuda (namely an invitation to drinks and a one-on-one interview), saying this could lead to ‘misunderstandings’ and perhaps restrictions should be placed on how journalists are able to conduct such interviews.

While the #Metoo movement had garnered considerable attention abroad, its message of gender equality and respect has yet to permeate the very male dominated social conscience of Japan. It’s not that Japanese women aren’t trying to make changes, it’s just the challenge confronting them is so great that any victories are difficult to notice against the overall size of the problem.   

One female journalist who has experienced the worst of a male-dominated social system and yet has chosen to resist the expectations placed on her (and others like her) in order to speak openly about the issue of rape and harassment in the Japanese workplace is Ito Shiori. Ito wrote about her experience of being drugged and raped by a more senior colleague while working at the Washington branch of TBS Television, and the struggle to get authorities to treat her case with the seriousness that it deserved.  It is an illustrative case of how power and social expectations combine to silence any criticism of the status quo, and how far Japanese women have to go to change social mores that still regard them as an afterthought in comparison to the demands of men.     

There is no doubt that the figure of the ‘ninja’ is one that has permeated popular culture from Japan to all corners of the globe.  The typical depiction of a ninja, or ‘shinobi’ as they were more often called, is one of a black clad figure moving swiftly through a castle scene at night to carry out an assassination or infiltrate an enemy camp to steal information pertinent to victory.  Yet the historical reality of ninja was more complicated, and certainly more diverse, than the image presented to us on the movie screen or in serialized novels.  For instance, the very concept of a ‘ninja’ varies according to both time and place, and Japanese history is replete with examples of individuals who did not identify themselves as ‘ninja’ or belong to a region (such as the two most well-known enclaves of ninjutsu in Iga and Koga) that knowingly practiced ninjutsu.  One such example is that of Saika Magoichi (雑賀孫市), an individual whose origins are surrounded in mystery, but who most certainly existed during the latter stages of the Sengoku era, and whose exploits would make him the stuff of legend.

My first encounter with Magoichi came as a result of study that I undertook at Ōtani Univesity a decade ago when researching the role of regional, lower class samurai (or jizamurai) in the gradual spread of villages affiliated with the Ikkō faith and loyal to the main Ikkō temple of Honganji.  One organization that kept coming up again and again in studies devoted to the rural adoption of Jodō Shinshū and its gradual militarization was the Saika-gun located on the Kii peninsula (modern Wakayama Prefecture). The Saika-gun were somewhat unique among the various militarized groups that existed at the time in that they adopted an entirely foreign weapon, the arquebus, or matchlock musket, as their principle means of offence and defence, and were remarkably successful in both production and application of this technology. 

Magoichi himself, according to this study of individual shinobi during the Era of the Warring States, was ruler of Saika-castle (which sounds ostentatious, but in reality amounted to an earthen fort with wooden walls and some buildings of plaster and stone) and lord over a territory that produced 70,000 koku (the standard definition of wealth for the Sengoku period – essentially 1 koku equaled the amount of rice necessary to feed one retainer for a year). He was the son of Suzuki Satao, and was formally known by the name Suzuki Magoichi Tao Shigetomo. He was never called by his formal name, preferring instead to go by his more casual nomenclature.  According to legend, Magoichi spent his adolescence as a pirate, plundering any vessels that strayed too close to the shoreline of the Saika peninsula.  He was said to have a gregarious, outgoing personality, and, as often accompanies such traits, had a great affinity for women and alcohol.

This personality naturally led people to gravitate towards him, and in time he found himself appointed as the leader of the Saika group of musketeers. His armour was certainly individualistic, punctuated by a helmet resembling an iron pot and a cuirass resembling fish scales and a banner depicting a three legged divine messenger; the Crow of Kumaya Yata. He bore a favourite musket, which he dubbed ‘Aiyama Gohō’, and led a unit of 2,000 musketeers into battle.

The Saika area was a broad expanse of land facing the Waka Bay, and its location made it a favourite for those people returning from journeys to the continent. Many of these travelers possessed knowledge of metal working, and contributed to the development of a local brand of blacksmithing known as the “Kii – Corean Style”.  Many of those blacksmiths had been to Tanegashima to learn both musket technology and tactics, and subsequently brought that knowledge back to the Kii peninsula.  One such smith, known as Tsuda Kenmotsu Kazunaga, the elder brother of the banner man (or leader) of the Negoro temple group, Sugino Bōmeisan, taught the techniques for arms manufacturing and musket tactics to both the Saika and Negoro group of followers, and in the case of the Saika was responsible for organizing them into a coherent, militarized unit. 

The Tsuda school of arms forging derived from the imagination of a master craftsman, however Magoichi was the key person in combining both this technology and the form of ninjutsu practiced by the Saika group to become a master of guerilla warfare.  The Saika group that Magoichi led were not warmongers, and certainly did not seek to become involved in conflict out any desire for thrills or adventure.  The Saika group took as their purpose the creation of a stable, prosperous country, and knew that in order to realise such a vision they would need money. Their involvement in conflict thus stemmed from the fact that they were, in essence, mercenaries, in that they would accept payment from daimyō from across Japan in exchange for providing their services as musketeers in various conflicts throughout the nation.  One unique aspect to the Saika group was that they fought more for ideological reasons that purely fiscal ones, often refusing their services to any force they deemed hostile to their interests or whom they simply didn’t agree with, not matter how great the offer made.

The Saika, and Magoichi in particular, were devoted followers of the Ikkō sect, and fought in battles against Oda Nobunaga under orders from the head of the Hongaji temple, Kennyo, in the latter 16th century.  The first conflict involving Magoichi against the Oda forces took place on the 12th and 13th days of the 9th month of the first year of Genki (1570).   In the 7th month of the same year, the forces of the Miyoshi clan (consisting of three parts, led by Miyoshi Nagayuki, Iwanari Tomomichi, and Miyoshi Masayasu) were expelled from the island of Awa (which lies between the modern prefectures of Osaka and Tokushima-Kagawa) by Oda Nobunaga. In order to exact their revenge, all three forces, with a combined strength of 13,000 troops, landed and made camp at Nakashima Tenma no Mori in Settsu province (now part of Kita-ku in Osaka City).  Magoichi and the Saika group were included in those forces.

The Miyoshi army took up positions within forts belonging to the Honganji temple at Noda and Fukushima in Settsu province.  At the outset of the conflict fortune favoured the Miyoshi, however in the 8th month word reached the Miyoshi that Nobunaga had departed from Gifu (in Owari province) with a force of approximately 40,000 troops.  On the 18th of the 9th month, Nobunaga advanced his main camp to within range of the Miyoshi forces at Tenma no Mori. Prior to this, on the 12th, Nobunaga sent his cannon and musket corps to open up proceedings by shelling and firing upon the Miyoshi camp.  The Miyoshi army, unable to withstand the attacks from the Oda, sued for peace, yet Nobunaga refused to parley and planned to wipe out the entire Miyoshi force.

In the middle of the night on the 12th, the bells of Honganji suddenly began to ring, signaling the beginning of a musket duel at the Oda held forts at Sakura-gishi and Kawaguchi. For Honganji, this was a sudden and unmistakable declaration of war on the forces of the Oda.

One section of the Oda forces was located in marshy land between the rivers of Kanzaki-gawa and Nakatsu-gawa. In the early hours of the morning of the 13th, a group approached this position flying a banner emblazoned with three stars. The banner was without question that of the Oda general Wada Koremasa. Seeing this, members of the Oda forces approached the group, believing that they were about to be reinforced. However the group suddenly halted at the edge of the Nakatsu-gawa river, threw away their three star banners, and raised a banner depicting the three legged Crow of Kumaya Yata.   

The armed group then spread out along the banks of the Nakatsu-gawa and proceeded to open fire on the Oda forces.  For the Oda, there was nowhere to hide, and certainly nowhere to which they could run. The group involved was of course that of the Saika under the leadership of Magoichi, using the ‘abandon banners strategy’. 

However, according to a different historical source, a particularly strong wind was blowing in the early hours of the 13th which was accompanied by heavy rain, causing the Yodo River to back up and overflow. The Oda force, rather than running away, decided that it would attack the force on the opposite side of the Nakatsu-gawa, however by the time they arrived on the far shore the Saika had already dispersed their forces and vanished.  The Oda forces spotted a group of about 10 or so soldiers whom they quickly set upon, only to discover that the soldiers they thrust their spears into and slashed with their swords were in fact dummies made of bamboo and dressed in the armour of ordinary foot soldiers (ashigaru).

Not only this, the Saika group had set up sharpened bamboo stakes in the grass along the river bank, causing many injuries to the Oda force and not a few casualties. 

Eventually news reached the Oda camp that the combined armies of the Asai and Asakura, together with their Ikkō allies, had launched an attack on the western shore of Lake Biwa and threatened to cut the Oda army off from its home base at Gifu. Realising the threat to his rear, Nobunaga raised camp and headed off in the direction of Kyoto, thus bringing his campaign against the Miyoshi to a quick conclusion.

Magoichi practiced a form of ninjutsu techniques known as the ‘five elements’. Among these was a range of guerilla tactics referred to as ‘earthen elements’.  A series of trenches and tunnels would be dug in the form of a maze which would allow the Saika to close the distance with their enemy without being seen. This would then allow the Saika to snipe at their enemy from all directions, thereby ensuring disorder in the enemy camp.  On occasion, a Saika group member would show themselves to their enemy, only to appear as though they had been swallowed up by a forest. An enemy soldier would give chase and rush into the same area, only to literally fall foul of a sharpened bamboo stick placed in a camouflaged pit.  Not only this, the Saika would create muskets out of bamboo and rig them to fire projectiles at random, thereby causing yet more casualties to an enemy force.

In the 5th month of Tenshō 4 (1576), Nobunaga yet again found himself in conflict against the Saika led by Magoichi. In the 7th month, Nobunaga installed a blockade against Honganji, attempting to starve the temple complex into submission.  Unable to achieve this objective, Nobunaga placed his fleet in and around the shores of Izumi province (location of modern Osaka prefecture), however they were set upon by the forces of the Murakami fleet, whose overwhelming numbers (estimated at 800 vessels) forced the Oda to retreat, and many Oda ships were lost to fires started by flaming arrows shot from the Murakami vessels.

In the second month of the following year, Nobunaga again set out to bring down the Honganji complex, but realized that in order to achieve this he would first need to deal with the potential threat presented by the Saika group.  At the outset, Nobunaga forced the surrender of some members of the Saika and Sugi no Bō of the Negoro group.  On the 15th day of the same month, Nobunaga invaded the Saika territory leading generals from fifteen provinces.  When word of this reached the Saika, their forces assembled at the mountain temple of Mirokuji, where Magoichi explained the strategy they would employ against the Oda. Sharpened wooden palisades would be installed along the riverbank of the Saika River, nets would be spread out, traps installed in river beds, and various other devices installed to hamper the progress of the Oda army.

The Oda army marched straight into these traps, resulting in many drownings, while those that survived would be sniped at by Saika musketeers at any opportunity.  However the overwhelming numbers of the Oda soon led to the Saika region being cut off from outside supplies, and on the 2nd day of the 3rd month the Saika forces made a vow to Nobunaga and surrendered.  Magoichi survived the surrender, and would later be involved in the attack on Fushimi Castle by the forces of Ishida Mitsunari in the lead-up to the Battle of Sekigahara.  In his later years he was granted the sum of 3,000 koku by Tokugawa Ieyasu, and would serve in the retinue of the first ruler of Mitō province, Tokugawa Yorifusa.    

The Battle of Sekigahara (15th September 1600) remains one of those pivotal events in Japan’s past that defines the start of one age and the end of another.  Twelve years of Toyotomi dominance of national affairs was brought to a sudden halt at a non-descript crossroads in Mino province (now Gifu Prefecture) by forces allied to Tokugawa Ieyasu, and set in motion events that would lead to the eventual downfall of the Toyotomi at the Battle of Osaka Castle in 1615. 

The general understanding of the public in relation to the Battle of Sekigahara has been shaped over the centuries by popular narratives, plays, and (more recently) television dramas and movies.  Last year the most recent of these cinematic endeavours was shown to audiences throughout Japan, and took as its inspiration the novel “Sekigahara” written by Shiba Ryōtarō in the mid-1960s. 
The novel examines events primarily from the point of view of Ishida Mitsunari, a retainer and (in many ways) acolyte of Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who gathers together households still loyal to the Toyotomi as Hideyoshi’s health deteriorates in anticipation of the inevitable clash with Ieyasu.

The Battle of Sekigahara in popular memory has by and large focused on a number of events that highlight the various stages of the battle itself. Those have been (for example): the opening gun battle between the forces of Ukita Hideie and Fukushima Masanori, fighting between the forces of Shima Sakon and Kuroda Nagamasa,  the “Toi-deppō” (or “probing shot”) made at the forces of Kobayakawa Hideaki, thereby forcing Hideaki to choose whether to remain loyal to Mitsuhide or defect to Ieyasu, the battlefield death of Ōtani Yoshitsugu (a consequence of Hideaki’s defection to Ieyasu), and the final desperate charge of the Shimazu at the Tokugawa forces in the closing stages of the battle.   

It was in anticipation of obtaining a copy of the 2017 film that I recently purchased a book titled “The Truth of the Battle of Sekigahara” (関ケ原合戦の真実) by Beppu University academic Shiramine Jun (白峰旬).  What I’ve read so far has been revelatory in explaining just how historical memory and popular fiction can combine to completely distort the truth of an historical event.  Professor Shiramine points out that most of what is commonly known about the Battle of Sekigahara, namely the events described above, derives from so-called “Gunki” or “war tales” that were written during the Edo period (in other words, after Tokugawa rule had established itself at the centre of power in early modern Japan).

The purpose of these “war tales” was not so much to accurately re-tell the events of history as they were to entertain readers with stories of heroism and betrayal, and so the historical evidence for such tales was not as important as the ability to captivate the reader. As a consequence, the popular understanding of the events of September 15th 1600 became tinged with a degree of sensationalism removed from the historical record. 

For example, the common belief among the public is that the Battle of Sekigahara lasted the entire day, with initial fighting commencing around 8 in the morning and continuing until the late afternoon. However historical records of the time note that fighting was initiated after the fog cloud sitting over the battlefield dissipated, which would have been around 10am. In addition, while the battle began with both sides firing muskets at one another, it very quickly descended into what is known as a “白兵戦”, or “pure infantry battle” involving spears and swords.  The battle itself was over in the space of 2 to 3 hours, yet in order to make it seem as though an epic struggle had occurred, later “war tales” spun the timespan of the battle out to an entire day.

As Professor Shiramine goes to extraordinarily lengths to prove, the most famous incident of the Battle of Sekigahara, the “probing shot” at the forces of Kobayakawa Hideaki by troops belonging to Tokugawa Ieyasu, which apparently forced Kobayakawa to reveal his true allegiances and support the Tokugawa in attacking nearby forces belonging to Ōtani Yoshitsugu (allied to Ishida Mitsuhide), is a work of pure fiction.  Nowhere in the contemporary sources of the period is there any mention of any “probing shot” being made at the forces of Hideaki. Moreover, contemporary sources of the period show that Tokugawa Ieyasu had been in correspondence with Hideaki long before the battle began, and Hideaki did not wait until midday before revealing his loyalty to Ieyasu but initiated his attack against Yoshitsugu much earlier in proceedings.

Another point backing up this evidence is the fact that Kobayakawa was suitably rewarded after the battle for his contribution to the Tokugawa victory, whereas other less prominent generals located near the Kobayakawa camp at Matsu-oyama only defected once it became clear they would be overrun by Kobayakawa’s forces, and suffered the consequences of their treachery by later having their lands confiscated by the Tokugawa.    

It is these revelations, and the close examination of primary sources to back up such claims, that makes Professor Shiramine’s book such an interesting read.  While there is undoubtedly some disappointment that episodes one has always assumed to be based on history never in fact existed, or existed in a much more basic form than referred to in popular literature, one can at least glimpse the true nature of the Battle of Sekigahara (incidentally, the name “Sekigahara” as it applies to the battlefield is somewhat misleading, as contemporary sources from around 1600 note that most fighting took place in an area known as “Yamanaka” (山中) and not in the village of Sekigahara itself. “Yamanaka” lies around 2-3km to the west of Sekigahara Station and nowadays is a quiet residential area not far from the gravesite marker of Ōtani Yoshitsugu).

Another point that Professor Shiramine makes is that the terms used to refer to the armies of Tokugawa Ieyasu and Ishida Mitsunari, “East Army” and “West Army” respectively, were inventions of writers in the Edo period and were not used by contemporaries (this is less surprising, given that such terminology abounds in historical studies in order to more neatly codify a broad or complex phenomenon).
This is just some of the details of the Professor Shiramine’s book, which has received mostly positive reviews on Amazon.jp (although there are some complaints that Professor Shiramine tends to repeat himself and his points, which is a point that can be brought up concerning a number of Japanese academic studies).  For an exploration on the use of primary source materials to establish the “truth” of an historical event, and a study on the Battle of Sekigahara in general, Professor Shiramine’s book is a great place to start and highly recommended.

Today is Valentine’s Day (in Australia, although the date above is set by the US based host of this blog), that day when expressions of affection are made public, where couples are given the liberty to renew vows of matrimony or provided with a sharp reminder to declare everlasting devotion to their significant other (or face the consequences). On this day, presents are often exchanged, most notably chocolate – a substance that in its own right has fairly questionable aphrodisiacal qualities but when combined with sugar becomes the embodiment of romantic love. Or so one is led to believe if approaching things from a Western perspective, for the tradition of Valentine’s Day has a somewhat different interpretation in Japan, and it is one that makes it quite a fascinating study in human behavior and social expectations.

Japan, as a non-Christian nation (meaning not founded on or around Christian beliefs), was initially slow to adopt this most Western of traditions, however from the mid-20th century onwards the spread of Western mass culture to Japan brought about a shift in mindset and the adoption of Valentine’s Day as an opportunity to celebrate personal relationships. However unlike in the West, the expectations surrounding Valentine’s Day were focused on female relations with men, for under Japan’s traditions women did not play as prominent a role in public matters and so were expected to defer their own ambitions to their male counterparts.  Hence rather than give chocolate as a sign of genuine affection for someone, women employed in the corporate world of Japan were expected to provide chocolate to their male colleagues out of a sense of obligation. Since it was the male employees of a company that dictated how the company was run and whether it would succeed or fail, any encouragement to the male workers of the company was deemed beneficial (particularly to the continued employment of women in the company), and so rose the concept of “義理チョコ, or obligation chocolate”.

However department stores in Japan, aware that a one-off hit of chocolate sales were good but two were better, came up with the idea of “White Day” in the 1960s, whereby male staff would repay their female colleagues for their kindness by providing chocolate in return.  Hence the concept of “obligation chocolate” runs both ways, although in terms of marketing and overall corporate interest Valentine’s Day is by far a much bigger deal than “White Day”. While it is often considered better “form” to make one’s own chocolate and then distribute this in the form of a gift, the pace of modern life in Japan means that most people purchase chocolate from department stores and give these to their colleagues.

Yet one chocolate maker has gone out on a limb to try and overturn the concept of “obligation chocolate” and return Valentine’s Day to its more traditional image as a genuine expression of affection. Or at least that seems to the reason why, earlier this month, Godiva Chocolates Japan took out a full-page ad in the Nikkei Shimbun calling on Japan to “end the practice of obligation chocolate”.  According to the text in the ad, CEO Jerome Chouchan declares that Valentine’s Day should go back to its origins and not be used as something to just “improve relations around the office”.  However as this article by Jake Adelstein notes, the reaction to the ad has been mixed. While some agree with its sentiment, others have interpreted it as a cynical marketing ploy, given that Godiva chocolates are not usually given as gifts on Valentine’s Day and thus halting the practice of “obligation chocolate” would benefit Godiva’s sales.

Yet the fact that most reactions to the ad have been positive shows that the issue of “obligation chocolate” is one that people have been mulling over for some time.  It seems that giving chocolate as an obligation is regarded as more of a nuisance than anything else, and one office practice that is unlikely to survive much longer as workplace diversity and a falling workforce participation rate forces changes on corporate Japan that are ultimately replicated across society as a whole. 

I’ve been examining aircraft crashes as of late, primarily in relation to the confirmation last weekend by the RAAF that an EA-18G Growler electronic warfare aircraft belonging to the Australian Air Force had been damaged while participating in Exercise Red Flag at the Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada, USA. The jet suffered extensive damage to one of its rear tail sections after an apparent engine failure and fire following an aborted take-off attempt.

This incident, which raised barely a murmur here in Australia, stands in stark contrast to recent events in Okinawa, where in late December 2017 part of a CH-53E Super Stallion fell off the helicopter in flight over the city of Ginowan and landed in the grounds of a kindergarten.  This was the latest in a series of mishaps involving US (primarily Marine) military equipment over Japan, and served to heighten the fears of city residents about the mechanical state of US Marine Corps aircraft traversing over the city. Protests were lodged by the Okinawan prefectural government with both the federal government in Tokyo and the local US Marine Corps command, who (eventually) apologized for the incident and promised to ensure that there would be no repeat of it (I say eventually as the Marine Corps originally denied that the part fell off one of their helicopters in flight, only to confirm a few days later that it did in fact fall off a Marine Super Stallion).

Then late last month the Japanese government took the extraordinary step of appointing some of its own Ground Self Defence Force inspectors to Marine Corps bases in Okinawa in order to check the airworthiness of Marine equipment, specifically the AH-1Z Viper and UH-1Y Venom helicopters. According to Defence Minister Onodera, “The Ministry of Defense will promptly confirm and verify the state of inspections and maintenance conducted by the U.S. side utilizing the Self-Defense Forces’ professional and technical knowledge.”

It was not without a sense of irony, then, when news came on Tuesday morning of the crash of a GSDF AH-64 Apache helicopter into a residential area of the city of Kanzaki in Saga prefecture. In a press interview given later in the day, Defence Minister Onodera confirmed that the main rotor head on the helicopter had recently been changed during maintenance, thereby indicating that this may have been the cause of the accident. During Diet budget deliberations, PM Abe also issued an apology to city residents on behalf of the government, promising that everything would be done to prevent a similar incident from occurring.

This serves as a reminder that no matter how confident one might be in one’s technical prowess, accidents and mishaps are an inevitable part of base operations, and that goes double for the Marine Corps given the high tempo of activity in the western Pacific.  The powers that be might want to take this into consideration when voicing criticisms of Marine Corps, and might express some degree of sympathy for the aviators whose professionalism and sacrifice have prevented any greater disaster from occurring.     

The subject of violence in the context of Japanese politics has received renewed attention with the publication of “Ruffians, Yakuza, Nationalists: The Violent Politics of Modern Japan, 1860-1960” by Eiko Maruko Siniawer.  This book, which details the exploits of shishi, bakuto and sōshi gangs of “violence specialists” that were a feature of Japanese political life during the early years of the modern state, is a fascinating glimpse into a world that has always been lingering near the surface of historical memory but which has not yet (at least in English) received a great deal of attention. 

Starting with the closing years of the Edo period, Siniawer outlines how younger, and often poorer, members of the jizamurai class provided their muscle in support of the restoration of and resistance to Imperial rule (i.e., think the Shinsengumi, along with the Imperial supporters from Satsuma and Chōshū). It then details how these protagonists eventually faded away, to be replaced by a different sort of political activist - one that initially acted on behalf of individual patrons (often providing personal protection services to politicians against their political enemies), but which in time joined groups that supported political parties, fought against rival gangs (from both the left and right wing of the political spectrum) and contributed to the spread of Japanese imperialism.

Although the book does not include any breakdown of the number of incidents of political violence per year, which would be useful to determine if during the course of a century there was a remarkable upswing in violence for political purposes, it illustrates in vivid detail many of the more famous incidents of mayhem that punctuated political life during the nascent years of Japanese parliamentary democracy, and how political violence transformed from an instrument of democratic expression to a tool of imperialism and the rise of the fascist state.

It does seem, from the evidence provided, that to enter politics during the period of 1870 – 1930 was to take your life in your hands, and that serious injury or death could result from an inopportune meeting with ‘ruffians’ supporting your rivals or who simply took a disliking to you and whatever political platform you espoused.

What makes this book even more remarkable is the amount of detail it provides about the protagonists of this violence. While I am aware of Japan’s violent political past (and present, if the activities of Diet MPs during debate on the Abe cabinet secrecy laws are any indication), I was not sure of the extent to which it was applied and who practiced it.  Ruffians provides that background and more, down to details on the type of clothing worn by these practitioners of political violence.

Siniawer also makes the important point that political violence was not unique to Japan, and that similar incidents of groups of young men using their physical strength to impose their views on others was a feature in US and UK politics during the same period.   What is interesting is the way in which political violence was encouraged in Japan, and how it became so entwined with the public conscience regarding political action that it would distort and undermine the very democracy that had allowed that conscience to emerge in the first place. 

It is an excellent resource for those seeking to understand how political ideals were strongly contested in Japan during the century following the Meiji Restoration, and I can’t recommend it highly enough.