Into the Field: Human Scientists of Transwar Japan 9781503610620

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INTO THE FIELD

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INTO THE FIELD H ­ u m a n S c i e n t i s t s o f Tr a n s w a r J a p a n

MIRIAM KINGSBERG KADIA

S TANFORD UNIVERSIT Y PRESS Stanford, California

Stanford University Press Stanford, California ©2020 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Ju­nior University. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Stanford University Press. Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca on acid-­f ree, archival-­quality paper Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Kadia, Miriam Kingsberg, author. Title: Into the field : human scientists of transwar Japan / Miriam Kingsberg Kadia. Description: Stanford, California : Stanford University Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019018934 (print) | LCCN 2019021215 (ebook) | ISBN 9781503610620 (ebook) | ISBN 9781503609082 (cloth; alk. paper) | ISBN 9781503610613 (pbk.; alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Anthropologists—Japan—History—20th century. | Anthropology— Japan—History—20th century. | Social scientists—Japan—History—20th century. | Social sciences—Japan—20th century. | National characteristics, Japanese—History— 20th century. | Japan—Intellectual life—20th century. Classification: LCC GN17.3.J3 (ebook) | LCC GN17.3.J3 K34 2019 (print) | DDC 301.095209/04—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019018934 Cover design: Kevin Barrett Kane Cover image: Xiaowutaishan summit team. Source: Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai, ed., Mōkyō no shizen to bunka, n.p. Typeset by Westchester Publishing Services in 10/14 Minion Pro

To R O S H A N K A D I A

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Izumi Seiichi, age forty. Source: Izumi Seiichi, “Personal History and Application for a Fellowship in Social Science,” May 28, 1956, file 5314, box 358, series 609, RG 10.1. Izumi Seiichi. Rocke­fel­ler Archive Center.

FIGURE 1. 

Siberia

UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS

MONGOLIA t ea Gr

tns nM g'a Xin

Goldi territory (1937) MANCHUKUO

Is ril Ku

Fengtian

Mōkyō (1938) MŌKYŌ Zhangjiakou Beijing

Shanghai

ds lan

Hokkaido Sendai

KOREA Keijo

Nanjing

42 ntr o l by 19

Heijō

Dairen

KWANTUNG LEASED TERRITORY

CHINA

Japane se c o

KARAFUTO

Oroqen territory (1936)

Tokyo

Kyoto

Jejudo (1937)

Yokohama

JAPAN Kyushu PA C I F I C O C E A N Okinawa

Taihoku

TAIWAN Bird's Biak Schouten Head Islands Peninsula Manokwari

e Japanes 942 1 control by

West New Guinea (1943)

Geelvinck Bay

l by tro on

Jap an es e

c

PHILIPPINES

Australian New Guinea

Palau

MICRONESIA see inset above

Borneo

New Guinea

DUTCH EAST INDIES Java se c o Japane

0

l ntro

9 by 1

42

Bismarck Archipelago

Melanesia Trobriand Islands

500 Miles

AUSTRALIA

MAP 1.

Izumi Seiichi’s world before 1945. Courtesy of Lohnes+Wright.

1942

UNITED KINGDOM

London Paris

FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY

UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS NORTH KOREA

Salzburg

Vienna

FRANCE

SOUTH KOREA PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

AUSTRIA

Rome

CANADA

Moscow

ITALY

see inset below Tokyo

Berkeley Los Angeles

JAPAN

Taipei

Taiwan VIETNAM

UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS

PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA

DEMOCRATIC PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF KOREA

Seoul

Sea of Japan

Sakhalin

Ebetsu (1947)

JAPAN

ril Ku nds a l s I

MEXICO

Hawaii

Jejudo (1965, 1970)

MAP 2.

Kyushu

Totsu River Valley (1949)

Washington, DC

Yucatán

Mexico City

Andes ECUADOR Amazon (1957, 1958-1969)

New Guinea

Huánuco Cusco

Huaral

Lima PERU

Saru River Valley (1952, 1953)

BOLIVIA

PARAGUAY

Paraná

Sendai

CHILE

Tsushima OkayamaKyoto Nagoya Tokyo (1950, 1951) Tokyo Kobe Osaka (1950, 1951) Tsushima Hakata Nagasaki

Cambridge New Haven New York Philadelphia

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

REPUBLIC OF KOREA

Strait

Ann Arbor

PA C I F I C O C E A N Hokkaido Sapporo

Aomori

Honolulu

Chicago

PACI FI C O CEAN

Izumi Seiichi’s world after 1945. Courtesy of Lohnes+Wright.

ARGENTINA

0

2,000 Miles

São Paulo Rio de Janeiro

Brazil (1952-1953, 1955-1956)

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­T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S

List of Illustrations

xiii

Acknowl­edgments

xv

Introduction: Men of One Age

1 The Origins of Fieldwork in the Japa­nese Empire

1 15

2 Group Fieldwork in War­time

40



67

3 Objectivity u ­ nder the U.S. Occupation

4 From “Race” to “Culture”

94



5 ­Others into Japa­nese

119

6 Japa­nese into ­Others

141

7 Excavating National Identity in the Antipodes

164

8 1968 and the Passing of the Field Generation

189

Notes 221 Works Cited

271

Index 307

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LI S T O F ILLU S TR ATI O N S

Figure 1 Izumi Seiichi, age forty

vii

Map 1 Izumi Seiichi’s world before 1945

viii

Map 2 Izumi Seiichi’s world a­ fter 1945

ix

Figure 2 Iiyama captures young Mongol w ­ omen

47

Figure 3 Iiyama’s photo­graph of a Mongol w ­ oman playing the zither

48

Figure 4 Xiaowutaishan summit team

50

Figure 5 American Studies Seminar classroom, Tōdai, 1950

79

Figure 6 Yanaihara addressing the American Studies Seminar

81

Figure 7 The imperial c­ ouple viewing artifacts from Kotosh

183

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A C K N O W L ­E D G M E N T S

In the following pages I depict Izumi Seiichi as a complicated scholar and person. But I begin this book by celebrating his inexhaustible curiosity and enthusiasm for learning about the world, and I thank him for the incredible adventure of following his ­career. Izumi gave me eight crazy years in libraries and archives, museums and mountains, beaches and botanical gardens. I followed him to the jungles of Papua and Brazil, the peaks of Jejudo and Karakoram, the pastures of Peru and Mongolia, the spires of Mexico City and Vienna, and the shores of Hokkaido and the Yucatán. And in the end, I was able to visit only a fraction of his field sites. When research took more than I had, friends and colleagues gave me more than I needed. Thanks are not enough for the laughter, support, and close readings I received from Raja Adal, Jennifer Altehenger, Talia Andrei, Celeste Arrington, Felix Boecking, Corey Brooks, Jamyung Choi, Tim Cooper, Evan Dawley, Fabian Drixler, W ­ ill Hedberg, Chris Hess, Nadia Kanagawa, Nick Kapur, Robin Kietlinski, Rachel Leow, Scott Lyons, Reo Matsuzaki, Elizabeth McGuire, Ti Ngo, Lisa Onaga, Saeyoung Park, Meg Rithmire, Caroline Shaw, Seiji Shirane, David Spafford, Karen Teoh, Kenichirō Tsukamoto, Emily Wilcox, Shellen Xiao Wu, and Ying Zhang. For their kind interest, assistance, and feedback on my work, I am grateful to Nobuko Adachi, Jeffrey Alexander, Noriko Aso, E. Taylor Atkins, Paul Barclay, Gwen Bennett, Peter Bleed, Amy Borovoy, Tim Brook, Alan Christy, Connie Cook, Sabine Dabringhaus, Fred Dickinson, Nicola Di Cosmo, Bregje van Eekelen, Josh Fogel, Linda Grove, Jooyeon Hahm, Marta Hanson, Henrietta Harrison, Johan Heilbron, Ulrich Herbert, Fumiko Ikawa-­Smith, Inaba Minoru, Bill Johnston, Manfred Jung, David Lurie, Michele Mason, Marlene J. Mayo, Sue Naquin, Nakao Katsumi, Willi Oberkrome, Jürgen Osterhammel, Andrew Port, Christoph Seidler, Mark Selden, Henry D. Smith II, George Steinmetz, Jeff Wasserstrom, Lori

xvi   A c k now l ­edgments

Watt, Yamashita Shinji, Andrew Zimmerman, and Kirsten Ziomek. Paul Gootenberg and his pistachios cheered me up and on. I owe very special gratitude, and many gin and tonics, to Ted Bestor. Mary Elizabeth Berry nourished my life and work with the solicitude of a parent. In my ten years on the University of Colorado Boulder faculty, I have cherished the intellectual sustenance and delightful companionship of my colleagues in history, Asian studies, and other disciplines. I particularly thank Colleen Berry, Céline Dauverd, Lil Fenn, Kate Goldfarb, Fredy González, Elissa Guralnick, Susan Kent, Kwangmin Kim, Sungyun Lim, Adam Lisbon, Mark Pittenger, Paul Sutter, Tim Weston, and John Willis. Before I ever taught my first class, Marcia Yonemoto was my role model and champion. Opportunities to pre­sent aspects of this proj­ect helped to revise and refine my argument. For the gift of an invited talk, I thank Nanyang Technological University, the Rocky Mountain Interdisciplinary History Conference, Trinity College, Prince­ton University, Stony Brook University, the University of California, Santa Barbara, the University of Edinburgh, the University of Mary­land, College Park, the University of Pennsylvania, and Yale University. For including me in stimulating workshops, all gratitude to Nicola Di Cosmo, Chris Hess, Didier Fassin and George Steinmetz, Yukiko Koga, John Krige, Eugenia Lean, Álvaro Morcillo Laiz, Alyssa Wang and Jinsong Guo, and the University of Colorado history department and Center for Asian Studies. I also benefited from presenting at conferences including the Association for Asian Studies, the Midwest Conference on Asian Affairs, the Modern Japan Workshop, the Modern Japan History Workshop, the Northeast Association for Asian Studies, and the Society for East Asian Archaeology. I am pleased and proud to acknowledge the institutions that provided ­financial support underwriting the preparation of this book. I conceived the idea for Into the Field in 2011, halfway through my term as an Acad­emy Scholar at Harvard University. Much of the research was completed in 2014 and 2015 with the help of an ACLS Charles A. Ryskamp Research Fellowship at the Columbia University Heyman Center for the Humanities. The Institute for Comparative Culture at Sophia University was my host for a summer of research in Tokyo in 2015; the Freiburg Institute for Advanced Studies welcomed me for June and July 2016. I finished a manuscript draft at the Institute for Advanced Study School of Social Science in 2018, nurtured by stimulating conversations on the annual theme: the social sciences in a changing world. Short-­term research, residence, and travel funds ­were provided by the Association for Asian Studies

A c k now l ­edgments   xvii

Northeast Asia Council (for work in both Japan and ­Korea), the American Historical Association Bernadotte E. Schmitt Grant, the Japan Foundation, the University of Michigan Asia Library, the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library, and the University of Mary­land Libraries’s Gordon W. Prange Collection. The University of Colorado generously supported research both near and far through the Arts and Sciences Fund for Excellence, the Center for Asian Studies, the Center to Advance Research and Teaching in the Social Sciences, the Center for Humanities and the Arts, the Gradu­ate Council for Arts and Humanities, the Hazel Barnes Flat, the Eugene  V. Kayden fund, and the Implementation of Multicultural Perspectives and Approaches in Research and Teaching fund. Most of the research for this book was carried out in archives and libraries. For assistance in Japan, I thank the staff of the University of Tokyo Library, the Tokyo Metropolitan Library, the National Diet Library, and the Ethnology Research Archives of the National Museum for Ethnology. In the United States, I received help from the Cornell University Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library, the National Archives and Rec­ords Administration, the Ohio State University Rare Books and Manuscripts Library, the Rocke­fel­ler Archive Center, the University of Chicago Special Collections Research Center, the University of Illinois at Urbana–­Champaign University of Illinois Archives, the University of Mary­ land, College Park Gordon W. Prange Collection, the University of Mas­sa­chu­ setts at Amherst Special Collections and University Archives, the University of Michigan Bentley Historical Library, Stanford University Department of Special Collections and University Archives, and the Yale University Manuscripts and Archives Library. I am also indebted for access to the library systems of Berkeley, Boulder, Columbia, Harvard, Prince­ton, the Institute for Advanced Study, Sophia University, and Waseda University. Parts of this book have previously been published in article form. Chapter 6 appeared with some modifications as “Becoming Brazilian to Be Japa­nese: Emigrant Assimilation, Cultural Anthropology, and National Identity” in Comparative Studies of Society and History in 2014. A version of Chapter 7 titled “Japan’s Inca Boom: Global Archaeology and the Making of a Postwar Nation” was published in Monumenta Nipponica in 2014. “Transnational Knowledge, American Hegemony: Social Scientists in U.S.-­Occupied Japan,” based on material from Chapter 3, appeared in John Krige’s edited collection How Knowledge Moves: Writing the Transnational History of Science and

xviii   A c k now l ­edgments

Technology (University of Chicago Press, 2019). I am grateful to the aforementioned venues for permission to reprint my work h ­ ere. Thanks to the editorial team at Stanford University Press led by Marcela Maxfield and assisted by Sunna Juhn, the publication pro­cess vastly exceeded my expectations. The anonymous reviewers selected by the Press transformed the manuscript with their encouraging and helpful comments. Lohnes+Wright furnished the accompanying maps and cheerfully acceded to my many requests for revisions. My ­sister and best friend, Jess Kingsberg, accompanied me to Peru on one of my most enjoyable and productive research trips. My b ­ rother and also my best friend, Harold Kingsberg, assisted with translations from Spanish, Portuguese, and German; proofread the penultimate draft; and doled out patient support and brunch during our happy year living together in Morningside Heights. My u ­ ncle, Warren Gordon, faithfully visited each week of my maternity leave to entertain my baby and deliver choco­late chip cookies. Chandrika, Ratilal, Chirag, and Ronak Kadia enthusiastically welcomed me into their ­family. I particularly thank Ronak for never forgetting my coffee and for ceding his walk-in closet to an unexpected roommate with many clothes. My love and re­spect for my parents is unwavering. Like Izumi Seiichi, my grand­father, Meyer Gordon, was born in 1915 and raised in one country, only to permanently migrate to another in his third de­ cade. Polyglots both, they spoke at least ten languages collectively, overlapping only in En­glish. On opposite sides of a war and a world, perhaps they would have had ­little to say to each other had they met, yet in writing about the one I have often thought of the other. Izumi passed away suddenly at age fifty-­five, but happily, my grand­father lived to celebrate his ninetieth birthday. His first great-­grandchild, my trea­sured son Ethan, was born a week a­ fter this manuscript began its journey with Stanford University Press. I dedicate Into the Field to Ethan’s f­ ather Roshan, my beloved husband and my best adventure. New York City December 2018

INTO THE FIELD

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INTRODUCTION M e n of One A ge

In 1950, Richard K. Beardsley (1918–1978), an assistant professor of anthropol­ ogy at the University of Michigan, launched a landmark field study of Japan. Beardsley had become interested in the country during his four years as a U.S. Navy officer in the Pacific theater in World War II. Selected for strate­ gic training in Japa­nese, he spent much of his ser­v ice learning and teaching the language. Now, together with several colleagues and gradu­ate students, he collaborated with Japa­nese scholars—­including veterans of the former ­enemy forces—to assess po­liti­cal, economic, and social changes in village life in the five years since the end of the war.1 During the eigh­teen months he spent among Japa­nese academics, Beardsley noticed a remarkable pattern: The se­nior leaders in each field w ­ ere men of one age. They had been college stu­ dents in Tokyo during the effervescent 1920s, and all had broken away from the then prevailing teaching to move in the direction of empirical research. . . . ​For some years, as ­t hese young scholars pursued their new gospel, they enjoyed an ecumenical colleagueship that led them to read the same books, talk together, and write for each ­others’ journals while each pursued his par­tic­u ­lar interests and inclinations. ­These men, the first professionals in their respective fields, ­were still vigorous and active in the postwar years.2

Like Beardsley himself, the “men of one age” w ­ ere born in the first two de­ cades of the twentieth ­century. Coming to maturity at the height of Japa­nese

2   I n t r o d u c t io n

empire building, they secured the resources of the state and the ear of the masses by producing knowledge that supported imperial sovereignty over Asia and Oceania and rule by a divine emperor. Japan’s defeat in 1945 and subse­ quent occupation by the Allied powers delegitimized t­ hese orthodoxies and left the nation groping for a new identity. Old enough to be held accountable for their jingoism—­and worse—­t he men of one age sought to elide individual culpability and regain professional credibility by propounding a new image of Japan. In a postimperial, Cold War world, they aligned the nation with the pu­ tative values of the U.S. bloc: democracy, capitalism, and peace. As spokesmen of t­ hese ideals, they exercised intellectual hegemony through the late 1960s. Although subsequent generations have challenged and refined their legacy, it remains potent even t­ oday. The mostly untested but formidable construct of generation captures the evolution of ideology in twentieth-­century Japan. In 1927 Hungarian sociolo­ gist Karl Mannheim formulated generation as a category of analy­sis within the sociology of knowledge, or the study of the social origins and impact of ­thought. To Mannheim, generations w ­ ere an abstract phenomenon based upon but not solely determined by the biological rhythms of h ­ uman existence. As he observed, mere chronological contemporaneity is an imperfect basis for group coalescence. Instead, Mannheim called attention to shared cognitive frameworks, predispositions, and limitations as the foundation of a genera­ tion. He attributed such ­mental structures to common experiences at similar moments in the life course. Mannheim also highlighted the importance of interpersonal relationships to establishing individual and collective identity, interpreting mutually significant occurrences, and providing emotional sup­ port.3 By applying his concept of generation, historians have illuminated pat­ terns in reactions to specific historical events, outlined relational networks, and tracked the pro­cess of social change. The use of generational theory to understand ideological shifts in Japan is suggested by its application to the case of its war­time ally, Germany. Virtually from the moment of the defeat of the Third Reich, scholars deployed generation to explore the pro­cess of reconciliation, repentance, and reconstruction. As they argue, the “1945 generation” (generally identified as the cohort born from 1915 to 1925) assumed the reins of power ­after World War II and set about the urgent task of rebuilding, while largely failing to address mass guilt for Nazi atrocities. Two de­cades l­ater, members of the “1968 generation,” who reached maturity at a moment of near-­g lobal revolution, rejected this pragmatic

I n t r o d u c t io n    3

a­ ccommodation and broadly (though nonetheless incompletely) denounced the beliefs and be­hav­iors of their parents and grandparents.4 In contrast to the German “45ers,” who mostly came to power a­ fter the de­ feat of Hitler, the “vigorous and active” Japa­nese leaders described by Beardsley ­were in exactly the right time of life to steer the nation before, during, and a­ fter World War II. They tended to remember 1945 as “zero hour”: a tabula rasa for all that came ­after. Their students generally upheld this myth, celebrating their forebears’ academic achievements while declining to scrutinize unsavory war­ time episodes. Only with the passing of the longest-­lived men of one age in the 1990s w ­ ere some younger colleagues freed to critique their methods, actions, and legacies. A new influx of Japa­nese scholars, together with counterparts in East Asia and beyond, devoted themselves to unpacking ­earlier intellectual subterfuge and dishonesty. Their analyses tend to terminate with 1945, implic­ itly upholding the fiction of a blank slate.5 Upon Japan’s defeat, they imply, a nation of unreflective “chameleons” opportunistically rejected the prevailing ideologies of militarism, empire, and war in ­favor of new values including democracy, capitalism, and peace. In studying the full ­careers of the men of one age, certain constants ap­ pear across this moment long treated solely as a rupture. During the transwar de­cades (1930s–1960s), a transnational network of professional intellectuals jointly embraced a set of unchanging assumptions regarding epistemology, or how knowledge is created and why that knowledge is valid. ­These foundational beliefs grounded and even facilitated what has often been represented as an uncomplicated substitution of values in 1945. The resultant collective mentality both distinguished the men of one age from older and younger citizens who shared their era, and bound them into Mannheim’s idea of a generation. The ideal of objectivity was the epistemological unconscious that anchored this transwar generation. Objectivity was and is generally understood as the faith in some universally applicable “truth,” pursued through a scientific re­ search method intended to discipline the individual mind of its perspective and bias. First articulated as a scholarly value by Eu­ro­pean phi­los­o­phers in the early 1800s, by the end of the c­ entury objectivity’s credibility was estab­ lished throughout the disciplines and well beyond the West.6 In the heyday of imperial expansion, the ability to produce objective research allowed the ­great powers to formulate knowledge of the world that favored their hegemony. In other words, dominating the production of authoritative “facts” both signi­ fied and supported a sense of Euro-­American superiority over colonized and

4   I n t r o d u c t io n

quasi-­colonial ­peoples with their own epistemological traditions. Rather than simply accepting this intellectual mono­poly, non-­Western scholars themselves ­adopted objectivity to suggest their own enlightenment and to seek parity with the great powers. Japan, boasting a long history of empiricist scholarship, was among the first non-­Western socie­ties to embrace objectivity. The term gakujutsu emerged to denote this concept. T ­ oday, gakujutsu is conventionally translated as “aca­ demic” or “scientific.” However, during the transwar years it connoted a more specific set of assumptions: the quest for universal laws governing ­human so­ ciety and the natu­ral world, the use of a comprehensively delineated method to assure rigor in pursuit of “truth,” and impartiality. Beyond ­t hese criteria, gakujutsu remained a strategically vague concept available for manipulation by researchers whose work met few mea­sures of objectivity. The lack of a so­ phisticated theoretical framing also made the idea of gakujutsu accessible beyond the scholarly world. By the turn of the twentieth ­century, the term appeared not only in academic books and articles but also in the mass media, imbuing producers of knowledge with authority in the public realm. Recognition of Japan’s ability to formulate objective knowledge allowed the nation to enter the Euro-­A merican intellectual community, transforming it from a Western into a truly transnational network. Within a few de­cades of the large-­scale introduction of Western learning, Japa­nese scholars contributed to international academic journals and conferences, visited foreign universities, and hosted researchers from other nations. Shared belief in objectivity enabled multinational thinkers to adjudge, appreciate, and engage with each other’s work, distinguishing and elevating knowledge produced by “professionals” from that of “quacks” and amateurs. Historians have traced the rise of transnational intellectual cir­cuits in the natu­ral sciences and technology.7 By contrast, they have paid relatively scant attention to the development of such networks in the so-­called ­human sci­ ences. Although prac­ti­tion­ers debate the par­ameters of that term, at their most basic, the ­human sciences represent an attempt to address the diversity of hu­ mankind. In Eu­rope, the h ­ uman sciences are said to have originated during the sixteenth c­ entury, when the discovery and colonization of the Amer­i­cas inspired (Christian) speculation on the moral condition and proper treatment of its putatively savage residents. During the Enlightenment, philosophers came to study the be­hav­ior of such populations for insight into the early his­ tory of their own society, producing a binary of “Self” and “Other.” Gradually,

I n t r o d u c t io n    5

the sciences of man, as they ­were then called, coalesced around the empirical investigation of the beginnings of civilization. By the twentieth ­century, the ­human sciences centered on the disciplines most directly connected with this inquiry: anthropology, archaeology, and ethnology. They also engaged many art historians, economists, geographers, historians, folklorists, phi­los­o­phers, po­liti­ cal scientists, sociologists, and religious studies scholars.8 In Japan, the attempt to study Self and Other long predated the advent of Western-­style academic disciplines. However, in the modern era the ­human sciences (jinrui kagaku) acquired new significance in articulating an appro­ priate position for the nation and empire within the international hierarchy of states. Put simply, exploring ­Others beyond Japan served to illuminate the essential features of the Japa­nese themselves. Through the construct of “race” (jinshu), ­human scientists divided individuals into populations, related popu­ lations to each other and to the geopo­liti­cal map, and projected their ­f utures in a changing world. Race was a scientific shorthand naturalizing the power structures enacted by the expanding imperium. Unlike the natu­ral sciences, in which trusted quantitative methods ­were long established, the ­human sciences strug­gled to arrange numerical data into consistent racial categories. Partly in response, ­human scientists shifted to the investigation of minzoku, a vision of h ­ uman difference incorporating not only physiological characteristics but also learned be­hav­iors. By the 1920s, field­ work, or intensive empirical research on a bounded population, emerged as the dominant “scientific” approach to minzoku. The Japa­nese practice of field­ work grew out of both local pre­ce­dents and Western influences. The 1922 pub­ lication of Polish-­born British social anthropologist Bronisław Malinowski’s Argonauts of the Western Pacific is often taken as a con­ve­nient global start­ ing point for modern, self-­consciously objective fieldwork. The hallmarks of Malinowski’s precise methodological charter still characterize research ­today: systematic, theoretically informed, holistic data collection; long-­term immer­ sion in “native” life; minimal contact with “white” society; and communication with in­for­mants in their own language.9 The ac­cep­tance of Malinowski’s methods around the world helped to con­ solidate the disciplines of the ­human sciences, offering prac­t i­t ion­ers a new collective identity as “fieldworkers.” It further transformed “the field” into a sanctified space where objectivity was assumed.10 The transwar generation was the field generation, upholding field methodology as the sine qua non of cred­ ible professional research.

6   I n t r o d u c t io n

Widely acknowledged as the leading Japa­nese fieldworker of the tran­ swar years was Izumi Seiichi (1915–1970). No single individual can represent a generation—­just as the ideal type of generation can never resonate with all the cases it purports to include. Yet Izumi was not simply a representative of his cohort, but its linchpin. Trained as an ethnologist, he secured employment as a cultural anthropologist and achieved renown primarily as an archaeolo­ gist. He was extraordinary in his thirst for adventure, administrative skill, and ability to connect with dif­fer­ent individuals and audiences. He marshaled a stunning range of funding sources for his research: universities, profes­ sional socie­ties, the military, domestic and foreign governments, international organ­izations, corporations, and the media. Izumi’s output ran the gamut of midcentury communications, including academic articles and monographs, autobiographical works, newspaper articles, encyclopedia entries, photo books, writings for ­children, travel guides and travelogues, radio broadcasts, and film and tele­v i­sion documentaries. In addition to his native tongue, he mastered functional Korean, Chinese, En­g lish, German, Portuguese, and Spanish, as well as a smattering of other languages. From the most elite and influential academic institutions in Japan, he anchored a network of friends and col­ leagues spanning upwards of a dozen countries. Fellow scholars kept copies of his works on their desks and in their field kits.11 Among the men of one age, he was the man of the age. Izumi chose research topics, field sites, and audiences that not only re­ flected but also advanced his nation’s engagement with and position vis-­à-­v is the wider world. His outlook was exemplary of his generation, adhering to fieldwork as the defining characteristic of objective knowledge production. In practice, however, conviction in universal, scientific, and unbiased “facts” masked the under­lying values imputed to them. Perhaps most engrained among the men of one age was that objectivity, the purported “view from no­ where,” presumed a male observer.12 In the 1980s early feminist historians of science controversially argued that, from the seventeenth ­century on, objec­ tive scientific inquiry privileged ste­reo­typically “masculine” abilities of domi­ nance, detachment, rationality, and transcendence of the body, over intuitive, empathic, and associational modes adjudged as “feminine.” The resulting mas­ culinization of knowledge posed a cognitive barrier to female participation.13 More recent scholarship shifts the focus from ce­re­bral to structural obstacles. By the 1930s, the formative years of the field generation, some elite Japa­nese ­women enjoyed opportunities to attend college and pursue vocational training

I n t r o d u c t io n    7

in single-­sex i­ nstitutions. However, Japan’s national universities admitted only men. W ­ omen could not attain the qualifications, networks, and knowledges expected of full colleagues in the ­human sciences. Such research accordingly developed as an almost wholly male enterprise.14 Despite their exclusion from the formal study of diversity, w ­ omen per­ formed essential roles in the transwar academic world. When Izumi Kimiko (1918–1997) married in 1941, the “good wife, wise ­mother” (ryōsai kenbō) ideal dictated that w ­ omen almost singlehandedly supervise the ­house­hold and educate the c­ hildren, freeing the attention of the f­ amily patriarch for exter­ nal ­matters.15 In the nearly thirty years of her ­union with Izumi Seiichi, she maintained their domestic life in Dairen (now Dalian in the ­People’s Republic of China), Keijō (Seoul, Republic of ­Korea), Hakata, Tokyo, and Cambridge, Mas­sa­chu­setts. The ­couple’s friends fondly recalled her excellent cooking and generous hospitality, even on a l­imited bud­get. Amid the poverty of war and its aftermath, she cared for Izumi’s widowed ­mother, and bore and raised four ­children. All eventually attended college, and her oldest d ­ aughter and son earned gradu­ate degrees. ­Under the most trying circumstances Izumi Kimiko avoided burdening her husband with domestic affairs. When she contracted tuberculosis in 1953, she refused to summon him home from the field or even notify him of her condition u ­ ntil her life was in peril.16 Yet Izumi Kimiko was more than a good wife and wise ­mother: she was also an intellectual companion and support to her spouse. Before Izumi found secure university employment in Japan, she worked as a research assistant for his colleagues and drew maps for the U.S. occupation authorities and im­ ages for psychologists to pre­sent to human subjects for description and inter­ pretation.17 She accompanied her husband to an archaeological dig in Peru and coauthored a work on Inca trea­sures.18 She also joined him on a research trip to Japan’s northernmost major island, Hokkaido, to facilitate his rapport with female in­for­mants. Following Izumi’s death, she appeared at interna­ tional ceremonies commemorating his legacy and assisted in curating collec­ tions of his writings. Within two years she had published a memoir, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni (Together with Izumi Seiichi). Yet, even in her own recol­ lections, Izumi Kimiko is all but invisible, subordinating her contributions and insights to a heroic narrative of her husband’s c­ areer. For his part, Izumi scarcely mentioned her in his 1969 autobiography, Yuruyaka na yamayama (Quaking mountains).19 The unreflective gendering of authoritative knowledge production as a masculine domain precluded the very acknowledgement, let

8   I n t r o d u c t io n

alone realization of the full potential, of Izumi Kimiko and many other ­women scholars of ­human diversity. Objectivity also concealed certain po­liti­cal assumptions. For transwar ­human scientists it operated less as an a­ ctual ideal than as a formula of justifi­ cation for certain truths held to be self-­evident. Prior to 1945 the most salient of ­t hese truths was the ascendancy of the legitimate knowledge producers—­ that is, the colonial powers. Raised in Japanese-­occupied ­Korea, Izumi was both a creator and a creation of imperial epistemology. In the mid-1930s he enrolled at Keijō Imperial University, the first Japa­nese institution of higher learning established outside the metropole. He became the empire’s first major in ethnology (minzokugaku), an emerging discipline that combined character­ istics of anthropology and folklore. As an ethnologist, Izumi studied ­Others through fieldwork on both physiological characteristics and learned be­hav­ ior. Japan’s imperial universities, the state, and the military generously spon­ sored his research in the hope of collecting information to pacify and exploit subjugated populations. Ultimately, the duration of control was too short to apply academic findings to policy in much of the Japa­nese realm. However, Izumi and his colleagues enjoyed outsize influence in justifying the empire as a hierarchy of confraternal races ruled for their own benefit by the putatively superior Japa­nese. Izumi’s maiden field studies, directed research proj­ects among populations in the Japa­nese puppet state of Manchukuo, reflected this orthodoxy. They represented Japan as an ally of racially related minorities long oppressed by China, the empire’s rival for dominance of the Asian mainland.20 For his se­nior thesis, Izumi produced a similarly po­liti­cally inflected ethnography of Jejudo, an island off the coast of southern ­Korea.21 This proj­ect was his first, and, as it turned out, only major in­de­pen­dent field study. The outbreak of the Second Sino-­Japanese War in 1937 fatefully constrained the possibilities for such re­ search. The expense, ­hazards, and logistical challenges of operating alone in an unfamiliar war zone moved Japa­nese ­human scientists ­toward a model of collaborative fieldwork involving multidisciplinary teams tackling short-­term survey proj­ects. The men of one age initially doubted the objectivity of group studies, so dif­fer­ent from the “lone hero” fieldwork promoted by Malinowski. Ultimately, however, they defended team research as legitimate ­human ­science—­a stance that enabled them to furnish the government and military with ideological support. Thus validated, group fieldwork survived the war years, and continues to characterize much Japa­nese scholarship to this day.22

I n t r o d u c t io n    9

Within weeks of receiving his university degree in spring 1938, Izumi helped to or­ga­nize a pioneering group survey of the p ­ eople of Mōkyō, the newly created Japa­nese puppet state in the Mongol lands. Upon his return from the field, he served three years in the Japa­nese army. Discharged one day before the imperial assault on Pearl Harbor in December 1941, he went on to coordinate a navy-­backed expedition of hundreds to Japanese-­occupied New Guinea. On the island, he and his fellow h ­ uman scientists studied diverse popu­ lations for evidence of a racial relationship with the Japa­nese. They also pursued strategic information: counting heads for ­labor mobilization, mapping terrain for military maneuvers, and scouting natu­ral resources. It was in the field that the men of one age came together as a generation. Team expeditions ­were both a seminal experience and a rite of passage for transwar Japa­nese ­human scientists. With the outbreak of hostilities against the Allies, they largely disengaged from the transnational scientific commu­ nity. Instead, they developed imperial intellectual networks, even opening ranks to select colonial subjects. The hardships and dangers of working among (often hostile and uncommunicative) p ­ eoples in extreme environments and on violent frontiers drew the men together in lasting personal relationships. Conversely, they also bonded through the pleasures of the field experience: a sense of shared adventure, the “exoticism” of research subjects, and enjoy­ ment of masculine sociability. Many scholars collaborated repeatedly on joint ventures, as faculty colleagues, and in research institutions and professional socie­ties. At home, they united to pre­sent the thrills and threats of studying diverse imperial p ­ eoples to a curious public, establishing the value of h ­ uman science in the popu­lar mind and laying the foundations of their postwar influ­ ence over national identity. Japan announced its surrender to the Allies on August 15, 1945. With the liberation of the empire, Izumi and his wife and c­ hildren w ­ ere forced to leave their home in ­Korea to “return” to Japan—­a country they barely knew. For over six years from 1945 to 1952, the home islands ­were occupied by the Allied powers ­under the oversight of the United States. Believing that his academic ­career had come to an end, Izumi quietly devoted himself to assisting destitute fellow repatriates. However, the occupation was a time of continuity as well as change, opening new ave­nues to Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists. The end of the war did not seriously test faith in objectivity as the defining criterion of legitimate and credible knowledge. Instead, what changed ­after 1945 ­were the values un­ derstood to constitute objectivity. The United States’s victory validated ideals

10   I n t r o d u c t io n

vaunted as characteristically American: democracy, capitalism, and peace. U.S. ­human scientists, shocked and horrified by the devastation and atrocities of World War II, asserted a new responsibility to create objective knowledge in the ser­v ice of ­t hese values. Democracy, capitalism, and peace formed the goals of modernization, or the ideology that all nations might, with U.S. assistance, achieve its privileged status as a developed society. The outbreak of the Cold War further solidified modernization as a soft-­power strategy in the American rivalry for global dominance with the Soviet Union, correspondingly vilified as authoritarian, communist, and militarist. Japan, the site of the United States’s longest peacetime postwar occupation to date, offered both “a test case, and indeed a showcase” of modernization.23 Viewing Japa­nese ­human scientists as vital partners in the transformation of society, the occupation was generally pedagogical rather than punitive. As in Germany, the Allies largely declined to prosecute Japa­nese academics for col­ laboration with the imperial government. Scholars hired to advise war crimes tribunals understood all too well the pressure on ­human scientists to support the empire in its time of crisis. Moreover, they saw strategic potential in Japan’s studies of East Asia and Oceania. During the Cold War, American scholars collected, excerpted, translated, and republished Japa­nese imperial fieldwork to advance their nation’s understanding of the Pacific Rim. For their part, transwar Japa­nese researchers largely upheld the con­ve­nient fiction of their reluctant cooperation with and quiet opposition to the former government. For the rest of their lives, they remained mostly s­ ilent regarding their collective complicity with and profit from war­time knowledge production. The large-­scale exoneration of Japa­nese academics set the stage for their cooperation with the U.S. occupation in disseminating the ideals of modern­ ization. The field generation encapsulated democracy, capitalism, and peace in the formula of the “cultural nation” (bunka kokka). Joint pursuit of the cultural nation enabled Japa­nese and American ­human scientists to renew relations of “friendship and sympathy” (in Beardsley’s words), to rehabilitate Japan’s scholarly reputation, to position transwar researchers at the pinnacle of postwar academia, and to integrate them into a new transnational intellec­ tual community that both reflected and supported U.S. hegemony. Through imported libraries, courses and lectures, and, most importantly, team field­ work, American ­human scientists retrained Japa­nese colleagues as partners in modernization.

I n t r o d u c t io n    11

Despite the real­ity of U.S. control during the occupation, relations between American and Japa­nese scholars ­were never so ­simple as teacher and pupil, giver and recipient, “colonizer” and “colonized.” Most American ­human scien­ tists in Japan ­were not so much Cold War ideologues maintaining monolithic charge of a U.S. vision for Japan as e­ ager observers of an in­ter­est­ing and novel landscape. Rather than clinging to preexisting notions about the former e­ nemy, men such as Beardsley embraced the opportunity to ground postwar Japa­nese ­studies in rich empirical research and local expertise. Meanwhile, many tran­ swar Japa­nese academics rejected ideological cooptation by the occupying power. The increasing salience of anticommunism to the American geopo­liti­cal agenda threatened to undercut the primacy of developing democracy, capital­ ism, and peace in the recovering nation. Japa­nese ­human scientists resisted the subordination of domestic pro­gress to ­grand strategy. A large number even returned to Marxist convictions they had held as youths in the 1920s. Irrespective of ideological orientation, Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists of the early postwar years came to uphold culture (bunka), broadly understood as learned social be­hav­ior, as their primary analytical variable. Bunka mobi­ lized many of the chauvinistic and teleological assumptions of “minzoku,” the imperial-­era construct it partly subsumed. However, to scholars throughout the postwar world, culture suggested greater objectivity in the study of diversity. International organ­izations such as UNESCO (the United Nations Educational, Social, and Cultural Organ­ization) helped to transmit the concept to socie­ties throughout the American orbit. In Japan, domestic professional associations including the Japa­nese Society of Ethnology ­adopted the study of culture as their primary mission. The University of Tokyo, Japan’s premier institution of higher learning, began to offer courses in American-­style cultural anthropology (bunka jinruigaku). Through the efforts of Izumi, who joined the faculty during the occupation, the university built the nation’s first gradu­ate program and undergraduate major in the discipline. In contrast to war­time ethnology, which emphasized racial commonalities between the Japa­nese and their subjects as a justification of empire, postwar Japa­nese cultural anthropology constructed a distinctive, primordial ethnicity as the foundation of the in­de­pen­dent nation-­state. On Japan’s post-1945 fron­ tiers, certain minorities appeared to challenge this vision. H ­ uman scientists accordingly ventured to the field to find evidence of their belonging. Strapped for funding, they revived the group fieldwork model that had proven so efficient

12   I n t r o d u c t io n

a de­cade ­earlier. On the cusp of the Korean War in the summer of 1950, Izumi helped to or­ga­nize an expedition to Tsushima. During the imperial era this island, situated in the strait dividing Japan and K ­ orea, was represented as a 24 “step-­stone” between metropole and colony. ­After World War II, with sover­ eignty over Tsushima uncertain, Japa­nese ­human scientists looked for objec­ tive proof that its p ­ eople w ­ ere, and had always been, exemplary members of the nation. Following this venture, Izumi and a multidisciplinary cohort of colleagues traveled to the opposite, northern extreme of the Japa­nese state. On Hokkaido, they conducted fieldwork among the indigenous Ainu population for a similar reason: to uncover its essential Japa­neseness. ­These large-­scale expeditions included most of the ­human scientists who ­were to emerge as post­ war leaders of academia. They served both to unite and to train the men of one age for their burgeoning role as spokesmen of national identity. For the duration of the occupation Japa­nese citizens ­were mostly unable to travel outside the home islands. However, ­a fter the departure of the U.S. authorities in 1952, ­legal restrictions on foreign travel w ­ ere loosened. H ­ uman scientists of the newly in­de­pen­dent state eagerly sought out research oppor­ tunities abroad. Field proj­ects, predominantly in developing nations never before studied by Japa­nese scholars, helped to shift Western perceptions of Japan from the object to the agent of knowledge production. They also allowed Japa­nese ­human scientists to showcase their nation’s per­for­mance of the ide­ als of modernization. Funded by a research grant from UNESCO, Izumi led a team to Brazil, then home to the world’s largest national population of Japa­ nese emigrants and their descendants. His investigation of assimilation—­t he first study by a Japa­nese ­human scientist to directly address the topic—­helped to entrench Nikkei (persons of Japa­nese ancestry outside Japan) as an ethnic category. In Izumi’s hands, the Nikkei emerged as living proof an immanent Japa­nese inclination t­ oward democracy, capitalism, and peace. On his way back to Japan from Brazil, Izumi spent six weeks traveling through the Andes, a destination he had always dreamed of visiting. In Lima, Peru, he met a Japa­nese settler who had accumulated an impressive collection of pre-­Columbian textiles and other artifacts. The encounter was to inspire the final and most celebrated phase of Izumi’s c­ areer as an archaeologist of South Amer­i­ca. In 1958 he inaugurated Japan’s first excavation outside Asia. In four return visits to the Andes over the next de­cade, his research group discovered evidence of unexpectedly early ­human habitation. Meanwhile, Izumi collabo­ rated with the Japa­nese media to transform the pre-­Columbian past from a

I n t r o d u c t io n    13

scientific subject into a consumer frenzy. At a moment when most Japa­nese citizens could only dream of foreign travel, newspaper and journal articles, color photo­graphs, artifact exhibitions, films, tele­v i­sion programs, and other technologies offered tantalizing glimpses of a world si­mul­ta­neously repre­ sented as exotic and familiar. This so-­called Inca boom, as it was known in its own time, elevated the authority of h ­ uman scientists over national identity to new heights. In the late 1950s the Inca offered a foil to relativize Japan’s putatively aberrant histori­ cal trajectory ­toward militarism, fascism, and imperialism. By the mid-1960s, however, the state’s economic ascendancy obviated the need to c­ ounter charges of deviance. Instead, ­human scientists blended ideas of racial primordiality and purity with “scientific” theories of American exceptionalism into a posi­ tive vision of ethnic and cultural uniqueness. The field generation came to attribute Japan’s postwar successes to the innate superiority of its ­people, geography, and way of life. Repre­sen­ta­tions of the Inca correspondingly shifted to suggest a parallel case of civilizational supremacy and dominance. Despite their apparent complacency in Japan’s postwar accomplishments, by the 1960s the men of one age had become critical of modernization. Joining skeptics in Eu­rope and the United States, Japa­nese ­human scientists high­ lighted not only the achievements but also the unfulfilled promises of democ­ racy, capitalism, and peace. They further called attention to the limitations of research that aspired to impartiality rather than to po­liti­cal and social rel­ evancy. ­These self-­criticisms in turn set the terms of debate for the student rev­ olution of the late 1960s. At this time, intellectual and po­liti­cal identifications across national borders and Cold War alignments converged with domestic provocations for change in socie­ties around the world. Japan reflected global trends but followed its own course in transitioning power from the generation that had matured u ­ nder empire to ­t hose born and raised in its wake. Like the men of one age, Japa­nese student activists did not question the ideals of modernization. Rather, they attacked their implementation. As they saw it, demo­cratic rituals such as campaigning and voting had smothered in­ dividual subjectivities. Cap­i­tal­ist growth had assumed pre­ce­dence over par­ ticipatory government. The use of Japan as a staging ground for U.S. military engagements in Asia, including the Vietnam War, belied the nation’s commit­ ment to peace. In rejecting Japan’s postwar order, students mounted nothing less than a challenge to the prevailing epistemological paradigm. The field generation had ­adopted objectivity as a signifier of credible knowledge that

14   I n t r o d u c t io n

supported imperialism before 1945 and the cultural nation thereafter. By con­ trast, its students, who lacked firsthand experience of prewar censorship as well as the unspoken taint of collaboration with militarism and fascism, believed that objective scholarship had produced only single-­party rule, bourgeois op­ pression, and U.S. hegemony. Taking this conviction a step further, they ar­ gued that knowledge production could never be wholly detached. Rather than pursuing the false ideal of neutrality, they advocated self-­consciously subjec­ tive research that contributed to self-­actualization, popu­lar agency, and the end of the prevailing social structure. The abandonment of objectivity was an epistemological earthquake that shook the transwar generation in a way that Japan’s defeat in World War II had not. This time, the very basis of valid knowledge was unseated. A disori­ ented Izumi fled the University of Tokyo, his employer of nearly two de­cades, for stints of fieldwork in South Amer­i­ca and South ­Korea. His death in 1970 symbolized the transition from an understanding of research as the apo­liti­cal and methodological pursuit of universal laws to a more engaged conception of h ­ uman science as one among many instruments of information gathering, social action, and nation building. A half-­century a­ fter the student movement, the study of h ­ uman diversity looks very dif­fer­ent in and beyond Japan. Few scholars t­ oday would accept even the possibility of universal, unbiased scientific knowledge. Fieldwork, once the signal methodology of the ­human sciences, has evolved in its ideal form from a one-­sided encounter between the participant-­observer and his in­for­mants to a reflexive conversation among collaborators. Fieldworkers themselves have dramatically scaled back their ambitions. No longer do they claim to define the values and valences of Japan and Japa­neseness. ­Today, some achieve success in the popu­lar domain as writers, lecturers, and tele­v i­sion personalities, but none approach the prominence or public impact of their counter­parts in the field generation. In their ability to transmute knowledge production into po­ liti­cal power and social influence, the men of one age constituted a historically singular cohort in a unique era. This is their story.

1 THE ORIGINS OF FIELDWORK I N T H E J A P A ­N E S E E M P I R E

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a transnational commu­ nity of scholars crystalized around a common commitment to “objectivity”: the ideal of universal, impartial knowledge produced through methods trusted as “scientific.” Viewed as a necessary and sufficient signifier of credible in­ formation, objectivity gave certain assumptions about h ­ uman difference the status of fundamental truths. The relationship of objective knowledge to politics was particularly intimate in turn-­of-­t he-­century Japan. Scholars and government officials alike viewed research as a shortcut to achieving the primary goal of foreign policy: attaining the wealth and status of the ­great powers of Eu­rope and the United States. The first cohort of Japa­nese ­human scientists pursued professional standing and popu­lar authority by linking their work on the diversity of humankind to the prob­lem of national identity. Initially, many scholars ­were preoccupied by the idea of biological race (jinshu), which they assessed by mea­sur­ing physiologi­ cal features. However, the failure of quantitative data to generate consistent and ideologically useful categories gradually prompted scholars to focus on learned as well as innate characteristics. While the study of race did not dis­ appear, it took new shape in the hands of the transwar generation. The men of one age embraced minzoku (race-­nation) as the defining unit of humankind. Race-­nation encompassed not only bodily but also cultural features such as religion, language, and social structure. Unlike bones, blood, hair, and skin, which could be rendered in uniform terms and compared

16  C H A P T E R 1

across populations, social practices and artifacts often could not. The study of learned be­hav­iors accordingly demanded a new methodology. Fieldwork, which purported to routinize the collection of cultural data, emerged as the hallmark of objective and therefore authoritative epistemologies of differ­ ence, revolutionizing h ­ uman science. Polish-­born British social anthropolo­ gist Bronisław Malinowski became the most globally recognized exponent of fieldwork. Perhaps most critically, Malinowski melded objective knowledge production to empire building by sanctioning the development of applied or policy-­oriented anthropology. This reconciliation of science and politics al­ lowed scholars to accept imperial sponsorship and direction of their research. Meanwhile, the scientific method legitimized “facts” produced to pacify and exploit colonial subjects. It was therefore no coincidence that the first Japa­nese missionaries of Malinowskianism w ­ ere associated with the colonial universities founded and funded by the imperial government. Unbound by the academic pre­ce­dents that constrained their metropolitan colleagues, faculty and students at Keijō Imperial University conducted groundbreaking fieldwork on the ­Others in their midst: Koreans and vari­ous populations of the Asian mainland. Izumi Seiichi, the first ethnology student in the Japa­nese empire, was to emerge as its Malinowski, a pioneer of the “objective” research techniques that rational­ ized the race-­nations ­under Japa­nese rule and cohered the men of one age as a generation.

Objectivity and Otherness The idea of objectivity has a long genealogy. The earliest significant attempt at definition took place in eighteenth-­century Eu­rope, where Enlightenment visions of reasoned and impartial inquiry took hold. A new understanding of science emerged to capture public modes of knowledge production and discussion, as well as theoretical clarity, observational fidelity, and in­de­pen­ dent verifiability. In its ideal form, science acknowledged the autonomy of the individual by offering evidence to persuade rather than demanding adher­ ence through faith. This challenge to the then-­prevailing Christian worldview stimulated reflection on epistemology, or how individuals and socie­t ies can know what they think they know, and why that knowledge is valid. Phi­los­o­pher Immanuel Kant (1724–1804) was perhaps the first thinker to use the term objectivity in its current sense, representing it as a universal and

The O r i g i n s o f Fie l d w o r k i n t he J apa n e s e E mpi r e   17

unchanging real­ity in­de­pen­dent of a par­t ic­u ­lar vantage point. By the early nineteenth ­century, dictionaries had begun to contrast objectivity, the actual­ ity of the world, with subjectivity, or the partialities of the mind. But if h ­ uman thought was inevitably biased, how could it produce truth? Drawing from the study of the natu­ral realm, intellectuals argued that scientific methods could discipline the brain to disinterest. One proposed means, commonly attributed to British luminaries Francis Bacon (1561–1626) and John Locke (1632–1704), was empiricism: direct experience, often in the field or the laboratory. Closely related was positivism, or the search for generalizations through the assembly of proven “facts,” associated with French thinker Auguste Comte (1798–1857).1 Beyond technique, the scientific method also came to encompass an expectation of open dialogue reflecting the nascent ideals of liberty, freedom, and democracy.2 At roughly the same time as the Eu­ro­pean Enlightenment, Japan ­under the Tokugawa shogunate (1603–1868) underwent a “quiet revolution” in the pur­ suit and provision of knowledge about and for a growing literate population. Traditional scholarship was primarily philological, relying on close analy­sis of classic writings as the foundation of truth. Although philology remained vibrant, by the eigh­teenth c­ entury direct observation had come to constitute an alternative basis for authorial credibility in certain contexts. A robust print culture of maps, gazetteers, encyclopedias, and other texts attested to the pub­ lic desire to comprehend and engage with the world empirically.3 Prior to the mid-­nineteenth ­century, Japan’s official seclusion (sakoku) ­limited its exposure to Euro-­American learning. The abrogation of this policy, followed by a change of government in the Meiji Restoration of 1868, en­ abled and encouraged greater interaction with the West. The ensuing Meiji period (1868–1912) witnessed ­wholesale attempts to modernize, industrialize, and consolidate Japan as a nation. To scholars of this era, Euro-­American sci­ ence appeared to be the key to achieving pro­gress and prestige on par with the ­great powers. The Japa­nese state hired foreigners to teach and dispatched stu­ dents abroad to master vari­ous fields. Within only a c­ ouple of de­cades, Japa­ nese scholars w ­ ere prepared not just to receive and apply but also to pursue in­de­pen­dent, original research. They contributed to international academic journals and conferences, visited foreign universities, and hosted intellectu­ als from abroad. National museums, research organ­izations, and institutions of higher learning provided training, certification, and shared social experi­ ences.4 Science was no longer associated with the West, but rather with the group of knowledge-­producing nations to which Japan belonged.

18  C H A P T E R 1

To capture a notion of objectivity indicating universality and disinterest, Japa­nese scholars used the word gakujutsu. Comprised of ideographs meaning “learning” (学) and “technique” (術), the term called attention to the importance of method in creating legitimate knowledge. Gakujutsu tended to function as an intuitive rather than elaborately theorized concept. Its very vagueness en­ abled scholars to deploy it strategically in justification of research that met few ­actual criteria of objectivity. The accessibility of the idea also facilitated its entry into the popu­lar lexicon. By the turn of the twentieth c­ entury, gakujutsu signified expert credibility not only in scholarly books and articles but also in the mass media.5 Many Japa­nese researchers came to view the public dissemination of their findings as an essential ­labor of objective knowledge production.6 The embrace of objectivity in Japan engendered consequences far beyond the nation. Prior to the late nineteenth c­ entury, intellectuals often asserted authority through wealth and status. Objectivity shifted the pursuit of knowl­ edge from the hands of amateur “gentleman scholars” to ­t hose of prestigious professionals set above and apart from the larger public by mutual awareness and endorsement of certain forms of merit, skill, proficiency, and ethics.7 The entry of Japa­nese professionals into the ranks of knowledge producers trans­ formed a Western network into a truly transnational community of peers. In objectivity, diverse scholars found a paradigm conferring unity as well as legitimacy. By the 1920s, preoccupation with objectivity had given rise to scientism, an epistemological and methodological approach in which investigators aim at absolute neutrality through strenuous disavowal of normative impulses.8 Ironically, in identifying objectivity with intellectual honesty, scientism trans­ formed the ideal from a standard to a virtue. The assertion of objectivity came to function as a moral guarantee of universally applicable, perspective-­f ree truth—­whatever po­liti­cal or ideological agendas the author might serve. As one historian has written, “[Objectivity’s] preeminence as a goal . . . ​resulted in other values masquerading as it, despite their having no relation to it and, in fact, serving to usurp genuinely objective judgments.”9 The use of objectivity as a rhetorical formula con­ve­niently sanctioning certain positions was perhaps nowhere more apparent than in the nascent ­human sciences. Although speculations on diversity may be traced to the ear­ liest texts, the so-­called Age of Discovery (roughly the mid-­fifteenth through the mid-­seventeenth centuries) greatly intensified Eu­ro­pean encounters with

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the outside world. Many thinkers found traditional humanist paradigms in­ adequate to deal with the resultant mass of data. Moreover, the need to for­ mulate colonial policy in the Amer­i­cas and beyond inspired speculation about the moral condition and proper treatment of “savages.” By the time of the Enlightenment, Eu­ro­pean scholars believed that such exemplars of “primitiv­ ity” might shed light on the early history of their own civilization, and on the defining ethical and physical qualities of humanity itself. In tandem with the elaboration of objectivity as an ideal, they began to approach ­human dif­ ference through a self-­conscious search for universal social laws akin to ­t hose believed to govern the natu­ral world.10 Through the work of naturalists, the concept of race emerged as a putatively objective means of capturing the full sweep of h ­ uman diversity. The German Johan Friedrich Blumenbach (1752–1840) is traditionally cited as the (unin­ tended) progenitor of racial science, or the classification of p ­ ersons and societies based on perceived bodily features. Blumenbach divided Homo sapiens into five races: Caucasian, Mongolian, Malay, American, and African.11 Each became associated with a characteristic skin color (white, yellow, brown, red, and black, respectively). Writing at the end of the eigh­teenth c­ entury, Blumenbach explic­itly denied the association of race with individual or group capabilities. However, his successors used his work to develop a comprehensive schematic for racism, or the belief that races can be arranged in a hierarchy of physiological, intellectual, moral, and social development. By the mid-­nineteenth ­century, the concept of race actively legitimized an international power structure dominated by Eu­rope and the United States. Applying the findings of naturalist Charles Darwin (1809–1882) on the animal kingdom, social Darwinists argued that certain races (i.e., whites) ­were more “fit” and hence better equipped to survive in a competitive environment than their “colored” counter­parts. Mapped onto geopo­liti­cal relations, the subordination of “inferior” populations appeared to be a scientific consequence of their relative inability to thrive.12 Within the ­human sciences, social Darwinism took the form of evolution­ ism, an ideology often associated with American l­awyer and anthropologist Lewis Henry Morgan (1818–1881). In his influential Ancient Society (1877), Morgan divided humankind into three ascending stages of savagery, barba­ rism, and civilization. Savage socie­t ies, represented as the least developed, ­were characterized by a subsistence lifestyle of hunting, fishing, and gather­ ing. Barbaric populations had achieved agricultural economies, metalworking capabilities, po­liti­cal organ­ization, and religion. Civilization—­the status of the

20  C H A P T E R 1

Euro-­American powers—­demanded phonetic writing, science and technology, and the rule of law.13 In an age of empire building, evolutionism authorized the colonial subju­ gation of allegedly weaker ­peoples to prevent their elimination through the workings of social Darwinism. As British author Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936) famously declared, it was the “white man’s burden” to cultivate the fitness of subjects and thereby prevent their extinction.14 Research on race was no idle pursuit, but a putatively objective and therefore credible strategy for develop­ ing benevolent policy solutions to social prob­lems. Transmitted to Japan during the early Meiji period, the notion of race was grafted onto a longer tradition of ideas about Self and Other. As early as the eighth c­ entury, Japan’s first major written text, Kojiki (A Rec­ord of Ancient ­Matters), anchored a collective identity around a divine emperor and archi­ pelago. During Japan’s classical and medieval periods, encounters with indig­ enous p ­ eoples, foreign trading partners and cultural models in East Asia, and the Eu­ro­pean powers stimulated discussion of difference. U ­ nder the rule of the Tokugawa, the Dutch, Japan’s sole official Western contact, provided informa­ tion on the outside world, including the development of scientific methods. Empirically minded scholars moved away from metaphysical explanations for inexplicable curiosities such as flint arrowheads, instead attributing their cre­ ation to ­earlier inhabitants of the archipelago. Meanwhile, the general peace of the realm facilitated increases in internal traffic, trade, and travel, stimulating the rise of ethnography and the establishment of private research institutions. ­Toward the end of the eigh­teenth ­century, the Tokugawa supported several fact-­finding expeditions among indigenous p ­ eoples in the north, where Rus­ sian incursions threatened Japa­nese predominance.15 Although its origins are unclear, by the nineteenth c­ entury the term jinshu (literally, “­human categories”) had emerged as a translation for race. To Meiji social Darwinists, this notion expressed new concerns about the survival of the Japa­nese state in a competitive international system. They feared Western ­human scientists’ pronouncement of Japa­nese racial inferiority, a likely pre­ cursor of colonization. The birth and professionalization of the h ­ uman sci­ ences in Japan ­were thus directly connected to the attempt to reclaim initiative in defining the Self and securing the national position within the global hier­ archy of sovereign states. Perhaps the most prominent social and po­liti­cal commentator of his day, Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901) pop­u ­lar­ized Blumenbach’s racial typology for

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Japa­nese audiences. Fukuzawa depicted skin color as a physiological manifes­ tation of a population’s level of civilization (bunmei), a watchword of the late nineteenth-­century state.16 One generation l­ ater, Tsuboi Shōgorō (1863–1913) be­ came the first Japa­nese scholar known to undertake research in racial science. In his background and movements, Tsuboi typified his cohort of late Meiji intel­ lectuals. Most boasted an elite f­ amily pedigree, imperial university credentials, and postgraduate experience in Western institutions. Due to the tiny number of higher education gradu­ates in Japan (enrollments remained below 10,000 ­until ­after World War I), degree holders tended to enjoy elevated incomes and status. They often buttressed their social standing through marital alliances with big business, po­liti­c al parties, and the civil bureaucracy and military. As the most educated members of a society long known for its re­spect for learning, academics commanded par­tic­u­lar authority over the national public.17 During the 1880s Tsuboi enrolled at Tokyo Imperial University, Japan’s oldest and most prestigious institution of higher education. He also ventured to London to study anthropology and social Darwinism. On his return to Japan from Eu­rope in 1892, Tsuboi accepted the first faculty chair in anthro­ pology at his alma mater. In his hands, Japa­nese anthropology developed as a primarily university-­based discipline (in contrast to Eu­rope and the United States, where museums played a dominant early role). Tsuboi also founded Japan’s first anthropological study society and journal. Through ­these vehicles, he propelled the professionalization of the h ­ uman sciences in Japan. Tsuboi viewed ­human difference mainly in biological terms, to be stud­ ied through the scientific method of mea­sure­ment. He gathered quantitative information on the length of bones, texture of hair, color of skin, blood type, and other individual bodily characteristics. He then compared specimens in search of population-­level morphological and physiological patterns. Such quantitative research also absorbed the attention of most nineteenth-­century ­human scientists in Eu­rope and the United States. By the turn of the twentieth ­century, however, many scholars had begun to lament the failure of physiologi­ cal data to parse neat racial categories. The cataclysm of World War I intensi­ fied this challenge to biologically based theories of diversity. To some h ­ uman scientists, the seemingly senseless mass bloodshed of the ­great powers belied white pretensions to racial superiority. Meanwhile, in­de­pen­dence movements throughout the colonized world contested the ­great power mono­poly on civi­ lization. ­Under the circumstances, a new variable was needed to “objectively” capture ­human difference.18

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To Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists, the inadequacy of race dawned as the state steadily modernized, industrialized, and Westernized, shedding the signs of inferiority expected of a “Mongoloid” p ­ eople. Following the preset path to geopo­liti­cal significance, Japan became an expansionist empire in its own right. Modern imperialism began in Hokkaido and the Ryūkyū Kingdom, des­ ignated as the prefecture of Okinawa in 1879. In 1895 Japan defeated China, the long-­standing hegemon of East Asia, to take possession of Taiwan. Ten years ­later, victory over Rus­sia allowed the empire to claim the Liaodong peninsula on the Asian mainland (incorporated as the Kwantung Leased Territory) and the southern half of Sakhalin (Karafuto). Its preeminence in Northeast Asia established, Japan formally annexed ­Korea in 1910. Japan’s stunning transfor­ mation from vulnerable colonial prize to ­g reat power capable of defeating the “white” empire of the tsar appeared to defy predictions for the “yellow” race. Some observers rejected the unitary primacy of Caucasians and began to write of Mongolians as a mutually superior race. O ­ thers depicted the Japa­nese 19 as the “whites of Asia.” In tandem with Japan’s aspiration to “leave Asia and enter the West” (datsu­A, nyū-­Ō), as the saying went, the state began to assert a sense of superiority over China. For most of its history Japan had regarded China as the “­Middle Kingdom,” a po­liti­cal force, cultural mentor, and source of prestige by associa­ tion. In the late nineteenth ­century, however, China strug­gled against domestic and foreign threats to its sovereignty, eventually succumbing to semicolonial sta­ tus. The failure of the Chinese to defend their borders was interpreted as both the cause and the outcome of their inherent racial inferiority. Many Meiji observers accordingly wished to racially separate the Japa­nese and Chinese—­a proj­ect that the Mongoloid type could not accommodate. At the same time, however, Japan’s imperial aspirations on the Asian mainland required ideologies of cooperation and confraternity with the Chinese and o ­ thers. Unlike the empires of the West, which sharply distinguished Self and Other, Japan deliberately blurred t­ hese cat­ egories to legitimize its expansionism. Although some prewar Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists represented their nation as homogenous and “pure,” most understood the population as the commingled result of primeval mi­grants from Siberia, China, K ­ orea, Southeast Asia, and the Pacific. By depicting the Japa­nese as a “mixed race” (kongō minzokuron), the Japa­nese asserted a blood relationship with their subjects that justified their incorporation into a joint po­liti­cal unit.20 Empire building thus demanded a new category, at once more and less specific than race, to capture Japan’s simultaneous sense of superiority and

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brotherhood vis-­à-­vis prospective colonial p ­ eoples. The result was minzoku, or 21 race-­nation. Unlike jinshu, minzoku could be modified to refer specifically to the Japa­nese (Nihon minzoku) or to encompass all subjects of the (pre­sent and ­f uture) empire including the Japa­nese (Tōa minzoku). The concept of minzoku borrowed heavi­ly from cultural history and cultural geography, which flour­ ished in the Germanic world in the interwar and war­time years. During the 1930s, Oka Masao (1898–1982), Ishida Eiichirō (1903–1968), and other Japa­nese ­human scientists studied cultural history at the University of Vienna ­under Wilhelm Schmidt (1868–1954). The object of Schmidt’s inquiry was the Volk, a formulation of the primordial uniqueness of the Aryan Self. This romantic understanding of collective identity spanned innate and learned criteria, root­ ing linguistic and behavioral sameness in biology and the territorial unit of the homeland. An abstract vision of shared blood replaced the emphasis on phenotypic similarity associated with race. Distinguishing the Volk was the Volksgeist (racial spirit; or Japa­nese, minzoku seishin), which coexisted uneas­ ily alongside the positivist orientation of early twentieth-­century scholarship.22 The idea of minzoku spurred development throughout the ­human science disciplines in Japan. It was a­ dopted as a unit of analy­sis not only in physical anthropology, ethnology, and archaeology, but also in history, art history, ge­ ography, law, linguistics, sociology, philosophy, psy­chol­ogy, folklore, po­liti­ cal science, religious studies, “native studies” (dozokugaku), and other fields. Interest in minzoku spanned ideological orientations, drawing Marxists as well as conservative proponents of emperor-­centered nationalism into an ob­ jective and therefore credible justification of empire. In contrast to jinshu, minzoku encompassed both physiological attributes and learned be­hav­ior, or “culture.” Although the idea of culture has a long genealogy, the academic usage that dominated early twentieth-­century ­human science is generally traced to the work of Edward Tylor (1832–1917). Tylor, a British scholar, is often regarded as the founder of modern anthropology. His Primitive Culture (1871) defined its object as “that complex ­whole which in­ cludes knowledge, belief, art, morals, law, custom, and any other capabilities and habits acquired by man as a member of society.” Significantly, Tylor dis­ agreed with many of his contemporaries in recognizing culture as character­ istic of elites and masses, “civilized” and “savage” alike.23 In interwar Japan, culture came to be translated as bunka. The character compound bunka (Chinese, wenhua) originated in ancient China, where it was used in a dichotomy to describe the ordering and improvement of society

24  C H A P T E R 1

via learning (bun; Chinese, wen) rather than by the military (bu; Chinese, wu). Following the Meiji Restoration, it occasionally served as an abbreviation for bunmei kaika (civilization and enlightenment), the watchwords of the late nineteenth-­century Japa­nese government. During the ensuing Taishō period (1912–1926), bunka retained its positive association with pro­g ress. The term bunka seikatsu (cultured lifestyle) became ubiquitous as a description of the aspirational material possessions, consumer habits, and self-­cultivation of the ­imagined ­middle class.24 Concurrently, h ­ uman scientists began using bunka in a manner akin to Tylor. By the 1930s, discussions of bunka, like t­ hose of minzoku, often took on a nationalist flavor. Expansionists sought to identify the fundamentals of Nihon bunka (Japa­nese culture) and to assert Japan’s cul­ tural commonality with and superiority over its Asian conquests.25 Cultural characteristics, unlike the biological features seen to constitute race, ­were not uniform across individuals or populations. Their study required a research method that was nonquantitative yet empiricist, positivist, and (ac­ cepted as) universal and devoid of bias. The solution was modern fieldwork.26 Torii Ryūzō (1870–1953) is often regarded as Japan’s earliest theorist of scien­ tific princi­ples for in situ research.27 Torii studied informally ­u nder Tsuboi and succeeded him as the second chair of anthropology at Tokyo Imperial University. However, whereas Tsuboi focused on physiological mea­sure­ments, Torii devoted his c­ areer to the analy­sis of social be­hav­ior. He understood field­ work as an objective mode of knowledge production distinguishing authori­ tative professional research from amateur armchair studies. Torii’s claim to objectivity also rested on his innovative use of a new and highly influential technology: the camera. Late nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century au­ diences tended valorize the camera as a perspective-­f ree lens on real­ity, the incarnation of the “view from nowhere.” Through images of ­Others, Torii glossed his personal perceptions with the veracity of objectivity.28 In 1896, the year ­after Japan acquired the island of Taiwan from China, the new colonial government dispatched Torii to study the local population. It de­ manded comprehensive knowledge of local practices and beliefs as a basis for the smooth reform, assimilation, and exploitation of Taiwan’s ­people and territory.29 Torii’s fieldwork was intended to generate information leading to the pacification and civilization of so-­called savages (banjin). He also surveyed the local Han Chinese community, investigating traditional customs including law, landown­ ership, kinship, lineage, marriage, and inheritance. The use of research as a basis for policy l­ ater became a model for other parts of Japan’s expanding em­

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pire. Over the next five de­cades, Torii ventured to new conquests in Manchuria, the Mongol lands, ­Korea, China, the Kuril Islands, Sakhalin, and Siberia, where Japan dispatched an anti-­Bolshevik force in 1919. His influence was more pro­ nounced in the colonies than in Japan itself, where fieldwork failed to displace mea­sure­ment as the dominant methodology among h ­ uman scientists.30 Of the same generation as Torii and also something of an academic mav­ erick was Yanagita Kunio (1875–1962), the so-­called ­father of Japa­nese folk­ lore or “native ethnology” (minzokugaku).31 In some ways, the crystallization of Self-­study as an in­de­pen­dent discipline mirrored the German separa­ tion of Volkeskunde (the study of Eu­ro­pe­a ns, or “­people with culture”) and Völkerkunde (the study of “natu­ral ­peoples,” or O ­ thers). Yet the distinction between t­ hese two branches of inquiry remained fluid in Japan, due to still-­ amorphous disciplinary bound­aries and to belief in the common racial heri­ tage of the Japa­nese and their research subjects in Asia. As one historian has observed, Japa­nese h ­ uman science “did not emerge by encountering the ‘other’ but by expanding the collective ‘self.’ ”32 Yanagita’s research took him all over the home islands (including Okinawa), as well as to Taiwan, K ­ orea, and Micronesia (Nan’yō), which Japan acquired as a mandate in the 1919 Treaty of Versailles. In his scholarship, he maintained a complicated and sometimes critical relationship to the imperial state. As a youth Yanagita embraced Marxism, a dissident ideology that promised to resolve the increasingly troubling social ravages and inequalities of indus­ trial capitalism. By the end of World War I, Marxist sympathies had become commonplace among Japa­nese university students, including the men of one age. During the mid-1920s, however, the government abandoned its relatively ­permissive stance ­toward leftist ideologies, imposing censorship and attempt­ ing thought control. Yanagita was arrested and forced by police to avow his conversion (tenkō) to emperor-­centered nationalism. Many of his students suffered similar persecution. Yanagita’s subsequent work suggested a greater receptivity to orthodox state agendas. His writings celebrated the diversity of rural Japan and the Japa­nese, yet supported ideas of a timeless and transcen­ dent unity of customs, practices, and beliefs consonant with approved visions of the race-­nation. Through structured, methodologically consistent fieldwork, Yanagita presented a vision of an essential Japa­nese minzoku as the basis of the con­temporary nation and empire.33 Yanagita often collaborated with Shibusawa Keizō (1896–1963), the scion of one of the wealthiest and most po­liti­cally influential families of Meiji Japan.

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Shibusawa enjoyed a long and distinguished c­ areer in banking and diplomacy while si­mul­ta­neously pursuing an overriding interest in folk culture. In 1921 he established the Attic Museum (Achikku Myūzeamu) to display toys and other artifacts collected in and beyond the home islands. The institution, the first of its kind in Japan, also maintained a bud­get to fund field studies. Shibusawa generally favored group expeditions to maximize the companionability, inclusivity, and plea­sure of the research experience. He also stressed engagement across h ­ uman science disciplines as a buttress of intellectual community and holistic inquiry.34 In 1934 Shibusawa helped to found the Nihon Minzoku Gakkai (Japan Society of Ethnology, hereafter referred to as the JSE).35 As the first presi­ dent of the organ­ization, he aspired to shape it into the premier institution for the study of race-­nations within the empire. Among its many activities, the JSE evaluated and sponsored field proj­ects, hosted academic conferences, and published the prestigious Minzokugaku kenkyū (MK; known in En­glish as the Japa­nese Journal of Ethnology). Shibusawa donated his Attic Museum collection to the organ­ization as the kernel of a prospective public ethnology museum showcasing Japan’s resplendent past and highlighting its pre­sent par­ ity with the ­great powers of the West. However, the outbreak of World War II interrupted his pursuit of the proj­ect.36 The elaboration of a rich field tradition in Japan was paralleled and stimu­ lated by contemporaneous developments in the h ­ uman sciences in the West. Polish-­born British social anthropologist Bronisław Malinowski (1884–1942) is often credited with transforming fieldwork from informal data collection by armchair anthropologists into a self-­conscious scientific method. Malinowski aspired to objectively probe hypotheses in the ser­v ice of the new theory of functionalism. Functionalists rejected the evolutionist notion of a hierarchy of populations or­ga­nized by levels of development and pro­gress. Rather, they ar­ gued that all socie­ties operate as a complex w ­ hole consisting of rational struc­ tures and practices designed to satisfy certain needs. They constructed the task of the anthropologist as uncovering the logic b ­ ehind seemingly inexplicable be­hav­iors in primitive populations.37 The 1922 publication of Malinowski’s Argonauts of the Western Pacific: An Account of Native Enterprise and Adventure in the Archipelagoes of Melanesian New Guinea inspired an intellectual revolution as a manifesto of modern fieldwork. Based on the author’s research among the ­people of the Trobriand Islands during World War I, Argonauts set forth the hallmarks of what its author termed “the intensive study of a restricted area.” ­These

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included systematic, theoretically informed, holistic data collection; long-­term immersion in local life as a participant-­observer; minimal contact with home; and communication with in­for­mants in their own language.38 Malinowski was neither the first nor the only scholar of his day to propose guidelines for solo, in-­depth scientific fieldwork; moreover, as his diary ­later exposed, he did not always practice what he preached. Yet his acute methodological consciousness and self-­promotional acumen gave him the iconic identity of a solitary genius in the field—­t he so-­called Malinowskian myth that in many ways remains alive ­today.39 In fact, however, far from being the lone hero he i­magined himself, Malinowski relied critically on institutional sponsors. Fieldwork required ­imperial patronage in ways that armchair analyses did not. Studying distant, putatively primitive socie­ties not fully reconciled to British rule, Malinowski depended on colonial protection, infrastructure, and funding to carry out his research. Rather than regarding this support as a threat to his impartial­ ity, Malinowski saw the relationship between empire and anthropology as symbiotic. In his view, the colonial subject was the natu­ral target of practical (applied) research. Through scientific explication of the under­lying logics of indigenous cultures, he hoped to furnish interwar British policymakers with humane and eco­nom­ical strategies of modernizing imperial territories while maintaining social stability and quiescence.40 Field-­based practical anthropology enjoyed par­t ic­u ­lar influence among Japa­nese ­human scientists, who swiftly declared the “need as much as pos­ si­ble to conduct on-­site field surveys among vari­ous minzoku.” 41 In 1939 Malinowski’s Crime and Custom in Savage Society (1926) appeared in trans­ lation with an introduction by Watsuji Tetsurō (1889–1960), a prominent moral phi­los­o­pher and cultural geographer. Watsuji’s endorsement signaled Malinowski’s ac­cep­tance as intellectual orthodoxy in imperial Japan, feeding the fever for fieldwork, or the “Malinowski boom” (Marinousukī būmu), as it was dubbed in its own time.42 Translators also produced Japa­nese editions of the anthropologist’s other major works, including The F ­ ather in Primitive Psy­ chol­ogy (1938; En­glish orig. 1927) and Myth in Primitive Psy­chol­ogy (1941; orig. 1926).43 ­Japa­nese scholars described him as an unparalleled genius. “From Malinowski’s seed, we have built a scientific consciousness that was previ­ ously lacking,” one observed.44 Unlike many other pre-1945 beliefs, faith in fieldwork as the fundamental feature of objective and therefore legitimate research was to remain strong well

28  C H A P T E R 1

into the postwar period. It was this conviction that would define and unite the field generation—­t he cohort of ­human scientists whose ­careers spanned the war­time divide.

The making of a Malinowski Izumi Seiichi was the product of an adventurous lineage. His grand­father, Izumi Rintarō, was born in 1842 in a village near the city of Sendai on Japan’s Pacific coast. He fought on the losing side of an 1864 ­battle between the Tokugawa shogunate and a rebel domain. ­After defeat, he and his neighbors fled to Japan’s northernmost main island, Ezo (­later Hokkaido). At the periphery of Japa­nese sovereignty, the group established a new settlement. Izumi Rintarō served as village head. When the Meiji state formally incorporated Hokkaido into the realm in 1869, he was elected to the national legislature (Diet).45 Izumi Rintarō’s second son, Izumi Akira, was born in Hokkaido in 1873. An ambitious youth, Izumi Akira graduated from Sapporo Agricultural College (­later Hokkaido Imperial University) and traveled to the United States. He studied agricultural economics at UCLA and earned a degree in international law at Columbia University. A ­ fter sixteen years abroad, including time in Mexico, he bowed to his ­mother’s request to return to Japan to marry. He and his bride settled in Tokyo. In a series of ­career moves that oddly anticipated ­t hose of his eldest son, he worked for an international exposition, consid­ ered emigration to Brazil, and helped to build a Western-­style social science department at Meiji University. Putting his e­ arlier training to use, he bought a plot of land to demonstrate American-­style farming to students. Izumi Seiichi, the first of his four ­children, was born on June 3, 1915.46 When the boy was twelve years old, Izumi Akira relocated his ­family to Keijō (Seoul), the capital of colonial K ­ orea. From his l­ egal studies, Izumi Akira had developed a deep interest in imperial administration and a sense of moral responsibility regarding Japan’s involvement in ­Korea. In preparation for the move, the f­ ather warned his son against adopting “typical, shameful” Japa­nese prejudices against Koreans as lazy, dirty, and racially inferior. “If you end up feel­ ing that way, then our g­ oing to K ­ orea ­will have no meaning,” he admonished.47 Izumi Seiichi learned to think of himself as a hantōjin (peninsular)—an identity that rejected ethnocultural alignment with Koreans but appropriated the geo­ graphic space of the modernizing colony for Japa­nese settlers. K ­ orea became his homeland, and Keijō his home.48

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Izumi Akira supported his ­family through a faculty appointment at Keijō Imperial University (Keijō Teikoku Daigaku, hereafter referred to as KIU). Founded in 1924, KIU was the institutional embodiment of Japan’s interwar policy of “cultural rule” (bunka seiji). Cultural rule reduced the presence of the Japa­nese military in administration and increased subjects’ freedom in daily life. In response to local and international pressures for Korean self-­ determination, the new philosophy also purported to prepare the colony for eventual in­de­pen­dence. Key to this goal was the cultivation of a local elite. By the 1940s, the percentage of Koreans among matriculating students at KIU had risen to one third, with the remainder consisting of Japa­nese settlers and expa­ triates from the home islands. KIU also hired a few Japanese-­trained Koreans to fill lower-­level instructor and assistant faculty positions. University edu­ cation si­mul­ta­neously fostered the development of an assimilated stratum of Korean intellectuals that endorsed and assisted the Japanese-­led transforma­ tion of society, and an anti-­imperial re­sis­tance movement inspired by liberal po­liti­cal ideals.49 Among colonial universities worldwide, KIU and its counterpart in Taiwan, Taipei Imperial University (Taihoku Teikoku Daigaku, established in 1928), ­were unique institutions. In the empires of the West, intellectual networks converged on the leading universities of the metropole. Research in the colonies seldom transcended data collection for distant supervisors, and scholars overseas often aspired to more prestigious employment at home. By contrast, in ­Korea, Taiwan, and ­later Manchukuo, Japan constructed quality universities nearly on par with t­ hose in the home islands. The empire had no parallels in its intensive deployment of knowledge production as a strategy of governance.50 Given their mission to generate information on behalf of the state, Japa­nese academic institutions steadily lost autonomy in the early twentieth c­ entury. As public servants, professors ­were often unwilling or unable to perform in­de­pen­ dent critical analy­sis. The growth of factions and cliques further hampered their work. Faculty in the metropole tended to value pre­ce­dent, hierarchy, and se­niority over innovation.51 A modicum of intellectual freedom was more easily maintained outside the home islands. As a relatively young institution, KIU offered greater flexibility to scholars intrigued by new ideas and meth­ ods. Meanwhile, its colonial location encouraged their interest in diversity and provided virtually unrestricted access to ­human subjects. The university accord­ ingly attracted numerous ambitious young talents who energetically cultivated

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its reputation and came to identify with ­Korea as a sort of homeland. Together they formed what was ­later dubbed the “Keijō School”: a loose professional net­ work of peninsulars committed to life and scholarship in the colony.52 Among this group was Izumi Akira, who criticized state attempts to assimilate the Koreans, urged KIU to switch its language of instruction from Japa­nese to Korean, and denounced Japan’s invasion of Manchuria in 1931.53 In 1933 Izumi Seiichi matriculated at KIU. Izumi and his fellow students experienced university life very differently from ­earlier generations. Demand for higher education in the Japanese empire surged ­a fter World War I, cul­ minating in a university population of nearly 200,000 by the early 1930s. As a result, the degree metamorphosed from an almost inaccessible elite credential to a routine qualification for professional employment. New gradu­ates could not expect automatic success; instead, they had to consciously court the public in pursuit of wealth and influence.54 Izumi initially intended to study Japa­nese lit­er­a­ture and perhaps train as a documentary filmmaker (a ­career that had only recently become conceivable with advances in cinematic technology). He joined the school literary maga­ zine, newspaper staff, and film club. His real passion, however, was mountain­ eering. As a sickly child beset with chest prob­lems, Izumi had taken up hiking and skiing to strengthen his physique. On New Year’s Day 1936, he led the KIU Mountaineering Club on a winter ascent of Mount Halla, the highest peak of Jejudo (Japa­nese, Saishūtō; also sometimes referred to as Quelpart), an island off the southern Korean coast. A teammate was lost during the climb and presumed to have perished. (His body was found the following spring.) In the aftermath of the tragedy, Izumi found comfort in imagining his friend’s soul finding peace on Jejudo. In his grief, he gravitated to two KIU faculty with re­ search interests in Korean spirituality: Akamatsu Chijō (1886–1960) and Akiba Takashi (1888–1954).55 Together with colleagues at Taihoku Imperial University, Akamatsu and Akiba w ­ ere among the earliest Japa­nese admirers of Malinowski. Akamatsu graduated from Kyoto Imperial University with a degree in religious studies and began working at KIU in 1927. A cofounder of the JSE, he was responsible for some of the first translations of Malinowski’s work.56 Akiba, a KIU soci­ ologist, took a leave of absence to study in Germany, France, ­Great Britain, and the United States in the mid-1920s. During his time at the London School of Economics, he encountered Malinowski at the British Museum. Akiba l­ ater remembered their conversation as the origin of his interest in fieldwork. ­After

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returning to KIU in 1926 he began teaching the university’s first courses in ethnography.57 He also wrote an introduction to fieldwork for a leading Japa­ nese sociology journal. Describing Argonauts as a magnificent accomplish­ ment, Akiba praised Malinowski’s major methodological advances. He urged his Japa­nese colleagues to adopt scientific fieldwork to demonstrate their intellectual parity with Euro-­A merican scholars. “­Don’t we wish for Japa­ nese ­human science to manifest a progressive [shinpoteki] orientation?,” he concluded.58 In response to Izumi’s request for direction, Akiba initially demurred, citing poor job prospects in the nascent field of ethnology. But when the stu­ dent refused to be put off, he proffered a copy of Argonauts. “This is real schol­ arship,” he warned. “Make up your mind to understand it.” Izumi labored diligently through the English-­language text, captivated by Malinowski’s methodological rigor and rich description. “­People live,” he marveled. He next read Coming of Age in Samoa (1928), another meticulous field study that catapulted its American author, Margaret Mead (1901–1978), to enduring fame. Taking his cue from ­these classics, Izumi longed for a similarly “exotic” experi­ ence among a “primitive” ­people.59 Fortunately for the aspiring fieldworker, the growth of Japan’s empire on the Asian mainland had recently brought suitable populations ­under imperial sovereignty. Since the outbreak of the Russo-­Japanese War in 1904, Japan had maintained a military presence in Manchuria (Northeast China) in the shape of the Kwantung Army. In 1931 it overran the region. The following year, it proclaimed the establishment of the new nation of Manchukuo. As historians have argued, Manchukuo was a technocracy defined by scien­ tific nationalism. This ideology identified objective knowledge production as an urgent and fundamental task for effective policy formation.60 However, Japan’s empirical understanding of the population of the new state rested on sources that were less than scholarly. Early twentieth-century writings by spies and adventur­ ers often highlighted the alleged barbarism of steppes inhabitants to promote and legitimize Japanese expansion.61 In their evolutionist justification, the failure of these peoples to progress toward civilization demanded Japanese intervention to forestall their elimination according to the laws of Social Darwinism.62 After 1932, an array of ­human science institutions sprang up to objec­ tively “investigate ­t hose minzoku . . . ​and clarify the characteristics, orienta­ tion, and deviations in their consciousness, aspirations, and be­hav­ior . . . ​in order to provide a foundation for policies.”63 New think tanks included the

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East Asia Association (Tōyō Kyōkai), the South Manchuria Railway Com­pany Economic Research Association (Minami Manshū Tetsudō Kabushiki Kaisha Keizai Chōsabu), the Far Eastern Archaeology Society (Tōa Kōko Gakkai), and the KIU Manchurian-­Mongolian Culture Research Society (Man-­Mō Bunka Kenkyūkai). ­These bodies acted as gatekeepers to publications, research funds, and scholarly reputations, entrenching uniform professional standards in the Japa­nese realm.64 ­Human science institutions furnished a vision of minzoku that legitimized the sovereignty of Manchukuo. With Japa­nese officials occupying the de facto positions of power, outside observers commonly regarded Manchukuo as a puppet state rather than a genuine expression of national self-­determination. ­Under the slogan gozoku kyōwa, or “harmony among the five race-­nations” (generally thought to be Japa­nese, Han Chinese, Korean, Manchu, and Mongol), ­human scientists conjured Manchukuo as an au­t hen­tic and diverse state, a paradise of Pan-­Asian brotherhood. Supplementing this ideal was the concept of a “Tungusic” minzoku encompassing the Japa­nese, Koreans, Manchus, Mongols, and vari­ous other small populations in Northeast and Inner Asia. The Tungus notably excluded the Chinese, the principal rival of the Japa­nese for dominance of the Asian mainland. Through scholarship on the Tungus, Japa­nese ­human scientists established the role of the imperial­ ists, the most “civilized” members of the minzoku, in protecting less advanced groups historically oppressed by the Han.65 From his base at KIU, Akiba Takashi helped to initiate research on the Tungus in Manchukuo. In 1935 Akiba became the first Japa­nese scholar to undertake a brief field survey of the Oroqen, seen as among the most primitive of the Tungusic ­peoples. The nomadic Oroqen, numbering less than fifteen hundred, inhabited the uneasy border between Manchukuo and the Soviet Union. Akiba was primarily interested in their religious customs and beliefs, as part of a larger joint research proj­ect with Akamatsu on shamanism in East Asia. In 1936 he invited Izumi to join him for two months of fieldwork in an Oroqen community.66 Funding for the venture was provided by the Kwantung Army, which sought not only to flesh out the Tungusic category as an ideological prop of imperialism but also to bolster Manchukuo’s border defenses in anticipation of armed conflict between Japan and the USSR. In the early 1930s, the Oroqen had bitterly opposed the establishment of Manchukuo. The Kwantung Army eventually pacified them through a policy of nonintervention, including the

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encouragement of traditional lifeways and the promotion of community self-­ sufficiency. The military subsequently mobilized adult Oroqen men into guard units and trained some Rus­sian speakers to gather intelligence on the Soviet Union. With their knowledge of local geography, habituation to cold weather, and language competence, Oroqen agents w ­ ere often able to operate more 67 effectively than Japa­nese or Korean spies. Owing to his Korean upbringing, Izumi already had significant experi­ ence traveling in Northeast Asia. As a ninth-­g rade student, he had partici­ pated in a school trip through urban Manchuria—­a popu­lar experience for middle-­class Japa­nese of his generation. More recently, following the tragedy on Mount Halla, he had fled Keijō for the port of Dairen in the Kwantung Leased Territory, where his f­ ather had accepted a job at the South Manchuria Railway Com­pany on retiring from KIU. However, Izumi’s first field venture took him far beyond the cities of the region. At the beginning of July 1936, ­under the watch of a Kwantung Army supervisor, he departed for the field by way of Fengtian (Japa­nese, Hōten; t­ oday known as Shenyang), Manchukuo’s most populous city. A train carried him almost to the Rus­sian border. For the final leg of the journey Izumi hitched a r­ ide on a horse-­drawn cart carry­ing foodstuffs and opium deep into the Manchukuo forest. Eventually he reached the target community of 175 ­people (thirty-­t hree families).68 Far from most vis­i­ble signs and institutions of Japa­nese power, Izumi ­imagined himself, like Malinowski, as a lone hero anthropologist wholly im­ mersed among a ­people untouched by modern civilization. His research re­ flected this quest for primitivity, focusing almost exclusively on ele­ments of the traditional Oroqen lifestyle. In an attempt at immersion, he dressed in bor­ rowed local clothing and carried a hunting ­rifle. (Although private possession of firearms was technically illegal in Manchukuo, the government had distrib­ uted weapons to the Oroqen to prepare them to defend the border.) Through photo­graphs, Izumi “objectively” captured rhythms of local life such as meals, religious activities, and ­house­hold maintenance. The Oroqen, he noted, exhib­ ited ­little shame or self-­consciousness before the camera, but balked at posing for fear of offending their gods.69 In the manner of Malinowski, who had exchanged tobacco for interviews with the Trobriand Islanders, Izumi supplied tobacco, wheat flour, and opium to in­for­mants. In the early twentieth ­century the harm of smoking tobacco was not widely known, but Izumi could not have been unaware of the physiological dan­ gers posed by opium. The imperial Japa­nese media was saturated with antidrug

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messages. Propaganda tied opium and refined narcotics such as morphine and heroin to racial as well as individual degeneration, representing consumption as both the symptom and the consequence of innate deviance and inferiority. In real­ity, evidence suggests that Japa­nese colonists in the empire used opiates at a higher rate than most subject populations. Yet, in the imperial mind, addic­ tion was a distinguishing feature of lesser p ­ eoples, especially the Han Chinese. In the early 1930s the Manchukuo government established a mono­poly over opium. By restricting its distribution to registered customers, it attempted to curtail consumption, thereby showcasing its benevolence and justifying its rule. However, vast profits from state narcotics sales led to the tacit encourage­ ment of use and soaring rates of dependence.70 Like the Manchukuo government, the Kwantung Army raised much of its operating revenue from the drug market and was thus particularly interested in the role of opium in Oroqen culture. Izumi found that almost 50 ­percent of adults over the age of fourteen consumed the narcotic, often alongside hot tea to alleviate hunger, fatigue, and the fear of evil spirits. Some ­were so ­eager for Izumi’s disbursements that they cried and thanked their gods. Writing ­u nder military scrutiny, the ethnologist elided the likely source of his sup­ ply: the Kwantung Army. He acknowledged neither his individual culpability for providing banned substances nor the ramifications of collecting data on opium usage for ­f uture manipulation by the authorities. Likewise, Izumi did not comment on the larger dynamics of Japa­nese imperialism that had spread narcotics throughout Asia. Instead, he attributed the taste for opium among the Oroqen to the negative example of their past rulers, the Chinese. In the Japa­nese imperial imagination, opium had long been associated with China and was implicated in both the alleged racial decline of the Han p ­ eople and their failure to stave off the encroachments of the West.71 Izumi also attributed other signs of social deterioration among the Oroqen to contact with China. Han settlers’ appropriation of forest lands for farm­ ing threatened the group’s hunter-­gatherer lifestyle. Furthermore, the Chinese language was steadily displacing the native tongue, particularly among youth. Given the short duration of his fieldwork, Izumi learned ­little more than a few Oroqen words. He himself communicated with many in­for­mants in Chinese (though he described his skills as poor).72 In attributing the erosion of tradi­ tional Oroqen culture to China, Izumi con­ve­niently omitted the impact of Japan. Instead, he cast imperialism as a benevolent rescue of fellow Tungus from Sinic oppression and degeneracy.

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At the beginning of August, Izumi headed home to Keijō. During the jour­ ney he spoke to a Manchukuo journalist about his fieldwork. He was paid one hundred yen for a newspaper article published a week ­later—­his first taste of life as a public intellectual. As he remembered modestly, “The response was not at all bad.” A ­ fter reaching Keijō, Izumi prepared a full report of his findings ­u nder Akiba’s guidance. Much to his luck, he had no sooner completed his write-up than Shibusawa Keizō arrived in ­Korea on a research trip. Wearing his trademark white Panama hat, Shibusawa ­stopped by KIU to visit faculty acquaintances. He read Izumi’s piece and encouraged the student to submit it for consideration by the MK editorial board.73 Appearing in the journal the following year, Izumi’s nearly fifty-­page article surveyed Oroqen food, shelter, livelihood, kinship, village structure, politics, marriage customs, religious ceremonies, medicine, and death rites. Published as “A Report on Fieldwork [tōsa] among the Oroqen of the Eastern ­Great Xing’an Mountains,” the piece was the first in Japan’s flagship ethnology journal to allude to methodology in its headline. Thereafter, such references to fieldwork became common, demonstrating its association with objective and therefore legitimate ­human science knowledge.74 In the five years following the appearance of Izumi’s article, Japa­nese re­ searchers (many bearing opium) produced about twenty more studies of the tiny Oroqen population—­a reflection of its practical and ideological impor­ tance.75 Meanwhile, Izumi expanded his work on the Tungus, returning to northern Manchukuo in 1937 to carry out three weeks of fieldwork u ­ nder Akamatsu’s direction on the Goldi ­people (now referred to as the Nanai). Chinese, American, German, and French ethnologists had previously re­ searched the Goldi, but Akamatsu and Izumi w ­ ere the first Japa­nese scholars to study the group.76 With the assistance of a translator, Izumi and Akamatsu worked with nine Goldi families to explore language, livelihood, kinship, ritual, relations with the natu­ral environment, and the preparation of distinctive fish skin clothing. Their work largely applied methods from the Oroqen study a year e­ arlier, amid heightening military tension.77 Izumi built commonality between the Goldi and their Japa­nese rulers through the established strategy of casting the Chinese as mutual antagonists and as desecrators of primitive culture. Some young Goldi, he noticed, ­were unable to speak the traditional language and could communi­ cate only in Chinese. (­Others, in Soviet territory, learned Rus­sian as their first language.) For the rest of his life, Izumi was to remember the sadness he felt at

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bearing witness to the “extinguishment” of Goldi culture.78 However, his writ­ ings bore no trace of reflection on Japan’s culpability in this outcome. Much to the delight of Akamatsu, Izumi wrote up his field notes on the Goldi within a week of his return to Keijō.79 One year ­later, MK published their jointly authored article, “Report of Fieldwork among the Goldi ­People.” Not yet a college gradu­ate, Izumi had established himself as a cutting-­edge ­human scientist and major contributor to the strategic study of minzoku in the Japa­nese empire.

In­d e­p en­d ent f ieldwork in colonial ­K orea With two directed field experiences ­behind him, by late 1937 Izumi was pre­ pared to undertake an in­de­pen­dent research proj­ect for his se­nior thesis. That winter, he ventured to Jejudo for a two-­month investigation of local religion and kinship patterns. In studying Jejudo, Izumi contributed to a large Japa­nese lit­er­a­ture on ­Korea that commingled colonial imperatives and ethnological interests. Throughout the empire, administrators regarded ­human science knowledge as a precondition of modern reform and efficient, extractive, unchallenged rule. Nowhere was this mentality more salient than in ­Korea, where the pur­ ported racial closeness between colonizer and colonized generated unrivaled imperial interest, even paranoia, in monitoring signs of Korean assimilation to Japa­nese norms. As a result, although Japa­nese ­human scientists took l­ ittle notice of ­Korea prior to its annexation, ­after 1910 the government directed their attention to the peninsula. In the first de­cade of Japa­nese rule, a sponsored ac­ ademic survey filled an impressive 632 volumes with data on Korean customs, while archaeologists excavated over one hundred sites. The establishment of KIU and the creation of faculty chairs in the language, history, and lit­er­a­ture of the peninsula furthered the professional development of Korean studies.80 The fraught, intense relationship between Japan and ­Korea generated an array of perspectives on the colony. Japa­nese observers often disdained the Koreans as backward, immoral, irrational, inefficient, ignorant, vulgar, and, above all, filthy. To many imperialists, colonial subjects ­were racial inferiors and evolutionary losers in a social Darwinist world. Research practices re­ flected this contempt: some Japa­nese anthropologists raided graves for physi­ ological specimens, while ­others used food to bribe impoverished Koreans to submit to intrusive physical mea­sure­ments and examinations.81

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Not incompatible with derision was Japan’s romanticization of K ­ orea as its “primitive self”: a nostalgic vision of the nation before its modern trans­ formation. The depiction of Korean customs and lifestyles as con­temporary incarnations of a lost Japa­nese past generated an almost irresistible impulse ­toward documentation. Akiba, among the first Japa­nese ­human scientists to approach Korean society and culture through short stints of fieldwork, was one of the most influential writers in this tradition. Akiba represented ­Korea as a Tungusic society bifurcated into two layers: a small upper stratum of elites (yangban) fatally contaminated by contact with Chinese civilization and an agrarian folk majority whose consciousness he explored through the study of shamanism.82 Yet, even this latter category lacked the alleged attributes of backwardness that made the study of the Oroqen and Goldi so satisfying. Though deemed less modern than the Japa­nese, Koreans appeared, as one histo­ rian has written, “too literate, sophisticated, and bureaucratic for too long, and, importantly, they wore too many clothes.”83 Jejudo, the least developed part of ­Korea, offered the most promising opportunity to locate evidence of the primi­ tive self and to naturalize the colony’s inclusion in the empire.84 By the time of ­Korea’s annexation by Japan, Jejudo had been ­under pen­ insular administration for approximately eight hundred years. Nonetheless, its much-­vaunted tradition of in­de­pen­dence formed the basis for a sense of historical, ecological, physiological, and cultural uniqueness. In the hands of Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists, this exceptionalism (Saishūtōron) functioned to undermine both the unity and sovereignty of K ­ orea. Scholars claimed that peninsular ­Korea had oppressed Jejudo as an implicit justification of impe­ rial intervention.85 Meanwhile, analyses of folk life aligned Jejudo with Japan. One colonial survey highlighted ten ways in which Jeju and Japa­nese customs jointly diverged from ­those of mainland ­Korea. For instance, whereas peninsu­ lar ­women carried bundles on their heads, Jeju and Japa­nese ­women strapped burdens to their backs. Mainland Koreans preferred white clothing, while Jeju islanders and Japa­nese wore colors.86 Izumi’s study bore the influence of colonial scholarship. He reviewed myths, archaeological findings, and historical texts that supported the in­de­ pen­dence of ancient Jejudo. Other sources depicted contact and interaction between the island and the archipelago, leading to the development of what he described as a “Japanese-­t ype” (Nihonteki) lifestyle.87 Izumi also called ­attention to island traditions with parallels in Japan, such as diving w ­ omen (haenyeo). However, he rejected certain evolutionist ele­ments of ­earlier research.

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Following Malinowski in spirit as well as practice, he turned a functional­ ist lens on Jejudo society. In contrast to his e­ arlier work on the Oroqen and Goldi, Izumi did not shrink from criticizing ill-­considered colonial policies that had disturbed under­lying social logics. He pointed out that Japan’s sys­ tematic exploitation of the rich seas surrounding the island had exhausted marine resources and displaced local fishermen, forcing many formerly in­de­ pen­dent entrepreneurs to seek poorly paid contract work on Japa­nese boats. Some joined dispossessed victims of colonial land reform in Manchuria or the cities of Japan, where they supplemented the industrial l­ abor force. Of all the provinces in southern ­Korea, Jejudo had the highest rate of emigration. By the time of Izumi’s fieldwork, a quarter of the island’s population, or more than fifteen thousand ­people, had relocated to Japan.88 The Japa­nese government applauded migration as “a means of alleviating poverty and a g­ reat benefit to Jejudo society.”89 However, the state’s own statis­ tics revealed the disproportionate expatriation of young men. Izumi enumer­ ated the economic effects of this imbalance, including the decimation of the local fishing industry and the shortage of agricultural workers. The skewed gender ratio had plunged the average ­house­hold size to well below Korean norms and stunted ­family formation and population growth. However, when the colonial government reversed its stance on migration in the mid-1930s, large-­scale repatriation only exacerbated local difficulties, as the shrunken ­labor market offered few employment opportunities for returnees. Writing only a few years l­ater, Izumi suggested that inadvisable interventions by the Japa­nese administration had undermined the stability of island society.90 In addition to drawing this iconoclastic conclusion, Izumi’s study blazed new trails in its methodology. In many ways this in­de­pen­dent immersive field proj­ect, his first and last, was the closest approximation of Malinowskianism that he achieved in his ­career. Thanks to the fluent Korean he had learned as a youth, Izumi was able to operate more in­de­pen­dently than Akiba and Akamatsu, adult mi­grants to the colony who relied heavi­ly on local assistants. He walked Jejudo’s trails, spent nights in in­for­mants’ homes, came to know his research subjects as individuals, and worked hard to leave a positive impression.91 In other ways, however, Izumi’s research fell short of Malinowski’s guide­ lines for objective fieldwork. Still suffering from the emotional impact of his friend’s mountaineering accident, he retreated to Jejudo both as an atonement and as an escape from Keijō, where the tragedy had received considerable pub­ licity. (In this venture, and throughout his ­career, Izumi valued the research

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site not only for its intellectual interest but also as a respite from the prob­ lems of home.) Moreover, Izumi’s identification with the primitive self and his positionality as a peninsular and Japa­nese university student in occupied ­Korea fundamentally colored what he saw and understood. At once sympa­ thetic to colonizer and subject, his work could be read as both supportive and critical of Japa­nese rule. Despite its shortcomings, Izumi’s thesis earned considerable acclaim as the first field-­based academic study of Jejudo. Before it was even fully drafted, Akiba hired Izumi as a personal assistant in the KIU sociology research of­ fice. Shibusawa offered to publish the work, but the outbreak of the Second Sino-­Japanese War the following year forestalled this outcome.92 Yet, despite this promising start, Izumi conducted no further research in colonial ­Korea. During the late 1930s Japa­nese administrators intensified efforts to remodel Koreans as imperial subjects (kōminka). Confronting strenuous re­sis­tance, they feared that field research might encourage revolt by offering scientific credibility to arguments for Korean in­de­pen­dence. Ethnography had the po­ tential to serve as a “remonstrative conscience of empire,” challenging the cat­ egories of colonizer and colonized that justified Japa­nese rule.93 The discouragement of the regime aside, h ­ uman scientists themselves gen­ erally lost interest in ­Korea, finding even the Korean masses too civilized to satisfy as exemplars of primitivity. Moreover, if it had ever been pos­si­ble to cleanly distinguish a Korean Other from the Japa­nese Self, a­ fter several de­ cades of assimilationist rhe­toric and policy this proj­ect no longer appeared intellectually plausible or po­liti­cally desirable.94 In the late 1930s the expan­ sion of the Japa­nese empire facilitated objective fieldwork on p ­ eoples deemed genuinely different and backward. KIU, the oldest Japa­nese university on the mainland, and Izumi, its young Malinowski, w ­ ere to pioneer the deployment of ­human science as a strategy of imperial legitimacy throughout Asia and Oceania.

2 G R O U P F I E L D W O R K I N W A R ­T I M E

The Second Sino-­Japanese War (1937–1945) transformed imperial h ­ uman sci­ ence.1 The expanding frontiers of the empire posed serious logistical challenges and safety ­hazards to researchers, thwarting Malinowski-­style in­de­pen­dent fieldwork. Scholars adapted, abandoning solo studies for multidisciplinary group expeditions. Hoping for intelligence on newly conquered areas, the Japanese government and military provided financial support for ­t hese ven­ tures. However, much to the disappointment of policymakers, h ­ uman scien­ tists seldom generated usable results. Abstract information proved difficult to apply to on-­t he-­ground prob­lems, while the brief duration of imperial control did not permit administrators to act on even concrete information. Instead, the benefits of h ­ uman science accrued disproportionately to re­ searchers themselves. The widening rift between Japan and the ­great powers of Eu­rope and the United States, culminating in war in 1941, forced Japa­nese schol­ ars out of transnational networks of knowledge production. In response, they constructed an imperial academic community through group ventures. The seminal experience of team fieldwork knit the men of one age together as Japan’s first self-­conscious cohort of professional ­human scientists. Expeditions built interpersonal and intellectual bonds that outlasted the empire and ­shaped the course of research for de­cades. War­time teamwork also allowed ­human scientists to carve out an unpre­ce­dented public role for themselves. Through the mass media, they stoked popu­lar curiosity regarding the thrills and threats

G r o u p Fie l d w o r k i n Wa r t ime   41

of research among diverse imperial minzoku. In this way, they built individual reputations and entrenched the social value of their disciplines. Still finishing his undergraduate degree when the war broke out, Izumi was nonetheless a pioneer of team ventures in late imperial Japan. His research trajectory, which took him from the steppes of Inner Asia to the jungles of New Guinea, paralleled Japan’s expansion across the Asian mainland and into the Pacific. For ­human scientists and their audiences, the advance across space was also a retreat in time from the “civilized” metropole to the “barbaric” conti­ nent and fi­nally to the “savage” islands. The legitimacy of imperialism hinged on establishing racial confraternity among this expanding demographic array ­under Japa­nese sovereignty. ­Human scientists, particularly ethnologists, deli­ cately balanced objective evidence of both biological and cultural confraternity on the one hand, and the superiority of the Japa­nese and their consequent fitness for control on the other. The field functioned as a microcosm of the empire, in which the status of the Japa­nese as producers and their ­human sub­ jects as objects of research offered relatively stable ground for establishing the primacy of the ruling group. Research was at once a demonstration of Japa­nese preeminence and an instrument of “pro­gress.” Frameworks for studying the empire w ­ ere not homogenous, consistent, or stable over time. Nor did ­human scientists consistently agree on the aims and achievements of research. In the field, individual motives ranged from fervent nationalism to opportunism to intellectual curiosity. Ultimately, however, an entire generation of h ­ uman scientists coalesced around the production of knowledge that supported the subjugation and even slaughter of colonized populations—­legitimized by a steadfast faith in the ideal of objectivity.

Team research on “barbarism” in the Mongol lands In July 1937 Japan’s Kwantung Army clashed with Chinese forces at the Marco Polo Bridge outside Beijing, touching off the Second Sino-­Japanese War. Within months, Japa­nese troops reached the traditional territory of the Mongol ­people.2 The military established the state of Mōkyo (Chinese, Mengjiang) in Manchukuo’s western borderlands. This puppet regime sought legitimacy by representing itself as a manifestation of Mongol self-­determination and local re­sis­tance against Chinese oppression. Meanwhile, the Japa­nese army hoped to exploit the natu­ral and ­human resources of Mōkyō and to use it as both a

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buffer against the threat of the USSR and as a launching pad for an invasion of Soviet-­dominated Mongolia. Many Japa­nese ­human scientists viewed the conquest of Inner Asia as an opportunity to demonstrate the practical utility of their work, thus generating prestige and resources for their disciplines and themselves. They promised that research on minzoku would resolve the practical difficulties of conquest—­ namely, how to control and capitalize on unfamiliar territories without pro­ voking popu­lar revolt.3 Numerous KIU faculty w ­ ere specifically intrigued by the Mongol ­people, whom they viewed as more primitive and hence more ethnologically appropriate objects of study than the Koreans. However, ini­ tial attempts at Malinowskian fieldwork in the Mongol lands confronted almost insurmountable obstacles. The vast, mountainous terrain was largely unmapped and lacked roads and other infrastructure. Temperatures were said to range from a hundred degrees above to a hundred degrees below Fahrenheit. The “security situation,” as Japan euphemistically referred to its war on the Asian mainland, created additional dangers. “Bandits,” a term used by the Japa­nese military to refer to anti-­imperial re­sis­tance as well as to common outlaws, posed a par­tic­u ­lar menace.4 In response to t­ hese challenges, researchers developed a group expedi­ tion methodology. Team ventures ­were not unpre­ce­dented in h ­ uman science. Classic examples included the Jesup North Pacific expedition of 1897 to 1902 ­u nder the American Franz Boas, the 1898 Torres Strait proj­ect led by A. C. Haddon of G ­ reat Britain, Adolf Friedrich Herzog of Mecklenburg’s 1907 to 1908 exploration of East Africa, and the 1931 to 1933 Dakar-­Djibouti mis­ sion directed by Frenchman Marcel Griaule. Meanwhile, in interwar Japan, Shibusawa Keizō and Yanagita Kunio or­ga­nized cooperative village studies to capture regional diversity.5 Following the outbreak of war with China, the group model became the norm among Japa­nese ­human scientists. ­Adopted as a stopgap solution to the practical challenges of knowledge production in a militarized environment, the enshrinement of team fieldwork would perma­ nently change the nature of research and its social and po­liti­cal significance to the Japa­nese empire and postwar nation-­state. In spring 1938, planning for the first group venture to Mōkyō began u ­ nder the leadership of Ōtaka Tomoo (1899–1956), a professor of ­legal philosophy at KIU. Ōtaka, a relation by marriage of the Shibusawa f­ amily, was born to an expatriate bank man­ag­er and his wife in precolonial K ­ orea. Educated in Japan, he studied law at Tokyo Imperial University and philosophy at Kyoto Imperial

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University. In 1928 he joined the KIU faculty and almost immediately departed for two years of study in Vienna. By the time of the Second Sino-­Japanese War, he had established a reputation as an extreme patriot who taught that scholars should support the interests of the nation.6 Ōtaka recruited seventeen KIU colleagues to join his group. He appointed Izumi as a coordinator on the strength of the latter’s experience organ­izing trips for the KIU Mountaineering Club (which Ōtaka had also helmed dur­ ing his youth). Izumi was the only ethnologist to join the team. Reflecting the interdisciplinary character of h ­ uman science in war­time Japan, other mem­ bers included rural sociologists, geographers, geologists, biologists, botanists, and medical doctors. Another recruit was Iiyama Tatsuo (1904–1993), who had mentored Izumi in mountain climbing since his childhood. A professional photographer for the tourist bureau of the colonial Korean railway, Iiyama had already traveled across Inner Asia, capturing images of nature.7 In addition to being disciplinarily diverse, the Mōkyō venture was also multiethnic. The development of robust academic centers in the formal colo­ nies and the education of some non-­Japanese students expanded the imperial intellectual community. The inclusion of Korean researcher Cho Pok-­sung (1905–1971) on the Mōkyō expedition signified the newly recognized potential for some colonial subjects to participate in knowledge production. Born in Heijō (Pyongyang), Cho belonged to the same generation as Izumi and his cohort. Though trained as a medical doctor, his primary interests w ­ ere zool­ ogy and entomology. Following his appointment to a KIU professorship in 1930, he conducted field and museum-­based studies alongside Japa­nese schol­ ars in Taiwan, Manchukuo, China, and Japan. A prolific researcher, he named six new species and authored nearly one hundred books and articles prior to 1945.8 Cho’s presence on the Mōkyō team underlined the relatively high status of Koreans in the imperial imagination. Disdained as primitive in their own land, (some) Koreans w ­ ere valued partners in the study of “barbaric” O ­ thers on the frontier of the Japa­nese empire. Ōtaka’s venture took shape ­under the name of the KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party (Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai).9 The incorporation of the word gakujutsu into the title indicated the group’s concern to represent its research as objective and therefore legitimate, despite its departure from accepted individual field methodology. Gakujutsu subse­ quently became commonplace in team names—­a trend that persisted through the late twentieth ­century.10

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Ōtaka described the expedition’s goal as “specialized objective survey re­ search” (senmonteki na gakujutsu chōsa).11 In his view, objective scholarship was not only perfectly compatible with military aims but also vital to Japan’s success in Mōkyō: National policy and scholarship are two wheels of the same car . . . ​a nd the po­liti­cal and economic administration of the continent depends upon the dis­ interested and carefully collected knowledge of local culture and customs. As it is said, where the flag of the military goes, so must follow the flag of sci­ ence. Scholars are the front line of the march across the continent, answering through direct experience the question of how military installations, po­liti­cal administration, academic research, and scientific surveys can work together. We scholars are ­humble troops in the culture war on the Asian continent.

Ōtaka argued that fieldwork would improve Japan’s understanding of main­ land economies and cultures and help to bring about harmony among imperial minzoku. He also promised to generate practical knowledge of ­human and natu­ral resources that might support Japan’s war effort.12 Thanks to this skillful melding of intellectual and instrumental goals, the Scientific Expeditionary Party received support from a variety of public sources including KIU, the Japa­nese Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and ­Korea’s colonial government, bureaucracy, and bank. The South Manchuria Railway Com­pany, a quasi-­state organ­ization that played a major po­liti­cal and eco­ nomic role in Japanese-­occupied Northeast Asia, waived shipping fees for the group’s luggage. Financial and in-­k ind donations also materialized from the Oriental Development Com­pany (Tōyō Takushoku Kyōkai), which promoted the emigration of Japa­nese from the home islands to the empire, and Zenrin Kyōkai (Good Neighbor Association), an alliance of Japa­nese business, medi­ cal, academic, educational, and military interests in the Mongol lands. The Mōkyō government offered translators, supplies, and hospitality in dormito­ ries housing its own Japa­nese administrators. The Kwantung Army dispatched twenty troops to guard the Scientific Expeditionary Party.13 Given the monumental logistics involved, preparations for the expedi­ tion began almost four months before its departure. Together with a fellow researcher, a newly graduated Izumi traveled to Mōkyō for a brief feasibility study in March 1938. In Zhangjiakou, the prospective gateway city, the pair secured promises of support and updated security information from army posts. On his return to Keijō, Izumi took on the challenge of coordinating supplies.

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By May, the team had compiled a list of necessary foodstuffs, outerwear, medical gear, research materials (including telegraph equipment), and spare parts. Most items w ­ ere procured in the Korean capital and shipped to Zhangjiakou. Izumi arrived in advance to hire local porters to load the trucks and to p ­ urchase bread (two hundred pounds per head, including d ­ rivers and translators) and other fresh foods. In the end, spoilage claimed many of ­t hese items.14 On June  7, 1938, the research team assembled for a predeparture cere­ mony attended by the president of KIU, colonial government ministers, and Kwantung Army col­o­nels. Such fanfare for ­human science was almost unpre­ ce­dented, reflecting the success of the Scientific Expeditionary Party in linking objective research, po­liti­cal ambitions, and public influence. When the group arrived in Zhangjiakou, military officials and local administrators hosted a welcome party. In honor of the occasion, Ōtaka delivered a speech on the im­ portance of knowledge production to Japan’s mission of bringing peace and good government to Inner Asia. At the end of July, the researchers left the city for a five-­week sojourn in the field. On the road leading west, they passed the bones of a Mongol re­sis­tance fighter killed by the Kwantung Army—­a sobering sight that brought home the risks of their mission.15 Guarded by troops, the team traveled by convoy. Truck seating arrange­ ments w ­ ere determined by academic discipline, allowing the vehicles to oc­ casionally diverge to pursue certain proj­ects such as mapping topographical features and assessing terrestrial and subterranean resources. Izumi worked with the team’s physicians to carry out anthropometric examinations, conduct interviews, and observe the lives of the Mongols. To woo in­for­mants, the doctors offered treatment for certain common conditions. Through scientific medicine, they hoped to accentuate the prospective benefits of Japa­nese rule, diminish the threat of local re­sis­tance, and cultivate positive sentiments ­toward the empire. By the 1930s, medicine was firmly affixed as the benevolent mask of colonization.16 However, many Mongols resisted unfamiliar modes of care. In the end, the Scientific Expeditionary Party doctors spent most of their time attending to team members and to Han Chinese inhabitants of Mōkyō rather than to Mongol patients.17 Izumi encountered numerous obstacles in studying Mongol culture. He was able to communicate directly with in­for­mants who spoke Chinese. However, for conversations with monolingual Mongols, he and his fellow researchers ­were forced to rely on interpreters supplied by the Mōkyō administration. Their work engendered “large doubts regarding the quality of information.”18

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Worse, flanking military troops intimidated and antagonized both interview­ ees and researchers. Perhaps most disappointingly for Izumi, in­for­mants often refused to yield material goods for the team’s collection, claiming that they required too much time and expense to replace. Nonetheless, backed by the Kwantung Army, the ethnologist and his colleagues managed to requisition several hundred artifacts.19 In analyzing Mongol culture and society, Izumi and his fellow researchers ­were influenced by myriad academic and po­liti­cal ideologies. Although evolu­ tionism had fallen from intellectual vogue, it was nevertheless called to account for the relative advancement of the imperial rulers compared to the backward yet confraternal Mongols. Researchers implicitly upheld hygiene as the dividing line between civilization and barbarism. The team frequently complained about the body odor of in­for­mants. As Iiyama reported, Mongols avoided bathing due to their belief that immersion in ­water would transform ­humans into fish. On one occasion, the team encountered a group of Mongol Buddhist lamas clad in unclean robes and suffering from syphilis symptoms such as open, pus-­filled wounds. “Even though they w ­ eren’t contagious, they still made me feel sick,” Iiyama recalled. Screaming “This is horrible; get us out of h ­ ere,” the researchers moved their camp twenty kilo­meters to distance themselves from the lamas.20 The critique of backwardness coexisted alongside primitivism, a well-­ worn trope of colonial domination that romanticized primitivity. In the years ­a fter World War I, the ultimate showcase of modernity’s destructive power, Eu­ro­pean and American ­human scientists and o ­ thers came to question the ideal of pro­gress. Rather than simply deriding backwardness, they undertook fieldwork on putatively primitive cultures to express their yearning for a less frenetic and more peaceful time. Similarly, Japa­nese ­human scientists sought to recover beliefs and practices that predated the urban social forms of the pre­ sent and challenged their repre­sen­ta­tion as hegemonic, universal, and inevi­ ­ omen in indigenous table.21 Iiyama’s photo­graphs of local wrestling matches, w finery, shamanism, and zither m ­ usic suggested re­spect for a vanished yet rec­ ognizable former Self. His images hinted at a certain faded dignity on the part of the Mongols, who had once conquered most of continental Asia and even threatened Japan.22 For his part, Izumi likened certain Mongol customs—­ even unattractive ones—to features of Japa­nese life. “When [the Mongols] are drunk they talk aloud, sing aloud, and sometimes act rudely. On this point they are like Japa­nese,” he declared.23 ­Under a primitivist lens, the gap between Japa­nese imperialists and Mongol subjects emerged as chronological rather

G r o u p Fie l d w o r k i n Wa r t ime   47

Iiyama captures young Mongol ­women. The team flag flies in the back­ ground. Source: Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai, ed., Mōkyō no shizen to bunka, n.p.

F I GUR E   2 .  

than racial. The “denial of coevalness,” or relegation of indigenous ­peoples to a distant and lesser time period than that occupied by their rulers, justified their incorporation into a paternalistic empire.24 In Eu­rope and the United States, primitivism posed an implicit challenge to the putative superiority of civilized socie­t ies—­a nd thereby to imperial

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F I GUR E   3 .   Iiyama’s photo­g raph of a Mongol w ­ oman playing the zither. Source: Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai, ed., Mōkyō no shizen to bunka, n.p.

sovereignty.25 In Japan, by contrast, the critique of modernity scarcely ruffled most ­human scientists’ belief in empire. Even as they expressed regret for the ravage of traditional cultures on the Asian mainland, they elided Japan’s culpa­ bility in this pro­cess. In its study of Mōkyō, the Scientific Expeditionary Party attributed the apparent decline of nomadic life not to Japa­nese imperialism but rather to historical oppression by China. Following the pattern established by ethnological studies of the Oroqen, Goldi, and other Tungusic minorities, scholars excoriated the impact of Han settlers on pastoral ­peoples. As they out­ lined, beginning in the nineteenth ­century, Chinese mi­grants fleeing war, fam­ ine, and disorder in their home provinces brought their agrarian lifestyle to the Inner Asian steppes. By the late 1930s, the population of Mōkyō (5.5. million) included no more than three hundred thousand Mongols. Far from applaud­ ing the replacement of nomadic “barbarism” with agricultural “civilization,” the KIU team characterized Mongol dependence on Chinese neighbors as a “tragedy of the race-­nation” (minzoku no kanashimi).26 Researchers censured

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the despoilment of pastureland ecol­ogy, exploitation of herders through un­ equal trade, and local addiction to Chinese goods, including opium.27 They implied that the Japa­nese had a moral responsibility to rescue their Mongol brethren from Chinese oppression by both respecting the “in­de­pen­dence” of (the puppet state of) Mōkyō and integrating Mōkyō into the empire’s so-­called new order in East Asia (Tōa shin chitsujo). Rather than leading to a denuncia­ tion of Japa­nese imperialism, primitivism upheld it as the solution to Chinese imperialism. ­After nearly four weeks of fieldwork, the team concluded its research among the Mongols. Fourteen members subsequently set off for the Xing’an mountain range to attempt a first ascent of its highest peak, Xiaowutaishan (2,882 me­ ters). This ambitious feat was planned by Ōtaka and Izumi, who remained a passionate hiker even ­after the Mount Halla disaster. Tackling Xiaowutaishan leveraged the researchers’ thirst for adventure for a vital strategic purpose: map­ ping and photographing the surrounding region for the Kwantung Army. At the end of August all of the climbers reached the summit, an accomplishment that strengthened their bond and enhanced their sense of satisfaction with the expedition.28 Success on Xiaowutaishan also cultivated public awareness of Mōkyō and ­human science. By the late 1930s, Japa­nese popu­lar culture was saturated with visual, textual, and aural information about the empire. Firsthand experience through travel, even to the restive frontiers of Japa­nese sovereignty, was in­ creasingly standard for the m ­ iddle class.29 Ethnology resonated with the estab­ lished interest in imperial diversity but added a dimension of exoticism to an ever more routine Other. H ­ uman scientists, producers of information, offered audiences a new status as consumers. Within weeks of their return to Keijō in mid-­September, eight members of the Scientific Expeditionary Party convened a public symposium on their findings. They exhibited about fifty photo­graphs and several hundred material relics to an audience including high-­ranking officials in the colonial government. More than seven hundred p ­ eople subse­ quently attended a screening of Mōkyō bekken (A glimpse of Mōkyō), a film composed of footage from the field. Three follow-up symposia collectively at­ tracted an audience of nearly nine thousand. The team also displayed artifacts in a prominent department store gallery (a common venue for exhibitions in twentieth-­century Japan and its empire).30 Paying tribute to widespread fasci­ nation with ­these curiosities, commentators spoke of a “Mongol boom,” as well as a broader “anthropology boom.”31

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Xiaowutaishan summit team. Source: Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai, ed., Mōkyō no shizen to bunka, n.p.

F I GUR E   4 .  

In colonial K ­ orea, displays and pre­sen­ta­t ions on Mōkyō drew together Japa­nese and Korean onlookers as “peninsular intellectuals” (hantō no chishiki kaikyū) against the Other objects of their gaze.32 Just as Cho Pok-­sung’s inclu­ sion in the Scientific Expeditionary Party demonstrated the relative closeness of Japa­nese and Koreans through their mutual ability to produce knowledge, shared enjoyment of ethnological information on the Mongols suggested the commonality of Japa­nese and (elite) Korean audiences. Amid Japan’s cam­ paign to assimilate Koreans as loyal subjects of the Japa­nese emperor in the late 1930s and early 1940s, h ­ uman scientists not only elaborated on racial rela­ tionships in the field but also reinforced t­ hese hierarchies at home. Perhaps an even more significant legacy of the Scientific Expeditionary Party was the validation of group research as an objective methodology on par with in­de­pen­dent fieldwork. Teamwork necessarily departed from the long-­term, solitary, immersive model established by Malinowski. Rather than attempting a deep study of a single community, KIU ­human scientists followed

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an extensive survey method, covering over a thousand miles in a month. The trucks in which they spent most of their time literally elevated them above their research subjects, symbolizing a status difference that hampered effec­ tive communication. Instead of organic conversations with in­for­mants in their own language, research mostly involved one-­time observations and interviews with local leaders, bureaucrats, and teachers and students in Japanese-­language schools. Mindful of t­ hese departures from approved field methodology, the Scientific Expeditionary Party was initially dubious and defensive regarding its work. “Such a generalized expedition is not the proper setting for detailed re­ search, but it is highly profitable to take a brief look at the manners and customs of the p ­ eople as a preliminary to specific research. Only such a generalized ex­ pedition can make cooperation of vari­ous branches of science in close relation with ethnography feasible,” argued Izumi.33 A ­geographer ventured to describe the confluence of specialties as “extremely con­ve­nient” (hijō ni benri) ­because it allowed researchers to pool findings and information about local conditions.34 The sanctioning of group fieldwork as a legitimate h ­ uman science method­ ology enabled academics to produce scholarship that they and their audiences regarded as objective and therefore credible, while also serving the aims of the government and military by providing both useful information and ideological support. With no sense of contradiction, one researcher even declared his “ob­ jective enthusiasm” (gakujutsuteki nesshin) for the study and development of the Asian mainland.35 Amid Japan’s drive to expand and reconcile its empire, “the epistemological narrative of ‘what are they?’ and the practical narrative of ‘what do we do to them?’ adhered together,” as one historian has written.36 Policy and the understanding of humankind became interchangeable. In addition to establishing the methodology that would characterize Japa­nese ­human science research for the next several de­cades, the Scientific Expeditionary Party left a legacy of lifelong homosocial friendships and inter­ personal connections. The deep bonds of camaraderie that developed among participants helped to mitigate homesickness and to maintain adventurous­ ness and high spirits.37 The group united against the rigors of the mission: long hours in confining vehicles, freezing nights in crowded tents, late eve­nings and early mornings, the ever-­present threat of vio­lence, and the physical strain of summiting Xiaowutaishan. Outnumbered by soldiers, threatened by war, and cut off from female com­pany, the researchers embraced an almost military ­discipline that was to characterize expeditionary procedure well into the 1960s. Yet, the custom of referring to fieldwork as “travel” (tabi) or as “study trips”

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(chōsa ryokō) revealed their enjoyment of the experience. The ­human scien­ tists sat down together for three meals per day, consisting of not only staples such as rice, bread, miso soup, dried fish, and tea, but also luxuries including oranges, pineapples, marmalade, and cocoa. They drank copious quantities of beer, a traditional lubricant of masculine sociability. In fact, the team exceeded original estimates for alcohol consumption, necessitating a hasty detour for additional supplies for the final week of hiking in the Xing’an Mountains.38 Solidarity among researchers inevitably impacted their relations with in­ for­mants. As Malinowski discovered, solo fieldworkers often became desper­ ate for friendship, leaving them no choice but to immerse themselves in local society (the goal of the exercise). Ensuing affections between ­human scien­ tists and in­for­mants sometimes threatened the logics of imperialism. Among Eu­ro­pean and American fieldworkers of the 1930s and 1940s, re­spect and so­ licitude for indigenous ­peoples often tempered support for colonialism.39 By contrast, with each other for com­pany, Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists had scant need or ­opportunity to develop such intimacy and understanding of imperial minzoku. Moreover, t­ hose sympathies that did arise for their subjects w ­ ere consistent with orthodox teachings of brotherhood among Asian p ­ eoples. Imperial ideology deliberately cultivated a sense of connection across its own racial and cultural bound­aries, allowing fellow feeling to function in support of rather than against Japa­nese rule. In effect, the argument of confraternity neutralized the subversive possibilities of familiarity in the field. The experience of group ventures solidified transwar h ­ uman scientists as a generation. Many members of the KIU team collaborated again, in Northeast Asia and elsewhere, both during and a­ fter the war. Expeditions returned to Mōkyō annually from 1939 to 1942. Moreover, the success of the Scientific Expeditionary Party inspired similar proj­ects in virtually ­every corner of the empire. The scholarly communities formed on ­t hese research trips ­were insti­ tutionalized in a proliferating array of think tanks, furthering the profession­ alization of ­human science.40 Ethnology also expanded its faculty base, gaining chairs at Tokyo Imperial University and at the newly established Manchukuo Nation-­Building University (Manshūkoku Kenkoku Daigaku). By linking knowledge creation to imperialist aims, researchers laid claim to state and military resources for fieldwork, conferences, publications, and employment, even in a time of scarcity.41 For Izumi, however, the military draft delayed further participation in war­t ime academic life. Prior to his departure for Mōkyō, he had received a

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conscription notice from the Japa­nese army summoning him to appear for ser­v ice in Hokkaido, the ­legal domicile of his f­ amily. He secured a six-­month deferment to or­ga­nize and participate in the Scientific Expeditionary Party. In the airport on his way to join his unit in December 1938, Izumi handed off a research report transcribing some findings on Mongol food, shelter, and clothing. He promised additional (and ultimately never completed) sections on f­ amily and community life.42 Izumi spent much of the next three years suffering through the winter cold and terrors of cavalry duty in northern Manchukuo. To pass the time, he read the memoirs of Sven Hedin (1865–1952), the renowned Swedish explorer of Central Asia who had led a scientific expedition to the Mongol grasslands only a few years before Izumi’s own research in the region. As he witnessed, the war on the Asian mainland devolved into a quagmire, in which China’s superiority in manpower and resources appeared likely to prevail. In part to access oil and other necessary materials, the Japa­nese navy invaded Southeast Asia in mid-1941. Izumi was assigned to the Office of General Staff, where he assisted in developing strategic plans for landing troops in hostile territory. The so-­called southern advance (nanshin) set the empire on a fateful course ­toward war with the United States and its allies. One day a­ fter the bombing of Pearl Harbor, Izumi was released from ser­v ice. Amid geopo­liti­cal cataclysm, he returned to his ­family in Keijō. He hoped to enter the ranks of the KIU faculty at the lowest level as an assistant, but no positions ­were available. With Ōtaka’s help, he found a job in student affairs, where he enforced university regulations and directed the campus emergency response to increasingly fre­ quent air raid alarms. Meanwhile, he awaited his next opportunity to conduct field research in Japan’s expanding empire.43

Group study of “savager y” in New Guinea New Guinea was among the first targets of Japan’s southern advance. In early 1942 the imperial navy occupied the north coast of the island. Its almost un­ anticipated success exposed Japan’s basic ignorance regarding the topography, environment, and population of the Melanesian world. Prior to the 1940s, Eu­ ro­pean and American scholars had studied the region most intensively. The Dutch began trading in the East Indies in the sixteenth ­century and took pos­ session of the western half of New Guinea in 1828. By comparison with other parts of the Dutch East Indies, the island was slow to attract settlement and

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academic interest. In the early twentieth c­ entury, however, the threat of com­ petition from the ­g reat powers prompted the Netherlands to adopt a more intensive approach to colonization. “Ethical policy” administrators framed knowledge as the foundation of efficient and humanitarian rule. The result was a rich ethnographic agenda ranging from field studies of g­ reat scholarly value to work intended to legitimize and extend colonial authority.44 Meanwhile, formal scientific engagement with the Southwest Pacific in Germany began with an 1874 naval expedition, which secured artifacts for Berlin’s new ethnology museum and confirmed impressions of the area as the “final frontier” of h ­ uman diversity. Nearly a de­cade ­later, Germany claimed the northeast coast of New Guinea, as well as the Bismarck Archipelago and por­ tions of Micronesia. Over the next thirty years, German anthropologists played an active role in colonial governance, furnishing knowledge of local customs as a basis for efficient and unobjectionable policy making.45 With Germany’s loss in World War I, however, sovereignty over northeastern Melanesia fell to Australia. The German tradition of field research in the region was superseded by a new “Oceanic phase” in Anglophone ­human science. For fieldworkers including Bronisław Malinowski and Margaret Mead, New Guinea offered a laboratory for hypotheses about the evolution of humankind.46 Germany’s retreat from the Pacific correspondingly expanded Japan’s po­ liti­cal and scientific interests in Oceania. The deployment of military troops to Micronesia on behalf of the Allies gave the empire a claim to the islands ­after peace was restored. Following the establishment of a mandate ­under Japa­nese control in 1919, tens of thousands of metropolitan settlers displaced indigenous Micronesians and indentured them to newly established sugar plantations. New Guinea, only about two days’ sail from the Japa­nese administrative head­ quarters in Palau, naturally attracted attention. Nearly four hundred times the landmass of Micronesia and approximately twice the area of the Japa­nese home islands, New Guinea appeared to be a repository of unlimited natu­ral resources. Seeking capital for development ventures, Japa­nese entrepreneurs spun fantasies of untapped riches and unclaimed arable land, the ideal solu­ tion to perceived prob­lems of overpopulation and material shortage in the metropole.47 To some Japa­nese, failed attempts by Eu­ro­pe­ans and Australians to populate New Guinea indicated the unfitness of Westerners to rule the ­island. Conversely, the alleged energy and adaptability of Japa­nese mi­grants seemed to sanction imperial expansion in the tropics. In fact, however, only a

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few dozen Japa­nese, mostly employees of development corporations, settled in New Guinea before the 1940s.48 Ethnological interest followed Japan’s po­liti­cal ambitions. Beginning in the late Meiji period, a handful of armchair scholars speculated about the popula­ tion of New Guinea. Drawing on Eu­ro­pean ethnographies, including some in Japa­nese translation, they tended to represent indigenous ­people as ­simple savages who had failed to advance beyond the Stone Age. Observers w ­ ere fasci­ nated by unfamiliar customs including body modification, penis gourds, and, less benignly, headhunting and cannibalism.49 In the 1930s, six Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists devoted themselves to cata­ loguing Melanesian artifacts acquired by a Japa­nese colonial magnate and a longtime resident of the region. As they observed, however, the dubious provenience of the items compromised their value: “It is very regrettable to state that as to the majority of the objects . . . ​t he collectors did not trou­ ble to keep notes of the names of the places where [they] ­were obtained.” The authors, experienced fieldworkers, found the study of decontextualized material c­ ulture neither satisfying nor scientific. Instead, they proclaimed their ambition to undertake fieldwork in pursuit of objective knowledge, as well as to “build understanding and friendship between the Netherlands and Japan.”50 However, given the deteriorating relationship between the empire and the Allies, the Dutch had grown wary of Japa­nese researchers and feared that ­human science might be used as a cover for espionage. In 1941 they blocked a proposed expedition of Kyoto Imperial University faculty.51 ­L ater that year the outbreak of war between Japan and the Euro-­A merican pow­ ers completed the estrangement of Japa­nese scholars from the transnational scientific network. ­Under t­ hese circumstances, a stated goal of Japan’s first (and, as it turned out, only) group field study of New Guinea, launched in January 1943, was surpassing the e­ nemy Allies in formulating knowledge at the ground zero of anthropology and war. As one participant wrote, “We ­will objectively evaluate the work of the whites, excising what should be excised, and building our own scholarship from what is left.” Deriding Western expeditions as “frivolous like a dance hall,” the Japa­nese asserted a “death-­defying resolve, to the point of shedding our own blood in the field . . . ​to take knowledge a step further than studies by Eu­ro­pe­a ns and Americans, especially in our comprehensive conclusions and scientific methodology.”52 “Where the Dutch and Americans

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lost, where they left their studies incomplete, we w ­ ill show the world the ex­ cellence of ‘scientific Japan’ [kagaku Nihon],” declared an observer.53 Although objective ­human science had never lacked nationalist overtones, it now repre­ sented an overt attempt to assert superiority over the Allies. In its aims, structure, staff, and methods, the New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey (Nyū Ginia Shigen Chōsa Gakujutsu Tankentai) was the ­direct heir of the KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party.54 The largest research team that Japan had ever assembled, participants described it as an endeavor “such that the world has never seen”: a bold attempt to “transform an ignorant [muchi] world into a civilized [bunmei] one.”55 By studying sav­ ages, Japan signaled its position at the head of civilization. Admiral Takahashi Sankichi (1882–1966), a forceful advocate of Japan’s southward expansion, hoped to rescue the islanders from underdevelopment and exploitation by the colonial powers of the West, thus achieving “the g­ reat world-­historical mission of the Japa­nese p ­ eople.”56 By the 1940s, scholarship and military policy had indeed become two wheels of the same car, as Ōtaka had argued. The Scientific Resource Survey received some support from metropolitan authorities, imperial universities, and research institutes. However, the Japa­ nese government and navy supplied the bulk of funding in the hope of locating natu­ral and h ­ uman resources that might serve the empire in total war. Above all, researchers w ­ ere instructed to seek petroleum and coal deposits, which ­were in short supply in the metropole. Indicative of the importance accorded to subterranean fuels, academic leadership of the expedition was awarded to Tayama Risaburō (1897–1950), a professor of geology who had scouted New Guinea in 1940. Altogether, the team numbered 416 participants, including scholars, engineers, assistants, administrators, photog­raphers, and industry scientists assessing forestry, mining, and manufacturing prospects on behalf of vari­ous large, quasi-­public development corporations. The Yomiuri Shinbun, one of Japan’s leading newspapers, pledged financial support for the venture in exchange for exclusive reporting rights.57 As the Mōkyō expedition had estab­ lished, team research was not only a legitimate method of ­human science but also a commercial draw in late imperial Japan. The Scientific Resource Survey brought together scholars from virtu­ ally ­every major university in the empire, helping to build a trans-­imperial ­community of knowledge producers. KIU supplied a key group of h ­ uman sci­ entists, including several veterans of the Mōkyō team. Iiyama Tatsuo joined the expedition as a photographer and mapmaker at the urging of his curi­

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ous ­middle school–­aged son.58 Izumi was recommended by Ōtaka Tomoo for a dual role as both researcher and coordinator. Months e­ arlier, Izumi had turned down a position as a military inspector among the Dayak p ­ eople of Borneo, who had revolted against Japa­nese control; he had suspected that the assignment would be a violent one, with ­little scope for scholarship. By early 1943, however, the end of the draft exemption for university matricu­ lates jeopardized Izumi’s job in student affairs. He was desperate to secure his employment status and escape the depressing atmosphere of war­time Keijō. Izumi was also attracted by the opportunity to fulfill his long-­standing dream of writing a monograph like Malinowski’s Argonauts.59 Whereas the KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party had focused on “barbarians,” the New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey offered the opportunity to conduct fieldwork among true “savages” (genshijin or mikaijin) at last. The team traveled in two ships. The first vessel, carry­ing Izumi, set off in mid-­January from Yokohama; the second, from the Kyūshū port of Miiike. The ships w ­ ere loaded with ten trucks, fuel, research equipment, tents and bedding, cooking and eating utensils, medical supplies, and six months’ worth of Japa­ nese food and liquor (to provide a reassuring taste of home). ­Under normal circumstances the launching of the expedition would have been a major press event, but war­time security demanded a secret departure. By the time of sail­ ing, American and Australian troops had already compromised Japan’s hold over New Guinea. This fact, coupled with the absence of loved ones to see them off, agitated and depressed the researchers. Avoiding ­enemy ships and stopping for a brief layover in Palau, they spent three weeks in transit. Unaccustomed to the climate, they suffered miserably in the rain, heat, and humidity. Some contracted tropical diseases; Izumi battled dengue fever for ten days. Many self-­medicated with alcohol, drinking so much that provisions intended to last the entire expedition w ­ ere almost exhausted during the voyage. The Scientific Resource Survey arrived at its destination in early February 1943. The team docked at Manokwari, the former Dutch administra­ tive capital of West New Guinea. Founded in 1898 as a Protestant missionary outpost, the town had a small population composed of indigenous p ­ eople and Dutch and Eurasian settlers. When the Japa­nese navy reached Manokwari and established its headquarters ­t here in 1942, most non-­native residents ­were killed or interned. The researchers found uncomfortable shelter in an aban­ doned, dilapidated church while local inhabitants ferried their gear from ship to land in canoes.60

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Together with a small group of medical doctors and other colleagues, Izumi made two forays beyond Manokwari. In early March he departed for an eighty-­t hree-­day survey of the mountains and coasts of West New Guinea. Traversing the breadth of Bird’s Head (Vogelkop) Peninsula, the group con­ fronted serious obstacles to movement. Izumi recalled, “Few regions are so incon­ve­nient as New Guinea in its transportation. In the case of the hamlets on the seashore, ­t here are hardly any roads to go . . . ​between the hamlets . . . ​ and even in the level land and the mountainous regions, we find nothing to be called as roads to combine the hamlets.”61 Fieldworkers traveled mostly on boats provided by the Japa­nese navy and on foot, walking as much as nine hours each day “across terrain no ­humans had ever trod.” The heat and dan­ gers of the jungle, including huge poisonous snakes and crocodiles, sometimes slowed pro­gress to a mere five kilo­meters in twenty-­four hours.62 Assisting with the journey w ­ ere local “coolies” (kūrī). Altogether, nearly two hundred porters carried supplies and helped the researchers to navi­ gate. “We civilized ­people [wareware bunmeijin] would never have found our way, but the Papuans sniffed out the trail. Their senses are keen like ­t hose of ­animals,” Iiyama marveled.63 Fieldwork in New Guinea enacted the racial hier­ archy of the empire, deploying the brawn of colonial subjects to serve Japa­nese brains. Porters also provided a mea­sure of safety against indigenous guerrillas, who killed many imperial troops. However, they ­were unable to defend the Scientific Resource Survey against mosquito-­borne disease, endemic in the tropical climate. Despite daily intake of quinine, two-­t hirds of the expedition members contracted malaria.64 In addition to porters, the researchers w ­ ere accompanied by Japa­nese soldiers bearing r­ ifles for protection and interpreters supplied by the colo­ nial government of Micronesia. Without any bilingual speakers of Japa­nese and Papuan languages, translation took place through the medium of Malay. Interpreters rendered Japa­nese questions into Malay for Malay speakers (pri­ marily distributed among populations on the New Guinea coast) to relate to monolingual in­for­mants. For groups further inland that could not use Malay, as many as three intermediaries w ­ ere sometimes required to communicate. To streamline this cumbersome pro­cess, some researchers, including Izumi and Iiyama, learned a smattering of Malay themselves. In return for the coopera­ tion of in­for­mants, the ­human scientists distributed cloth, tobacco, rice, salt, dried vegetables, candy, and other goods.65

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During their time in New Guinea, Izumi and his fellow fieldworkers inves­ tigated remedies against contagious disease, administered quinine, and laid plans for expanding the public health infrastructure begun by the Dutch. They also mapped the epidemiological landscape. Entomologists assessed popula­ tions of mosquitoes, red ants, scorpions, bees, leeches, bedbugs, h ­ orse­fl ies, ticks, and myriapods. “The mountain leeches resemble ­t hose of Japan,” and “the bees are mostly of the same kind as t­ hose found in Japan,” noted one scientist. He proceeded to challenge the Euro-­American assumption that the flora, fauna, and geology of Melanesia reflected ­t hose of the Australian conti­ nent.66 He and his colleagues instead compared the natu­ral landscape to that of Asia, establishing the island as “an integral part of the empire that our troops must defend.”67 Izumi’s group’s most impor­tant task was to determine the basic demo­ graphic characteristics of the residents of Bird’s Head Peninsula. In the 1930s Dutch researchers had discovered unexpectedly large concentrations of ­people in the highlands, but their distribution remained unknown. Indigenous in­ formation based on unfamiliar systems of counting and age marking was of ­little use. The researchers not only tallied heads but also assessed the suitabil­ ity of vari­ous populations for mobilization as coolies by the Japa­nese military. They deemed the h ­ uman resources of New Guinea ­“quite poor,” with less than 20 ­percent of inhabitants likely candidates for conscription. Evolutionist ob­ servers had long attributed ­labor unfitness in the tropics to sheer laziness, viewed as both a cause and a consequence of racial inferiority. By contrast, the functionalist Izumi identified the marginal health of the indigenous popula­ tion as the major obstacle to productivity and efficiency. He also called at­ tention to the lack of experience in or­ga­nized work environments and to the diversion of the able-­bodied to care for ­children, the el­derly, and the sick.68 Beyond demographic statistics, Izumi also gathered physiological and cultural information from over a dozen communities. Given the forbidding terrain of New Guinea, villages separated by even a few miles generally had ­little contact with each other, resulting in tremendous variation. Together with physical anthropologist Suzuki Makoto (1914–1973), Izumi scavenged hun­ dreds of bone samples from cave burial grounds. The pair collected data on skin color, hair texture, facial structure, bodily stature, blood type, and fin­ger and palm prints from approximately two thousand living Papuans. They also studied spiritual beliefs and customs, economic activities, forms of play, and

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other ele­ments of learned be­hav­ior.69 During two weeks among the Manikion ­people, Izumi observed men using coal to build fires, from which he inferred the presence of under­ground energy reserves in the vicinity. Recognizing the strategic significance of the find, he immediately sent word to the Scientific Resource Survey headquarters in Manokwari. However, by then, Japan’s mili­ tary position had deteriorated and many technicians had already evacuated the island. The fuel deposits remained unexplored and untapped.70 Izumi returned to Manokwari at the end of May and spent two weeks rest­ ing and preparing for a second trip into the field. In mid-­June 1943, he and nine colleagues ­were dispatched to the Schouten Islands, a short sail from Bird’s Head Peninsula across Geelvinck (now Cenderawasih) Bay. The Schouten Islands ­were home to some thirty thousand members of the Biak p ­ eople. The most densely populated part of Melanesia, the islands depended on food im­ ports, enabled by sophisticated trade networks and sailing technologies. The Biaks, among the first indigenous ­people in New Guinea to encounter Eu­ro­ pe­ans, had collaborated closely with Dutch colonial administrators and even worked on agricultural plantations and in mines. By the time of the Japa­nese occupation they w ­ ere mostly Christian, literate, and numerate.71 Owing to their relative Westernization, many Biaks viewed themselves as natu­ral leaders of an in­de­pen­dent New Guinea. Frustrated by the mo­ nopolization of local economic and po­liti­cal opportunities by Javanese, over­ seas Chinese, and Dutch bureaucrats, thousands called for the liberation of Melanesia. Around 1938, this pressure for self-­determination took the form of a millenarian uprising that became known as Koreri (“we change our skin” or “we eat in one place”). Initially, Koreri leaders hoped to work with the Japa­ nese, who cultivated the support of local elites throughout Southeast Asia with a pledge to free the region from Western imperialism. However, by the time of Izumi’s fieldwork, the apparent betrayal of this promise had pushed many Biaks into an anti-­Japanese stance.72 Facing both the hostility of the Biaks and the threat of the Allies, the Japa­ nese navy solicited ­human scientists for advice on how to stabilize the Schouten Islands and exploit their resources. Izumi’s confidential report to the mili­ tary, some twenty pages long, interpreted Koreri in functionalist terms as a response to the disruptions of Dutch rule, including high and rising popula­ tion density, food insecurity, external trade, and the introduction of Christian beliefs. As in his previous work on the Oroqen, Goldi, and Mongols, he made no mention of the impact of the Japa­nese occupation. Rather, he asserted the

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orthodoxy of Japan’s duty to liberate the Biaks from oppression by the Eu­ro­ pean powers and their Chinese and Javanese collaborators. Given their low level of civilization, he feared that indigenous p ­ eople could not comprehend this noble aspiration. Izumi commended the Japa­nese colonial administration for “putting forth g­ reat effort to communicate its true, pure intentions” to the Biaks, but suggested redoubling propaganda to allay anti-­Japanese sentiment.73 More damningly, Izumi’s report mapped the demographic distribution of the Biaks and offered suggestions for conscripting them as desperately needed coolies. Emphasizing the insufficiency of the local food supply, he charted the location of sago (a type of palm) and other crops, enabling commanders to manipulate the workforce through control of its edible resources. As Dutch scholars l­ater ascertained, the Japa­nese navy acted on this information to co­ erce ­labor “volunteers” in the summer of 1943.74 ­A fter four weeks of studying the Biaks, Izumi returned to Manokwari in mid-­July. By that time, the former stronghold had become an inferno, as American B-24s rained bombs on gasoline drums. The Allies had also taken control of the surrounding seas, temporarily trapping the remaining research­ ers of the Scientific Resource Survey in what ultimately became the deadliest war­t ime theater of the Pacific.75 During this imprisonment, Izumi came to understand that Japan would lose its strug­gle. He passed the time by arranging his field notes and reading books and unpublished Dutch ethnographies in the abandoned church library. Fearing capture by the e­ nemy, he buried valuable maps, notes, and some artifacts he had accumulated in the field. Fi­nally, an air­ craft carrier docked in Manokwari on its way to Palau. It was then that Izumi received a tele­gram conveying news of his f­ ather’s death several months e­ arlier. The ship carried the grieving ethnologist to Tokyo, where his colleagues w ­ ere waiting. A ­ fter a brief stop in Keijō to see his wife and c­ hildren, he hurried to Dairen to console his widowed ­mother.76 Meanwhile, in the Schouten Islands, relations between the Biaks and the Japa­nese navy continued to deteriorate. The military reiterated its support for an in­de­pen­dent New Guinea, even offering some local leaders training in modern warfare and engineering in Tokyo. (Most of t­ hose who agreed to go w ­ ere killed.) As MacArthur’s forces approached, the navy grew increasingly desperate for ­labor to support its defense of Melanesia. Commanders alternately threatened Biak leaders with arrest or bribed them with materiel, including warships, in exchange for assistance with mobilization. However, their conscription of the population unintentionally facilitated the spread of Koreri and ­further

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­ ndermined local stability. Scholars believe that Biak leaders wished to avoid a u suicidal confrontation with the Japa­nese navy, yet schisms among the indige­ nous p ­ eople themselves threatened their control of the situation. On October 10, 1943, imperial troops determined to neutralize escalating tensions. Soldiers carry­ing ­rifles and bayonets moved against Biaks defended by hatchets and spears. In the following weeks the carnage claimed as many as two thousand casualties as the families of Biak victims, following traditional custom, avenged themselves against community elites seen as responsible for the deaths.77 It is unclear when Izumi and his colleagues learned of the massacre, which was not reported by the Japa­nese press (and remains an almost unknown im­ perial crime against humanity even t­ oday). Fieldworkers likely neither fore­ saw nor intended the bloody consequences of their research. Yet Izumi cannot have been unaware of the ramifications of supplying data on ­human and food resources in the context of a war. The knowledge he produced facilitated the exploitation of the Biaks by the Japa­nese military, pushing a volatile situation ­toward its violent conclusion.78 Izumi’s research in the Schouten Islands represented a moment when fieldwork—­not in spite of but b ­ ecause of its imperialist mission—­could have positively influenced the course of events. By opening channels for commu­ nication, cultivating rapport between Japa­nese and Biaks, and increasing un­ derstanding on both sides—in short, by delivering every­t hing that fieldwork claimed to offer—­researchers might have averted catastrophe. In the face of a looming showdown, however, Izumi circumscribed his responsibility as a ­human scientist to mere “scientific analy­sis of the situation.”79 In times of dan­ ger and uncertainty, objectivity functioned not only as a source of legitimacy for influence but also as a strategic refuge from the outcomes of that influ­ ence. Teamwork only facilitated this evasion, as no single individual could be charged with total accountability. Within two months of the Biak massacre, the Japa­nese navy had effectively lost control of New Guinea. In early 1944 the colonial government evacuated Manokwari, and Japa­nese authority over the island came to an end. The prac­ tical utility of the Scientific Resource Survey data vanished, and circulation seemed moot. Fortunately for the researchers, however, their work retained some ideological value. The military concealed news of its retreat from the Japa­nese public and maintained the fiction of forthcoming victory. U ­ nder the circumstances, some strategy was needed to rationalize the incorpora­ tion of the incontrovertibly “black” inhabitants of New Guinea into the “yellow”

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minzoku of Japan’s confraternal empire. H ­ uman scientists thus found an audi­ ence for publications that naturalized imperial rule over the indigenous popula­ tion, even ­after that rule was terminated. Traditionally, Eu­ro­pean and American ethnologists divided Melanesian socie­ties into two categories: coastal ­peoples and highland ­peoples. This binary also appeared in Chinese and Japa­nese studies of aboriginal populations in Taiwan and even in the work of folklorists such as Yanagita Kunio.80 Izumi’s 1944 monograph Nishi Nyū Ginia no minzoku (The races of New Guinea) used this framework to allow the Japa­nese empire to claim some “savages” at the expense of ­others. He represented highland ­peoples (sanchijin) as a foil against which coastal p ­ eoples (kaiganjin) came to seem relatively likely candidates for Japa­nese subjecthood. Anthropometric evidence suggested that coastal ­peoples, with their relatively light skin, large frames, and narrow heads, resem­ bled Polynesians and Micronesians. Some Japa­nese scholars believed that t­ hese Oceanic populations had contributed to the national bloodline in the archaic past. Micronesians, moreover, ­were subjects of the Japa­nese empire—­generally disdained for their inferior physique, yet part of the imperial minzoku and subject to intensive campaigns that bespoke some faith in their ability to as­ similate.81 The coastal p ­ eoples of New Guinea, then, w ­ ere not part of Japan’s racial hierarchy, but w ­ ere biologically linked to its lowest rungs. Similarly, ­human scientists viewed coastal culture as relatively advanced, or “one step past the Stone Age” thanks to far-­flung trade networks and ­long-­standing contacts with Indians, Javanese, and Dutch missionaries and colonizers. Coastal p ­ eoples lived in villages, used iron tools, and subsisted on fish and sago. Most wore at least some clothing. Their languages belonged to the Malay ­family and ­were comparatively easy for the Japa­nese to interpret. A few p ­ eople could also communicate in other tongues. Although elders re­ membered headhunting in their youth, the practice was no longer typical.82 The implication of its demise—­t hat coastal p ­ eoples could advance beyond a state of savagery—­legitimized Japa­nese intervention to support such pro­gress. Coasts appeared legible and livable to outside observers. Mapping natu­ral onto h ­ uman characteristics, Izumi associated coastal landscapes with tame, placid, and welcoming natives. By contrast, the terrifying impenetrability of mountain terrain, with thick vegetation and stiff peaks, was seen to reflect the incorrigible savagery of its residents. Irredeemably backward relics of the Stone Age, mountain p ­ eoples lived in the forest “like orangutans” and spoke in incom­ prehensible onomatopoeia.83 Despite their childlike (kodomorashii) demeanor,

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they maintained sexual customs that “would never be permitted in civilized society.”84 Worst of all, they showed evidence of headhunting and cannibalism. Physically, highland p ­ eoples appeared dark and small, with broad heads and distended bellies (attributable to the common condition of an enlarged spleen). Just as coastal ­peoples w ­ ere associated with Micronesians, highland­ ers w ­ ere viewed as racial siblings of aboriginal Australians.85 Although Japan’s initial military successes in the early 1940s had inspired a dream of annex­ ing Australia, this ambition was abandoned shortly ­a fter the imperial naval landing in New Guinea. Linking highlanders to the indigenous p ­ eoples of the island continent thus underlined their position as O ­ thers: a foil against which their coastal counter­parts might be integrated into the empire. Izumi’s bifurcation of coastal and highland types echoed his ­earlier use of minzoku to express power relations that appeared to demand Japa­nese inter­ vention in Manchukuo and Mōkyō. However, the linkage of coastal ­peoples to their Japa­nese rulers did not produce the sympathy that characterized impe­ rial attitudes ­toward subjects in Northeast Asia. Though coastal ­peoples ­were biologically tied to the empire and appeared culturally advanced by compar­ ison with their mountain counter­parts, they still lacked the developmental features of even “barbaric” socie­ties and w ­ ere regarded as physiologically dif­ fer­ent from the Japa­nese. Indeed, as episodes such as the Biak massacre dem­ onstrated, the liminal positioning of coastal ­peoples in the imperial hierarchy left them acutely vulnerable to subhuman treatment. Although scholars ­today consider Izumi’s research on New Guinea both methodologically and analytically inferior to his other work, his first pub­ lished monograph nevertheless established his reputation for field research.86 More broadly, the Scientific Resource Survey allowed Izumi and his colleagues to cultivate their influence beyond academia. Members of the expedition pub­ lished close to forty books and articles on Melanesia in the early 1940s.87 The team courted mass spectators in the metropole and formal colonies through lurid depictions of “the world’s most unenlightened, backward races.”88 Izumi gave an interview to his university newspaper and spoke to Keijō audiences about his field experiences. He received a warning from colonial police when his honest assessment of Japan’s military prospects in the Pacific alarmed lis­ teners accustomed to reassuring propaganda.89 Alongside public pre­sen­ta­tions, exhibitions of material culture such as clothing, adornments, ritual crafts, and the technologies of daily life culti­ vated popu­lar passion for the exotic. Izumi donated hundreds of artifacts to

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the KIU campus museum (where they remained even ­after Japan’s withdrawal from ­Korea in 1945).90 The Matsuya department store in the Ginza district of Tokyo, one of Japan’s most fash­ion­able venues, hosted a display of approxi­ mately six hundred geological, botanical, and man-­made specimens brought back by the expedition.91 Reaching perhaps the largest audience, the Yomiuri Shinbun ran a twenty-­article series on the Scientific Resource Survey in early 1944. This lively first-­person account, written by a correspondent who accom­ panied the team, chronicled an experience by turns titillating and terrify­ ing. Blurring the distinction between savage and animal, the series described ­brilliant birds, ­g iant insects, and “King Kong chiefs . . . ​clad in scraps that ­couldn’t even be considered underwear . . . ​with hair curlier than the Buddha.” One article was devoted entirely to headhunting and cannibalism, despite the near-­d isappearance of ­t hese practices ­u nder Dutch rule.92 The impression of backwardness was reinforced by chronologically inflected meta­phors for the landscape describing a “lost world” and a “black hole . . . ​where civilized persons have never before set foot.”93 The series also reassured readers of the legitimacy of Japan’s mission in New Guinea. Of the Schouten Islands, where the massacre of the Biaks had taken place about three months ­earlier, the jour­ nalist recalled the “­great welcome” (hijō ni kangei) afforded to Japa­nese doctors who furnished medicines unknown to the population. Indigenous inhabitants ­were said to have interpreted Japa­nese planes overhead as signs of divine as­ sistance in the quest to liberate their homeland from Dutch rule. The reporter claimed that some Biaks flew Japa­nese flags from tall trees, and one asked to be taken back to Japan, arguing that “we are the same race as the Japa­nese.”94 Despite their orthodox perspective, a few articles bore censorship marks, tantalizing readers by withholding key information and fueling romantic perceptions of the dangers of research and daring of h ­ uman scientists.95 Accompanying images posed members of the Japa­nese team in collared shirts, trousers, and caps alongside indigenous ­people wearing loincloths, grass skirts, or nothing at all (their nether regions blurry in the newsprint).96 Attire, an easily interpreted indicator of status, marked h ­ uman scientists as modern in a “savage” environment. Clothing also signified the preservation of racial bound­a ries against the threat of “­going native.” Offering visual proof of the ability to maintain civilization in the most inhospitable environment imagin­ able, researchers exemplified ideal, impervious Japa­neseness. Izumi’s work in New Guinea anchored his public and scholarly reputa­ tion for the next de­cade. Nevertheless, his time on the island left him with an

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enduring distaste for the tropics. In the final two years of World War II, he re­ turned to the cool, dry steppes of Inner Asia. In mid-1945 he was appointed as an assistant professor in the newly created KIU Mainland Resources Research Bureau (Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Tairiku Shigen Kagaku Kenkyūjo), perhaps the last of Japan’s war­time think tanks. The group’s name and ostensible mission—­ investigating untapped resources in Northeast Asia following Japan’s retreat from Southeast Asia—­were a transparent attempt to secure funding from an empire in extremis. Though most of the group’s twenty-­one researchers ­were ­human scientists, they focused primarily on mining prospects. Yet, with utter ruin looming, even practical studies were becoming an unaffordable luxury for imperial Japan.97 In July 1945, Izumi, now age thirty, received another draft notice. He was to report for duty on August 17. Despite this unwelcome summons, he set off with six researchers on an expedition to Mōkyō and Japanese-­occupied northern China. The group assessed demographic change and prospects for agricul­ tural development in the region. In the face of the advancing Chinese army, and with news of the Soviet invasion of Manchukuo on August 8, the study was terminated. With a colleague, Izumi boarded a train home to Keijō, men­ tally preparing himself for military ser­v ice. On August 16, upon reaching the Korean border, he learned of Japan’s surrender to the Allied powers.98

3 OBJECTIVITY U ­ NDER THE U . S . O C C U P AT I O N

The end of World War II brought about many immediate transformations. ­Under the leadership of United States General Douglas A. MacArthur, the vic­ tors jointly occupied Japan. Within weeks, the defeated nation was stripped of its colonies. That fall, the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers (SCAP, an acronym often applied to the entire occupation bureaucracy) announced plans to repatriate all Japa­nese from the erstwhile empire, including some 710,000 settlers in K ­ orea.1 Izumi, who had just been appointed to the rank of assistant professor at KIU, was dismissed from the university along with other Japa­nese faculty members. As he and his colleagues awaited news of their fate, they marshaled a sense of purpose by coordinating aid for compatriots in Seoul (formerly Keijō) who had lost their livelihoods and could not defend themselves against anti-­imperial reprisals. Izumi had viewed K ­ orea as a permanent home and hoped to remain even u ­ nder a new government, but was ultimately compelled to return to Japan. In December 1945 he disembarked in Hakata, a port on the island of Kyūshū. ­There, he resumed his relief activities on behalf of less fortunate repatriates, directing a hospital and orphanage. (The latter was subsequently renamed the Izumi Hoikuen [care fa­cil­i­t y] in his honor.) He, his pregnant wife, and their three small c­ hildren moved into a bombed-­out, abandoned home with a leaky roof and no heat.2 It seemed that Izumi’s academic c­ areer had come to an end. Contrary to expectations, however, the occupation offered new oppor­ tunities for the field generation to rebuild Japa­nese h ­ uman science. Instead

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of relying solely on military might to effect compliance and change, SCAP used knowledge as an instrument of soft power, hiring scores of U.S. schol­ ars to study the unfamiliar country. In the eyes of many Americans, victory confirmed the universal truth of the ideals they had claimed to fight for: democracy, capitalism, and peace. ­After the war, then, ­human scientists iden­ tified objective research with the spread of ­t hese values, often discussed as “modernization.” For the duration of the occupation, from September 1945 to April 1952, Japan served as a laboratory to test the United States’s ability to remake a foreign society in its own image as a Cold War ally. Through texts, lectures, and, most importantly, collaborative fieldwork, American researchers modeled and promoted the ideals of modernization. Most did not come to Japan, as they so often did among Native Americans and other colonized ­peoples, to study primitivity or Otherness. Instead, they approached interactions with Japa­nese colleagues with humility and curiosity. They particularly valued Japan’s h ­ uman science knowledge of its former em­ pire, which was incorporated into the United States’s Cold War understanding of the entire strategic region of East Asia. Postwar intellectual cooperation could not entirely override long-­standing national prejudices, bitterness arising from World War II, or the hard realities of American authority. Nonetheless, ideological convergence provided a new basis for collaboration between two states with l­ittle sense of shared history. The men of one age devoted themselves to furnishing “objective” evidence of Japan’s pro­gress ­toward democracy, capitalism, and peace, captured as the “cul­ tural nation” (bunka kokka). In this way, they established their place within the new transnational network of knowledge production centered on the United States and undergirding American global hegemony. Propounding new val­ ues for the nation, the field generation came to exercise almost unchallenged ­authority over Japa­nese intellectual and public life for the next quarter-­century. Among its most prominent representatives was Izumi Seiichi, whose metamor­ phosis from a servant of empire to a spokesman for American ideals exempli­ fied larger changes—­and continuities—in the postwar nation and world order.

Imperialists into modernizers For Japa­nese scholars in World War II, creating objective knowledge was tan­ tamount to legitimizing the imperialist, emperor-­centered polity. The war also impacted the goals of U.S. research. Following Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor,

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thousands of American ­human scientists enlisted in the ser­vice of the state and military. By some estimates, up to three-­quarters of professional anthropologists worked at least part-­time on applied studies in the early 1940s.3 The militariza­ tion of the acad­emy was “a new scientific revolution,” permanently altering the scale and ambitions of research. ­Human scientists undertook an unpre­ce­dented roster of tasks: gathering intelligence on ­enemy powers, acquiring strategic lan­ guage skills, mobilizing soldiers and civilians, and planning for the aftermath of global cataclysm. They collaborated across disciplinary lines, built hybrid fields, and explored technical means of manipulating individual and group be­hav­ior.4 American scholars largely saw their activities as furthering the putative values of U.S. culture: democracy, capitalism, and peace. Th ­ ese ideals func­ tioned less as po­liti­cal and socioeconomic realities than as the moral core of American identity and as an antithesis to the fascism, statism, and warmon­ gering of the Axis e­ nemy. The vagueness of each concept facilitated consensus among diverse groups and interests. At its most basic, democracy encompassed an expectation of just, representative government freely chosen by informed and empowered citizens. Capitalism suggested a free-­market economy with few state-­imposed barriers to participation or profit. Peace meant secure borders, domestic stability, and (paradoxically) armed forces capable of defending the nation’s interests abroad. By the mid-­nineteenth c­ entury t­ hese liberal values w ­ ere understood as both driver and product of American scientific enterprise. Many thought that the strength of democracy might be mea­sured by the quality of intellectual inquiry. Like democracy in its ideal form, science appeared to encourage and depend upon open discussion, re­spect for humankind, rationality, and univer­ salism.5 As Margaret Mead declared, science was “the child of democracy, the child of freedom to think.”6 The national emergency of war tightened the linkage between science and democracy, capitalism, and peace. From a new position at Yale University, Malinowski, who had theorized fieldwork as an objective means of smoothing imperial rule in the 1920s, came to equate legitimate research with the promo­ tion of American values: When one of us raises his voice to affirm such values as “freedom,” “justice,” and “democracy,” he does it at the risk of the academically unpardonable sin of “value judgments” or “suffering from a moral purpose.” . . . ​The student of society and of ­human culture has, ­u nder pre­sent circumstances, the duty to

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draw practical conclusions, to commit himself to views and decisions referring to prob­lems of planning, and to translate his conclusions into definite proposi­ tions of statesmanship.7

Some h ­ uman scientists strug­g led to reconcile this endorsement of even at­ tractive ideals with the sacred princi­ple of objectivity. Mead anticipated the prob­lem of distinguishing scholarship on behalf of democracy, capitalism, and peace from work driven by the noxious ideology of fascism. By directing research “­towards pro­cesses and not t­owards identified persons or identified groups” (emphasis in original), she believed that ­human science might enable the United States to prevail both over the Axis and over the danger of misusing knowledge to restrict freedom.8 In 1945, the Allied victory in World War II seemed to confirm the objective truth of American ideals. The subsequent collapse of the working relation­ ship between the United States and the Soviet Union and the outbreak of the Cold War appeared to demand the dissemination of t­ hese values throughout the postwar order. Policymakers argued that more than military might was needed to insulate the growing ranks of decolonized and developing states from the seductive false promises of communism, which replaced fascism as the Manichean threat to the American way of life. Edwin O. Reischauer (1910–1990), a Harvard-­trained historian of Japan, pleaded with the State Department, “The ­peoples of Asia are asking for an ideology. . . . ​­There is a crying need for ­people to have our ideology.”9 The result was modernization, which emerged in the years a­ fter 1945 as a shorthand for the U.S. mission to spread democracy, capitalism, and peace throughout the world.10 Modernization offered a putatively scientific refram­ ing of history as a succession of universal stages defined by certain fixed characteristics, culminating in the endpoint of civilization embodied by the (singular, superior) United States. In the words of one historian, moderniza­ tion “took the American exception and made it the world’s rule.”11 Despite rejecting evolutionism, modernization inherited its purpose of naturalizing con­temporary inequalities among p ­ eoples. Denying the coevalness of a diverse humanity, it envisaged a chronologically asynchronous world. As the Cold War intensified, modernization whitewashed the consolidation of a bloc of U.S.-­a ligned nations as pro­gress along an irresistible telos.12 The casting of democracy, capitalism, and peace as universal ideals trans­ formed modernization into an unimpeachably objective pro­cess. For much

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of the American ­human science establishment of the Cold War era, there­ fore, legitimate research involved formulating and implementing strategies to ­assist developing and postcolonial nations in cultivating a prosperous, pacific, empowered citizenry akin to that of the United States. Believing that social stability depended on aligning po­liti­cal, social, and economic institutions with cultural values, scholars designed interventions to advance modernization without risking national collapse or, worse, communist revolution.13 In proselytizing U.S. ideals, American ­human scientists faced a central conundrum. They generally believed that democracy had to emanate from the p ­ eople, emerging from the “bottom up.” Yet, they considered their own top-­down tutelage to be indispensable to ideological transformation. Local collaborators ­were needed to justify modernization as an (at least partly) in­ digenous development. To Reischauer, Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists ­were natu­ral partners in this endeavor. He recommended, “If we exploit the special pres­ tige position of the scholar . . . ​it would seem to me that propaganda work, information aimed primarily at them, would be the most effective kind of ­information work. . . . ​The private citizen has the g­ reat advantage in the war of ideas of being in large part f­ ree of the natu­ral suspicion with which any p ­ eople insulates representatives of a foreign government.”14 Yet, if Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists w ­ ere f­ ree of this “natu­ral suspicion,” they suffered from a dif­fer­ent taint: their war­time support for empire, fascism, and the military. As articulated by the International Military Tribunal for the Far East (IMTFE), convened by the Allies in 1946 to pursue justice for the victims of Japa­nese war crimes and crimes against humanity, punishable offenses in­ cluded “laying down an ideological basis for the policies for the Greater East Asia” and “advocating the supremacy of the Japa­nese nation to be a leader of other nations”—­t he very mission of imperial scholarship.15 The case of Germany, which posed a similar prob­lem of intellectual com­ plicity with the war­time state, offered a power­ful pre­ce­dent for the treatment of Japa­nese ­human scientists. Allied prosecutors in occupied Germany scape­ goated a few avid Nazi supporters for developing the racial science that had facil­ itated horrors such as the Holocaust. Meanwhile, they endorsed a “conspiracy of silence” among most academics regarding their ideological and material support for the Third Reich. All but a few scholars retained their jobs and stature into the postwar era, working with American ­human scientists to rebuild the defeated state. The so-­called 1945 generation joined this cohort in universities a­ fter de­ nazification and largely respected the taboo on discussing the Hitler years.16

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In Japan, purges of the acad­emy ­were even less thorough. ­After scrutinizing the rec­ords of nearly twenty-­five thousand professors, commissions dismissed fewer than one hundred. (Moreover, by the end of the occupation nearly all had received permission to return to their posts.)17 Facilitating the exoneration of Japan’s intellectuals was the fact that the consequences of research in the empire ­were borne mostly by colonial subjects, who the Euro-­American allies largely ignored in their pursuit of justice.18 The IMTFE also faulted the Japa­ nese military and bureaucracy for “imposing devitalizing restraints” that re­ duced the h ­ uman scientist “to the level of a special pleader and propagandist.”19 Many U.S. academics endorsed this view, defending their Japa­nese counter­ parts as “no more than normally patriotic for a period of nationalism.”20 As one attendee at the 1947 meeting of the American Anthropological Association explained, “At first glance, we considered blackballing ­those who had used their positions for propaganda, but we soon realized that a ­great number of our own anthropologists had done the same ­t hing and if we had supported that course of action we would have had to condemn some of our own colleagues.”21 The exculpation of most Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists helped to assuage their hostility t­oward former e­ nemy Americans, creating grateful proponents of modernization in the defeated nation. However, as historians have shown, the association between objective knowledge and democracy, capitalism, and peace “was neither made nor forced” by the United States in postwar Japan.22 At the height of the imperial strug­gle against the Allies in fall 1942, po­liti­cal sci­ entist Nanbara Shigeru (1889–1974) exhorted his students that “in this historic time of g­ reat war, many tasks depend all the more on the insights of scholarship and the results of research: recognizing the war’s world-­historical significance, discerning the path our p ­ eople should take, formulating a g­ rand plan for the long-­term ­f uture of the state, and deciding on policies to realize it.”23 ­A fter 1945 he and many fellow intellectuals attributed the loss of the war to the irra­ tionality and unscientific nature of ­these goals. Defeat, then, did not discredit objectivity, but rather implied that what was needed was more genuinely objec­ tive knowledge—­t hat is, knowledge infused with the ideals of the victorious powers. In his new role as the first postwar president of the University of Tokyo (Tōdai, formerly Tokyo Imperial University), Nanbara offered a very dif­fer­ent view of learning grounded in the tenets of the American occupiers: By its very nature, scholarship is . . . ​based necessarily on objective scientific consciousness and rigorous criteria. In this sense, Japan needs urgently to

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construct a worldview that rests newly and firmly on a scholarly base. . . . ​The demand for the elevation of scholarly truth in politics and society and the high cultivation of ordinary citizens is greater now than ever before. It is the funda­ mental prerequisite for “demo­cratic politics,” and it is an extremely impor­tant foundation stone for the construction of the new Japan.24

It was this conception of objective knowledge as both the artifact and the un­ derpinning of democracy, capitalism, and peace that was to inspire the men of one age for the rest of their c­ areers. As a domestic equivalent for modernization, Nanbara used the idiom “cul­ tural nation” (bunka kokka). A logical rendering for modernization might have been its direct translation: kindaika. However, kindaika had a long genealogy of its own, evoking the Meiji-­era program of “rich country, strong army” ­( fukoku kyōhei)—­a goal now traduced by Japan’s defeat and postwar predica­ ment. By contrast, “cultural nation” was traditionally associated with liberal tendencies in Japa­nese history, including the early Meiji “­people’s rights” move­ ment (jiyū minken undō) and the development of representative government during the Taishō period.25 ­After World War II ­these trends underwent positive reappraisal as signs of Japan’s capacity to absorb American liberal ideology. For this reason, the term bunka kokka became associated with modernization. In his first postwar address to the Tōdai academic community, Nanbara described the cultural nation as a state of humanism, freedom, and peace; the antithesis of a formerly fascist, militarist, and expansionist Japan. To Nanbara, the cultural nation was the product of individual subjectivity, self-­ consciousness, and rationality. He argued that scholars, embodying ­t hese virtues, should “take the lead in making restitution to the international com­ munity for crimes committed in war, furthering the peace and prosperity of humanity worldwide, and rebuilding the nation . . . ​on a new foundation of truth and freedom.”26 In his words, “From this day forward, in ­going about the revival of the homeland and the establishment of a new Japa­nese culture, we must reflect on the fundamental mission of the university and the traditions of the faculty and gird ourselves to contribute to the birth of a new national spirit and thereby to the flourishing of global culture.”27 Nanbara’s status at the pinnacle of Japa­nese academia allowed him to dis­ seminate the idea of the cultural nation through the scholarly ranks. Following his speech, a group of fifty-­nine elite professors jointly resolved: “What is most impor­tant in the national reconstruction plan, according to men of knowledge

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and intelligence, is the promotion of science and the carry­ing out of the coun­ try’s administration in a scientific manner befitting the construction of a cultural nation.”28 “A cultural nation is by definition demo­cratic. . . . ​The in­ terests of the p ­ eople are prioritized, and peace is the natu­ral result,” argued an associate of Ōtaka Tomoo.29 The embodiment of democracy, capitalism, and peace, the cultural nation was in theory a universal standard achievable by all ­peoples. Yet, for a defeated Japan, “its territory circumscribed, heavy indus­ try dismantled, reduced to the status of a fourth-­or fifth-­rate country, small and weak—­becoming a cultural nation represents all that is left, the only path forward.”30 During the occupation, Japa­nese ­human scientists w ­ ere to acquire unpre­ce­dented public visibility as guides t­ oward this lone hope for the ­f uture.

Establishing the pillars of objective research in occupied Japan In the aftermath of World War II, American scholars did not seek to recon­ struct ­earlier transnational scientific networks with their center of gravity in Western Eu­rope. Instead, they reconfigured research as an ideological buttress of U.S. dominance over rival cir­cuits in the Soviet sphere. The occupation-­ era restructuring of Japa­nese ­human science took place in the context of this larger shift in the shape and significance of knowledge. Though broadly united by their basic understanding of moderniza­ tion as the goal of objective research, midcentury U.S. h ­ uman scientists ­were highly diverse in their intellectual inclinations. Scholars connected to Harvard University developed a vision of behavioral science, which stud­ ied interactions among individuals and groups in the social and natu­r al world. Behavioral science both created new linkages among traditional disciplines and gave rise to hybrid fields such as psychobiology and cogni­ tive science. Following in the footsteps of natu­ral scientists and engineers, many p ­ rac­t i­t ion­ers sought technical approaches to uncovering universal laws governing h ­ uman thought and action. A rival philosophy radiating from Columbia University took culture as its primary analytical variable. Meanwhile, at the University of Chicago, the so-­called Chicago School em­ phasized the ethnographic study of social structures, particularly in urban contexts.31 By no means mutually incompatible, ­t hese and other American traditions combined with Japa­nese research orientations to sculpt the recon­ struction of h ­ uman science ­u nder SCAP.

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To the U.S. scholars working for the occupation, their Japa­nese counter­ parts appeared “an extremely in­ter­est­ing group . . . ​a ll very bright and effective ­people.”32 The war, however, had resulted in a “period of isolation . . . ​as strict as that which had preceded the opening of Japan in the last ­century [follow­ ing over 250 years of self-­imposed withdrawal from contact with most for­ eign socie­ties].”33 Their challenge was to infuse Japa­nese scholarship with the orthodox ideals of modernization while avoiding damaging influences from both the right and the left. Despite pardoning almost all Japa­nese ­human scientists from charges of fascism, Americans feared that such tendencies lingered in their scholarship. ­These included the alleged “incomplete social perception of the individual qua individual and . . . ​systems of involved deference and subordinative be­hav­ior [which] are not conducive to a f­ ree spirit of debate, inquiry, [or] argumenta­ tion.”34 The influence of German ­human science was believed to account for some of ­t hese issues. In consultation with over eighty Japa­nese academics, Harvard anthropologist Clyde Kluckhohn (1905–1960) charged that Germanic logic, philosophy, and ideas of law and the state had molded prewar Japa­nese research into “a means of promoting autocracy within and aggression without . . . ​ not something based on f­ ree inquiry resulting in universal good.”35 In fact, Kluckhohn had spent two years studying anthropology at the University of Vienna in the 1930s, and American ­human scientists owed an incalculable debt to Germanic theories of race and culture. Still, the defeat of the Axis and the horrific misuse of science by the Nazis decisively discredited the tradition. SCAP was even more alarmed by the surging popularity of leftist doctrines in occupied Japan. The lifting of war­t ime restrictions on speech freed some transwar scholars to return to e­ arlier Marxist convictions, while allowing their students access to hitherto banned teachings. Initially, some American policymakers in Japan viewed this intellectual migration as a positive sign of academic in­de­pen­dence and vibrancy. A new national constitution, drafted in 1946 and imposed in 1947 by SCAP, guaranteed freedom of thought and con­ science.36 By 1948, however, the intensification of the Cold War led the United States to perform what was dubbed a “reverse course” on its initial liberalism. At home, left-­w ing American h ­ uman scientists faced persecution and exclu­ sion from the professoriate. Th ­ ose who ventured to Japan u ­ nder SCAP auspices ­were carefully screened for unorthodox po­liti­cal views. The occupation re­ created organs of censorship, confining discussion of Japan’s past, pre­sent, and ­f uture to approved visions of modernization. The reconstruction of Japa­nese

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­ uman science thus took place in the context of a robust suppression of alter­ h natives to national development as an ally of the United States.37 The Civil Information and Education Unit (CIE) was the primary institu­ tional mechanism through which U.S. h ­ uman scientists transmitted putatively American values to Japan. Established by SCAP in September 1945, the CIE took up the task of reforming Japa­nese education, religious practices, and heri­ tage management. CIE staff included numerous proficient speakers of Japa­ nese who had previously lived in the country (often in missionary families) or who had received training at military language schools during World War II. Recruits ranged from renowned scholars at elite institutions to untested ABDs in search of professional opportunity and adventure. David L. Sills, a sociol­ ogy student at Yale University who joined the CIE in August 1947, described himself bluntly as “a pure mercenary,” recalling, “I came to the occupation of Japan to make money so I could pursue my gradu­ate work.”38 As a starting point for training Japa­nese ­human scientists in American ide­ als and methods, CIE employees built a library network through which they could lay hands on approved scholarship. As they enthused, the library was “a potent engine of democracy . . . ​mak[ing] available to all what would other­wise be reserved to the few.”39 Although Japan had maintained a modern library system since the late nineteenth c­ entury, the war had interrupted foreign ac­ quisitions and domestic publishing, while firebombing damaged up to three-­ fourths of all repositories. By one estimate, Japan’s print resources declined by half in the early 1940s, leaving no more than five million books for a population of about seventy million at the time of defeat.40 The shortage of recent lit­er­a­ture was particularly acute. A concerned American scholar observed, “I gather . . . ​ that [Japa­nese ­human scientists] subscribe to few, if any, journals and that the students and faculty do not therefore have access to the many crucially impor­ tant articles and monographs that have been published in the past.” 41 Scarcity was opportunity. “The field is open to the far-­sighted nation that restocks the sources of supply for Japan’s book-­reading public,” predicted one U.S. anthropologist.42 Implicit in his words was the fear that the Soviet Union might win the hearts and minds of Japa­nese citizens with a flood of com­ munist propaganda. To ­counter this threat, “the U.S. task is to insure that an adequate quantity and a wide variety of information on democracy are made available to Japan’s information-­starved intelligent­sia and highly literate masses.” 43 A h ­ uman scientist working for SCAP entreated a prospective col­ league to “bring every­thing you can get your hands on which deals with public

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opinion, social psy­chol­ogy, social research, methods, e­ tc. Write for permission pronto to get 300 pounds extra hold baggage, for books and papers. . . . ​We are especially desirous of monographs on ­actual research proj­ects, as well as text and instructional material.” 44 Scholars petitioned their home institutions for surplus copies of significant works. Donations poured in from charitable and academic foundations and socie­t ies, government agencies, publishers, and concerned citizens. By the midpoint of the occupation, nearly 1.25 million English-­language books had reached Japan.45 Distribution bottlenecks trapped some materials in ware­houses for up to a year while the CIE worked to create a network of libraries throughout the Japa­nese archipelago. The flagship fa­cil­i­t y in downtown Tokyo ­housed some thirteen thousand books and five hundred periodicals. In the reading room, the field generation studied the classics of U.S. h ­ uman science for the first time. Ultimately, twenty-­t hree CIE facilities came to offer not just scholarship but also lectures, concerts, discussion groups, En­glish language classes, documen­ tary film screenings, and exhibitions to as many as two million patrons annu­ ally.46 SCAP also introduced legislation to create a nationwide public library system by constructing new facilities, expanding and upgrading existing resources, implementing modern cata­loging methods, and abolishing usage fees. Although economic conditions delayed immediate compliance with ­these regulations, by the end of the 1950s nearly ­every prefecture, over half of Japan’s cities, and some towns and villages operated public libraries.47 Beyond bringing English-­language books to Japan, the CIE also sponsored Japa­nese translations of selected ­human science works. This corpus expanded quickly as SCAP rushed to keep pace with the translation of Soviet lit­er­a­ture. By the midpoint of the occupation, the CIE had completed some 150 trans­ lations and licensed 200 o ­ thers.48 By making available the canonical works of American scholarship for Japa­nese consumption, SCAP hoped to transmit their alleged under­lying ideals of democracy, capitalism, and peace. Public lectures offered an alternative mode of instilling ­t hese values. CIE personnel offered frequent pre­sen­ta­tions on American h ­ uman science, some­ times on topics far beyond their expertise. “We are called on continually for special talks on every­thing from (in my case) archeology to indirect attitude as­ sessment,” observed an anthropologist.49 Talks generally took place in university classrooms or at the International House (Kokusai Bunka Kaikan), established in 1952 to promote cultural exchange and to encourage research fostering global understanding. In congenial settings, speakers not only conveyed information

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but also built personal relationships with audience members. Reflected one anthropologist, “I do my best job around h ­ ere in communicating new ideas to our Japa­nese, in showing our younger ­people how to or­ga­nize a proj­ect, in introducing American methods and knowledge to them. . . . ​I teach all the time. I’d rather do it than anything e­ lse.”50 A Japa­nese sociologist offered his thanks: “We have learned so much from your lectures delivered from quite a dif­fer­ent ­angle than ours. . . . ​In the near ­future, I hope, we ­will show you better sociology and contribute more to the social science of the world.”51 In 1950 a systematic training program called the American Studies Seminar (Amerika kenkyū seminā) came to supplement this informal education. Modeled on a similar endeavor in Salzburg, Austria, the proj­ect was intended to “imbu[e] the defeated nation of Japan with the spirit of American democ­ racy and . . . ​promot[e] intellectual, scholarly exchange between the United States and Japan.”52 In the words of U.S. diplomat George H. Kerr, “Demo­ cratic institutions exemplified in American life should become better known in Japan, and training in the history of American traditions should become part of the normal university curriculum in the new age. Successive genera­ tions of Japa­nese students should be encouraged to study American affairs so that they may carry to their leadership in public life a better comprehension of our country.”53 By teaching American studies according to American methods, the program hoped to perpetuate U.S. influence beyond the lifetime of SCAP. Although the American Studies Seminar could not have proceeded with­ out the support and consent of the occupation, its creators saw advantages in maintaining the in­de­pen­dence of the program. Accordingly, they sought funding not from MacArthur’s administration but rather from the Rocke­fel­ler Foundation. In the early postwar era, Rocke­fel­ler, Ford, Car­ne­gie, and other philanthropic organ­izations provided critical support for the development of a global intellectual network friendly to U.S. geopo­liti­cal ambitions.54 The proj­ect was Rocke­fel­ler’s inaugural grant outside the field of humanitar­ ian relief in Japan, as well as the first made directly to a Japa­nese institution: the University of Tokyo.55 Tōdai hosted five renowned professors from Stanford University, representing the disciplines of international relations, diplomatic history, history, economics, and philosophy, respectively. Over the course of five weeks in the summer of 1950, t­ hese faculty lectured and held small seminars and roundtables on campus for two hours each after­noon.56 The approximately 125 Japa­nese participants ranged in age from twenty-­three to fifty-­four, with the majority in their thirties and forties—­the transwar cohort. Given varied levels

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American Studies Seminar classroom, Tōdai, 1950. Album, box 4, American Studies Seminar in Japan Records. Courtesy of Stanford University Archives and Special Collections.

F I GUR E   5 .  

of English-­language proficiency, seminar leaders relied on name cards, predis­ tributed outlines, and nearly two dozen interpreters to facilitate communica­ tion. Th ­ ese teaching aids helped to achieve the f­ ree interchange viewed as essential to American demo­cratic education. As one lecturer commented, “The give and take of the seminar method was established during the first week. The quality of the discussion was high, and absolute frankness between ­Japa­nese and Americans was achieved. The reputation of the seminars was well estab­ lished among academic circles in Tokyo before the end of the first week.”57 Adjudged “an outstanding success despite the unrelenting heat and the long sessions,” the program was repeated annually through 1956.58 It expanded teaching eligibility to non-­Stanford faculty and grew to include fields such as lit­er­a­ture, po­liti­cal science, and anthropology. In 1952 Izumi Seiichi par­ ticipated in the first anthropology track, offered by Clyde Kluckhohn. Izumi was among fifteen participants selected from thirty-­nine applicants, including seven ­women.59 At the conclusion of the experience, he assisted in translating some of Kluckhohn’s lectures for publication, thus enabling their circulation

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through Japa­nese academia.60 Of teaching in Japan, Kluckhohn reported, “The degree of intelligent participation in my Tokyo seminar on cultural anthropol­ ogy has not been surpassed in my classes in the United States. . . . ​­These Tokyo seminars strike me as the best proj­ect I have ever seen.”61 The American Studies Seminar ultimately reached nearly six hundred pro­ fessors and students (both gradu­ate and undergraduate) representing more than fifty universities throughout Japan. Heavy and rising demand for access ensured highly qualified and motivated classes. The success of the proj­ect also inspired the University of Kyoto and Dōshisha University (a historically Christian college) to collaborate with the University of Illinois at Urbana–­ Champaign in inaugurating a parallel Kyoto American Studies Seminar that ran e­ very summer (with one exception) from 1952 through 1976. Japa­ nese scholars w ­ ere encouraged to participate in both programs and to repeat courses in multiple years in the hope that they would internalize and transmit the ideals of modernization to colleagues at home.62 The American Studies Seminar was more than a classroom venture. The experience built social networks, bringing students and professors together for office hours, field trips, cultural events, and liaisons with the Japa­nese media. Faculty created a library of assigned readings; by 1953, it included over one thousand books. They offered a public lecture series on topics such as “Japa­ nese ac­cep­tance of and re­sis­tance to American democracy” and “appraisals of American influence on thought, religion, art, and way of life upon the Japa­ nese.”63 The seminar also birthed a fellowship that brought two Japa­nese schol­ ars to the United States ­every year for university instruction, instilling the ideals of modernization through cultural immersion.64 Given the “depressingly small” compensation amounting to an honorar­ ium of about $140 and in-­country travel expenses, as well as the relative lack of amenities (one visitor was advised to bring his own refrigerator), most visiting U.S. faculty ­were motivated by voluntarism.65 One reflected, “My stay in Japan has been one of the happiest periods in my life. I know that I have received in abundance; if I have given something in return, if I have made some slight con­ tribution to the thinking and teaching of my Japa­nese colleagues, I ­shall be sat­ isfied” (emphasis in original).66 ­Others also lauded the surprising intellectual benefits they themselves gained from the program: “We are convinced that it is valuable for American scholars to confront the Japa­nese interpretations of American traditions and culture. Although we frequently found ourselves in disagreement with t­ hese interpretations, we ourselves derived many pen­

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Yanaihara addressing the American Studies Seminar. Album, box 4, American Studies Seminar in Japan Records. Courtesy of Stanford University Archives and Special Collections.

F I GUR E   6 .  

etrating insights from the Japa­nese perspective. . . . ​­These served as a constant stimulus for the discussion and reconsideration of our assumptions.”67 The relatively ­humble attitude of most American facilitators made a favor­ able impression on Japa­nese participants. Inaugurating the fourth seminar in 1953, Yanaihara Tadao captured the collaborative mood: The American professors are our guests and at the same time they are our col­ leagues. They did not come ­here to make American propaganda nor did they come to diagnose Japa­nese feeling ­toward Americans. We stand on the equal ground of academic learning and are colleagues striving t­ oward the common goal in search of scientific truth. . . . ​I believe that you seminar participants ­w ill not only learn academic information from the distinguished American professors but also ­will have many opportunities to come to know their trust­ worthy personalities. At the same time, our visiting professors, too, I expect, ­will deepen their understanding and knowledge of Japan and the Japa­nese. Thus we s­ hall become, without being aware of it, co-­workers in building up the true foundation for world peace.68

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Many Japa­nese participants expressed their appreciation in similarly ful­ some terms. In a thank-­you letter to his facilitator, one declared, “I thank you heartily for your coming again to Japan to enlighten us young (spiritu­ ally) lovers of wisdom. Your zeal for education touches me deeply.” Another wrote, “Since last year I have been much obliged to you for your invaluable instructions . . . ​which I have been faithfully following.” 69 Like its Salzburg pro­ totype, the American Studies Seminar “created enduring nuclei of scholars and other opinion formers, networked with American institutions and faculty and with one another, functioning effectively long ­a fter the short seminars ­were over.”70 ­These partnerships w ­ ere critical to the entrenchment of shared values and to the establishment of a transnational network of objective knowledge production that supported the hegemony of the United States.

Resuming f ieldwork Although the values under­lying objectivity changed ­a fter 1945, fieldwork re­ mained unchallenged as the defining methodology of legitimate h ­ uman sci­ ence. For Japa­nese and American scholars, postwar fieldwork indexed Japan’s transformation into a peaceful, cap­i­tal­ist, demo­cratic society. Researchers of both nations regarded “objectively ascertained facts” gathered in the field as the basis for demo­cratic policymaking.71 Meanwhile, relations among them ­were said to model the collaborative, egalitarian spirit they hoped to cultivate in society at large. From the outset of the occupation, Japa­nese interest in fieldwork was readily apparent to SCAP. One 1947 survey reported that Japa­nese scholars throughout the archipelago w ­ ere “exceedingly e­ ager for field work” and that “many college administrators pay at least lip ser­vice to the idea of empirical so­ cial research.”72 As countless citations and commentaries attested, Malinowski remained revered as the progenitor of objective field methods. Translators returned to his works with gusto in the 1950s, producing new Japa­nese edi­ tions of Crime and Custom in Savage Society and A Scientific Theory of Culture (English orig. 1941). Izumi and two other scholars rendered The Sexual Life of Savages in North-­Western Melanesia (orig. 1929) into Japa­nese for the first time; the work sold so well that it was reissued twice.73 Prior to the occupation, the sole English-­language academic field study of Japan was Suye Mura, a 1936 village ethnography by the University of Chicago sociologist John F. Embree (1908–1950). “­Every anthropologist who went to

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Japan in the 1950s knew Embree’s book well,” recalled one CIE employee.74 Picking up where Embree left off, SCAP’s Public Opinion and So­cio­log­i­cal Research Division (hereafter referred to as PO&SR, or the Division) coor­ dinated the first field studies of the occupation era. PO&SR was created in early 1946 as a subcommittee of the CIE to train Japa­nese ­human scientists in American theories and methods and to supply SCAP with data on the national mood. In the United States, public opinion surveys had formed a conduit for popu­lar influence on government since the interwar period.75 In the hands of the Division, such research assessed the alignment of Japa­nese po­liti­cal culture with the ideals of modernization. The first director of PO&SR was John  C. Pelzel (1914–1999), a cultural anthropologist. Assisting him as deputy director was Herbert Passin (1916– 2003), an ABD in sociology from the University of Chicago. Passin was an experienced survey researcher who became interested in Japan while work­ ing with former inmates of U.S. internment camps for Japa­nese and Japa­nese Americans. He was fluent in written and spoken Japa­nese, having studied at the University of Michigan language school during the early 1940s. “In my wildest dreams, I could never have concocted a better job for myself at that par­tic­u ­lar stage of my life,” he ­later recalled.76 When Pelzel resigned to accept a position at Harvard in early 1949, Passin recommended a former classmate, John W. Bennett (1915–2005), as his replace­ ment. Bennett had recently finished his PhD at Chicago and was working as an assistant professor of anthropology at Ohio State University. Rounding out PO&SR’s American staff ­were Cynthia Mazo, the wife of a CIE official; Iwao Ishino and Tamie Tsuchiyama, second-­generation Japa­nese American veter­ ans of studies in war­time internment camps in the U.S. West; and David Sills. None had specialized training in the study of public opinion; Sills prepared as best he could by reading English-­language Japa­nese newspapers.77 Supporting the American employees ­were over thirty Japa­nese temporary and secretarial staff: advisers, clerks, draftsmen, secretaries, analysts, and typ­ ists. Seven interpreters withstood several months of interviews and translation tests to demonstrate “a command of En­glish extend[ing] into special technical vocabularies and into the sensitive range of colloquial speech.”78 PO&SR also hired about a dozen Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists. Yanagita Kunio, the “­grand old man” of Japa­nese folklore, suggested several candidates from among his students and associates.79 Each prospective employee submitted to a language exam and an interview of up to ninety minutes with three American officers.

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Koyama Takeshi (1899–1983) l­ater recalled his ner­vous­ness during the ordeal: not only did he find the questions challenging, but he also feared that the Division might discover his ser­v ice in a war­time ethnological research insti­ tute.80 Conversely, Ishida Eiichirō was scrutinized for his leftist activities, for which he was imprisoned by the imperial government for several years dur­ ing his youth. His application to PO&SR occasioned much hand-­w ringing: the Division was both e­ ager to hire the “competent, retiring, and gentlemanly scholar” and loath to discharge him for fear of appearing ideologically biased. In the end, SCAP adjudged that Ishida’s war­time support for militarism, fas­ cism, and imperialism offered positive evidence that he had abandoned his early Marxist inclinations. Ironically, Ishida’s most compromising writings vouchsafed him in an era in which American anx­i­eties about communism dominated all other concerns.81 The relative se­niority and reputation of PO&SR’s Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists compared with the youth and inexperience of its U.S. staff helped to fore­ stall anticipated hierarchies of victor and vanquished. Bennett described his Japa­nese colleagues as “the top ranking social scientists of the country, fully comparable in skill and intelligence to the best in the States—­better in fact.” He wrote to his wife, “It is a strange feeling . . . ​to have around one’s desk the minister of communications in the Jap[anese] gov[ernment], the chairman of the sociology dep[artmen]t at the largest university, and the top social psy­ chologist in Japan, all bowing and honoring me!”82 Bennett’s re­spect for the knowledge and stature of Japa­nese scholars, coupled with reciprocal Japa­nese interest in U.S. methodologies and humility t­ oward the victorious Allies, fa­ cilitated generally productive working relationships. The low status of PO&SR within the occupation bureaucracy further liberated the Division from the inflexible chain of command that characterized much of SCAP. Many employ­ ees considered each other friends as well as colleagues: when Sills married a CIE staff member, the entire office celebrated with a picnic at a beach resort.83 ­After a year of preparation and desk research, PO&SR undertook the first major field study in occupied Japan: an assessment of the impact of land reform. In 1946 SCAP had mandated the breakup and re­distribution of large landhold­ ings, seeking to “replace traditional agrarian feudalism with a demo­cratic way of life” by creating a class of in­de­pen­dent yeoman farmers.84 To assess the re­ sulting social and economic changes, MacArthur called upon Arthur F. Raper (1899–1979), a respected sociologist at the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Working with PO&SR, Raper selected as case studies thirteen allegedly repre­

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sentative, geo­graph­i­cally dispersed villages. Several had been previously ana­ lyzed by prewar Japa­nese experts and Embree. This past research functioned as a useful baseline for assessing local pro­gress t­ oward modernization. Raper worked with four American and fifteen Japa­nese ­human scientists over the course of three stints of fieldwork totaling nearly seven months be­ tween 1947 and 1949. His group expedition methodology set the pattern for early postwar research. For Japa­nese scholars, teamwork was a familiar prac­ tice from the age of empire. American anthropologists, too, had come to view collaboration favorably, with no less a spokesperson than Margaret Mead ex­ tolling its benefits of intellectual complementarity, congeniality, and practical­ ity.85 In addition to ­t hese advantages, Raper’s decision to work cooperatively reflected conditions par­tic­u ­lar to occupied Japan. For many American h ­ uman scientists, language proved an insurmountable barrier. Even t­ hose who spoke Japa­nese often found that they lacked the lexicon to represent local particulari­ ties. Passin recalled, “When I started on this research, I drew upon my recent so­cio­log­i­cal research in southern Illinois during my gradu­ate student days, my knowledge of black sharecroppers in the American South, my experience with Mexican peasants, and my general reading in the fields of anthropology and rural sociology. . . . ​But I did not even have a vocabulary to describe the new phenomena that came to my attention.”86 In addition to the language barrier, American fieldworkers also confronted the distrust of their in­for­mants. Many early postwar rural communities asso­ ciated information gathering with the war­time secret police, and closely super­ vised the researchers in their midst. On one excursion, Bennett lamented, “We already have a representative of the Hokkaido prefectural government and a nice old Episcopal minister (Jap[anese]) with us, and at [one village] we also had the mayor, 3 other village gov[ernment] officials, our host and a collection of other p ­ eople whose role I d ­ idn’t catch clearly. Tomorrow, thank God, we lose the prefectural gov[ernor], but the old minister sticks to the ­bitter end!”87 Confronted with this retinue, “the ­people w ­ ouldn’t say a ­t hing worth record­ ing.”88 To alleviate public suspicion, Japa­nese researchers tended to take the lead in the field. Ultimately, they gathered about 95 ­percent of PO&SR data.89 Among the Japa­nese ­human scientists who worked on Raper’s survey was Izumi Seiichi. Given his Korean upbringing, Izumi viewed Japan almost as a foreign country, and the prospect of learning about this Other in the field brought him ­great joy.90 Raper dispatched him to Ebetsu, the sole Hokkaido village in the sample and an outlier in many ways. Originally inhabited by

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the Ainu and other small communities, beginning in the late 1860s Hokkaido was settled by hundreds of thousands of Japa­nese peasants (including Izumi’s grand­father). The relative availability of land at the time (a result of near-­total disregard for indigenous rights) allowed Ebetsu to quickly mushroom into a sizable village. In terms of area, it was the largest community studied by Raper. It ranked second in population due to its proximity to Sapporo, Hokkaido’s prefectural capital. In the late 1940s Ebetsu’s population swelled further to ab­ sorb repatriates from the Japa­nese empire, who, like e­ arlier mi­grants, viewed Hokkaido as an “empty” terrain in which to build a new life. Anticipating a trend that would accelerate and spread in subsequent de­cades, many resi­ dents devoted only part of their time to agriculture and commuted to factories or other workplaces in the city. ­These distinctive features notwithstanding, Ebetsu suffered from many of the same social conflicts that characterized Japa­ nese village life further south. However, as the Raper team established, land reform had smoothed some of the most egregious inequalities in the distribu­ tion of rural wealth, reducing the percentage of fields farmed by tenants by nearly three-­quarters, and increasing owner-­cultivated holdings to 87 ­percent of the total arable area.91 PO&SR accordingly evaluated the policy as “prob­ ably the best, most significant, consequential, and effective of the Occupation programs.”92 ­Under SCAP the field was a site not only for observing but also for direct tutoring in demo­cratic pro­cesses including the sharing of opinions, expression of dissent, and cultivation of consensus. American anthropologists criticized pre­ war fieldwork as a reflection of Japan’s authoritarian po­liti­cal culture, charac­ terized by an “unwillingness to communicate frankly, disagree sharply, [and] expose oneself before ­others.” The result was “superficial and sterile” research lacking “burning objectivity.”93 To Richard Beardsley, “the biases which have crept into [war­time] work, over and above the consciously imposed limits of interest, have brought about one-­sided [data] collections with very unfortunate gaps.”94 PO&SR’s on-­site routine consciously aimed to reconstruct fieldwork as a mechanism of democracy. Passin recalled, “At the end of each day of interviewing . . . ​we then sat around in a group and discussed the interviewing prob­lems, the meaning of the results, and compared local results with ­t hose obtained in [an earlier] phase of the study. Suggestions for the recording of further verbatim materials, election and po­liti­cal rec­ords ­were outlined.”95 A Japa­nese colleague l­ater recalled the unpre­ce­dented excitement of contesting survey techniques for two nights straight.96

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Collaboration in the field drew American and Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists together in lasting personal bonds. Raper recalled his team positively, though not without reference to certain national ste­reo­t ypes: I was tremendously impressed with the capability of the ­people. They ­were very thoroughly regimented. I came back very convinced that if our civilization turned on learning calculus and theirs turned on learning calculus, they would survive and we w ­ ouldn’t—­because if they needed to learn calculus, t­ hey’d all learn calculus in one year, b ­ ecause they have it fixed up so they could operate in that kind of fashion.97

Raper himself was remembered as “an excellent person” who “built up ­great rapport.”98 Izumi and his Japa­nese colleagues appreciated the hands-on training he provided, although they chafed against his demand for speed. The second stint in the field was particularly rushed. Moving by train and jeep, testing the goodwill of local officials, and working “almost without rest,” re­ searchers investigated five villages in a mere forty-­five days, returned to Tokyo for twenty-­four hours, and then departed for the next six sites. Factoring in travel time, they spent one or at most two nights in each location. Concerning the challenge “to do a month’s research in a day,” Izumi recalled, “­t here was a lot of complaining.”99 The team insisted on a more leisurely pace for the third round of fieldwork, spending up to a week in each community. Doubting the veracity of their findings and troubled by a sense of having imposed on the villa­gers, some ­human scientists ­were unable to take much pride in their work. When published, however, Raper’s report was applauded as “a completely un­ biased, uninfluenced account” of Japa­nese rural life.100 A de­cade ­later, when Izumi, Ishino, and a Harvard gradu­ate student conducted a follow-up study of the thirteen communities, they ­were delighted to be “received with open arms” by ­people “­eager to tell us about themselves.”101 The land reform survey concluded, Izumi joined a dam feasibility assess­ ment in Nara prefecture’s Totsu River valley, which was prone to devastat­ ing floods and landslides. A ­ fter one catastrophe in 1889, several hundred ­house­holds had resettled together in Hokkaido. Sixty years l­ater, Izumi ana­ lyzed lifestyle differences between the “parent” village in Nara and its north­ ern “subsidiary.” This study established his interest in emigrants and cultural change (see Chapters 4 and 6).102 Meanwhile, PO&SR undertook field and public opinion research on traditional fishery rights, neighborhood associa­ tions, ­family and ­house­hold composition, ­labor management, prob­lems of

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urban workers and consumers, the changing status of w ­ omen, the reform of big business, literacy and language education, and other topics.103 Highlighting the advance of democracy, capitalism, and peace, ­these studies furnished “objective” evidence of converging values between postwar Japan and the United States.

Sanitizing imperial knowledge In addition to working with SCAP to construct a field-­based knowledge of the home islands ­after World War II, Japa­nese ­human scientists also contributed to U.S. strategic knowledge of the broader East Asian region. In the 1930s and early 1940s the imperial intellectual community tended to marginalize local scholars and to exclude Euro-­American researchers altogether, allowing Japa­ nese fieldworkers to dominate the production of empirical knowledge about the empire. Following Japan’s defeat and the liberation of the colonies, civil war broke out in China and ­Korea. Due to restrictions on access by researchers from the West, imperial-­era Japa­nese scholarship emerged as an impor­tant source of knowledge of Asia in the Cold War era. “I was astounded upon coming h ­ ere to discover how much good work has been done by Japa­nese anthropologists that few of us know about and even fewer of us can read,” marveled one U.S. scholar.104 Another anticipated, “When thoroughly disseminated . . . [imperial research] ­w ill give Westerners as nearly satisfactory an understanding of the cultures of the Japa­nese islands, Formosa [Taiwan], and prob­ably North China, as we have for any other region.”105 American interest in Japa­nese war­time find­ ings proved a strong consideration in the decision to absolve some scholars for their abuse of ­human rights. In the most infamous case, the IMTFE declined to bring charges against members of “Unit 731,” the Kwantung Army biological and chemical weapons development squad responsible for grotesque experi­ ments on h ­ uman subjects in Manchukuo. SCAP silently restored affiliated doc­ tors to the top of the Japa­nese medical, phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal, and academic worlds in exchange for their data.106 U.S. leaders hungered for Japa­nese research, or at least wished to prevent its acquisition by the rival Soviet Union. Moved by the demand for strategic information, as well as by intellec­ tual curiosity, American scholars worked to access imperial knowledge. U.S. gradu­ate programs began demanding that students specializing in East Asia learn Japanese—­a requirement that remained common u ­ ntil at least the 107 1980s. Meanwhile, SCAP supported Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists proficient in Eu­ro­pean languages in disseminating their conclusions. Although Japa­nese

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citizens ­were generally not permitted to leave the archipelago during the oc­ cupation, policymakers extended travel privileges to researchers presenting at certain international conferences. At the 1949 Pacific Science Congress in Christchurch, New Zealand, Suzuki Makoto and Kobayashi Hiroshi, who had collected data alongside Izumi in New Guinea in 1943, offered papers on physi­ ological differences between coastal and mountain ­peoples.108 American academics also devoted considerable resources to cata­loguing and translating studies of the former empire. A bibliography of Japa­nese schol­ arship compiled u ­ nder the direction of a U.S. anthropologist ran to seventy-­ four pages, encompassing pre-1945 contributions to archaeology, ethnology, physical anthropology, and other disciplines.109 From 1946 to 1952, faculty at the University of Hawai’i collaborated with Japa­nese colleagues to translate over four thousand citations of imperial studies on Micronesia.110 Another work, edited by Japa­nese ­human scientists ­under SCAP direction, selected and annotated twenty significant works in each of fifty subfields.111 The most systematic American attempt to make potentially strate­ gic Japa­nese scholarship available to English-­language audiences was the ­Human Relations Area Files (HRAF), supervised by anthropologist George P. Murdock of Yale University. In 1942 the U.S. navy assigned Murdock to an in­ telligence unit in preparation for the invasion of Micronesia and Okinawa. Few Americans had ever been granted permission even to travel to the Nan’yō, so Murdock was forced to rely on published Japa­nese research data. Using Japa­ nese American translators in internment camps, he supervised the preparation of strategic bulletins and civil affairs handbooks on the population and geog­ raphy of the islands. A ­ fter the war, t­ hese texts facilitated U.S. administration of former Japa­nese possessions in the Pacific.112 Building on the classification system he had designed for the navy, Murdock envisioned HRAF as a comprehensive database of empirical i­ nformation, indexed not only by region and population but also by cultural traits, struc­ tures, and phenomena. Through quantitative and comparative studies, users would be able to identify knowledge gaps suitable for research, test hypoth­ eses about ­human be­hav­ior, and extrapolate fundamental social laws.113 Such scholarship, Murdock believed, had practical as well as academic significance: “It was obvious that . . . ​t he world had not settled all of its prob­lems, and that an understanding of the world’s p ­ eoples was even more urgently needed now to maintain peace than it had been to end the war.”114 Acknowledging his point, the U.S. government and military, the CIA, the National Institutes of

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Health, and vari­ous universities and foundations all contributed funding to the proj­ect.115 Given its Cold War backdrop, HRAF initially focused on developing a multilingual bibliography on strategic areas including Taiwan, Southeast Asia, Mongolia, and mainland China. In 1949 employees began translating foreign-­ language ethnographic reports on portions of the former Japa­nese empire for use in counterinsurgency campaigns. Over the next seven years, eleven Japa­ nese studies of Asia and eigh­teen pieces on Oceania w ­ ere made available in En­g lish. An additional 1,274 pages of material ­were slated for translation.116 Among the first Japa­nese works to appear in the database was Izumi’s writeup for the KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party. Its translator lauded the report’s “excellent detailed information” on nomadic culture and economy while making no comment on its provenience.117 As an archive that disaggregated cultures into their constituent ele­ments, HRAF had the effect of whitewashing compromising studies by separating “facts” from their production pro­cess, or “breaking up documents into pieces and shifting them arbitrarily, as it w ­ ere, in and out of context,” in the words 118 of one critic. Perhaps for this reason, Japa­nese ­human scientists numbered among the proj­ect’s most enthusiastic international supporters. During the oc­ cupation six Japa­nese academics, including Yanaihara Tadao, received special permission to visit the HRAF headquarters at Yale. Izumi and ­others followed ­after the loosening of travel restrictions on Japa­nese citizens in 1952.119 A handful of Japa­nese universities subscribed to the database, leading to the preparation of a Japanese-­language user manual.120 Thus deconstructed and revised, knowledge of h ­ uman diversity originally intended to support Japa­nese imperialism came to prop up the global geopo­liti­cal goals of the United States.

Legacies Despite their aspirations, U.S. h ­ uman scientists ultimately failed to exert much impact on SCAP policy. In part, understaffing was to blame: in the assessment of one observer, twenty to thirty American scholars would have been needed to adequately discharge the workload assigned to two or three.121 Worse, the occupation paid no more than lip ser­vice to the importance of research, except through what PO&SR described as obstructionist or interfering management. Even had military leaders been more favorably disposed, Bennett grumbled, “Nobody has any idea of what policy ­really means in an occupation, nor have

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they any concrete program. Just pass along from one small prob­lem to another, solving each one as they go, with a total lack of vision or purpose other than the vague one of d ­ oing every­t hing the American way.”122 PO&SR dissolved in June 1951 a­ fter the decision was made to terminate the occupation itself the following year. Bennett returned to Ohio State, tak­ ing the Division’s files with him. With funding from the university, the U.S. military, and vari­ous grant agencies, he and Iwao Ishino founded the Research Program in Japa­nese Social Relations to write up their backlog of data. Bennett eventually turned over PO&SR’s archives to Japan’s Public Opinion Research Association (Yoron Chōsakai), established with U.S. assistance in 1949 to carry on the practice of demo­cratic survey. He continued to act as a liaison between Japa­nese and American academia, remaining in contact with former associ­ ates, building a Japa­nese studies library at Ohio State, and planning exchange programs. Among the many visiting researchers he hosted was Nagai Michio (1923–2000), a sociologist who l­ ater served as Japan’s minister of education.123 Bennett, who lacked Japa­nese language skills, never returned to studying the country. However, his repatriating colleagues spearheaded the growth of Japa­nese studies in the United States. ­Today, historians often identify this dis­ cipline as a subfield of Cold War area studies. Area studies aimed to advance both theoretical and empirical knowledge of nations and regions through intensive language preparation, on-­t he-­ground research, and the incorpora­ tion of local viewpoints and interpretations. Encompassing the h ­ uman and social science and humanities disciplines, it represented the primary intel­ lectual approach to the developing and decolonizing world ­a fter 1945. Some con­temporary critics have discussed area studies as an attempt to perpetuate the power structures of imperialism, replacing overt po­liti­cal control with in­ direct attempts to foster loyalty to the United States through the ideology of modernization. Research established a hierarchy of students generously sup­ ported by American institutions, their elite collaborators on the ground, and subjects dominated by knowledge thus produced.124 Bolstered by the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950, Japa­nese studies, “a tiny, tiny, l­ittle organism . . . ​suddenly became a very good-­sized organism with a very big backbone and a very firm one,” in the words of one observer.125 ­Today, t­ hose midcentury American scholars regarded as most influential in the study of Japan include Donald Keene (lit­er­a­ture), Marion Levy (sociol­ ogy), Robert  W. Hall (geography), Robert  J. Smith and Richard Beardsley (anthropology), Robert Scalapino and Robert E. Ward (po­liti­cal science), and

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Edwin O. Reischauer, John W. Hall, James Morley, Marius B. Jansen, and Albert Craig (history). The occupation also transformed Japa­nese academia. The strug­gle to se­ cure a faculty job in the early postwar period was intensely competitive, pit­ ting venerable graybeards against new gradu­ates, and Japan-­based researchers against repatriating colleagues from the former empire. Experience working for SCAP was a nearly universal qualification of scholars who succeeded in obtaining a professor position. The CIE and PO&SR took a par­tic­u ­lar interest in the fate of their Japa­nese employees, helping many to secure jobs in universi­ ties, libraries, museums, newspaper and journal editorial boards, and in­de­pen­ dent research organ­izations. A few ­were even given fellowships to study in the United States.126 The Keijō School of former KIU faculty, bolstered by its cohe­ siveness, fared relatively well in the academic market. Izumi’s undergraduate adviser Akiba Takashi joined the faculty at Aichi University; Suzuki Makoto at Hiroshima University Medical College; and Suzuki Eitarō (no relation) at the University of Hokkaido (formerly Hokkaido Imperial University). Ōtaka Tomoo, who had or­ga­nized the KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party, joined the Tōdai law department. In 1948 Izumi was hired at Meiji University through the goodwill of a former student of his ­father, who had taught ­t here in the early 1920s.127 In February 1952, mere weeks before the departure of SCAP, twenty leaders of Japa­nese ­human science united for a long-­planned roundtable on the state of research in the postwar nation. Participants reflected on the occupation as a bridge ­toward the reconstruction of Japa­nese ethnology and the starting point of genuinely objective, in­de­pen­dent domestic scholarship.128 Yet, the resumption of national sovereignty did not liberate Japa­nese ­human science from American influence so much as direct the hegemon’s ideological pressure into informal channels. Long a­ fter MacArthur’s exit, Japa­nese scholars hand-­ selected by U.S. authorities continued to dominate academia, while ­t hose who rejected modernization remained marginalized both institutionally and in­ tellectually. American foundations such as Rocke­fel­ler and Car­ne­gie, which supported research in the absence of domestic funding agencies, offered fel­ lowships exclusively to scholars able to portray themselves as allies of the U.S. global agenda. American academics who visited Japa­nese universities tended to network with like-­minded colleagues while remaining aloof from Marxists and other dissenters. In the late 1950s, during a period of study at Tōdai, histo­ rian and translator Edward Seidensticker (1921–2007) observed,

O b je c t i v i t y u n d e r t he U . S . O c c u pa t io n    93

I was surrounded by very, very, intelligent boys, it was clear. . . . ​But they ­were unfriendly and they w ­ ere opinionated, exceedingly opinionated, exceedingly doctrinaire. . . . ​Their view of the world which held Amer­i­ca responsible for all of the mischief, all of the ails and all of the sufferings of the world, it just ­wasn’t acceptable. . . . ​Their view of the world made me mad, but I think I also felt rather contemptuous of them. It seemed to me that they ­were misusing their undeniable talents. . . . ​I mean, this ­wasn’t a view of the world which was worthy of a first-­rate mind.129

Despite the consequences of speaking out against U.S. ideology, Japa­nese academics increasingly expressed both right-­and left-­wing po­liti­cal sentiments. Within a few years of the dismantling of the SCAP censorship bureau, some ­human scientists promoted the rearming of Japan and the “restoration” of di­ rect rule by the emperor. More common w ­ ere Marxist viewpoints, resurgent throughout the ­human and social sciences.130 Irresolvable differences not­ withstanding, Marxism and modernization shared certain key features. Each or­ga­nized history according to a series of stages, grounded in the faith in te­ leological pro­gress originally espoused by thinkers of the eighteenth-­century Eu­ro­pean Enlightenment. (The two philosophies differed regarding the final stage: the coexistence of in­de­pen­dent demo­cratic cap­i­tal­ist nations according to modernization, and global communism and the withering away of states in Marxism.) Like modernization, Marxism represented itself as a universal and scientific doctrine, holding the promise of objectivity or fundamental truth. In addition to their steadfast allegiance to objectivity, most participants in early postwar Japa­nese academic life shared certain demographic characteris­ tics. American archaeologist T. Edward Kidder, who began teaching at Tokyo’s newly founded International Christian University in 1956 at age thirty-­four, noted that “the Japa­nese faculty was a generation older, almost to a man.”131 The advanced age of scholars born before the twentieth ­century and the battle­ field decimation of younger cohorts left the men of one age, now approaching their m ­ iddle years, in charge of reconstructing h ­ uman science during and a­ fter the occupation. To them would fall the task of building institutions to study and achieve the ideal of the cultural nation.

4 F R O M “ R A C E ” T O “ C U LT U R E ”

The war­t ime Japa­nese state and military w ­ ere disgraced by defeat and dis­ empowered by SCAP. During the occupation the field generation filled the ­vacuum they left as arbiters of national identity with a new vision of Japa­ neseness. The men of one age embraced modernization as the foundation of objective scholarship and as the ideology of a p ­ eople reborn. They domesticated the ideals of democracy, capitalism, and peace ­under the formulation of the cultural nation. Given ­t hese circumstances, culture (bunka) was almost over­ determined as postwar h ­ uman scientists’ most impor­tant analytical variable. Prior to 1945 race had functioned as the primary mode of categorizing ­individuals and socie­ties. However, the horrors it had justified—­most fa­ mously, t­ hose committed by Nazi Germany—­called its validity into question worldwide. Meanwhile, the outbreak of the Cold War drew new attention to ideology as a distinctive feature of populations. In the view of many ­human scientists, culture, broadly understood as learned social be­hav­ior, not only shed the most obnoxious baggage of race but also offered a strategy for coher­ ing the assorted polities pursuing modernization u ­ nder U.S. tutelage. The adoption of “culture” did not signify the rejection of many long-­ standing chauvinistic and teleological assumptions about h ­ uman diversity. The transnational scientific community proved unwilling to completely d ­ iscard notions of systematic, innate differences. In Japan, the idea of minzoku, which blended inborn and acquired characteristics, came ­under fresh analy­sis and contestation. During the imperial age, minzoku had connoted the arrange­

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ment of subject populations into a confraternal hierarchy below the sovereign Japa­nese. ­A fter World War II, however, the term acquired a meaning closer to “ethnic group.” Popu­lar among midcentury American ­human scientists, the construct of ethnicity was gradually diffused as a compromise between culture and race. In the de­cade a­ fter the war Japa­nese scholars came together to study culture and minzoku in new and preexisting institutions. UNESCO linked colleagues around the world in a common quest to produce a new understanding of diver­ sity for a peaceful global order. The Japa­nese Society of Ethnology reappeared to restore professional credibility to and public confidence in ­human scientists. Perhaps most significant was the creation of Japan’s first university department of cultural anthropology, which schooled new generations of knowledge produc­ ers in field methodology. As an administrator and researcher in each of ­these in­ stitutions, Izumi Seiichi was to play a prominent role in reformulating Japa­nese scholarship as a self-­consciously objective vehicle of national identity formation.

The objectivity of culture ­ fter 1945 ­human scientists around the world embraced culture as their right­ A ful object of inquiry. Amid the incipient Cold War, culture offered a frame­ work to link nations committed to the values of democracy, capitalism, and peace. Early postwar American scholars differed as to the precise meaning of culture, with one 1952 text proposing well over one hundred definitions. Most agreed, however, that culture encompassed some learned social habitus; a syn­ thesis of be­hav­ior, customs, activities, industry, beliefs, mentalities, traditions, patterns, institutions, structures, and adaptations.1 The variation of the culture concept that came to dominate the postwar world is often attributed to Franz Boas (1858–1942), generally remembered as the f­ ather of American cultural anthropology. Trained in his native Germany as a physical anthropologist and specialist in native ­p eoples of North Amer­i­ca, Boas immigrated to the United States in 1887. Two years ­later, he was appointed a professor at Columbia University, where he remained for the rest of his ­career. Although Boas upheld the validity of race as a scientific construct, he devoted his life to opposing social hierarchies and policies based on racial science. Rejecting the idea of fixed standards for evaluating cultures, he promoted relativism: the idea that each group is comprehensible on its own terms, manifests internal consistency and integrity, and deserves re­spect.2

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Boas’s relativism challenged the evolutionist idea that cultures pro­g ress through uniform stages of pro­g ress to resemble the elevated state of Euro-­ American civilization. Instead, he stressed a nondirectional and contingent vision of change. In his words, “the values, customs, and institutions charac­ teristic of a par­tic­u­lar p ­ eople” emerged as “an accidental growth, made up of borrowings, in­de­pen­dent inventions, scraps taken from ­here and ­t here.”3 In contrast to ­earlier thinkers who linked geography to a racial hierarchy, Boas studied setting as a source of creativity and conditioning. In his understand­ ing, ­humans ­were “cultural creatures who also happen to be biological ones,” subject to modification by their environment.4 By the end of the First World War Boas’s teachings had spread throughout North Amer­i­ca, in part due to his successful placement of intellectually diverse but loyal followers at major universities throughout the United States, Canada, and Mexico.5 During the interwar years his ideas traversed the Pacific. In 1938 Japa­nese anthropologist Mishina Shōei (1902–1971) recorded his travels through the “Boasian landscape” of the United States for readers of MK. Five years l­ ater, at the height of Japan’s war against the Allies, the journal translated a summary of Boas’s ideas by his student Alexander Goldenweiser (1875–1961).6 From ­t hese beginnings, Boasian princi­ples took root in Japan a­ fter 1945. A major vehicle for the transmission of Boas’s culture concept was the work of his student and colleague Ruth Benedict (1887–1948). Benedict’s famed 1946 monograph The Chrysanthemum and the Sword attempted to delineate the Japa­nese “national character,” anthropomorphizing and homogenizing the nation as an individual defined by personality traits rooted in cultural indoctrination. During World War II many of Benedict’s colleagues viewed the Japa­nese national character as pathologically deviant, defined by group-­ mindedness, rigidity, and fear of dishonor. They offered ­t hese predispositions as an explanation for the protracted, doomed strug­g le and accompanying atrocities of Japa­nese aggression in Asia and Oceania.7 Beginning her work on Japan in mid-1944 and finishing just ­after the war had ended, Benedict was unable to undertake field research of her own. Instead, she worked according to a method characterized as “research at a distance.” With the help of a second-­generation Japa­nese American in­for­mant, Benedict interviewed and conducted psychological tests on interned Japa­nese emigrants and their descendants. She also analyzed Japa­nese texts, images, and films, as well as writings by early twentieth-­century Western observers. Benedict rejected the idea of an incorrigible, abnormal national character. Instead, she attributed

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Japan’s expansionist course to a small, misguided militarist coterie at the helm. Removing power from authoritarian leaders, she implied, would f­ ree mass so­ ciety to pro­gress (­under U.S. instruction) to democracy, capitalism, and peace.8 A Japa­nese translation of Chrysanthemum provoked an immediate, vocif­ erous reaction upon publication in 1948. L ­ ater that year, a group of prominent Japa­nese scholars convened a roundtable to assess Benedict’s depiction of na­ tional society. Ishida Eiichirō applauded the book’s “excellent ideas which are worthy of calling to our attention and encourage us to reflect upon ourselves.” However, he and the rest of the group censured Chrysanthemum’s method­ ological shortcomings, factual errors, and failure to capture historical change and diversity. Watsuji Tetsurō summarized the consensus: The author arrives at over-­generalized conclusions on the basis of partial data, and very often makes judgments about the character of the Japa­nese p ­ eople in general from such propaganda . . . ​which w ­ ere believed only by a small part of the militarists for a definite time. . . . ​Therefore it strikes us Japa­nese as queer that Benedict accepts certain no longer influential thoughts on customs of the past as characteristic of present-­day Japa­nese culture.9

Less controversial ­were Benedict’s Patterns of Culture (1934) and Race: Science and Politics (1940), which pleaded for tolerance and denounced race-­based policymaking as “a travesty of scientific knowledge.”10 In the early 1950s both Patterns and Race ­were translated into Japa­nese, each accompanied by a critical introduction praising Benedict’s princi­ples as a model for postwar Japan.11 In addition to the influence of Benedict and Boas, SCAP censorship of public discussions of race—­motivated in part by a desire to safeguard the fragile friendship between the United States and Japan—­shifted domestic discussion of ­human diversity to emphasize learned be­hav­ior over biological criteria.12 The word minzoku underwent a fundamental transformation in meaning. During the imperial age minzoku connoted Germanic notions of the Volk or race-­nation. The innate superiority of the Japa­nese minzoku justified its rule over the related but inferior ­peoples of the empire. ­A fter 1945, however, minzoku came to signify a synthesis of physiological and cultural markers of group identity—­what English-­language academics increasingly referred to as “ethnicity.” Changing meanings of minzoku naturally impacted the study of minzokugaku (ethnology). To early postwar scholars seeking to escape the taint of collaboration with imperialism and fascism, ethnology appeared fatally

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compromised. ­Under the influence of U.S. occupation scholars, many erst­ while ethnologists instead came to identify as cultural anthropologists (bunka jinruigakusha). Physical anthropologists (jinruigakusha) likewise attempted to sever their discipline from its racist legacy through self-­reconceptualization as biological anthropologists (shizen jinruigakusha). At a moment when cultural anthropology was still finding its footing in American academia, Japan offered U.S. Boasians a “blank slate” to build knowl­ edge anew, rather than to continue old domestic b ­ attles against race-­based science or to c­ ounter new challenges posed by the behaviorism of Harvard and the urban sociology of Chicago. Meanwhile, to Japa­nese scholars, cultural anthropology represented an “objective” lens on h ­ uman difference, seemingly innocent of the stigma of prewar racism. In the hands of the field generation, a new set of institutions would develop the study of culture to reinforce the values of cultural nation: democracy, capitalism, and peace.

UNESCO One of the most impor­tant institutions for the investigation of culture in early postwar Japan originated far beyond its borders. The United Nations Educational, Social, and Cultural Organ­ization succeeded the prewar League of Nations International Institute of Intellectual Cooperation and the Conference of Allied Ministers of Education, but enjoyed a much larger bud­get and a more ambitious mission. The organ­ization came into being in November 1945, when representatives from twenty prospective member states convened to draft a constitution. Its preamble stated, Ignorance of each other’s ways and lives has been a common cause, throughout the history of mankind, of that suspicion and mistrust between the p ­ eoples of the world through which their differences have all too often broken into war. . . . ​The g­ reat and terrible war which has now ended was a war made pos­ si­ble by the denial of the demo­cratic princi­ples of the dignity, equality, and mu­ tual re­spect of men, and by the propagation, in their place through ignorance and prejudice, of the doctrine of the in­equality of men and races.13

Through the diffusion of antiracist values, UNESCO hoped to forestall an­ other world war. However, b ­ ecause it excluded major socialist states such as the USSR and the P ­ eople’s Republic of China, it functioned as a de facto mouth­ piece of American ideology.14

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During UNESCO’s formative years Japan was ineligible for membership due to its occupation by the Allies. However, its goals resonated deeply with the war-­weary Japa­nese public. Mere months a­ fter the founding of the organ­ ization in Paris, Japan’s first UNESCO club appeared in the city of Sendai. Its found­ers stated, “The task of promoting peace should not be left in the hands of government leaders and a handful of representatives alone but should rest on the p ­ eople of Japan at large as well.”15 A second club soon emerged in Kyoto, followed by more than one hundred o ­ thers over the course of the occupation. At their peak, t­ hese grassroots organ­izations counted more than two hundred thousand members nationwide, making UNESCO more popu­lar in Japan than in many of its founding nations.16 Japa­nese ­human scientists broadly supported UNESCO, which offered institutional legitimacy for their burgeoning role as spokesmen of national identity. To this end, they linked the organ­ization to the ideal of the cultural nation. As Ōtaka Tomoo wrote, UNESCO was nothing less than a “heaven-­ sent child” for a nation “in the pro­cess of emerging from the war ruins to be­ come a peace-­loving cultural state.”17 The groundswell of popu­lar support for the organ­ization appeared to confirm democracy, capitalism, and pacifism as Japa­nese values. One observer characterized the Japa­nese p ­ eople as “kamikaze for UNESCO”—an awkward but power­f ul meta­phor evoking the intensity of modernization sentiment in the recently defeated nation.18 Among UNESCO’s earliest concerns was the basis of ­human difference. In 1949 the organ­ization convened eight scholars of global repute, representing a myriad of disciplines and nationalities, to rule on the nature and validity of race. Together they declared race “not so much a biological phenomenon ­ uman as a social myth.”19 Their published statement upheld the unity of the h species, denounced the idea of innately superior and inferior populations, and discarded the possibility of categorizing individuals according to phe­ notypic traits. Although other passages suggested a less drastic rejection of inborn differences, ­t hese contentions still struck many colleagues as too ex­ treme. Physical anthropologists and ge­ne­ticists, who ­were underrepresented among the draf­ters, strongly protested the w ­ holesale dismissal of biology. A year l­ater a second statement vetted by over a hundred experts retreated from the original constructivist position on race, defending it as “a scientific field of study.” Even Ruth Benedict, one of the most renowned midcentury students of culture, argued, “It behooves us . . . ​to study race historically and biologi­ cally and anthropometrically without expecting race to account for all h ­ uman

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achievements.”20 What Benedict and her colleagues objected to was not the idea of systematic inborn differences among ­human populations, but rather the manipulation of ­t hose differences for po­liti­cal purposes. Ineligible to contribute to the UNESCO Statement on Race, the cream of Japa­nese academia, including both Nanbara Shigeru and Yanaihara Tadao, united to affirm a broadly similar position: Science offers no evidence for ­either that any ethnic group [minzoku] is inherently inferior or that any group is inherently superior. It is all the more senseless, there­ fore, to make certain given ethnic characteristics as the basis for ­either servility or arrogance. If t­ here appears to exist any grading between dif­fer­ent ethnic groups, we believe that it is rather basically conditioned by social, economic, and po­liti­cal environment, and therefore we insist that all men stand equal in their rights and opportunities for the enjoyment of welfare and further that in­equality in this re­spect constitutes a f­ actor contributing to the fostering of war.21

This statement marked a significant departure from the pre-1945 view of minzoku as a characteristic synthesis of physiology and learned be­hav­ior situating a p ­ eople within a hierarchy of civilization capped by the Japa­nese. Instead, it redefined the term to prioritize cultural over biological ­factors and to convey the essential equality of humanity. Thus reenvisioned, minzoku re­ mained acceptable to scholars as a unit of analy­sis. In the midst of the furor surrounding the publication of the first UNESCO statement, Japan formally applied for admission to the organ­ization. Accompanied by two Japa­nese colleagues and two SCAP observers, Ōtaka attended its fifth annual meeting in Florence, Italy. The United States urged UNESCO to grant Japan membership. It viewed the organ­ization as “a kind of back door . . . ​into the world community”; a vehicle for promoting Japan as Amer­i­ca’s loyal, subordinate partner in Cold War East Asia.22 U.S. allies including the Republic of China (Taiwan) and the Philippines spoke in f­ avor of Japa­nese membership, noting that war­time memories remained b ­ itter but that intellectual cooperation stood to benefit the entire Asia-­Pacific region.23 In March 1950 UNESCO admitted Japan as its sixtieth member, despite the fact that the nation had not yet regained in­de­pen­dence. The Diet subsequently created the Japa­nese National Commission for UNESCO, nominating Ōtaka as chairman and Izumi as secretary.24 At the time of his appointment, Izumi was preparing for his first self-­ directed postwar research proj­ect: a study of Jejudo mi­grants in Tokyo. During

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the imperial era Japan commonly stigmatized Koreans as unhygienic, im­ moral, degenerate, witless, and generally inferior in both physiological and cultural terms. ­Those who settled in Japan tended to provoke even greater dis­ dain. Many lived in poverty, having fled their homeland in search of economic opportunities a­ fter the colonial government deprived them of their ancestral landholdings and identities. A small cohort of left-­w ing students attracted especial scrutiny and opprobrium. Japa­nese attitudes ­toward the mi­grants remained largely unchanged fol­ lowing the liberation of K ­ orea. Although SCAP repatriated most Koreans to the peninsula, some five hundred thousand remained as Japan’s largest for­ eign minority (comprising some 93 ­percent of non-­Japanese nationals in the home islands). ­Under the occupation they suffered new forms of intolerance as “third-­country nationals” (dai san kokujin). Stripped of the Japa­nese citi­ zenship they had held as imperial subjects, they became stateless. Failing to consider their exclusion from the legitimate economy, the media frequently depicted Koreans in Japan as a social burden and criminal ele­ment responsible for drug manufacturing and trafficking, prostitution, gangsterism, and other illegal activities.25 Perhaps in part as a result, most h ­ uman scientists showed ­little interest in the mi­grants’ experiences. The par­tic­u ­lar issues facing natives of Jejudo merited no scrutiny at all. By some estimates, as many as one in five Koreans who remained in postwar Japan hailed from the island. Instability in Jejudo, culminating in an uprising from April 1948 to May 1949 that killed tens of thousands, not only forestalled their repatriation but also prompted many compatriots to join their exile.26 During his fieldwork in Jejudo nearly fifteen years ­earlier, Izumi had ob­ served that the local population suffered discrimination at the hands of both the Japa­nese occupiers and peninsular Koreans. Now, in May 1950, he assem­ bled a team of gradu­ate students to study the social dynamics and lifestyle of Jeju mi­grants and their families in occupied Japan.27 Izumi’s team focused on Tokyo, where the mi­g rants ­were concentrated. He selected a ward that had once been home to over fifteen thousand Jeju islanders. At the time of his study approximately two thousand remained, dis­ tributed among about five hundred ­house­holds. Izumi intended to interview about half of this population, but the outbreak of the Korean War in mid-­June greatly reduced the willingness of research subjects to participate. Ultimately, he collected data from a total of seventy-­t hree h ­ ouse­holds. Izumi noted nu­ merous signs of mi­g rant adaptation to local life, including the adoption of

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Japa­nese naming practices, the arrangement of living spaces according to Japa­nese norms, and marriage to Japa­nese spouses. Meanwhile, the wearing of traditional clothing and observance of island religious customs had declined, particularly among men. “The rural [Jeju] social structure is almost completely disintegrated due to the impact of urban life in Tokyo,” Izumi concluded.28 In the second portion of the study, Izumi and a Tōdai gradu­ate student named Sofue Takao (1926–2012) assessed the personality characteristics and emotional functioning of school-­age c­ hildren of mi­grants through Rorschach tests. ­These psychological assessments asked in­for­mants to respond to ten sym­ metrical images resembling inkblots. A trained interlocutor interpreted their re­ sponses as reflecting certain individual needs, motives, and conflicts. Izumi and Sofue compared results from thirteen fourth-­, fifth-­, and sixth-­graders to ­those of Japa­nese ­children of similar ages in Tokyo and Aomori (a predominantly rural prefecture in northern Japan). From their small sample, the researchers deemed the Tokyo population (both islander and Japa­nese) psychologically superior to the Aomori cases. They attributed this difference to the relatively stimulating nature of urban life. Nonetheless, the Jeju c­ hildren w ­ ere adjudged to be of over­ all low intelligence. Izumi’s published report declared, “Their extroversive and shallow-­minded type, ready to react recklessly to outer stimuli . . . ​is never dis­ cerned with the Japa­nese ­children.”29 In spite of—or ­because of—­his long expe­ rience in ­Korea, Izumi displayed prejudices typical of occupation-­era Japa­nese. Its biases notwithstanding, Izumi’s study of Jeju islanders in Tokyo opened new vistas in Japa­nese ­human science. The proj­ect was an early Japa­nese foray into psychological anthropology, a subfield exploring the influence of encul­ turation into a specific group, usually in early childhood, on the individual psyche. Psychological anthropologists often used projective techniques to analyze cognition, emotion, perception, motivation, and ­mental health. Prior to 1945, Japa­nese psychologists and psychiatrists had administered Rorschach tests in both the metropole and the empire, with some scholars even attempt­ ing their application among aboriginal groups in Taiwan. However, Izumi and Sofue ­were among the first nonmedical researchers to use projective diagnos­ tics. In writing up their findings, the pair devoted several paragraphs to in­ troducing the tests and their history in Eu­rope and the United States.30 Sofue would subsequently emerge as a pioneer of psychological anthropology in early postwar Japan. U ­ nder his leadership, the subfield developed robustly, inspir­ ing journals, study circles, and collaborations among domestic and foreign researchers into the 1960s.31

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The Jeju islander proj­ect also marked the first time that Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists looked at Koreans or indeed any group of noncitizens in the home islands as a subject for analy­sis. Only a few years ­later, Izumi would return to the topic of migration in a landmark survey of Japa­nese settlers and their descendants in Brazil (see Chapter 6). In the meantime, research on minori­ ties helped to prepare him for his next, UNESCO-­sponsored study. At its first official meeting in 1946, the organization had inaugurated a proj­ect titled “Tensions Affecting International Understanding” with the goal “to contrib­ ute to the establishment of permanent world peace by inquiring into vari­ous feelings of collective antagonism and antagonism consciousness imminent in the social lives of mankind as well as by studying their c­ auses, and, if pos­si­ble, the mea­sures of neutralizing them.”32 ­Under t­ hese auspices, Izumi’s colleagues investigated topics including the resurgence of right-­w ing nationalism, the phenomenon of fox possession (seen as the source of madness in many rural areas), and the rise of “new religions” (shinshūkyō) and spread of Chris­tian­ity. He himself turned a scientific lens on the prob­lem of racial discrimination (jinshu henkan) in Japa­nese society for the first time.33 Prewar Japa­nese scholars had seldom considered domestic diversity in ­racial terms. (One exception, the indigenous Ainu population, is discussed in Chapter 5.) However, SCAP’s 1946 constitution legally prohibited racial dis­ crimination, thus calling attention to the phenomenon.34 American h ­ uman scientists, long preoccupied by race relations, also inspired Japa­nese scholars. Izumi was strongly influenced by the work of Emory Bogardus (1882–1973), a Chicago School sociologist at the University of Southern California and a pio­ neer in the study of racism. Bogardus began his c­ areer at a particularly tense moment for American society, when many native-­born “white” communities felt threatened and affronted by the immigration of foreign nationals and the large-­scale movement of African Americans out of the South. Bogardus’s early work focused on racial antipathies t­ oward Japa­nese immigrants in California, culminating in the 1924 Asian Exclusion Act that prohibited further settle­ ment. Breaking with e­ arlier so­cio­log­i­cal studies, which viewed conflict arising from perceived racial differences as largely inevitable, he used the relatively new technique of the social survey to “objectively” understand and confront sources of hatred.35 Bogardus’s Social Distance Scale (sometimes referred to as the Bogardus Scale) purported to quantify “the degree of sympathetic understanding that exists between two persons or between a person and a group.”36 In its mature

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form, the scale elicited an in­for­mant’s attitude ­toward a par­tic­u ­lar population through seven questions posed in order of ascending intimacy (ranging from “Would you allow members of this group to live in your country?” to “Would you marry a member of this group?”). By the 1950s the scale had been used in nations around the world, from Czecho­slo­va­k ia to Taiwan to New Zealand. Described as “one of the landmarks in the history of attitude mea­sure­ment,” it remains in use t­ oday in the disciplines of sociology, po­liti­cal science, psy­chol­ ogy, language arts, and education.37 Izumi a­ dopted a modified version of the Social Distance Scale to solicit popu­lar perceptions of sixteen “foreign ­peoples” (iminzoku) that maintained significant expatriate communities in Tokyo. Together with twenty of his stu­ dents at Meiji University, he scouted twenty-­five dif­fer­ent locations around the city for in­for­mants. The team selected 385 males and females representing an array of occupational categories (government employees, h ­ ouse­w ives, fac­ tory workers, e­ tc.), which functioned as a proxy for socioeconomic status. The team undertook its research in early September 1951, just prior to the signing of the Treaty of Mutual Security and Cooperation (Anpo) between Japan and the United States. This agreement laid the groundwork for the postoccupation relationship between the two nations. Believing that news of the treaty might skew public perceptions of Americans and other groups, Izumi and his team worked feverishly to complete their interviews in just two days.38 Surveyors not only asked Bogardus’s seven questions but also queried in­for­mants regarding their views on the physical appearance, personality characteristics, cultural level, and perceived racial proximity of the resident foreign populations. Izumi further solicited opinions of the economic and po­ liti­cal relationship between Japan and their countries of origin. In many cases, ­respondents had not encountered certain groups through personal experience, hearsay, or the media, and w ­ ere unable to provide useful answers. Even so, the study revealed some patterns in Japa­nese attitudes. Nearing the end of a suc­ cessful occupation, Americans commanded the highest positivity ratings, with about half of in­for­mants describing them as a “likable ethnic group” (suki na minzoku). (Questions specifically regarding “Negroes,” however, established prevalent biases against dark skin, perhaps exacerbated by SCAP’s own policy of segregation.) In general, Western nationals (Australians, French, British, and Italians) enjoyed high levels of re­spect, with interviewees describing them as clean, fair-­minded, kind, and generous to Japan. Respondents also main­ tained relatively benign views of the Germans, comrades in defeat.39

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By contrast, t­ hose surveyed expressed moderate to intense dislike and distrust of foreigners from both the Soviet sphere of influence and from for­ mer imperial territories. In the case of Rus­sians, Izumi hypothesized that the influence of the United States was decidedly prejudicial. Moreover, the USSR had recently aroused the Japa­nese public by declining to sign the San Francisco Treaty ending World War II, by disputing Japan’s northern bound­ ary, and by detaining hundreds of thousands of Japa­nese soldiers captured in Manchukuo in 1945. Japa­nese perceptions of East and Southeast Asians (Burmese, Filipinos, Indonesians, Viet­nam­ese, and o ­ thers) w ­ ere also strongly negative, reflecting the basic continuity of imperial ideas regarding their racial inferiority. In the case of the Chinese (whom the study referred to by the derogatory term Shinajin), biases reflected con­temporary Japa­nese fears of communism as well as a longer quasi-­colonial history. Long a model for Japa­nese civilization, in the nineteenth c­ entury the so-­called M ­ iddle Kingdom was transformed into “Shina,” a negative exemplar and cautionary tale for its island neighbor. Seemingly unable to combat the ravages of opium, imperial­ ism, and civil strife, the Chinese became associated with addiction, filth, vice, and other characteristics of backwardness. Japa­nese expansionists exaggerated this degeneracy to justify their attempt to take over China. Five years ­after this bid failed, a third of Izumi’s respondents still described the Chinese as dishon­ orable (zurui). Large numbers also agreed that they ­were derelict (mufuku) and malicious (hara kuroi).40 Even more negative w ­ ere public perceptions of Koreans, whom the study identified as the most stigmatized group in Japa­nese society. If Izumi’s in­for­ mants ­were representative of the population at large, over two-­t hirds of post­ war Japa­nese regarded resident Koreans as “dirty” (fuketsu). Respondents also generally believed that Koreans manifested a low level of cultural development and saw them as “hard to become friendly with” (shitashimi nikui). A mere handful understood Koreans as close ethnic relatives (shinsetsu).41 ­These data suggested that if the Japa­nese had ever truly internalized the rhe­toric of racial confraternity that justified their annexation of K ­ orea, ­these sentiments did not long survive the end of colonial rule. Despite Izumi’s own prejudices, for the self-­identified peninsular, ­t hese findings ­were deeply troubling. In ­later years, he advocated more humane treatment and the extension of Japa­nese citizen­ ship to stateless Koreans born in Japan.42 Izumi’s study was ­limited to the examination of Japa­nese prejudices against foreigners. It failed to consider racism against certain domestic groups

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now considered distinctive and often subject to bigotry, such as Okinawans, Ainu, and Burakumin (outcastes historically associated with “impure” though socially valuable occupations). By depicting discrimination as a phenomenon faced only by non-­nationals in Japan, Izumi suggested the basic unity of the Japa­nese minzoku and implied the existence of certain fundamentals coher­ ing the population of the postwar state. During the occupation, the Japa­nese Society of Ethnology would take up the task of delimiting t­ hese par­ameters of the national community.

The Japa­n ese Society of Ethnology From its founding in 1934, the JSE served as a central professional organ­ization for h ­ uman scientists. In 1943 the association was amalgamated into the Ethnic Research Institute (Minzoku Kenkyūjo) u ­ nder the leadership of Oka Masao. With the disbandment of this think tank at the end of the war, the JSE re­ emerged as an in­de­pen­dent society to transform the discredited study of racial hierarchies in the Japa­nese empire into an analy­sis of the “objective” variable of culture. In pursuit of a fresh start, members debated relaunching the organ­ization as the “Japa­nese Society of Cultural Anthropology.” Fearing marginalization, however, some ethnologists objected to the new name.43 The postwar JSE took shape as a hybrid institution reflecting both the legacies of the early twentieth ­century as well as the changes of the years a­ fter 1945. While Shibusawa Keizō lent prestige and wealth to the JSE as president, Ishida Eiichirō served as its primary spokesman. As a student of econom­ ics and sociology at Kyoto Imperial University in the mid-1920s, Ishida em­ braced Marxism and joined the Japan Communist Party. Jailed from 1928 to 1934, he (unlike a majority of leftists) resisted state pressure to disavow his ­convictions. ­A fter his release, Ishida departed for Vienna to study historical ethnology ­under Wilhelm Schmidt. During brief visits home he cultivated ties with ­Japa­nese ­human scientists, even marrying into Yanagita Kunio’s ­family with Oka Masao’s assistance as a go-­between. Upon his permanent return to Japan in 1938, Ishida joined group expeditions to the Mongol lands, Sakhalin, and other parts of the empire. Although his war­time writings upheld the basic racial doctrines of Japa­nese imperialism, his long imprisonment and unusual steadfastness in resisting conversion to ideological orthodoxy gave him a uniquely moral reputation among postwar Japa­nese and SCAP academics.44

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In 1946, with the support of the CIE, Ishida revived MK, defunct for the preceding two years owing to the scarcities and distractions of the final phase of World War II. U ­ nder his editorship MK became a mouthpiece for cultural anthropology contributing to the cultural nation. In the first postwar issue of the journal Ishida declared, “Now we must build anew our research tradition, restore Japan as a cultural nation, and work night and day with colleagues around the world to advance our studies.” 45 The very format of MK conveyed its orientation t­ oward U.S.-­led modernization, with an English-­language t­ able of contents and, from 1947, English-­language abstracts of research articles. Situating the journal in the Americanist tradition, the inaugural postwar issue of MK included a translation of Franz Boas’s 1943 article “I Believe,” re­ iterating the anthropologist’s disavowal of biology as a determinant of indi­ vidual or population capabilities and destinies. Boas called on “­t hose who are devoted to the study of social prob­lems” to “see to it that through their influ­ ence the intellectual chains in which tradition holds us are gradually broken.” 46 This vision of ­human scientists as architects of a new world order con­ve­niently justified their expanding role in postwar Japan. Subsequent issues of MK reviewed publications by other major midcen­ tury American anthropologists including Ruth Benedict, Clyde Kluckhohn, George Murdock, and Ralph E. Linton, Boas’s (less distinguished) successor at Columbia.47 MK also addressed the significant backlog of Japa­nese research. With h ­ uman scientists largely unable to publish their findings during the last years of the war, the late 1940s and early 1950s witnessed an outpouring of writings on former imperial territories. The printing of academic monographs remained almost “an impossibility” on financial grounds, leaving journals as the most accessible forum for authors to disseminate their work.48 “Our hearts are dark regarding Japan’s military activities in Asia,” Ishida acknowl­ edged, “yet it is to be rejoiced that they led to a deep understanding of, and superlative scholarship on, primitive lifestyles and mentalities.” 49 Ishida’s ref­ erence to the empire, unusual among occupation-­era h ­ uman scientists, was made pos­si­ble by his credibility as a prisoner of the past regime. Research articles that appeared a­ fter 1945 carefully reframed prewar find­ ings in postwar terminology, eliding any discussion of the conditions u ­ nder which scholarship was produced. In 1948 and 1950 MK published two pieces by Izumi based on his research with the New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey. Typically, the author took pains to highlight his fieldwork as a signifier of objectivity. However, he avoided mentioning the imperial occupation that

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had motivated and enabled his work, noting only that “it was a time of rapid change.”50 Izumi’s articles cited none of his own ­earlier published research, nor that of his expedition colleagues. Instead, he placed his findings in a cosmo­ politan tradition of British, Dutch, and American scholarship. His articles also displayed a subtle substitution of terms. Whereas Izumi’s 1944 monograph was titled Nishi Nyū Ginia no minzoku (The races of New Guinea), his 1948 article “Sago yashi no umidasu bunka” (Sago culture) flaunted culture as its object of analy­sis. Rather than focusing on the racial characteristics formerly understood to differentiate mountain and coastal ­peoples, this piece called environment to account for the distinctive social structures of vari­ous Papuan groups.51 The appearance of Izumi’s research in MK cemented his reputation as an expert on New Guinea, despite the fact that he never returned to the island. Perhaps equally importantly, the publications brought him into contact with Ishida. Although both men had participated in vari­ous group field proj­ects in the Japa­nese empire, their paths had never crossed. During his first meet­ ing with the scholar who was to become his closest collaborator for nearly two de­cades, Izumi noticed his courtly manners and large head, noticeably disproportionate to Ishida’s slight stature.52 In 1949 Izumi accepted Ishida’s in­ vitation to join the MK editorial board along with two other transwar h ­ uman scientists: Miyamoto Nobuto (1901–1987) and Mabuchi Tōichi (1910–1988). Miyamoto and Mabuchi w ­ ere experts in the study of Taiwan’s indigenous population and f­ ormer professors at Taihoku Imperial University. Like Izumi, Mabuchi worked for the CIE before securing employment on the faculty of Tokyo Metropolitan University.53 Not long ­a fter Izumi joined the MK editorial board, the JSE commenced preparations for a dif­fer­ent type of ­human science publication: an encyclo­ pedia. Synthesizing knowledge of diversity promised the men of one age the opportunity to reestablish their public authority by redefining Self and Other in unassailably objective terms. In the words of its editor-­in-­chief, Shibusawa Keizō, the JSE encyclopedia was to revive the “critical spirit” of research fol­ lowing the “obstructions” of the war years.54 Given its long association with objectivity and state building, the encyclo­ pedia was an ideal vehicle of the postwar cultural nation. Although preceded by ­earlier, Chinese-­inspired exemplars, encyclopedias initially flourished during the Tokugawa period, forming the cornerstone of a virtual “library of public information” generated by new modes of empirical investigation.55 Following the Meiji Restoration of 1868, the encyclopedic form of eighteenth-­

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century Eu­ro­pe became dominant. Texts such as the famed Encyclopédie of Denis Diderot (1713–1784) transmitted Enlightenment values including the active pursuit of truth, scientific rationality, print capitalism, and unfettered po­liti­cal and intellectual exchange. As consumers, Diderot and his contempo­ raries i­ magined a Euro-­A merican “Republic of Letters” of propertied white males capable of using information to participate in public affairs.56 During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the Japa­nese state and intellectuals used encyclopedias to articulate and inculcate new beliefs, values, and mentalities among metropolitan citizens and colonial subjects. Like other consolidating nations and empires, Japan proffered the capability to produce vernacular encyclopedias as evidence of its fitness for sovereignty. Some serials aspired to impart a par­tic­u­lar branch of knowledge, while ­others functioned as general handbooks for understanding modern life and civilized be­hav­ior.57 From ­these beginnings, the encyclopedia market exploded ­a fter 1945. Observers of the 1950s and 1960s wrote of an “encyclopedia boom,” with sales figures “not even dreamt of by publishers elsewhere.”58 In a single product, the encyclopedia commingled the values of modernization. A library in mi­ crocosm, it symbolized the ­free circulation of information, impossible during the war years, among an informed and po­liti­cally active citizenry. In surveys distributed by Japa­nese publishers, readers conveyed their appreciation for en­ cyclopedias’ “rational scientific viewpoint,” “­great contribution to peace and culture,” and “humanist spirit.”59 Encyclopedias w ­ ere also significant as artifacts of capitalism, drawing con­ sumers and contributors into a relationship based on profit. Long associated with a middle-­class lifestyle, in the 1950s multivolume reference series w ­ ere marketed as “a necessity in ­every home.”60 Strong sales among upwardly mo­ bile and professional h ­ ouse­holds allowed publishers to pay scholars for their work. At a time when most Japa­nese faculty strug­gled to support themselves and their families through academic activities, few could eschew the oppor­ tunity to write for pay. The JSE proj­ect recruited more than fifty contributors: a veritable “who’s who” of Japa­nese academia including Yanagita Kunio, Oka Masao, Suzuki Eitarō, Ōtaka Tomoo, and o ­ thers. Initially, Shibusawa ­imagined the JSE encyclopedia as a single-­volume reference work. Ultimately, however, it expanded to four volumes covering approximately two thousand topics. The proj­ect took over a de­cade, with the first installment published at the conclusion of the occupation in 1952 and the

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final volume appearing in 1959. When completed, the Nihon shakai minzoku jiten (Japan Encyclopedia of Society and Folklore) provided a revised, “objec­ tive” common vocabulary for early postwar Japa­nese scholars and the public. Among the most fraught topics covered by the encyclopedia was Nihon minzoku, or the Japa­nese p ­ eople. In common use during the imperial era, the term had to be rehabilitated for postwar parlance. Oka Masao, the author of the article, described the Japa­nese as a “mixed blood” population.61 In the early twentieth ­century Oka’s Vienna School mentors had implicated “miscegenation” in racial degeneration. By contrast, Boasian anthropology rejected both the idea and the ideal of “pure” descent, instead emphasizing the hybridity of all con­temporary races. Using evidence from studies of African Americans and Eu­ro­pean immigrants to the United States, Boas argued that t­ here was “no good reason to believe . . . ​t hat the descendants of mixed marriages would be inferior to their parents.”62 The 1950 UNESCO Statement on Race articulated the consensus that intermarriage “has been ­going on from the earliest times” and that “no convincing evidence has been adduced that race mixture of itself produces biologically bad effects.”63 Against this backdrop of increasing ac­ cep­tance, Oka framed the heterogeneous heritage of the Japa­nese as a positive quality. Rather than establishing a confraternal relationship with the ­peoples of the empire, mixed blood now signified cosmopolitanism and the need for Japan to rejoin the global fraternity of nations ­after its war­time estrangement. Similarly, an article on Japa­nese culture (Nihon bunka) celebrated Japan’s diversity of customs, traditions, and be­hav­iors, cohered by certain social, lin­ guistic, economic, and religious fundamentals. Notably absent was any men­ tion of military activity, even in the distant past. The Japa­nese emerged as a peaceful p ­ eople committed to global cooperation. In fact, the article repre­ sented their cultural heterogeneity as evidence of a long-­standing internation­ alist spirit. As its author argued, “the deep connection between Japa­nese and world culture cannot be doubted.”64 However, he saw some scope for further pro­gress t­ oward the realization of the cultural nation, suggesting that Japa­nese citizens work to increase their individualism, self-­consciousness, and critical mindset. In this way, he charted the evolutionary course of the Japa­nese ­people and culture not only through the past but also into the f­ uture. Following the release of the JSE encyclopedia, both new and established publishing h ­ ouses produced similarly structured serials on h ­ uman science ­disciplines including archaeology, cultural geography, history, and art history. Many of t­ hese ventures used the same editors and authors as the JSE proj­ect:

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Izumi contributed to no less than five multivolume reference works.65 The pro­ liferation of encyclopedias bespoke not only their popularity and profitability, but also the rapid growth of h ­ uman science knowledge. Critical to this develop­ ment was the establishment of Japan’s first degree-­granting program in cultural anthropology at Tōdai, the oldest and most prestigious university in the nation.

Japan’s f irst university program in cultural anthropology The study of cultural anthropology at the University of Tokyo began in the Institute for Oriental Culture (Tōyō Bunka Kenkyūjo). One of many quasi-­ government think tanks founded to provide useful information for imperial administration, the Institute was founded on the Tōdai campus in 1941 as a relatively autonomous organ­ization with its own bud­get. It closed ­after Japan’s defeat, then reopened just over three years l­ ater in early 1949 with a modest fac­ ulty of six full professors (including Ishida Eiichirō), six assistant professors, and nine ju­nior associates. ­These academics upheld the ideal of the cultural nation, yet the Institute also conserved past knowledge, devoting the initial issues of its quarterly journal and sponsored monograph series to publishing the backlog of research undertaken in the former Japa­nese empire.66 Additionally, the Institute was a teaching fa­cil­i­ty, offering courses in economics, history, philosophy, religion, lit­er­a­ture, linguistics, archaeology, art history, po­liti­c al science, and law. In April  1951 Ishida suggested add­ ing sections in cultural geography and cultural anthropology. The proposal to co-­teach ­t hese fields reflected the strong relationship understood to exist between culture and environment, grounded in the influential work of the Vienna School and of Boas. That fall, to assist program development, Ishida requested authorization for an assistant professor position for Izumi. The two men worked well together, with Ishida contributing theoretical vision and Izumi, field knowledge and orga­nizational skill. For nearly two de­cades, their partnership would sculpt the development of cultural anthropology in Japan.67 To prepare for the new track, in early 1952 Ishida journeyed among U.S. anthropology departments and institutes, identifying the most suitable prac­ tices for adoption across the Pacific.68 The so-­called Joint Scientific Mission on Education and Research carried out a similar trip among American universities, museums, and government research stations. Anthropologist Okada Yuzuru (1911–1981), formerly of Taihoku Imperial University, and ten other Japa­nese

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scholars representing vari­ous disciplines met with faculty at Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Michigan, Chicago, Urbana–­Champaign, Berkeley, Stanford, and UCLA. They also visited the Bureau of Indian Affairs, vari­ous Smithsonian institutions, and organizations such as the National Research Council, Social Science Research Council, American Council of Learned Socie­t ies, and the American Anthropological Association.69 Building on this momentum, in mid-1952 Ishida and Izumi inaugurated Japan’s first cultural anthropology MA program at the Institute for Oriental Culture. Paralleling their efforts, American anthropologist Gordon Bowles (1904– 1991) also offered cultural anthropology courses on the Tōdai campus in the early 1950s. Bowles, a Quaker missionary’s son who had been raised in Japan, was a conscientious objector to the war but had helped to prepare for and serve the occupation. While working on the reform of secondary education in Japan ­under MacArthur, he befriended Nanbara Shigeru. A ­ fter Bowles finished his doctoral degree at Harvard in 1951, Nanbara persuaded him to commit to two years of teaching at Tōdai.70 Bowles was enthusiastic about the institutionaliza­ tion of cultural anthropology in Japan, writing to one American colleague, “We are trying to build a first class training center in Anthropology ­here at Tokyo University and we are fortunate in getting the backing of the administration 100%.”71 In 1953 and 1954 he taught alongside Sugiura Ken’ichi (1904–1954), an expert on “primitive” socie­ties who had conducted fieldwork in Japan’s empire in Asia and Oceania. When Sugiura was bedridden by terminal illness, Bowles appealed to Nanbara’s successor, Yanaihara Tadao, for help maintaining their course roster. The Tōdai president transferred the appointments of Ishida and Izumi to the main campus, merging all cultural anthropology offerings. At first, the pair, busy with research, lectured only once or twice per week. ­After Sugiura’s death, however, they became more active instructors.72 In addition to teaching at Tōdai, Bowles worked part-­time for the International House, contributed to the American Studies Seminar and to the establishment of an American studies discipline in Japan, and lectured weekly at the International Christian University. Arguing that “knowledge must be a ­t hing for the masses,” he recorded a six-­part educational series on ­human sci­ ence for the national radio station.73 Noting his critical support for building Japan’s first cultural anthropology program, the University of Kyoto invited him to take up a similar task following the end of his contract at Tōdai. Weary of Japa­nese academic politics and reluctant to take on the Kyoto bureaucracy without a strong backer, Bowles declined the offer and returned to the United

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States. He taught briefly at Columbia before accepting a tenure-­track appoint­ ment at Syracuse University, where he remained for the rest of his c­ areer. From upstate New York, Bowles maintained close relations with Japa­nese colleagues, assisting with grant applications and writing letters of recommendation for students pursuing study abroad. He worked with Shibusawa Keizō to establish the Japan Monkey Center for primatology research in 1956 and returned to Tōdai for a yearlong appointment as a visiting lecturer in 1968.74 Upon Bowles’s departure Tōdai filled his position with a succession of vis­ iting American gradu­ate students and Herbert Passin, who had remained in Tokyo following the dissolution of PO&SR. The university also recruited a corps of Japa­nese faculty. Given the novelty of cultural anthropology in Japan, ­t hose who taught in the program w ­ ere generally specialists in other disci­ plines. They included biological anthropologists Suzuki Hisashi (1912–2004) and Suda Akiyoshi (1900–1990) and archaeologists Yawata Ichirō (1902–1987) and Yamanouchi Sugao (1902–1970). Frequent guest speakers included the cul­ tural geographer Tada Fumio (1900–1978), Izumi’s former colleague in Keijō who had participated in both the KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party and the New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey; and Oka Masao and Mabuchi Tōichi, who built a closely collaborative gradu­ate program in social anthropology (shakai jinruigaku) at Tokyo Metropolitan University.75 Significantly, almost all early postwar instructors of cultural anthropol­ ogy courses at Tōdai had held an academic appointment outside the Japa­nese home islands prior to 1945. Imperial field experience functioned as an implicit qualification for a postwar professorship. Repatriates sometimes derided their metropolitan colleagues as armchair anthropologists who did l­ ittle more than read translated Western ethnographies—­scarcely the sort of training that the field generation wished to perpetuate.76 As Izumi wrote, “Cultural anthro­ pology is fundamentally an empirical science . . . ​seeing with your own eyes, hearing with your own ears, and feeling with your own hands.” He described fieldwork as a “coming-­of-­age ceremony” (seinenshiki) for anthropologists.77 Consonant with this position, the capstone of the Tōdai cultural anthropology gradu­ate program was a thesis based on fieldwork. With no support avail­ able for research travel in the years immediately following the occupation, ­t heses tended to explore domestic populations. In pursuit of the “primitivity” idealized by classical anthropologists, many budding researchers focused on the indigenous Ainu community in Hokkaido (see Chapter 5). Beginning in the mid-1950s Japan’s improved financial prospects enabled some gradu­ate

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students to venture abroad for fieldwork, often on expeditions led by their professors (see Chapters 6 and 7). Beyond the empirical research requirement, cultural anthropology train­ ing at Tōdai was broad, intensive, and rigorous. To qualify for admission to the MA program, applicants had to demonstrate an impressive (Western-­centric) theoretical and empirical knowledge of culture.78 During their two years of training, students took not only cultural anthropology courses but also eigh­ teen credit hours in archaeology, linguistics, and physical anthropology, as per the “four-­field” system characteristic of midcentury American instruction.79 As in the United States, this comprehensive approach tended to expose meth­ odological and ideological differences among faculty. Ishida ­later recalled the maiden years of the program as one of the worst periods of his life due to ­bitter disagreements among colleagues.80 The development of cultural anthropology education gave rise to a need for textbooks. Prior to 1945, around twenty pedagogical works of ethnology (in­ cluding translations from Western languages) circulated in Japa­nese universi­ ties. Grounded in imperial visions of minzoku, t­ hese volumes w ­ ere unsuited to the postwar intellectual climate. Oka’s first classes at Tokyo Metropolitan University ­adopted George Murdock’s mammoth Social Structure (1949), a staple of introductory courses in the United States. As the text was not avail­ able in Japa­nese, each week one class member laboriously prepared notes on a single chapter in advance on behalf of the group (including the professor, who was more comfortable with German). Works by Boas’s students, such as Robert Lowie’s Primitive Society (1919), also appeared frequently on early postwar syllabi.81 (Boas himself never wrote a textbook.) Japa­nese scholars of the early postwar period also embraced the opportu­ nity to systematize cultural anthropology and cultivate individual influence by writing their own textbooks. The six-­plus years of the occupation witnessed the publication of no fewer than eigh­teen such works, including several purport­ edly definitive volumes ­adopted for courses at Tōdai and Tokyo Metropolitan University.82 Okada Yuzuru’s 1947 Minzokugaku (Ethnology) was a transitional text, exemplifying the lingering influence of the Vienna School, as well as the Americanist tradition. By contrast, the pointedly titled Bunka jinruigaku (Cultural anthropology; 1950) by former Vienna School devotee Tanase Jōji (1910–1964) thoroughly committed to the ideas of Boas and his followers. In con­ structing a genealogy for cultural anthropology, both Tanase and Ōba Chiaki (1902–1978), author of an eponymous, competing textbook that appeared the

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following year, elided all mention of prewar Japa­nese research. Rather, they pro­ jected American thinkers as sources of a new postwar tradition.83 Transcending t­ hese early works was Sugiura Ken’ichi’s 1951 Jinruigaku (Anthropology), which covered both physical and cultural anthropological trends and was published despite, as the author lamented, the l­imited paper supply in early postwar Japan. Sugiura’s textbook proposed research on “life­ styles” (seikatsu) as an objective approach to minzoku. In Sugiura’s descrip­ tion, seikatsu encompassed technology, economic organ­ization, social and po­liti­cal structure, language, religion, collective consciousness, and interac­ tion with the environment. Of par­tic­u­lar importance in illuminating lifestyles was material culture: food, transportation, housing, clothing, farming tools, toys, crafts, religious icons, and other items. Unlike written sources, which ex­ cluded the illiterate and bespoke the biases of their authors, Sugiura adjudged artifacts an unmediated, impartial win­dow into ethnic consciousness.84 The study of lifestyles was not new: as early as the 1920s, Yanagita and Shibusawa proposed seikatsu as the essence of the Japa­nese minzoku. Social reformers of the day suggested “cultured living” (bunka seikatsu) as the de­ fining feature of Japan’s emergent ­middle class. In 1946, Japan’s constitution promised the right to “minimum standards of w ­ holesome cultured living.”85 While the exact meaning of bunka seikatsu remained undefined, early postwar ­human scientists took up the task of aligning the ideal within a telos t­ oward modernization. The cultured lifestyle emerged as a precondition of the cul­ tural nation.86 Given this resonance, seikatsu was virtually overdetermined as an object of analy­sis for cultural anthropologists. Following Sugiura’s death, Izumi, Ishida, and a coeditor produced a five-­volume cultural anthropology series that enshrined lifestyles as the target of field research.87 Aided by this expanding array of pedagogical texts, Tōdai created Japan’s first undergraduate major in cultural anthropology. The inaugural class of five students was graduated in March 1957. The BA degree, like the MA, closely fol­ lowed the four-­field American structure. Requirements included twenty credit hours in introductory coursework in archaeology and cultural, biological, and linguistic anthropology, twenty-­six additional hours in a chosen field, thir­ teen in electives, and fifteen in two foreign languages. Seminar topics ­included ­human pro­gress, the history of technology, social structure, geography, con­ temporary civilization, and p ­ eoples of vari­ous world areas. Izumi taught classes on psychological anthropology, ethnography, and field methodology. As models for his own exams, he solicited samples from colleagues in the United

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States. In the final year of the degree, students wrote a se­nior thesis (ten credits), often choosing traditional topics such as kinship, child-­rearing, and totemism. Although the number of majors remained small, class enrollments often reached forty or higher, providing many students with a foundation in culture.88 To “de­moc­ra­tize” the study of cultural anthropology beyond the na­ tion’s most elite university, Tōdai faculty offered frequent guest lectures and courses at nearby institutions. Izumi particularly enjoyed teaching at Tokyo Metropolitan University, where the more liberal atmosphere allowed him to bring his own research into the classroom.89 The University of Kyoto hosted a succession of visiting American anthropologists to “keep the iron hot,” as one wrote, for the establishment of a formal program.90 By the end of the 1950s, over seventy professors at sixty-­six public and private universities and col­ leges throughout the nation offered courses in cultural anthropology to more than three thousand undergraduates.91 However, it was at the postbaccalaure­ ate level that the discipline truly flourished, allowing Tōdai to expand its MA program into a PhD course. In 1959 a distinguished visiting anthropologist from the University of Chicago concluded, “The University of Tokyo may well have a group of gradu­ate students which for its number is better than any in this country. ­There is a journal of anthropology published by ­t hese students which may well be better than any equivalent in at least the United States.”92 The new degree holders enjoyed bright prospects in a recovering economy with a rising rate of university enrollment and consequent demand for faculty. Okada Hiroaki (b. 1932), the first student to earn a PhD in cultural anthro­ pology from Tōdai, secured a position at Waseda University, one of Japan’s finest private institutions.93 ­After receiving an MA degree in social anthropol­ ogy, Ayabe Tsuneo (1930–2007) earned a doctorate at UCLA and worked for UNESCO and Kyūshū University. His classmate Yamada Ryūji (b. 1929) joined the faculty at Nanzan University, a private Catholic school in Nagoya. Sofue Takao, who earned a PhD at Tōdai, was hired to teach at Tokyo Metropolitan University. Considered “among the most promising, if not the most promis­ ing” ­human scientist of his generation, Sofue was even proposed to replace Sugiura at his alma mater, though his former professors eventually declined to hire him out of consideration for “the ­f uture development and expansion of anthropological studies” at his employer.94 Instead, the department settled on Tōdai student Terada Kazuo (1928–1987), who received his degree in physical anthropology and became known primarily for his contributions to Andean archaeology (see Chapter 7).

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­ omen as well as men went on to establish ­careers in anthropology. While W academia remained an overwhelmingly male-­dominated enterprise, the post­ war period heralded an improved climate for female participation in h ­ uman science. The decimation of the high school-­and university-­age male cohorts during World War II to some extent facilitated the inclusion of ­women ­a fter 1945. Also impor­tant was the 1946 constitution, which set forth “the essential equality of the sexes” as a princi­ple of demo­cratic life.95 Tōdai began accept­ ing ­women students that very year. Hara Hiroko (b. 1934) was among the first female majors in cultural anthropology at the university. She graduated in 1957, undertook additional training at Bryn Mawr, and returned to Tokyo to accept a position at Gakushūin University. Ikawa (now Ikawa-­Smith) Fumiko (b. 1930), who received a BA degree from a prestigious ­women’s college, worked as Oka Masao’s clerical assistant and English-­language translator before ma­ triculating in his social anthropology MA program. A ­ fter further training at Harvard, she built a ­career in Paleolithic archaeology at McGill University in Canada. Ikawa’s classmate Kitahara (­later Aoyagi) Machiko (b. 1930) con­ tributed to scholarship on Japa­nese and Oceanic society. Hatanaka Sachiko (b. 1930) became the first Japa­nese anthropologist to undertake fieldwork in postwar New Guinea. Most famously, Nakane Chie (b. 1926) graduated from Tōdai in 1952 and joined the faculty in 1958. A dozen years ­later, she became the first female full professor at the university. Nakane achieved international renown as a scholar of Tibet, South Asia, and Japan.96 Many advanced students enjoyed warm and close relationships with the men of one age. Nakane referred affectionately to Izumi as an ­uncle (ojisan). Though an unenthusiastic lecturer, he enjoyed teaching small seminars, some­ times with as few as four participants. He welcomed students to his office for informal lunch sessions and joined them at bars ­after work for rounds of saké. For at least one student, ­t hese gatherings ­were “an oasis in the desert.”97 Oka Masao, a born raconteur, loved to regale his students with tales of his days in Vienna, while sitting around the pot stove drinking tea and eating sweets.98 When Sugiura fell ill in 1951, he asked students to gather at his bedside for classes. Sofue, whom he treated as a sort of younger ­brother, was particularly inconsolable following his death.99 Belonging to the cohort most depleted by battlefield casualties in World War II, the first wave of postwar university students shared the field generation’s unspoken sense of responsibility for Japan’s atrocities and defeat. In an in­ tellectual climate that resolutely embraced modernization, the two groups

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bonded over their shared mission to construct a cultural nation. Through team research expeditions during and ­a fter the occupation, the men of one age and their students would collaborate in the pursuit of objective knowledge that supported democracy, capitalism, and peace as the foundation of Japan’s postwar identity.

5 ­O T H E R S I N T O J A P A N ­ ESE

The rebuilding of Japa­nese ­human science institutions during the occupation laid the groundwork for large-­scale field expeditions akin to t­ hose of the impe­ rial age. Although PO&SR and other SCAP agencies undertook such proj­ects as early as 1947, Japa­nese scholars w ­ ere e­ ager to resume an in­de­pen­dent research agenda. Given financial limitations and ­legal restrictions on travel abroad dur­ ing the early 1950s, they looked to home for research sites. For the first (and only) time in the history of Japa­nese h ­ uman science, the intellectual resources of the state w ­ ere devoted entirely to the study of difference within its borders. In addition to promoting the values of modernization, the men of one age deployed fieldwork as a vehicle of nation building. Many ­human scientists ­imagined the Japa­nese as a diverse minzoku circumscribed by certain biologi­ cal and cultural fundamentals. At both the northern and southern extremes of the archipelago, home to historically in­de­pen­dent populations, they un­ dertook fieldwork to find evidence of Japa­neseness and thus bolster national sovereignty. Occupation-era field research reflected a vision of “comprehensive h ­ uman science” (sōgō jinrui kagaku). Comprehensive h ­ uman science was rooted both in prewar group expeditions and in the postwar influence of the American interdisciplinary tradition associated with Harvard University and the University of Chicago. It brought together scholars of culture from vari­ous perspectives in pursuit of a holistic, empirical understanding of a defined region. Comprehensive studies maximized scarce resources while building

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critical bonds among h ­ uman scientists through collaborative field research. Entrenching a vision of objective scholarship grounded in the values of ­modernization, ­t hese expeditions built a sense of commonality and cohort. Izumi, who or­ga­nized the two major comprehensive ventures of the occupa­ tion era, was responsible for nothing less than uniting the men of one age as architects and spokesmen of national identity in postwar Japan.

Seeking Self on Tsushima As president of the JSE, Shibusawa Keizō was the driving force ­behind com­ prehensive studies in occupied Japan. In a straitened age, his economic assets, po­liti­cal connections, and scholarly reputation positioned him to direct the developmental trajectory of the h ­ uman sciences. At the outset of the occupation, Shibusawa, like many Japa­nese and American colleagues, viewed the delineation of an objective field methodology as a para­ mount priority. U.S. scholars associated fixed disciplinary bound­aries with the discredited Germanic tradition of academic inquiry. To John W. Bennett, its “excessive disciplinary confinement of the several social sciences, . . . ​lack of clear visualization of the problematic classification of the social sciences, and too much emphasis on the subject classification” had suffocated the “critical, ‘burn­ ing objectivity’ ” that defined legitimate knowledge.”1 He offered the solution of the Chicago School: comprehensive research establishing explanatory linkages among vari­ous types of data gathered by scholars trained in dif­fer­ent disciplines. Through a common conceptual schema, mere breadth might become genuine integration.2 Shibusawa also drew inspiration from the multidisciplinary col­ laborations characteristic of U.S. area studies and from institutional models of unified ­human science research. Perhaps the most famous example was the Department of Social Relations, established by Clyde Kluckhohn and ­others at Harvard in 1946 to realize the potential of behavioral science. This experiment brought together anthropologists, psychologists, and sociologists to study the relationship between individual pathologies and social disorder.3 In 1947 Shibusawa convened a meeting of representatives of the profes­ sional organ­izations of physical anthropology, ethnology, folklore, sociol­ ogy, archaeology, and linguistics. For nearly two de­cades t­ hese disciplines had exchanged ideas through a loose forum known as APE (Anthropology, Prehistory, and Ethnology), culminating in four joint conferences in the late 1930s. Shibusawa persuaded the assembled party to commit to a more defined

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­ nion: the Association of Six Scholarly Socie­ties. The following year, geogra­ u phy and religious studies applied, bringing the total number of member organ­ izations to eight. Psy­chol­ogy became the ninth discipline to join the group in 1951, at which time the name was changed to the Association of Nine Scholarly Socie­ties (Kyūgakkai Rengō, hereafter referred to as the Association).4 “Before ­there can be sōgō [comprehensiveness], t­ here must be rengō [unity],” one member punned.5 The Association initially encouraged collaborative research on collectively in­ter­est­ing themes: rice and fire in 1948, Tokyo and f­ amily in 1949. However, ­these proj­ects tended to simply aggregate the output of individual scholars in disparate disciplines. Shibusawa envisaged the Association as more than an umbrella organ­ization hosting conferences and publishing a scholarly journal, Jinrui kagaku (­Human sciences). A committed empiricist, he hoped to establish a new, critical foundation for fieldwork through multidimensional, multidisci­ plinary analy­sis of a common site. At the third meeting of the Association in 1949, he proposed launching a landmark comprehensive field survey.6 Shibusawa ­imagined this expedition as the first Japanese-­organized counterpart of SCAP’s group field studies. As such, it would complement PO&SR’s field training in the values of democracy, capitalism, and peace. The Yomiuri Shinbun heralded the proj­ect as “the first truly collaborative fieldwork in Japa­nese history.”7 One ­human scientist even declared the comprehensive method “not simply novel to Japan, but unpre­ce­dented in the world” in its scope and aims.8 The emphasis on originality was not simply a marketing strategy. Importantly, it helped to erase the now tainted pre­ce­dent of group fieldwork in the empire. In fact, however, comprehensive research did not greatly differ in form from ­earlier field expeditions. As before 1945, the team model brought large numbers of h ­ uman scientists in dif­fer­ent disciplines together to produce objective research. The participants, veterans of imperial proj­ects, w ­ ere them­ selves a source of transwar continuity. And planning the venture was Izumi, who owed his qualifications for the task to his experience organ­izing war­time group studies in Mōkyō and New Guinea.9 The first step was choosing a field site. Association members put forward three potential locations. Significantly, all ­were located off the coast of the four main islands or “mainland” of the Japa­nese archipelago. “Offshore islands” traditionally occupied the periphery of Japan’s geographic consciousness. The convention of referring to them as ritō (remote islands) reinforced impressions of difference and backwardness.10 ­Human scientists first suggested studying

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the Ryūkyū chain, long a sovereign kingdom incorporated into Japan as the prefecture of Okinawa in 1879. However, some feared that its recent fortifi­ cation as a U.S. military base might obstruct access to or fatefully alter the research environment. Cultural anthropologists also objected to the second possibility, an island that seemed too integrated with mainland Japan to offer ­Others for study.11 The third proposed option, Tsushima, proved more satisfying in its histori­ cally ambiguous position. Located in an eponymous strait between the Korean peninsula and the Japa­nese archipelago, Tsushima enjoyed a long period of in­de­pen­dence before coming u ­ nder the control of the emerging Japa­nese state in the sixth c­ entury. During the early modern era of seclusion, the island served as a base for trade with ­Korea. In 1872 the Meiji government assigned Tsushima to the jurisdiction of Nagasaki prefecture and initiated mea­sures to counteract its perceived backwardness. Given its strategic position, the Japa­ nese navy became involved in local development as well, blasting a canal to allow faster passage of warships to the Asian mainland.12 The Meiji period also witnessed the first systematic attempts to study Tsushima’s past. Japa­nese historians of the era represented the island much as they did Jejudo: as a distinctive geographic, racial, and cultural unit lagging ­behind “mainland” Japa­nese civilization. Following the annexation of K ­ orea in 1910, ­these depictions of an “isolated island” (kojima) competed with po­liti­cally instrumental repre­sen­ta­tions of Tsushima as a step-­stone for h ­ uman migration and cultural contact across the strait between Japan and its peninsular colony. As one linguist wrote, “Tsushima was historically the periphery of Japan; its ‘west gate,’ so to speak . . . ​but since unification with ­Korea it has become the very center [chūō] of the empire.”13 Torii Ryūzō, who conducted excavations on the island in 1913 and 1916, asserted evidence of ancient connections to both the Japa­ nese archipelago and mainland Asia. Archaeologist Fujita Ryōsaku (1892–1960), who followed Torii to Tsushima in 1927 ­after years of work in K ­ orea, likewise upheld the geographic liminality of the island and its ­people. Physical anthro­ pologists furnished data on the height, head size, and blood types of Tsushima’s inhabitants, showing their intermediate position between Japa­nese and Korean control groups.14 Highlighting the continuity of the home islands and the conti­ nent, the study of Tsushima served to justify imperial ambitions in Asia. During the early 1940s research ceased as the Japa­nese military heavi­ly for­ tified Tsushima in anticipation of a pos­si­ble invasion by the Allies. Following Japan’s defeat, SCAP defined the nation-­state to include the four main islands

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and approximately a thousand ­others, including Tsushima. With the liberation of ­Korea, Tsushima had to be revised from its ­earlier position as a continental intermediary to an integrated and integral part of Japan. ­Under the occupation, therefore, field research on Tsushima offered Japa­ nese ­human scientists one of their first opportunities to build nationhood at the fringes of the archipelago. In 1948 the East Asia Archaeology Society (Tōa Kōko Gakkai) sponsored a series of excavations. ­After thirty-­seven days of dig­ ging, Mizuno Seiichi (1905–1971) and two coauthors concluded that the island was prob­ably settled at first by p ­ eople who came from the continent. They are, however, supposed to have further proceeded into Japan. . . . ​Tsushima, since the beginning, seems to have been inhabited by p ­ eople of this sort, form­ ing the northwestern front of the Jōmon culture area. However . . . ​t hey grad­ ually became rice cultivators of the Yayoi culture. Tsushima was, no doubt, developed ­u nder g­ reat influence from the continent, though not similarly to any culture of the continent.15

While acknowledging the historical influence of p ­ eoples and ideas from the Asian mainland, the archaeologists situated Tsushima within the Japa­nese chronology of Jōmon (the Neolithic age, now dated from approximately 10,000 BCE to 300 CE) and Yayoi (the advent of agriculture and state formation, said to have taken place between 300 BCE and 300 CE).16 Despite the ambigu­ ity of their findings, Fujita Ryōsaku, then head of the Japan Archaeological Association, declared to the press, “It’s a fact that Tsushima is not part of ­Korea.”17 By transforming academic speculation into truth for popu­lar audi­ ences, transwar ­human scientists cultivated their public profile and widened the foundations of their authority over Japan’s postwar national identity. Perhaps reflecting a genuine uncertainty he did not wish to advertise, Fujita also called for more research on Tsushima’s past. At the Association’s third annual meeting in 1949, h ­ uman scientists determined to take up this challenge. Their expedition received significant funding from the Japa­nese Ministry of Education, reflecting its perceived po­liti­cal importance. The Union of Tsushima Natives in Mainland Japan (Tsushima Chōson Rengōkai) also contributed to the venture in the hope of securing the island’s f­ uture within the Japa­nese nation-­state. Another backer was the prefectural government of Nagasaki, which administered the island and wished to improve the standard of living of its ­people. In the months leading up to the expedition, the prefec­ tural government compiled a wide-­ranging economic stimulus plan centered

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on the local fishing industry for distribution to all Association members.18 In 1953, following the passage of the Remote Islands Development Act (Ritō shinkō hō), Nagasaki requested ­human science data to assist in formulating policies combating Tsushima’s alleged backwardness. A member of the expe­ dition, folklorist Miyamoto Tsuneichi (1907–1981), became the first director of the Remote Islands Development Council established by this law.19 In May 1950 Izumi sailed to Tsushima for a preliminary assessment of re­ search conditions, which he deemed favorable despite a few misadventures. One month ­later the Korean War broke out, underlining the urgency of justifying Japa­nese sovereignty over the island and delaying the departure of the vanguard by ten days. For Izumi and other Keijō School participants, the Korean War was more than an incon­ve­nience; it was also a deeply personal concern. Upon reaching Tsushima, Izumi climbed its highest peak and listened to the sounds of b ­ attle only eighty kilo­meters away, fearful for friends on both sides. “How tragic to spill the blood of a p ­ eople in forming their nation,” he mourned.20 Some seventy-­five scholars joined the expedition’s first field season, which spanned six weeks in July and August 1950. The following year, about fifty researchers returned to complete an intensive ecological survey.21 Given Shibusawa’s prestige and the ­limited opportunities to undertake funded field­ work in occupied Japan, the venture had no difficulty attracting top ­human scientists such as Ishida Eiichirō, Sugiura Ken’ichi, and Mizuno Seiichi. Most researchers had field experience and over half had participated in expeditions on the Asian mainland before 1945. Izumi personally recruited several war­ time colleagues, including Suzuki Makoto, the physical anthropologist with whom he had collaborated in the Schouten Islands. Ōtaka Tomoo and Tayama Risaburō, respective directors of the KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party and the New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey, also joined the group. Tayama died ­after the first field season, prompting the team to dedicate their published findings to his memory.22 Joining t­ hese veterans w ­ ere several noteworthy new ­faces. A handful of gradu­ate students, born in the 1920s, developed close relationships with the men of one age as they jointly debuted comprehensive ­human science.23 At the opposite end of the age spectrum, Segawa Kiyoko (1895–1984) was older than most members of the field generation. Her participation in the Tsushima ven­ ture breached the traditional male mono­poly on the production of ­human sci­ ence knowledge and heralded f­ uture changes in expeditionary culture. Given the exclusion of ­women from Japan’s national universities during her youth,

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Segawa initially studied folklore informally with Yanagita Kunio. Beginning in the mid-1930s, she explored the role of w ­ omen in rural Japa­nese society. She ul­ timately achieved renown for her work on village customs and organ­izations.24 Fi­nally, the team welcomed two Americans: former CIE employees Richard Beardsley and his gradu­ate student Edward Norbeck (1915–1991). Only months ­earlier, the pair, along with Beardsley’s University of Michigan colleagues John W. Hall (1916–1997), Robert Hall (1896–1975), and Robert Ward (1916– 2009), had embarked on a long-­term, multidisciplinary field study in Okayama prefecture.25 Located on the Pacific coast of Japan’s largest island, Okayama of­ fered a case study of modernization in a rural setting. In Tsushima, Beardsley and Norbeck hoped to glimpse a comparative view of “traditional” life. “Not that primitivity is rampant (or required by me) but this is patently a folk cul­ ture, and contrasts beautifully with Okayama, which is scarcely ‘folk’ at all,” wrote Beardsley.26 The intellectual and personal diversity of the expedition members con­ cerned Izumi as a potential threat to the all-­important goal of cooperation in the field. Beardsley summarized the factional possibilities: “Kyoto against Tokyo U[niversity], private college against national institute, ‘Old Guard’ against ‘Young Turk.’ ”27 Once all of the participants had reached Tsushima, Izumi or­ga­nized an eve­ning of self-­introductions and research discussions. To forestall discord, he divided the party into a control panel (honbu) and eight intellectually coherent interdisciplinary subgroups, each led by a respected se­nior scholar. Traveling by rental car, the control panel discharged local for­ malities, secured permits from island authorities, liaised with newspaper re­ porters, and or­ga­nized conversations among researchers to maintain the goal of comprehensive scholarship. Members of the control panel also participated in the studies and social networks of subgroups. One ju­nior participant re­ called, “By the time we had finished our fieldwork, I was referring to colleagues who I had initially addressed as ‘Mr.’ (san) by [the more familiar appellation] kun. Se­nior figures whom I had called ‘Professor’ with the greatest re­spect be­ came ‘Mr.’ ”28 Shibusawa reflected, “Living communally on egalitarian terms, following the same course of research, and overcoming adversity together ex­ erted a strong psychological impact, and practically speaking was of tremen­ dous use in furthering truly comprehensive h ­ uman science.”29 In addition to common intellectual goals, the hardships of the field rein­ forced team solidarity and cohort formation. One researcher recalled “getting up at six ­every morning, listening and taking notes ­u ntil midnight or one,

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and copying old documents. . . . ​No ­matter how excited I may have been, the fatigue was merciless.”30 The lack of transportation options exacerbated his ex­ haustion. On rough and confusing roads unmarked on any map, trips between villages often required several hours of walking. Per­sis­tent hunger proved even more debilitating. Though accustomed to scarcity during World War II and its aftermath, the team confronted dire food shortages in remote Tsushima. Many locals suffered from acute deficiencies of vitamins A and C and had ­little to share.31 For lunch, farmers often ate nothing more than a small quantity of powdered sweet potato. On rest days they tended to skip the midday repast altogether. “The idea of ‘no work, no meal’ seemed to be alive and well in this area,” Miyamoto recorded. In the field, he generally made do with only a few small sweet snacks. To avoid burdening the local population, the expedition brought along its own rice. Shared with more than one hundred local laborers hired to excavate archaeological sites and to perform other support tasks, each individual allotment sufficed for only two meals per day.32 In addition to the staple grain, Beardsley reported that the party ate “several kinds of fish & shellfish esp[ecially] raw abalone which is a gochisō [delicacy] ­here, a few skimpy vegetables, and soup; raw egg in the A.M., in addition.” Although he may have enjoyed a better diet than his Japa­nese colleagues due to their eagerness to show him hospitality, he shared their sense of deprivation: “I tend to get hungry faster than for the same quantity of Western food (lack of protein perhaps).”33 At night, through the thin walls of the inn that served as their headquarters, the researchers could hear each other’s growling stom­ achs.34 They also suffered from periodic drenching rain and its accompanying vermin. “Ishida is a g­ reat boon and a fine roommate, but no g­ reat prize u ­ nder 35 the same mosquito net,” Beardsley wrote wryly to his wife. Such discomforts notwithstanding, fieldwork was not without its plea­ sures. Immersed in village rhythms, some researchers w ­ ere moved by “the beauty of prewar life that cannot be felt in Japan ­today.”36 Workdays often ended with swimming, boating, m ­ usic, drinking (island authorities provided a free-­flowing supply of beer), or listening to the radio. The team also enjoyed periodic entertainment hosted by locals. On one memorable eve­ning, “Miss Tsushima,” dressed in a Western-­style silk dress and stockings, sang for the ­human scientists at a bar.37 In mid-­July a group of ­middle and high school stu­ dents, led by their teachers, visited researchers in the field to learn about their work. Guiding local p ­ eople through their own history was a source of especial happiness for many expedition members.38

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Goodwill extended to the Americans, strengthening the foundation of a productive relationship between leaders of Japa­nese studies in Japan and the United States and modeling a larger harmony between the two nations. “Ishida is a jewel, quiet, contemplative, and with fine En­glish,” Beardsley wrote of his principal companion on Tsushima.39 Working alongside the nation’s most influ­ ential ­human scientists, Beardsley developed a sense of professional admiration he had not yet experienced in Japan. “­These p ­ eople, in contrast to [our Japa­nese colleagues in] Okayama, have a self-­respect that is gratifying,” he remarked. A teacher in his own field station, he became a student in Tsushima: “My experi­ ence thus far . . . ​is that it is im­mensely profitable to be around 2 or 3 of ­t hese ethnologists, who are only too anxious to explain their findings simply and sys­ tematically. . . . ​I am . . . ​delighted more each day that I came to Tsushima. . . . ​I ­can’t but think how in­ter­est­ing it would have been to spend most of our scant ten months in Tsushima [instead of Okayama].” 40 Witnessing the intellectual leadership exhibited by Japa­nese scholars in the field convinced Beardsley that the h ­ uman sciences had flowered into an in­de­pen­dent, mature tradition by the end of the occupation. The research that so impressed Beardsley generated a tremendous range of data, including natu­ral specimens, topographical maps, archaeological artifacts, physiological mea­sure­ments, architectural plans, ethnographic writing, and demographic and economic statistics, as well as photographic, audio, and film recordings of speech, interviews, ritual ceremonies, and daily activities. On their return from the field, Japa­nese scholars presented their findings at Association and disciplinary conferences. They also published an edited v­ olume titled Tsushima no shizen to bunka (The nature and culture of Tsushima), summarizing results on topics ranging from ocean currents, ecol­ ogy, and climate to child-­rearing practices, dialects, and kinship. Certain reports in this collection maintained some ambivalence regarding the national identity of Tsushima. Archaeologists, who had absorbed most of the expedition’s bud­get, w ­ ere a case in point. They gathered data from several exca­ vations of shell mounds and tombs scattered throughout the island. Comparing Neolithic pottery to exemplars from the Japa­nese mainland, they admitted, “We ­can’t see any of the features of our country [wagakuni] in this pottery; it rather resembles samples from the northern coast of K ­ orea.” 41 The archaeologists also found l­ittle evidence of rice cultivation in Tsushima during the years when agriculture became entrenched in southern Japan. Although they attributed this finding to Tsushima’s backwardness, other discoveries proved even more

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difficult to reconcile with the orthodox chronology of the home islands. A keyhole-­shaped tomb from the early centuries CE suggested burial practices “not at all solely of a Japa­nese type,” but rather manifesting early Chinese in­ fluences that had likely reached Tsushima by way of the Korean peninsula. The crypt also yielded the first bronzes discovered on the island. Given that metal­ lurgy spread to Japan via the Asian mainland, ­t hese artifacts offered further evidence of early contact with “foreign cultures” (gairai no bunka).42 By contrast, other disciplines located seemingly unequivocal evidence of Tsushima’s Japa­nese past and pre­sent. Sociologist Ariga Kizaemon (1897–1979) declared that, despite the island’s cultural backwardness, “the fundamentally Japa­nese character” of its f­ amily structure “cannot be doubted.” 43 Physical an­ thropologists found that the blood type distribution, average stature, and head size of Tsushima inhabitants matched Japa­nese rather than Korean control groups. “At least from a biological standpoint, the Tsushima islanders are Japa­ nese,” they concluded.44 Interviewed nearly sixty years l­ ater in 2008, surviving ­human subjects recalled both the discomfort of submitting to anthropometric tests and the determination of researchers to find signs of their common na­ tional identity.45 In the realm of learned be­hav­ior, folklorists declared local breastfeed­ ing customs f­ ree of Korean influence. Izumi, Miyamoto Tsuneichi, Segawa Kiyoko, and gradu­ate student Gamō Masao (1927–1981) simply took the nation­ ality of Tsushima’s inhabitants for granted, declaring the island a paradigmati­ cally Japa­nese rural society. Scholars of religion explored the local practice of Shintō, a form of indigenous spirituality seen as quintessentially Japa­nese.46 Even Beardsley concluded, “In the course of many centuries t­ hose ele­ments that w ­ ere not originally Japa­nese but that came from K ­ orea, ­were absorbed, and t­ oday the language, traditions, and be­hav­ior of the p ­ eople of Tsushima 47 are completely Japa­nese (kanzen ni, Nihonteki de ari).”  National identity emerged as diverse yet bounded: not a fixed assemblage of traits but rather a flexible classification encompassing a range of materials, practices, and be­ hav­iors. This elasticity con­ve­niently allowed scholars to map Japan’s cultural par­ameters onto the territorial unit of the postwar state. If individual ­human scientists maintained some doubts regarding the be­ longing of Tsushima’s inhabitants, they nevertheless strongly upheld Japan’s claim to the island. Although the media lacked funding to sponsor a cor­ respondent to accompany the first expedition, upon the team’s return the

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Yomiuri Shinbun published a full report jubilantly titled “Tsushima declared Japan: According to the Association, a pure Yamato minzoku!” 48 Mere months ­later, the United States confirmed Japan’s possession of Tsushima. With its sov­ ereignty secured, the island received l­ittle follow-up attention from Japa­nese ­human scientists. Although some continued to visit sporadically, Tsushima generated no major research tradition of its own. Without support or space for an exhibition, the Association quietly deposited artifacts accumulated from the field at the National Museum in Tokyo.49 Of more enduring significance, perhaps, was the expedition’s methodological legacy as the first example of comprehensive research. With considerable satisfac­ tion and even greater hyperbole, Izumi adjudged that the venture “might have been the most spectacular example of collaboration in the history of the world.”50 However, most researchers agreed that the goals of the study had not been com­ pletely achieved. Subsequent group surveys attempted to enhance communication among researchers and minimize their sense of isolation in the field. In the three de­cades following the Tsushima proj­ect, the Association mounted eleven studies in locations including Nōto (1952–1953), Amami (1955–1957 and 1975–1979), Sado (1959–1961), Shimokita (1963–1964), Tonegawa (1966–1968), and Okinawa (1971– 1973). Though numerically smaller than the Tsushima parties, ­these expeditions enjoyed vastly larger bud­gets thanks to Japan’s recovering economy.51 They del­ uged the public with newspaper articles, lectures, exhibitions, serialized paper­ backs, coffee-­table books, documentaries, and, beginning in the 1960s, tele­vi­sion programs. However, popu­lar interest in ­these domestic expeditions could not match the fervor for research in “exotic” foreign lands that began in the mid1950s (see Chapter 6).52 Meanwhile, the impetus for comprehensive research flagged due to a competing trend ­toward disciplinary specialization among the students of the field generation. The narrowing of individual interests proved fatal to the ideal of collaborative, integrated scholarship. In 1963 the Association suffered a crippling setback with the death of its founder and funder, Shibusawa. Vari­ous disciplines, led by archaeology, gradu­ ally began to reduce their participation in the organ­ization.53 Bennett, whose vision for comprehensive research had inspired the Tsushima venture, predicted, “A [mere] federation of sciences . . . ​perhaps can last only so long—­a llowing for certain social lags and sympathetic-­t raditional bonds—as a more com­ prehensive, synthetic, and rigorous approach, with willingness on the part of specialists to bury differences and make drastic conceptual concessions,

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is not in existence.”54 Though its longevity defied Bennett’s expectations, the Association fi­nally disbanded in 1989.

Incorporating the Ainu Other In August 1951, following the second field season of the Tsushima expedition, Izumi traveled to the opposite end of the Japa­nese archipelago. On the northern­ most main island of Hokkaido, he inaugurated a second major occupation-­era group venture: a study of the indigenous Ainu ­people.55 Although this proj­ ect was carried out in­de­pen­dently of the Association, it took up the model of comprehensive research and served as a parallel vehicle of cohort formation among the men of one age in the aftermath of World War II. Unlike the Tsushima islanders, who came to academic attention in the 1950s as a presumptive Self, the Ainu and their ancestors had, since ancient times, been cast in the role of Other: a fearsome, barbaric threat to the Japa­ nese state. Yet, as one historian has written, they had a “latent Selfness built into their character that could be invoked at critical moments to make them and their homeland fully part of Japan.”56 During the early modern period the Tokugawa regime laid claim to a portion of this homeland, the island of Ezo. To incorporate Ezo as Japan, its ­people needed to become Japa­nese. Policymakers believed that the essential barrier to the absorption of the Ainu was their distinctive customs (fūzoku). They accordingly worked to eliminate vis­i­ble differences between indigenous ­people and Wajin (as non-­Ainu Japa­ nese came to be called). Leaving private beliefs and even communal practices largely un­regu­la­ted, Tokugawa officials legally and sometimes even forcibly suppressed indigenous grooming, attire, and body modification traditions to align the appearance of the Ainu with Wajin norms. Early modern Japan also exploited the population eco­nom­ically through unequal trading. As Wajin set­ tlers (such as Izumi’s grand­father) monopolized the resources of Ezo, many Ainu lost their livelihoods and ­were forced to work as day laborers for cor­ porate farms and fisheries. Worse, epidemic disease ravaged the community; by the time of the Meiji Restoration in 1868, only about fifteen thousand Ainu remained on the island.57 The following year the state rechristened Ezo as “Hokkaido” (literally, “northern sea cir­cuit”)—­a toponym that secured its place at the periphery of the Japa­nese archipelago. Late nineteenth-­century leaders aimed to instill modern, Western conventions of civilization among national subjects while

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also inculcating them in the role of filial c­ hildren of the emperor. For the first time, they acted to transform the interior world of the Ainu—­t heir thoughts, feelings, and beliefs—as well as their outward appearance. Compulsory edu­ cation and military conscription cultivated their Japa­nese language ability and loyalty to the state. Above all, policymakers aimed to render “barbaric” hunter-­gatherers into productive farmers.58 ­Human science provided the language to discuss and advance the racial and cultural remaking of the Ainu as Japa­nese. Early pioneers in the field of Ainu studies (Ainugaku), mostly American and Eu­ro­pean missionaries, doc­ tors, and o ­ thers, included John Batchelor (1854–1944), Neil Gordon Munro (1863–1942), and Bronisław Piłsudski (1866–1918). Th ­ ese scholars reported ­wholesale dislocation, degradation, and demoralization among the Ainu. They used social Darwinism to explain indigenous decline as a natu­ral pro­cess, thus eliding blame from Wajin colonizers. Ainugaku represented its subject as a “­dying race” (horobiyuki minzoku) doomed to extinction by the failure to pro­ gress according to the universal laws of societal development.59 In the late nineteenth c­ entury, the relative weakness of the Japa­nese state provoked widespread fears that the Wajin themselves might be colonized or eliminated altogether by the ­g reat powers of Eu­rope and the United States. Even as Meiji reformers hastened to avert this possibility through aggressive nation-­building campaigns, they seized upon the Ainu as a foil of primitivity to highlight Japan’s “civilization and enlightenment.” H ­ uman scientists such as Tsuboi Shōgorō and Torii Ryūzō supplied “scientific” evidence of Ainu barba­ rism. Torii also proposed what became the imperial era’s most widely accepted hypothesis regarding the biological relationship between Ainu and Wajin. Unlike Eu­ro­pean and American observers who tended to romanticize the Ainu as a lost Caucasian race, Torii cast them as the original inhabitants of the Japa­ nese archipelago. In his argument, Ainu intermarriage with l­ ater mi­grants from Oceania and the Asian mainland gave rise to the heterogeneous ancestry of the present-­day Japa­nese. Implicitly, the archaic absorption of the Ainu into the na­ tional bloodline naturalized their incorporation into the Meiji realm.60 At the turn of the twentieth c­ entury, expansionism brought more in­ digenous p ­ eople ­under Japa­nese rule. Japan and Rus­sia vied for primacy in Northeast Asia, fi­nally meeting on the battlefield in 1904. By the terms of the 1905 Treaty of Portsmouth, which ended the Russo-­Japanese War, Japan ­assumed sovereignty over the southern half of the island of Sakhalin. The Ainu who inhabited this zone became Japa­nese citizens, ­subject to aggressive

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relocation and cultural transformation campaigns intended to secure imperial control. To many observers, their poverty and dwindling numbers appeared to confirm the d ­ ying race theory. Scholars generated a­ dditional evidence of looming extinction through studies of the “degenerate” Ainu physique. Often working covertly, u ­ nder false pretenses, or over protests, they collected and an­ alyzed samples of hair, sweat, blood, and bone. According to one bibliography, prior to 1945 Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists published 266 pieces on Ainu physi­ ology, mostly in physical anthropology periodicals and Hokkaido Imperial University medical journals.61 During the interwar period the expansion of the Japa­nese empire pro­ vided new contexts for fieldwork, diverting ­human scientists from Hokkaido to Taiwan, Micronesia, and East and Southeast Asia. Japa­nese ethnology de­ veloped primarily as the study of imperial minzoku on the continent and in Oceania. In the late 1930s and early 1940s, however, Japan’s anticipated con­ frontation with the Soviet Union prompted renewed attention to populations on the northern frontier. Transwar ­researchers including Ishida, Oka, and Sugiura received state support to study indigenous ­peoples in Hokkaido and Sakhalin and to recruit spies for the Japa­nese military.62 Following Japan’s defeat in World War II, the Soviet Union repossessed Sakhalin as well as the Kuril island chain, an Ainu homeland that Japan had claimed by treaty in the late nineteenth ­century. Owing to their Japa­nese citi­ zenship, several thousand Ainu w ­ ere forced to leave t­ hese islands to “repatri­ ate” to Japan. A ­ fter settling in Hokkaido, they endured poverty and hardship together with the native-­born inhabitants of the island. The U.S. occupation only exacerbated the sufferings of the Ainu. Indigenous landowners had long rented out their fields to Wajin settlers and supported themselves through fish­ ing or day ­labor. SCAP’s re­distribution policy (the subject of the Raper survey discussed in Chapter 3) made no allowances for this custom. By confiscating the holdings of Ainu “absentee landlords,” the policy deprived many indig­ enous families of a critical source of income at a desperate moment.63 With the dismantling of the Japa­nese empire, the Ainu emerged as the sole exemplar of “primitivity” within Japan’s new bound­aries, whetting the curios­ ity of ­human scientists.64 The influence of American anthropology also drew postwar attention to the Ainu. U.S. scholars had long been preoccupied with the study of Native Americans. In their view, it was “a m ­ atter of more than passing interest” that Japa­nese ­human scientists had produced relatively ­little research on their own nation’s indigenous population.65 During the occupa­

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tion, the men of one age sought to rectify this gap and demonstrate parity with U.S. researchers through studies of the Ainu. In 1947 h ­ uman scientists at the University of Hokkaido established the Native Cultures Society (Hokkaidō Daigaku Genshi Bunka Kenkyūkai) to resume pre­ war scholarly activities. Four archaeologists excavated a site discovered in 1937 but abandoned amid the war­time emergency. Together with ethnographic ac­ counts of the Ainu published in MK in the late 1940s, their work suggested a need to unify knowledge of Japan’s indigenous population through a comprehen­ sive survey. By 1949, planning had begun ­under the leadership of Oka Masao, with Izumi in his familiar role of chief or­ga­nizer. The Ministry of Education, the JSE, and the Anthropological Society of Nippon (Japan’s leading scholarly venue for the study of physical anthropology, growing out of the organ­ization founded by Tsuboi Shōgorō in 1884) provided support for the venture.66 In the spring of 1951 Izumi, accompanied by his wife and a colleague, made a preparatory foray to Hokkaido’s Saru River valley, long a center of Ainu in­ habitation and research. Traveling mostly by bus, Izumi secured promises of cooperation from village heads and identified pos­si­ble in­for­mants. The trip also offered the opportunity for a f­ amily reunion. Returning home via the prefec­ tural capital of Sapporo, Izumi was received by an el­derly aunt, a d ­ aughter of the grand­father who had emigrated to Hokkaido in the mid-­nineteenth ­century.67 That August the so-­called Joint Research Committee on the Ainu (Ainu Minzoku Sōgō Chōsadan) took sixteen scholars on a three-­week expedition to the area.68 The team included transwar veterans of imperial field studies and of Tsushima: Ishida, Oka, Sugiura, Segawa, and o ­ thers. It also brought along promising younger talents such as Sofue Takao, Gamō Masao, and University of Michigan anthropology gradu­ate student John B. Cornell (1921–1993).69 By its third field season in 1953 the team had grown to well over thirty medical doctors, ecologists, and folklorists, as well as physical, psychological, linguis­ tic, and cultural anthropologists.70 In some ways the Joint Research Committee marked a turning point in Ainu studies and in the ­human sciences more generally, as researchers put into practice the lessons of the occupation. The expedition furthered the re­ placement of race, the primary analytical construct of the imperial age, with culture, the central value of postwar studies of diversity. Prior to 1945, publica­ tions on Ainu physiology outnumbered ­t hose pertaining to learned be­hav­ior by a ­factor of nearly two to one. In the 1950s, however, this ratio was reversed, with about two-­t hirds of all Ainu-­related books and articles dealing with

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archaeology, ethnology, linguistics, and folklore.71 Yet, physical anthropolo­ gists continued to collect anthropometric data well into the 1970s.72 Ironically, the shift to culture also facilitated certain continuities in Ainu research. In the early twentieth ­century many U.S.-­and Canada-­based observ­ ers predicted the imminent demise of Native American populations. Through what became known as salvage anthropology, scholars rushed to document traditional practices and to gather material artifacts before they vanished. Japa­nese ­human scientists likewise practiced salvage anthropology to preserve “primitive” Asian and Oceanic ways of life. Izumi’s research on the Oroqen and Goldi might be considered examples of this type of work, although the author did not frame his studies in such terms. Among the most prolific prewar prac­ti­tion­ers of salvage anthropology was the American Alfred Kroeber (1876–1960), a student of Boas who worked pri­ marily among indigenous communities in California. Although Kroeber never visited Japan, during the occupation his colleagues and advisees ­presented his writings at the American Studies Seminar and other venues. Japa­nese academ­ ics embraced Kroeber’s thought, citing his writings in scholarly papers, review­ ing them for leading journals, and assigning them in cultural anthropology courses.73 During the early postwar years the conscious embrace of s­ alvage offered Japan’s disgraced academic establishment an appealingly heroic role in recording disappearing Ainu lifestyles on behalf of the nation, world, and pos­ terity. In the hands of the transwar generation, the “­dying race,” distinguished by its unfit physiology, reemerged as a “­dying culture” composed of practices, beliefs, and artifacts in urgent need of objective field study. In addition to providing a positive self-­image for scholars, salvage served the ideological imperative of establishing par­ameters of Japa­neseness cotermi­ nous with the bound­aries of the postwar state. Unlike the Tsushima islanders, the Ainu could not be represented as just a variation on Japa­neseness; the perceived distance between them and the Wajin was simply too historically en­ trenched. Salvage acknowledged this gap while also predicting its end. In call­ ing attention to the looming elimination of the Ainu world, the d ­ ying culture paradigm suggested the inevitable triumph of Japa­nese identity. As scholars of diversity, ­human scientists hardly celebrated its elimination. Yet they seemed to regret the disappearance of the Ainu as research subjects rather than as fellow h ­ uman beings. If the ideology of the d ­ ying race held that the indigenous population might escape extinction by relinquishing their culture, the d ­ ying culture paradigm implied a preference for saving culture over p ­ eople.

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As Japan’s flagship journal on culture, MK was the primary publication venue for the results of the Joint Research Committee. The findings of the first field season appeared in a special issue in 1951 commemorating the seventieth birthday of expedition member Kindaichi Kyōsuke (1882–1971). Kindaichi was an early salvage scholar, a linguist best known for recording oral epics with the Ainu scribe Chiri Yukie (1903–1922).74 Contributors paid tribute to Kindaichi’s work through research on indigenous language, folktales, ceremonies, rituals, beliefs, dwellings, and social structures. Izumi produced a frequently praised and cited study of sociogeographic units called iwor as the basis of Ainu eco­ nomic life. In keeping with his functionalist training, he understood the iwor as a response to local environmental conditions. However, he found that the imposition of agriculture and exploitation of natu­ral resources since Meiji times had undermined the cultural logics of indigenous society.75 In fact, the elucidation of t­ hese logics was a frustrating, even hopeless task. Izumi ultimately concluded, “The time during which research could be of use in reviving Ainu life has unfortunately passed,” and in fact, “through the ex­ perience of fieldwork, I lost my very desire to try to reconstruct traditional culture.”76 In place of empirical data, he turned to the writings of nineteenth-­ century Eu­ro­pean and American observers in Hokkaido—­sources of infor­ mation riddled with misperceptions and distortions. Many Joint Research Committee colleagues agreed that “original” Ainu culture was no longer ac­ cessible to ­human scientists or even to the Ainu themselves. Sugiura despaired of reaching an understanding of indigenous kinship “before Ainu culture has disintegrated beyond recognition.” Kodama Sakuzaemon (1895–1970), who had begun studying the indigenous population of Hokkaido in the 1920s, reported that the “so-­called typical Ainu in the Ainu village” had almost completely dis­appeared by the 1950s. He and his fellow physical anthropologists could identify almost no “pure” Ainu to supply physiological mea­sure­ments and samples. Watanabe Hitoshi (1919–1998), an ecological anthropologist, found few opportunities to witness the interactions of hunters and gatherers with their environment. He supplemented his observations by interviewing Ainu elders—­many of whom had no firsthand experience of foraging e­ ither.77 Dismissing the information thus gleaned as inauthentic, some schol­ ars turned to psychological methods such as Rorschach and Thematic Apperception tests (TATs). Through ­t hese projective techniques, they pur­ ported to discern an essential, enduring Ainu personality.78 Scholars also made use of visual sources. “The Ainu ­today are, at least from the standpoint

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of culture, thoroughly integrated into the Japa­nese nation. In fact, they have ceased to exist as a distinct ­people. Therefore, let us use photo­graphs of the past to study them,” suggested one member of the Joint Research Committee.79 The quest to preserve the most “pure,” primordial form of Ainu culture led many ­human scientists to depict the indigenous world as ahistorical and static. Like adherents of the ­dying race paradigm, whom they cited extensively, salvage scholars downplayed internal dynamism and agency. Izumi wrote, The key to an understanding of traditional [Ainu] culture as a ­whole is a recon­ struction of that society as it existed at the end of the Tokugawa period, before the onslaught of Japa­nese colonists. Despite certain outside influences, the tra­ ditional society had remained so fundamentally unchanged till that time, that a comprehension of it makes pos­si­ble projections back in time in the form of speculations about still older stages of the culture.80

However negatively he viewed their impact, Izumi implicitly characterized Wajin as the dominant force of change in Ainu history. The exclusive focus on “traditional” culture often led researchers to dis­ regard phenomena that did not match their notions of primitivity. In the nineteenth ­century, the Meiji government legitimized its rule of Hokkaido by depicting the preconquest island as lawless or ungoverned. The Joint Research Committee followed this model by ignoring Ainu forms of sovereignty or by discussing them ­under the rubric of kinship rather than politics. ­Human sci­ entists also avoided assessing the impact of Wajin policies regarding indigenous ­people. Ishida advised Cornell, “My general impression is that it is highly doubtful how much merit ­t here would be in looking into their acculturation or assimilation, for the present-­day Ainu have been so greatly japanized.” Although Cornell persisted in his investigation of t­ hese topics, he published his findings in En­g lish for an audience of American rather than Japa­nese academics.81 Perhaps most conspicuously, the Joint Research Committee ignored agriculture—­a feature of the Ainu lifestyle that belied the categorization of indigenous society as primitive. Ainu communities practiced farming ­until at least the mid-­Tokugawa period, when increased opportunities to trade with Wajin redirected the economy t­ oward products of comparative advantage ob­ tained through foraging, such as fish and fur. Though aware of this history, early postwar ­human scientists tended to discuss Japan’s indigenous population as hunter-­gatherers for all time.82 This repre­sen­ta­tion reflected a traditional

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a­ nthropological view of agriculture as a dividing line between savagery and barbarism. It relegated the Ainu to the status of living remnants of the Neolithic or preagricultural stage of Japa­nese history. Correspondingly, the Yayoi era, marking the inception of wet rice cultiva­ tion, emerged as the crucible of Wajin identity and the moment of separation between Ainu and Japa­nese. Through this timeline, researchers suggested that the pace of development, rather than any intrinsic difference, distinguished the two groups. As Izumi wrote, “It is easy to imagine how similar [Ainu ­culture] must have been to the way of life of the ancestors of the Japa­nese, before the advent of rice cultivation.”83 Archaic commonality legitimized the present-­day reabsorption of the Ainu into the national bloodline. In the hands of transwar scholars, Ainu distinctiveness emerged as no more than a phase, preceded and postdated by Japa­neseness. In attempting to salvage Ainu culture before its looming disappearance, the Joint Research Committee ventured beyond text. H ­ uman scientists c­ arried cameras into the field, generating a visual rec­ord of the indigenous world. They also accumulated artifacts associated with traditional lifestyles. In the era of museum building in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, nu­ merous Eu­ro­pean and American institutions had amassed large collections of Ainu material culture. By contrast, the Ainu w ­ ere the subject of a mere handful of exhibitions in Japan prior to 1945—­a number far outstripped by shows devoted to other “primitive” populations of the empire.84 More common ­were Japanese-­orchestrated displays of Ainu p ­ eople and products in exposi­ tions abroad, perhaps most famously at the St. Louis World Fair of 1904.85 In the 1950s, however, materials acquired by the Joint Research Committee com­ prised the basis of new Ainu collections and exhibitions in museums through­ out Japan. H ­ uman scientists also began an ambitious reconstruction of Ainu dwellings for an open-­air display in the courtyard of the JSE headquarters in western Tokyo. When this feature opened in 1957, it welcomed hundreds of schoolchildren and other visitors daily.86 Perhaps most innovatively, the impulse to salvage a ­dying culture yielded one of Japan’s first postwar anthropology documentaries: The Ainu River-­ Fishery (Ainu minzoku no kawauo). To midcentury scholars and their audi­ ences, the video camera stood at the pinnacle of scientific technologies. A comprehensive chronicle of sight and sound, film seemed to transcend the biases of print and photo­graph. Expedition footage enabled scholars to show­ case their objectivity to audiences, juxtaposing intellectual sophistication with

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exotic primitivity. Funded by a grant of over one million yen from the Ministry of Education and shot by the Joint Research Committee during its third field season in 1953, The Ainu River-­Fishery superseded e­ arlier cinematic efforts in both its ambitions and production values. Its opening sequence conveyed the salvage intentions of its creators, declaring, “It is believed that in less time than a de­cade, with the passing away of the old Ainu . . . ​t heir traditional cul­ ture w ­ ill completely vanish from existence.”87 Subsequent montages depicted a livelihood of salmon harvesting and preparation that most Ainu had already left. Eliding the effects of Wajin contact on Japan’s indigenous population, the documentary was less a faithful rendering of the indigenous pre­sent than an anthropological reconstruction of a romanticized past. Freezing the Ainu in a primordial state, the documentary excluded them from narratives of pro­ gress in Hokkaido and Japan. Before the eyes of the viewer, the Ainu passed into history, where their difference could not transgress the ethnocultural par­ ameters of diversity of the con­temporary Japa­nese nation. Producers released a version of the documentary with English-­language subtitles, noting, “The importance of the Ainu is already recognized by the international scholarly community.”88 However, outside Japan, interest flagged ­a fter 1945. Despite the long tradition of Eu­ro­pean and American scholar­ ship, the absence of any Cold War agenda regarding Japan’s indigenous population rendered the topic irrelevant to most non-­Japanese researchers. Too, scholars considered the subject tarnished by a flurry of interest on the part of the Nazis, born of attempts to represent the Ainu as a racial link be­ tween Axis Germany and Japan.89 Nevertheless, at the fourth International Congress of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences, held in Vienna in 1952, Oka Masao attempted to stoke foreign curiosity regarding the Ainu with a report on the findings of the Joint Research Committee. In his talk, Oka highlighted themes at the cutting edge of postwar anthropology, including material culture and social structure.90 He depicted the “last-­minute” salvage of indigenous heritage as the responsibility of Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists to the world as well as to Japan.91 Significantly, however, neither he nor his col­ leagues expressed any sense of obligation to the Ainu themselves. Transwar scholars almost completely failed to acknowledge con­temporary poverty and ­precarity among Japan’s indigenous ­people. They regarded the book, photo­ graph, documentary, and museum as appropriate venues for cultural preserva­ tion. Having recorded what they could with the technologies at their disposal, they relinquished further responsibility to the Ainu community. To thank the

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inhabitants of Tsushima for their cooperation with the Association in 1950 and 1951, Shibusawa made an anonymous donation to support the electrification of the island.92 The Ainu received no such consideration from the Joint Research Committee. Their dismissal did not pass unnoticed by the Ainu themselves, who chafed against the scrutiny of the field generation. Izumi became aware of the re­ ciprocal gaze of the in­for­mant in a searing encounter in the summer of 1953. Approaching a young m ­ other for an interview, he met with an unforgettable rebuke: “­You’re completely ignorant of the hardships and poverty we Ainu are facing! You think you can just come out ­here and profit from our misery and shame? ­You’re exploiting us to earn a doctorate and make money!” “As if struck by lightning,” Izumi apologized and retreated.93 Ultimately, this experience of ethnographic refusal (as anthropologists refer to instances in which subjects or collaborators decline to serve as objects of study and contest the intentions of their interlocutors) proved perhaps the most significant legacy of Izumi’s research among the Ainu. Japan’s indig­ enous p ­ eople had long and vociferously resisted fieldworkers who desecrated graves, polluted sacred sites, forced their way into homes, and pressured fami­ lies for artifacts and anthropometric mea­sure­ments. Now, for the first time in the recorded history of Japa­nese ­human science, a researcher acknowledged the validity of their objections. In that moment, the ethnographic specimen, viewed as an entirely unreflective source of data, became a ­human being with a recognized individuality and positionality. The attack on his motives forced Izumi to reconsider the field practices he had a­ dopted de­cades e­ arlier as a university student in colonial Keijō. Disturbed by the challenge to his life’s work, he wrote relatively ­little about his months of comprehensive research in Hokkaido. He transcribed his experience of eth­ nographic refusal for the first time nearly two de­cades ­after it took place, in an autobiography published near the end of his life. According to one eyewitness, even this account altered some key details.94 Nonetheless, the open admission of the limitations of the fieldworker—by Japan’s most renowned fieldworker—­ proved a power­f ul impetus for questioning objectivity as an achievable and appropriate goal at the end of the 1960s (see Chapter 8). Izumi was not alone in experiencing ethnographic refusal by the Ainu. In the early postwar de­cades relations between researchers and indigenous ­people ­were often tense and even openly acrimonious. Many transwar schol­ ars left what came to be regarded as an academically hazardous field and

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encouraged their students to pursue alternatives to Ainu studies. Whereas Japan’s indigenous population was the topic of more than fifty articles pub­ lished in MK during the 1950s, over the following two de­cades this number dwindled to fewer than twenty.95 Izumi himself returned to Hokkaido and Sakhalin with group expedi­ tions in 1959, 1962, and 1967 to 1968. Yet he never again attempted research in Ainu communities. With pained self-­awareness, he acknowledged, “No ­matter how distressing, one must strive for greater understanding and reflectiveness. However, I could not bring myself to do it [among the Ainu].”96 Instead, he concentrated on material culture, organ­izing an archaeological dig and analyz­ ing a collection of early modern Wajin paintings of Japan’s indigenous ­people (Ainu-­e).97 Meanwhile, he began searching for alternative contexts for fieldwork. The end of the occupation was to facilitate ventures abroad, allowing the men of one age to probe the bound­aries of Japa­neseness in a new setting: Brazil.

6 J A P A ­N E S E I N T O ­O T H E R S

Izumi and his compatriots had resigned themselves to defeat in World War II with surprising fortitude. “The saying used to be . . . ​t hat the Japa­nese be­ haved as though their chief war aim was to be occupied by the Americans,” one SCAP official remembered.1 By contrast, many Japa­nese settlers abroad strug­g led to reconcile themselves to the loss. In Brazil, home to the world’s largest population of Japa­nese descent outside Japan, a community of some two hundred thousand split between t­ hose who acknowledged the adverse out­ come of the war and ­t hose who believed, or claimed to believe, in a Japa­nese victory. Within months of the imperial surrender, the schism culminated in vio­lence and terrorism. In keeping with its mission to cultivate peace through research, UNESCO offered Izumi a fellowship to investigate the disorder. Given his prior association with the organ­ization and extensive and diverse field experiences, he was an obvious candidate for the assignment. Izumi’s research in Brazil blazed new trails for Japa­nese ­human science. As he himself understood, the production of knowledge secured Japan’s position in the transnational intellectual community aligned with the United States. Izumi was, moreover, the first Japan-­based scholar to conduct fieldwork among the Japa­nese diaspora in any location in the postwar period.2 Perhaps most signifi­ cantly, he approached emigrants and their progeny in Brazil through the con­ struct of assimilation—­a term that Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists had not previously considered in relation to their own p ­ eople. To Izumi, the local-­born c­ hildren and grandchildren of settlers ­were not Japa­nese, as they had customarily

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labeled themselves and been labeled. Rather, they ­were “Nikkei,” defined by a unique fusion of Japa­nese and Brazilian physiological and cultural traits. ­Under Izumi’s leadership, the study of the Nikkei came to offer proud proof of the durability of national inclinations to democracy, capitalism, and peace. Distinct from but related to the Japa­nese, the Nikkei embodied the cultural nation in the antipodes.

(Studying) Japa­n ese immigrants and their descendants in Brazil Emigration from Japan was a modern phenomenon. Prior to 1868 the state policy of seclusion discouraged or outright banned subjects from departing the home islands. Following the Meiji Restoration, however, emigration emerged as a panacea against long-­standing fears of rural overcrowding and pressure on scarce resources. Japa­nese individuals and families chose to leave the home islands for a variety of reasons, including poverty, taxes, social unrest, natu­ ral disasters, and avoidance of military conscription. In part due to popu­lar perceptions of emigrants as h ­ uman scrap (kimin, or “abandoned ­people,” in the parlance of the day), the state stepped in to encourage expatriation through corporate subsidiaries and sponsorships. Applicants hailed from all parts of the Japa­nese archipelago, particularly the newly designated and relatively un­ developed prefecture of Okinawa. Initially, most mi­g rants w ­ ere drawn to the United States and Hawai’i, which ­were seen as the most eco­nom­ically promising options. Settlement in Brazil, viewed as comparatively backward, began in 1908, one year a­ fter the so-­called Gentleman’s Agreement curtailed Asian immigration to the United States. When the Johnson-­Reed Act of 1924 banned such flows altogether, emi­ gration to South Amer­i­ca surged. Many Japa­nese became contract laborers on Brazil’s undermanned coffee plantations. Emigration corporations (imin gaisha) funded by the Japa­nese government purchased land on the remote frontier for new communities populated entirely by Japa­nese farm families. By 1940 Brazil was home to about two hundred thousand Japa­nese settlers and their descendants. Many of its Latin American neighbors banned Japa­ nese newcomers, but smaller populations also ventured to Peru (approximately thirty thousand), Mexico (nearly fifteen thousand), Argentina (over five thou­ sand), and Bolivia, Chile, and Paraguay (a few hundred each).3

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Meanwhile, some journalists and officials from receiving nations agitated vigorously against open borders. Often, they feared competition from immi­ grant laborers who w ­ ere willing to work longer hours for lower wages than their native-­born counter­parts. They also faulted newcomers for creating en­ clave socie­ties and for failing to take up local customs and language. In Brazil, policymakers and social leaders promoted the assimilation of multinational mi­grants, indigenous ­peoples, and the descendants of African slaves. Through the imposition of “white” norms, they attempted to cultivate a Brazilian “race” equal to Eu­ro­pe­a ns and North Americans.4 Brazil’s anti-­immigration lobby often singled out Japa­nese settlers as especial obstacles to this agenda. Writers described them using grotesque meta­phors, as cysts upon the national body, or insoluble yellow sulfur.5 In the context of Japan’s increasing geopo­liti­cal as­ sertiveness, some suspected the diaspora of plotting an imperialist takeover or feared that they would assimilate white Brazilians. On the eve of World War I, one writer argued, “The Japa­nese is an emissary of imperialist design. He does not become absorbed into the nation in which he lives; he does not become naturalized ­under the protection of hospitable laws; he preserves his worship of the Mikado [emperor].”6 Proponents of Japa­nese immigration inverted this alarm to argue that Brazil had much to learn from Japan and its diaspora. They praised the empire as a model for Brazil’s ­f uture as a “civilized” state within the ranks of the ­great powers. Supporters of the Japa­nese valorized their alleged loyalty, patriotism, and willingness to work hard. Some depicted them as “whites of Asia” who might positively influence the Brazilian population.7 ­Others analogized be­ tween the mixed descent of the Japa­nese and Brazilian ­peoples. Unlike most early twentieth-­century Eu­ro­pean and North American thinkers, who tended to equate intermarriage with degeneration, some Japa­nese and Brazilian in­ tellectuals viewed the heterogeneous lineages of their respective nations as a source of strength. They argued that exogamy tended to improve racial stock by selecting for the best traits of many groups. One influential Brazilian so­ ciologist wrote, “The Japa­nese ­were said to have triumphed over the Rus­sians in 1905 [in the Russo-­Japanese War] largely through their greater agility and flexibility. Small but vigorous, virtually acrobats, they held an advantage over their larger, more stolid blond opponents. The Brazilian Army, composed mainly of mestiços [persons of mingled indigenous and Eu­ro­pean descent] . . . ​ could have developed the same virtues as the Japa­nese.”8 In his view, Japa­nese

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settlers w ­ ere a source of desirable biological characteristics for the national population. This defense notwithstanding, Japa­nese policymakers feared that their na­ tionals might be permanently excluded or evicted if they did not disprove the “hasty, groundless conjecture that the Japa­nese are a race utterly impossible of assimilation.”9 As a result, the imperial government took an unusually active role (by comparison with other emigrant-­producing nations) in monitoring the conduct and reputation of its subjects abroad.10 Beginning in the years ­after World War I, the state sponsored officials, journalists, and ­others who traveled to the antipodes to report on and make policy recommendations regarding the diaspora.11 In 1924, following the enactment of the U.S. ban on Asian immigration, the Japa­nese Ministry of Foreign Affairs launched an investigation of ways to fore­ stall a similar exclusion from Brazil. The author of the study, Takaoka Kumao (1871–1961), was an agricultural economist and educator who advocated emi­ gration as a solution to rural overpopulation. He found that many Japa­nese settlers in South Amer­i­ca w ­ ere driven from home by poverty rather than enticed by the new destination. They confided their ardent hope to achieve success and “return wearing brocade” (kokioe nishiki). However, fearing that Brazil would likely cease to welcome populations that insisted on foreign loyal­ ties, Takaoka encouraged emigrants to acquire Brazilian citizenship. He rec­ ommended that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs facilitate their adjustment by providing pre-­departure instruction in Brazilian geography, politics, industry, agriculture, language, religion, and customs. In Takaoka’s depiction, educa­ tion was a “weapon of peace” (heiwa no bukki) helping the Japa­nese to adapt to permanent life in Brazil. He further hoped that by contributing to local development, the diaspora might justify Brazilian hospitality.12 Indeed, by the 1930s, some observers argued that the productivity of Japa­nese immigrants exceeded that of native-­born Brazilians. Japan viewed Brazil, like its Asian colonies, as less socially, culturally, and eco­nom­ically advanced than itself. Even in the absence of ambitions to dominate South Amer­i­ca po­liti­cally, the argument of pro­gress rationalized the Japa­nese presence.13 Japa­nese emigrants and their descendants in Brazil also actively monitored conditions in their communities. In 1938 the consulate in São Paulo state, where a majority of the diaspora had settled, conducted a census of its juris­ diction. The director, a Japan-­born resident of twenty-­six years named Wako Shungorō, found that about 85 ­percent of the approximately seventy thousand

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persons surveyed aspired to return to Japan a­ fter having made their fortunes. Of the remainder, some 10 ­percent planned to stay in Brazil, while 5 ­percent ex­ pressed no clear position.14 Wako attributed the desire to repatriate to a strong ethnic consciousness (minzoku ishiki). Despite his long residence in Brazil, he admitted that he himself identified with this mentality. He criticized his own ac­cep­tance of an easier lifestyle in the antipodes as Shina kusai, or “smelling of China”—­a derogatory phrase that played on negative ste­reo­types of the Chinese amid the heightened tensions of the Second Sino-­Japanese War. But four visits to Japan had convinced Wako of the impossibility of return. In addition to feeling a surprising cultural disconnect from the land of his birth, he refused to commit his four Brazil-­born ­children to a “prison” of hunger and poverty. Wako concluded by urging his community to fulfill the global mission of the motherland by cultivating a new, permanent home in South Amer­i­ca.15 To Wako, adjustment to Brazil did not undermine identification with his native country. On the contrary, he argued that enduring the hardships of cultural change manifested the valor of the Japa­nese spirit (Yamato damashii). In contrast to the empire, where belonging rested on both racial and cultural commonality, in the Amer­i­cas descent alone came to suffice as a condition of national membership. This compromise enabled the diaspora to adopt local customs and even take on foreign citizenship while still retaining their Japa­ nese identity. “No m ­ atter where in the world the Japa­nese put down roots, the blood pounding through our race-­nation does not change,” declared one emigration booster.16 For many settlers in Brazil, the promise of perpetual inclusion in the national community mitigated feelings of abandonment and offered a sense of self-­worth and even superiority in the face of local discrimi­ nation. The ideology of blood also provided a means of extending Japa­neseness to populations whose identity was contested. ­These included mi­grants from Okinawa, who often faced racial discrimination at home, and most emigrant ­children, who w ­ ere ­legal citizens of their country of birth rather than of 17 Japan. The ideology of biological belonging gave rise to complex views regarding exogamy among settlers. The United States and Canada deplored and even criminalized “miscegenation” as a source of racial pollution and degeneration. In response, Japa­nese proponents of mixed marriage in North Amer­i­ca strenu­ ously denied common presumptions regarding the cultural incompatibility of partners and the ge­ne­t ic inferiority of offspring.18 Wako Shungorō coun­ seled the diaspora to intermarry with white Brazilians to facilitate collective

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upward mobility (despite his regrets concerning the dilution of the Japa­nese bloodline). Another writer tantalized Japa­nese audiences with allusions to the “staggeringly large number of Brazilian ­women hoping to marry Japa­nese men.”19 Emigrant journalist Ando Zenpati believed that ­unions between Japa­ nese and Brazilians of Eu­ro­pean descent might facilitate the mass ac­cep­tance of the f­ormer. However, all settler community leaders discouraged wedlock with indigenous ­people or Afro-­Brazilians. In their view, the resultant “­little black savages” (katara kokujinbō) would only hinder the Japa­nese in becoming white.20 Pressure to adapt notwithstanding, change proceeded unevenly among Japa­nese emigrants and their descendants in Brazil. Most tended to remain sequestered from nonsettler society. Endogamy remained the rule, with only 3 ­percent of the prewar diaspora in Brazil identified as “mixed blood.”21 Many individuals and families ­were unable to rise from poverty and faced periodic threats of forced repatriation from migration sponsors. O ­ thers transitioned from laborers and tenant farmers to owner-­cultivators in monoethnic colônias (koroniya/koronia). ­These communities invested in infrastructure and intro­ duced new crops, innovative farming techniques, and cooperative modes of distribution. Their productivity became essential to the Brazilian agricultural sector. Meanwhile, vari­ous institutions emerged to build a sense of commonal­ ity among colônia residents of diverse backgrounds and prefectural origins. Newspapers and periodicals, schools, voluntary associations (Nihonjinkai), baseball teams, martial arts studios, and traditional poetry clubs helped draw together a diaspora linked by ­little save location. Emperor worship continued to foster a collective identity as members of the Japa­nese nation. In Japan proper, students alone typically practiced a daily morning ritual of bowing to the em­ peror’s portrait, singing the national anthem, and reciting the Imperial Rescript on Education, an 1898 “sutra to Japa­neseness” that affirmed loyalty unto death to a divine ruler. In Brazil, entire communities participated in ­these ceremo­ nies. Only a very small number of emigrants converted to Catholicism, the ma­ jority religion of Brazil, or practiced a so-­called new religion (shin shūkyō).22 On the eve of World War II, state persecution fortified diaspora cohesive­ ness. The Brazilian government prohibited Japanese-­language schools and mandated the use of Portuguese for all written communication and public speech. Unlike other American states, Brazil did not intern most of its Japa­ nese descent population.23 The isolation of the colônias, combined with their economic importance to the nation, rendered such a policy impractical. Still, communities suffered vari­ous checks on their freedom. Brazil froze the bank

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accounts of resident Axis citizens, implemented a permit system to regulate domestic movement, and prohibited the singing of the Japa­nese anthem and large gatherings of any kind. At the end of the war, despite the promotion of biological and cultural adaptation by both the Brazilian and Japa­nese govern­ ments, the Japa­nese diaspora constituted one of the least socially integrated populations in the Western hemi­sphere.

The f irst Japa­n ese h ­ uman scientist in postwar Brazil Ironically, it was ­a fter rather than during World War II that Japa­nese emi­ grants and their descendants in Brazil experienced the greatest upheaval. The suppression of Japanese-­language publishing in the early 1940s forced many monolingual emigrants to rely on clandestine radio broadcasts from Japan for battle news. Primed by positive propaganda and unable to observe the ­situation firsthand, they initially dismissed the announcement of surrender on August 15, 1945, as an Allied hoax. In the ensuing weeks and months, public acknowl­edgment of defeat remained difficult. Emperor Hirohito’s Declaration of Imperial Humanity, which repudiated his status as a god, exacerbated the crisis by depriving the diaspora of the status they had claimed as ­children of a divine sovereign.24 In response to this calamity, several ultranationalist groups founded in the late stages of the war came together to form the Way of the Subject League (Shindō Renmei). This organ­ization proffered the more palatable fiction that Japan had vanquished the Allies. According to Brazilian police, as many as one hundred thousand emigrants and their descendants contributed financially to Shindō Renmei, while another sixty thousand sympathized. Extremists within this so-­called victory faction (kachigumi) forged images and other documents to nurture public belief in a Japa­nese triumph. They claimed that surrender was merely a tactic to lure the Allied fleet to Japan, where it would be destroyed by a high-­frequency bomb more power­f ul than t­ hose dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Some kachigumi reported that MacArthur was actually a prisoner in Japan, that imperial forces ­were planning an invasion of the United States, and that Japa­nese warships would shortly dock in Brazil to transport emigrants and their descendants “home” to a hero’s welcome. About fifty scam artists w ­ ere arrested for selling false tickets for passage on ships bound for Japan, and coun­ terfeit deeds to land in its colonies. Most dramatically, in the ten months from

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March 1946 to January 1947, Shindō Renmei militants carried out more than forty assaults, including nearly two dozen assassinations, against the opposing loss faction (makegumi), which openly accepted the fact of defeat and conse­ quent impossibility of repatriation to the ancestral homeland.25 When attacks spilled over into non-­Japanese communities, the Brazilian government called in the army to restore order. Law enforcement interrogated nearly thirty thousand individuals, imprisoned several hundred, and remanded about eighty for deportation. However, given the importance of the Japa­nese diaspora to the Brazilian economy, the government wished to avert a mass exodus. State leaders held a summit meeting with about four hundred Shindō Renmei representatives, many released from jail for the occasion. Hoping to defuse tensions, the government pledged to restrain the national press from re­ porting on Japan’s defeat. Local Japanese-­language newspapers, which resumed publishing in early 1947, also avoided direct references to the outcome of the war. ­These changes, combined with the weakening of Shindō Renmei through internal divisions and corruption, helped to end the vio­lence. Even so, relations within the Japa­nese diaspora community remained fraught.26 Among ­t hose targeted and killed by kachigumi terrorists ­were several members of the Doyōkai (Saturday Club), a group of liberal intellectuals of Japa­nese descent who convened weekly in São Paulo. Following the news of surrender, the Doyōkai had launched an “awareness campaign” (ninshiki undō) seeking to persuade the larger community of the war’s unfavorable re­ sult. The group was compelled to lie low during the Shindō Renmei crisis, but as the situation stabilized, it set up a committee to collect donations to allevi­ ate suffering in the home islands. Emigrants and their descendants had made financial contributions to Japan throughout the war, and all could agree on the need for support “afterwards.” By giving the diaspora a common purpose, the relief campaign helped to smooth internecine discord.27 The Doyōkai also founded the São Paulo Research Group in H ­ uman Science (San Pauro Jinbun Kagaku Kenkyūkai) to study the schism and other community m ­ atters. At the forefront of this initiative was a young journalist named Saitō Hiroshi (1919–1983). Born in southern Japan, in 1933 Saitō emi­ grated with his parents, settling first in rural Brazil and l­ater relocating to São Paulo. Fully bilingual, he completed an undergraduate degree and con­ sidered gradu­ate study in sociology at the University of São Paulo, the nation’s most elite institution of higher education. In 1947, just ­after the assassination

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of Shindō Renmei’s last victim, Saitō wrote a provocative article for the Jornal Paulista, a national newspaper, describing “the sad spectacle offered by Japa­ nese ‘fanatics,’ who, ignoring hard realities, cling obstinately to their mystical beliefs.” He argued that ­human science could help to explain and resolve the disorder. Saitō attributed the schism of the community to a cultural disconnect between makegumi, who had adapted to life in Brazil, and kachigumi, who maintained their traditional outlook. He worked with Emilio Willems (1905– 1997), a Brazilian sociologist of German descent, to explore Shindō Renmei as a manifestation of fascism and extreme Japa­nese nationalism. Their 1947 coau­ thored article in the Brazilian journal Sociologia was the first publication by a Japa­nese immigrant in an academic h ­ uman science venue in South Amer­i­ca.28 In the course of his research Saitō read the work of Ruth Benedict, which so impressed him that he wrote a letter to her Japa­nese translator, Odaka Kyōko (1914–2013). Odaka’s husband, sociologist Odaka Kunio (1908–1993), was the younger b ­ rother of Ōtaka Tomoo.29 Through this h ­ uman chain, Saitō came to the attention of the head of the Japa­nese National Commission for UNESCO. In late 1951 Ōtaka met with Izumi to suggest that he collaborate with Saitō to study the Shindō Renmei incident. At Ōtaka’s urging, Izumi applied for and received a fellowship from UNESCO. Seeking to cultivate academic life outside traditional centers in Eu­rope and the United States, the organ­ization offered grants to scholars who ­were committed to returning to their home countries and using their work abroad “for maximum utility and influence, both nationally and internationally.”30 Studying diaspora terrorism in Brazil also dovetailed with the goals of UNESCO’s Social Tensions initiative aimed at fostering coexistence through research on disorder (see Chapter 4). Having recently carried out successful proj­ects on migration and racial discrimination, Izumi was well versed in potential theoretical approaches to investigating Shindō Renmei. However, he knew ­little about South Amer­i­ca and spoke no Brazilian Portuguese. Furthermore, Izumi was tempted by a competing offer to join a team expedition to the Himalayas—­a destination that the avid mountaineer had always dreamed of visiting. Fi­nally, a­ fter convers­ ing with some Japa­nese who had repatriated from Brazil and perusing a vivid nineteenth-­century Amazon travelogue in a used bookstore, Izumi made the decision to go. He would be the third Japa­nese ­human scientist to travel abroad on a UNESCO fellowship. With a small bud­get furnished by the organ­ization, he began buying and reading works by Brazilian sociologists.31

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Izumi initially intended to depart in April 1952, following the end of the occupation and the normalization of relations between Brazil and Japan. However, not ­until autumn was he able to secure the necessary visas, health screenings, and English-­language proficiency credentials demanded by his fel­ lowship sponsors.32 In September 1952 he celebrated his impending departure at a gathering hosted by no less a personage than Torii Ryūzō, then over eighty. In the late 1930s Torii had visited Brazil on behalf of the Japa­nese government as part of a mission to shore up relations between the two nations. Torii’s bless­ ing of Izumi’s venture reflected its similar importance to the state. The Shindō Renmei crisis threatened Brazil’s willingness to resume accepting mi­grants from Japan—­a mea­sure regarded as a pos­si­ble solution to the prob­lem of ab­ sorbing some seven million demobilized soldiers and civilian repatriates from the former empire. Moreover, as in the prewar era, Japan was sensitive to inter­ national perceptions of its diaspora. The Brazilian media depicted kachigumi as latter-­day kamikaze: incomprehensible, incorrigible, and uncivilized. They embodied ­every ste­reo­t ype that Japan needed to overcome in establishing its identity as a cultural nation.33 On October 6, 1952, dressed in a new suit and raincoat, Izumi boarded a Pan Am jet in Tokyo’s Haneda Airport. A ­ fter almost seven years in the Japa­ nese home islands, he was overwhelmed with excitement at the prospect of conducting research abroad. In fact, he regarded Brazil as his first opportunity for genuinely foreign travel, given that his prewar fieldwork had taken place in areas ­under Japa­nese sovereignty. ­After transfers in Honolulu, Los Angeles, Dallas, Miami, and Lima, he fi­nally disembarked in Rio de Janeiro, then the capital of Brazil and the home of its UNESCO headquarters. Izumi greeted the office staff and picked up his first stipend check. Though accustomed to deprivation both in the field and at home, he strug­g led to stretch the small sum in the face of the inflation of the Brazilian economy and the high cost of flights—­often the only way to reach remote areas.34 During his time in Rio Izumi also solicited the Japa­nese ambassador and the Ministries of Culture and Immigration and Colonization for data about Japa­nese emigrants and their descendants. He was disappointed that few sta­ tistics had been collected amid the chaos of World War II and its aftermath.35 Ultimately, the accumulation of basic demographic facts about the diaspora would represent one of the most lasting contributions of his research. ­After a few days in Rio, Izumi proceeded to São Paulo by bus, marveling at the ease of travel along the high-­speed freeway. (No such roads yet existed in

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Japan.) A black-­haired, bespectacled youth waited at the station to greet him. The two men recognized each other easily, and Saitō spoke first: “Hi, I’m Saitō. Welcome.” “Izumi. Many thanks!” “So, Izumi, do you drink?”

With ­t hese words, Saitō ­later recalled, “It was as though we had known each other for a hundred years.”36 Drawn together by their mutual love of saké, interest in ­human diversity, and conviction in objective fieldwork, the pair forged a productive partnership that would serve as the foundation of Japa­nese diaspora studies. Saitō introduced Izumi to his colleagues at the University of São Paulo and in the Doyōkai, which welcomed a scientific investigation into the c­ auses of the Shindō Renmei crisis and offered assistance with research.37 Doyōkai members recommended communities for fieldwork and helped Izumi and Saitō to trans­ late surveys from Japa­nese, the language of most emigrants, to Portuguese, the preferred tongue of a majority of their c­ hildren. The pair then spent a month in São Paulo conducting a pi­lot study, which revealed the need for some adjust­ ments. The original questionnaire opened by asking, “How did you hear that Japan lost the war (haisen)?” A majority of fanatics, objecting to the premise of the inquiry, selected the response “I ­don’t know.” Accommodating this men­ tality, the researchers substituted more neutral language alluding to the end of the war (shūsen).38 Their survey finalized, Izumi and Saitō loaded their materials into trunks and departed for the field. In each location, they began by taking a census to identify the most representative district. From that district, they chose about fifty ­house­holds for profiling. In each h ­ ouse­hold, the researchers interviewed all members, distributed questionnaires, and conducted personality tests. Altogether they gathered data from 372 ­house­holds (about 1,400 persons). In urban areas, they also combed criminal case rec­ords and media publications.39 In probing tensions within the diaspora, Izumi and Saitō quickly discov­ ered the inadequacy of the kachigumi and makegumi labels. Instead, they divided their research subjects into three categories. Acknowledgers (ninshikisha) came to terms with Japan’s defeat within a week of the emperor’s an­ nouncement. Many young acknowledgers reported embarrassment at their community’s violent re­sis­tance to the truth. Diehards (kyōkōsha) abandoned belief in victory within a year, but still avoided overtly conceding surrender.

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One in­for­mant compared public discussion of Japan’s “shame” to sharing the news of his f­ ather’s cancer diagnosis. The final group of fanatics (kyōgensha) continued to cling to faith in an imperial triumph. This category did not differ­ entiate between t­ hose who genuinely did not know and t­ hose who simply did not admit the truth. Fanatics bore responsibility for acts of terrorism against the acknowledgers and for vari­ous attempts to deceive and defraud the larger community, but they received significant economic and ideological support from diehards.40 Izumi and Saitō began their research in the southern states of São Paulo and Paraná. In the early 1950s ­these areas ­were home to nearly 99 ­percent of Brazil’s Japa­nese diaspora. Then, traveling by plane, truck, Jeep, and canoe, they spent three months in Amazon cooperatives established in the late 1920s. To gain the trust of t­ hese communities, Izumi and Saitō relied on the i­ntroductions and assistance of a Tōdai gradu­ate who had lived in Brazil since 1931.41 Nonetheless, Izumi wrote to Ishida that he “felt danger of his life which he had never ex­ perienced among the primitive tribes in New Guinea or elsewhere.” 42 He was utterly bewildered by the level of collective self-­deception—­driven by a logic that was sometimes oddly difficult to refute. As he remembered, one in­for­ mant interpreted the very presence of a Japa­nese ­human scientist in Brazil as evidence that the Axis must have won the war. Even ­t hose who accepted the true outcome of the conflict often argued that Japan had secured a spiritual victory in liberating Asia from Western colonialism.43 Beginning from the hypothesis of Saitō’s former collaborator Willems, who had characterized the kachigumi as “newly arrived and poorly adjusted,” Izumi originally speculated that dif­fer­ent rates of adaptation to Brazil might account for the range of attitudes ­toward Japan’s loss in World War II.44 He surveyed diaspora practices and preferences in food, clothing, shelter, child-­ rearing, se­lection of marital partners, c­ areer aspirations, and attitudes t­ oward the two countries. However, results showed surprisingly ­little variation among acknowledgers, diehards, and fanatics. In no group did a majority own (let alone wear) traditional Japa­nese clothing or eat only Japa­nese cooking. Few families lived in homes with tatami mats or communicated exclusively in Japa­ nese. Across the three categories, respondents ­were overwhelmingly unable to identify Japan’s ruling po­liti­cal party, and barely half could name the prime minister. (Their knowledge of Brazil was scarcely deeper: a heavy majority admitted that they knew nothing about national affairs and could not specify a favorite politician or electoral candidate.)45

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Despite the absence of many outward manifestations of Japa­nese cultural allegiance, acknowledgers, diehards, and fanatics alike displayed abundant emotional investment in their Japa­nese identity. Nearly all respondents agreed on the importance of passing down the Japa­nese language as a vehicle not only for communication but also for ethics and identity. “If our ­children study Japa­nese,” one interviewee told Izumi, “they ­w ill not become social deviants; they w ­ ill be obedient c­ hildren, ­because with the language they learn Japa­nese moral codes.” 46 In­for­mants in all three categories strongly endorsed restoring “Japan’s prewar status as a ­great power” and upheld the authority of the Japa­ nese embassy (though acknowledgers ­were more likely to qualify their willing­ ness to follow its o ­ rders “depending on circumstances”). Seeking more subtle signs of cultural affiliation, Izumi also posed questions such as “Which person in your life are you most likely to ask for advice?” and “Would you allow your ­children to in­de­pen­dently choose their occupation and life partner?” Fanatics selected relatively conservative answers more robustly. They generally pre­ ferred lower levels of education for offspring and endorsed dif­fer­ent roles and rights for males and females. However, the responses of all groups tended to cluster around the same answers. Perhaps most tellingly, even fanatics over­ whelmingly concurred that “life in Brazil is good” (sumi yoi).47 Given the absence of meaningful cultural contrasts among acknowledgers, diehards, and fanatics, Izumi’s interpretation of the Shindō Renmei conflict instead hinged on regional differences. Diehards comprised a majority of re­ spondents in both southern Brazil and the Amazon (57 ­percent and 61 ­percent, respectively). However, in the south the remainder overwhelmingly identified as fanatics (29 ­percent), whereas acknowledgers predominated in the Amazon (35  ­percent).48 Why, Izumi wondered, had Japa­nese emigrants and their de­ scendants in the Amazon accepted defeat more easily on the ­whole than their counter­parts in the south? As he found, the answer lay in original intentions regarding the duration of settlement. Of emigrants in the Amazon, over 40 ­percent reported disembarking with the goal of remaining for the rest of their lives, with a further 20 ­percent stating that they had been too young at the time to feel any preference. By contrast, nearly 60 ­percent of the diaspora in southern Brazil had hoped to re­ patriate upon accruing sufficient wealth, while an additional 12 ­percent agreed with the statement “I would go back now.” Twenty ­percent had reached Paraná or São Paulo as young ­children, leaving barely 10 ­percent who had migrated with the intention of making Brazil their forever home.49 In short, Izumi and

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Saitō established a strong correlation between the determination to stay in Brazil and an acknowledgement posture, and a corresponding link between the desire to return to Japan and fanat­i­cism. The fall of the Japa­nese empire unequivocally signified the permanence of what many settlers regarded as exile—­however comfortable—­from their birth­ place. Deprived of the symbolic refuge of return, many emigrants and their descendants reported psychological turmoil. Based on TAT and Rorschach re­ sults, Izumi diagnosed feelings of ambivalence, aimlessness, anger, oppression, introversion, powerlessness, passivity, sadness, and self-­doubt. The soothing fiction of victory appealed even to ­t hose disinclined to vio­lence. Meanwhile, acknowledgers’ forced recognition of surrender seemed to constitute a direct attack on Shindō Renmei’s last, desperate attempt to forge a meaningful com­ munity existence in Brazil.50 Beyond ­t hese psychological tensions, Izumi also noted an economic di­ mension to internecine strife. The uneven adjustment of immigrants and their families to life in southern Brazil melded uneasily with predeparture social hierarchies. The conflict between makegumi and kachigumi was thus to some extent a class war, pitting the financially destabilized against more prosperous families and communities immersed in mainstream urban Brazilian life. As Izumi wrote, ­These leaders and sympathizers of [Shindō Renmei] ­were neither genuine agri­ cultural immigrants nor former leaders of Japa­nese society. They w ­ ere, in most part, ­t hose who had been cut off from e­ ither class, such as gradu­ates of second­ ary schools in Japan who had come as agricultural immigrants but could not secure the means of living by farming—­a nd most of whom ­were at that time engaged in teaching at Japa­nese schools—or discontented persons who had fallen from the former leading class.51

By contrast, the Amazon cooperatives tended to produce more egalitarian de­ velopment, preventing the formation of class interests and maintaining social cohesion. Shindō Renmei found scant foothold t­ here, and belief in a Japa­nese victory faded peacefully for the most part.52 Though Izumi repeatedly proclaimed the objectivity of his study, his use of the makegumi term fanatics to denote the kachigumi betrayed his distaste for the faction. In his view, “the small number of Japa­nese who still believe the victory of Japan seem to be, in the most part, of abnormal personality.”53 The friendship and assistance of Saitō and the Doyōkai likely also colored

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Izumi’s perceptions of Shindō Renmei. More fundamentally, to a survivor of the tumult and tragedy of Japan’s defeat and occupation, loyalty to milita­ rism, fascism, and imperialism could not have seemed commendable or even comprehensible. On the contrary, adherence to prewar ideologies was simply farcical to a ­human scientist attempting to disseminate and perform the post­ war values of the cultural nation. Terrorism among the diaspora appeared to reinforce precisely the perception of the Japa­nese that the field generation aspired to overcome. Likely owing to ­t hese considerations, Izumi and Saitō’s research, originally intended to illuminate the Shindō Renmei crisis, ironically resulted in its ob­ fuscation. Izumi’s initial publications on his fieldwork in Brazil did not address the m ­ atter at all, focusing on more general dynamics of Japa­nese colônias. Not ­until 1957—­a full de­cade a­ fter the vio­lence had subsided—­did his writings on the kachigumi appear. Saitō, for his part, was l­ater to author an influential ­article dismissing the terrorist interlude as a “collective delusion,” thus shifting the burden of understanding from ­human scientists to psychopathologists.54 Excepting a handful of short analytical pieces and eyewitness accounts, the study of Shindō Renmei languished for de­cades. The lasting impact of Izumi’s research for UNESCO was not to theorize social tensions among emigrants and their descendants but rather to inspire subsequent scholarship offering new constructions of the Japa­nese diaspora in Brazil and beyond.

Assimilation and the co-­c onstitution of “Nikkei” and “Japa­n ese” In mid-­April 1953 Izumi returned to Japan by way of the United States. As he had planned with UNESCO, he spent the final month of his fellowship sharing his findings with American academics at universities across the nation, from New York to Los Angeles. He also intended to stop in Hawai’i for compara­ tive research on the large population of Japa­nese descent. However, his plane had barely touched down in Honolulu before he was forced to hurry home, prompted by the news that his wife was coughing blood.55 Izumi’s next opportunity to undertake fieldwork in Brazil came in 1955, when the Japa­nese Ministry of Foreign Affairs offered to fund a large study of the diaspora. To explore the topic, Izumi assembled a multidisciplinary group of researchers. Though still holding the rank of assistant professor, he was, for the first time in his c­ areer, the se­nior scholar of his expedition. Again he chose to

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work with Saitō, who was then (at his recommendation) helping to build a South American studies program—­Japan’s first—at Kobe University. (Saitō was, in fact, the first foreign faculty member appointed to a Japa­nese uni­ versity from outside Eu­rope and the United States.56) Another team member, museum anthropologist Miyazaki Nobue, was, like Saitō, the son of Japa­nese emigrants who had settled in São Paulo. Also joining the group was Iiyama Tatsuo, who had photographed the KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party and the New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey. To complete the team, Izumi extended invitations to Gamō Masao, a veteran of the Joint Research Committee; Ōno Morio, an economist at Tōdai; and two sociologists: Shima Kiyoshi of Meiji University and Tsukamoto Tetsundo of Hokkaido University. Born in the 1920s, ­t hese four Japa­nese scholars belonged to the first wave of students trained by the men of one age in the early postwar years. Like their mentors, they ­were deeply devoted to objective fieldwork. Despite the support of the Japa­nese government and the São Paulo munici­ pal administration, Izumi’s team strug­gled to cover research costs. To conserve resources, the Japan-­based ­human scientists traveled by sea to Brazil. Their ship, the Brazil-­maru, departed Kobe in late September 1955. Onboard ­were 561 Japa­nese citizens seeking new lives or f­ amily reunification in the antipodes. Following the occupation, immigration to South Amer­i­ca had resumed on a large scale, with financial support from the government and its subsidiaries. Altogether, approximately sixty thousand Japa­nese settlers ventured to Brazil between 1952 and 1973.57 Early in its voyage the Brazil-­maru encountered rough seas, confining most of the passengers to their cabins with nausea. ­A fter this phase passed, the ­human scientists took advantage of the opportunity to survey their fel­ low shipmates, carry­ing out over 150 interviews and Rorschach tests. Unlike prewar emigrants, who generally headed for the area around São Paulo, most newcomers of the 1950s intended to make their home in the sparsely populated and less developed Amazon region. Also in contrast to ­earlier settlers, a major­ ity was strongly committed to permanent relocation. Some had even signed contracts promising to remain in South Amer­i­ca.58 ­After reaching Brazil the researchers dispersed among sixteen urban, rural, and rainforest communities inhabited by the diaspora. They studied some sites for the first time and revisited o ­ thers to assess changes since Izumi and Saitō’s fieldwork two years ­earlier. In total, the team conducted interviews with ap­ proximately eight hundred h ­ ouse­holds. Researchers sat down separately and

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concurrently with husbands and wives in their homes and spoke to ­children in schools or other locations. To contextualize the Japa­nese experience, the team interviewed some non-­Japanese Brazilians, and Saitō carried out a comparative study of Polish-­born settlers and their descendants in Paraná. In December 1955 Izumi presented some preliminary results at the UNESCO Conference on World Population in Rio de Janeiro. Imin (Mi­grants), which he published in 1957, included reports on the team’s fieldwork, some additional in­de­pen­dent research by Saitō, Izumi and Saitō’s 1952 findings on the Shindō Renmei crisis, and photo­graphs by Iiyama. Completed mere months ­after the death of Ōtaka Tomoo, the edited collection was dedicated to his memory. Imin was the first work of Japa­nese h ­ uman science to focus explicitly on 59 assimilation. Izumi translated assimilation as dōka—­a logical but loaded choice. Prior to 1945, dōka (literally, “making the same”) denoted the remodel­ ing of imperial subjects as Japa­nese. Unlike assimilation, which recognized a power differential but allowed for some change in both the minority and the majority cultures, dōka insisted on the unitary adaptation of Asian and Oceanic p ­ eoples to the Japa­nese minzoku. During the age of empire Japa­nese scholars researched diverse indigenous customs to advance the dōka of the colonized. However, they took for granted the exemplary and unchanging characteristics of Japa­nese settlers in imperial territories. On-­the-­ground viola­ tions of this a­ ssumption abounded: as Izumi’s own identification as a peninsu­ lar suggested, expatriates often absorbed or even embraced considerable local influence. Well ­a fter 1945, Izumi expressed a retrospective wish to study the assimilation of Japa­nese beyond the metropole.60 However, such a proj­ect had been inconceivable in its day, ­because within imperial orthodoxy settlers in­ variably functioned as constant and essential models of Japa­neseness promot­ ing the transformation of colonial p ­ eoples into loyal subjects of the emperor. They ­were agents rather than objects of dōka.61 By deploying dōka to discuss Japa­nese emigrants and their descendants in Brazil, Izumi swept aside the term’s former usage describing an imperial stance t­ oward ­Others. Instead, he invested dōka with new meaning as a natu­ ral and inevitable scientific pro­cess acting on the Self. He correspondingly altered the role of the researcher: rather than facilitating the metamorphosis of colonial subjects into Japa­nese, the goal became the objective field study of the relinquishment of national identity. In assessing assimilation among the diaspora in the antipodes, Izumi thus appropriated the very language to dis­ cuss imperial crimes against the p ­ eoples and cultures of Japan’s former empire.

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A key influence over Izumi’s approach to dōka was the work of Robert E. Park (1864–1944), an American sociologist and founding ­father of the Chicago School. Park’s landmark textbook Introduction to the Science of Sociology (1921) defined assimilation as “a pro­cess of interpenetration and fusion in which per­ sons and groups acquire the memories, sentiments, and attitudes of other per­ sons or groups, and, by sharing their experience and history, are incorporated with them in a common cultural life.”62 The goal was Americanization, or the transmission of certain (white, Protestant, native-­born) values to newcomers. The Chicago School observed, however, that assimilation was not a smooth and unidirectional pro­cess leading to a homogenous society. Instead, it noted the production of hybrid ethnicities: singular populations that manifested characteristics of both the home and host country cultures.63 Park’s student Emory Bogardus, who created the Social Distance Survey that Izumi used in his work on racial discrimination, studied assimilation through fieldwork among the population he labeled “Japa­nese Americans” in the early 1940s. Writing on the eve of the internment of this group as ­enemy aliens during World War II, Bogardus cautioned against the use of referents that emphasized a singular Japa­nese identity. “By environment, cul­ tural patterns, outlook, and citizenship, they [emigrants and their offspring] are extensively Americans,” he declared.64 (By contrast, Ruth Benedict’s Chrysanthemum, which appeared a few years l­ater, represented Japa­nese descent communities in the United States as exemplars of Japa­nese culture.) Following Bogardus, Izumi and his collaborators largely rejected language for the Brazil-­born diaspora that suggested a primary identity as Japa­nese. Instead, they described this group as “Nikkei” or “Nikkeijin,” meaning “per­ sons of Japa­nese ancestry.”65 Izumi’s team did not originate Nikkei: in the early twentieth ­century the term appeared sporadically to describe the c­ hildren of emigrants in North and South Amer­i­ca (though never in the empire).66 More common ­were pronouns emphasizing the biological connectedness of the Japa­nese and their position as subjects of a divine emperor. Th ­ ese included dōhō (“born from the same womb”) and the categories of Issei, Nisei, and Sansei (first, second, and third generation). Other popu­lar means of denoting emigrants included “Japa­nese” (Nihonjin), “Japa­nese nationals” (Nihon kokumin), “Japa­nese subjects” (Nihon shinmin), and “sojourners abroad” (zairyū hōjin). Settlers in Brazil wrote of themselves as tohakusha (­t hose who crossed to Brazil) or zaihaku Nihonjin (Japa­nese in Brazil) but never as “Brazilians.”67

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­ fter World War II the use of the above pronouns by kachigumi discred­ A ited them in the eyes of many makegumi intellectuals. The term Nikkei allowed ­t hese urban elites to regain initiative in collective self-­definition.68 Following the publication of Imin, it swiftly prevailed as the most common self-­referent for the diaspora throughout the Amer­i­cas. Meanwhile, with the hosting of the first Convention of Nikkei Abroad (Kaigai Nikkeijin Taikai) in 1960, the Japa­nese government signified the official adoption of the term.69 The delineation of Nikkei signaled a new awareness of the Japa­nese dias­ pora as a distinct community. To uncover symbolic structures of ethnic forma­ tion, the Chicago School examined outward manifestations of identity such as dress, food, and material culture. As Park wrote, “It is prob­ably true of the Oriental, as of other immigrant ­peoples, that in the pro­cess of Americanization, only superficial traits are modified, but most of the racial traits that determine race relations are superficial” (emphasis in original).70 Referencing the Chicago School, Izumi and his team analyzed “objective cultural phenomena” of the Nikkei in Brazil, including religious affiliation, education, community organ­ ization, marriage and f­ amily life, socioeconomic status, language, settlement patterns, clothing, leisure activities, and historical and po­liti­cal views. They also assessed how the Nikkei felt about their own assimilation. Many scholars of immigrants to the United States had noted a sense of cognitive dissonance arising from the mismatch between practices ­adopted from a new country and preferences and values reflecting the old. In general, Izumi found that such cognitive dissonance had declined since his ­earlier study in 1952. Rather than a source of psychological discomfort, assimilation was increasingly quotidian, unremarkable, inconspicuous.71 Nevertheless, ethnic formation among the Nikkei did arouse some individ­ ual and community anx­i­eties. One symptom was friction between new arriv­ als from Japan and longtime residents in Brazil. Tension particularly affected the Amazon’s small, insular communities, some of which had doubled in pop­ ulation since the resumption of emigration from Japan. Prewar and postwar settlers differed not only in their level of assimilation to Brazil but also in their notions of Japa­neseness. Postwar emigrants tended to view themselves as more paradigmatically Japa­nese due to their recent expatriation. However, Issei who had lived in Brazil for two de­cades or more challenged this interpretation, arguing that newcomers had been “contaminated” by American influence dur­ ing the occupation. Having left the home islands before this interlude, they saw themselves alone as repositories of pure, essential Japa­neseness.72

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Fraught relations between emigrant Issei and Brazil-­born Nisei offered further evidence of the emergence a distinct Nikkei identity. As Izumi found, more than 70 ­percent of ­t hose surveyed sensed a deep chasm between the ­generations. They expressed sentiments such as “the Issei think mostly of Japan, while the Nisei are focused on Brazil” and ste­reo­t ypes including “the Issei are fussy/formal” and “the Nisei are lazy/selfish.”73 The second generation exhibited weaker Japa­nese language skills and less commitment to Japa­nese nationalism, with only two-­t hirds hoping that Japan would “become a strong country again.”74 Over half converted to Catholicism, the majority religion of Brazil. Perhaps the most telling signifier of their assimilation was exogamy: although the Issei had almost exclusively emigrated with spouses or married among themselves, by the late 1950s nearly a quarter of their grandchildren had only one Japa­nese parent. Among the third generation, rates of out-­marriage exceeded 40 ­percent. Mixed-­descent offspring w ­ ere “as routine as eating and drinking,” wrote one observer.75 While the assimilation of their ­children was a source of ambivalence and even pain for many Issei, some Nisei even refused to participate in Izumi’s study b ­ ecause they identified wholly as Brazilians.76 Izumi and his colleagues regarded the transformation of Japa­nese into Nikkei as a positive development. Successful assimilation allowed researchers to dismiss the Shindō Renmei incident, in hindsight, as nothing more than a temporary interruption of the metamorphosis of “good Japa­nese” into “good Brazilians.” Nevertheless, from the standpoint of an emigrant-­producing country, assimilation was inevitably a pro­cess of loss, whereby the diaspora gradually relinquished the characteristics that defined belonging in the Japa­ nese nation. “It is pos­si­ble,” Izumi speculated, “that Japa­nese culture w ­ ill be rapidly lost when the days of the so-­called ‘Issei’ [are] past. It is also pos­si­ble that, if the majority population of Brazil does not reject [Nikkei] as a minority group, the latter may be absorbed into the society of the majority.”77 But if the Nikkei w ­ ere (or ­were to become) genealogically or culturally un­ recognizable as Japa­nese, what, then, tied them to Japan? At a moment when ­human scientists ­were concerned above all to establish and defend the cultural nation, the swift and successful adaptation of emigrants and their descendants to Brazilian society appeared to confirm democracy, capitalism, and peace as innate Japa­nese values. Imin thus painstakingly highlighted manifestations of modernization among the diaspora. As its authors argued, the Nikkei partici­ pated enthusiastically in Brazil’s demo­cratic politics. Rather than maintaining

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a traditional, cloistered “village mentality” (buraku ishiki), they cherished their obligation to vote and even mounted their own candidates for national office.78 Building on the successes of the prewar period, the Nikkei also contributed to Brazil’s cap­i­tal­ist economy for individual and national benefit. By the 1950s a majority of rural Nikkei owned farms, a reflection of upward mobility attrib­ uted to “­free individualistic competition and in­de­pen­dent pursuit of economic improvement.”79 In many regions the Issei had accumulated greater average wealth than their Brazil-­born neighbors. Their ­children relocated to cities in pursuit of higher education and professional ­careers. Nikkei and non-­Nikkei writers alike depicted the diaspora as the “best Brazilians,” who actively fur­ thered the development of the country by virtue of a quintessentially Japa­nese aptitude for modernization.80 Fi­nally, Imin called attention to the pacifism of the diaspora. Even before emigration resumed in 1953, Japa­nese boosters argued, If emigration is carried out properly and emigrants contribute to the develop­ ment of the country into which they have migrated and are properly assimi­ lated ­t here, such emigration ­w ill be able to contribute to international peace. We therefore hope that, when emigration again becomes feasible, as many ­people as pos­si­ble ­w ill be sent abroad and emigration ­w ill be carried out in such a manner as ­w ill contribute to world peace and have beneficial effects on our country as a w ­ hole.81

Izumi’s team even referred to postwar settlers in Brazil as “peace mi­grants” (heiwa no imin). Lacking a colonial mentality or the backing of a strong state, their swift assimilation was to demonstrate cooperativeness and increase global re­spect for and understanding of the m ­ other country. Emigrants “do not merely object to war, but arrive with the determination to develop the resources of their new home, rectify global population imbalances, and live in a better world,” wrote one ­human scientist.82 To Izumi and his colleagues, the Nikkei w ­ ere proof of a truly intrinsic orientation t­ oward democracy, capital­ ism, and peace, transcending biology and be­hav­ior as the irreducible pillar of Japa­neseness. Izumi’s antipodal research not only reinforced the values of moderniza­ tion within the national identity of postwar Japan, but also helped to estab­ lish “Nikkei studies” as a legitimate subdiscipline in its own right.83 His team members devoted many years of their c­ areers to the subject. Following his

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participation in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs expedition, Gamō continued to observe the Japa­nese diaspora as well as indigenous p ­ eoples of the South American rainforest. Mere months ­a fter finishing their research for Imin, Saitō, Miyazaki, and Ōno joined a second venture to the Amazon. Sponsored by a Japa­nese emigration society, this proj­ect was led by Tōdai cultural geog­ rapher Tada Fumio, Izumi’s fellow member of the Keijō School and a veteran of the KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party and the New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey.84 From the empire to the antipodes, the men of one age remained committed to fieldwork as the source of objective knowledge of ­human diversity. The study of the Brazilian Nikkei also flourished in Brazil. In 1958, to cel­ ebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the arrival of the first Japa­nese immigrants, Suzuki Teiiti (1911–1996), an Issei l­ awyer and member of the Doyōkai, oversaw a comprehensive survey of the national Nikkei population. The proj­ect secured funding from the Japa­nese and Brazilian governments, the São Paulo munici­ pality, vari­ous research organ­izations, and Nikkei philanthropists. It mobi­ lized nearly four thousand volunteer surveyors to collect interview and census data from almost half a million individuals throughout Brazil. With Izumi’s support, the University of Tokyo Press published the results in 1964.85 The fol­ lowing year, the Doyōkai announced the formation of the Center for Japanese-­ Brazilian Studies (Japa­nese, San Pauro Jinmon Kenkyūjo; Portuguese, Centro de Estudos Nipo-­Brazileiros). With a publication series, library, museum, and research staff, the Center remains a leading institution in public education and scholarship on the Nikkei to this day. Also joining the study of the Brazilian Nikkei w ­ ere U.S. h ­ uman scien­ tists such as John B. Cornell, Izumi’s fellow veteran of the Joint Research Committee on the Ainu. In the 1960s American interest in Japa­nese emigrants and their descendants was fueled by the emergence of Asian American stud­ ies. Breaking with the tradition of analyzing each national diaspora in­de­pen­ dently, Asian American studies posited certain commonalities of interest and experience among Japa­nese Americans, Chinese Americans, and ­others. The field depicted Asian Americans largely positively as a “model minority,” stereo­ typing them according to traits associated with modernization: docility, thrift, industriousness, efficiency, and so on.86 As the progenitor of Nikkei studies, Izumi remained its patron for the rest of his life. However, a­ fter the mid-1950s he himself published no further research on Japa­nese emigrants and their descendants. In early 1956, his fieldwork in

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Brazil concluded, he spent six weeks backpacking through Latin Amer­i­ca with Saitō. Though Izumi justified the trip as a means of gathering lecture material for his cultural anthropology courses at Tōdai, the lifelong mountaineer was privately curious to see the Andes for the first time. However, it was in the city of Lima where he encountered a Japa­nese settler who changed the direction of his c­ areer (yet again). Amano Yoshitarō (1898–1982), a self-­made tycoon, had devoted his retirement to the study of pre-­Columbian history, accumulating a substantial assortment of textiles and other artifacts. With his first glimpse of Amano’s collection, Izumi, age forty, felt as though he had found his life’s work.87

7 E X C AVAT I N G N AT I O N A L I D E N T I T Y IN THE ANTIPODES

Izumi’s encounter with pre-­Columbian history was to resonate well beyond his individual c­ areer. In 1958, a­ fter a period of study and preparation in the United States, he and Ishida Eiichirō or­ga­nized Japan’s first archaeological excavation outside Asia: the University of Tokyo Scientific Expedition to the Andes (Tokyo Daigaku Andesu Chitai Gakujutsu Chōsadan, commonly called the Tōdai Andesu Chōsadan).1 Izumi led four subsequent digs at pre-­Inca sites in Peru and neighboring states during the 1960s. Of the h ­ uman sciences, archaeology was a particularly established and ef­ fective vehicle for nation building in postwar Japan. From the introduction of Western stratigraphic techniques in the Meiji period, Japa­nese archaeologists examined the domestic past as their colleagues in the ­great powers did—­for insight into the origins of the population and state. Their “objective” analy­ ses helped to legitimize the sovereignty of an allegedly divine and legally all-­ powerful emperor. As Japan asserted control over its neighbors in Asia and Oceania, archaeologists pursued evidence of ancient contact and primordial racial ties to justify imperial authority. Following the dismantling of the em­ pire in 1945, Japa­nese researchers returned their focus to the home islands to seek the genesis of the cultural nation.2 The Scientific Expedition to the Andes represented one of Japan’s earli­ est forays into global archaeology, or the investigation of the material rec­ord in states not subject to po­liti­cal domination, or aspirations thereof, by the

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scholar’s home country. Even as archaeologists came to recognize the com­ plex ideological motivations that informed their discipline, they continued to presume the disengagement of global archaeology from nationalism. This reputation for objectivity proved only too useful to the postwar rehabilitation of Japan’s intellectual image. Prior to the 1950s, scholars from Western Eu­ rope and North Amer­i­ca dominated the field of pre-­Columbian history. By joining an ongoing conversation about the ancient past in the United States’s backyard, Japa­nese archaeologists positioned themselves among the ranks of elite knowledge producers u ­ nder American hegemony. Izumi’s excavation se­ ries ultimately made stunning discoveries lauded worldwide for changing the chronology of Andean history. His cutting-­edge methodology, including inter­ disciplinary collaboration and outreach to indigenous communities, further solidified international re­spect for Japa­nese research. Yet, academic knowledge was merely one outcome of the South American expeditions. Sensing an opportunity to expand the public profile of ­human sci­ ence, Izumi collaborated with the Japa­nese media to generate research fund­ ing and to stoke popu­lar curiosity about the ancient antipodes. During the so-­called Inca boom (Inka būmu) from the late 1950s through the late 1960s, fieldworkers made skillful use of media technologies to stimulate and satisfy fascination with the pre-­Columbian past. Exoticism was an impor­tant compo­ nent of the drive to build mass interest. Conversely, the Scientific Expedition to the Andes also cultivated a sense of familiarity with the ­people of the re­ gion. Before 1945 some h ­ uman scientists had speculated that the Japa­nese and indigenous Andeans known as Quechuans shared a common ancestry. In the postwar period this hypothesis took on new significance, offering ethnic kin to replace former Asian colonial subjects once seen as racial siblings of the Japa­nese. More than a mere fad, the pre-­Columbian past also offered a foil for think­ ing through Japan’s recent, troubled experiences. In the late 1950s Inca civiliza­ tion functioned as an analogue of imperialist degeneracy, normalizing what scholars represented as Japan’s “deviant” historical trajectory. However, by the mid-1960s the vaunted success of modernization eliminated the need to defend the nation against this charge. The Inca empire was consequently reworked as a parallel case study of development and dominance. It came to function as a critical Other in Nihonjinron: a new vision of Japa­nese national identity based on ethnocultural uniqueness and superiority.

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Japan’s f irst archaeological expedition outside Asia Early twentieth-­century Japan had ­little consciousness of the pre-­Columbian world. Izumi recalled reading an Inca-­themed short story in a popu­lar ­children’s magazine during m ­ iddle school.3 Galleries periodically exhibited stone, bone, and textile artifacts on loan.4 In the 1920s and 1930s a handful of Japa­nese diplomats and travelers lectured publicly or published accounts of South Amer­i­c a’s ancient past. Torii Ryūzō’s 1937 goodwill trip to Peru, Bolivia, and Brazil on behalf of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs included tours of vari­ous monumental sites and meetings with the “­father of Peruvian ­a rchaeology” Julio C. Tello (1880–1947). ­A fter returning home, Torii gave a few pre­sen­ta­t ions on pre-­Columbian history, but was discouraged by the Japa­nese government from researching a topic with no obvious applications to imperial ideology.5 By contrast, Japa­nese settlers in the Andes took a lively interest in local history. Peru was the first Latin American state to accept Japa­nese immi­ grants. Beginning in 1899, thousands of Japa­nese subjects crossed the Pacific to work as low-­wage contract laborers on agricultural plantations. Although most initially intended to return to Japan, over the next several de­cades they became entrenched in Latin Amer­i­ca, learning Spanish and teaching it to their ­children, intermarrying with non-­Japanese partners, and exchanging farm for city life. By 1940 approximately thirty thousand persons of Japa­nese descent lived in Peru. They constituted the second-­largest Japa­nese diaspora in South Amer­i­ca (­after that of Brazil).6 Archaeological activity began by accident among Japa­nese settlers, as they made discoveries while prospecting for silver and transporting goods across the Andean desert. In the 1930s a historical society founded by a Japa­nese consul excavated vari­ous sites in the ancient city of Pachacamac, located south of Lima. Ōmura Shōji, a general store man­ag­er in the former Inca capital of Cusco, became a self-­described veteran of pre-­Columbian studies and padrino (godfather) of the indigenous Quechua community.7 Amano Yoshitarō, the amateur scholar who initiated Izumi into early Andean history, emigrated to Latin Amer­i­ca in 1928 at the age of thirty. By the early 1940s he had built a thriving commercial empire including two department stores in Panama, a ranch in Chile, a lumberyard in Bolivia, a quinine farm in Ec­ua­dor, and a fish­ ing com­pany in Costa Rica. During World War II Amano was charged with es­ pionage, incarcerated, and deported to Japan. ­After a brief period of residence

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in the nation of his birth, he retired to Peru, his second wife’s homeland, and founded a study circle dedicated to archaeological research.8 ­A fter meeting Amano in early 1956, Izumi resolved to begin fieldwork in the Andes. Undaunted by the approach of m ­ iddle age and by his mount­ ing professional and familial responsibilities, he applied to the Rocke­fel­ler Foundation for a fifteen-­month fellowship (subsequently extended to eigh­teen months) to study at Harvard and the University of Chicago. His statement of purpose strategically made no mention of his interest in pre-­Columbian his­ tory. Instead Izumi declared his intention to continue his well-­k nown research on Japa­nese emigrants and their descendants in Brazil.9 Notified of the award in May 1956, Tōdai president Yanaihara Tadao agreed to release Izumi from teaching duties from that September through early 1958. ­After setting his affairs in order, Izumi flew to Los Angeles, where Nikkei profes­ sor James A. Hirabayashi (1926–2012), a pioneer of Asian American studies, and a companion picked him up at the airport in a station wagon. In preparation for Izumi’s research in South Amer­i­ca, the trio took a road trip through the U.S. West, visiting sites associated with Native Americans. They also ­stopped in Philadelphia, where Izumi attended the fifth quadrennial International Congress of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences. The Japa­nese visitor paid the gas bill for the journey. Throughout the period of his fellowship, Izumi continued to receive his salary from Tōdai (approximately $1,400 annually), supplemented by the Rocke­fel­ler stipend of $225 per month (increased to $250 per month in January 1957) and a f­ amily allowance of $100 per month. Izumi thus earned considerably more than the median American male worker at the time (not to mention the average Japa­nese student).10 However, the cost of living was relatively high in Cambridge, Mas­sa­chu­setts, where he spent the bulk of his fellowship. Unable to afford adequate living quarters and plane tick­ ets for their f­ amily of six, Izumi and his wife left their four ­children in Japan with his ­mother and squeezed into a tiny apartment. When the older w ­ oman suffered a ce­re­bral hemorrhage in late 1957, Izumi Kimiko returned to Tokyo.11 At Harvard, Izumi immersed himself in the lively and close-­k nit commu­ nity of Japa­nese expatriate students. A characteristic combination of disorien­ tation, homesickness, and ambition helped to override social and biographical distinctions within the group. Studying abroad together in the United States solidified intellectual and personal bonds between transwar scholars and the students that came of age immediately a­ fter World War II. Mutual outsiders to American academia, ­t hese generations to some extent fused into a common

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cohort, thus prolonging their hegemony over Japa­nese public life. Some years ­earlier, Izumi had lectured to Ikawa Fumiko’s gradu­ate class in social anthro­ pology at Tokyo Metropolitan University. By the time he arrived at Harvard, she had already settled in Cambridge with her new husband, Sofue Takao, and enrolled in archaeology courses. Her “Izumi-­sensei” (Professor Izumi) soon became the more familiar “Izumi-­san” (Mr. Izumi). Ikawa and Sofue ­were frequent guests at Izumi’s parties, which ­were renowned for their bacchanalian hospitality.12 Study abroad also reinforced ties between Japa­nese and American scholars. As directed by the Rocke­fel­ler Foundation, Izumi logged meetings with dozens of prominent faculty at universities across the United States. He diligently followed up ­t hese encounters with holiday greeting cards and invitations to Japan. Izumi also cultivated connections with ju­nior researchers, including ­t hose close in age to his students. As he disclosed to his funders, the single most impor­tant legacy of his fellowship was “the opportunity to meet a large group of bright young American anthropologists, many of [whom] I can now call ‘friend.’ ”13 ­These relationships reinforced bonds established during the oc­ cupation, incorporating Japa­nese scholars into the postwar network of ­human scientists in the American orbit. With the support of the Rocke­fel­ler Foundation, Izumi and his wife trav­ eled to Peru in the summer of 1957. Equipped with letters of introduction from Harvard’s Peabody Museum and from Shibusawa Keizō, then a Ministry of Foreign Affairs diplomat posted in Latin Amer­i­ca, Izumi applied for govern­ ment authorization to excavate. In July he and Izumi Kimiko, acting as his research assistant, set off for the Chancay Valley north of Lima. Joining them ­were Shibusawa, Amano Yoshitarō, and Ōmura Shōji. The local Japa­nese com­ munity organ­ization provided companionship, food and shelter, and Spanish language lessons. With the idea of comparing emigrant assimilation in Peru and Brazil, Izumi spent six weeks interviewing and administering projective tests to 125 Nikkei families in the town of Huaral. He subsequently turned to archaeology, excavating ancient pottery fragments and h ­ uman mummies and 14 whetting his appetite for further research. In February 1958, ­a fter a year and a half abroad, Izumi returned to Japan to plan the Scientific Expedition to the Andes. Ishida Eiichirō met him at the airport and agreed to oversee the venture. As Izumi’s se­nior colleague at the University of Tokyo, Ishida was a natu­ral choice as director. He had, moreover, already established a reputation in the field of pre-­Columbian history: a­ fter

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studying ancient Mexico in the United States in the mid-1950s, he published several works introducing Mayan civilization to Japa­nese audiences.15 Izumi and Ishida also recruited Terada Kazuo, their colleague in Tōdai’s cultural anthropology department. A dozen years younger than Izumi, Terada none­ theless shared the transwar faith in objective fieldwork.16 The Scientific Expedition to the Andes was not only Japan’s first major ar­ chaeological excavation in South Amer­i­ca, but also the first such proj­ect that Japa­nese scholars had ever undertaken outside Asia. Owing to the legacies of imperialism, atrocity, and war, in the 1950s and 1960s much of the conti­ nent was off-­limits or acutely hostile to Japa­nese researchers. Following the end of the occupation, Japan launched a succession of group studies beyond the borders of the former empire. Fieldworkers ventured to Iran / Iraq and Karakoram / Hindu Kush in 1956. By the time the Scientific Expedition to the Andes launched two years l­ater, anthropologists had also visited equato­ rial Africa, Patagonia, and Southeast Asia.17 Over the next de­cade, research­ ers undertook proj­ects in India, Sri Lanka, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Transjordan, Egypt, Tunisia, Algeria, Morocco, Libya, Ethiopia, Uganda, Cameroon, Tanganyika, Austria, Germany, Yugo­slavia, Canada, the United States, Mexico, Guatemala, Cuba, Ec­ua­dor, Venezuela, Colombia, Bolivia, Chile, Paraguay, Argentina, and New Zealand.18 Many studies took place in or near mountain ranges. During the early postwar de­cades, athletes around the world competed for summits on behalf of their countries. Their efforts earned not only international acclaim but also foreign exchange—­a necessity for Japan given the low value of the yen. In 1956 climbers associated with the University of Kyoto delivered the nation’s most celebrated triumph: a first ascent of the Himalayan peak Manaslu, the world’s eighth-­highest mountain. In the wake of this achievement, the Andes, the world’s longest mountain range, beckoned with unclaimed heights and un­ tested routes.19 Climbing and archaeological expeditions operated synergisti­ cally to draw the attention of the Japa­nese public and to create local networks for assistance. The combination of alpine activity and ­human science also at­ tracted a new generation of scholar-­adventurers including Ōnuki Yoshio (b. 1937), who was to succeed Izumi and Terada as Japan’s foremost archaeologist of the pre-­Columbian Andes.20 Like other large-­scale, high-­profile proj­ects of the 1950s and 1960s, most notably the Tokyo Olympics of 1964, excavations abroad burnished Japan’s international geopo­liti­cal status. At the departure ceremony for the inaugural

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Scientific Expedition to the Andes in June 1958, the minister of education de­ scribed field research as a “national undertaking” (kokkateki jigyō). He warned, “As this is Japan’s first mission to the Andes, we have ­great expectations for its success.”21 The team vehicles flew the Japa­nese flag—an unimaginable sight in early postwar Asia or even the home islands, where most citizens recoiled from any reminder of militarism.22 By sending archaeologists across the world, the Japa­nese government anticipated rebuilding the intellectual reputation of the nation. In addition to the state, newspapers also provided support for the expe­ dition. In the early 1940s the Yomiuri Shinbun had contributed to the New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey in exchange for exclusive reporting rights. Such backing all but dis­appeared amid the straitened circumstances of the oc­ cupation. By the late 1950s the return of growth and stability enabled the major dailies to resume their role as benefactors of fieldwork. Research sponsorship represented more than just an attempt to build readership through expedi­ tionary reportage. Given the state’s preoccupation with the national economy, many newspapers expressed a sense of obligation to cultivate intellectual life. Less loftily, they financed fieldwork to erase their war­time image as lowbrow propaganda rags and to reestablish their reputations as respectable sources of objective information and mouthpieces of the cultural nation.23 Egami Namio’s 1956 team dig in the M ­ iddle East was the first archaeological proj­ect funded primarily by a Japa­nese newspaper, the Asahi Shinbun.24 Not coinci­ dentally, the Asahi’s rival, the Yomiuri Shinbun, put up much of the backing for the Andean excavations. In preparation for the first expedition, Izumi procured five T ­ oyota Land Cruisers and shipped them across the Pacific. He took driving lessons to prac­ tice guiding them over rough terrain. Other participants observed T ­ oyota factory operations to learn how to maintain and repair the vehicles. They all studied Spanish with an instructor at Sophia University in Tokyo. In June 1958 Izumi and Ishida flew to Latin Amer­i­ca to begin organ­izing supplies. Their arrival in Lima coincided with a visit to the Peruvian capital by the emperor’s ­brother, Prince Mikasa, and his wife. The anthropologists received invitations to a party in honor of the royal ­couple hosted by President Manuel Prado—an indication of their high status and the perceived importance of ­human science in the early postwar period.25 Shortly thereafter, the Scientific Expedition to the Andes departed Lima for a trip across over thirty thousand kilo­meters of desert stretching from Ec­ua­dor

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to Chile. The team planned to assess the scholarly potential of more than two hundred sites. In the field, Izumi invariably r­ ose by 6 a.m. to supervise digging. At 2 p.m., at the height of the sun, plagued by insects, the team broke for lunch. If after­noon sandstorms prevented further excavation, Izumi would assess and cata­log artifacts ­until dinner at 7:30 p.m. The group often socialized u ­ ntil late; 26 Izumi typically slept a mere four or five hours per night. Two years l­ ater, in the summer of 1960, Izumi returned to Peru with a sec­ ond expedition to excavate Kotosh, a ­temple entombment (a series of worship structures erected on the same location). Peruvian archaeologists had discov­ ered Kotosh in the 1930s but had not yet conducted extensive research ­t here. Julio C. Tello had speculated about the possibilities of the site, which was con­ sidered exemplary of construction during the Chavín era (c. 900–200 BCE), typically identified as the crucible of Andean cultural identity.27 The second Scientific Expedition to the Andes was the largest-­ever ar­ chaeological undertaking in Peru to that date. The party consisted of three Peruvian archaeologists and six Japa­nese archaeologists, as well as two Japa­ nese geographers, a botanist, and a cultural anthropologist. Six Japa­nese ­women caretakers and about a hundred local workers supported the team. Or­ga­nized in only four months, the excavation proceeded on a shoestring bud­ get, with funding cobbled together from the Yomiuri Shinbun corporation, Ministry of Education, Shibusawa, and other sources. Izumi saved money by purchasing boat rather than plane tickets for ju­nior scholars and by lodging the entire group (plus about thirty tons of supplies) in tents instead of prefab­ ricated housing. Sometimes they slept at a local h ­ otel, but most nights they crowded three to each makeshift shelter. Izumi’s robust snoring disturbed his companions, and he was forced to decamp to the storage unit. Without access to washrooms, team members bathed in the river or rigged up crude showers. Though the researchers intended to eat local fare, they balked at the hybrid cooking of Japa­nese settlers in Peru. The wife of one h ­ uman scientist, who had accompanied him into the field, began preparing traditional Japa­nese meals with local ingredients, much to the appreciation of all. Despite the spartan regimen, the party remained generally healthy.28 ­A fter over a month of digging, the team reached Kotosh’s lower strati­ graphic layers, which showed evidence of religious activity, monumental masonry, ceramics, and woven textiles during the period of the so-­called Formative Cultures, which predated the Chavín by nearly fifteen hundred years. Previously assumed to be subsistence socie­ties, pre-­Chavín p ­ eoples

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emerged as unexpectedly masterful of civilizational technologies. Offering evidence of at least five distinct eras of pre-­Chavín development, the excava­ tion of Kotosh generated a more nuanced chronology of h ­ uman settlement in the early Andes. Izumi himself was astonished by the significance of the site, which surpassed even his most optimistic expectations. Many of his conclu­ sions on early urbanism and spirituality remain accepted t­ oday.29 In 1963 Japa­nese archaeologists returned to Kotosh to continue their re­ search amid a changed po­liti­cal climate. One year ­earlier, an army coup had deposed President Prado. The military junta that replaced him mobilized ­v isions of a glorious ancient past to promise citizens a “New Peru” ­free from poverty. Interest in archaeology peaked in government circles. One night, Izumi, clad in nothing more than a robe, was returning to his tent from a bath when he was halted by a group of local soldiers. A top general had come to in­ spect Kotosh. Caught off guard, Izumi offered Japa­nese whiskey to the visitors, downing glasses with them in a show of friendship.30 Confirmed through follow-up research in 1966 and through simi­ lar findings at the nearby site of Shillacoto, Izumi’s discoveries at Kotosh made headlines in Japan, Peru, and archaeological circles around the world. Overnight, Huánuco, the closest town, became a “global village” with American, Canadian, and French scholars flocking to inspect the excava­ tion.31 At the Harvard Faculty Club, the university’s premier pre-­Columbian archaeologist, Gordon Willey, shook hands with Izumi and solicited addi­ tional details of the dig for his influential summa of ancient American his­ tory, then in pro­gress. Willey subsequently hosted Terada Kazuo at Harvard for two years in the mid-1960s.32 Participants of the Scientific Expedition to the Andes presented their work at conferences of the International Congress of Americanists, International Congress of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences, Smithsonian National Museum of Natu­ral History, and Dumbarton Oaks Research Library in Washington, D.C. With assistance from British scholars, they translated their field report into En­glish. One U.S. reviewer ap­ plauded, “Americanists should heartily congratulate the Japa­nese for such out­ standing work . . . ​a nd hope that their interest in the Andean area continues and that they ­w ill enjoy the satisfaction of joining the scientific community of New World archaeologists.”33 In addition to its findings, the Scientific Expedition to the Andes won ac­ claim for methodological innovation. Many interdisciplinary and inclusive practices ­later associated with Euro-­A merican “New Archaeology” or pro­

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cessualism w ­ ere long-­standing features of the Japa­nese team research model. Following pre­ce­dents established in the 1930s, the nearly thirty h ­ uman scien­ tists who participated in the five expeditions of the series represented a variety of disciplines: botany, geography, climatology, ecol­ogy, geomorphology, ar­ chaeology, ethnography, and physical and cultural anthropology.34 They col­ laborated on multiple excavations in changing configurations, which resulted in a cross-­pollination of fields, institutions, and academic ranks and reinforced bonds among transwar scholars and their slightly ju­nior colleagues. Izumi cooperated with Latin American professors and gradu­ate students at a time when they ­were routinely excluded by researchers from Eu­rope and the United States. He also welcomed some ­women scholars such as Rosa Fung Pineda (b. 1935), a descendant of Chinese immigrants to Peru and a rising star of pre-­Columbian archaeology.35 Together, Japa­nese and Peruvian human sci­ entists drank pisco and Suntory beer, ate bananas and coca leaves, and sang songs in the indigenous Quechua language. Initially, the Peru-­born c­ hildren of Japa­nese emigrants served as field coordinators and translators. Native Japa­ nese and Spanish speakers often communicated in En­glish, a mutual second language. Izumi regularly convened Spanish study sessions using middle-­ school grammars and readers. By the mid-1960s members of the Scientific Expedition to the Andes had learned enough of the language to operate in­ de­pen­dently in the field. Several ju­nior scholars even took a leave of absence from Tōdai to teach anthropology in regional colleges in Peru. Two married Peruvian w ­ omen, integrating into local society at the most intimate level.36 Foreshadowing public outreach initiatives expected of archaeologists ­today, Izumi welcomed c­ hildren to digs, gave pre­sen­ta­tions to Huánuco ­middle school students, and joined local cele­brations of Peru’s in­de­pen­dence day. In Lima, he spoke (through a translator) about his field discoveries to a crowd of more than a hundred.37 He offered relatively high wages to indig­ enous workers and encouraged his team to learn their language. When the Peruvian government ordered the relocation of a valuable relief from Kotosh to Lima for safekeeping, Izumi intervened on behalf of outraged Quechuans who protested the removal of their patrimony. In response to his proposal to display the sculpture in a local museum, a colleague recalled the population enthusiastically chanting “Samurai Izumi!” The president of the University of Huánuco lauded the “traditional courtesy of the noble and heroic son of Japan.”38 Through mutual stereotyping, the incident showcased Japan’s protec­ tion of indigenous p ­ eople from exploitation by their own government.

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Upon Izumi’s death in 1970 the municipality of Huánuco named a street ­a fter him and erected a cement and bronze stele carved with depictions of Kotosh artifacts to commemorate his contribution to “fraternity among the nations of the world.” Both Izumi and Terada Kazuo, who succeeded his Tōdai colleague as Japan’s leading Andean archaeologist, received state medals for their contributions.39 Such honors mingled recognition of individual scholars, the scientific prowess of Japan, and the glory of the Peruvian past.

The Inca boom The eleven-­year lifetime of the Scientific Expedition to the Andes spanned a critical moment in the history of Japa­nese ­human science. The regeneration of the national economy not only enabled the media to resume its financial support for the production of knowledge but also permitted the expanding and upgrading of communications infrastructure. Through both old and new technologies, scholars publicized their findings beyond academia. A canny or­ ga­nizer and promotional genius, Izumi made skillful use of radio, newspapers, magazines, color photography, film, and tele­vi­sion to arouse popu­lar curiosity in ancient South Amer­i­ca. A consummate public intellectual, he combined ex­ oticism and familiarity in an irresistible cocktail. Ultimately the level of non­ academic interest in the Andes exceeded even Izumi’s expectations, catapulting him and his fellow h ­ uman scientists to the apex of their celebrity and authority. The 1950s witnessed the beginnings of Japan’s boom years, when high-­ speed growth and unpre­ce­dented prosperity gave rise to a succession of fads embraced by the growing ­middle class. To many critics, consumerism as­ sumed the status of a collective religion. In short order, the public took up novelties such as boxing, Audrey Hepburn, lotteries, Dior fashion, calypso, in­ stant food, cars, and apartment complexes. The 1953 excavation of Tsukinowa, a tumulus of the Kofun period (c. 250–600 CE) located in the present-­day prefecture of Okayama, mobilized over ten thousand volunteers and sparked booms in ancient history and archaeology.40 Taking off at the end of the 1950s, the “Inca boom,” as it was described in its own time, capitalized on growing public interest in the material culture of the past and garnered attention via con­temporary fads for pocket paperbacks, cameras, department stores, game shows, and travel.41 In fact, “Inca boom” was a misnomer: research by the Scientific Expedition to the Andes focused on ­earlier cultures. However, publicists typically spoke

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of the Inca, the most widely recognized pre-­Columbian civilization in South Amer­i­ca. In Eu­rope and the United States, the common tendency to depict Andean history as a telos to the Inca empire became known as the “Inca myth.” Similarly, in Japan, countless artifact exhibitions, newspaper and jour­ nal articles, and books—­including Izumi’s own bestselling, award-­w inning Inka teikoku (1959; The Inca empire) and Inka no sosentachi (1962; Ancestors of the Inca)—­represented the entire Peruvian past as Inca or pre-­Inca.42 Initially, the major vehicle of the Inca boom was Izumi’s sponsor, the Yomiuri Shinbun. From the departure of the first Scientific Expedition to the Andes in 1958 through the return of the fifth and last of the series ventures in 1969, pre-­Columbian civilization appeared in Yomiuri headlines on average almost twice per month.43 ­These years also represented a period of explosive growth in newspaper circulation, which ­rose from ­under twenty-­five million to over thirty-­five million, with an estimated 3.9 readers per copy (among the highest rates of sharing in the world).44 Taking advantage of exclusive report­ ing rights, the Yomiuri dispatched the well-­k nown and controversial writer Hayashi Fusao (1903–1975) to accompany the 1958 venture. Hayashi (real name: Gotō Toshio), a former university classmate of Ishida, was an active Marxist writer in the 1920s. Arrested in the early 1930s, he embraced orthodox national­ ism ­under pressure from the state. ­After 1945 the IMTFE purged Hayashi, and for more than a de­cade he published only minor pieces ­under a dif­fer­ent byline. With no Spanish language ability or knowledge of archaeology, he was not an obvious candidate for an Andean field assignment; Ishida suspected that the writer was bored much of the time.45 However, his flamboyant presence and well-­k nown prewar pseudonym drew considerable attention to the expedition. Hayashi’s almost weekly columns for the Yomiuri Shinbun catered to the tastes of the public by sensationalizing the rigors of the dig and exoticizing the natu­ral won­ders of the Andes—­“a desert of seven colors,” in one memorable phrase.46 However, Hayashi also fueled the interest of Japa­nese audiences by suggesting their ethnic confraternity with indigenous inhabitants. The idea of a Japanese-­Andean relationship was not birthed by Izumi’s team, but rather derived from Western scholarship—­a genealogy that imbued it with additional credibility and appeal from the standpoint of early postwar Japa­nese audi­ ences. During the eigh­teenth c­ entury French writer Jacques-­Henri Bernardin de Saint-­Pierre (1737–1814) famously claimed that the Inca ruling class was descended from the ancient Japa­nese. In the early twentieth ­century this view resurfaced with a new twist. To many observers, the masterful engineering

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and artistry displayed by the stone ruins of the Inca empire bespoke construc­ tion by a civilized society, rather than by the seemingly primitive indigenous Quechua. Given Japan’s rapid development and growing military prowess, some thought its p ­ eople might well have been the true architects of brilliant monuments in the Andes.47 Meanwhile, in the eyes of prewar proponents of Japa­nese emigration to Peru, confraternity with the local population naturalized movement across the Pacific as a sort of homecoming. For settlers themselves, the belief that they ­were replicating a journey of their ancestors may have comforted fears of the unfamiliar antipodes by instilling a sense of belonging. The most concrete ex­ pression of Japa­nese identification with the pre-­Columbian past was a bronze statue of the quasi-mythical first Inca king, Manco Capac, commissioned by the diaspora community in 1921 in honor of the centennial of Peru’s in­de­pen­ dence. Finished in 1926, it was installed in an eponymous Lima plaza where as many as two thousand urbanites congregated daily.48 During the age of imperialism Japa­nese archaeologists pursued evidence of the shared origins of their own ­people and ­those they dominated. The idea of a primordial connection with South Amer­i­ca appealed to some expansionists. The only known full-­length Japanese-­language work on the pre-­Columbian history of South Amer­i­ca published before 1945, Inka teikoku to Nihonjin (The Inca empire and the Japa­nese), described a shared Japanese-­Andean bloodline. In the analy­sis of its author, diplomat Fukunaka Mataji, similarities in grave goods, words, toponyms, clothing, and customs such as the use of a wrapping cloth (furoshiki) and worship of a divine emperor associated with the sun con­ firmed the Japa­nese ancestry of the Inca rulers. Shared origins in turn obliged the empire to act as an “older b ­ rother country” to Peru. Fukunaka’s book sold well enough to warrant three print runs in the two months following its publica­ tion in 1940. However, a­ fter Japan’s defeat by the Allies, the writer’s association with the war­time government and his explicit support for imperialism dam­ aged his credibility. Postwar Japa­nese scholars overlooked the work entirely.49 Nevertheless, the idea of transpacific confraternity did not dis­appear; in­ stead, it took on new significance a­ fter 1945. Japan’s transformation from an empire of kin to a monoethnic state left its p ­ eople bereft of close relatives. To the men of one age, ethnic commonality with the early Andeans was not sim­ ply a romantic idea but a means of orienting Japan in a new world by tying the Japa­nese to the New World. The midcentury doctrine of diffusionism invested the notion of a Japanese-­Inca relationship with the credibility of objectivity.

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Diffusionists attributed pro­gress among “primitive” socie­ties to interchange with more advanced civilizations (rather than to in­de­pen­dent invention). “As ­water flows from a higher to a lower level, so a higher culture permeates a lower,” explained Ishida Eiichirō, who regarded the Andes as an ideal test case for the theory. He held that archaic migrations from Asia and Oceania across the Bering Strait had influenced socie­ties throughout South Amer­i­ca. Evidence included the Mongoloid appearance of indigenous Americans and similari­ ties between South and Southeast Asian and New World art and architecture. Pottery discovered at Kotosh appeared to resemble exemplars from Neolithic Japan. Ishida further noted that key features of early Eu­ro­pean civilization—­ iron, glass, structural arches, and domesticated cows and h ­ orses, for example—­ were absent from both East Asia and South Amer­i­ca. The ancient Amer­i­cas, he concluded, developed in­de­pen­dently of Eu­rope, but in contact with Asia.50 Although Japa­nese archaeologists ventured no further than suggesting an Asian admixture in pre-­Columbian ­peoples, transported to the popu­lar realm, this contention metamorphosed into a more specific vision of transpacific brotherhood. In his reportage, Hayashi often deliberately blurred bound­aries between the con­temporary Japa­nese diaspora and the indigenous Quechua. At one site, the team came upon a restaurant managed by a Japa­nese emigrant, offering a menu of Japa­nese dishes. To Hayashi, the adobe façade, bench seat­ ing, and “dark air” of the establishment seemed more Andean than Asian. The food, served in “Inca-­style” unglazed pottery, was unexpectedly black, with yellow salt. Amid the ruins of the Inca empire, Hayashi suggested, the distinc­ tion between Japa­nese and South American appeared to break down. Indeed, the Quechua ­people ­were at once foreign and familiar, “exactly resembling the Japa­nese.” “They have an appealing bone structure, and their color is very similar to ours. . . . ​We are from the same blood,” Hayashi elaborated. Lest audiences imagine this sense of kinship was one-­sided, he noted that locals often asked Ishida if he was researching the Japa­nese ancestry of the Inca.51 Images furnished by the Yomiuri Shinbun photographer accompanying the Scientific Expedition to the Andes reinforced Hayashi’s potent brew of similarity and exoticism. Published shots often posed Quechua in traditional dress against backdrops of llamas and alpacas, snow-­capped mountains, and dramatic stone ruins. By contrast, creole and Spanish persons and culture received l­ittle attention. Newspaper spreads recalled archaeological report­ age by Eu­ro­pe­a ns and Americans in the age of empire, when the depiction of indigenous p ­ eople as virtual features of the natu­ral landscape unchanged

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since ancient times suggested a failure of evolution and the need for imperial cultural stewardship.52 Encyclopedias and photo books, the most prominent vehicles for images in early postwar Japan, likewise often elided urban South Amer­i­ca in f­ avor of stylized repre­sen­ta­t ions of indigenous p ­ eoples and artifacts. Ishida’s 1959 Zusetsu sekai bunkashi taikei (An illustrated outline of world cultural history) showed Japa­nese farmers in Peru using Inca irrigation techniques. It placed images of Japa­nese neighborhoods in Lima alongside shots of the ancient em­ pire’s capital.53 Such juxtapositions encouraged the appropriation of a glori­ ous South American past—­infinitely more appealing than Japan’s own recent history. Unlike the monochromatic works of the prewar years, photo books of­ fered glamorous color images. As black-­and-­white cameras increasingly came within the purchasing power of ordinary Japa­nese citizens, spectacular gra­ vure (produced by ­etching and inking printing cylinders) enabled professional photo­g raphs to maintain consumer appeal. Given the expense of the tech­ nology, color publications w ­ ere often unaffordable for the average buyer. In 1964 Izumi edited a collection of Andean textile reproductions that retailed for thirty-­six thousand yen, approximately a month’s salary for the median Japa­nese worker at the time.54 Iiyama Tatsuo, Izumi’s companion in Mōkyō, New Guinea, and Brazil, contributed to the conflation of the Japa­nese and indigenous Andeans through his own photo­graphs of South Amer­i­ca. Traveling across the continent in the 1960s, Iiyama declared, “Any Japa­nese, upon seeing an Indio [indigenous in­ habitant] even once, w ­ ill feel an unforgettable and unmistakable sense of kin­ ship with the East Asian shape of his face and the sound of his words.” Posing alongside his subjects, he compared their mutual “yellow skin, straight black hair and beards, minimal body hair, and narrow frames.” At the same time, Iiyama’s images used South American subjects as a foil to emphasize Japa­nese pro­gress. As in New Guinea, he posed in glasses and collared shirts alongside bare-­chested indigenous men and ­women, lending the scientific credibility of the camera to preconceptions of Japan’s ascent in the world.55 The burgeoning genre of travel lit­er­a­ture was another impor­tant medium for images of the Andes. From the end of the occupation ­until the mid-1960s the Japa­nese Ministry of Foreign Affairs permitted overseas excursions only for t­ hose with “legitimate business interests” such as commerce, research, and formal study in foreign institutions. Even a­ fter t­ hese restrictions w ­ ere lifted,

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expense and arduousness deterred all but a few Japa­nese citizens from reach­ ing South Amer­i­ca. Applicants for a visa to Peru typically waited at least three months. Aside from consular personnel, t­ here w ­ ere few Japa­nese (or En­glish) speakers to assist them on the ground. Transportation in the Andes was un­ comfortable and local cuisine unpalatable—­“anyone used to Japa­nese food ­w ill naturally find it bad,” Ishida warned.56 ­Under the circumstances, travel lit­er­a­ture thrived less as a source of practical assistance than as a prop of imag­ ination. In 1961 travelogues comprised three of the top five bestselling publica­ tions in Japan.57 Izumi published an award-­w inning travelogue, Fuīrudo nōto yachō (Field notes), and a guide to Peru in 1967.58 More than print culture, tele­v i­sion and film excited the Japa­nese public with dualistic repre­sen­ta­tions of Inca exoticism and intimacy. The tele­v i­sion set was a symbol of the postwar consumer revolution: although only one-­t hird of Japa­nese h ­ ouse­holds possessed this luxury in 1960, within five years the number had risen to over eight in ten, with Japan second only to the United States in the rate of owner­ship.59 While in the field, Izumi worked with Nihon Hōsō Kyōkai (NHK), Japan’s national broadcasting com­pany and the most high-­profile public patron of the arts in the postwar period. The collabora­ tion produced two educational documentaries, Inka no shinpi (Mysteries of the Inca) and Inka rando (The land of the Inca). Both debuted at an after­noon film festival only a week a­ fter the return of the first Scientific Expedition to the Andes. They w ­ ere subsequently broadcast on government channels.60 In the 1960s Terada shot several follow-up documentaries, including Perū to iu kuni (A land called Peru) and Kotoshu ni kaketa hashi (Bridge to Kotosh). He and his colleagues recruited Peruvian archaeologists to appear in a production titled Bankoku bikkuri shō (Surprises around the world). Series such as Sekai no tabi (Travels around the world), beginning in 1959; Nonfuikushon gekijō (Nonfiction dramas), from 1962; and Subarashii sekai ryokō (Fabulous world travels), screened in 1966, cultivated mass taste for programming offering an “anthropological flavor.” Archaeologists even competed on quiz shows, a new and enormously popu­lar viewing experience.61 In the world of cinema, the capstone production of the Inca boom was prizewinning director Hani Susumu’s Andesu no hanayome (Bride of the Andes), shot over the course of six months in 1965. To ensure accuracy in the script and staging, Hani (b. 1928) perused Izumi’s writings, visited museums in Lima, and solicited assistance from several local Japa­nese speakers who had assisted the Scientific Expedition to the Andes. Hani’s wife, the celebrated

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Hidari Sachiko (1930–2001), won a Best Actress award at the Chicago Film Festival of 1966 for her engaging portrayal of Tamiko, a picture bride in Peru. Through wide ­angles and faraway shots, the camera captures Tamiko’s sense of awe and displacement on arriving in her new home amid ancient agricultural terraces and Inca ­temple ruins. She is further mystified by the Quechua, long oppressed and denied ­water for their fields by the descendants of the Spanish conquistador elite. In a pos­si­ble nod to Izumi, Tamiko’s Nisei husband Tarō is an archaeologist by profession. Tarō seeks to help his impoverished neigh­ bors by digging for Inca gold to finance irrigation. Through this humanitarian endeavor, he also hopes to salvage the dignity of the local Japa­nese settlers, denounced as e­ nemy aliens during World War II. Tarō eventually locates the fabled trea­sure, but is crushed to death during its excavation. The widowed Tamiko heroically devotes herself to fulfilling his dream: a re­nais­sance of the indigenous ­people of the Andes.62 The image of con­temporary Japanese-­Quechua cooperation based on a shared and shining Inca past enraptured audiences on both sides of the Pacific. The renown of Hani, Hidari, and cameraman Nagano Shigeichi (b. 1925), who also shot the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, guaranteed Andesu no hanayome consid­ erable attention in Japan. The leading Japanese-­language film journal ranked the movie sixth among the best productions of 1966; a panel of readers rated it third.63 Reviews applauded its “splendid” and “charming” shots of mountains, ruins, and indigenous p ­ eople. Advertisements showing the Japa­nese Hani in a fatherly pose with two Quechua child actors reinforced the idea of Japanese-­ Andean “common features” (kyōtsūten) and “intimate connections” (missetsu na kankei).64 The movie also earned acclaim in Peru, where it opened in 1967 ­under the title Amor en los Andes. Some Peruvian critics even claimed the film for national cinema, arguing that it reflected domestic themes and ideals, used local actors and landscapes, and offered an unusually accurate depiction of life in the mountains.65 Much like onscreen entertainment, artifact exhibitions offered Japa­nese audiences visual access to pre-­Columbian culture during the years of the Inca boom. As in the prewar period, many shows took place at department stores. ­After 1945 ­t hese venues invested in the arts as evidence of their contribution to the cultural nation.66 Hotly competitive and financially robust corporations such as Daimaru, Isetan, Matsuzakaya, Mitsukoshi, Odakyū, Seibu, Sogō, and Takashimaya collaborated with newspaper sponsors to host displays. Exhibitions opened in flagship locations in Tokyo and Osaka and traveled to

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regional hubs such as Hiroshima, Sendai, and Yokohama. The years of the Inca boom witnessed close to twenty major showings of pre-­Columbian pieces.67 Japan’s first postwar exhibition of Andean material culture, consisting of artifacts on loan from Amano Yoshitarō, took place in spring 1958, several months before the first Scientific Expedition to the Andes. With the assistance of the Yomiuri corporation, Izumi booked Isetan, one of Tokyo’s most elite department stores, to host the event. A token entrance fee, which only partly defrayed staging costs, made admission pos­si­ble for patrons who might not ordinarily frequent department stores. On opening day, crowds overwhelmed Isetan and had to be turned away.68 The exhibition subsequently traveled to the cities of Osaka, Nagoya, and Fukuoka, where it met similarly enthusiastic receptions. Publicity invoked a sense of confraternity with the Inca ­people, introducing them as “belonging to the same Mongolian ancestry as the Japa­ nese.” Amano himself rhapsodized on “the playful and familiar ­human shapes [of pre-­Columbian pottery] . . . ​so amusing for us Japa­nese.”69 ­After the exhibition closed, Amano devoted himself to the creation of the Museo Amano, a showcase of his collection that opened in 1963 in the chic Lima neighborhood of Miraflores. With three stories and over a thousand square meters of floor space, the specially commissioned building h ­ oused over thirty thousand artifacts including textiles, earthenware, wood tools, and ar­ ticles of daily use. It loaned ­t hese materials to curators in the United States, France, Germany, Mexico, Brazil, and Argentina, thus bolstering the appear­ ance of a connection between Japan and Peru before international audiences.70 Meanwhile, materials excavated by the Scientific Expedition to the Andes served as the basis for no less than eight exhibitions in Japan during the 1960s.71 The Peruvian government, angered by extensive looting on the part of nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century Eu­ro­pean and American archaeolo­ gists, generally did not allow the expatriation of artifacts, even for pedagogi­ cal purposes. To secure authorization to transport samples across the Pacific, Ishida and Izumi presented Japa­nese researchers as uniquely respectful of Peruvian patrimony.72 In 1961 Izumi negotiated to borrow some five hundred artifacts from Kotosh for one year. He collaborated with painter and sculptor Okamoto Tarō (1911–1996) in preparing them for exhibition. The biography of Okamoto par­ alleled that of many transwar ­human scientists. The artist spent the 1930s in Paris studying ethnology, even taking a course with Marcel Mauss (1872–1950), the acknowledged French leader of the discipline. Shortly before the German

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invasion he returned to Japan, where he was deployed as a military photog­ rapher. ­After World War II he established a reputation as one of the nation’s most dynamic and influential creative minds. His work continues to be stud­ ied and celebrated ­today in and beyond Japan. In Okamoto’s view, artifacts from Japan’s Neolithic past reflected the “original boldness and purity” and “primal passion” of domestic civilization prior to contact with O ­ thers.73 He ascribed a similar aesthetic to pre-­Columbian material culture. During the 1960s Okamoto traveled widely through Latin Amer­i­ca, studying and produc­ ing artworks with indigenous motifs. Although he admitted the impossibility of verifying common ancestry or interaction between the ancient Japa­nese and Andeans, he suggested that their emotional and moral connection tran­ scended scientific explanation. Peru is “a birthplace of our national spirit,” Okamoto declared. “For us Japa­nese t­ oday, the aesthetic traditions of the pre-­ Inca past are nostalgic, intuitive, and close to our heart.”74 When Izumi and Okamoto’s Kotosh exhibition opened in May 1961, the ceremony drew over three hundred dignitaries, including Peruvian diplomats and archaeologists, representatives of the sponsoring Yomiuri and Isetan cor­ porations, and imperial Crown Prince Akihito and his wife Michiko. Reporters quoted the first South American president to visit Japan, Manuel Prado: “I’ve seen Inca artifacts at home in Peru as well as in France, but never so many or such a splendid collection as h ­ ere.”75 Prado’s favorable comparison of Japan to France, an eco­nom­ically and culturally power­f ul Eu­ro­pean state, pleased his hosts by validating their nation’s status as a member of the geopo­liti­cal elite. One day ­after Prado’s visit, Emperor Hirohito and Empress Nagako made an official appearance at the exhibition. Ishida, who had been imprisoned for five years by the emperor’s prewar government, guided the pair through the gallery, tactfully complimenting his imperial majesty’s “unexpectedly deep knowledge” and “informed questions” on early Andean civilization. The visit was scheduled to take one hour, but the c­ ouple, “greatly enjoying them­ selves,” lingered an extra thirty minutes. That eve­ning’s edition of the Yomiuri Shinbun featured a photo­graph of the emperor donning his glasses to peer at a pair of ancient earrings. In the years a­ fter Japan’s defeat in World War II such images appeared frequently in the media. Through photo­graphs, Hirohito was transformed from the divine leader of a militarist state, as he was represented during the age of empire, into a man of science and a symbol of peace.76 The public took its cue from the imperial enthusiasm. On the day the ex­ hibition opened to the masses, an estimated two thousand schoolchildren,

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F I GUR E   7 .   The imperial c ­ ouple viewing artifacts from Kotosh. Front row, from left: Terada Kazuo, Ishida Eiichirō, Emperor Hirohito, Empress Nagako. Amano Yoshitarō (in gray suit) is vis­i­ble ­behind Hirohito. Source: “Ryō heika, Inka ōgon ten e,” 7. Courtesy of the Yomiuri Shinbun.

­ ouse­wives, “office ladies” (a key shopper demographic), and ­others queued for h entrance to Isetan. According to observers, lines stretched from the sixth floor all the way down the stairs to the ground, where they wrapped around the building. The Yomiuri Shinbun reported that cries of “How fabulous!” (Suteki, suteki) could be heard from the street.77 Lured by a potent combination of exoticism and familiarity, the thronging consumer crowd paid tribute to the antipodal exploits of the field generation.

Self and Inca The Inca boom was more than a passing fad. Given the extreme chronological and geographic remove of the ancient Andes from postwar Japan, the study of pre-­Columbian civilization thrived as a foil for working through the recent

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past, expunging fears of a pathological national character, and relativizing fascism, war, and atrocity. Beginning in the mid-1960s, writings about the Inca also ushered in a new, more positive formulation of Japa­nese identity: Nihonjinron, or the ideology of national uniqueness. The specific choice of the ancient Andes as a vehicle for understand­ ing the Self was deeply rooted in Western historiography. The Inca, unlike other American empires encountered by early modern Eu­ro­pean explorers, lacked an identifiable writing system. The civilization thus appeared relatively opaque to outside observers, who projected on it the po­liti­cal critiques and aspirations of their own place and time. Beginning in the eigh­teenth c­ entury, Enlightenment thinkers such as Voltaire and Marmontel represented the Inca realm as a lost paradise of egalitarianism and refinement, the analog of Rome in the New World. This tradition subsequently spread to South Amer­i­ca, where eighteenth-­and nineteenth-­century in­de­pen­dence movements attempted to unite non-­Spanish society against colonial domination with messianic calls for the restoration of an Inca utopia.78 As po­liti­cal divisions among states came to be expressed in ideological terms, visions of the Inca darkened. Some early twentieth-­century scholars in Western Eu­rope and the United States depicted the empire as an early example of communism or fascism. Louis Baudin’s 1928 A Socialist Empire famously ar­ gued that a collectivist authoritarian government had reduced the population ­under its control to “the spectre of a h ­ uman animal deprived of his essentially ­human quality, the power to choose and to act. Like ­cattle [the ­people] had nothing to worry about b ­ ecause their personal fate did not depend on their own be­hav­ior, but was determined by the apparatus of the system.” As a result, Baudin (1887–1964) concluded, “the Indian had nothing to do but obey; and whoever has found the habit of passive obedience ends by being no longer able to act for himself and comes to love the yoke laid upon him.”79 Following Western convention, midcentury Japa­nese ­human scientists ­adopted ancient Andean civilization as a comparative foil for their own na­ tional past. In the years a­ fter World War II many scholars sought to account for militarism and imperialism. Despite their exoneration for collaboration with the former regime, they remained troubled by what they perceived as collective deviance in the 1930s and early 1940s. The American national char­ acter school suggested that Japa­nese enculturation pro­cesses fostered fascism-­ friendly traits such as group-­mindedness, expansionism, and reverence for an all-­powerful leader. However, Japa­nese ­human scientists ­were dismayed by the

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idea of an innate, incorrigible inclination t­ oward authoritarianism, aggression, and atrocity.80 As an alternative, beginning in the mid-1950s many Japa­nese scholars at­ tempted to relativize national history through materialism, the Marxist para­ digm of social evolution.81 Izumi’s 1959 Inka teikoku (The Inca empire), the first major work on early Andean civilization published in postwar Japan, narrated development according to this allegedly universal telos (despite the fact that the author’s findings did not always concur). In Izumi’s telling, the Inca and Japa­nese originated from the same Mongoloid ancestors but passed through the stages of history at dif­fer­ent rates. Whereas absolutism (zentaishugi) had characterized the Inca empire in the fifteenth c­ entury, Japan reached this phase only in the early twentieth c­ entury. Comparison with South Amer­i­ca thus implicated the relatively benign fact of Japan’s slow pro­gress, rather than a defective national character, in the disaster of World War II.82 In explaining Japan’s failure to move through the stages of development in a timely manner, scholars often cited the loss or erosion of popu­lar po­liti­cal subjectivity. This argument appeared most famously in a seminal 1946 essay by transwar po­liti­cal scientist Maruyama Masao (1914–1996). Maruyama con­ tended that the state, embodied by a divine emperor, came to function as the sole source of public and private morality in imperial Japan. Ordinary Japa­ nese equated their personal worth with their relative proximity to the sover­ eign and relinquished all sense of individual ethical accountability.83 In his writings on the Inca kingdom, Shibusawa Keizō, Izumi’s longtime patron and companion in the field, theorized a corresponding deficiency in the Quechua subject population. Like Baudin, he believed that the pre-­Columbian empire had not only exploited its subjects but also negated their in­de­pen­dent agency by assuming total responsibility for public and private affairs. U ­ nder the circumstances, Spanish conquistadores had simply delivered the death blow to an already rotten polity.84 As deployed by Shibusawa, Izumi, and their colleagues, the Inca served to normalize Japan’s trajectory ­toward war as the operation of a universal teleology, rather than an isolated expression of na­ tional deviance. From t­hese gloomy depictions, repre­sen­ta­tions of the ancient Andes brightened considerably in the mid-1960s, reflecting a more optimistic atti­ tude t­ oward Japan itself. Two de­cades a­ fter the end of World War II, the nation had vastly surpassed its peak pre-1945 economic output and entered a phase of high-­speed GDP growth. Prime Minister Ikeda Hayato’s income-­doubling

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plan, debuted in 1965, helped to transmit aggregate gains to individuals and families. Japan’s rising prosperity undergirded a resurgence of patriotic pride, virtually dormant since defeat. The need to defend the nation against charges of deviancy evaporated. Instead, ­human scientists began to study Japan as a model for development in socie­ties around the world. Ironically, the very suc­ cess of modernization led to the creation of a national identity that returned attention to racial and cultural sources of Japan’s supposed preeminence.85 Beginning in the mid-1960s, more than seven hundred works on Japa­nese uniqueness (Nihonjinron or Nihon bunkaron) w ­ ere published. Although the majority of ­t hese texts ­were not based on ­human science research, they drew credibility from the contributions of the field generation.86 Educated ­u nder imperialism, transwar scholars ­were deeply familiar with arguments regarding Japa­nese superiority. A ­ fter 1945 they received further coaching in exceptional­ ism through the ideology of modernization, which elevated the United States as the endpoint of civilization. It was no coincidence that Japa­nese scholars of the ancient Andes ­were particularly influential in developing Nihonjinron: through the foil of the antipodal Other, they had essentially been thinking about the Self all along. Nihonjinron depicted the Japa­nese population as ethnically homogenous and “pure” (tan’itsu minzoku), nurtured and protected by the unparalleled natu­ral environment of the home islands. The ideal of a primordial, undiluted bloodline predated the modern period and was hardly novel in repre­sen­ta­ tions of national identity. However, it competed with instrumental notions of a mixed race in the imperial era and of circumscribed but robust diversity in the first postwar de­cades. Only in the mid-1960s did uniformity emerge as the dominant understanding of Japa­neseness. Recalling the national char­ acter school, authors of Nihonjinron linked purity to certain positive collec­ tive personality traits. They defined their compatriots according to qualities including communitarianism, diligence, modesty, moderation, reliability, re­ spectability, self-­discipline, seriousness, and studiousness. Even archaeologists associated with the Scientific Expedition to the Andes described themselves in ­t hese terms: as Terada Kazuo wrote, reticence, trustworthiness, earnestness, “the typical Japa­nese indifference to hardship,” and “communal harmony” ­were necessary foundations of success in the field.87 Ōnuki Yoshio concurred: “Making do with a small bud­get, prioritizing research, and enjoying a s­ imple life is ­really what it’s all about, and no one can doubt that this is the Japa­nese value system [Nihonteki na kachikan].”88

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The work of anthropologist Masuda Yoshio (1928–2016) illustrates the changing use of the Inca from a foil for pathological backwardness to a cor­ responding case of ethnocultural superiority. Masuda was a friend and ju­nior colleague of Izumi, a participant in several Andean expeditions, and the trans­ lator of numerous Spanish-­language works on ancient South Amer­i­ca. His 1961 Inka teikoku tankenki (A rec­ord of explorations of the Inca empire) followed Baudin and other Eu­ro­pean and American scholars in depicting the cruel and bloody colonial policies that led to the enslavement of the indigenous Quechua population and the ultimate demise of their rulers.89 By contrast, Junsui bunka no jōken (The conditions of a pure culture), written in 1966, five years further into Japan’s postwar reconstruction, offered a more positive evaluation of the Inca. As Masuda declared in this work, both the pre-­Columbian Andes and Tokugawa Japan had enjoyed an unusual isolation, allowing “pure” native so­ ciety to flourish.90 Masuda additionally argued that Japan’s seclusion during the early modern period enabled the state to absorb only the best practices from foreign civiliza­ tions. In the heyday of Japa­nese exceptionalism from the mid-1960s through the 1980s, the attribution of Japan’s con­temporary strength to a long-­standing, innate faculty for discerning adaptation came to constitute a core tenet of Nihonjinron. H ­ uman scientists similarly ascribed the growth and power of the Inca empire to its adoption of expedient discoveries by its neighbors. “Like the Japa­nese,” declared Terada, “the Inca ­were surprisingly adroit at assimilat­ ing dif­fer­ent cultures.”91 Wrote Izumi, “While [the Inca] introduced hardly any artistic or technological innovations, their efficient management of the state apparatus is in itself a sufficient marvel.”92 Even his critique that Inca society lacked creativity found its echoes in anti-­Japanese sentiment of the 1960s and 1970s, which often downplayed Japan’s success as the result of imitation rather than in­de­pen­dent invention. To many Japa­nese ­human scientists, the shared cultural attributes of the Inca and the Japa­nese ­were a likely asset in replicating Japan’s stunning postwar revitalization in a seemingly stagnant and underdeveloped Peru. Institutions such as the Inka Gakuen, a Japa­nese language and culture school in Lima open to students of all ethnic backgrounds, attempted to instill the “shared qualities” of the Inca and Japa­nese that had allegedly enabled both civilizations to dominate their respective times and places.93 The 1968 docu­ mentary Nihonjin koko ni ari (The Japa­nese are ­here), commissioned in honor of the upcoming centennial of Japa­nese emigration to the Amer­i­cas, declared,

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“In South Amer­i­ca . . . ​we must support the many p ­ eoples that suffer from a poor lifestyle and low level of cultural development. To elevate their culture and enrich their lifestyle is the mission of Japan as an advanced country.”94 The documentary represented the Nikkei, not the indigenous Andeans, as the true heirs of Inca glory and the appropriate leaders of modernization in Peru. Reflecting t­ hese expectations, the Japa­nese government created scholarships to bring Nikkei students to Japan and dispatched Japa­nese technical con­sul­tants and language teachers to Latin Amer­i­ca. For the most part, however, the dias­ pora declined to serve as a stalking ­horse for the fiscal interests of its country of origin. Japa­nese exports to Peru in fact declined slightly during the Inca boom, from 7.5 ­percent of the national total in the 1950s to 6.3 ­percent in the 1960s. Japa­nese enterprises in South Amer­i­ca generally deferred to the United States and prioritized opportunities in Brazil, the continent’s biggest economy and home of its largest Nikkei population.95 From a comparative case study contextualizing the atrocities of imperial Japan, pre-­C olumbian civilization came to highlight the postwar nation’s transformation into a developmental model for the world. Through the un­ likely device of archaeology in the antipodes, the men of one age found a new foil for the study of the Self. The Inca boom catapulted transwar h ­ uman sci­ entists to the apex of their authority—­just in time for the rising generation to challenge the very foundations of their worldview.

8 1968 AND THE PASSING OF THE F I E L D G E N E R AT I O N

By the late 1960s even the youn­gest members of the field generation had reached their ­middle years, while the se­nior ranks ­were beginning to retire. Their aging reflected a shift in the national population pyramid. Almost twenty-­five years ­after World War II, about a quarter of Japa­nese citizens lacked conscious mem­ ory of its horrors and deprivations.1 Instead, t­ hese youths w ­ ere the products of modernization. Steeped since birth in the ideology of the cultural nation, they had both the empirical understanding of the system and the psychological distance necessary to critique it. And, precisely ­because of the entrenchment of demo­cratic values, the rising cohort—­unlike past generations—­believed that it had the right to voice its discontent. ­Today historians recognize 1968 as a turning point around the world. Some have proposed the formulation of “the long 1968,” spanning the period from about 1967 to 1970, to encapsulate near-­simultaneous global movements.2 Activism during this time traversed the ideological divisions of the Cold War, engulfing unaligned socie­ties as well as t­ hose u ­ nder U.S. or Soviet domination. However, even many recent transnational accounts of 1968 make no reference to Japan.3 In part, this absence is reflected in the relative lack of scholarship on the topic in the national historiography. The 1968 Japa­nese student protestors are best remembered for attacking the higher education system, yet their ac­ tions left scant imprint on the university as an institution or on their own life trajectories. Accordingly, scholars have dismissed the unrest as a passing elite grievance, lacking the significance of e­ arlier radical episodes.4

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In such narratives, which privilege the perspective of student actors, en­ trenched power holders often emerge as stodgy, uncomprehending bystand­ ers of revolution, or even as conservative obstructionists seeking above all to preserve their own position, achievements, and ideology. By examining the events of 1968 as a generational strug­gle from the vantage point of the men of one age, its seismic epistemological shifts come into focus. Far from compla­ cently enjoying the successes of the order they had created, by the 1960s tran­ swar ­human scientists w ­ ere themselves critical of long-­standing paradigms of knowledge production. Ironically, it was they who inaugurated the changes that ultimately forced them and their worldview from authority.

Rethinking objectivity In the second half of the 1960s, as challenges to their ideals mounted, the men of one age did not simply reiterate the validity of objective knowledge grounded in democracy, capitalism, and peace. Rather, they proactively acknowledged the limitations of objectivity and the prob­lems that modernization had cre­ ated. At the same time, they maintained a steadfast reticence regarding their work prior to 1945. This strategic combination of self-­criticism and disavowal of guilt set the terms for the student protests of the long 1968. In the United States, the point of reference for Japa­nese ­human scientists of the early postwar de­cades, the 1960s witnessed what has sometimes been called the “Apollonian assault”: an attack on objectivity as the defining charac­ teristic of legitimate scholarship.5 Well before World War II, American schol­ ars had expressed misgivings that the h ­ uman mind could ever achieve a stance of true neutrality. Now such doubts appeared both more frequently and more persuasively in writings by sociologist C. Wright Mills (1916–1962), linguist Noam Chomsky (b. 1928), and Thomas Kuhn (1922–1996), progenitor of the new discipline of science studies.6 Nowhere was the challenge to objectivity more salient than in the disci­ pline of anthropology, for which the period from about 1965 to 1973 has been described as a time of crisis.7 ­These years spanned a series of shocks includ­ ing the Vietnam War, the U.S. civil rights movement, and the decolonization and economic collapse of the unaligned world. Anthropologists responded by rethinking their enlistment as knowledge producers on behalf of American interests in the Cold War. As many came to recognize, their efforts at develop­ ment had not resolved global poverty, and in many cases had simply propped

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up noxious regimes at the expense of popu­lar self-­determination. At the 1966 annual meeting of the American Anthropological Association (AAA), the flagship organ­ization of its kind in the United States, Brandeis University professor Kathleen Gough (1925–1990) urged her colleagues to abandon their posture of objectivity and to resoundingly condemn the misuse of their work in Vietnam and elsewhere. Gough’s frank characterization of anthropology as the offspring of Western imperialism disturbed some attendees at the meet­ ing, who defended the disinterest they saw as characteristic of their discipline. However, the majority upheld Gough’s resolution and its implication that scholars should be held accountable for the consequences of the “facts” they uncovered.8 In a follow-up symposium on the social responsibility of ­human scientists, published in 1968, a supporter argued, The dogma that public issues are beyond the interests or competence of ­t hose who study and teach about man is myopic and sterile professionalism and a fear of commitment which is both irresponsible and irrelevant. Its result is to dehumanize the most humanist of sciences. . . . ​Our silence permits o ­ thers in the society less reticent, perhaps less scrupulous, almost certainly less in­ formed, to make their own use of the material presented.9

Accompanying the questioning of objectivity was a rethinking of field­ work. Many early postwar American anthropologists had tended to substi­ tute methodological concern for ethical engagement. At the end of the 1960s, however, some scholars exposed the hidden agendas ­behind research funding provided by the government (including the CIA) and private foundations. The AAA passed a resolution adopting informal standards that promoted financial transparency and condemned secrecy. Other anthropologists highlighted the broader interests and power dynamics (including t­ hose of ethnicity and gen­ der) that inevitably informed their work on the ground. They rejected the hal­ lowed narrative contrivance of a scientific ethnographer capable of normative detachment. Instead, anthropologists acknowledged how their very presence in the field changed that field—­often for the worse, as far as research subjects in developing nations w ­ ere concerned.10 The 1967 publication of Malinowski’s diary from his time in the Trobriand Islands during World War I only furthered the demystification of objectivity by exposing the all-­too-­human individual ­behind the purportedly omniscient fieldworker. The text belied Malinowski’s preten­ sions to disinterest, rigor, and critical awareness, instead chronicling his rac­ ism, hypochondria, and sexual obsessions.11

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Objectivity was also a topic of discussion among transwar Japa­nese ­human scientists. One critic was historian Ienaga Saburō (1913–2002). A Tōdai gradu­ ate, Ienaga served on the faculty of the Tokyo University of Education (Tokyo Kyōiku Daigaku) from the occupation through the late 1970s. T ­ oday, he is best remembered for his thirty-­year ­legal crusade for honest repre­sen­ta­t ion of Japan’s war­time atrocities in national school textbooks. In a 1962 history of academic freedom, Ienaga criticized his colleagues for avoiding research top­ ics with po­liti­cal relevance and for even taking pride in their own low levels of social consciousness. Rather than objective scholarship, he advocated intellec­ tual labor to “advance world peace and contribute to h ­ uman welfare through the pursuit of truth.”12 Also in the early 1960s, Ishida Eiichirō and Kawakita Jirō (1920–2009), an anthropologist at the University of Kyoto, debated the long-­established relationship between objectivity and fieldwork in the pages of Japan’s most prominent cultural anthropology journal. Ishida (who, aside from his leader­ ship of the first Scientific Expedition to the Andes, had devoted himself mainly to theoretical studies ­a fter 1945) argued that researchers should familiarize themselves with the conceptual and secondary lit­er­a­ture prior to undertaking fieldwork. Kawakita, by contrast, discouraged such preparation, fearing that scholars might unwittingly predetermine their conclusions through excessive commitment to a specific position. By suggesting ways in which fieldworkers might be biased, Kawakita challenged the venerable status of the field as a site of objective knowledge production.13 Concomitant with mounting doubts concerning objectivity ­were challenges to its attendant ideology of modernization. An especially potent attack appeared in the form of de­pen­dency theory. Exponents such as German American econo­ mist Andre Gunder Frank (1929–2005) dismissed the idea that all nations could achieve democracy, capitalism, and peace. The division of states into the First World (comprised of the mature cap­i­tal­ist democracies), Second World (the Soviet sphere of influence), and Third World (unaligned postcolonial nations) undercut faith in a universal trajectory t­ oward a single endpoint. Development emerged not as a natu­ral outcome for all socie­ties, but as an illusion maintained by wealthy states to justify their exploitation of the Third World. Rather than an ideology of hope and help, de­pen­dency theorists viewed modernization as the self-­congratulatory my­thol­ogy of the First World.14 In Japan, six weeklong summer seminars (the so-­called Hakone Conferences) provided the intellectual space to rethink modernization during the 1960s. Many

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American participants in ­these meetings rejoiced in the evident successes of the occupation in transforming Japan into a bastion of U.S. values. Rejecting this complacency, the men of one age expressed their sense that democracy, capital­ ism, and peace had yet to be fully achieved. They shied away from declarations that Japan was prepared to lead Asia down its own path, comparing such rhe­ toric to war­time professions of racial and cultural superiority justifying imperial sovereignty. Fi­nally, they emphasized the particularity of the Japa­nese experi­ ence, at odds with the universalizing claims of modernization.15 Above all, Japa­nese scholars questioned the ways in which modernization had committed the nation to seemingly unstinting support for U.S. global dom­ ination. Tsurumi Shunsuke (1922–2015), a historian and phi­los­o­pher, voiced dis­ approval of the American geopo­liti­cal agenda in his journal Shisō no kagaku (The science of thought). In art theory and practice, Okamoto Tarō, Izumi’s collaborator on the Kotosh exhibition, called for Japan to resist the ascendancy of Western aesthetics by seeking inspiration from its “primitive” past and by cooperating with artists in the nonaligned world. Po­liti­cal scientist Maruyama Masao produced a stream of books and articles on the need for an active citi­ zenry capable of withstanding foreign pressure.16 ­These scholars did not chal­ lenge the ideals of democracy, capitalism, and peace per se, but deplored their use in legitimizing the Cold War and the oppression of the Third World. The 1960s critique of modernization also reflected a larger rethinking of traditional, positive notions of “pro­gress.” Scholars suggested that, far from categorically improving h ­ uman welfare, social, po­liti­cal, and economic ad­ vances had created new modes of oppression. Accompanying this reassessment was a correspondingly idealized view of the allegedly harmonious primitive past that the con­temporary world had displaced. In 1968, on the eve of the cen­ tennial cele­bration of the Meiji Restoration—­a moment for Japan to applaud its accomplishments—­Egami Namio filmed a tele­v i­sion series that questioned civilization as a desirable goal: During the hunter-­gatherer stage of ­human society, t­ here was no war. But agri­ culture allowed the h ­ uman population to grow, leading to urbanization, new sys­ tems of po­liti­cal control, and the possibility of accumulating wealth. Resources became scarce. Wars began with attempts to capture the resources and ­labor potential of cities. Meanwhile, the development of metalworking techniques al­ lowed for the creation of better weapons. A class of warriors arose to capture the spoils of combat. In this way, the urbanized state became dependent on war.17

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As Egami argued, eventually, resources could not keep pace with demand, resulting in competition and militarization and bringing humanity to the brink of destruction. Cities, traditionally viewed as nodes of pro­gress, ­were reinter­ preted as demographic sinkholes, drains of countryside talent, and welters of traffic, pollution, slums, and physical and m ­ ental illnesses. Izumi, the moun­ taineer who made no secret of his distaste for urbanism, argued for the creation of “­human cities” (jinrui toshi) engineered to provide inhabitants with better lifestyles. Recognizing the astronomical cost of building such cities, he suggested reallocating funding currently devoted to military arsenals and warmongering.18 In the late 1960s, critiques of modernization s­ haped preparations for the first world exposition held in Japan (and Asia, for that m ­ atter). Like the famed Tokyo Olympics of 1964, the 1970 Osaka Expo highlighted Japan’s status as an exemplary cultural nation within the global fraternity of states. In the words of one planner, “­A fter the end of World War II, Japan made a fresh start as a peace-­loving nation. With her attainment of high economic and cultural standards, and with a rise in her position in the community of nations, Japan became qualified twenty years ­after the close of the war to host a universal and international exhibition.”19 Reflecting this sense of achievement, event orga­ nizers a­ dopted the slogan of “pro­gress and harmony for mankind.” ­Under the leadership of Okamoto Tarō, a team of eigh­teen h ­ uman scientists including Izumi gathered artifacts for a pavilion devoted to this theme. They charged: The history of World Expositions shows that the concept of pro­gress has always been taken for granted and the expositions have been the places in which big powers demonstrated their scientific and technological abilities. . . . ​Every­one believed that with the advancement of science comes the world of dreams and the era of happiness. But now the situation has changed. The ­bitter question of ­whether “pro­gress” gives us the sense of fullness of life and ­human and spiri­ tual satisfaction does not cease to trou­ble us.20

The top floor of the Theme Pavilion reflected this unease, with an exhibit that candidly discussed the prob­lems accompanying modernization, including poverty, pollution, overpopulation, rural flight, racial discrimination, crime, and atomic weapons. Although ­t hese critiques appeared to be heartfelt, histo­ rians have perceived a certain sneaking pride in even the negative signifiers of Japan’s exalted status among the nations of the First World.21 Yet, if the field generation was willing to acknowledge issues of the con­ temporary order, it remained mute on the prewar period. During the first

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two de­cades ­after 1945, the absence of formal diplomatic relations with any of the East Asian states (Taiwan excepted) sustained this silence by obstructing Japan’s engagement with its former empire. Japa­nese citizens w ­ ere generally unable to visit the Korean peninsula or mainland China or to host scholars from t­ hese areas. With a few exceptions such as study tours, face-­to-­face ex­ changes typically took place in the United States and other third-­party nations. Many Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists remained both proud of and intellectually beholden to war­time research. They dismissed postliberation field proj­ects by non-­Japanese Asian scholars as mere imitations of imperial models. MK and other journals rarely reported on such studies.22 In 1965 Japan established diplomatic relations with the Republic of K ­ orea (South K ­ orea), enabling unpre­ce­dented intellectual contact between the two nations. Mere months ­later, Izumi, accompanied by Ishida, set out for his long-­ ago hometown of Seoul. While marveling at changes in the former Keijō, he spent most of the three-­week trip trying to remember places and f­ aces ideal­ ized during two de­cades of absence. Nostalgia overcame Izumi from the very moment of his arrival, when an old school friend greeted him and Ishida at Gimpo Airport. Izumi also reconnected with academic colleagues who had trained alongside him at KIU (now Seoul National University) in the 1930s. Many had become pioneers of their respective disciplines. Face-­to-­face inter­ action with the leaders of Korean h ­ uman science helped Izumi and other Japa­ nese faculty to appreciate the quality of postliberation scholarship, although they continued to cite the research of the Keijō School.23 In the final days of his trip, Izumi, still accompanied by his school friend, traveled to Jejudo, the site of his se­nior thesis fieldwork in 1937. Overwhelmed by memories, he shared photo­graphs from that summer nearly three de­cades ­earlier, hoping to find in­for­mants who remembered him. Fi­nally, one el­derly farmer recalled hosting the student in his home. Izumi also spent four days looking into island shamanism, his original motivation for pursuing ethnol­ ogy and a topic that would occupy the remaining years of his life.24 ­After re­ turning to Tokyo, he attempted to build momentum t­ oward a transnational study of shamanism in ancient East Asia by inviting Korean colleagues to Tōdai. Visiting scholars, lecturers, and gradu­ate students helped to reawaken Korean studies in Japan while diversifying the university community.25 Amid rising Japa­nese academic interest in ­Korea, Izumi’s se­nior thesis on Jejudo was published in 1966. Like most prewar and war­time writings on the empire that appeared ­after 1945, it underwent ­little revision, even retaining some

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offensive imperial-­era terminology (Shinajin for Chinese, for example). Having lost his field notes on Jejudo during his repatriation to Japan, Izumi did not alter the introduction or main text, although he did update the bibliography with recent works by Korean ­human scientists. For the most part, however, he referenced scholarship from the colonial period, including writings by Akiba and Akamatsu and research sponsored by the imperial government. As no Japa­nese citizens had been able to carry out fieldwork in K ­ orea since its libera­ tion, the report did not allude to any postwar Japa­nese sources. Izumi declared that he “saw nothing but flaws” in the thesis and consented to its publication only as a contribution to the history of village life in Asia. Despite this opinion, the work earned the re­spect of his peers as a valuable building block in the development of Korean studies in postwar Japan.26 In the last years of his life, Izumi’s intellectual commitment to ­Korea deep­ ened alongside his concern for the po­liti­cal status of the divided peninsula. “I believe that Japan has a moral responsibility to Korean unification,” he stated in an interview with a Korean novelist. He proposed offering Japan as a neutral site for talks between the North and the South.27 A quarter-­century ­a fter 1945, Izumi’s attitude t­ oward ­Korea in some ways mirrored that of the Japa­nese nation at large. Rather than repentance for and reflection on the ways annexation had led to the tragedy of the Korean War and its aftermath, his suggestions recalled early twentieth-­century attitudes in projecting Japan as a source of guidance. Izumi and his colleagues sidestepped acknowl­edgment of past wrongs by cultivating nostalgia and by constituting a cross-­strait intel­ lectual community bound by a common foundation of (sanitized) colonial scholarship. Recognition of the imperialist origins of ­human science, increas­ ingly routine in the United States and parts of Eu­rope in the late 1960s, found no purchase among the men of one age. For the most part, the student move­ ment would unfold according to their script: criticism of the postwar course of modernization, and silence on the prewar past.

The student strug­g le The students of 1968 joined a long tradition of protest dating back to the Meiji period. At the turn of the twentieth ­century, campus disputes tended to mani­ fest as small-­scale rowdiness and strikes geared t­ oward improving the student lifestyle. University activism became more ideological a­ fter World War I, the apex of Marx’s prewar influence in Japan. Given their typically elite backgrounds

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and small numbers, left-­wing students initially enjoyed a “special leniency” de­ spite the authorities’ sustained harassment of the Japan Communist Party.28 In the mid-1920s, however, the government began to crack down on heterodoxy. Intellectual freedom remained l­imited through the final years of World War II, when the universities came to a virtual standstill as most students w ­ ere conscripted as soldiers in Japan’s last, desperate attempt to avoid defeat. Following the war, the generation that matriculated ­under the U.S. occupa­ tion anticipated the demo­cratic reform of the university, including guarantees of institutional autonomy and freedom of speech. The lowering of the voting age to twenty incorporated students into the electorate and nurtured their interest in politics. However, during the reverse course beginning in the late 1940s, SCAP succumbed to growing fears regarding the spread of commu­ nism in East Asia and beyond. The occupation reinstated former sympathizers of militarism to the ranks of faculty while purging professors known or sus­ pected to be communists. University entrance exams and interviews screened out red candidates. In response, students protested the betrayal of liberal ide­ als. Initially, many pursued collective action by joining the Japan Communist Party, but by the mid-1950s they had established their own organ­izations to coordinate expressions of discontent across campuses nationwide.29 In 1960, together with Japa­nese citizens from all walks of life, students took to the streets to oppose a ten-­year extension of the U.S.-­Japan Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security, popularly referred to as Anpo. Japan had signed the original agreement in 1951 as a condition of terminating the occupation the following year. It sheltered the nation, which was constitutionally banned from maintaining armed forces and waging war, beneath the American mili­ tary and nuclear umbrella. It also itemized Japan’s obligations to the hege­ mon, including the maintenance of permanent bases for U.S. air, land, and sea forces. Despite the protests of millions of Japa­nese citizens and the objections of the national legislature, the treaty was ultimately renewed, enabling the United States to use the home islands as a staging ground for the Vietnam War. Beginning in 1965, more than a dozen bases throughout Japan ­housed as many as forty thousand U.S. troops. Japan also offered other facilities as well as eco­ nomic assistance to the American military. In response, nearly twenty million Japa­nese citizens, including many students, joined strikes, sit-­ins, teach-­ins, and marches. Demonstrations—­the largest in Japan’s history—­proved valuable training for the events of the long 1968 and loomed as the radical backdrop against which activism on campus took place.30

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As in the United States, West Germany, France, Italy, Mexico, and other nations, universities provided a con­ve­nient theater for Japan’s protests. Indeed, to a greater extent than their counter­parts elsewhere, Japa­nese students tar­ geted higher education itself as the object of reform. Many denounced in­ creasing state infringement on institutional autonomy. In the early 1960s the government attempted to pass legislation strengthening the control of the Ministry of Education over higher learning. Although the bill failed, univer­ sities w ­ ere forced to accept some changes, including the removal of students from decision-­making bodies.31 No less than students, transwar ­human scientists found ­t hese develop­ ments alarming. Ienaga Saburō compared pre­sent and prewar restrictions on university autonomy, concluding, “To say that the situation was better a­ fter the ‘reverse course’ than before 1945 could be difficult.”32 He argued that capitalism had replaced the divine emperor as society’s focus of worship. Consequently, education bud­gets corresponded not to research needs but rather to the imper­ ative of training workers for the ­labor force. Ienaga further contended that the state’s role in founding and funding the national universities hindered in­de­ pen­dent thought and action by faculty. He believed that dismantling personnel hierarchies was a necessary first step ­toward reclaiming institutional freedom. ­Under the standard departmental organ­ization, full professors (chairs) main­ tained control over subordinate ranks of associate and assistant professors as well as gradu­ate and undergraduate students. Denouncing this system as feu­ dalistic and prone to se­niority, favoritism, and intellectual stagnation, Ienaga called for greater equality and cooperation among ranks and unity between academics and administrators.33 Concerns regarding freedom of thought ­were fueled by a more general sense of crisis in higher education. From the time that the field generation entered university in the 1920s, critics had lamented the cheapening of de­ grees due to rising numbers of matriculates. This situation deteriorated fur­ ther during second half of the 1960s, when the rate of college attendance in Japan soared to nearly 20 ­percent. Only the United States, the Soviet Union, and India enrolled higher numbers of students.34 Despite the expansion of the white-­collar workforce, the demand for professionals could not keep pace with production. Unlike previous generations, and in stark betrayal of their own expectations a­ fter many years of sacrificing for their education, Japa­nese stu­ dents could no longer regard a university degree as a guarantee of a well-­paid, high-­status job. One professor estimated that just over 10 ­percent of the nation­

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wide class of 1968, totaling some 164,000 gradu­ates, found desirable ­positions in business and the government.35 The overcrowding of higher education not only sapped its value as a cre­ dential but also undermined the experience itself. Some classes counted en­ rollments above one thousand. One university estimated campus space at a mere 0.5 meters per student.36 Opportunistic, tuition-­driven two-­and four-­ year colleges arose to serve the booming population of would-be matricu­ lates. Venerable and newly founded institutions alike suffered from increasing bureaucratization, profit seeking, and the evaporation of support for the hu­ manities. To many students, the university did not seem a site of knowledge cultivation, as they had idealized and anticipated.37 Rather, it appeared to function as a factory con­vey­or b ­ elt shaping gradu­ates into cogs for an indus­ trial cap­i­tal­ist economy.38 Perhaps nowhere ­were students more disappointed by the gap between ­expectation and real­ity than at Tōdai, Japan’s oldest and most prestigious university. As the respected alma mater of many politicians and bureaucrats, Tōdai had historically enjoyed greater autonomy than most Japa­nese univer­ sities. However, it was not immune to the changes sweeping Japa­nese higher education. In 1968 Tōdai maintained an enrollment of approximately 17,000 (about 10 ­percent of the student population at Japan’s national universities), including 13,300 undergraduates and 3,700 gradu­ate students.39 ­A fter gain­ ing admission through a series of highly competitive exams, students often found their professors unenthusiastic and impersonal, at best; at worst, they seemed to be hypocrites who preached freedom of thought but maintained an authoritarian grip over courses. Squeezed into dormitories or designated housing, students strug­gled to fill large blocks of unsupervised f­ ree time. The ranks of protesters included many who ­were swept along by the enticements of a lively, cost-­free, mixed-­gender social scene, as well as ­t hose motivated by sincere convictions on reform.40 The most active phase of the movement began in the Tōdai medical col­ lege in January 1968, when a group of student doctors objected to a change in internship policy likely to degrade the quality of their training and post­ graduate chances of employment. That spring, as protests disrupted univer­ sities across the United States and Eu­rope, the unrest widened to include students throughout Tōdai. Many joined together to occupy Yasuda Hall, the administrative heart of the campus. The decision of the university leadership to summon police to resolve the crisis united even formerly skeptical students

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­ ehind the occupiers. Within a few days, all departments except law declared b a strike. The administration rejected overtures at collective bargaining, argu­ ing that the status distinction between students and faculty made negotiations “inappropriate.” 41 The movement opened a forum for discussion and critical thinking that many students had not enjoyed in their classes, allowing them to contemplate the aims of their protest. In “strug­gle committees,” some came to perceive the stalemate at Tōdai as symptomatic of a broader social malaise. Students gen­ erally upheld the values of modernization inculcated by the field generation. However, they deplored the ways in which the cultural nation had, ironically, seemed to restore the militarism and fascism of the 1930s. In certain respects their arguments resembled t­ hose of student activists in West Germany, who both denounced and sought to expiate perceived continuities between the Nazi era and their own time.42 As the students argued, rather than unleashing the po­liti­cal energy of the masses, democracy had bogged down in one-­party rule and meaningless rituals such as campaigning and voting, which suffocated individual subjectivities and ensnared Japan in the Vietnam War. One poll found that only 10 ­percent of its youth respondents believed that they could effect change through the electoral pro­cess.43 Students likewise accused capitalism of suppressing mass agency. While the men of one age often characterized the rising generation as spoiled by historically unpre­ce­dented prosperity, youth turned the charge of material­ ism against their elders, attacking mass production, consumerism, and the prioritization of economic growth over the development of democracy. Many Japa­nese students rejected Euro-­American counterculture, a driving force of movements from Manchester to Montevideo, as the byproduct of cap­i­tal­ism and Western hegemony, a hedonistic (and expensive) distraction from the se­ rious business of reforming the university and society. Similarly, the sexual revolution was largely stillborn among Japa­nese youth, who tended to main­ tain conservative gender norms and regarded w ­ omen’s liberation as an unim­ portant diversion from the main goals of the movement.44 In taking aim at modernization, the students of 1968 challenged nothing less than the prevailing epistemological paradigm. The field generation had ­adopted objectivity as a signifier of credible knowledge that supported imperi­ alism before 1945 and the cultural nation thereafter. By contrast, their students generally held that objective scholarship had produced only incomplete de­ mocracy, bourgeois oppression, the Vietnam War—­and perhaps worse. They

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argued that knowledge production could not and should not be impartial. As one student organ­ization declared, Some p ­ eople who take a position in f­ avor of neutrality of academic activities may argue that from a broader point of view t­ hese activities contribute to the development of science and humanity. However, in real­ity, nothing is neutral. ­Those who support the position of neutrality are the p ­ eople who never seri­ ously thought of how and by whom their research results would be used. They deserve the name of “expert ­idiots” for they are obsessed with their specialties and incapable of taking social responsibility.45

Mounting a Marxist critique of objective research as an instrument of power disproportionately benefiting the elite, the students of 1968 called for subjec­ tive scholarship that turned the intellectual weapons of the bourgeoisie against their creators, empowered the disenfranchised, and fostered self-­actualization, popu­lar agency, and the end of the prevailing class structure.46 Students also trained their fire on the “Tōdai within ourselves” (uchinaru Tōdai). University matriculates had reached the pinnacle of educational at­ tainment, a traditional entry point into the top ranks of the professions, gov­ ernment, and business. However, as they understood, their triumph over a competitive admissions pro­cess had reinforced a certain intellectual confor­ mity and, due to the emphasis on En­glish language proficiency, subordination to U.S. imperialism. Moreover, they w ­ ere conscious of having prioritized in­ dividual prestige at the expense of mass welfare. Many enjoyed the advantages of f­ amily wealth and regarded their climb to the top not as evidence of merit but as a troubling perpetuation of social hierarchies. Depicting the university as rotten, the students denounced their own complicity with the ivory tower. For some radicals, nothing less than total disruption of the Japa­nese education system sufficed to disturb popu­lar complacency in modernization.47 The students often couched their aims in language suggesting an anti-­ imperialist agenda. They decried Japa­nese universities for “colonizing” in­ dividuality in the name of convention. Given the close relationship between ­these institutions and the government, the movement also censured higher ed­ ucation for facilitating Japan’s involvement in the overseas wars of the United States. They proceeded u ­ nder the slogan “Dismantle the imperialist univer­ sity [teidai kaitai]!” 48 However, the description of the university as imperial­ ist had ­little to do with its role in creating and legitimizing knowledge that had supported the former empire. With very few exceptions, Japan’s pre-1945

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atrocities ­were conspicuously absent from the litany of youth grievances. In this re­spect, the Japa­nese student movement diverged from its counterpart in West Germany, where activists denounced the conspiracy of silence regarding the crimes of the Third Reich and called for the dismissal of former Nazi sup­ porters from the universities.49 Yet another generation would pass before Japan came to publicly recognize h ­ uman science as an imperialist endeavor not only in its pre­sent, but also in its history.

The men of one age in crisis From the perspective of transwar ­human scientists, the timing of the student movement could not have been worse. In 1968, for the first time in its history, the quadrennial meeting of the International Congress of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences (ICAES) was held in Asia. Japa­nese scholars had partici­ pated in this leading global forum for the exchange of ideas about h ­ uman di­ versity since its establishment in 1934, with Oka Masao representing his nation on the permanent council of the organ­ization. ­After ICAES’s sixth meeting in Paris in 1960, Japa­nese attendees approached their universities, the govern­ ment, the National Commission for UNESCO, and business leaders to cover the prospective cost of hosting the event.50 Four years l­ ater in Moscow, a del­e­ga­tion of some thirty prominent Japa­nese scholars including Izumi, Oka, and Nakane Chie petitioned the conference to hold its next meeting in their country. They rejoiced when Japan’s se­lection was announced at the concluding ceremony. Like the impending Expo, the 1968 ICAES was in part intended to herald Japan’s status among the global ranks of knowledge-­producing states. Though some worried that the nation’s distance from Western centers of learning might dampen attendance, Japa­nese ­human scientists w ­ ere e­ ager to showcase their numbers and sophistication. By the late 1960s, Japan maintained the third-­largest domestic community of anthropologists in the world, b ­ ehind the United States and the Soviet Union.51 “The ­people who ­were once the objects [taishō] of research are now the creators [shutai],” Izumi declared.52 Immediately upon returning from Moscow, Oka convened a large plan­ ning committee of representatives from ­human science disciplines including anthropology, ethnology, folklore, linguistics, archaeology, pathology, and ge­ ne­tics. Izumi joined the group as executive secretary. Reflecting the search for universal laws characteristic of objective knowledge, the theme of “unifying

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princi­ples in diversity” was chosen for the conference. Secretaries dispatched nearly seven thousand publicity circulars, followed by seventeen thousand in­ vitations to individual scholars around the world. The organ­izing committee fielded well over five hundred paper proposals, many received ­a fter the dead­ line. The program ultimately boasted more than a thousand names, including about three hundred Japa­nese and seven hundred foreigners from fifty-­five dif­fer­ent nations. It listed forty-­seven panels of five to ten participants; eigh­ teen symposia; nine working group meetings; and several film screenings.53 During the years leading up to ICAES, Izumi was preoccupied with the excavation of Kotosh, his renascent interest in ­Korea, and other proj­ects. Accordingly, despite his reputation as a consummate or­ga­nizer, the planning committee was notoriously inefficient. One American anthropologist com­ plained to a colleague, I’ve written Tokyo about our participation in the VIIIth International Congress of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences. . . . ​I’ve addressed it to Izumi directly; I’m aware of all the reasons for not writing him, that he’s never in town, maybe d ­ oesn’t read his mail, e­ tc. But I thought a­ fter all the Organ­izing Committee c­ an’t be all that disor­ga­nized, t­ here must be someone who opens mail, and I’ve couched the request in personal terms indicating I desire an answer.54

When no reply arrived, he contacted Nakane Chie. The burden of preparation weighed heavi­ly on the ju­nior female scholar. She wrote an American friend in confidence, All letters come to the Executive Secretary [Izumi] or President Oka, who are slow in reaction to such letters. In fact, last fall I was astonished to find so many letters have . . . ​piled up in the office, and I de­cided to answer by myself all letters . . . ​concerning the Programme. . . . ​I have dispatched more than three dozen letters last fall, many of which I myself signed. . . . ​I wish I could explain to you the weakness of our gerontocracy and how I am swim­ ming in it.55

In 1968, even the youn­gest members of the transwar generation ­were nearly fifty years old. Oka, the committee chair, turned seventy. The advancing age of Japan’s leading ­human scientists was not only a concern for Nakane but also a polarizing issue for students and early career faculty throughout the nation. As long as the men of one age monopolized top positions, ju­nior colleagues

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could not hope to climb the university ranks. The prob­lems of the planning committee encapsulated t­ hose of Japa­nese academia more generally. Izumi hoped that national pride might bring together the adversaries of 1968 to prevent any menace to the success of ICAES. In fact, however, the conference empowered student activists, lacing their demands with the threat of embarrassing foreign attention. Controversy enveloped a tour of Hokkaido scheduled to take place directly before the meeting. The excursion was one of several planned by the organ­izing committee, which promoted Japa­nese culture and the domestic travel industry through guided visits to museums (including one exhibition of pre-­Columbian artifacts) and other places of in­ terest.56 Fifty-­nine mostly Eu­ro­pean and American scholars and accompany­ ing f­ amily members signed up for three days of sightseeing in Hokkaido’s Ainu villages, galleries, and archaeological sites. The itinerary also boasted a full-­ day symposium in Sapporo with pre­sen­ta­tions on Ainu culture, language, and physical anthropology by veterans of the Joint Research Committee. The year 1968, the eve of the hundredth anniversary of Japa­nese control over Hokkaido, initially seemed a propitious moment to showcase the island to foreign guests. However, preparations for celebrating the centennial incensed indigenous critics of the ­dying culture paradigm. To their allies among youth activists—­including Izumi’s own gradu­ate students—­t he vanis­hing of tradi­ tional lifestyles was not a sign of pro­gress but an indictment of moderniza­ tion’s downsides, including environmental degradation, social in­equality, and po­liti­cal corruption. Although the ICAES planning committee made some effort to assuage t­ hese critics, Izumi discovered too late the depth of their grievances. On arriving in Hokkaido, the tour encountered Ainu protestors and their supporters demonstrating against indigenous suffering at the hands of h ­ uman scientists and the state.57 From this inauspicious beginning, disorder continued to impact the con­ ference. With Tōdai incapacitated by student demonstrations, the opening festivities for ICAES took place not on campus but rather in Tokyo’s National Theater (Kokuritsu Gekijō). Most subsequent events w ­ ere held in office towers; the closing ceremonies, in an international conference venue. Oka feebly at­ tempted to justify the suboptimal locations by arguing that university build­ ings w ­ ere too far apart for attendees to move between them in a timely fashion. He also claimed that the lobbies of campus structures ­were not large enough to accommodate the informal chatting necessary to a productive conference.58

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In addition to the volatile state of Japa­nese academia, Oka and his col­ leagues faced other challenges. Many Japa­nese participants strug­g led with En­glish, the official language of ICAES. In some cases, presenters read aloud prescripted remarks but could not respond effectively to comments and issues raised by the audience. “The inability of most Japa­nese scholars to commu­ nicate to their colleagues the thinking that guided their observations . . . ​was quite con­spic­u­ous in the Congress,” wrote one observer. In a particularly em­ barrassing case, a group of Japa­nese primatologists ­were forced to turn to an American attendee to address a questioner on their behalf.59 Far from high­ lighting the erudition and cosmopolitanism of Japa­nese h ­ uman science, such incidents suggested intellectual immaturity and an inability to join the inter­ national academic community on equal terms. Despite a handful of awkward moments, the men of one age gloried in the global display of the field tradition they had cultivated throughout their ­careers. It was to be their last collective triumph. By the end of 1968, 165 Japa­ nese universities had experienced disturbances of some kind, with over sixty compromised by sit-­ins and strikes. As at Tōdai, activists made specific de­ mands to improve student life, including tuition breaks, the democ­ratization of operating procedures, public apologies for administrative violations of in­ dividual rights, and amnesty for protest activities. Ultimately, over three hun­ dred thousand students across Japan—­about 20 ­percent of the total population enrolled in higher education—­supported the movement in some capacity. In 1968 alone, over three thousand ­were arrested.60 In addition to issues of university reform, the student strug­gle also engaged off-­campus left-­w ing c­ auses such as fomenting Marxist revolution and oppos­ ing the Vietnam War and the scheduled renewal of Anpo in 1970. Protesters also preemptively objected to Expo ’70, deriding the nationalism and com­ mercialism of the event. They proposed substituting “peace and liberation for mankind” for the official slogan “pro­gress and harmony for mankind.”61 Some students, like their contemporaries in France, Italy, and the United States, attempted to collaborate with ­labor leaders. Yet, however resolutely they re­ pudiated their elite status, Japa­nese university matriculates w ­ ere unable to convincingly pre­sent themselves as allies of blue-­collar workers. Activism off campus tended to divide the already factionalized students, pitting ­t hose drawn to outside ­causes against ­others who preferred to focus on internal reconstruction.62

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As the stalemate ground on, many youth redirected their ire from the uni­ versity administration to individual faculty members. At Tōdai, they invaded the office and destroyed the papers of Maruyama Masao. Maruyama was a critic as well as a proponent of modernization, yet the students regarded him as its leading hypocrite. A ­ fter their attack, he told a national newspaper that “not even the Nazis did anything like this.”63 Although his renown made him a par­tic­u­lar target, Maruyama was far from the only member of his generation to experience such treatment. A biology professor whose research materials ­were destroyed was so distraught by the loss of years of work that he was un­ able to continue his academic ­career. An archaeologist’s ­daughter jumped out of a win­dow ­after he was physically assaulted in the classroom.64 Among the h ­ uman science disciplines, archaeology faced especial criti­ cism. Student objections ­were partly responsible for the decision to terminate the Scientific Expedition to the Andes a­ fter its fifth venture in 1969. Protesters also denounced excavations at home. During the 1960s, a time of booming construction in Japan, the government attempted to avoid building on sites of historical significance by passing legislation requiring prior analy­sis by ex­ perts. ­These laws gave rise to a vast contract archaeology industry that dwarfed the academic establishment. Contract excavations ­were often compromised by the limitations of time and resources, resulting in shoddy analy­sis, low-­quality publications, and the loss and destruction of irreplaceable artifacts. In in­ stances where monumental remains w ­ ere discovered, students ­were addition­ ally agitated by their deployment as symbols of national identity by po­liti­cal leaders.65 Youth blamed archaeology for “supporting the status quo, walking in lockstep with commercial developments, simply paving the way. . . . ​It too had to be ­stopped.”66 At the height of the protests, student activists argued that professors had “no right to quietly engage in research while fundamental questions concerning the university system are being raised.” They urged their instructors to “sus­ pend daily research and reconsider the purposes and impact of your activities! Disclose the evils resident in the system as well as in yourself.”67 ­Under ­t hese circumstances, most faculty found continuing their work almost impossible. Even ­t hose left unmoved by youth appeals ­were incon­ve­nienced by lockouts and bombarded with the administrative burdens of extraordinary times. By way of apology for declining to review an article, an anthropologist wrote to an American journal editor, “As you might be informed, ­t here have occurred big trou­ble in our University as well as many other universities in Japan. Therefore,

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almost ­every day I must attend meetings to ­settle and find a solution of the trou­ble. I do not know when the trou­ble becomes quiet and settled.”68 One study found that the average productivity of professors of education at all major Japa­nese universities fell by half during the student movement.69 As for Izumi, the chaos weighed on him both psychologically and physically. Given his Korean upbringing and loyalty to KIU, as well as his distaste for large cities, he had never felt fully comfortable at Tōdai. However, in 1968 the uni­ versity atmosphere he had always regarded as cold became almost unbearable. “Izumi lived a happy life with a positive attitude, except for during the student movement,” a colleague ­later remembered. In his autobiography Izumi described 1968 as “the worst year.”70 Stress compromised his health, and he was hospital­ ized several times. Mere days ­after the end of ICAES, his own students boycotted his classes. Most devastatingly, his only son, Izumi Takura (b. 1948), an aspiring archaeology major at the University of Kyoto, joined the protests. As Izumi Takura l­ater recalled, his relationship with his f­ ather had never been a ­simple parent-­child bond. Now their dynamic encapsulated, in micro­ cosm, the confrontation of the men of one age and the youth of 1968. Tension between the pair fi­nally exploded at a restaurant dinner celebrating Izumi Kimiko’s birthday. A furious Izumi insisted, “Scholarship and politics can ab­ solutely not coexist. The student movement is a po­liti­cal movement completely separate from scholarship. If you want to do real research, you clearly cannot maintain po­liti­cal aims.” In response, Izumi Takura argued that knowledge divorced from politics was illusory, and meaningless. The clash grew so heated that Izumi Takura left the ­family home, and a serious rift developed between ­father and son. Eventually, through Izumi Kimiko’s mediation, they reconciled and came to a better understanding of each other’s position.71 Although Izumi never deviated from the belief in objectivity that defined his generation, in early 1969 he published a more conciliatory piece arguing for a “new image for the con­temporary university.” He called for the Tōdai admin­ istration to address many of the prob­lems cited by student protestors, includ­ ing bureaucratic interference, underfinancing of research and teaching, and “guild-­style” internal politics.72 He also acknowledged the validity of attacks on modernization. To understand the disillusionment of the 1968 activists, he applied a historical perspective. In the past, he wrote, authoritarian regimes had used force to establish unifying symbols such as the emperor among the ­people. Having rejected vio­lence, however, Japan was left with no means of in­ culcating rising generations with the ideals of democracy, capitalism, and peace.

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Lack of individual subjectivity and social disorder ­were the natu­ral results of this failure to inspire con­temporary youth with the values of the nation.73 Although most protestors would likely have disagreed with this assessment, Izumi’s words nonetheless suggested his growing appreciation of their argu­ ment. Many of his colleagues, particularly assistant professors and instructors, likewise supported the students as the stalemate continued. Some hesitated to express their sympathy openly due to their investment in their academic ­careers. Employed by national universities, they ­were civil servants, and easily threatened with salary reductions when classes ­were not held. Many faculty also feared that allying with students would provoke the government to empower the adminis­ tration at their expense, further compromising academic freedom.74 Unable to carry out his normal professional duties, Izumi took refuge where he had always found it: the field. In October 1968 he ventured to Mexico for the first time. His trip coincided with the Summer Olympic Games in the na­ tion’s capital. Only days prior to Izumi’s arrival, the government had dispatched police and military forces to crush the student movement that had taken over Mexico’s most prestigious university and several adjacent neighborhoods. The shadow of bloody confrontation—by many accounts, claiming hundreds of lives—­hung over the city. Nevertheless, Izumi enjoyed visiting pre-­Columbian archaeological sites and museums while accumulating artifacts for display in the Expo ’70 theme pavilion. He cherished time with six young postgraduates, reflecting wistfully that he had not interacted positively with his own students in months.75 ­After traveling through the Yucatán Peninsula Izumi returned to Mexico City, where two life-­a ltering tele­grams awaited him at the Japa­nese embassy. The first related the news of Ishida Eiichirō’s death from cancer at age sixty-­ five. The loss of his mentor, colleague, and friend was a devastating blow to Izumi. The second tele­gram was an order from Tōdai: “The protests are getting worse—­come home immediately.” During Izumi’s absence, relations between faculty and students had deteriorated further, and all hands ­were needed to work ­toward a resolution of the crisis.76 Days a­ fter Izumi’s return, Ōkōchi Kazuo (1905–1984), an economist and the president of Tōdai since 1963, offered his resignation amid rising criticism of his failure to s­ ettle “the worst crisis in [the] 92-­year history” of the university.77 A se­nior representative of the transwar generation, Ōkōchi had reached the rank of professor by the early 1940s. Although he was never called to account for his war­time scholarship, his credibility was compromised in the eyes of many stu­

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dents. His successor, Katō Ichirō (1922–2008), was almost two de­cades younger. Like the activists of 1968, Katō had reached maturity ­after World War II and had completed his education in the era of modernization. He had recently returned from a year of research in the United States and was familiar with American traditions of university autonomy. At the same time, the forty-­six-­year-­old Katō had consciously experienced the war and its aftermath and could understand the mentality of the field generation. Sympathetic to both the transwar and student cohorts, he was an ideal mediator in the conflict between them. Nevertheless, Katō and his new administration, comprised mostly of his contemporaries, confronted serious obstacles to restoring normal university operations. One source of pressure was time. In December 1968 Katō announced the cancellation of entrance examinations for the academic year beginning in 1970. Given the disorder on campus, Tōdai simply could not accept a new fresh­ man class. Katō hoped that exams might be reinstated if the protests ­died down by mid-­January 1969, but as the clock ticked, internal dissent within the ranks of both the administration and the youth confounded a resolution to the cri­ sis. University hard-­liners continued to refuse key concessions, while activists seemed united only in their opposition. In early 1969 a survey of over fifteen hundred students from twenty-­one universities found that more than three-­ quarters ­were dissatisfied with their education.78 However, they could not agree upon the aims of protest. Some wished to see concrete reforms enacted in higher education, whereas o ­ thers exalted the very strug­gle as the goal and rejected all attempts at mediation. A few clashes among students turned violent, alienating many from the movement. ­After Katō threatened to withhold academic credit for the year, relative moderates pressured radicals to capitulate rather than risk delaying graduation for all. But public interest in the drama, fed by relentless media coverage, encouraged some students to prolong the action.79 Since the early 1950s, by convention, police did not enter Japa­nese campuses ­unless invited by the administration. Believing in the autonomy of the univer­ sity, Katō disliked the idea of summoning the authorities. However, one day ­after the deadline passed for reinstating entrance exams, he caved to mounting pressure (not least from students ­eager to gradu­ate) to end the dispute at last. By this time, law enforcement had already removed protesters from university buildings around the world. On January 18 and 19, 1969, police attacked stu­ dent holdouts and their supporters in Tōdai’s Yasuda Hall. The clash produced injuries (but no deaths), over a million dollars’ worth of destruction of physical property and infrastructure, and more than seven hundred arrests.80

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Despite the end of the conflict, Izumi felt unable to recover his equanim­ ity as a scholar. “Inside my heart nothing is the least bit in order,” he wrote.81 Seeking his lost equilibrium, he revisited the places and prob­lems that had ab­ sorbed him during his thirty-­five-­year c­ areer. In September 1969 he departed for the fifth and last Scientific Expedition to the Andes. Two months ­later, Izumi returned to South Amer­i­ca with his son. Far from home, the two re­ paired their relationship and reestablished their mutual re­spect.82 The last year of Izumi’s life was one of the busiest. Appointed director of Tōdai’s Institute for Oriental Culture, he was inundated with administrative tasks. In July 1970 he stole away for several days of fieldwork on Jejudo, where he assessed prospects for a lengthier study of local shamanic practices.83 Three months ­later he accepted the invitation of the Korean government to attend a conference on local folklore. Back in Tokyo, Izumi enjoyed dinner with Suzuki Teiiti, with whom he had collaborated on a demographic survey of the Nikkei in Brazil in the mid-1960s. The pair reminisced fondly about their work to­ gether, and Suzuki invited Izumi to spend a year at the University of São Paulo in a newly created chair of Japa­nese studies. Well past midnight, Izumi es­ corted his guest back to his ­hotel and promised to consider the opportunity.84 He never had the chance. On Sunday, November 15, 1970, Izumi awoke with death on his mind. When the ­house­hold dog coughed up blood, he speculated to his wife that the animal would not last another day. Despite suffering from a headache, he kept a morning coffee appointment with the cultural ecologist Umesao Tadao (1920–2010) in Tokyo’s elegant New Otani H ­ otel. Umesao, a night owl, was barely awake, but Izumi was energized and smiling. Shortly before noon, Umesao said goodbye and boarded a high-­speed train back to his home in Kyoto. That eve­ning, as he was eating dinner, he received an urgent telephone call. Izumi had collapsed and died from a ce­re­bral hemorrhage at the age of fifty-­five. “I was speechless,” Umesao remembered.85 The following day, the loss was announced in the newspapers, on the radio, and to comrades and colleagues around the world. A memorial ser­v ice held at Tōdai was at­ tended not only by Izumi’s f­ amily, friends, and fellow scholars but also by the minister for foreign affairs and the minister of education and culture, Katō Ichirō, representatives of Seoul National University and Meiji University, newspaper reporters and publishing h ­ ouse executives, and Peruvian govern­ ment officials. Mourners drank saké, as Izumi had once urged them to do.86 Following cremation, his ashes w ­ ere interred in the mountains outside Tokyo, beneath a gravestone carved with Andean motifs.

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Studying ­h uman diversity in Japan a­ fter 1968 The long 1968 was a watershed in Japa­nese history and epistemology, herald­ ing the end of the intellectual hegemony of the field generation and its vision of objective knowledge. In the moment, however, few ­human scientists com­ mented on its impact. Both during and immediately following the student protests, Eu­ro­pean and American scholars delved into their significance for their own nations in journal articles, books, and popu­lar publications.87 By contrast, Japa­nese academics remained mostly ­silent. Minzokugaku kenkyū, the flagship cultural anthropology periodical, avoided the very mention of the movement. ­After the occupation of Yasuda Hall ended, the journal published two special issues cata­loguing anthropology textbooks, field studies, and uni­ versity courses, generating a façade of business as usual.88 The impulse was not to understand, but to elide. From certain perspectives, Japa­nese society appeared virtually unchanged by the events of 1968. Students, generally regarded as the primary actors of the movement, largely “cooled down and assumed the leadership role [they ­were] born for,” as one historian observed of German youth.89 A minority did refuse to accept the return to normalcy and joined radical organ­izations, including domestic and international terrorist groups. ­Others became involved in social and environmental c­ auses, spearheading new kinds of civic activism through the 1970s. Some withdrew from society entirely, seeking self-­actualization via religion or other means. However, most resumed their educations, graduated, and joined the ranks of the elite. Contrary to Katō’s prediction that cancel­ ing examinations would produce total social confusion, the absence of a new entering class in 1970 did not appreciably impact the professional world or dampen the prospects of would-be Tōdai matriculates who instead chose to attend other universities.90 By 1972 one survey found that over half of college students ­were satisfied with their school life, while less than 4 ­percent endorsed vio­lence as a force of change. Economic downturn, the rise of conservative nationalism on campuses and beyond, and the entrenchment of technocracy further dampened inclinations t­ oward left-­w ing activism in the early 1970s.91 Likewise, universities, the setting of the conflict, seemed to emerge from the chaos largely unscathed. A ­ fter summoning law enforcement to campus, Katō conciliated the Tōdai community by emphasizing his differences with the Ōkōchi regime and by welcoming student participation in some decision-­ making pro­cesses. He also offered ju­nior professors a greater role in faculty

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governance. Meanwhile, the state took action to prevent ­f uture disturbances. The 1969 Law for Temporary Mea­sures concerning University Management (Daigaku no un’ei ni kansuru rinji sochi hō) permitted police intervention and campus closures in situations where the administration was deemed to have lost authority. The government also compiled a master plan for higher educa­ tion, calling for the creation of up to twenty new universities ­u nder strong centralized control (rather than following the prevailing model of faculty au­ tonomy, which was implicated in the recent disorder). In 1973 the University of Tsukuba opened in a distant suburb of Tokyo, where the impact of student protests could be minimized.92 The seeming return to the status quo obscured larger shifts in the produc­ tion and personalities of Japa­nese scholarship. Despite the reestablishment of quiescence, the university was permanently decentered as the locus of profes­ sional ­human science. The student movement accentuated the field genera­ tion’s disenchantment with traditional sites for teaching and research, giving new impetus to the longtime dream of creating a national anthropology mu­ seum. Izumi had envisioned an institution on par with the top exemplars of Eu­rope, Asia, and the ­Middle East, which he had toured ­after attending ICAES in Moscow in 1964.93 When he returned to Japan, he and Umesao convened a committee to begin planning and fund­rais­ing in earnest. Together with eigh­teen scholars representing the JSE and other major ­human science socie­ties, Izumi formally requested the financial support of the government from Prime Minister Satō Eisaku. He and his colleagues argued that Japan’s rising international profile necessitated a nexus for the study of cultural contact and exchange and an education center for ­f uture generations of citizens. Fieldworkers also needed a store­house for the material accumula­ tions of expeditions.94 In late 1968 student protestors disrupted some planning committee meetings on the Tōdai campus, chanting, “Resist the establishment of a national ethnology museum connected to the imperialist government!” Despite this opposition, the proposal won over most Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists and the state.95 In 1977 the National Museum of Ethnology (Kokuritsu Minzokugaku Hakubutsukan, or Minpaku) opened its doors on the former site of Expo ’70. Minpaku ­housed close to fifty thousand domestic and foreign objects, in­ cluding the original collection of Shibusawa Keizō, materials from the major field expeditions of the 1950s and 1960s, and artifacts procured for the Expo theme pavilion. The building boasted nearly thirty thousand square meters of

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floor space spread over four stories—­enough room to display approximately 10 ­percent of the collection, as well as offer a vast media center and library of print and digital sources. Minpaku also maintained its own researchers and gradu­ate students. T ­ oday it ranks among the preeminent h ­ uman science insti­ tutions of Japan and the world.96 The decoupling of research from the university continued with the 1983 establishment of a second national ethnology museum, the Ningen Hakubutsukan (Museum of Man, l­ater the Ritoru Wārudo, or L ­ ittle World Museum of Man). Efforts to develop this institution began in earnest amid the student movement of 1968, with Izumi contributing strong support u ­ ntil his death two years ­later.97 In contrast to Minpaku, the Ningen Hakubutsukan built its collection around specially acquired artifacts. The museum main­ tained an archive and research fa­cil­i­t y employing scholars such as the Andean archaeologist Ōnuki Yoshio. It was also a public education center with ap­ proximately sixty open-­air exhibits representing dif­fer­ent world cultures. The layout of the museum encouraged visitors to think of themselves as travelers circumnavigating a globe at once large and diverse but orderly and compre­ hensible. National stations boasted models in costume, local food to sample, material culture, dioramas, architectural reconstructions, and information on religion and ritual, kinship patterns, language, folk arts, and livelihoods.98 The events of 1968 shifted intellectual impetus away from not only the uni­ versity but also the field generation. The student movement catalyzed a wave of relatively early retirements and coincided with a spike in mortality among the men of one age. Izumi’s Tōdai colleague, Ishida Eiichirō, and Fukukama Tatsuo, a veteran of the American Studies Seminar, succumbed at the height of the cataclysm in 1968. Linguist Asai Erin and anthropologist Okada Kenji followed in 1969; archaeologist Yamanouchi Sugao and Ainu scholar Kodama Sakuzaemon in 1970. Mizuno Seiichi, who participated in the Tsushima ven­ tures in the early 1950s and in subsequent team expeditions to the ­Middle East and Hindu Kush mountains, died in 1971, as did Mishina Shōei, an early enthu­ siast of Boasian anthropology who had studied at the University of Cambridge and at Berkeley. The following years witnessed the loss of Kubodera Itsuhiko, a Hokkaido-­born Ainu specialist, and Suzuki Makoto, Izumi’s companion in New Guinea and Tsushima.99 Replacing ­t hese doyens was a new influx of faculty born ­after 1920. When anthropology classes resumed at Tōdai in the spring of 1969, their instructors included scholars such as Suzuki Hachishi (b. 1926) and Ikegami Yoshihiko

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(b. 1934). Another noteworthy new face was Jang Jukeun, among the first Korean h ­ uman scientists to teach in a Japa­nese university.100 Within a de­cade, even younger faculty, veterans of the student movement, ­were also offering courses at Tōdai. During the long 1968, one survey found that academia was the most popu­lar c­ areer aspiration among activists at Japan’s leading univer­ sity.101 Passion for reform emanated at least partly from a deep commitment to joining the institutions of knowledge production. Izumi’s own son followed his footsteps into human science: Izumi Takura initially intended to specialize in the study of the ancient Andes, but shifted to domestic archaeology ­after facing criticism for riding his ­father’s coattails. He enjoyed a distinguished ­career as a professor of Neolithic Japan at his alma mater, the University of Kyoto.102 Izumi Takura’s generation of scholars, who came to comprise the world’s largest national per capita population of academics, completed the epistemo­ logical schism with the transwar vision of objectivity as a necessary and suf­ ficient signifier of credible knowledge. Ironically, they did so by embracing the essentially conservative doctrine of Nihonjinron. Although the men of one age had themselves birthed this ideology, Japa­nese exceptionalism ultimately shed two of their paramount concerns: the pursuit of universal laws and (the appearance of) value-­free scholarship. Instead, it trained an analytical gaze on the Self with the goal of understanding and reinforcing Japan’s con­temporary economic dominance. In place of the ideals of democracy, capitalism, and peace, it offered a new vision of Japan as a budding superpower with produc­ tive lessons for Eu­rope and the United States as well as the developing world. The hegemony of Nihonjinron naturally impacted fieldwork, the signal methodology of objective h ­ uman science research for the preceding half-­ century. Transwar scholars had used foreign cultures such as the Inca as a foil for delineating national particularities. A ­ fter 1968, however, the balance of academic attention shifted to Japan, as researchers attempted to directly define the primordial and unifying forces of national culture. Asia-­focused scholarship also thrived as a means of shedding light on the probable origins of the Japa­nese, and as a source of comparative case studies. With the estab­ lishment of diplomatic relations between Japan and the P ­ eople’s Republic of China in 1972, Japa­nese fieldworkers w ­ ere able to travel to the country for the first time since the end of World War II. ­Human science in Southeast Asia like­ wise boomed following the end of the Vietnam War. Korean studies flourished above all, with research articles, book reviews, and conference reports appear­ ing in virtually e­ very issue of MK from the late 1960s on. Within a de­cade of

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normalization, numerous Japa­nese scholars had undertaken fieldwork on the Korean peninsula and in Jejudo, while a majority of Korean anthropologists had interacted in some way with Japa­nese academia.103 As the study of Asia intensified, specialists of other regions found them­ selves correspondingly marginalized. Having proven Japan’s ability to pro­ duce knowledge meeting transnational standards, by the 1970s the academic establishment felt ­little need to reinforce the point. Students who followed Izumi to South Amer­i­ca returned to confront the belief that their work was irrelevant to “real archaeology”—­t hat is, the archaeology of Japan. Following the demise of the Scientific Expedition to the Andes, work in the region re­ sumed in 1975 ­u nder the auspices of the Japa­nese Scientific Expedition to Nuclear Amer­i­ca (Kaku Amerika [Chūbei, Andesu] Gakujutsu Chōsadan).104 Although this proj­ect made numerous impor­tant scholarly contributions, it lacked the po­liti­cal significance and profile of Izumi’s series. Many of its re­ searchers ­were excluded from university archaeology and history departments. Instead, they found themselves relegated to general education, language, and area studies faculties. They seldom published in Kōkogaku zasshi (Journal of the Archaeological Society of Nippon), Japan’s flagship archaeology journal.105 Accompanying the changed purpose of fieldwork in the era of Nihonjinron was the unseating of Malinowski as its patron saint. Ironically, at the very moment that a favorable funding climate made individual field studies more pos­si­ble than ever, the British social anthropologist’s classic methodology faced new critiques. In place of Malinowski, many ­human scientists embraced the model offered by folklorist Yanagita Kunio. In the early twentieth c­ entury Yanagita had undertaken empirical research throughout Japan in pursuit of a primordial ethnocultural unity amid evidence of flourishing diversity (see Chapter 1). A half-­century l­ater his writings offered an indigenous roadmap for fieldwork illuminating national particularities. A new field of “Yanagita studies” (Yanagitagaku) arose around the collection, annotation, translation, republication, and reinterpretation of the master’s works. In 1982 Kanagawa University founded the Institute for the Study of Japa­nese Folk Culture (Nihon Jōmin Bunka Kenkyūjo) to store materials from the artifact collections of Yanagita and Shibusawa and to support research in and on native ethnology.106 Yanagita’s influence was also evident in the new, quasi-­folkloric discipline of ­people’s history (minshūshi), which celebrated premodern folk cultures pre­ viously dismissed as backward. Originating in the late 1960s, ­people’s history retained many core features of transwar research, including interdisciplinary

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fieldwork, a focus on the agency and lifestyles of nonelites, and an interest in material artifacts. However, it exemplified the turn against universalist and dis­ interested scholarship grounded in the values of modernization. Like the stu­ dents of 1968, p ­ eople’s historians feared that democracy, capitalism, and peace had not liberated the masses but had instead re-­enslaved them through the deg­ radation of the environment, increasing social and economic in­equality, urban congestion, materialism and commercialism, complicity with the American military agenda, and a general mood of alienation and anomie. They even com­ pared unthinking loyalty to the cultural nation to collective spiritual servility ­under the emperor in war­time Japan.107 Rather than objective research, their mission was the cultivation of popu­lar self-­consciousness. “What the Japa­nese need t­ oday is . . . ​an investigation of the pathology of the pre­sent system in order to reform it,” declared minshūshi doyen Irokawa Daikichi (b. 1925).108 Such negative appraisals notwithstanding, Japan’s economic ascendancy and ideology of positive exceptionalism tended to discourage attention to un­ savory predispositions and propensities within the national culture. In this environment, discussions of imperial crimes remained muted through the 1980s. In Eu­rope and the United States, works by Talal Asad, George Stocking, Adam Kuper, and o ­ thers illuminated the complicity of knowledge producers in constructing and sustaining colonial regimes.109 By contrast, in Japan, early attempts to write the history of ­human science omitted war­time work. Terada Kazuo’s 1975 account of anthropology obliquely referenced the taboo nature of his topic, declaring, “Only now that three de­cades have passed is it appropri­ ate to write about the prewar discipline.” However, rather than critiquing his transwar mentors, he praised their research as the foundation of con­temporary scholarship. Describing Japa­nese fieldwork in the former empire, he eschewed the very word imperialism (teikokushugi). Instead, he neutralized studies before 1945 as “overseas research” (kaigai kenkyū).110 At the end of the 1980s, the bursting of Japan’s growth ­bubble heralded a less confident national mood and a rethinking of Nihonjinron. The steadily shrinking ranks of the field generation, and the retirements of its immediate students, freed scholars to probe the troubled origins of the h ­ uman sciences. Anthropologist Nakao Katsumi (b. 1956) caused a tremendous stir when he presented some initial findings on the “original sins” of his discipline at an annual meeting of the JSE.111 However, many colleagues soon joined him in exploring the connection between epistemology and power. In 2005 Minpaku established the Ethnology Research Archive to h ­ ouse donations of personal

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papers by Japa­nese h ­ uman scientists. To date, it has acquired selective materi­ als from the ­careers of seventeen scholars, including Izumi Seiichi. Although many damaging documents have been privately retained, both Japa­nese and non-­Japanese anthropologists and historians have drawn on t­ hese archives to chart the course of field research before 1945.112 At the end of the twentieth ­century, increasing attention to the pro­cess of constructing knowledge was undergirded by a growing recognition of “facts” as inextricably dependent on perspective and context. As one historian de­ scribes this epistemological transition in Japan and beyond, Scientific truth gave way to cultural construction, the Galilean paradigm to evidential conjecture, objectivism to subjectivity, real­ity to repre­sen­ta­tion, the past-­that-­was-­theirs to the story-­that-­is-­ours.  .  .  . ​Synthesis became specializa­ tion, ­wholeness became fragments, events became texts, real­ity became dis­ course, ­grand narratives became microhistories. . . . ​Nation and state w ­ ere set against race, gender, and ethnos, unity against identity, action against agency, self against other.113

­ nder the influence of postmodernism and its many turns, the traditional U ­human science disciplines splintered and reconfigured to accommodate new perspectives. Cultural anthropology expanded beyond its traditional concerns for religion, ethnicity, and po­liti­cal organ­ization. In the past two de­cades Tōdai students have authored t­ heses on sports, media, health, gender, urban studies, and other topics. As competition for faculty positions has sharpened, more PhD degree holders seek jobs in ­t hese interdisciplinary fields, raising standards for teaching, methodology, and publication, and driving large num­ bers of qualified academics to other professions.114 The advent of postmodernism also reinforced a shift to a more multicul­ tural (tayōseiteki) understanding of Japa­neseness. College textbooks gradually discarded schematics of national homogeneity (although many such depictions remained in secondary-­level teaching aids).115 Rather than seeking sources of cultural and ethnic uniformity, researchers began to explore manifestations of difference. Amid the l­abor shortage of the 1990s, the Japa­nese government offered working visas to hundreds of thousands of Nikkei, mostly from Latin Amer­i­ca. Their growing visibility in certain Japa­nese cities inspired the new interdisciplinary field of migration studies (imin kenkyū). Researchers also analyzed the experiences of historically disenfranchised groups including the Burakumin, descendants of Korean and Chinese settlers,

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refugees, and the Ainu and other indigenous populations. In the 1990s schol­ ars began to construct an alternative to Japan-­centered studies of the Ainu through the explic­itly nonnational frame of “northern history” (hoppōshi). Discarding the d ­ ying culture paradigm, a new generation of ­human scientists worked with community activists and indigenous experts to illuminate a long history of suffering and to return agency and subjectivity to individuals and communities. Together they agitated for apologies for past abuses in the name of data collection, and for respectful treatment and the return of ­human re­ mains used as physical anthropology samples in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In 2007 t­ hese trends culminated in the establishment of the Hokkaido Daigaku Ainu Senjūmin Kenkyū Sentā (Hokkaido University Center for Ainu and Indigenous Studies), which encourages partnerships be­ tween academics and communities in the study of Arctic cultures. The follow­ ing year, joint pressure from t­ hese groups prompted the Japa­nese government to issue a landmark statement acknowledging the Ainu as an indigenous mi­ nority for the first time—­a tacit abandonment of the myth of homogeneity. This victory notwithstanding, mistrust continues to characterize relations between the ivory tower and the Ainu p ­ eople, with ethnographic refusal a common experience for con­temporary scholars.116 The study of diversity in Japan has unfolded in the context of a growing reflexivity, or attentiveness to researchers’ relationship to their topic of study. Reflexivity has also prompted some Japa­nese ­human scientists to turn an an­ alytical lens on the con­temporary state of their own fields. Anthropologist Kuwayama Takami (b. 1955) has situated Japan on the semiperiphery of a “world system of knowledge production” dominated by the West (particu­ larly the United States and ­Great Britain). Despite the accomplishments of the transwar generation, he argues, many Euro-­A merican scholars ­today refuse to acknowledge their Japa­nese counter­parts as creators of credible knowledge beyond the realm of area studies.117 Beginning in 2014 the Japa­nese Society of Cultural Anthropology (Nihon Bunka Jinrui Gakkai, known ­until 2004 as the Nihon Minzokugaku Kyōkai) hosted a series of conferences about the pre­sent position and prospective ­f uture of Japa­nese anthropology. Speakers conveyed deep ambivalence re­ garding their position in the global intellectual community. Much discussion centered around the role of En­glish. Japa­nese ­human scientists working t­ oday often face pressure to write in En­glish, not only to broaden their audience in­ ternationally but also to secure domestic funding and prestige. Many defend

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English-­language publishing as “more than just playing along with Western academic hegemony,” arguing that they maintain a distinctive voice even in a foreign language.118 They also note that barriers to publishing in En­glish may cull less innovative studies, so that only the highest quality work is presented to the world. Yet, Japa­nese scholars also fear a decline in local creativity and heterogeneity as they strive to articulate themselves to external publics.119 En­g lish, they point out, can both include and marginalize ­t hose who use it as a second (or third) language. Its use is so standard in the East Asian acad­ emy that the region’s scholars frequently prefer it to mutually intelligible field languages. In some cases English-­language publishing has taken pre­ce­dence over the transmission of findings in the native tongue of in­for­mants (now viewed as an essential component of responsible fieldwork). And ultimately, many foreign-­language books and articles function as ­little more than status symbols for their Japa­nese authors, attracting scant attention from colleagues abroad.120 As one con­temporary American scholar observes, current social theory is “virtually devoid of references to Japan,” with the exception of the occasional case study.121 The anxiety that Japa­nese h ­ uman science has or may become all but invis­ ible bespeaks perhaps the greatest difference between the field generation and ­t hose who have followed in their footsteps. A ­ fter Japan’s defeat in 1945, at a moment when the government and the military—­wartime spokesmen for the nation—­enjoyed l­ittle credibility, the men of one age stepped into the breach to claim this role on a global stage. By the late 1960s, however, the issue of na­ tional values “simply did not have the same po­liti­cal valence as it did for p ­ eople who well remembered a time when simply theorizing about the legitimacy of state power might lead to prison and when civilians ­were exhorted to seek death rather than accept certain military defeat.”122 Japan’s return to super­ power status restored public trust to politicians, while the spread of education and the expansion of the free press “demo­cratized” and fragmented discus­ sions of collective ideals. The takeoff of international travel at the end of the 1980s brought the outside world within the empirical experience of ordinary Japa­nese citizens, demystifying the “exotic” realms formerly glimpsed through the eyes of Izumi and his cohort.123 ­Human scientists themselves no longer believed in the idea of a monolithic national identity. They accepted their po­ sition as simply one among many voices in the delineation of Japa­neseness. ­Today, some “talent professors” appear on tele­v i­sion, publish in the mass media, give speeches to nonexpert audiences, and draw attention to social

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c­ auses. They attract a large popu­lar following; in contrast to the United States, where h ­ uman science is generally regarded as an exclusively academic inter­ est, the Japa­nese public avidly consumes (appropriately written and marketed) anthropological lit­er­a­ture. Without a faculty promotion system to foster con­ formity to arcane disciplinary norms or a large university publishing industry to disseminate findings exclusively for specialists, Japa­nese professors both enjoy greater freedom and suffer a heavier obligation to appeal to the mass taste. Some scholars reap rich monetary rewards from commercially success­ ful works. However, they do not enjoy the name recognition and social sway of their transwar pre­de­ces­sors.124 The men of one age have no con­temporary parallels. In the 1930s a cohort of professional ­human scientists, born in the first two de­cades of the twentieth ­century or thereabouts, coalesced around a common and par­t ic­u ­lar understanding of objectivity as the foundation of legitimate knowledge, and of fieldwork as the pathway to objectivity. Shared experiences during similar moments in the life course reinforced their identity as a gen­ eration, building a collective cognitive framework, identity, and interpersonal network. During the age of empire t­ hese scholars ventured to the frontiers of Japa­nese sovereignty in pursuit of scientific information about local ­peoples to justify their subjugation. Following the defeat and dismantling of imperial rule over Asia and Oceania, they repatriated to the home islands. ­Under the occu­ pation and tutelage of the United States and its Cold War allies, they revised and re­created epistemologies of ­human difference to serve the ideals of mod­ ernization, domesticated as the cultural nation. By the 1960s they themselves had come to understand the limitations of democracy, capitalism, and peace as national values. The Japa­nese student movement of 1968–1969 posed a more encompassing attack on objectivity itself, undermining the very foundation of the long intellectual hegemony of the field generation. Nonetheless, the legacy of the men of one age lives on in the disciplines they developed, the in­for­mants they engaged, the students they trained, and the beliefs they incorporated into Japa­nese and global understandings of h ­ uman diversity.

NOTES

I NTR O DUCT I O N 1. Edward Norbeck and Harumi Befu, “Richard King Beardsley 1918–1978,” American Anthropologist 81, no. 3 (1979): 636–637. 2. Richard  K. Beardsley and Nakano Takashi, Japa­nese Sociology and Social Anthropology: A Guide to Japa­nese References and Research Materials (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1970), iii. 3. Karl Mannheim, Essays on the Sociology of Knowledge (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1952), 276–320. 4. Mark Rosman, ed., Generations in Conflict: Youth Revolt and Generation Formation in Germany (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995); A. Dirk Moses, German Intellectuals and the Nazi Past (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Sebastian Conrad, The Quest for the Lost Nation: Writing History in Germany and Japan in the American C ­ entury, trans. Alan Nothnagle (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010). For alternative generational explanations of twentieth-­century German history, see Mary Fulbrook, Dissonant Lives: Generations and Vio­lence through the German Dictatorships (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011); and Noah Benezra Strote, Lions and Lambs: Conflict in Weimar and the Creation of Post-­Nazi Germany (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2017). 5. E.g., Kawamura Minato, “Dai Tōa minzoku” no kyojitsu (Kōdansha, 1996); Nakao Katsumi, Shokuminchi jinruigaku no tenbō (Fūkyōsha, 2000); Nakao Katsumi, Kindai Nihon no jinruigakushi: Teikoku to shokuminchi no kioku (Fūkyōsha, 2016). ­Unless other­w ise specified, all Japanese-­language sources w ­ ere published in Tokyo. 6. On the genealogy of objectivity, see Peter Novick, That Noble Dream: The “Objectivity Question” and the American Historical Profession (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988); Thomas L. Haskell, Objectivity Is Not Neutrality: Explanatory Schemes in History (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998); Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison, Objectivity (New York: Zone Books, 2007); Lorraine Daston, “Objectivity and Impartiality: Epistemic Virtues in the Humanities,” in The Modern Humanities, vol. 3 of The Making of the Humanities, ed. Rens Bod, Jaap Maat and Thijs Weststeijn (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2014), 27–41; Peter  J. Steinberger, The Politics of Objectivity: An Essay on the Foundations of Po­liti­cal Conflict (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015).

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7. E.g., James  R. Bartholomew, The Formation of Science in Japan: Building a Research Tradition (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989); Nakayama Shigeru, Science, Technology, and Society in Postwar Japan (New York: Routledge, 1991); John Krige, American Hegemony and the Postwar Reconstruction of Science in Eu­rope (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006); John Krige, Sharing Knowledge, Shaping Eu­rope: U.S. Technological Collaboration and Nonproliferation (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2016). 8. Christopher Fox, “Introduction: How to Prepare a Noble Savage: The Spectacle of H ­ uman Science,” and Robert Wokler, “Anthropological and Conjectural History in the Enlightenment,” in Christopher Fox, Roy Porter, and Robert Wokler, ed., Inventing ­Human Science: Eighteenth-­C entury Domains (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 1–30, 31–52; Roger Smith, The Norton History of the ­Human Sciences (New York: W. W. Norton, 1997), 3–36. 9. Bronisław Malinowski, Argonauts of the Western Pacific: An Account of Native Enterprise and Adventure in the Archipelagoes of Melanesian New Guinea (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1922), 1–26. 10. Kristian H. Nielsen, Michael Harbsmeier, and Christopher J. Ries, “Studying Scientists and Scholars in the Field: An Introduction,” in Scientists and Scholars in the Field: Studies in the History of Fieldwork and Expeditions, ed. Kristian H. Nielsen, Michael Harbsmeier, and Christopher J. Ries (Aarhus, Denmark: Aarhus University Press, 2012), 9–28. 11. For a recent reinterpretation of Izumi’s c­ areer, see “Tanjō hyaku nen kinen Izumi Seiichi ga aruita michi,” Riken minzokugaku 39, no. 4 (2015). 12. Thomas Nagel, The View from Nowhere (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986). 13. Evelyn Fox Keller, Reflections on Gender and Science (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1985); Susan Bordo, Flight to Objectivity: Essays on Cartesianism and Culture (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1987). For an early critique of this position, see Donna Haraway, “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective,” Feminist Studies 14, no. 3 (1988): 575–599. 14. Edward R. Beauchamp, “The Development of Japa­nese Educational Policy, 1945–85,” History of Education Quarterly 27, no. 3 (1987): 309. 15. Sharon  H. Nolte and Sally Ann Hastings, “The Meiji State’s Policy ­toward ­Women, 1890–1910,” in Recreating Japa­nese W ­ omen, 1600–1945, ed. Sharon H. Nolte, Sally Ann Hastings, and Gail Lee Bern­stein (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 151–174. 16. Izumi Kimiko, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni (Fuyō Shobō, 1972), 149. 17. Izumi, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni, 139, 136. Th ­ ese illustrations appear in Jean Stoetzel, Without the Chrysanthemum and the Sword: A Study of the Attitudes of Youth in Post-­War Japan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1955). 18. Izumi Kimiko and Izumi Seiichi, Inka tankenki: Ōgon no hikyō (Tokuma Shoten, 1965).

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19. Izumi Seiichi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” in Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 7: Bunka jinruigaku no me (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1972), 160–383. 20. Izumi Seiichi, “Dai Kōanrei tōbu Orochon-­zoku tōsa hōkoku,” in Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 1: Fuīrudowāku no kiroku (1) (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1971), 6–54; Izumi Seiichi and Akamatsu Chijō, “Goruji-­z oku tōsa hōkoku,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 1, 55–74. 21. Izumi Seiichi, “Saishūtō minzokushi,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 1, 107–348. 22. Jan van Bremen, “Travel Ethnography in Japan,” in Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan, ed. Maria Rodríguez del Alisal, Peter Ackermann, and Dolores P. Martinez (New York: Routledge, 2007), 151. 23. Sebastian Conrad, “ ‘The Colonial Ties Are Liquidated’: Modernization Theory, Post-­War Japan and the Global Cold War,” Past and Pre­sent 216 (2012): 186. 24. Takeyama Masatarō, Tsushima nanbu hōgenshū (Chūō Kōronsha, 1944), 1. C H A P T E R  1 1. Daston and Galison, Objectivity, 28–31. 2. Andrew Jewett, Science, Democracy, and the American University: From the Civil War to the Cold War (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 40. 3. Mary Elizabeth Berry, Japan in Print: Information and Nation in the Early Modern Period (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 18; Maki Fukuoka, Science, Visuality, and Representing the Real in Nineteenth-­Century Japan (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2012); Federico Marcon, The Knowledge of Nature and the Nature of Knowledge in Early Modern Japan (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015), 72. 4. Miriam Kingsberg, “Legitimating Empire, Legitimating Nation: The Scientific Study of Opium Addiction in Japa­nese Manchuria,” Journal of Japa­nese Studies 38, no. 2 (2012): 327. 5. Between 1890 and 1910, the word gakujutsu appeared over 1,200 times (about five times per month) in the Yomiuri Shinbun, Japan’s oldest and most widely circulating newspaper. https://­database​-­yomiuri​-­co​-­jp​/­. Accessed Nov. 29, 2016. 6. Hiromi Mizuno, Science for the Empire: Scientific Nationalism in Modern Japan (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2008), 144, 149. 7. Mary O. Furner, Advocacy and Objectivity: A Crisis in the Professionalization of American Social Science, 1865–1905 (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1975); Thomas L. Haskell, The Emergence of Professional Social Science: The American Social Science Association and the Nineteenth-­Century Crisis of Authority (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988), 19; Mark C. Smith, Social Science in the Crucible: The American Debate over Objectivity and Purpose, 1918–1941 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1994), 20. 8. Jewett, Science, Democracy, and the American University, 109. 9. Stephen Gaukroger, Objectivity: A Very Short Introduction (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 2. 10. Fox, “Introduction,” 1–30; Wokler, “Anthropological and Conjectural History in the Enlightenment,” 31–52.

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11. Sara Eigen, “Self, Race, and Species: J. F. Blumenbach’s Atlas Experiments,” German Quarterly 78, no. 3 (2005): 277–298. 12. Paul Erickson and Liam D. Murphy, A History of Anthropological Theory, 5th ed. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2017), 29. 13. Lewis Henry Morgan, Ancient Society; Or, Researches in the Lines of H ­ uman Pro­g ress from Savagery, through Barbarism to Civilization (New York: Henry Holt, 1877). 14. Rudyard Kipling, The Five Nations (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1903), 79–80. 15. Margarita Winkel, “Academic Traditions, Urban Dynamics and Colonial Threat: The Rise of Ethnography in Early Modern Japan,” in Anthropology and Colonialism in Asia and Oceania, ed. Jan van Bremen and Akitoshi Shimizu (New York: Routledge, 1999), 40–64. 16. Yasuko Takezawa, “Translating and Transforming ‘Race’: Early Meiji Period Textbooks,” Japa­nese Studies 35, no. 1 (2015): 1–17. 17. Byron K. Marshall, Academic Freedom and the Japa­nese Imperial University, 1868–1939 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 32, 43, 82. 18. Akitoshi Shimizu, “Colonialism and the Development of Modern Anthropology in Japan,” in van Bremen and Shimizu, Anthropology and Colonialism in Asia and Oceania, 124. 19. See, for example, H. G. Wells’s enormously influential The Outline of History: Being a Plain History of Life and Mankind (New York: Macmillan, 1921), 139, 147, 157. 20. Tessa Morris-­Suzuki, Re-­inventing Japan: Time, Space, Nation (New York: Routledge, 1998), 79–109; Kevin  M. Doak, “Building National Identity through Ethnicity: Ethnology in War­time Japan and A ­ fter,” Journal of Japa­nese Studies 27, no. 1 (2001): 1–39; Oguma Eiji, A Genealogy of Japa­nese Self-­Images, trans. David Askew (Melbourne: Trans Pacific Press, 2002). 21. Eri Hotta, Pan-­A sianism and Japan’s War, 1931–1945 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 37–38. In cases where minzoku requires translation, I have been guided by context, using “race” in some cases and “race-­nation” in ­others. 22. Hannjost Linfeld, Folklore and Fascism: The Reich Institute for German Volkskunde, ed. and trans. James R. Dow (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994); James R. Dow and Hannjost Linfeld, The Nazification of an Academic Discipline: Folklore in the Third Reich (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994); James R. Dow and Olaf Bockhorn, The Study of Eu­ro­pean Ethnology in Austria (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2004). 23. Edward Burnett Tylor, Primitive Culture: Researches into the Development of My­thol­ogy, Philosophy, Religion, Art, and Custom (London: J. Murray, 1871), 1; Adam Kuper, Culture: The Anthropologists’ Account (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 24–37. 24. On the genealogy of bunka seikatsu, see H. D. Harootunian, Overcome by Modernity: History, Culture, and Community in Interwar Japan (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2000), 3–33; Jordan Sand, House and Home in Modern

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Japan: Architecture, Domestic Space, and Bourgeois Culture, 1880–1930 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2003), 162–202; Kim Brandt, Kingdom of Beauty: Mingei and the Politics of Folk Art in Imperial Japan (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 124–172; Alan S. Christy, A Discipline on Foot: Inventing Japa­nese Native Ethnography, 1910–1945 (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2012), 197–215. 25. Morris-­Suzuki, Re-­inventing Japan, 60–78. 26. Fieldwork was variously referred to as jittai chōsa, tanken chōsa, jitchi tanken, tōsa, and fuīrudowāku. ­There do not appear to be any systematic differences governing the choice of terms. 27. Some recent scholars view Inō Kanori, a colonial bureaucrat who studied the aboriginal population of Taiwan, as a cofounder of the Japa­nese field tradition. Inō never held an academic post, which perhaps accounts for his virtual absence from traditional genealogies of h ­ uman science. See Paul D. Barclay, “An Historian Among the Anthropologists: The Inō Kanori Revival and the Legacy of Japa­nese Colonial Ethnography in Taiwan,” Japa­nese Studies 21, no. 2 (2001): 117–136. 28. Ka  F. Wong, “Entanglements of Ethnographic Images: Torii Ryūzō’s Photographic Rec­ord of Taiwanese Aborigines (1896–1900),” Japa­nese Studies 24, no. 3 (2004): 283–299; Hyung Il Pai, “Capturing Visions of Japan’s Prehistoric Past: Torii Ryūzō’s Field Photo­graphs of ‘Primitive’ Races and Lost Civilizations (1896–1915),” in Looking Modern: East Asian Visual Culture from Treaty Ports to World War II, ed. Jennifer Purtle and Hans Bjarne Thomsen (Chicago: Art Media Resources, 2009), 265–293. 29. Yao Jin-to, “The Japa­nese Colonial State and Its Form of Knowledge in Taiwan,” in Taiwan u ­ nder Japa­nese Colonial Rule 1895–1945: History, Culture, and Memory, ed. Liao Ping-­hui and David Der-­wei Wang (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 37–61. 30. Kawamura, “Dai Tōa minzoku” no kyojitsu, 90–99; Shimizu, “Colonialism and the Development of Modern Anthropology in Japan,” 129–134; David Askew, “Debating the ‘Japa­nese’ Race in Meiji Japan: T ­ oward a History of Early Japa­nese Anthropology,” in The Making of Anthropology in East and Southeast Asia, ed. Shinji Yamashita, Joseph Bosco, and J. S. Eades (New York: Berghahn Books, 2004), 57–89. 31. Native ethnology (民俗学) is written differently than ethnology (民族学). The ro­ manization, however, is the same. In this book, I use minzokugaku to refer to ethnology ­unless other­w ise indicated. 32. Miyazaki Kōji, “Colonial Anthropology in the Netherlands and War­time Anthropology in Japan,” in War­time Japa­nese Anthropology in Asia and the Pacific, ed. Akitoshi Shimizu and Jan van Bremen (Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology, 2003), 223. 33. Victor Koschmann, Ōiwa Keibō, and Yamashita Shinji, eds., International Perspectives on Yanagita Kunio and Japa­nese Folklore Studies (Ithaca, NY: China-­Japan Program, Cornell University, 1985); Ronald A. Morse, Yanagita Kunio and the Folklore Movement: The Search for Japan’s National Character and Distinctiveness (New York: Garland, 1990); Fukuda Ajio, Yanagita Kunio no minzokugaku (Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1992); Kawada Minoru, The Origins of Ethnography in Japan: Yanagita Kunio and

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His Times, trans. Toshiko Kishida-­Ellis (New York: Kegan Paul International, 1993); Itō Mikiharu, Yanagita Kunio to bunka nashonarizumu (Iwanami Shoten, 2002); Gerald A. Figal, Civilization and Monsters: Spirits of Modernity in Meiji Japan (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1999); Shintani Takanori, Minzokugaku to wa nani ka: Yanagita, Orikuchi, Shibusawa ni manabinaosu (Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2011); Christy, Discipline on Foot; Melek Ortabasi, The Undiscovered Country: Text, Translation, and Modernity in the Work of Yanagita Kunio (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2014). 34. Josef Kreiner, “Shibusawa Keizō: Kyōdō kenkyū no yume to minzokugaku no bijuaru tān,” in Nihon to wa nani ka: Nihon minzokugaku no nijū seiki, ed. Josef Kreiner (Tōkyōtō Shuppan, 2014), 128–131. 35. In 1942 the organ­ization was rechristened Zaidanōjin Minzokugaku Kyōkai [Foundation Ethnology Association]. A ­ fter World War II it became the Zaidanōjin Nihon Minzokugaku Kyōkai or Nihon Minzokugaku Kyōkai. 36. Noriko Aso, Public Properties: Museums in Imperial Japan (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014), 139; Sofue Takao, “Kokuritsu Minzokugaku Hakubutsukan no kaikan,” MK 42, no. 4 (1978): 286. 37. George  W. Stocking  Jr., “The Ethnographer’s Magic: Fieldwork in British Anthropology from Tylor to Malinowski,” in The Ethnographer’s Magic and Other Essays in the History of Anthropology, ed. George W. Stocking Jr. (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992), 111. 38. Malinowski, Argonauts of the Western Pacific, 1–26; Arturo Alvarez Roldán, “Malinowski and the Origins of the Ethnographic Method,” in Before Boas: The Genesis of Ethnography and Ethnology in the German Enlightenment, ed. Han Vermeulen (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2015), 143–156. 39. Michael W. Young, ed., The Ethnography of Malinowski: The Trobriand Islands 1915–18 (Boston: Routledge, 1979), 1–6; Stocking, “Ethnographer’s Magic,” 70–120; George W. Stocking Jr., “Maclay, Kubary, Malinowski: Archetypes from the Dreamtime of Anthropology,” in Stocking, Ethnographer’s Magic and Other Essays, 212–275. 40. George W. Stocking Jr., ­After Tylor: British Social Anthropology 1888–1951 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995), 368; Henrika Kuklick, The Savage Within: The Social History of British Anthropology, 1885–1945 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 23. 41. Oka Masao, “Ethnic Research in Eu­rope,” trans. Japa­nese Review of Cultural Anthropology editorial committee, Japa­nese Review of Cultural Anthropology 18, no. 2 (2017): 8. The Japa­nese Review of Cultural Anthropology is hereafter referred to as JRCA. 42. Bronisław Malinowski, Genshi minzoku no bunka, trans. Matsui Ryōon (Mikasa Shobō, 1939); Izumi Seiichi, ed., Sekai no meicho 59: Marinofusukī Nishi Taiheiyō no senkaisha, Revui-­Sutorōsu Kanashiki nettai (Chūō Hyōronsha, 1967), 53. 43. Bronisław Malinowski, Genshi shinri ni okeru chichi, trans. Matsui Ryōon (Kyoto: Shūkyō to Geijutsusha, 1938); Bronisław Malinowski, Shinwa to shakai, trans. Kokubu Keiji (Osaka: Sōgensha, 1941). 44. Malinowski, Genshi shinri ni okeru chichi, 2.

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45. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 161. 46. Ibid., 161–162. 47. Izumi Seiichi, “Kankoku kanshō ryokō,” in Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 5: Bunka jinruigaku, sōsaku no tabi (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1972), 358–359. 48. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 165–200; Kate McDonald, “The Bound­aries of the In­ter­est­ing: Itineraries, Guidebooks, and Travel in Imperial Japan” (PhD diss., University of Californa San Diego, 2011), 22. 49. Izumi Seiichi, “Chichi—­keiken na Kurisuchan Izumi Akira no koto,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 7, 421–423; Izumi Seiichi, “Kyū shokuminchi teikoku daigaku kō,” in Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 6: Bunka jinruigaku ni nani o mitomeruka (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1971), 262–275; Matsuda Toshihiko, “Keijō Teikoku Daigaku no sōsetsu,” in Teikoku Nihon to shokuminchi daigaku, ed. Sakai Tetsuya and Matsuda Toshihiko (Yumani Shobō, 2014), 107–148. 50. Kingsberg, “Legitimating Empire,” 333. 51. Marshall, Academic Freedom and the Japa­nese Imperial University, 145–180. 52. Nakao, Kindai Nihon no jinruigakushi, 138; Matsuda, “Keijō Teikoku Daigaku no sōsetsu,” 123–133. 53. Nakao Katsumi, “Shokuminchi daigaku no jinruigakusha: Izumi Seiichi ron,” Kokusaigaku kenkyū 5 (2014): 49–50. 54. Marshall, Academic Freedom and the Japa­nese Imperial University, 82; Henry DeWitt Smith II, Japan’s First Student Radicals (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1972), 17. 55. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 210–211. 56. Bronisław Malinowski, “Shinken shōkai,” trans. Akamatsu Chijō, MK 4, no. 2 (1938): 128–167. On Akamatsu’s ­c areer, see Chun Kyung-­soo, “Akamatsu Chijō no gakumon sekai ni kansuru ichi kōsatsu: Keijō Teikoku Daigaku jidai o chūshin ni,” Kankoku Chōsen no bunka to shakai 4 (2005): 156–192. 57. Nakao, Kindai Nihon no jinruigakushi, 145; Itoh Abito, “Akiba Takashi: Chōsen no shakai to minzoku kenkyū,” in Bunka jinruigaku gunzō 3: Nihon hen, ed. Ayabe Tsuneo (Akademia Shuppankai, 1989), 211–233; Ch’oe Kilsung, “War and Ethnology / Folklore in Colonial K ­ orea: The Case of Akiba Takashi,” in Shimizu and van Bremen, War­time Japa­nese Anthropology in Asia and the Pacific, 169–187. 58. Akiba Takashi, “ ‘Intensive Method’ ni oite,” Shakaigaku zasshi 57 (1929): 10. 59. Fujimoto Hideo, Izumi Seiichi den: Andesu kara Saishūtō e (Heibonsha, 1994), 141. 60. Mizuno, Science for the Empire, 181; Janis Mimura, Planning for Empire: Reform Bureaucrats and the Japa­nese War­time State (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011); Aaron Stephen Moore, Constructing East Asia: Technology, Ideology, and Empire in Japan’s War­time Era, 1931–1945 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2013). 61. Japa­nese scholars w ­ ere also familiar with the research of Sergei Mikhailovich Shirokogoroff (1887–1939), a Rus­sian émigré ethnologist; Owen Lattimore (1900–1989), an American scholar of China and Inner Asia; and handful of Chinese fieldworkers. 62. Prasenjit Duara, Sovereignty and Authenticity: Manchukuo and the East Asian Modern (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2003), 180–188.

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63. Oka Masao, “The Difficulties Facing Con­temporary Ethnology,” trans. JRCA editorial committee, JRCA 18, no. 2 (2017): 14. 64. Nakao Katsumi, “Japa­nese Colonial Policy and Ethnology in Manchuria,” in van Bremen and Shimizu, Anthropology and Colonialism in Asia and Oceania, 245–265. 65. Shao Dan, Remote Homeland, Recovered Borderland: Manchus, Manchoukuo, and Manchuria, 1907–1985 (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2011), 135–165; Duara, Sovereignty and Authenticity, 180–188. 66. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 218. 67. Duara, Sovereignty and Authenticity, 180; Kyung-­soo Chun, “Opium and the Empire: Anthropology, Colonialism and War during Imperial Japan,” in Frontiers of Social Research: Japan and Beyond, ed. Akira Furukawa (Melbourne: Trans Pacific Press, 2007), 100–125; Nakao, “Japa­nese Colonial Policy and Ethnology in Manchuria,” 245–265. 68. Izumi, “Dai Kōanrei tōbu Orochon-­zoku tōsa hōkoku,” 6. 69. Izumi Seiichi, Fuīrudo nōto yachō: Bunka jinruigaku shisaku no tabi (Shinchōsha, 1967), 13. 70. Eguchi Keiichi, Nit-­Chū ahen sensō (Iwanami Shoten, 1988); John M. Jennings, The Opium Empire: Japa­nese Imperialism and Drug Trafficking in Asia, 1895–1945 (Westport, CT: Praeger, 1997), 77–90; Yamada Gōichi, Manshūkoku no ahen senbai: “Waga Man-­Mō no tokushu ken’eki” no kenkyū (Kyūko Shoin, 2002). 71. Miriam Kingsberg, Moral Nation: Modern Japan and Narcotics in Global History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014), 9–28. 72. Izumi, “Dai Kōanrei tōbu Orochon-­zoku tōsa hōkoku,” 15. 73. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 230. 74. Izumi, “Dai Kōanrei tōbu Orochon-­zoku tōsa hōkoku,” 6–54. 75. Prasenjit Duara, “Ethnos (minzoku) and Ethnology (minzokushugi) in Manchukuo,” Asia Research Institute Working Paper Series No. 74, September 1, 2006, 22. 76. Izumi and Akamatsu, “Goruji-­zoku tōsa hōkoku,” 55. 77. Ibid., 57. 78. Izumi, Fuīrudo nōto yachō, 21. 79. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 242. 80. Boudewijn Walraven, “The Natives Next-­Door: Ethnology in Colonial K ­ orea,” in van Bremen and Shimizu, Anthropology and Colonialism in Asia and Oceania, 219–244; Kwang-ok Kim, “The Making and Indigenization of Anthropology in K ­ orea,” in Yamashita, Bosco, and Eades, Making of Anthropology in East and Southeast Asia, 253–285; Hyung Il Pai, Constructing “Korean” Origins: A Critical Review of Archaeology, Historiography, and Racial Myth in Korean State-­Formation Theories (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), 30. 81. Hoi-­eun Kim, “Anatomically Speaking: The Kubo Incident and the Paradox of Race in Colonial K ­ orea,” in Race and Racism in Modern East Asia, ed. Rotem Kowner and Walter Demel (Boston: Brill, 2013), 411–430; Nakao, Kindai Nihon no jinruigakushi, 138. 82. Brandt, Kingdom of Beauty, 31–34; E. Taylor Atkins, Primitive Selves: Koreana in the Japa­nese Colonial Gaze (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010), 52–101. 83. Atkins, Primitive Selves, 58.

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84. Ijichi Noriko, “Shokuminchika to seikatsu sekai no kahensei: Kankoku, Saishūtō no ichi kaison no jirei kara,” in Shokuminchi shugi to jinruigaku, ed. Yamaji Katsuhiko and Tanaka Masakazu (Nishinomiya-­shi: Kansai Gakuin Daigaku Shuppankai, 2002), 491–511. 85. Koh Sunhui and Kate Barclay, “Traveling through Autonomy and Subjugation: Jeju Island ­under Japan and K ­ orea,” Asia-­Pacific Journal: Japan Focus 5, no. 5 (2007): 1–23. 86. Chōsen Sōtokufu, Seikatsu jōtai chōsa: Saishūtō (Keijō: Chōsen Sōtokufu, 1929), 141–142. 87. Izumi, “Saishūtō no minzokushi.” 88. Hun Joon Kim, The Massacres at Mt. Halla: Sixty Years of Truth Seeking in South ­Korea (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2014), 27. 89. Chōsen Sōtokufu, Seikatsu jōtai chōsa, 22. 90. Izumi, “Saishūtō no minzokushi,” 241; Ogawa Nobuhiko, “Chiiki kenkyū nari­ tatsushi no ichidanmen—­Izumi Seiichi to Saishūtō,” Jūten ryōiki kenkyū sōgōteki chiiki kenkyū seika hōkokusho shirīzu: Sōgōteki chiiki kenkyū no shuhō kakuritsu: Sekai to chiiki no kyoson no paradaimu o motomete 14 (1996): 55–64. 91. Kim Sok-­bom and Izumi Seiichi, “Saishūtō—­f urusato,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 1, 359. 92. Fujimoto, Izumi Seiichi den, 145. 93. Donald Hoon Ko, “The History of Japa­nese Anthropology from 1868 to 1970s” (PhD diss., Washington University at St. Louis, 2004), 120; Atkins, Primitive Selves, 54. 94. Teruo Sekimoto, “Selves and O ­ thers in Japa­nese Anthropology,” in Shimizu and van Bremen, War­time Japa­nese Anthropology in Asia and the Pacific, 136; Atkins, Primitive Selves, 52–101. C H A P T E R  2 1. I use the term Second-­Sino Japa­nese War to refer to the undeclared military con­ flict between Japan and China from 1937 to 1945. I use World War II as a more general referent for the global conflict between the Axis and Allied powers that ended in 1945. 2. The term Mongol lands is necessarily imprecise, referring to a target area of Japa­nese expansionism covering “a vast swathe of sparsely populated territory strategi­ cally positioned between Rus­sia and China. The term potentially included both Inner and Outer Mongolia, together with a number of adjacent regions stretching from the Hsingan (Xing’an) Ranges in western Manchuria to the Altai Mountains in the west (bordering Kazakhstan), south as far as the ­Great Wall of China, only a few hundred kilo­meters from Peking, and north to the boundary between Rus­sia and China.” James Graham Boyd, Japanese-­Mongolian Relations: Faith, Race and Strategy (Folkestone, UK: Global Oriental, 2011), 1. 3. Li Narangoa, “Japa­nese Imperialism and Mongolian Buddhism,” Critical Asian Studies 35, no. 4 (2003): 491–514. 4. Imanishi Kinji, ed., Dai Kōanrei tankentai: 1942 nen tankentai hōkoku (Asahi Shinbunsha, 1952), 37. 5. Christy, Discipline on Foot, 64.

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6. Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Tairiku Bunka Kenkyūkai, ed., Tairiku bunka kenkyū: Zoku (Iwanami Shoten, 1943), 1; Kim Chang-­rok, “Ōtaka Tomoo to shokuminchi Chōsen,” in Teikoku Nihon to shokuminchi daigaku, ed. Sakai Tetsuya and Matsuda Toshihiko (Yumani Shobō, 2014), 285–288. 7. Iiyama Tatsuo, “Shōnen jidai no Seiichi-­kun,” Izumi Seiichi chosakushū geppō 6 (1972): 6. This newsletter appeared in conjunction with Izumi’s collected works in Izumi Seiichi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū, 7 vols., (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1971–1972). 8. After 1945, Cho emerged as a pathbreaking entomologist and professor of zool­ ogy at Sungkyun University and ­Korea University. He assumed leadership of vari­ous academic organ­izations and received numerous state and professional awards for his contributions. Cho’s involvement in imperial research ultimately tarnished his repu­ tation, with many Korean historians condemning him as a collaborator. See http://­ encykorea​.­a ks​.­ac​.­k r​/­Contents​/­Index​?­contents​_­id​=­E0051822, accessed Mar. 8, 2015. 9. I have used the translation of the expedition name offered in Izumi Seiichi, Manners and Customs of the ­People in Inner Mongolia, trans. Matsushita Iwao (New Haven, CT: H ­ uman Relations Area Files, 1955). 10. E.g., Man-­Mō Gakujutsu Chōsa Kenkyūdan (1936–1939), Taihoku Teikoku Daigaku Kainantō Gakujutsu Chōsa (1942), Kanbodeia Gakujutsu Chōsa (1958–1959), Kanazawajō Gakujutsu Chōsa (1968), Iran Afuganisutan Pakisutan Gakujutsu Chōsa (1970–1971). 11. “Reigon,” in Mōkyō no shizen to bunka: Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai hōkokusho, ed. Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai (Kokon Shoin, 1939), 1. 12. Ōtaka Tomoo, “Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai no naritatsu to tanken ryokō no keika,” in Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai, Mōkyō no shizen to bunka, 16; Kim, “Ōtaka Tomoo to shokuminchi Chōsen,” 285–304. 13. Ōtaka, “Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai no naritatsu to tanken ryokō no keika,” 5. 14. Hattori Bin, “Tankentai no sōbi to shokuryō,” in Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai, Mōkyō no shizen to bunka, 271–309. 15. Iiyama Tatsuo, Michi no razoku Rapichi (Asahi Shinbunsha, 1967), 53. 16. Ming-­cheng Miriam Lo, Doctors within Borders: Profession, Ethnicity, and Modernity in Colonial Taiwan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002); Iijima Wataru, Mararia to teikoku: Shokuminchi igaku to Higashi Ajia no kōiki (Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 2005); Michael Shiyung Liu, Prescribing Colonization: The Role of Medical Practices and Policies in Japan-­Ruled Taiwan, 1895–1945 (Ann Arbor, MI: Association for Asian Studies, 2009). 17. Izumi, “Yuruyaka no yamayama,” 244. 18. Imanishi, Dai Kōanrei tankentai, 89. 19. Izumi Seiichi, “Nai-­Mōko no minzoku,” in Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai, Mōkyō no shizen to bunka, 250.

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20. Iiyama, Michi no razoku Rapichi, 62–64. 21. Harootunian, Overcome by Modernity, 316–317. 22. Iiyama Tatsuo, Manshū, Mōko no daichi (Kokusho Kankōkai, 1979). 23. Izumi, “Nai-­Mōko no minzoku,” 253. 24. Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York: Columbia University Press, 2014), 31. 25. Alice Conklin, In the Museum of Man: Race, Anthropology, and Empire in France, 1850–1950 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013), 191; Kuklick, Savage Within, 84. 26. Iiyama, Michi no razoku Rapichi, 58. 27. Tada Fumio, “Nai-­Mōko ni okeru nōsaku chitai to yūboku chitai no byōkaisen to sono idō,” in Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Tairiku Bunka Kenkyūkai, Tairiku bunka kenkyū, 337–356. 28. Nakao Katsumi, “Umesao Tadao no sanbu nettowāku,” in Kreiner, Nihon to wa nani ka, 259; Izumi Seiichi, “Kogotaisan tōhanki,” in Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai, Mōkyō no shizen to bunka, 65–92. 29. Louise Young, Japan’s Total Empire: Manchuria and the Culture of War­time Imperialism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); Kenneth Ruoff, Imperial Japan at Its Zenith: The War­time Cele­bration of the Empire’s 2,600th  Anniversary (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2010); Kate McDonald, Placing Empire: Travel and the Social Imagination in Imperial Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2017). 30. Ōtaka, “Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai no naritatsu to tanken ryokō no keika,” 14–15; Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Tairiku Bunka Kenkyūkai, ed., Tairiku bunka kenkyū, 2; Millie R. Creighton, “Maintaining Cultural Bound­a ries in Retailing: How Japa­nese Department Stores Domesticate ‘­Th ings Foreign,’ ” Modern Asian Studies 25, no. 4 (1991): 675–709. 31. Boyd, Japanese-­Mongolian Relations, 160; Chun Kyung-­soo, “Izumi Seiichi no Nyū Ginia chōsa to gunzoku jinruigaku,” trans. Lee Doc-­woo, in “Teikoku” Nihon no gakuchi: “Teikoku” hensei no keifu, ed. Sakai Tetsuya (Iwanami Shoten, 2006), 123. 32. Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Tairiku Bunka Kenkyūkai, ed., Tairiku bunka kenkyū, 2. 33. Izumi, “Nai-­Mōko no minzoku,” 250. 34. Tada Fumio, “Dai T ­ ōa Kyōeiken no gakujutsu chōsa,” Chirigaku kenkyū 1, no. 7 (1942): 127. 35. Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Tairiku Bunka Kenkyūkai, ed., Tairiku bunka kenkyū, 2. 36. Tomiyama Ichirō, “Colonialism and the Sciences of the Tropical Zone: The Academic Analy­sis of Difference in ‘the Island ­Peoples,’ ” trans. Alan Christy, positions: east asia cultures critique 3, no. 2 (1995): 381. 37. Ōtaka, “Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai no naritatsu to tanken ryokō no keika,” 3. 38. Hattori, “Tankentai no sōbi to shokuryō,” 282, 297. 39. Stocking, ­After Tylor, 368.

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40. E.g., Tōa Shominzoku Chōsa Iinkai (Research Committee on East Asian ­ eoples, established in 1940), Taiheiyō Kyōkai (Pacific Institute, 1940), Tōa Bunka P Kenkyūjo (East Asian Culture Research Institute, 1941), Manshū Minzoku Kenkyūjo (Manchuria Ethnology Association, 1941), Minzoku Kenkyūjo (Ethnological Research Association, 1943), Nanpō Jinbun Kenkyūjo (Southern Culture Institute, 1943), and Seihoku Kenkyūjo (Northwest Institute, 1944). 41. Nakao, “Japa­nese Colonial Policy and Ethnology in Manchuria,” 245–265. 42. Izumi, “Nai-­Mōko no minzoku,” 249. 43. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 251–258, Chun Kyung-­soo, “Anthropology of Colonialism and War ­under Imperial Japan,” in Representing the Cultural “Other”: Japa­nese Anthropological Works on ­Korea, ed. Hyup Choi (Gwangju, South K ­ orea: Chonnam University Press, 2013), 85. 44. Miyazaki Kōji, “Colonial Anthropology in the Netherlands and War­ time Anthropology in Japan,” in Shimizu and van Bremen, War­t ime Japa­n ese Anthropology in Asia and the Pacific, 223–237; Jan van Bremen, “The Japa­nese and Dutch Anthropology of Insular South-­East Asia in the Colonial Period, 1879–1949,” in van Bremen and Shimizu, Anthropology and Colonialism in Asia and Oceania, 362–381; Léon Buskens and Jean Kommers, “Dutch Colonial Anthropology in Indonesia,” Asian Journal of Social Science 35 (2007): 352–369. 45. Andrew Zimmerman, Anthropology and Antihumanism in Imperial Germany (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001); H. Glenn Penny and Matti Bunzl, ed., Worldly Provincialism: German Anthropology in the Age of Empire (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2003); Andrew D. Evans, Anthropology at War: World War I and the Science of Race in Germany (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010). 46. Bruce M. Knauft, From Primitive to Postcolonial in Melanesia and Anthropology (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999), 201; Rainer  F. Buschmann, Anthropology’s Global Histories: The Ethnographic Frontier in German New Guinea, 1870–1935 (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2009), 4. 47. Matsumura Kinsuke, Minami ni mo seimeisen ari (Moriyama Shoten, 1933), 41–47; Matsue Haruji, Ranryō Nyū Ginia kaishūran (Matsue Haruji, 1934); Nanpō Sangyō Chōsakai, Nyū Ginia (Nanshinsha, 1941), 70; Hiromitsu Iwamoto, Nanshin: Japa­nese Settlers in Papua and New Guinea 1890–1949 (Canberra: Journal of Pacific History, 1999), 2. 48. Nanpō Sangyō Chōsakai, Nyū Ginia, 15; I­ noue Yoshio, Dai Nyū Ginia no sōbō (Kōbunsha, 1940). 49. E.g., Kusabe Hantarō, “Nyū Ginia (chū),” Nan’yō Kyōkai zasshi 6, no. 12 (1920): 21–22. 50. Nan’yō Kōhatsu Kabushiki Kaisha, ed., Nyū Ginia dozokuhin zushū (Nan’yō Kōhatsu Kabushiki Kaisha, 1940), 2. 51. Imanishi Kinji, ed., Ponape-­tō: Seitaigakuteki kenkyū (Shōkō Shoin, 1944), 501–502; Dutch East Indies, Ten Years of Japa­nese Burrowing in the Netherlands

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East Indies: Official Report of the Netherlands East Indies Government on Japa­nese Subversive Activities in the Archipelago during the Last De­cade (New York: Netherlands Information Bureau, 1942), 37. 52. Taiheiyō Kyōkai Gakujutsu Iinkai, ed., Soromon shotō to sono fujin: Chiri to minzoku (Taiheiyō Kyōkai Shuppanbu, 1943), 6; Taiheiyō Kyōkai Chōsabu, ed., Nan’yō bunken mokuroku (Chūō Kōronsha, 1941), 173. 53. “Kawaii yama no tami no akachan: Nyū Ginia tankentai no senka: Sekai ni hokoru ‘kagaku Nihon,’ ” Yomiuri Shinbun, Sept. 12, 1943, 3. 54. The translation of the venture name is my own. 55. Ōno Yoshiharu, Tōa Kyōeiken to Nyū Ginia (Tōe Shoin, 1942), 332. 56. Takahashi Sankichi, “Josetsu,” in Ōno, Tōa Kyōeiken to Nyū Ginia, i. 57. Chun, “Izumi Seiichi no Nyū Ginia chōsa to gunzoku jinruigaku,” 99–140. 58. Iiyama, Michi no razoku Rapichi, 80. 59. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 262. 60. Ibid., 265–266. 61. Seiichi Izumi, “The Social Organ­ization of the Natives in Netherland New Guinea: Especially on the Formation of their Stems,” unpublished manuscript (un­ dated), no. 204, file 8, Izumi Seiichi ākaibu, National Museum for Ethnology. 62. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 266; “Nyū Ginia ōdanki 1: Kessenjō e waga kagakujin,” Yomiuri Shinbun, July 26, 1943, 2; “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 8: Herau chikyō chōsa yuki,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Jan. 10, 1944. 63. Iiyama, Michi no razoku Rapichi, 99. 64. “Nyū Ginia gunsei o miru,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Oct. 12, 1943, 2. 65. Iiyama, Michi no razoku Rapichi, 15, 46; Iiyama Tatsuo, Sanzoku, kaizoku: Nishi Irian ni miru bunmei shakai no genkei (Asahi Shinbunsha, 1970), 42. 66. “New Guinea Probed by Nippon Experts,” Nippon Times, Dec. 21, 1943, 3. 67. Hirano Yoshitarō, “Jo,” in Nyū Ginia no shizen to minzoku, ed. Taiheiyō Kyōkai (Nihon Hyōronsha, 1943), 1. 68. Izumi Seiichi, “Yamūru chikyō ōdanki,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 5, 295– 333; Kobayashi Hiroshi and Hattori Bin, Nishi Nyū Ginia no eisei jijō (Nihon Hyōronsha, 1945), 2, 4; Izumi Seiichi, Nishi Nyū Ginia no minzoku (Nihon Hyōronsha, 1944), 21–31. 69. Suzuki Makoto, “Papuajin no taishitsu jinruigakuteki kenkyū,” Hiroshima Kenritsu Ika Daigaku ronbunshū 1 (1949): 44–65; Kobayashi Hiroshi, “Papuajin (Nishi Nyū Ginia) no minzoku seibutsugakuteki kenkyū,” Hiroshima Kenritsu Ika Daigaku ronbunshū 1 (1949): 197–215. 70. Iiyama, Sanzoku, kaizoku, 63. 71. Danilyn Rutherford, Laughing at Leviathan: Sovereignty and Audience in West Papua (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012), 103. 72. Freerk Christiaans Kamma, Koreri: Messianic Movements in the Biak-­Numfor Culture Area, trans. M. J. van de Vathorst-­Smit (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1972); Danilyn Rutherford, Raiding the Land of the Foreigners (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2003), 180–199.

234  N O T E S T O P A G E S 6 1 – 6 5

73. Izumi Seiichi, “Biakushima tokubetsu chōsaban minzokuban chūkan hōkoku: Suhauten guntō genjūmin no seikatsu to shūkyō,” unpublished manuscript (1943), no. 225, file 10, Izumi Seiichi ākaibu. 74. Izumi, “Biakushima tokubetsu chōsaban minzokuban chūkan hōkoku,” n.p.; Kamma, Koreri, 194. 75. Grant Goodman and Felix Moos, eds., The United States and Japan in the Western Pacific: Micronesia and Papua New Guinea (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1981), 152. 76. “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken zadankai,” Kaizō 26, no.  3 (1944): 61; Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 287. 77. Rutherford, Laughing at Leviathan, 118. 78. Nakao, “Shokuminchi daigaku no jinruigakusha,” 58. 79. Izumi, Nishi Nyū Ginia no minzoku, 26. 80. Rutherford, Laughing at Leviathan, 2, Emma Jinhua Teng, Taiwan’s ­Imagined Geography: Chinese Colonial Travel Writing and Pictures, 1683–1895 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2004), 122–148. 81. Shinji Yamashita, “Constructing Selves and ­Others in Japa­nese Anthropology: The Case of Micronesia and Southeast Asian Studies,” in Yamashita, Bosco, and Eades, Making of Anthropology in East and Southeast Asia, 90–113; Mark R. Peattie, Nan’yō: The Rise and Fall of the Japa­nese in Micronesia, 1885–1945 (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1988); Tomiyama, “Colonialism and the Sciences of the Tropical Zone,” 367–391. 82. Izumi, “Biakushima tokubetsu chōsaban minzokuban chūkan hōkoku,” n.p. 83. “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 7: Purahai-­k awa chōsa yuki,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Jan. 9, 1944, 3; “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 16: Minzoku funpi (2),” Yomiuri Shinbun, Jan. 21, 1944, 3; “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 18: Kubigari mitsuwa,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Jan. 23, 1944, 3. 84. Iiyama, Michi no razoku Rapichi, 130; Iiyama, Sanzoku, kaizoku, 42. 85. Izumi, Nishi Nyū Ginia no minzoku, 12. 86. Chun, “Izumi Seiichi no Nyū Ginia chōsa to gunzoku jinruigaku,” 131. 87. Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyūjo, Nyū Ginia kankei tosho mokuroku (Nan’yō Keizai Kenkyūjo, 1944). 88. Hirano, “Jo,” 5. 89. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 288–289. 90. Chun, “Izumi Seiichi no Nyū Ginia chōsa to gunzoku jinruigaku,” 127. 91. “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 1: Horuna tanken yuki,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Jan. 1, 1944, 1; “Minami no mikkyō: Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 10,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Jan. 20, 1944, 2. 92. “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 18,” 3. 93. “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 1,” 1; “Kawaii yama no tami no akachan,” 3; “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 7,” 3. 94. “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 6: Byakkushima tanken yuki iryōban ninki,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Jan. 8, 1944, 3. 95. E.g., “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 1,” 1. On the allure of fuseji (ex­ cision marks) in war­t ime Japa­nese publications, see Jonathan Abel, Redacted: The

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Archives of Censorship in Transwar Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 143–153. 96. E.g., “Kawaii yama no tami no akachan,’ ” 3; “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 1,” 1; “Nyū Ginia gakujutsu tanken hōkoku 3: Angīko,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Jan. 4, 1944, 3. 97. Izumi, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni, 98. 98. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 297. C H A P T E R  3 1. Lori Watt, “Embracing Defeat in Seoul: Rethinking Decolonization in ­Korea, 1945,” Journal of Asian Studies 74, no. 1 (2015): 153–174. 2. Shimokawa Masaharu, Bōkyaku no hikiage shi: Izumi Seiichi to Futsukaichi Hoyōsho (Gen Shobō, 2017), 129–180. 3. David H. Price, Anthropological Intelligence: The Deployment and Neglect of American Anthropology in the Second World War (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008), 37. 4. Joel Isaac, Working Knowledge: Making the ­Human Sciences from Parsons to Kuhn (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012), 159. 5. Jewett, Science, Democracy, and the American University, vii. 6. Margaret Mead, And Keep Your Powder Dry: An Anthropologist Looks at Amer­ i­ca (New York: Berghahn Books, 1999), 112. 7. Bronisław Malinowski, Freedom and Civilization (New York: Roy, 1944), 19–20. 8. Mead, And Keep Your Powder Dry, 119. 9. Quoted in John W. Dower, “E. H. Norman, Japan, and the Uses of History,” in Origins of the Modern Japa­nese State: Selected Writings of E. H. Norman, ed. E. Herbert Norman and John W. Dower (New York: Pantheon, 1975), 44. 10. Historians often regard W. W. Rostow’s 1961 The Stages of Economic Growth: A Non-­Communist Manifesto as the foundational text of modernization theory. As Michael E. Latham points out, however, modernization has a longer genealogy as an ideology originating during the interwar period. See Michael E. Latham, Modernization as Ideology: American Social Science and “Nation Building” in the Kennedy Era (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000), ix, 4–5, 8, 16. 11. Carol Gluck, “House of Mirrors: American History-­Writing on Japan,” in ­Imagined Histories: American Historians Interpret the Past, ed. Anthony Molho and Gordon S. Wood (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2018), 435. 12. Sheldon Garon, “Rethinking Modernization and Modernity in Japa­nese History: A Focus on State-­Society Relations,” Journal of Asian Studies 53, no. 2 (1994): 346–366. 13. David  A. Hollinger, Science, Jews, and Secular Culture: Studies in Mid-­ Twentieth-­Century American Intellectual History (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1996); Latham, Modernization as Ideology, 7; Jewett, Science, Democracy, and the American University, 40, 112–114; Audra J. Wolfe, Competing with the Soviets: Science, Technology, and the State in Cold War Amer­i­ca (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013), 1–8. 14. Quoted in Dower, “E. H. Norman,” 49.

236  N O T E S T O P A G E S 7 1 – 7 5

15. Hans  H. Baerwald, The Purge of Japa­nese Leaders ­under the Occupation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1959), 39. 16. Gretchen Engle Schafft, From Racism to Genocide: Anthropology in the Third Reich (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2004), 9; Moses, German Intellectuals and the Nazi Past, 55–69; Willi Oberkrome, “German Historical Scholarship u ­ nder National Socialism,” in Nazi Germany and the Humanities, ed. Wolfgang Bialas and Anson Rabinbach (Oxford, UK: Oneworld, 2007), 207–237. 17. Conrad, Quest for the Lost Nation, 82. Altogether, tribunals of the late 1940s purged some two hundred thousand individuals, representing a mere 0.29 ­percent of the Japa­nese population. Baerwald, Purge of Japa­nese Leaders ­under the Occupation, 79. 18. Yuma Totani, The Tokyo War Crimes Trial: The Pursuit of Justice in the Wake of World War II (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2009). 19. U.S. Cultural Science Mission to Japan, Report of the United States Cultural Mission to Japan (Seattle: Institute of International Affairs, University of Washington at Seattle, 1949), 14. 20. John C. Pelzel, “Japa­nese Ethnological and So­cio­log­i­cal Research,” American Anthropologist 50, no. 1 (1948): 72. 21. David H. Price, Cold War Anthropology: The CIA, the Pentagon, and the Growth of Dual Use Anthropology (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016), 64. 22. Mizuno, Science for the Empire, 174. 23. Nanbara Shigeru and Richard  H. Minear, War and Conscience in Japan: Nanbara Shigeru and the Asia-­Pacific War (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2010), 41. 24. Ibid., 161. 25. Hokuno Eiichi, Bunka kokka no riron (Ryōsho Fukyōkai, 1947), 2. 26. Nanbara Shigeru, Bunka to kokka: Nanbara Shigeru enjutsushū (Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1957), 339, 346. 27. Ibid., 13–14. 28. Japa­nese National Commission for UNESCO, Japan: Its Land, P ­ eople and Culture (Tokyo: Ministry of Finance, 1958), 561. 29. Hokuno, Bunka kokka no riron, 11. 30. Kōyama Iwao, Bunka kokka no rinen (Osaka: Akitaya, 1946), 1. 31. Isaac, Working Knowledge, 9, 160. 32. Letter from John  W. Bennett (henceforth JWB in archival references) to Kathryn G. Bennett (henceforth KGB), Mar. 24, 1949, file 38U, box 2A, John W. Bennett Papers (RARE.CMS.119), Rare Books and Manuscripts: Collections, Rare Books and Manuscripts Library, Ohio State University. 33. Joseph  C. Trainor, Educational Reform in Occupied Japan (Tokyo: Meisei University Press, 1983), 224. 34. JWB, “Some Comments on Japa­nese Social Science,” box 5915, Rec­ords of the Allied Operational and Occupation Headquarters (RG 331), National Archives at College Park. 35. U.S. Cultural Science Mission to Japan, Report of the U.S. Cultural Science Mission to Japan, 9, 1.

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36. The Constitution of Japan, Nov. 3, 1946, http://­japan​.­kantei​.­go​.­jp​/­constitution​ _­a nd​_ ­government​_­of​_­japan​/­constitution​_­e​.­html, accessed Oct. 21, 2016. 37. David  H. Price, Threatening Anthropology: McCarthyism and the FBI’s Surveillance of Active Anthropologists (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004), xiii; John W. Dower, Embracing Defeat: Japan in the Wake of World War II (New York: W. W. Norton, 1999), 405–440. 38. David  L. Sills, oral history interview, Marlene  J. Mayo Oral Histories, Gordon W. Prange Collection, University of Mary­land Libraries, 12. 39. U.S. Library Mission to Japan, Report of the United States Library Mission to Advise on the Establishment of the National Diet Library of Japan (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1948), 4. 40. Theodore  F. Welch, Libraries and Librarianship in Japan (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1997), 17. 41. Letter from Julian H. Steward to Fred Eggan, Dec. 29, 1955, file 8, box 23, Fred Eggan Papers, 1870–1991, Archival Biographical Files, Special Collections Research Center, University of Chicago Library. 42. Douglas G. Haring, “The Challenge of Japa­nese Ideology,” in Japan’s Prospect, ed. Carl J. Friedrich (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1946), 280. 43. Robert B. Textor, Failure in Japan (New York: John Day, 1951), 149. 44. Letter from JWB to Richard Morris, Apr.  12, 1949, file 215, box 24, JWB Papers. 45. Re­orientation Branch Office for Occupied Areas, Semi-­annual Report of Stateside Activities Supporting the Re­orientation Program in Japan and the Ryūkyū Islands (Washington, DC: Re­orientation Branch for Occupied Areas, Office of the Secretary of the Army, 1951), 20. 46. Ibid., 19. 47. Japa­nese National Commission for UNESCO, Japan, 546. 48. Re­orientation Branch Office for Occupied Areas, Semi-­annual Report of Stateside Activities, 12. 49. Letter from JWB to Richard Morris, Apr. 12, 1949, file 215, box 24, JWB Papers. 50. Letter from JWB to KGB, Sept. 4, 1949, file 38YYY, box 2A, JWB Papers. 51. Letter from Monkichi Nanba to JWB, July 6, 1950, file 215, box 24, JWB Papers. 52. Quoted in Wada Jun, “American Philanthropy in Postwar Japan: An Analy­sis of Grants to Japa­nese Institutions and Individuals,” in Philanthropy and Reconciliation: Rebuilding Postwar U.S.-­Japan Relations, ed. Yamamoto Tadashi, Iriye Akira, and Iokibe Makoto (New York: Japan Center for International Exchange, 2006), 163. 53. George H. Kerr, “An Institution for American Studies in Japan 1948–1958: A Prospectus for a Ten-­Year Proj­ect,” 5, file 2, box 1, American Studies Seminars in Japan Rec­ords (SC0266), Dept. of Special Collections and University Archives, Stanford University Libraries, Stanford, CA. 54. Inderjeet Parmar, Foundations of the American C ­ entury: The Ford, Car­ne­gie, and Rocke­fel­ler Foundations in the Rise of American Power (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), 11, 14.

238  N O T E S T O P A G E S 7 8 – 8 2

55. James Gannon, “Promoting the Study of the United States in Japan,” in Yamamoto, Iriye, and Iokibe, Philanthropy and Reconciliation, 189–194. 56. “Tōdai no Amerika kenkyū kōkai kōgi,” Yomiuri Shinbun, July 7, 1954, 6. 57. “Proposal to the Rocke­fel­ler Foundation Concerning the Seminar in American Studies, 1953,” file 1, box 1, American Studies Seminars in Japan Rec­ords. 58. Julian H. Steward, “Report of the Director, Kyoto American Studies Seminar, 1956,” 3, box 20, Julian H. Steward Papers, 1842–1976, University of Illinois Archives, University Library, University of Illinois at Urbana-­Champaign. 59. Executive Committee for the Seminars in American Studies, “Report: Seminars in American Studies, 1953,” file 1, box 2, American Studies Seminars in Japan Rec­ords. 60. Clyde Kluckhohn, “Amerika gasshūkoku ni okeru jinruigaku no ōyō,” trans. Izumi Seiichi, in Gendai Amerika no tenbō, ed. Suenobu Sanji (Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1954), 53–78. 61. Minutes, Joint Meeting, Aug. 18, 1954, file 1, box 2, American Studies Seminars in Japan Rec­ords. 62. “American Studies in Japan,” file 11, box 10, American Studies Seminars in Japan Rec­ords. 63. Yanaihara Tadao, “The Committee for the Seminar in American Studies Report, 1953,” file 7, box 1; “Round T ­ able Conferences,” file 5, box 1, American Studies Seminars in Japan Rec­ords. 64. “American Studies in Japan,” file 11, box 10, American Studies Seminars in Japan Rec­ords. 65. Letter from Virgil C. Aldrich to Julian H. Steward, Dec. 26, 1955, box 20; Letter from Matsui Shichirō to Julian H. Steward, Jan. 5, 1956, box 20, Julian H. Steward Papers. 66. Fritz Machlup, “Report on My Activities at the Kyoto American Studies Seminar,” 3, Aug. 22, 1955, box 20, Julian H. Steward Papers. 67. Joseph  S. Davis, Claude  A. Buss, John  D. Goheen, George  R. Knoles, and James  T. Watkins, “Seminars in American Studies in Japan, 1950: Report of the Stanford Professors,” file 1, box 1, American Studies Seminars in Japan Rec­ords. 68. Yanaihara Tadao, “Opening Address,” July 13, 1953, file 1, box 2, American Studies Seminars in Japan Rec­ords. 69. Letter from Fukukama Tatsuo to John D. Goheen, Sept. 24, 1951, file 6, box 1; Letter from Kanamatsu Kenryō to John D. Goheen, July 31, 1951, file 6, box 1, Julian H. Steward Papers. 70. Parmar, Foundations of the American ­Century, 121. 71. Textor, Failure in Japan, 175. 72. Clyde Kluckhohn and Raymond Bowers, “Report on Field Trip to Southern Honshu and Kyushu, 8–23 January 1947,” file 15, box 1, JWB Papers. 73. Bronisław Malinowski, Mikai shakai ni okeru hanzai to shūkan, trans. Aoyama Michio (Nihon Hyōron Shinsha, 1955); Bronisław Malinowski, Bunka no kagakuteki riron, trans. Himeoka Tsutomu and Kamiko Takeji (Iwanami Shoten, 1958); Bronisław Malinowski, Mikaijin no sei seikatsu, trans. Izumi Seiichi, Gamō Masao, and Shima Kiyoshi (Kawade Shobō, 1957).

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74. Robert J. Smith, “Time and Ethnology: Long-­Term Field Research,” in ­Doing Fieldwork in Japan, ed. Theodore C. Bestor, Patricia G. Steinhoff, and Victoria Lynn Bestor (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2003), 354. 75. Hans Speier, “The Rise of Public Opinion,” in Propaganda and Communication in World History, vol. 2, Emergence of Public Opinion in the World, ed. Harold D. Lasswell, Daniel Lerner, and Hans Speier (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1980), 147–167. 76. Herbert Passin, Encounter with Japan (New York: Kōdansha Amer­i­ca, 1982), 183. 77. JWB, “Summary of Major Research Prob­lems of the Public Opinion and So­cio­ log­i­cal Research Division, CIE,” file 4, box 1, JWB Papers; Sills oral history interview, 10. 78. “Outline of Research Teams,” box 5871, Rec­ords of the Allied Operational and Occupation Headquarters. 79. Letter from JWB to KGB, Mar. 24, 1950, file 1, box 1, JWB Papers. 80. Tessa Morris-­Suzuki, “Ethnic Engineering: Scientific Racism and Public Opinion Surveys in Midcentury Japan,” positions: east asia cultures critique 8, no. 2 (2000): 503. 81. “Ishida Eiichirō,” box 5870, Rec­ords of the Allied Operational and Occupation Headquarters. 82. Letter from JWB to KGB, Mar. 9, 1949, file 38M, box 2A, JWB Papers. 83. Sills oral history interview, 15. 84. Arthur  F. Raper, The Japa­n ese Village in Transition (Tokyo: General Headquarters, Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers, 1950), 12. 85. Margaret Mead, “The Organ­ization of Group Research,” in The Study of Culture at a Distance, ed. Margaret Mead and Rhoda Métraux (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1953), 85–87. 86. Passin, Encounter with Japan, 143. 87. JWB, Journal, May 24, 1949, file 1, box 1, JWB Papers. 88. JWB, Journal, May 22–23, 1949, file 1, box 1, JWB Papers. 89. “Summary of Major Research Prob­lems of the Public Opinion and So­cio­ log­i­cal Research Division, CIE,” file 4, box 1, Rec­ords of the Allied Operational and Occupation Headquarters. 90. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 305. 91. Raper, Japa­nese Village in Transition, 57, 107. 92. Herbert Passin, The Legacy of the Occupation of Japan (New York: Occasional Papers of the East Asian Institute, Columbia University, 1968), 29. 93. JWB, “Some Comments on Japa­nese Social Science,” box 5915, Rec­ords of the Allied Operational and Occupation Headquarters. 94. Richard K. Beardsley, “Community Studies in Japan,” Journal of Asian Studies 14, no. 1 (1954): 52. 95. Herbert Passin, “Report of Field Trip to Yuzurihara,” Herbert Passin Collection (MS 565), Special Collections and University Archives, University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Amherst Libraries. 96. “CIE ni okeru shakai chōsa no tenkai,” MK 17, no. 1 (1953): 68–80.

240  N O T E S T O P A G E S 8 7 – 9 0

97. Arthur F. Raper, “The Reminiscences of Dr. Arthur F. Raper” (New York: Oral History Research Office, Columbia University, 1971), 149. 98. Sol Tax, Diary of Trip to Asia, Dec. 1958–­Jan. 1959, Jan. 20, file 1, box 21, Current Anthropology Rec­ords, Special Collections Research Center, University of Chicago Library. 99. “CIE ni okeru shakai chōsa no tenkai,” 73. 100. Raper, Japa­nese Village in Transition, i–­ii; John W. Bennett, “Community Research in the Japa­nese Occupation,” Clearing­house Bulletin of Research in H ­ uman Organ­ization 1, no. 3 (1951): 5. 101. Letter from Iwao Ishino to JWB, Feb. 8, 1959, file 197, box 20, JWB Papers. 102. Izumi Seiichi, “Aru bunka hensen no monogurafu” (orig. 1957), in Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 2: Fuīrudowāku no kiroku (2) (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1972), 258–388. 103. “Summary of Major Research Prob­lems of the PO&SR Division, CIE,” file 4, box 1, JWB Papers. 104. Letter from Julian Steward to Fred Eggan, May 17, 1956, file 22, box 5, Fred Eggan Papers, 1870–1991, Archival Biographical Files, Special Collections Research Center, University of Chicago Library. 105. Pelzel, “Japa­nese Ethnological and So­cio­log­i­cal Research,” 54. 106. Sheldon H. Harris, Factories of Death: Japa­nese Biological Warfare, 1932–1945, and the American Cover-­Up (New York: Routledge, 1994), 215–221. Unit 731 is formally (and misleadingly) known as the Kwantung Army Epidemic Prevention and ­Water Purification Bureau (Kantōgun Bōeki Kyūsuibu Honbu). 107. Nakao Katsumi, “Chinese Anthropology: The Presupposition of Globalization,” JRCA 18, no. 2 (2017): 178. 108. Pacific Science Association, ed., Proceedings of the Seventh Pacific Science Congress of the Pacific Science Association, vol. 7, Anthropology, Public Health and Nutrition, and Social Sciences (Christchurch, New Zealand: Pegasus Press, 1953), 26–32. 109. Richard K. Beardsley with John B. Cornell and Edward Norbeck, Bibliographic Materials in the Japa­nese Language on Far Eastern Archaeology and Ethnology (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1950). 110. Huzio Utinomi, Bibliography of Micronesia, ed. and trans. O. A. Bushnell (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i, 1952). 111. Watsuji Tetsurō, Yamamoto Tadaoki, and Nishina Yoshio, eds., A Bibliography of Representative Writings on Japa­nese Culture and Science (Tokyo: Cultural Affairs Division, Office of Public Relations, Foreign Office, 1947). 112. Price, Cold War Anthropology, xxii. 113. George P. Murdock, “The Cross-­Cultural Survey,” in Readings in Cross-­Cultural Methodology, ed. Frank W. Moore (New Haven, CT: ­Human Relations Area Files Press, 1961), 29–54. 114. Clellan S. Ford, H ­ uman Relations Area Files 1949–1969: A Twenty-­Year Report (New Haven, CT: H ­ uman Relations Area Files, 1970), 8. 115. Price, Cold War Anthropology, 249. 116. “HRAF Library Production, 1949–1962,” HRAF News 2, no. 1 (1962): 6.

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117. Izumi, Manners and Customs of the ­People in Inner Mongolia, 13. 118. Ford, ­Human Relations Area Files 1949–1969, 12. 119. HRAF Guestbook 1948–1969, file 25, box 1, H ­ uman Relations Area Files Rec­ ords (RU 476), Manuscripts and Archives, Yale University Library. 120. “News from Member Institutions,” HRAF News 4, no. 4 (1965): 2. 121. Textor, Failure in Japan, 174. 122. Letter from JWB to KGB, Aug. 8, 1949, file 38NNN, box 2A, JWB Papers. 123. Leo A. Despres, “An Interview with John W. Bennett,” Current Anthropology 35, no. 5 (1994): 653–664. 124. H.  D. Harootunian and Masao Miyoshi, “Introduction: The ‘Afterlife’ of Area Studies,” in Learning Places: The Afterlives of Area Studies, ed. Masao Miyoshi and H. D. Harootunian (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002), 1–18; David L. Szanton, “The Origin, Nature, and Challenges of Area Studies in the United States,” and Alan Tansman, “Japa­nese Studies: The Intangible Art of Translation,” in The Politics of Knowledge: Area Studies and the Disciplines, ed. David L. Szanton (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 1–33, 184–216. 125. Edwin O. Reischauer, oral history interview, Marlene J. Mayo Oral Histories, Gordon W. Prange Collection, University of Mary­land Libraries, 66–67. 126. Letter from Ishino Iwao to JWB, June 5, 1951, file 197, box 20, JWB Papers. 127. Kim, “Ōtaka Tomoo to shokuminchi Chōsen,” 285–304; Nakao, “Shokuminchi daigaku no jinruigakusha,” 49. 128. “CIE ni okeru shakai chōsa no tenkai,” 68–80. 129. Edward Seidensticker, oral history interview, Marlene J. Mayo Oral Histories, Gordon W. Prange Collection, University of Mary­land Libraries, 71. 130. Andrew E. Barshay, The Social Sciences in Modern Japan: The Marxian and Modernist Traditions (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004), 92–174. 131. J. Edward Kidder Jr., View from the Trenches of Mitaka: Experiences in Japa­ nese Archaeology (Tokyo: International Christian University Hachirō Yuasa Memorial Museum, 2013), 97. C H A P T E R  4 1. A. L. Kroeber and Clyde Kluckhohn, Culture: A Critical Review of Concepts and Definitions (Cambridge, MA: Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University, 1952). 2. Regna Darnell, Invisible Genealogies: A History of Americanist Anthropology (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001), 327. 3. Quoted in Adam Kuper, Anthropology and Anthropologists: The British School in the Twentieth C ­ entury (New York: Routledge, 2014), 184. 4. Tracy Teslow, Constructing Race: The Science of Bodies and Cultures in American Anthropology (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 65. 5. Darnell, Invisible Genealogies, 25. 6. Mishina Shōei, “Beikoku bunka jinruigaku annaiki,” MK 4, no. 4 (1938): 719–746; A. Goldenweiser, “Amerika jinruigaku no genkyō,” MK 1, no. 2 (1943): 202–221.

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7. E.g., Geoffrey Gorer, Japa­nese Character Structure (New York: Institute for Intercultural Studies, 1942); Douglas Haring, Blood on the Rising Sun (Philadelphia, PA: Macrae Smith, 1943); Arnold Meadow, An Analy­sis of the Japa­nese Character Structure Based on Japa­nese Film Plots and Thematic Apperception Tests on Japa­nese Americans (New York: Institute for Intercultural Studies, 1944). 8. Ruth Benedict, The Chrysanthemum and the Sword: Patterns of Japa­nese Culture (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1946). 9. Watsuji Tetsurō, “Rūsu Benedeikuto ‘Kiku to katana’ no ataeru mono: Kagakuteki kachi ni taisuru gimon,” MK 14, no. 4 (1950): 23. 10. Ruth Benedict, Race: Science and Politics (New York: Viking, 1943), 220. 11. Ruth Benedict, Bunka no sho yōshiki, trans. Odaka Kyōko (Chūō Kōronsha, 1951), 1–4; Ruth Benedict, Minzoku: Sono kagaku to seijisei, trans. Shimura Yoshio (Hokuryūkan, 1950), 3. 12. Yukiko Koshiro, Trans-­Pacific Racisms and the U.S. Occupation of Japan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), 21. 13. Quoted in Anthony Q. H ­ azard Jr., Postwar Anti-­Racism: The United States, UNESCO, and Race, 1945–1968 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 15. 14. On the institutional history of UNESCO, see Peter Lengyel, International Social Science: The UNESCO Experience (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 1986); J. P. Singh, United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organ­ization (UNESCO): Creating Norms for a Complex World (New York: Routledge, 2011). 15. “Worldwide Network of Unesco Clubs,” Japa­nese Scene, UNESCO 22 (1973): 2. 16. Masaharu Itō, “Marking the 25th Anniversary of Non-­Governmental Unesco Activities in Japan,” Japa­nese Scene, UNESCO 14 (1972): 12; H ­ azard, Postwar Anti-­ Racism, 72. 17. Yokota Kisaburō and Ōtaka Tomoo, Japan and International Organ­izations: A Report on National Policy and Public Attitude of Japan ­toward International Organ­ izations (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1955), 148. 18. Murakami Aiji, “Sekai heiwa to Yunesuko ni okeru Nihon no shimei,” Kōmin kōza 267 (1948): 17–31. 19. Quoted in Michelle Brattain, “Race, Racism, and Antiracism: UNESCO and the Politics of Presenting Science to the Postwar Public,” American Historical Review 112, no. 5 (2007): 1396. 20. Benedict, Race, i. 21. Hadley Cantril, ed., Tensions That Cause Wars: Common Statement and Individual Papers by a Group of Social Scientists Brought Together by UNESCO (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1950), 301. The Japa­nese translation was published in “Yunesuko no minzokukan,” trans. Komai Taku, Kagaku 22, no. 5 (1952): 269–270. 22. W. Kenneth Bunce, oral history interview, Marlene J. Mayo Oral Histories, Gordon W. Prange Collection, University of Mary­land Libraries, 38–39. 23. Ōtaka Tomoo, Yunesuko kikō (Tōyamabō, 1951). 24. Nihon Yunesuko Kokusai Iinkai, Yunesuko yōran (Nihon Yunesuko Kokusai Iinkai, 1964), 65.

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25. Koshiro, Trans-­Pacific Racisms and the U.S. Occupation of Japan, 114; Kingsberg, Moral Nation, 187–188. 26. Hideki Harajiri, “Globalization, State Identities, and Culture: K ­ orea and Korean Relocation to Japan since 1910,” in Transnational Migration in East Asia: Japan in a Comparative Frame, ed. Shinji Yamashita, Makito Minami, and Jerry S. Eades (Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology, 2008), 31. 27. Izumi Seiichi, Sofue Takao, Oka Namiki, Tokuyama Yasunobu, and Ogyū Chikasato, “Tokyo ni okeru Saishūtōjin,” MK 16, no. 1 (1951): 1–24. 28. Ibid., 23. 29. Ibid., 24. 30. Ibid., 18–19. 31. Edward Norbeck and George De Vos, “Japan,” in Psychological Anthropology: Approaches to Culture and Personality, ed. Francis K. Hsu (Homewood, IL: Dorsey, 1961), 19–47. 32. Japan Cultural Science Society, Brief Report of Research on Social Tensions in 1952 (Tokyo: Japan National Commission for UNESCO, 1955), 3. 33. Nihon Jinbun Kagakukai, ed., Shakaiteki kinchō no kenkyū (Yūikaku, 1953), 2. 34. Koshiro, Trans-­Pacific Racisms and the U.S. Occupation of Japan, 88. 35. Colin Wark and John F. Galliher, “Emory Bogardus and the Origins of the Social Distance Scale,” American Sociologist 38 (2007): 388. 36. Quoted in Carolyn A. Owen, Howard C. Eisner, and Thomas R. McFaul, “A Half-­C entury of Social Distance Research: National Replication of the Bogardus Studies,” Sociology and Social Research 66, no. 1 (1981): 82. 37. Wark and Galliher, “Emory Bogardus and the Origins of the Social Distance Scale,” 391. 38. Izumi, “Tokyo shomin no iminzoku ni taisuru taido,” in Nihon Jinbun Kagakukai, Shakaiteki kinchō no kenkyū, 429. 39. Ibid., 438. 40. Ibid., 434–435. 41. Ibid., 436–437. 42. Izumi Seiichi, “Nihonjin no jinshuteki henken: Chōsen mondai to kanren shite” (orig. 1963), in Bunka no naka no ningen (Bungei Shunjū, 1970), 181–197. 43. “What Is JASCA?,” Japa­nese Society of Cultural Anthropology, Apr. 1, 2004, http://­w ww​.­jasca​.­org​/­onjasca​-­e​/­frame​.­html. 44. Sugiyama Kōichi, “Ishida Eiichirō,” in Ayabe, Bunka jinruigaku gunzō 3, 311–331. 45. Ishida Eiichirō, “Ihō,” MK 3, no. 1 (1946): 136. 46. Franz Boas, “Waga shinnen,” trans. Ōtsuka Hideo, MK 3, no. 1 (1946): 125–135. This article was originally published as Franz Boas, “Franz Boas,” in I Believe: The Personal Philosophies of Certain Eminent Men and W ­ omen of Our Time, ed. Clifton Fadiman (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1939), 19–32. 47. “Shohyō,” MK 13, no. 1 (1948): 89–91. 48. Akira Fujieda and Wilma Fairbank, “Current Traditions in Japa­nese Studies of China and Adjacent Areas,” Far Eastern Quarterly 13, no. 1 (1953): 47.

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49. Ishida Eiichirō, “Henshū kōki,” MK 13, no. 4 (1948): 32. 50. Izumi Seiichi, “Seibu Nyū Ginia genjūmin no shakai soshiki: Toku ni buzoku no kōzō ni tsuite,” MK 14, no. 3 (1950): 19. 51. Izumi Seiichi, “Sago yashi no umidasu bunka—­Nyū Ginia no shokubutsu minzokugaku,” MK 13, no. 4 (1948): 36–49. 52. Izumi Seiichi, “Ishida Eiichirō no omoide,” in Ishida Eiichirō taidanshū: Bunka to hyūmanizumu, by Ishida Eiichirō (Chikuma Shobō, 1970), 266. 53. Chun, “Anthropology of Colonialism and War ­under Imperial Japan,” 106. 54. Shibusawa Keizō, “Maegaki,” in Nihon shakai minzoku jiten 1, ed. Nihon Minzokugaku Kyōkai (Nihon Tosho Sentā, 2004), 1–2. 55. Berry, Japan in Print, 18. 56. On the Encyclopédie, see Robert Darnton, The Business of Enlightenment: A Publishing History of the Encyclopédie, 1775–1800 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979); Richard Yeo, Encyclopaedic Visions: Scientific Dictionaries and Enlightenment Culture (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001); Ann Blair, Too Much to Know: Managing Scholarly Information Before the Modern Era (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010); and Peter Burke, A Social History of Knowledge: From Gutenberg to Diderot (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 2013). 57. Inui Teruo, Nihon ni okeru jiten no rekishi (Jiten Kyōkai, 1969); Toshio Yokoyama, “The Setsuyōshū and Japa­nese Civilization,” in Japa­nese Civilization in the Modern World: Life and Society, ed. Umesao Tadao, Josef Kreiner, and Harumi Befu (Osaka: National Museum for Ethnology, 1984), 17–36; Carol Gluck, “The Fine Folly of the Encyclopedists,” Biblion: The Bulletin of the New York Public Library 3 (1997): 5–48; Sugimoto Tsutomu, Jisho, jiten no kenkyū (Yasaka Shobō, 1999); Marcon, Knowledge of Nature and the Nature of Knowledge in Early Modern Japan, 72–110. 58. Shuppan Nenkan Henshūbu, ed., Shuppan nenkan 1962 han (Shuppan Nyūsusha, 1963), 57; Herbert R. Lottman, “The G ­ reat Encyclopedia War and Other Tales of T ­ oday’s Japan,” Publishers Weekly, Apr. 5, 1985, 23. 59. “Dokusha to henshūsha no pēji,” Zusetsu Nihon bunkashi taikei 10 (1957): 12; “Dokusha to henshūsha no pēji,” Zusetsu Nihon bunkashi taikei 3 (1956): 7–8. 60. Inui, Nihon ni okeru jiten no rekishi, n.p. 61. Oka Masao, “Nihon minzoku,” in Nihon shakai minzoku jiten 3, ed. Nihon Minzokugaku Kyōkai (Nihon Tosho Sentā, 2004), 1094–1097. 62. Quoted in Paul Lawrence Farber, Mixing Races: From Scientific Racism to Modern Evolutionary Ideas (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011), 46. 63. UNESCO, Four Statements on the Race Question (Paris: UNESCO, 1969), 33. 64. Higo Hideo, “Nihon bunka,” in Nihon Minzokugaku Kyōkai, Nihon shakai minzoku jiten 3, 1090. 65. Sekai rekishi taikei (Heibonsha, 1948–1949); Sekai bijutsu zenshū (Heibonsha, 1953–1955); Zusetsu sekai bunkashi taikei (Kadokawa Shoten, 1958–1961); Gendai chirigaku taikei (Kokon Shoin, 1958–1966); Sekai kōkogaku taikei (Heibonsha, 1959–1963). 66. Suehiro Akira, “Ajia chōsa no keihen,” in Iwanami kōza “teikoku Nihon” no gakuchi, ed. Yamamoto Taketoshi (Iwanami Shoten, 2006), 21–66; Tokyo Daigaku

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Tōyō Bunka Kenkyūjo, Tōyō Bunka Kenkyūjo yōran (Tokyo Daigaku Tōyō Bunka Kenkyūjo, 1952), 1–8. 67. Ōnuki Yoshio, “Izumi Seiichi,” in Ayabe, Bunka jinruigaku gunzō 3, 416. 68. Izumi, “Ishida Eiichirō no omoide,” 268–269. 69. Okada Yuzuru, “Amerika jinruigaku no kinkyō,” MK 16, no. 2 (1951): 144–149. 70. Gordon T. Bowles, “Bōruzu hakase kikikaki,” Riken jinruigaku 7, no. 4 (1976): 231. 71. Letter from Gordon Bowles to Robert Hall, Sept. 26, 1952, no. 414, file 28, Izumi Seiichi ākaibu. 72. Bowles, “Bōruzu hakase kikikaki,” 232. 73. Gordon T. Bowles, Bunka jinruigaku (Hōbunkan, 1953), n.p. 74. Bowles, “Bōruzu hakase kikikaki,” 233–234; Letter from Gordon T. Bowles to Roger Evans, May 28, 1956, file 5314, box 358, series 609, RG 10.1, Izumi Seiichi, 1955– 1957, Rocke­fel­ler Archive Center. 75. “Jinruigaku senkō daigakuin ni kansuru zadankai,” MK 17, nos. 3–4 (1953): 317–329. 76. “Wagakuni ni okeru shakai chōsa no enkaku,” MK 17, no. 1 (1952): 4. 77. Izumi Seiichi, Fuīrudowāku no kiroku: Bunka jinruigaku no jissen (Kōdansha Gendai Shinsho, 1969), 4; Izumi Seiichi, “Bunka jinruigaku ni okeru jittai chōsahō,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 7, 92. 78. “Jinruigaku senkō daigakuin ni kansuru zadankai,” 127. 79. On the four-­field system, see Regna Darnell, “North American Traditions in Anthropology: The Historiographic Baseline,” in A New History of Anthropology, ed. Henrika Kuklick (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 35–51. Four-­field anthropology was introduced to Japa­nese scholars during their travels in the United States and through writings such as Herbert Passin, “Gendai Amerika jinruigaku no sho kikō,” in Gendai Amerika no shakai jinruigaku, ed. Nihon Minzokugaku Kyōkai (Akitaka Shoin, 1949), 1–21. 80. Ishida Eiichirō, “Bunkashiteki minzokugaku naritatsu no kihon mondai,” MK 13, no. 4 (1948): 1–20; Taniguchi Yōko, “Beikokujin jinruigakusha e no Nihonjin kenkyūsha kara no eikyō—1930 nendai kara 1960 nendai made no Nihon kenkyū,” in Nihon no jinruigaku: Shokuminchi shugi, ibunka kenkyū, gakujutsu chōsa no rekishi, ed. Yamaji Katsuhiko (Nishinomiya-­shi: Kansai Gakuin Daigaku Shuppankai, 2011), 457–462. 81. “Wagakuni de shuppan sareta bunka jinruigaku kankei no gaisetsusho,” MK 34, no. 2 (1969): 156; “Tokyo Toritsu Daigaku shakai jinruigaku kōsu,” MK 20, nos. 1–2 (1956): 88; Fumiko Ikawa-­Smith. Interview by Miriam Kingsberg Kadia. Montreal, Canada, Oct. 22, 2014. 82. “Wagakuni de shuppan sareta bunka jinruigaku kankei no gaisetsusho,” 156–157. 83. Okada Yuzuru, Minzokugaku (Asahi Shinbunsha, 1947); Tanase Jōji, Bunka jinruigaku (Kōbundō, 1950); Ōba Chiaki, Bunka jinruigaku (Sekaisha, 1951). 84. Sugiura Ken’ichi, Jinruigaku (Dōbunkan, 1951), 2, 81, 142. 85. Constitution of Japan.

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86. Makino Eiichi, Bunka kokka no riron (Shakai Kyōiku Kyōkai, 1947), 4–15; Sugiura Eizō, Bunka kokka e no michi (Nagoya: Teiyū Tsūshinsha Teiyū Bunka Kyōyōbu, 1949), 39. 87. Ishida Eiichirō and Izumi Seiichi, eds., Gendai bunka jinruigaku dai ikkan: Seikatsu (Nakayama Shoten, 1960). 88. “Tokyo Daigaku ni okeru bunka jinruigaku no senkō katei,” MK 19, no. 1 (1955): 101; Nakamura Atsuhiko, “Sotsugyō ronbun no suii: Tokyo Daigaku no bawai,” in Nihon ni okeru bunka jinruigaku kyōiku no zai kentō, ed. Yamashita Shinji (Tokyo Daigaku Daigakuin Sōgō Bunka Kenkyūkai, 2003), 7–9. 89. “Jinruigaku senkō daigakuin ni kansuru sotsugyōkai,” Kikan minzokugaku kenkyū 17, no. 3 (1953): 322. 90. Letter from Richard K. Beardsley to Fred Eggan, Apr. 27, 1956, file 22, box 5, Fred Eggan Papers. 91. “Zenkoku no daigaku ni okeru minzokugaku, jinruigaku kankei no kōgi ikkan,” MK 23, no. 4 (1959): 330–342; Japa­nese National Commission for UNESCO, and Higher Education and Science Bureau, Ministry of Education, Survey of Humanistic Studies in Japan 1960 (Tokyo: Science Council of Japan, 1961), 5, 11. 92. Sol Tax, “­Toward 32 Suns: An Account of 30 Days from Chicago to Chicago,” file 8, box 11, Sol Tax, Papers, 1923–1989, Archival Bibliographical Files, Special Collections Research Center, University of Chicago Library. 93. Fujiwara Kōtatsu, “Sake to gakumon,” Izumi Seiichi chosakushū geppō 2 (1971): 8. 94. “Training Fellowship for: Mr. Takao Sofue,” May 5, 1954; Letter from Gordon T. Bowles to Roger Evans, Feb. 10, 1954, file 5521, box 375, series 609, RG 10.1, Sofue Takao, 1953–1957, Rocke­fel­ler Archive Center. 95. Constitution of Japan. 96. Kawamoto Shizuko, Kameda Kinuko, and Yoshiko Takakuwa, Tsuda Umeko no musumetachi: Hito tsubu no tane kara (Domesu Shuppan, 2001), 179–187; Joy Hendry, “An Interview with Chie Nakane,” Current Anthropology 30, no. 5 (1989): 646. 97. Fujiwara, “Sake to gakumon,” 7. 98. Fumiko Ikawa-­Smith. Interview by Miriam Kingsberg Kadia. Montreal, Canada, Oct. 22, 2014. 99. Izumi Seiichi, “Ko Sugiura Ken’ichi to jinruigaku, minzokugaku,” MK 18, no. 3 (1954): 266–270. C H A P T E R  5 1. JWB, “Some Comments on Japa­nese Social Science,” box 5915, Rec­ords of the Allied Operational and Occupation Headquarters. 2. John  W. Bennett, “Interdisciplinary Research and the Concept of Culture,” American Anthropologist 56, no. 2 (1956): 169–179. 3. Isaac, Working Knowledge, 160; Barry V. Johnston, “The Con­temporary Crisis and the Social Relations Department at Harvard: A Case Study in Hegemony and Disintegration,” American Sociologist 29, no. 3 (1998): 26–42.

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4. In 1964 the Tōyō Ongaku Gakkai (East Asian Ethnomusicology Society) became the tenth member, but the group remained known, by convention, as the Association of Nine Scholarly Socie­ties. 5. “Tsushima sōgō chōsa no seika ni tsuite (zadankai),” in Tsushima no shizen to bunka, ed. Kyūgakkai Rengō (Kokon Shoin, 1954), 566. 6. “Daisankai rengō taikai,” Jinrui kagaku 2 (1949): 121–123. 7. “Tsushima ni kagaku no mesu,” Yomiuri Shinbun, June 24, 1950, 3. 8. Tsujimura Tarō, “Tsushima chōsa ni tsuite,” Jinrui kagaku 4 (1951): 83. 9. Tsujimura Tarō, “Jogen,” in Kyūgakkai Rengō, Tsushima no shizen to bunka, 1. 10. Sueo Kuwahara, “The Development of Small Islands in Japan: An Historical Perspective,” Journal of Marine Islands and Cultures 1 (2012): 38. 11. Sakano Tōru, Fuīrudowāku no sengoshi: Miyamoto Tsuneichi to Kyūgakkai Rengō (Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2012), 12. 12. Sakano, Fuīrudowāku no sengoshi, 17; Kenneth R. Robinson, “An Island’s Place in History: Tsushima in Japan and Choson, 1392–1582,” Korean Studies 30 (2006): 40– 66; Kimie Hara, “50 Years from San Francisco: Re-­E xamining the Peace Treaty and Japan’s Territorial Prob­lems,” Pacific Affairs 74, no. 3 (2001): 361–382. 13. Takeyama, Tsushima nanbu hōgenshū, 1. 14. Mizuno Seiichi, Higuchi Takayasu, and Okazaki Takashi, Tsushima (Tōa Kōko Gakkai, 1953), 2. 15. Ibid., 27. 16. Kōji Mizoguchi, The Archaeology of Japan: From the Earliest Rice Farming Villages to the Rise of the State (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 27. 17. Fujita Ryōsaku, “Tsushima wa dare no mono ka,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Nov. 26, 1949, 2. 18. Nagasaki-­ken, Tsushima sōgō kaihatsu keikaku (Nagasaki: Nagasaki-­ken, 1949). 19. Kuwahara, “Development of Small Islands in Japan,” 44; Miyamoto Tsuneichi, The Forgotten Japa­nese: Encounters with Rural Life and Folklore (Berkeley, CA: Stone Bridge Press, 2010), 11. 20. Quoted in Sakano Tōru, “Jinruigakusha: Izumi Seiichi no ‘sengo’ keiken—­ Chōsen sensō, Zainichi, Saishūtō,” in Teikoku Nihon no shikaku/shikaku: Shōwaki Nihon no chi to medeiā, ed. Sakano Tōru and Shin Changon (Seikyūsha, 2010), 117. 21. Tsujimura, “Jogen,” 1. 22. “Tayama Risaburō,” in Kyūgakkai Rengō, Tsushima no shizen to bunka, 567. 23. Ōtaka Tomoo, “Jo,” Jinbun 1, no. 1 (1951): 15. 24. Ronald Morse, “Personalities and Issues in Yanagita Kunio Studies,” Japan Quarterly 22, no. 3 (1975): 246; Okada Teruko, Segawa Kiyoko: Josei minzokugakusha no kiseki (Iwata Shoin, 2012). 25. John Hall and Robert Hall ­were not related to each other. For a recent re­ evaluation of the Okayama Field Station, see the special issue of Shakai jōhō kenkyū 11 (2014).

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26. Letter from Richard K. Beardsley to Grace Beardsley, July 18, 1950, file “Japan—­ Tsushima—­Plans and Notes, 1950,” box 3, Richard  K. Beardsley Papers, Bentley Historical Library, University of Michigan. 27. Richard K. Beardsley, Field Guide to Japan (Washington, DC: National Acad­ emy of Sciences, National Research Council, 1959), 36. 28. Suzuki Jirō, “Sengo no Nihon ni okeru shakai chōsa no kikō,” MK 17, no. 1 (1952): 48. 29. “Tsushima sōgō chōsa no seika ni tsuite (zadankai),” 556. 30. Miyamoto, Forgotten Japa­nese, 35. 31. Fujimoto Shigeki, Nakamura Shō, and Fukui Kenzō, “Tsushima tōmin no iga­ kuteki chōsa,” Jinrui kagaku 4 (1951): 132–134. 32. Miyamoto, Forgotten Japa­nese, 30, 35. 33. Letter from Richard K. Beardsley to Grace Beardsley, July 18, 1950. 34. Nakano Takashi, “Rokugakkai Rengō inai no watashi no omoide,” Jinrui kagaku 42 (1990): 50. 35. Letter from Richard K. Beardsley to Grace Beardsley, July 22, 1950, file “Japan—­ Tsushima—­Plans and Notes, 1950,” box 3, Richard K. Beardsley Papers. 36. Ōtaka, “Jo,” 15. 37. Field notebook, file “Japan—­Tsushima—­Notebook, 1950,” box 3, Richard K. Beardsley Papers. 38. Ōtaka, “Jo,” 13. 39. Letter from Richard K. Beardsley to Grace Beardsley, July 18, 1950. 40. Letter from Richard K. Beardsley to Grace Beardsley, July 22, 1950. 41. Masuda Seiichi, “Tsushima hakken no ninuri maken doki,” Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 65 (1956): 26. 42. Komai Kazuchika, “Tsushima no iseki,” Chūgoku jidai 3, no. 4 (1951): 34–37; Komai Kazuchika, “Kōkogaku kara mita Tsushima,” in Kyūgakkai Rengō, Tsushima no shizen to bunka, 197–294. 43. Ariga Kizaemon and Nagashima Fukutarō, “Tsushima hoken seido no sho mondai,” in Kyūgakkai Rengō, Tsushima no shizen to bunka, 147. 44. Imamura Yutaka, “Tsushima tōmin no keishitsu jinruigakuteki kenkyū,” Jinrui kagaku 4 (1951): 118–133. 45. Kitsukawa Toshitada, “Shizoku to hen’yō no jittai no kenkyū: Tsushima 60 nen o jirei to shite,” Nenpō: Himoji shiryō kenkyū 7 (2011): 220. 46. Waizumi Shigeyuki, Kashiwara Keitarō, and Fukuda Hideo, “Tsushima ni okeru nyū eiyōhō, toku ni sono shūkan ni oite,” Jinrui kagaku 4 (1951): 136–137; Segawa Kiyoko, Miyamoto Tsuneichi, Izumi Seiichi, and Gamō Masao, “Waniura-­ mura,” in Kyūgakkai Rengō, Tsushima no shizen to bunka, 478; Nishitsunoi Masahiro, “Tsushima Shintō no kenkyū,” Jinrui kagaku 4 (1951): 138–145. 47. Richard K. Beardsley, “Mishigan Daigaku Nihon Kenkyūjo kara Hachigakkai: Tsushima kyōdō chōsa e no sanka ni tsuite,” trans. Tsukijima Kenzō, Jinbun 1 (1951): 22–25.

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48. “Tsushima wa Nihon ni nari: Hachigakkai chōsadan nakama hōkoku—­Junsui no Yamato minzoku,” Yomiuri Shinbun, July 29, 1950, 3. Yamato is a common referent for Japan and the Japa­nese ­people. It sometimes carries nationalist overtones. 49. “Tsushima sōgō chōsa no seika ni tsuite (zadankai),” 562. From 2008 to 2011 a series of collaborative field expeditions commemorated the sixtieth anniversary of the Association’s endeavor in Tsushima and explored themes of “endurance and accultura­ tion” (shizoku to hen’yō). Kitsukawa, “Shizoku to hen’yō no jittai no kenkyū,” 209–267. 50. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 306. 51. Muratake Shin’ichi, “Tsushima kara Okinawa e: Chiiki kenkyū hōhōron e no mosaku,” Jinrui kagaku 42 (1989): 167; Tsukijima Kenzō, “Chōsa no kaiko,” Jinrui kagaku 16 (1963): 135. 52. Iida Taku, “Shōwa sanjū nendai no kaigai gakujutsu ekisupedeishon: ‘Nihon jinruigaku’ no sengo to masu medeiā,” Kokuritsu Minzokugaku Hakubutsukan hōkoku 31, no. 2 (2007): 234. 53. Sakano, Fuīrudowāku no sengoshi, 159–166. 54. Bennett, “Interdisciplinary Research and the Concept of Culture,” 170. 55. The term Ainu has long been contested. In the mid-­t wentieth c­ entury some activists regarded it as a derogatory, externally applied label, and suggested replacing it with Utari. Since at least the 1970s, however, the indigenous community has embraced Ainu as the most recognizable signifier of its distinct identity. Other spellings such as Aynu and Aino ­were once common but have now fallen out of fashion. Mark K. Watson, Japan’s Ainu Minority in Diasporic Indigeneity and Urban Politics (New York: Routledge, 2014), 4. 56. David Howell, Geographies of Identity in Nineteenth-­Century Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), 11. 57. Brett Walker, The Conquest of Ainu Lands: Ecol­ogy and Culture in Japa­ nese Expansion, 1590–1800 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001); Howell, Geographies of Identity in Nineteenth-­Century Japan, 111–130. 58. Howell, Geographies of Identity in Nineteenth-­Century Japan, 173–204. 59. Sakano Tōru, Teikoku Nihon to jinruigakusha 1884–1952 nen (Keisō Shobō, 2005), 180–188. 60. Richard Siddle, Race, Re­sis­tance, and the Ainu of Japan (New York: Routledge, 1996), 77; Askew, “Debating the ‘Japa­nese’ Race in Meiji Japan,” 57–89; Oguma, Genealogy of “Japa­n ese” Self-­Images, 53–80; Mark Hudson, Ruins of Identity: Ethnogenesis in the Japa­nese Islands (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1999), 30–46. 61. Martin Gusinde and Sano Chiye, An Annotated Bibliography of Ainu Studies by Japa­nese Scholars (Nagoya: Nanzan University, 1962), vii. 62. Sasaki Shiro, “Anthropological Studies on Ethnic Minorities in Siberia and the Rus­sian Far East by Nineteenth-­and Twentieth-­Century Japa­nese Anthropologists and Ethnologists,” JRCA 4 (2003): 117. 63. Siddle, Race, Re­sis­tance, and the Ainu of Japan, 147.

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64. During this time t­ here was also a boom in the study of Ryūkyū Islanders (Okinawans), though they w ­ ere seen as less “primitive” than the Ainu given their long history of recognized sovereignty. 65. John B. Cornell, “Ainu Assimilation and Cultural Extinction: Acculturation Policy in Hokkaido,” Ethnology 3, no. 3 (1964): 287. 66. “Hokkaido Daigaku Genshi Bunka Kenkyūkai no hossoku,” MK 12, no.  4 (1947): 357; “1950 nendo jigyō hōkoku,” MK 16, no. 1 (1951): 72. 67. Izumi, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni, 138–139. 68. I have used the expedition title as translated by Hitoshi Watanabe, The Ainu Ecosystem: Environment and Group Structure (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1972), 6. 69. “Ainu minzoku sōgō chōsa no keika,” MK 16, no. 2 (1951): 179. 70. “Ainu minzoku o sōgō chōsa,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Aug. 25, 1953, 3. 71. Gusinde and Sano, Annotated Bibliography of Ainu Studies by Japa­nese Scholars, 6. 72. Jinruigakkai zasshi 59–84 (1946–1976). 73. Ishida Eiichirō, “Sengo Beikoku ni oite shuppan sareta jinruigaku kankei gai­ ron sho,” MK 14, no. 1 (1949): 80. 74. Katsuya Hirano, “The Politics of Colonial Translation: On the Narrative of the Ainu as a ‘Vanis­hing Ethnicity,’ ” Asia-­Pacific Journal: Japan Focus 7, issue 4, no. 3 (2009): 1–16. 75. Izumi Seiichi, “Saru Ainu no chien shūdan ni okeru IWOR,” MK 16, nos. 3–4 (1951): 29–45. 76. Izumi Seiichi, “Maegaki,” in Ainu kenkyūshi: Aru danmen, ed. Fujimoto Hideo (Sapporo: Miyama Shobō, 1968), 3; Izumi Seiichi, ed., Ainu no sekai (Kajima Kenkyūjo Shuppankai, 1968), 189. 77. Ken’ichi Sugiura and Harumi Befu, “Kinship Organ­ization of the Saru Ainu,” Ethnology 1, no. 3 (1962): 296; Kodama Sakuzaemon, Ainu: Historical and Anthropological Studies (Sapporo: Hokkaido University School of Medicine, 1970), i; Watanabe Hitoshi, “Saru Ainu ni okeru tenzen shigen no riyō,” MK 16, nos. 3–4 (1951): 255–269. 78. Minzokugaku Kenkyūkai, ed., Nihon minzokugaku no kaiko to tenbō (Minzokugaku Kenkyūkai, 1966), 247. 79. Kano Hiromichi, Ainu no seikatsu (Nire Shobō, 1956), 64. 80. Izumi, Ainu no sekai, 4. 81. Cornell, “Ainu Assimilation and Cultural Extinction,” 304. 82. Tessa Morris-­Suzuki, “Creating the Frontier: Border, Identity and History in Japan’s Far North,” East Asian History 7 (1994): 18–23; Takakura Shin’ichirō, The Ainu of Northern Japan: A Study in Conquest and Acculturation, trans. John A. Harrison (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1960), 22. 83. Izumi, Ainu no sekai, 2. 84. Josef Kreiner, “Ainu Collections in Eu­ro­pean Museums,” and Kotani Yoshinobu, “Preliminary Notes on Ainu Materials in North American Museums,” in Eu­ro­pean Studies on Ainu Language and Culture, ed. Josef Kreiner (Munich: Iudicium, 1993),

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271–300, 301–306; Naohiro Nakamura, “Managing Cultural Repre­sen­ta­tion: Ainu and First Nations Museums in Japan and Canada” (PhD diss., Queen’s University, 2007), 75. 85. Kirsten L. Ziomek, “The 1903 ­Human Pavilion: Colonial Realities and Subaltern Subjectivities in Twentieth-­Century Japan,” Journal of Asian Studies 73, no. 2 (2014): 493–516. 86. “Hokkaido bunka ten,” MK 14, no. 1 (1949): 81; “1950 nendo jigyō hōkoku,” MK 16, no. 1 (1951): 72; Koga Shizue, “Hakubutsukan dayori,” MK 21, no. 4 (1957): 319–322. 87. Japa­nese Society of Ethnology, “Ainu River-­Fishery,” file 9, box 53, Fred Eggan Papers. 88. Ibid. 89. Morris-­Suzuki, “Creating the Frontier,” 17. 90. Masao Oka, “Das Verwandtschaftssystem der Ainu,” in Actes du IVe Congrès international des science anthropologiques et ethnologiques Tome II: Ethnologica, Première Partie, ed. Robert Heine-­G eldern, Wilhelm Koppers, Anna Hohenwart-­ Gerlachstein, and Dorothea Klimberg (Vienna: Verlag Adolf Holzhausens, 1955), 207. 91. Ibid., 207. 92. Yuji Ankei, “The Fieldwork Ethics and Positionality of Tsuneichi Miyamoto: A Pioneer of Border Island Studies in Japan,” Eurasia Border Review 4, no. 1 (2013): 23. 93. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 308. 94. Ankei, “Fieldwork Ethics and Positionality of Tsuneichi Miyamoto,” 21. 95. Sasaki Toshikazu, “Bunka jinruigaku wa naze Ainu o kihi shita ka,” in Ainu kenkyū no genzai to mirai, ed. Hokkaido Daigaku Ainu Senjūmin Kenkyū Sentā (Sapporo: Hokkaido Daigaku Shuppankai, 2010), 224–235; MK 15–44 (1950–1980). 96. Quoted in Kinase Takashi, “ ‘Ainu minzoku sōgō chōsa’ to sengo Nihon no bunka jinruigaku: Izumi Seiichi no ‘zasetsu’ o meguru oboegaki,” Kokusai Jōmin Bunka Kenkyū kikō nenpō 5 (2013): 125. 97. Izumi Seiichi, “Minzokushi to shite no Ainu-­e,” and “Karafuto no mieru oka no hakkutsu,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 2, 97–111, 116–129; Izumi Seiichi and Sono Toshihiko, eds., Onkoromanai (University of Tokyo Press, 1967). C H A P T E R  6 1. Sills oral history interview, 15. 2. Nobuko Adachi has applied the paradigm of diaspora to persons of Japa­nese birth or ancestry who s­ ettle or live outside Japan. It is used h ­ ere as a synonym for “Japa­nese emigrants and their descendants.” Nobuko Adachi, “Theorizing Japa­ nese Diaspora,” in Japa­nese Diasporas: Unsung Pasts, Conflicting Pre­sents, Uncertain ­Futures, ed. Nobuko Adachi (New York: Routledge, 2006), 1–22. 3. Iyo Kunimoto, “Japa­nese Migration to Latin Amer­i­c a,” in Japan, the United States, and Latin Amer­i­ca: ­Toward a Trilateral Relationship in the Western Hemi­ sphere, ed. Barbara Stallings and Gabriel Székely (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 99–121; Motoko Tsuchida, “A History of Japa­nese Emigration from the 1860s to the 1940s,” in Temporary Workers or ­Future Citizens? Japa­nese and

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U.S. Migration Policies, ed. Myron Weiner and Tadashi Hanami (New York: New York University Press, 1998), 77–119. 4. On racial policy in Brazil, see Thomas E. Skidmore, Black into White: Race and Nationality in Brazilian Thought (New York: Oxford University Press, 1974); Nancy Leys Stepan, “The Hour of Eugenics”: Race, Gender, and Nation in Latin Amer­i­ca (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991); Lilia Moritz Schwarcz, The Spectacle of the Races: Scientists, Institutions, and the Race Question in Brazil, 1870–1930, trans. Leland Guyer (New York: Hill and Wang, 1999); Jerry Dávila, Diploma of Whiteness: Race and Social Policy in Brazil, 1917–1945 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003). 5. Quoted in Jeffrey Lesser, Negotiating National Identity: Immigrants, Minorities, and the Strug­gle for Ethnicity in Brazil (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1999), 122. 6. Francisco Garcia Calderón, Latin Amer­i­ca: Its Rise and Pro­gress, trans. Bernard Miall (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1913), 324. 7. Lesser, Negotiating National Identity, 81–113, 147–165. 8. Gilberto Freyre, Order and Pro­gress: Brazil from Monarchy to Republic, ed. and trans. Rod W. Horton (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1970), 177. 9. T. Iyenaga and Kensuke Sato, Japan and the California Prob­lem (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1921), 150. 10. Paul Spickard, Japa­nese Americans: The Formation and Transformation of an Ethnic Group (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2009), 58. 11. For example, see Noda Ryōji, “Nanbei jijō” (orig. 1917), in Nikkei imin shiryōshū Nanbei hen, vol. 21, ed. Nihon Tosho Sentā (Nihon Tosho Sentā, 1998), 261–303; Nanba Katsuji, Nanbei fugen taikan (Dairen: Osaka Yago Shoten, 1923); Mizuno Ryū, Yokoyama Gennosuke, Sakayama Hisae, Tanaka Seinosuke, and Tsuji Shōtarō, Burajiru no dōhō o tazunete (Nippaku Kyōkai, 1930). 12. Takaoka Kumao, “Burajiru imin kenkyū” (orig. 1924), in Nikkei imin shiryōshū Nanbei hen, vol. 9, ed. Nihon Tosho Sentā (Nihon Tosho Sentā, 1998), 87–89, 281–282. On Takaoka, see Stephen Vlastos, “Agrarianism without Tradition: The Radical Critique of Prewar Japa­nese Modernity,” in Mirror of Modernity: In­ven­ted Traditions of Modern Japan, ed. Stephen Vlastos (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 83–84. 13. Noda, “Nanbei jijō,” 276. 14. In fact, the number of ­actual repatriates was low, amounting to some fif­ teen thousand during the prewar period. Patrick Makoto Fukunaga, “The Brazilian Experience: The Japa­nese Immigrants during the Period of the Vargas Regime and the Immediate Aftermath” (PhD diss., University of California, Santa Barbara, 1983), 71. 15. Wako Shungorō, “Bauru kannai no hōjin” (orig. 1939), in Nikkei imin shiryōshū Nanbei hen, vol. 25, ed. Nihon Tosho Sentā (Nihon Tosho Sentā, 1998), 1–11. 16. Aoyagi Ikutarō, Burajiru ni okeru Nihonjin hattenshi (Burajiru ni okeru Nihonjin Hattenshi Kankō Iinkai, 1941), 331; Wako, “Bauru kannai no hōjin,” 4. 17. Saitō Hiroshi, “Kokusaijin no senku to shite Nikkei imin,” in Burajiru shakai to Nihon, ed. Saitō Hiroshi, Komai Hiroshi, and Nakagawa Fumio (Nihon Kokusai Mondai Kenkyūjo, 1978), 24. During the Meiji period, Japa­nese citizenship followed the princi­ ple of paternal jus sanguinis, whereby all ­children fathered by a Japa­nese citizen w ­ ere

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themselves regarded as Japa­nese citizens (irrespective of their place of birth). In 1924, in response to pressure from emigrants, the Japa­nese Diet made Japa­nese citizenship for foreign-­born c­ hildren of Japa­nese parents electable rather than automatic. According to the jus soli princi­ple that governed citizenship in the nations of North and South Amer­ i­ca, second-­generation Japa­nese diaspora w ­ ere citizens of the land of their birth. 18. Susan Koshy, Sexual Naturalization: Asian Americans and Miscegenation (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2004). 19. Wako, “Bauru kannai no hōjin,” 7–11; Tsuji Kōtarō, Burajiru no dōhō o tazunete (Nippaku Kyōkai, 1930), 412. 20. Ando Zenpati, “Dōka no konponteki na mondai,” Bunka: Revista Cultural Liberaria 1, no. 1 (1938): 5–8. 21. Centro de Estudos Nipo-­Brasileiros, Burajiru Nikkeijin no ishiki chōsa (São Paulo: Centro de Estudos Nipo-­Brasileiros, 1992), 13. 22. Marion  T. Loftin, “The Japa­nese in Brazil: A Study in Immigration and Acculturation” (PhD diss., Vanderbilt University, 1952), 33; Takashi Maeyama, “Ethnicity, Secret Socie­t ies, and Associations: The Japa­nese in Brazil,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 21, no. 4 (1979): 589–610; Christopher A. Reichl, “Stages in the Historical Pro­cess of Ethnicity: The Japa­nese in Brazil, 1908–1988,” Ethnohistory 42, no. 1 (1995): 31–62. 23. Approximately six thousand Japa­nese emigrants and their descendants in Brazil (less than 3 ­percent of the Japa­nese diaspora in the nation) w ­ ere imprisoned during World War II. Toake Endoh, Exporting Japan: Politics of Emigration to Latin Amer­i­ca (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2009), 34. 24. James Lawrence Tigler, “Shindō Renmei: Japa­nese Nationalism in Brazil,” Hispanic American Historical Review 41, no. 4 (1961): 313–332; Y. Kumasaka and H. Saitō, “Kachigumi: A Collective Delusion among the Japa­nese and Their Descendants in Brazil,” Canadian Psychiatric Association Journal 15, no. 2 (1970): 167–175; Maeyama, “Ethnicity, Secret Socie­ties, and Associations,” 589–610; Miyao Susumu, Shindō Renmei: Imin kūhaku jidai to dōhō shakai no konran—­Shindō Renmei jiken o chūshin ni (São Paulo: San Pauro Jinbun Kagaku Kenkyūjo, 2003); Jeffrey Lesser, “From Japa­nese to Nikkei and Back: Integration Strategies of Japa­nese Immigrants and Their Descendants in Brazil,” in Displacements and Diasporas: Asians in the Amer­i­cas, ed. Wanni Anderson and Robert G. Lee (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2005), 112–121; Toyama Osamu, Burajiru Nikkei shakai hyaku nen no suiryū (São Paulo: Toppan Puresu, 2006); Rafael Shoji, “The Failed Prophecy of Shinto Nationalism and the Rise of Japa­nese Brazilian Catholicism,” Japa­nese Journal of Religious Studies 35, no. 1 (2008): 13–38. 25. Izumi Seiichi, “A Preliminary Report on the Study of Social Tension,” no. 452, file 29, Izumi Seiichi ākaibu. 26. Alberto Hikaru Shintani, “WWII as Seen in Life Rec­ords of Japa­nese in Brazil: A Study of Diaries, Newspapers and Radio Broadcasting” (MA thesis, Kyoto University Gradu­ate School of H ­ uman and Environmental Studies, 2013). 27. Suzuki Masatake, Suzuki Teiichi: Burajiru Nikkei shakai ni ikita kisai no shōgai (São Paulo: San Pauro Jinbun Kagaku Kenkyūjo, 2007), 353–355.

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28. Matheus Gato de Jesus and Gustavo Takeshy Taniguti, “Sociologie de l’immigrant: Hiroshi Saito et l’institutionnalisation des études sur les Japonais du Brésil (1940–1960),” trans. Emilie Audigier, Brésil(s) 2 (2012): 201–224. 29. The characters for Ōtaka and Odaka are the same (大高), but the ­brothers used dif­fer­ent romanizations, which I have preserved h ­ ere. 30. United Nations Educational, Social, and Cultural Organ­ization, Fellowship Regulations of the United Nations Educational, Social, and Cultural Organ­ization (Paris: UNESCO, 1951). 31. Izumi Seiichi, “Summary of Visits and Observation Work,” no. 452, file 29, Izumi Seiichi ākaibu. 32. Letter from Izumi Seiichi to William D. Car­ter, May 20, 1952, no. 461, file 31, Izumi Seiichi ākaibu. 33. Handa Tomoo, Imin no seikatsu no rekishi: Burajiru Nikkeijin no ayanda michi (São Paulo: San Pauro Jinbun Kagaku Kenkyūjo, 1970), 664, 652, 659; Inomata Yoshio, Kūhaku Burajiru iminshi (Tamairabō, 1985), 16, 18, 19. 34. Fujimoto, Izumi Seiichi den, 231; Izumi, “Summary of Visits and Observation Work.” 35. Izumi, “Summary of Visits and Observation Work.” 36. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 310, 313. 37. Andō Zenpati, “Zaihaku hōjin shakai to imin mondai,” Chūō kōron 66, no. 6 (1951): 86–99. 38. Izumi Seiichi and Saitō Hiroshi, Amazon: Sono fūdo to Nihonjin (Kokon Shoin, 1954), 119. 39. Izumi, “Preliminary Report on the Study of Social Tension.” 40. Izumi Seiichi, “Burajiru no Nikkei koroniya,” in Imin: Burajiru imin no jittai chōsa, ed. Izumi Seiichi (Kokon Shoin, 1957), 82. 41. Izumi Seiichi, “Burajiru no rokkagetsu,” in Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 3: Raten Amerika no minzoku to bunka (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1972), 277. 42. Ishida Eiichirō, “Japa­nese Anthropology,” 13 (speech, Harvard Peabody Museum, Feb. 10, 1953), Tozzer Library, Harvard University. 43. Izumi, “Burajiru no rokkagetsu,” 276. 44. Emilio Willems, “The Japa­nese in Brazil,” Far Eastern Survey 18, no. 1 (1949): 7. 45. Izumi, “Burajiru no Nikkei koroniya,” 89. 46. Seiichi Izumi, “­Toward Understanding the Prob­lem of Acculturation,” 3, aca­ demic talk, Harvard University, 1956, no. 3, Izumi Seiichi ākaibu. 47. Izumi, “Burajiru no Nikkei koroniya,” 84, 87. 48. Ibid., 82. 49. Ibid., 83. 50. Izumi and Saitō, Amazon, 119, 230. 51. Izumi, “Preliminary Report on the Study of Social Tension.” 52. Izumi, “Burajiru no Nikkei koroniya,” 127. 53. Izumi, “Preliminary Report on the Study of Social Tension.” 54. Kumasaka and Saitō, “Kachigumi,” 167–175.

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55. Izumi, “Summary of Visits and Observation Work”; Izumi, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni, 149. Izumi Kimiko recovered ­a fter a period of rest in a sanatorium. 56. Letter from Izumi Seiichi to Cyro Berkinck, Nov. 19, 1956, no. 358, file 21, Izumi Seiichi ākaibu. 57. Izumi Seiichi, “Joron,” in Izumi, Imin, 1–4. 58. Shima Kiyoshi, “Imin fune no chōsa,” in Izumi, Imin, 570. 59. Ōno Morio, “Imin to bunka,” in Ratenteki Nihonjin Burajirujin Nisei no hatsugen, ed. Ōno Morio (Nihon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai, 1969), 17. 60. Izumi Seiichi, “Imin no jinruigakuteki kenkyū hōhō ni kansuru ichi shiron,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 2, 253. 61. For recent scholarship on dōka in the Japa­nese empire, see Komagome Takeshi, Shokuminchi teikoku Nihon no bunka tōgō (Iwanami Shoten, 1996); Michael Weiner, “The Invention of Identity: Race and Nation in Pre-­War Japan,” in The Construction of Racial Identities in China and Japan, ed. Frank Dikötter (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1997), 96–117; Ishida Takeshi, Kioku to bōkyaku no seijigaku: Dōka seisaku, sensō sekinin, shūgōteki kioku (Akashi Shoten, 2000); Mark E. Caprio, Japa­nese Assimilation Policies in Colonial K ­ orea, 1910–1945 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2009); Jun Uchida, Brokers of Empire: Japa­nese Settler Colonialism in ­Korea, 1876–1945 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Asia Center, 2011). 62. Robert E. Park, Introduction to the Science of Sociology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1921), 735. 63. Fred Matthews, Quest for an American Sociology: Robert E. Park and the Chicago School (Montreal: McGill-­Queen’s University Press, 1977); Stow Persons, Ethnic Studies at Chicago 1905–1945 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1986). 64. Emory S. Bogardus, “Current Prob­lems of Japanese-­Americans,” Sociology and Social Research 25 (1940–1941): 562. 65. On the range of con­temporary meanings of Nikkei, see Lane Ryo Hirabayashi, “Pathways to Power: Comparative Perspectives on the Emergence of Nikkei Ethnic Po­liti­cal Traditions,” in New Worlds, New Lives: Globalization and ­People of Japa­nese Descent in the Amer­i­cas and from Latin Amer­i­ca in Japan, ed. Lane Ryo Hirabayashi, Akemi Kikumura-­Yano, and James A. Hirabayashi (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2002), 159–178; Jeffrey Lesser, “Japa­nese, Brazilians, Nikkei: A Short History of Identity Building and Homemaking,” in Searching for Home Abroad: Japa­nese Brazilians and Transnationalism, ed. Jeffrey Lesser (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003), 5–19; Millie Creighton, “Meta­phors of Japanese-­ness and Negotiations of Nikkei Identity,” in Japa­nese and Nikkei at Home and Abroad, ed. Nobuko Adachi (Amherst, NY: Cambria Press, 2010), 133–162. 66. E.g., Wako, “Bauru kannai no hōjin,” 10; Noda, “Nanbei jijō,” 275. 67. On the politics of terminology, see Tomoko Sakuma, “Language, Culture and Ethnicity: Interplay of Ideologies within a Japa­nese Community in Brazil” (PhD diss., University of Texas at Austin, 2011), 21–24. 68. Maeyama Takashi, Ihō ni ‘Nihon’ o inaru: Burajiru Nikkeijin no shūkyō to esunishiteī (Ochanomizu Shobō, 1997), 111.

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69. Joshua Hotaka Roth, Brokered Homeland: Japa­nese Brazilian Mi­grants in Japan (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2002), 27–28. 70. Robert E. Park, “­Behind Our Masks,” Survey 56, no. 3 (1926): 138. 71. Izumi, “­Toward Understanding the Prob­lem of Acculturation,” 2–3. 72. Gamō Masao, “Amazōniya ni okeru Nikkei koroniya no dōka katei,” in Izumi, Imin, 478. 73. Izumi, “Burajiru no Nikkei koroniya,” 101. 74. Izumi Seiichi, “Amazon kaihatsu keikaku to Nikkei Nisei no mondai,” unpub­ lished draft (undated), no. 202, Izumi Seiichi ākaibu. 75. Centro de Estudos Nipo-­Brasileiros, Burajiru Nikkeijin no ishiki chōsa, 13; Nomura Jōgo, “Burajiru ijū nanajū nen ni omou,” in Kaigai ijū no igi o motomete: Burajiru ijū 70 shūnen kinen “Nihonjin no kaigai ijū ni kansuru shinpojiumu,” ed. Gaimushō (Gaimushō Kokusai Kyokuyoku Jigyōdan, 1978), 37. 76. Shima Kiyoshi, “Chihō kotoshi no Nikkei koroniya,” in Izumi, Imin, 454, 456. 77. Izumi Seiichi, “Acculturation among the Japa­nese Agricultural Immigrants in Brazil,” in Proceedings of the World Population Conference, 1954, ed. World Population Conference (New York: United Nations, 1955), 475. 78. Izumi, “Burajiru no Nikkei koroniya,” 115. 79. Quoted in Yukio Fujii, “The Acculturation of the Japa­nese Immigrants in Brazil” (PhD diss., University of Florida at Gainesville, 1959), 30. 80. Jeffrey Lesser, A Discontented Diaspora: Japa­nese Brazilians and the Meanings of Ethnic Militancy, 1960–1980 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), xxvii; Umesao Tadao, “Kaigai ijū no bunmeishiteki ishiki,” in Gaimushō, Kaigai ijū no igi o motomete, 17–30. 81. Fukutake Tadashi, ed., Kaigai imin ga boson ni oyoboshita eikyō (Mainichi Shinbunsha Jinkō Mondai Chōsakai, 1953), 1. 82. Shima, “Imin fune no chōsa,” 571; Nakamura Kajū, Nanbei wa maneku (Shōheidō, 1953), 2. 83. Mori Kōichi, “Burajiru Nihon imin, Nikkei ‘kenkyū’ no kaiko to tenbō,” in Burajiru Nihon imin: Hyaku nen no kiseki, ed. Maruyama Hiroaki (Meiseki Shobō, 2010), 23. 84. Ueno Hideo, “Gamō Masao,” in Ayabe, Bunka jinruigaku gunzō, 433–450; Tada Fumio, Amazon no shizen to shakai (Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1957). 85. Suzuki Teiiti, Burajiru no Nihon imin (University of Tokyo Press, 1964). 86. Russell A. Kazal, “Revisiting Assimilation: The Rise, Fall, and Reappraisal of a Concept in American Ethnic History,” American Historical Review 100, no. 2 (1995): 437. Impor­tant recent works on the construction of the model minority ste­reo­t ype in­ clude Ellen D. Wu, The Color of Success: Asian Americans and the Origins of the Model Minority (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2014); and Madeline Y. Hsu, The Good Immigrants: How the Yellow Peril Became the Model Minority (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2015). 87. Izumi, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni, 155.

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C H A P T E R  7 1. I have ­adopted the translation of the expedition series title used in Tokyo Daigaku Andesu Chitai Gakujutsu Chōsadan, Andesu: Tokyo Daigaku Andesu Chitai Gakujutsu Chōsadan hōkoku (Bijutsu Shuppansha, 1961). 2. On the history of Japa­nese archaeology, see Fumiko Ikawa-­Smith, “Co-­Traditions in Japa­nese Archaeology,” World Archaeology 13, no.  3 (1982): 296–309; Tanaka Migaku, Gendai to kōkogaku (Iwanami Shoten, 1986); Clare Fawcett, “The Politics of Assimilation in Japa­nese Archaeology,” Archaeological Review from Cambridge 5, no. 1 (1986): 43–57; Teshigawara Akira, Nihon kōkogaku no ayumi (Meicho Shuppan, 1995); Walter Edwards, “In Pursuit of Himiko: Postwar Archaeology and the Location of Yamatai,” Monumenta Nipponica 51, no. 1 (1996): 53–79; William Wayne Farris, Sacred Texts and Buried Trea­sures: Issues in the Historical Archaeology of Ancient Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1998); Kōji Mizoguchi, Archaeology, Society and Identity in Modern Japan (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006); Hyung Il Pai, Heritage Management in ­Korea and Japan: The Politics of Antiquity and Identity (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2013); Junko Habu, Clare Fawcett, and John M. Matsunaga, eds., Evaluating Multiple Narratives: Beyond Nationalist, Colonialist, Imperialist Archaeologies (New York: Springer, 2008). 3. Izumi Seiichi, Inka teikoku no tanken (Akane Shobō, 1966), 16. 4. Nanba, Nanbei fugen taikan; Amano Yoshitarō, Chūnanbei no yokogao (Asahi Shinbunsha, 1940); Tanaka Kōtarō, Raten Amerika kikō (Iwanami Shoten, 1940); “Mezurashii akago no miira: Perū kara motte kite,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Aug. 2, 1924; Seki Yūji, “Tokyo Daigaku bunka jinruigaku kyōshitsu no Andesu kōkogaku chōsa: Izumi Seiichi o chūshin ni,” in Yamaji, Nihon no jinruigaku, 523. 5. Torii Ryūzō, “Burajiru no jinruigaku” (orig. 1938), Torii Ryūzō, “Inka no bunka ni oite” (orig. 1938), and Torii Ryūzō, “Inka no iseki o tazunete” (orig. 1938), in Torii Ryūzō zenshū (Asahi Shinbunsha, 1976), 347–353, 354–373, 373–381. 6. C. Harvey Gardiner, Pawns in a Triangle of Hate: The Peruvian Japa­nese and the United States (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1981), 1–79; Daniel C. Masterson with Sayaka Funada-­Classen, The Japa­nese in Latin Amer­i­ca (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2004), 34–121. 7. Terada Kazuo, Andesu kyōyō ryokō (Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1962), 7; Seiichi Higashide, Adios to Tears: The Memoirs of a Japanese-­Peruvian Internee in U.S. Concentration Camps (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2000), 66–67; Terada Kazuo and Iijima Tatsuo, Inka no hihō (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1969), 112–113. 8. For Amano’s autobiography, see Amano Yoshitarō, Waga toraware no ki: Dai niji taisen to Chūnanbei imin (Chūō Kōronsha, 1983). 9. Izumi, “Personal History and Application for a Fellowship in Social Science.” 10. U.S. Department of Commerce, Current Population Reports: Consumer Income (Washington, DC: Bureau of the Census, 1957), 2. 11. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 325; “Fellowship for Mr.  Seiichi Izumi,” May 22, 1956, file 5314, box 358, series 609, RG 10.1, Izumi Seiichi.

258  N O T E S T O P A G E S 1 6 8 – 1 7 2

12. Fumiko Ikawa-­Smith, interview by Miriam Kingsberg Kadia, Oct. 22, 2014, Montreal, Canada. 13. Letter from Izumi Seiichi to Erskine W. McKinley, date unknown, no. 343, box 21, Izumi Seiichi ākaibu. 14. Letter from Izumi Seiichi to Erskine W. McKinley, Oct. 18, 1957, file 5314, box 358, series 609, RG 10.1, Izumi Seiichi. 15. Ishida’s publications on the Maya w ­ ere collected in Ishida Eiichirō, Maya bunmei: Sekaishi ni nokoru nazo (Chūō Kōronsha, 1967); Ishida Eiichirō, Maya no shinden (Kōdansha, 1978). 16. On Terada’s life and c­ areer, see Terada Yasuko, ed., Ko Terada Kazuo Hakase bunshō (Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1987). 17. Iida Taku, “Nihon jinruigaku to shikakuteki masu medeiā—­Taishū aka­ demizumu ni miru minzokushiteki denpen,” in Shokuminchi shugi to jinruigaku, ed. Yamaji Katsuhiko and Tanaka Masakazu (Nishinomiya-­shi: Kansai Gakuin Daigaku Shuppankai, 2002), 646; Iida Taku, “Shōwa sanjū nendai no kaigai gakujutsu eku­ supedeishon: ‘Nihon jinruigaku’ no sengo to masu medeiā,” Kokuritsu Minzokugaku Hakubutsukan hōkoku 31, no. 2 (2007): 248, 252. 18. “Jittai chōsa ikkan,” MK 28, no. 1 (1964): 122–145; “Jittai chōsa (chiiki betsu) ikkan,” MK 34, no. 3 (1969): 289–325. 19. Takeda Yoshifumi, Inka no yama o saguru: Perū, Andesu tanken (Hōbundō, 1960); Hamano Yoshio, Andesu kara Himaraya e (Hakusuisha, 1966). 20. Ōnuki Yoshio, “ ‘Andesu kōkogaku iseki hakkutsu gojū nen no jiseki’ sono 1—­Andesu de saisho no hakkutsu ‘Kotoshu iseki’ de hakken,” Kyosei no bunka kenkyū 4 (2010): 4. 21. “Inka bunmei o saguru dai chōsatai,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Mar. 29, 1958, 7; “Andesu chōsadan,” Yomiuri Shinbun, June 5, 1958, 7. 22. “Sabaku ni umoreta sekizō iseki o shin hakken,” Yomiuri Shinbun, July 19, 1958, 5. 23. Robert  H. Berkov, “The Press in Postwar Japan,” Far Eastern Survey 16, no. 14 (1947): 162–166; William Marotti, Money, Trains, and Guillotines: Culture and Revolution in 1960s Japan (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2013), 141. 24. Namio Egami, The Tokyo University Iraq-­Iran Expedition Report 1: Telul Eth Thalathat; The Excavation of Tell II, 1956–1957 (Institute of Oriental Culture, University of Tokyo, 1958), i–­iii. 25. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 330. 26. Izumi, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni, 223. 27. Robert Wood, “Kotosh,” Amer­i­cas 20, no. 10 (1968): 36. 28. Ōnuki, “ ‘Andesu kōkogaku iseki hakkutsu gojū nen no jiseki’ sono 1,” 9–12. 29. Izumi Seiichi, “Kotoshu iseki no hakkutsu” (orig. 1961), in Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 4: Andesu no kodai bunka (Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1971), 46; Seki Yūji and Kimura Hideo, eds., Rekishi no sanmyaku: Nihonjin ni yoru Andesu kenkyū no kaiko to tenbō (Osaka: Kokuritsu Minzokugaku Hakubutsukan, 2005); Seki, “Tokyo Daigaku bunka jinruigaku kyōshitsu no Andesu kōkogaku chōsa,” 538. 30. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 356–357.

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31. Terada, Andesu kyōyō ryokō, 58. 32. Izumi, “Kotoshu iseki no hakkutsu,” 40; Gordon R. Willey, An Introduction to American Archaeology, vol. 2, South Amer­i­ca (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1971), 102–104; Yoshio Ōnuki and Izumi Shimada, “Obituary: Kazuo Terada, 1928– 1987,” American Antiquity 54, no. 2 (1989): 242. 33. Clifford Evans, “Review: Andes 2, Excavations at Kotosh, Peru,” American Anthropologist 67, no. 1 (1965): 162. 34. Tokyo Daigaku Andesu Chitai Gakujutsu Chōsadan, Andesu, ii. 35. Ramiro Matos Mendieta, “Peru: Some Comments,” in History of Latin American Archaeology, ed. Augusto Oyuela-­Caycado (Brookfield, VT: Avebury, 1994), 104–123. 36. Terada Kazuo, Andesu hitori aruki (Nihon Keizai Shinbunsha, 1977), 172. 37. Izumi Seiichi, “Kotoshu hakkutsu gojitsudan” (orig. 1964), in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 4, 65; Ōnuki Yoshio, “Nihonjin no Andesu senshigaku yonjūgo nen,” in Seki and Kimura, Rekishi no sanmyaku, 17. 38. Yoshio Ōnuki, “The Archaeological Excavations and the Protection of Cultural Heritage in Relation with the Local Society: Experiences in Peru,” Archaeologies 3, no. 2 (2007): 99–115; Izumi Seiichi, Pedro J. Cuculiza, and Kano Chiaki, Excavations at Shillacoto, Huánuco, Peru (University Museum, University of Tokyo, 1972), i. 39. “Andesu no iseki o saguru,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Oct.  16, 1960, 5; Ōnuki and Shimada, “Obituary,” 243. 40. Archaeologists ­today differ regarding the terminal date of the Kofun pe­ riod, with most estimates falling between the late sixth and late seventh centuries. Mizoguchi, Archaeology of Japan, 27. On the excavation of Tsukinowa, see Kondō Yoshirō, ed., Tsukinowa kofun (Okayama City: Tsukinowa Kankōkai, 1960). 41. Matsuura Sōzō, “Kokumin seikatsu no henka,” in Shōwa no sengoshi, vol. 3, ed. Matsuura Sōzō (Chōbunsha, 1976), 210–232; Clare Fawcett, “Nationalism and Postwar Japa­nese Archaeology,” in Nationalism, Politics, and the Practice of Archaeology, ed. Philip L. Kohl and Clare Fawcett (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 236. 42. Izumi Seiichi, Inka teikoku (Iwanami Shoten, 1959); Izumi Seiichi, Inka no so­ sentachi (Bungei Shunjū Shinsha, 1962). Inka teikoku was reprinted more than forty times. Both the Yomiuri Shinbun and the Asahi Shinbun advertised the work within weeks of its appearance. See “Inka teikoku: Izumi cho shohyō,” Asahi Shinbun, July 3, 1959, 7; “Iwanami Shinsho shigo no sekai Inka teikoku/Iwanami Shoten,” Yomiuri Shinbun, June 24, 1959, 10; “Inka teikoku Iwanami Shinsho/Iwanami Shoten,” July 13, 1959, 1; “Inka teikoku Iwanami Shinsho,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Aug. 13, 1959, 1. 43. References to the ancient Andes and the Scientific Expedition to the Andes ap­ peared in 270 headlines during this twelve-­year period. https://­database​-­yomiuri​-­co​ -­jp. Accessed Nov. 14, 2018. 44. Bin Umino, Kyo Kageura, and Shinichi Toda, “A Sixty-­Year History and Analy­sis of the Japa­nese Publishing Industry: A Statistical Analy­sis of Circulation,” Publishing Research Quarterly 26 (2010): 277. 45. Bruce Suttmeier, “Seeing Past Destruction: War and Memory in 1960s Japa­nese Fiction” (PhD diss., Stanford University, 2002), 32; Mats Karlsson, “An Alternative

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View of Tenkō: Hayashi Fusao’s Popu­lar Writings for Shinseinen,” Japa­nese Studies 32, no. 1 (2012): 61–76; Hayashi Fusao, “Sabaku to jangaru: Shiro to midori no tairiku Amerika kikō,” Bungei shunjū 36, no. 13 (1958): 283. 46. Hayashi Fusao, “Inka teikoku e no tabi,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Apr. 15, 1958, 3. 47. J.  F. Normano and Antonelli Gerbi, The Japa­nese in South Amer­i­c a: An Introductory Survey with Special Reference to Peru (New York: Institute of Pacific Relations, 1943), 61–64; Alfredo González-­Ruibal, “Colonialism and Eu­ro­p ean Archaeology,” in Handbook of Postcolonial Archaeology, ed. Jane Lydon and Uzma Z. Rizvi (Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press, 2010), 42. 48. Tanaka, Raten Amerika kikō, 412; Ishida Eiichirō, ed., Zusetsu sekai bunkashi taikei 11: Amerika, Oseaniā (Kadokawa Shoten, 1959), 258; Gardiner, Pawns in a Triangle of Hate, 18. In April 2013, the Lima municipality renovated and rededicated Manco Capac Plaza with the support of the Japa­nese government and diaspora institutions. 49. Fukunaka Mataji, Inka teikoku to Nihonjin (Kokusai Bunka Kenkyū Kyōkai, 1940), 1–4, 252–66. I have found no references to this book in any work published a­ fter 1945. 50. Ishida Eiichirō, Japa­nese Culture: A Study of Origins and Characteristics, trans. Teruko Kachi (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1974), 114; Ishida Eiichirō, “Saiko no Amerika,” in Ishida Eiichirō zenshū 7: Maya bunmei (Chikuma Shobō, 1971), 115, 120; Ishida Eiichirō, “Rēman cho Kawada Junzō yaku ‘Amerika tairiku no kodai bun­ mei’ jo,” and “Shin tairiku no kodai bunmei,” in Ishida Eiichirō zenshū 8: Jinrui to bunmei no tanjō (Chikuma Shobō, 1972), 321, 178. 51. Hayashi, “Sabaku to jangaru,” 279; Hayashi Fusao, “Shirarezaru imin no kuni,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Sept. 22, 1958, 9; Hayashi Fusao, “Higeki no minzoku no iseki,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Oct. 5, 1958, 11. 52. Margarita Díaz-­Andreu, A World History of Nineteenth-­Century Archaeology: Nationalism, Colonialism, and the Past (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 127. 53. Ishida, Zusetsu sekai bunkashi taikei 11, 145, 266. 54. Kerry Ross, “­Little Works of Art: Photography, Camera Clubs, and Demo­ cratizing Everyday Life in Early Twentieth-­Century Japan,” Japan Forum 25 (2005): 425–457; Izumi Seiichi, Purē Inka fukushoku zuroku, kaisetsu (San’ichi Shobō, 1964); Nbakki, “Changes in Wage-­Workers Salaries in Japan, 1950–2013,” Hatenablog, June 10, 2015, http://­nbakki​.­hatenablog​.­com​/­entry​/­Changes​_­Wage​-­Workers​_ ­Salary​_­1950​-­2013. 55. Iiyama Tatsuo, “Mongoroido-­zoku ni Nihon o mita,” Shio 114 (1969): 184, 185. 56. Ishida, Zusetsu sekai bunkashi taikei 11, 1–3. 57. Bruce Suttmeier, “Ethnography as Consumption: Travel and National Identity in Oda Makoto’s Nan de mite yarō,” Journal of Japa­nese Studies 35, no. 1 (2009): 71. 58. Izumi, Fuīrudo nōto yachō, 1967; Izumi Seiichi, “Chūō Andesu no iseki,” in Sekai furesshu ryokō, ed. Nihon Kōtsū Kōsha (Nihon Kōtsū Kōsha, 1967), 156–168. 59. Shunsuke Tsurumi, A Cultural History of Postwar Japan, 1945–1980 (New York: Methuen, 1987), 63. 60. “Andesu Chōsadan kikoku hōkoku,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Oct. 5, 1958, 11; “Isai o hanasu Inka rando,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Nov. 14, 1958, 9.

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61. Seki, “Tokyo Daigaku bunka jinruigaku kyōshitsu no Andesu kōkogaku chōsa,” 559; Iida, “Nihon jinruigaku to shikakuteki masu medeiā,” 650. 62. Hani Susumu and Hidari Sachiko, Andesu ryokō (Tokkan Shoten, 1966), 18, 35, 39, 208–209, 222; Fukuzawa Tetsuya, “Andesu no hanayome,” Kinema junpō 418 (1966): 116–117. 63. “1966 nendo besuto ten,” Kinema junpō 432 (1967): 26, 43. 64. “Hani purodakushon,” Kinema junpō 400 (1965), 7; Iida Shinbi, “Andesu no hanayome,” Kinema junpō 423 (1966): 44. 65. Jeffrey Middents, Writing National Cinema: Film Journals and Film Culture in Peru (Hanover, NH: Dartmouth College Press, 2009), 92–94. 66. Creighton, “Maintaining Cultural Bound­aries in Retailing,” 675–709. 67. Seki, “Tokyo Daigaku bunka jinruigaku kyōshitsu no Andesu kōkogaku chōsa,” 556. 68. “Mikasanomiya no te de kaimaku,” Yomiuri Shinbun, May 8, 1958, 5. 69. “Inka teikoku bunka ten,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Apr.  3, 1958, 7; Tsunoyama Yukihiro and Amano Yoshitarō, eds., Andesu no senshoku: Amano Hakubutsukan senshoku zuroku (Kyoto: Dōhōsha, 1977), 12. 70. Tsunoyama and Amano, Andesu no senshoku, 2–3; Fujii Tatsuhiko, “Chūō Andesu no Chankai bunka to Amano Hakubutsukan ni tsuite,” Kokuritsu Minzokugaku Hakubutsukan kenkyū jōkoku 2, no. 1 (1977): 224. 71. Seki, “Tokyo Daigaku bunka jinruigaku kyōshitsu no Andesu kōkogaku chōsa,” 556. 72. “Perū seifu ga shuppin kyōryoku,” Yomiuri Shinbun, Apr. 16, 1958, 9. 73. Okamoto Tarō, “On Jōmon Ceramics,” trans. Jonathan M. Reynolds, Art in Translation 1, no. 1 (2009): 52. 74. Okamoto Tarō, “Tamashii no soko kara no kandō,” Yomiuri Shinbun, May 9, 1958, 3; Okamoto Tarō, “Purē Koronbia geijutsu no gendaiteki igi,” in Sekai bijutsu zenshū 24: Amerika, ed. Ishida Eiichirō (Kadokawa Shoten, 1965), 207–209; Setagaya Bijutsukan, Setagaya jidai 1946–1954 no Okamoto Tarō (Setagaya Bijutsukan, 2007), 72–75. 75. “Kōtaishi gotsuma Inka kōkinden e,” Yomiuri Shinbun, May 6, 1961, 7; “Nesshin ni ‘hihō’ kengaku Perū daitōryō ra ‘Inka ten’ e,” Yomiuri Shinbun, May 13, 1961, 11. 76. “Ryō heika, Inka ōgon ten e,” Yomiuri Shinbun, May 4, 1961, 7; Morris Low, Japan on Display: Photography and the Emperor (New York: Routledge, 2006). 77. “Ryō heika, Inka ōgon ten e,” 7. 78. Antoinette Molinié, “The Resurrection of the Inca: The Role of Indian Repre­ sen­ta­tions in the Invention of the Peruvian Nation,” History and Anthropology 15, no. 3 (2004): 233–250; Alberto Flores Galindo, In Search of an Inca: Identity and Utopia in the Andes, ed. and trans. Carlos Agirre, Charles F. Walker, and Wilkie Hiatt (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 79. Louis Baudin, A Socialist Empire: The Incas of Peru, ed. Arthur Goddard, trans. Katherine Wood (Prince­ton, NJ: Van Nostrand, 1961), xi, 210. 80. Aoki Tamotsu, “Nihon bunkaron” no hen’yō (Chūō Kōronsha, 1990), 53–63.

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81. Aoki, “Nihon bunkaron” no hen’yō, 64–80; Conrad, Quest for the Lost Nation, 32–78. 82. According to Marx, spirituality was a “superstructure” both enabled and neces­ sitated by the surplus produced by an agricultural “base.” By contrast, Izumi’s work at Kotosh suggested that temple-­centered religious activities w ­ ere interwoven into the very pro­cess of adopting maize cultivation. In other words, religious practice did not simply absorb burgeoning resources, but also impelled change in the economic base of society. Izumi, Inka teikoku, 45–128. 83. Masao Maruyama, Thought and Be­hav­ior in Modern Japa­nese Politics, trans. Ivan Morris (New York: Oxford University Press, 1963), 1–24. This essay was first pub­ lished in Japa­nese in 1946. 84. Shibusawa Keizō, “Nanbei tsūshin” (orig. 1958), in Shibusawa Keizō chosakushū 4: Nanbei tsūshin (Heibonsha, 1992), 33–62. 85. Aoki, “Nihon bunkaron” no hen’yō, 81–125. 86. E.g., Doi Takeo, ‘Amae’ no kōzō (Kōbundō, 1966); Ishida Eiichirō, Nihon bunkaron (Chikuma Shobō, 1969); Egami Namio, Nihon bijutsu no tanjō (Heibonsha, 1969); Odaka Kunio, Nihon no kei’ei (Chūō Kōronsha, 1974). On Nihonjinron, see Peter Dale, The Myth of Japa­nese Uniqueness (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986); Harumi Befu, The Hegemony of Homogeneity: An Anthropological Analy­sis of Nihonjinron (Melbourne: Trans Pacific Press, 2001). 87. Terada, Andesu hitori aruki, 180; Terada Kazuo, Inka teikoku to Perū, Inka bunmei (Nihon Bunka Kaigi, 1978), 8; Terada Kazuo, “Iseki to yūkō: Perū de hakkutsu” (orig. 1983), in Terada, Ko Terada Kazuo Hakase bunshō, 35. 88. Ōnuki, “ ‘Andesu kōkogaku iseki hakkutsu gojū nen no jiseki’ sono 1” 13. 89. Masuda Yoshio, Inka teikoku tankenki (Chūō Kōronsha, 1961), 189, 131, 69. 90. Masuda Yoshio, Junsui bunka no jōken: Nihon bunka wa shōgeki ni dō taeta ka (Kōdansha, 1967), 25. 91. Quoted in Kano Chiaki, Inka teikoku no kōbō: Taiyō to ōgon no kuni no shinpi ni semaru (Sanpo Jānaru, 1978), 122. 92. Izumi, Purē Inka fukushoku zuroku, kaisetsu, 36. 93. Terada Kazuo, “Andesu no hito to sekai” (orig. 1983), in Terada, Ko Terada Kazuo Hakase bunshō, 19; Masuda Yoshio and Yanagida Toshio, Perū: Taiheiyō to Andesu no kuni: Kindaishi to Nikkei shakai (Chūō Kōron Shinsha, 1999), 304–305; Steven Masami Ropp, “Japa­nese Ethnicity and Peruvian Nationalism in the 1990s: Transnational Imaginaries and Alternative Hegemonies” (PhD diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 2003), 109–124. 94. Nakayama Masao, Nihonjin koko ni ari: Nanboku Amerika Nikkei imin o tazunete (Taihei Shuppan Kabushiki Kaisha, 1967), 108. 95. Fujikawa Tatsuo, Nanbei no Nikkei koronia (Nihon Kaigai Ijū Kenkyūkai Rengōkai, 1966), 141, 164; A. Blake Friscia, “Japa­nese Economic Relations with Latin Amer­i­ca: An Overview,” in Japan and Latin Amer­i­ca in the New Global Order, ed. Susan Kaufman Purcell and Robert M. Immerman (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner, 1992), 5–67; Kōtarō Horisaka, “Japan’s Economic Relations with Latin Amer­i­ca,” in

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Japan, the United States, and Latin Amer­i­ca: ­Toward a Trilateral Relationship in the Western Hemi­sphere, ed. Barbara Stallings and Gabriel Székely (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 49–76. C H A P T E R  8 1. “Population Pyramids of the World: Japan 1968,” Populationpyramid​.­net, https://­ www​.­populationpyramid​.­net​/­japan​/­1968​/­, accessed Dec. 7, 2017. 2. Arthur Marwick, “ ‘1968’ and the Cultural Revolution of the Long Sixties (c. 1958–­c. 1974),” in Transnational Moments of Change: Eu­rope 1945, 1968, 1989, ed. Gerd-­ Rainer Horn and Padraic Kenney (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2004), 81. 3. For a recent exception, see William Marotti, “Japan 1968: The Per­for­mance of Vio­lence and the Theater of Protest,” American Historical Review 114, no. 1 (2009): 97–135. 4. E.g., Nikhil Paul Kapur, “The 1960 U.S.-­Japan Security Treaty Crisis and the Origins of Con­temporary Japan” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2011), 11; Donald Frederick Wheeler, “The Japa­nese Student Movement: Value Politics, Student Politics and the Tokyo University Strug­gle” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1974), 259. 5. Novick, That Noble Dream, 469. 6. C. Wright Mills, The So­cio­log­i­cal Imagination (New York: Oxford University Press, 1959); Thomas Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962). 7. Novick, That Noble Dream, 548; Thomas  C. Patterson, A Social History of Anthropology in the United States (New York: Berg, 2001), 123. 8. Kathleen Gough, “New Proposals for Anthropologists,” Current Anthropology 9, no. 5 (1968): 403. 9. Gerald D. Berreman, “Is Anthropology Alive? Social Responsibility in Social Anthropology,” Current Anthropology 9, no. 5 (1968): 391–392. 10. Price, Cold War Anthropology, 64, 32. 11. Bronisław Malinowski, A Diary in the Strict Sense of the Term, intro. Raymond Firth, trans. Norman Guterman (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1989). 12. Ienaga Saburō, Daigaku no jiyū no rekishi (Hanawa Shobō, 1962), 210. 13. Ishida Eiichirō, “Genchi chōsa to bunken chōsa,” MK 25, no. 3 (1961): 58-50; Kawakita Jirō, “Ishida kyōju ni ōete,” MK 25, no. 3 (1961): 62–63. 14. George Steinmetz, “The Genealogy of a Positivist Haunting: Comparing Prewar and Postwar U.S. Sociology,” Boundary 2 32, no. 2 (2005): 131; Nils Gilman, “Modernization: The Highest Stage of American Intellectual History,” in Staging Growth: Modernization, Development, and the Global Cold War, ed. David  C. Engerman, Nils Gilman, Mark  H. Haefele, and Michael  E. Latham (Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Press, 2003), 65–68. 15. Marius  B. Jansen, ed., Changing Japa­nese Attitudes t­oward Modernization (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1965); Victor Koschmann, “Modernization and Demo­cratic Values: The ‘Japa­nese Model’ in the 1960s,” in Engerman, Gilman, Haefele, and Latham, Staging Growth, 225–250.

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16. Adam Bronson, One Hundred Million Phi­los­o­phers: Science of Thought and the Culture of Democracy in Postwar Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2016); Kawagiri Nobuhiko, Okamoto Tarō: Geijutsu wa bakuhatsu ka (Chūsekisha, 2000); Hirano Akiomi, Okamoto Tarō no shigotoron (Nihon Keizai Shinbun Shuppansha, 2011). 17. Quoted in Izumi Seiichi, Bunmei o motta seibutsu (Nihon Hōsō Shuppan Kyōkai, 1966), 160–161. 18. Ibid., 172–183. 19. Nihon Bankoku Hakurankai Kyōkai, Japan World Exposition, Osaka, 1970: Official Report of the Japan World Exposition, vol. 1 (Suita City: Commemorative Association for the Japan World Exposition, 1972), 8. 20. Okamoto Tarō, Izumi Seiichi, and Umesao Tadao, Sekai no kamen to shinzō (Asahi Shinbunsha, 1970), 39. 21. Sandra Wilson, “Exhibiting a New Japan: The Tokyo Olympics of 1964 and Expo ’70 in Osaka,” Historical Research 85, no. 227 (2012): 168. 22. Seung-­Mi Han, “Know Thy Neighbor, Know Thyself: ­Korea and Japan through the Anthropological Looking Glass,” JRCA 16 (2015): 209–223. 23. Izumi Seiichi, “Kankoku no ‘kōkogaku’ ” (orig. 1966), in Izumi, Bunka no naka no ningen, 129–158. 24. Izumi Seiichi, “ ‘Futō raireki’ kō” (orig. 1969), in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 1, 372–390. 25. Itoh Abito, “Japa­nese Research on K ­ orea,” JRCA 2 (2001): 39–64. 26. Izumi, “Saishūtō no minzokushi”; Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 368; Ogawa, “Chiiki kenkyū naritatsushi no ichidanmen,” 55–64. 27. Kim and Izumi, “Saishūtō—­f urusato,” 370. 28. Henry DeWitt Smith II, “The Origins of Student Radicalism in Japan,” Journal of Con­temporary History 5, no. 1 (1970): 98. 29. Bronson, One Hundred Million Phi­los­o­phers, 188; Naoko Koda, “Amer­i­ca’s Cold War and the Japa­nese Student Movement, 1948–1973” (PhD diss., New York University, 2015), 48. 30. Thomas R. H. Havens, Fire across the Sea: The Vietnam War and Japan (Prince­ ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1987), 29, 130. 31. Miyori Nakazawa, “A Rhetorical Analy­sis of the Japa­nese Student Movement: University of Tokyo Strug­gle 1968–69” (PhD diss., Northwestern University, 1989), 50. 32. Ienaga, Daigaku no jiyū no rekishi, 255. 33. Ibid., 260, 213. 34. Michio Nagai and Jerry Dusenbury, Higher Education in Japan: Its Take-­Off and Crash (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1971), 3. 35. Oguma Eiji, “What Was and Is ‘1968’? Japa­nese Experience in Global Perspective,” Asia-­Pacific Journal: Japan Focus 26, issue 11, no. 6 (2018): 7. 36. Ibid., 6. 37. Oguma Eiji, 1968 (jo): Wakamono tachi no hanran to sono haikei (Shin’yōsha, 2009), 46–57.

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38. Ibid., 52. 39. Wheeler, “Japa­nese Student Movement,” 280–281. 40. Oguma, “What Was and Is ‘1968’?,” 7. 41. Nakazawa, “Rhetorical Analy­sis of the Japa­nese Student Movement,” 68. 42. Hans Kundnani, Utopia or Auschwitz: Germany’s 1968 Generation and the Holocaust (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009); Moses, German Intellectuals and the Nazi Past; Rita Chin, Heide Fehrenbach, Geoff Eley, and Atina Grossmann, ­After the Nazi Racial State: Difference and Democracy in Germany and Eu­rope (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2009); Arnulf Baring, “West Germany As We Knew It—­ An Episode?,” in Legacies and Ambiguities: Postwar Fiction and Culture in West Germany and Japan, ed. Ernestine Schlant and J. Thomas Rimer (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991), 35–61; Heinz Beide, “The German Kriegskinder: Origins and Impact of the Generation of 1968,” in Rosman, Generations in Conflict, 290–305. 43. Oguma Eiji, “Japan’s 1968: A Collective Reaction to Rapid Economic Growth in an Age of Turmoil,” trans. Nick Kapur with Samuel Malissa and Stephen Poland, Asia-­Pacific Journal: Japan Focus 13, issue 11, no. 1 (2015): 3. 44. Oguma, 1968 (jo), 76–78. 45. Quoted in Nakazawa, “Rhetorical Analy­sis of the Japa­n ese Student Movement,” 184. 46. Ienaga, Daigaku no jiyū no rekishi, 193–195; Guy Yasko, “The Japa­nese Student Movement, 1968–1970: The Zenkyōtō Uprising” (PhD diss., Cornell University, 1997), 106–124. 47. Yasko, “Japa­nese Student Movement, 1968–1970,” 140–141; Kazuko Tsurumi, “Some Comments on the Japa­nese Student Movement in the Sixties,” Journal of Con­ temporary History 5, no. 1 (1970): 110. 48. Yasko, “Japa­nese Student Movement, 1968–1970,” 25. 49. George Steinmetz, “Ideas in Exile: Refugees from Nazi Germany and the Failure to Transplant Historical Sociology into the United States,” International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society 23, no. 1 (2010): 1–27. 50. Seventh International Congress of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences Vol. 1 (Moscow: Nauka, 1964), 8; Oka Masao, “Dai hachikai Kokusai Jinruigaku Minzokugaku Kaigi o oete,” MK 33, nos. 3–4 (1969): 203. 51. Oka Masao, “Dai hachikai Kokusai Jinruigaku Minzokugaku Kaigi ni tsuite,” Minkan denshō 32, no. 2 (1968): 112. 52. Izumi, Fuīrudo nōto yachō, 53. 53. Nakane Chie, “Puroguramu ni tsuite,” Gakujutsu geppō 21, no. 9 (1968): 8–11; Nakane Chie, “Puroguramu o tantō shite,” MK 33, nos. 3–4 (1969): 206. 54. Letter from John B. Cornell to Robert J. Smith, Feb. 27, 1967, file 2, box 16, Robert J. Smith Papers, #14-25–3175, Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library. 55. Letter from Nakane Chie to Sol Tax, Jan. 9, 1968, file 4, box 48, Sol Tax Papers, 1923–1989, Archival Biographical Files, Special Collections Research Center, University of Chicago Library.

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56. Etō Seiji, “Kaigi no keika,” Gakujutsu geppō 21, no. 9 (1968): 6–8. 57. “Ekusukāshon hōkoku,” MK 33, nos. 3–4 (1969): 356–360; Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 371. 58. Oka, “Dai hachikai Kokusai Jinruigaku Minzokugaku Kaigi o oete,” 203; Oka Masao, “Dai hachikai Kokusai Jinruigaku Minzokugaku Kaigi o oete owaete,” Gakujutsu geppō 21, no. 9 (1968): 5–6. 59. Frisch J. Kitahara, “Attending the 8th International Congress of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences: Reflections on the Role of Anthropology in General Education,” Jōchi Daigaku Kagaku 1 (1968): 5, 9. 60. Toyomasa Fuse, “Student Radicalism in Japan: A ‘Cultural Revolution’?” Comparative Education Review 13, no. 3 (1969): 330. This figure represented an approxi­ mately fivefold increase over the number of students arrested in 1967. 61. Havens, Fire across the Sea, 184. 62. Fuse, “Student Radicalism in Japan,” 333. 63. Quoted in Yasko, “Japa­nese Student Movement, 1968–1970,” 90. 64. Kidder, View from the Trenches of Mitaka, 180. 65. Clare Fawcett, “Archaeology and Japa­nese Identity,” in Multicultural Japan: Paleolithic to Post-­Modern, ed. Donald Denoon, Mark Hudson, Gavan McCormack, and Tessa Morris-­Suzuki (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 62. 66. Kidder, View from the Trenches of Mitaka, 180. 67. Quoted in Nakazawa, “Rhetorical Analy­sis of the Japa­nese Student Movement,” 109, 141. 68. Letter from Itani Jun’ichirō to Sol Tax, Mar. 12, 1969, file 4, box 225, Current Anthropology Rec­ords. 69. Michiya Shimbori, T. Ban, K. Kono, H. Yamazaki, Y. Kano, M. Murakami, and T. Murakami, “Japa­nese Student Activism in the 1970s,” Higher Education 9, no. 2 (1980): 148. 70. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 286, 370; Hara Hiroko, “Henshū atogaki,” in Izumi, Izumi Seiichi chosakushū 7, 432. 71. Izumi, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni, 291–297. 72. Izumi Seiichi, “Bunka to daigaku: Bunka no naka no daigaku zō” (orig. 1969), in Izumi, Bunka no naka no ningen, 248–249. 73. Okamoto Tarō and Izumi Seiichi, Nihon rettō bunkaron (Daikōsha, 1970), 201–209. 74. Nakazawa, “Rhetorical Analy­sis of the Japa­nese Student Movement,” 68. 75. Izumi, “Yuruyaka na yamayama,” 373. 76. Ibid., 383. 77. Fuse, “Student Radicalism in Japan,” 331. 78. Tsurumi, “Some Comments on the Japa­nese Student Movement in the Sixties,” 108. 79. Wheeler, “Japa­nese Student Movement,” 338; Smith, Japan’s First Student Radicals, 271. 80. Wheeler, “Japa­nese Student Movement,” 353.

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81. Okamoto and Izumi, Nihon rettō bunkaron, 221. 82. Izumi, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni, 288. 83. Yama Yoshiyuki, “Saishūtō kenkyū no senkusha Izumi Seiichi: Saishūtō o megutte,” in Shimaguni bunka to ibunka sōgū: Haiyō sekai ga itanda koritsu to kyosei, ed. Mo­r ita Masaya (Nishinomiya-­shi: Kansei Gakuin Daigaku Shuppankai, 2015), 133–144. 84. Suzuki Teiichi, “Seiraku shūfū gobungen,” Izumi Seiichi chosakushū geppō 6 (1972): 1–3. 85. Umesao Tadao, “Izumi-­san to Minzokugaku Hakubutsukan,” in Izumi Seiichi chosakushū geppō 1 (1971): 1–3. 86. Izumi, Izumi Seiichi to tomo ni, 249; Fujiwara Hirotatsu, “Sake to gakumon,” Izumi Seiichi chosakushū geppō 2 (1971): 7. 87. Elaine Carey, “Introduction: Student Protests in the United States and Beyond in 1968,” in Protest in the Streets: 1968 across the Globe, ed. Elaine Carey (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 2016), xiv. 88. MK 34, no. 2 (1969); MK 34, no. 3 (1969). 89. Beide, “German Kriegskinder,” 292. 90. Daiji Kawaguchi and Wenjie Ma, “The Causal Effect of Graduating from a Top University on Promotion: Evidence from the University of Tokyo’s 1969 Admission Freeze,” Economics of Education Review 27 (2008): 184–196. 91. Shimbori et al., “Japa­nese Student Activism in the 1970s,” 143. 92. Nakazawa, “Rhetorical Analy­sis of the Japa­nese Student Movement,” 146; Shimbori et al., “Japa­nese Student Activism in the 1970s,” 144. 93. Izumi, Fuīrudo nōto yachō; Izumi Seiichi, “Minzokugaku kenkyū hakubutsu­ kan o,” Yomiuri Shinbun, May 15, 1969, 9. 94. “Kokuritsu minzokugaku kenkyū hakubutsukan setsuo ni tsuite no Nihon gakujutsu kaigi kenkoku,” MK 30, no. 1 (1965): 37. 95. Sofue, “Kokuritsu Minzokugaku Hakubutsukan no kaikan,” MK 42, no.  4 (1978): 386. 96. Ibid, 383–387; “What Is Minpaku?,” National Museum of Ethnology, Apr. 1, 2017, http://­w ww​.­minpaku​.­ac​.­jp​/­aboutus, accessed Mar. 13, 2018. 97. Egami Namio, “Izumi Seiichi kyōju to watashi,” Izumi Seiichi chosakushū geppō 2 (1971): 2. 98. Kano Katsuhiko, “Ningen Hakubutsukan Ritoru Wārudo: Tenji kōsō to kōsei,” Hakubutsukan kenkyū 18, no. 6 (1983): 8–15; Egami Namio, “Ningen Hakubutsukan Ritoru Wārudo ni tsuite,” ­Little World News 1 (1975): 3–4; Kuwahara Mikine, “Ritoru Wārudo jitsugen no tame ni,” ­Little World News 2 (1975): 2. 99. Yamada Shūzō, “Kubodera Itsuhiko hakase no shi o itamu,” MK 37, no. 1 (1972): 66; Yokota Ken’ichi, “Mishina Akihide hakase no seikyo,” MK 37, no. 1 (1972): 66–67. 100. “Zenkoku no daigaku ni okeru minzokugaku, jinruigaku kankei no kōgi ikkan,” MK 34, no. 2 (1969): 165. 101. Oguma, “Japan’s 1968,” 8.

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INDEX

Photographs indicated by page numbers in italics A Adachi, Nobuko, 251n2 Ainu, 130–140; introduction, 12, 130; history of assimilation and research on, 130–133; Joint Research Committee on the Ainu, 133–139; Nazi interest in, 138; “northern history” (hoppōshi) approach, 218; other postwar studies on, 139–140; protests during ICAES, 204; use of term, 249n55. See also Joint Research Committee on the Ainu The Ainu River-Fishery (Ainu minzoku no kawauo; documentary), 137–138 Ainu studies (Ainugaku), 131, 133–134 Akamatsu Chijō, 30, 35–36 Akiba Takashi, 30–31, 32, 37, 39, 92 Amano Yoshitarō, 163, 166–167, 168, 181, 183 American Anthropological Association (AAA), 191 American Studies Seminar (Amerika kenkyū seminā), 78–82; inaugural seminars, 78–79; Japanese appreciation for, 81–82; motivation of U.S. faculty, 80–81; photographs, 79, 81; purpose, 78; success and impacts, 79–80; support for, 78 Andes. See Inca; Inca boom; University of Tokyo Scientific Expedition to the Andes Andesu no hanayome (Bride of the Andes; film), 179–180

Ando Zenpati, 146 Anthropological Society of Nippon, 133 anthropology: biological (physical) anthropology, 98; challenges to objectivity from, 190–191; English language concerns, 218–219; four-field anthropology, 114, 115, 245n79; ICAES, 202–205; in Japan, 21, 202; psychological anthropology, 102; reflexivity in, 218; salvage anthropology, 134. See also cultural anthropology Aoyagi Machiko (formerly Kitahara), 117 archaeology, 164, 206. See also Inca area studies, 91 Ariga Kizaemon, 128 Asad, Talal, 216 Asahi Shinbun (newspaper), 170, 259n42 Asai Erin, 213 Asian American studies, 162. See also Japanese Americans assimilation, 12, 157–158, 159–161. See also Nikkei Association of Nine Scholarly Societies (Kyūgakkai Rengō), 120–121, 129–130, 247n4. See also Tsushima expedition Attic Museum, 26 Ayabe Tsuneo, 116 B Bacon, Francis, 17 Batchelor, John, 131 Baudin, Louis: A Socialist Empire, 184

308    I ndex

Beardsley, Richard K., 1, 10, 86, 91, 125, 126, 127 Benedict, Ruth, 99–100, 107, 149; The Chrysanthemum and the Sword, 96–97, 158; Patterns of Culture, 97; Race: Science and Politics, 97 Bennett, John W., 83, 84, 85, 90–91, 120, 129–130 Biak people, 60–61, 61–62, 65 biological anthropology (shizen jinruigaku), 98 Blumenbach, Johan Friedrich, 19, 20–21 Boas, Franz, 42, 95–96, 107, 110, 114 Bogardus, Emory, 103–104, 158 Bowles, Gordon, 112–113 Brazil, 142–144, 146–147, 188. See also Nikkei, in Brazil C Carnegie Foundation, 78, 92 Center for Japanese-Brazilian Studies (San Pauro Jinmon Kenkyūjo/Centro de Estudos Nipo-Brazileiros), 162 Chicago School, 74, 119, 120, 158, 159 China, 22, 34, 48–49, 105, 214 Chiri Yukie, 135 Cho Pok-sung, 43, 50, 230n8 Chomsky, Noam, 190 citizenship, Japanese, 145, 252n17 Civil Information and Education Unit (CIE), 76–78, 92, 107 clothing, 65 Columbia University, 74 communism, 70, 84, 197. See also Marxism comprehensive human science (sōgō jinrui kagaku), 119–120, 129, 130. See also Joint Research Committee on the Ainu; Tsushima expedition Comte, Auguste, 17 Cornell, John B., 133, 136, 162 Craig, Albert, 92 cultural anthropology (bunka jinruigaku), 111–118; as break from prewar ethnology, 98; evolution of, 217; fieldwork and, 113–114; graduates in, 116–117; program at Institute for Oriental Culture, 111–112; program at University of Tokyo,

11, 95, 112, 113–114, 115–116; relations between students and field generation, 117; studies of seikatsu (lifestyles), 115; textbooks, 114–115; women in, 117, 124–125 cultural nation (bunka kokka), 10, 68, 73–74, 99, 107. See also modernization cultural rule (bunka seiji), 29 culture, 94–118; introduction, 11, 94–95; cultural anthropology programs, 111– 118; genealogy of, 23, 95–96; Japanese Society of Ethnology and, 106–111; Japanese understandings of, 23–24, 96–98; UNESCO and, 98–106. See also cultural anthropology; Japanese Society of Ethnology; UNESCO cultured lifestyle (bunka seikatsu), 24, 115 D democracy, 69, 71 dependency theory, 192 diaspora, use of term, 251n2. See also Nikkei Diderot, Denis: Encyclopédie, 109 diffusionism, 176–177 dōka (assimilation), 157 Dōshisha University, 80 Doyōkai (Saturday Club), 147, 151, 162 E East Asia Archaeology Society (Tōa Kōko Gakkai), 123 East Asia Association (Tōyō Kyōkai), 32 Ebetsu village, Hokkaido, 85–86 Egami Namio, 170, 193–194 Embree, John F.: Suye Mura, 82–83 empiricism, 17 encyclopedias, 108–109, 110–111 English language, 107, 218–219 ethnicity, 95, 97 ethnographic refusal, 139 ethnology (minzokugaku), 8, 97–98, 225n31 Ethnology Research Archive, 216–217, 268n112

I ndex     309

evolutionism, 19–20, 46, 70 exogamy (intermarriage), 110, 143, 145–146, 160 F Far Eastern Archaeology Society (Tōa Kōko Gakkai), 32 fieldwork: belief in by field generation, 27–28; bonding in group fieldwork, 9, 51–52; contemporary rethinking of, 14, 191; cultural anthropology and, 113–114; development by Malinowski, 5, 16, 26–27; development in Japan, 24–26, 225n27; group fieldwork, 8, 42, 50–51; Japanese state benefits from, 24–25, 169–170; Japanese terminology for, 225n26; Nihonjinron (Japanese uniqueness) and, 214–215; sponsorship, 170; during U.S. occupation, 82, 86. See also Ainu; Inca; Jejudo (Korea); Mōkyō, KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party; New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey; Nikkei, in Brazil; Public Opinion and Sociological Research Division; Tsushima expedition folklore, Japanese (minzokugaku), 25, 225n31 four-field anthropology, 114, 115, 245n79 Frank, Andre Gunder, 192 Fujita Ryōsaku, 122, 123 Fukukama Tatsuo, 213 Fukunaka Mataji: Inka teikoku to Nihonjin (The Inca empire and the Japanese), 176, 260n49 Fukuzawa Yukichi, 20–21 functionalism, 26 G gakujutsu (academic/scientific), 4, 18, 43, 223n5, 230n10 Gamō Masao, 128, 133, 156, 162 gender, and objectivity, 6, 7–8. See also women generational theory, 2–3 Germany, 2–3, 54, 71, 75, 138 Goldi (Nanai) people, 35–36, 134

Gough, Kathleen, 191 Griaule, Marcel, 42 H Haddon, A. C., 42 Hakone Conferences, 192–193 Hall, John W., 92, 125, 247n25 Hall, Robert W., 91, 125, 247n25 Hani Susumu: Andesu no hanayome (Bride of the Andes; film), 179–180 hantōjin (peninsular) identity, 28 Hara Hiroko, 117 Harvard University, 74, 119, 120, 167 Hatanaka Sachiko, 117 Hayashi Fusao, 175, 177 Hedin, Sven, 53 Herzog, Adolf Friedrich, 42 Hidari Sachiko, 180 Hirabayashi, James A., 167 Hirohito (emperor), 182, 183 Human Relations Area Files (HRAF), 89–90 human sciences, 4–5, 18–19, 68–70. See also Japanese human sciences hygiene, 46 I Ienaga Saburō, 192, 198 Iiyama Tatsuo, 43, 46, 56, 58, 156, 178 Ikawa Fumiko (Fumiko Ikawa-Smith), 117, 168 Ikeda Hayato, 185–186 Ikegami Yoshihiko, 213 Inca, 164–188; introduction, 12–13, 164–165; as comparative foil, 165, 183–185, 187–188; early Japanese interest and archaeological work, 166–167; Inca boom and perceived Japanese-Andean relationship, 174–183; Scientific Expedition to the Andes, 168–174; theories on growth of, 187. See also University of Tokyo Scientific Expedition to the Andes Inca boom, 174–183; Andesu no hanayome (Bride of the Andes; film), 179–180; artifact exhibitions, 180–183, 183; consumerism and, 174; as misnomer,

310    I ndex

Inca boom (continued) 174–175; perceived Japanese-Andean relationship and, 175–177; photography and, 177–178; travel literature and, 178– 179; TV shows and film, 179; Yomiuri Shinbun coverage of Andes expedition and, 175, 177–178 Inka Gakuen, 187 Inō Kanori, 225n27 Institute for Oriental Culture (Tōyō Bunka Kenkyūjo), 111–112, 210 Institute for the Study of Japanese Folk Culture (Nihon Jōmin Bunka Kenkyūjo), 215 intermarriage (exogamy), 110, 143, 145–146, 160 International Congress of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences (ICAES), 202–205 International House (Kokusai Bunka Kaikan), 77 International Military Tribunal for the Far East (IMTFE), 71, 72, 88, 236n17 Irokawa Daikichi, 216 Ishida Eiichirō: Ainu expedition, 132, 133, 136; Andes expedition, 164, 168–169, 175; background, 23, 106; Beardsley on, 126, 127; on The Chrysanthemum and the Sword (Benedict), 97; cultural anthropology program, 111, 114; death, 208, 213; Izumi and, 108, 111, 208; Minzokugaku kenkyū revival, 107; objectivity debate with Kawakita, 192; on perceived Japanese-Andean relationship, 177, 178; in PO&SR, 84; royal visit to Andean exhibition and, 182, 183; seikatsu (lifestyles) and, 115; Tsushima expedition, 124 Iwao Ishino, 83, 87, 91 Izumi Akira (father), 28, 29, 30, 61 Izumi Kimiko (wife), 7, 67, 133, 155, 167, 168, 207 Izumi Rintarō (grandfather), 28 Izumi Seiichi: introduction, 6, 8–9, 12–13, 14, 16, 41; academic aspirations, 57; academic positions, 53, 92; in American Studies Seminar, 79–80; on assimilation

(dōka), 157; contributions to reference works, 111; cultural anthropology program, 11, 115–116; death, 14, 210; family background, 28; father’s death, 61; on fieldwork, 38, 113; hantōjin (peninsular) identity, 28; Hokkaido and Sakhalin expeditions, 140; on human cities (jinrui toshi), 194; Human Relations Area Files and, 90; ICAES and, 202, 203, 204; Ishida and, 108, 111, 208; in KIU Mainland Resources Research Bureau, 66; on Korean War, 124; land reform study, 85–86, 87; in Mexico, 208; military drafts, 52–53, 66; National Museum of Ethnology and, 212; with PO&SR, 87; postwar engagement with Korea, 195–196, 210; racial discrimination study, 103–106; relationships with students, 117; repatriation to Japan, 67; seikatsu (lifestyles) and, 115; student protests and, 207–208; travel literature and photographic reproductions on Andes, 178, 179; travels in Northeast Asia, 33; UNESCO and, 100; in university, 30, 31; in U.S., 167–168; works: Imin (Migrants), 157, 160–161; Inka no sosentachi (Ancestors of the Inca), 175; Inka teikoku (The Inca empire), 175, 185, 259n42; Nishi Nyū Ginia no minzoku (The races of New Guinea), 63–64, 108; “Sago yashi no umidasu bunka” (Sago culture), 108; translation of The Sexual Life of Savages in North-Western Melanesia (Malinowski), 82. See also Ainu; Inca; Jejudo (Korea); Manchukuo; Mōkyō, KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party; New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey; Nikkei, in Brazil; Tsushima expedition Izumi Takura (son), 207, 210, 214 J Jang Jukeun, 214 Jansen, Marius B., 92 Japan: 1950s boom years, 174; adoption of gakujutsu as objectivity, 4, 18, 223n5; adoption of race concept,

I ndex     311

20–21; citizenship, 145, 252n17; colonial universities, 29; emigration from, 142, 144, 156, 166, 252n14; engagement with Latin American diaspora, 188, 217; higher education concerns, 198–199; imperial rule and expansion, 22, 24–25, 29, 31–32, 41–42; Japanese as mixedrace, 22, 110; Marxism in, 25, 75–76, 93, 185, 201, 205; overseas travel, 178–179; postwar diplomatic relations in Asia, 195; scientific development, 17, 21; U.S.Japan Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security (Anpo), 197, 205. See also fieldwork; Japanese human sciences; Kwantung Army; Manchukuo; minzoku (race-nation); Mōkyō; national identity; student protests; United States of America, occupation of Japan Japanese Americans, 158. See also Asian American studies Japanese human sciences, field generation: introduction, 1–14, 220; acceptance of Malinowski, 27, 30–31, 82; aging and deaths, 203–204, 213; belief in fieldwork, 27–28; comprehensive human science, 119–120, 129, 130; fieldwork origins, 15–39; gender and, 6–8; generational theory applied to, 3; Inca and, 164–188; military policy and, 44, 56; Nikkei in Brazil and, 141–163; passing of, 189–220; postwar fieldwork in Japan, 119–140; reconsideration of objectivity and modernization, 192–194; silence on prewar past, 196; transition from “race” to “culture,” 94–118; U.S. occupation and, 67–93; wartime group fieldwork, 40–66. See also culture; fieldwork; Izumi Seiichi; minzoku (race-nation); national identity; objectivity; race Japanese human sciences, post-1968, 211–220; introduction, 14; appraisal of prewar past, 216–217; Asian focus, 214–215; contemporary status, 219–220; decoupling of research from universities, 212–213; field generation deaths, 213; interdisciplinary and multicultural perspectives, 217–218;

new scholars, 213–214; Nihonjinron (Japanese uniqueness) and, 214–216; people’s history (minshūshi), 215–216; reflexivity, 218–219 Japanese Scientific Expedition to Nuclear America (Kaku Amerika [Chūbei, Andesu] Gakujutsu Chōsadan), 215 Japanese Society of Cultural Anthropology (Nihon Bunka Jinrui Gakkai), 218–219 Japanese Society of Ethnology (JSE; Nihon Minzoku Gakkai/Nihon Minzokugaku Kyōkai), 106–110; introduction, 11, 95; Ainu expedition, 133; background, 26, 106; encyclopedia project, 108, 109–110; Minzokugaku kenkyū (Japanese Journal of Ethnology), 107–108; name changes, 226n35. See also Minzokugaku kenkyū (Japanese Journal of Ethnology) Japanese studies, 91–92 Jejudo (Korea): fieldwork on by Izumi, 8, 36–39; Izumi’s hiking trip to, 30; postwar engagement by Izumi, 195–196, 210; study by Izumi on Jejudo migrants in Tokyo, 100–103 Joint Research Committee on the Ainu (Ainu Minzoku Sōgō Chōsadan), 133–139; on agriculture, 136–137; The Ainu River-Fishery (documentary), 137–138; ethnographic refusal of, 139; findings, 135–137; international interest, 138; lack of accountability to Ainu, 138–139; preparation and participants, 133; salvage anthropology by, 134, 137; “traditional” culture focus, 135–136. See also Ainu Joint Scientific Mission on Education and Research, 111–112 K Kant, Immanuel, 16–17 Katō Ichirō, 209, 210, 211 Kawakita Jirō, 192 Keene, Donald, 91 Keijō Imperial University (KIU): background, 29–30, 36; end of WWII and, 67; as fieldwork pioneer, 16, 39; interest in Mongol people, 42; Izumi at, 30, 53; New Guinea expedition, 56

312    I ndex

Kerr, George H., 78 Kidder, T. Edward, 93 Kindaichi Kyōsuke, 135 Kipling, Rudyard, 20 Kitahara Machiko (later Aoyagi), 117 KIU Mainland Resources Research Bureau (Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Tairiku Shigen Kagaku Kenkyūjo), 65–66 KIU Manchurian-Mongolian Culture Research Society (Man-Mō Bunka Kenkyūkai), 32 KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party (Keijō Teikoku Daigaku Mōkyō Gakujutsu Tankentai). See Mōkyō, KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party Kluckhohn, Clyde, 75, 79–80, 107, 120 Kobayashi Hiroshi, 89 Kobe University, 156 Kodama Sakuzaemon, 135, 213 Kofun period, 174, 259n40 Kojiki (A Record of Ancient Matters), 20 Korea: cultural rule (bunka seiji) policy in, 29; discrimination against Koreans in Japan, 101, 105; hantōjin (peninsular) identity, 28; Izumi family in, 28; Izumi’s postwar engagement with, 195–196, 210; Japanese colonial studies on, 36–37, 39; Japanese postwar studies on, 214–215; postwar relations with, 195; racial hierarchies and Mongol lands expedition, 49–50; repatriation of Japanese from, 67. See also Jejudo (Korea) Korean War, 91, 124, 196 Kotosh (Peruvian archaeological site), 171–172, 173, 177, 181, 182, 262n82 Koyama Takeshi, 84 Kroeber, Alfred, 134 Kubodera Itsuhiko, 213 Kuhn, Thomas, 190 Kuper, Adam, 216 Kuwayama Takami, 218 Kwantung Army: in Manchuria, 31, 32–33, 41; Mongol lands expedition, 44, 46, 49; opium trade, 34; Second Sino-Japanese War, 41; Unit 731, 88, 240n106

Kyoto American Studies Seminar, 80 Kyoto Imperial University, 55. See also University of Kyoto L land reform: fieldwork on, 84–86, 87; impact on Ainu, 132 Latham, Michael E., 235n10 Lattimore, Owen, 227n60 Levy, Marion, 91 libraries, 76–77 lifestyles (seikatsu), 115 Linton, Ralph E., 107 Locke, John, 17 Lowie, Robert: Primitive Society, 114 M Mabuchi Tōichi, 108, 113 MacArthur, Douglas, 67, 84 Malinowski, Bronisław: critiques of, 191, 215; imperial patronage for, 27; influence on fieldwork, 5, 16, 26–27; Japanese acceptance of, 27, 30–31, 82; on militarization of academy, 69–70; New Guinea fieldwork, 54; on relationships during fieldwork, 52; works: Argonauts of the Western Pacific, 5, 26–27, 31; Crime and Custom in Savage Society, 27, 82; The Father in Primitive Psychology, 27; Myth in Primitive Psychology, 27; A Scientific Theory of Culture, 82; The Sexual Life of Savages in North-Western Melanesia, 82 Manchukuo: establishment and scientific legitimization, 31–32; Goldi (Nanai) people and fieldwork, 35–36, 134; opium, 34; Oroqen people and fieldwork, 32–33, 34–35, 134; Unit 731 (Kwantung Army), 88, 240n106. See also Mōkyō Manchukuo Nation-Building University (Manshūkoku Kenkoku Daigaku), 52 Manchuria, 31. See also Manchukuo; Mōkyō Manikion people, 60 Mannheim, Karl, 2 Manokwari (New Guinea), 57, 58, 61 Maruyama Masao, 185, 193, 206 Marxism, 25, 75–76, 93, 185, 201, 205, 262n82. See also communism

I ndex     313

Masuda Yoshio, 187 materialism, 185, 200 Mazo, Cynthia, 83 Mead, Margaret, 54, 69, 70, 85; Coming of Age in Samoa, 31 medicine, 45 Meiji University, 92 Melanesian societies, 63. See also New Guinea Mexico, 142, 208 migration studies (imin kenkyū), 217 military policy, and scholarship, 44, 56 Mills, C. Wright, 190 Minpaku (National Museum of Ethnology), 212–213, 216–217, 268n112 minzoku (race-nation): introduction, 5, 15–16; concept development, 22–23; imperial applications, 32, 42; native ethnology (minzokugaku), 25, 225n31; postwar rethinking of, 94–95, 97, 100 minzokugaku (ethnology), 8, 97–98, 225n31 Minzokugaku kenkyū (MK; Japanese Journal of Ethnology): Ainu expedition findings in, 135; Boas in, 96; establishment, 26; Korean studies in, 214; Oroqen and Goldi fieldwork findings in, 35, 36; postwar cultural nation focus, 107–108; silence on nonJapanese Asian scholarship, 195; silence on student protests, 211 Mishina Shōei, 96, 213 Miyamoto Nobuto, 108 Miyamoto Tsuneichi, 124, 126, 128 Miyazaki Nobue, 156, 162 Mizuno Seiichi, 123, 124, 213 modernization, 68–74; introduction, 10, 13, 68; among Nikkei, 160–161; comparison to Marxism, 93; as cultural nation (bunka kokka), 73–74; genealogy of, 235n10; Japanese critiques of, 192–194; militarization of academy and, 68–70; purpose of, 70–71; recruitment of Japanese human scientists for, 71, 72; redefinition of objectivity, 72–73; student protestors on, 200 Mōkyō (state), 41–42

Mōkyō, KIU Mongolian Scientific Expeditionary Party, 42–53; bonding between participants, 51–52; challenges during, 45–46; climbing Xiaowutaishan, 49, 50; goal, 44; legacy, 50–52, 232n40; participants, 42–43; photographs of Mongol people, 47, 48; primitivism and backwardness focus, 46–49; public interest in, 49; racial hierarchies in Korea and, 50; support and preparations, 44–45; team name, 43; translation of report for Human Relations Area Files, 90; validation of group research, 50–51 Mongol lands, 42, 229n2. See also Mōkyō Morgan, Lewis Henry, 19–20 Morley, James, 92 mountain climbing, 169 Munro, Neil Gordon, 131 Murdock, George P., 89, 107; Social Structure, 114 Museo Amano, 181 N Nagai Michio, 91 Nagano Shigeichi, 180 Nagasaki prefecture, 123–124 Nakane Chie, 117, 202, 203 Nakao Katsumi, 216 Nanai (Goldi) people, 35–36, 134 Nanbara Shigeru, 72–73, 100, 112 national identity: human science in support of, 5, 11–12, 15, 119; Inca as comparative foil, 165, 183–185, 187–188; Nihonjinron (Japanese uniqueness), 184, 186, 214–216; racial discrimination study, 103–106; Tsushima expedition and, 123, 127–129; UNESCO and, 99 National Museum of Ethnology (Kokuritsu Minzokugaku Hakubutsukan (Minpaku)), 212–213, 216–217, 268n112 Native Cultures Society (Hokkaidō Daigaku Genshi Bunka Kenkyūkai), 133 native ethnology (minzokugaku), 25, 225n31 New Guinea, 53–55, 62

314    I ndex

New Guinea Scientific Resource Survey (Nyū Ginia Shigen Chōsa Gakujutsu Tankentai), 55–65; introduction, 9; Bird’s Head Peninsula fieldwork, 57–60; findings on coastal and highland peoples, 62–64; goals, 55–56; Izumi publications from, 107–108; journey to New Guinea, 57; participants, 56–57; public presentations on New Guineans, 64–65; Schouten Islands fieldwork, 60–61; Schouten Islands massacre and, 61–62; support for, 56; U.S. bombings and, 61 Nihonjin koko ni ari (The Japanese are here; documentary), 187–188 Nihonjinron (Japanese uniqueness), 184, 186, 214–216 Nikkei: engagement by Japan, 188, 217; history of term, 158–159 Nikkei, in Brazil, 141–163; introduction, 12, 141–142; assimilation findings, 157–158, 159–161; biological belonging to Japan, 144–145; Brazilian reactions to, 143–144; community cohesion, 146; Imin (Migrants), 157, 160–161; immigration to Brazil, 142–147, 150, 188; intermarriage, 143, 145–146, 160; Izumi’s first study, 149–155; Izumi’s second study, 155–161; Japanese identity and postwar conflict findings, 151–155; legacy of research on, 150, 155; other studies on, 161–162; pacifism findings, 161; participation in Brazilian life, 160–161; postwar denial and unrest, 147–149, 150, 160; WWII persecution, 146–147, 253n23 Ningen Hakubutsukan (Museum of Man), 213 Norbeck, Edward, 125

4, 18, 223n5; political assumptions in, 8, 15; redefined under U.S. occupation, 9–10, 72–73; scientism and, 18. See also modernization; race Odaka Kunio, 149, 254n29 Odaka Kyōko, 149 Oka Masao: Ainu expedition, 132, 133, 138; cultural anthropology lectures, 113, 114; ICAES and, 202, 204; on Japanese as mixed-race, 110; Japanese Society of Ethnology and, 106, 109; relations with students, 117; studies in Vienna, 23 Okada Hiroaki, 116 Okada Kenji, 213 Okada Yuzuru, 111; Minzokugaku (Ethnology), 114 Okamoto Tarō, 181–182, 193, 194 Okayama prefecture, 125 Okinawa (Ryūkyū Islands), 22, 122, 129, 142, 145, 250n64 Ōkōchi Kazuo, 208–209 Ōmura Shōji, 166, 168 Ōno Morio, 156, 162 Ōnuki Yoshio, 169, 186, 213 opium, 33–34 Oriental Development Company (Tōyō Takushoku Kyōkai), 44 Oroqen people, 32–33, 34–35, 134 Osaka Expo (1970), 194, 205 Ōtaka Tomoo: background, 42–43; Izumi at KIU and, 53; JSE encyclopedia, 109; on military policy and scholarship, 44, 56; Mōkyō expedition, 42–43, 44, 45, 49; name of, 254n29; New Guinea expedition, 57; Nikkei in Brazil and, 149, 157; Tsushima expedition, 124; UNESCO and, 99, 100; at University of Tokyo, 92

O Ōba Chiaki, 114–115 objectivity: introduction, 3–4; archaeology and, 164; for avoidance of responsibility, 62; critiques of, 13–14, 190–192, 200–201; gendered assumptions in, 6, 7–8; genealogy of, 16–17; in human sciences, 18–19; Japanese adoption as gakujutsu,

P Pacific Science Congress, 89 pacifism, 161 Park, Robert E., 158, 159 Passin, Herbert, 83, 85, 86, 113, 245n79 Pelzel, John C., 83 people’s history (minshūshi), 215–216 Peru, 142, 166, 172, 181, 188. See also Inca

I ndex     315

photography, 177–178 physical anthropology (jinruigaku), 98 Piłsudski, Bronisław, 131 Pineda, Rosa Fung, 173 positivism, 17 Prado, Manuel, 170, 172, 182 primitivism, 46–49 progress, critiques of, 193–194 psychological anthropology, 102 Public Opinion and Sociological Research Division (PO&SR), 83–88; assistance for former Japanese employees, 92; camaraderie and teamwork within, 84, 85, 87; establishment and dissolution, 83, 91; lack of support for, 90–91; land reform fieldwork, 84–86, 87; other studies, 87–88; reconstruction of fieldwork methods, 86; staff, 83–84 Public Opinion Research Association (Yoron Chōsakai), 91 R race: genealogy of, 19–20; imperialism and, 5, 22–23, 41; Japanese adoption of, 15, 20–21; Japanese as mixed-race, 22, 110; transition to culture as mode of analysis, 94; UNESCO on, 99–100, 110. See also minzoku (race-nation) racial discrimination study, 103–106 Raper, Arthur F., 84–85, 87 reflexivity, 218–219 Reischauer, Edwin O., 70, 71, 92 relativism, 95–96 Research Program in Japanese Social Relations, 91 Rockefeller Foundation, 78, 92, 167, 168 Rorschach tests, 102, 135, 154, 156 Rostow, W. W., 235n10 Russo-Japanese War, 31, 131, 143 Ryūkyū Islands (Okinawa), 22, 122, 129, 142, 145, 250n64 S Saint-Pierre, Jacques-Henri Bernardin de, 175 Saitō Hiroshi, 148–149, 151, 155, 156, 157, 162 salvage anthropology, 134

São Paulo Research Group in Human Science (San Pauro Jinbun Kagaku Kenkyūkai), 148 Scalapino, Robert, 91 Schmidt, Wilhelm, 23 Schouten Islands, 60–61, 61–62, 65 scientism, 18 Second Sino-Japanese War, 8, 40, 41, 229n1 Segawa Kiyoko, 124–125, 128, 133 Seidensticker, Edward, 92–93 seikatsu (lifestyles), 115 Shibusawa Keizō: Andes expedition, 168; Association of Nine Scholarly Societies and, 120–121; Attic Museum, 26; background, 25–26; Bowles and, 113; comprehensive human science and, 120; death, 129; group fieldwork and, 42; on Inca, 185; Izumi’s early fieldwork and, 35, 39; Japanese Society of Ethnology and, 26, 106; JSE encyclopedia, 108, 109; on seikatsu (lifestyles), 115; Tsushima expedition, 124, 125, 139 Shima Kiyoshi, 156 Shindō Renmei (Way of the Subject League), 147–148, 149, 154, 160 Shirokogoroff, Sergei Mikhailovich, 227n60 Sills, David L., 76, 83, 84 Smith, Robert J., 91 social Darwinism, 19–20, 31, 131 Social Distance Scale, 103–104 Sofue Takao, 102, 116, 117, 133, 168 South Korea. See Korea South Manchuria Railway Company, 44 South Manchuria Railway Company Economic Research Association (Minami Manshū Tetsudō Kabushiki Kaisha Keizai Chōsabu), 32 Stocking, George, 216 student protests, 196–202, 205–209; introduction, 13–14; critiques and specific issues, 200–202, 205–207; faculty support for, 208; higher education issues and, 198–199; against ICAES, 204; Izumi and, 207–208; pre-1968 precedence, 196–197; resolution and aftermath, 208–209, 211–212; scope

316    I ndex

student protests (continued) of, 205, 266n60; at University of Tokyo, 199–200 Suda Akiyoshi, 113 Sugiura Ken’ichi, 112, 117, 124, 132, 133, 135; Jinruigaku (Anthropology), 115 Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers (SCAP): Japanese repatriation, 67; land reform, 84, 132; library system, 77; Marxist concerns, 75–76, 197; national boundaries delimitation, 122–123; race policies, 97, 103; use of knowledge as soft power, 68. See also Civil Information and Education Unit; Public Opinion and Sociological Research Division; United States of America, occupation of Japan Suzuki Eitarō, 92, 109 Suzuki Hachishi, 213 Suzuki Hisashi, 113 Suzuki Makoto, 59, 89, 92, 124, 213 Suzuki Teiti, 162, 210 T Tada Fumio, 113, 162 Taiwan, 24, 63, 195 Takahashi Sankichi, 56 Takaoka Kumao, 144 Tamie Tsuchiyama, 83 Tanase Jōji: Bunka jinruigaku (Cultural anthropology), 114–115 Tayama Risaburō, 56, 124 television, 179 Tello, Julio C., 166, 171 Terada Kazuo: Andes documentaries, 179; at Andes exhibition, 183; Andes expedition, 169, 172, 174; background, 116; on Inca, 187; Nihonjinron (Japanese uniqueness) and, 186; on prewar past, 216 Thematic Apperception tests (TATs), 135, 154 Tokyo Imperial University, 21, 24, 52. See also University of Tokyo Tokyo Metropolitan University, 113, 114, 116 Torii Ryūzō, 24–25, 122, 131, 150, 166

translation programs, 77, 89–90 travel literature, 178–179 Tsuboi Shōgorō, 21, 24, 131 Tsukamoto Tetsundo, 156 Tsurumi Shunsuke, 193 Tsushima expedition, 120–130; introduction, 12; as comprehensive research, 129; fieldwork conditions, 125–127; findings and national identity, 127–129; origins and goals, 121; participants, 124–125; site selection, 121– 122; sixtieth anniversary expeditions, 249n49; support for, 123–124; token of appreciation for Tsushima, 139; Tsushima history and previous research, 122–123 Tungusic peoples, 32 Tylor, Edward, 23 U Umesao Tadao, 210, 212 UNESCO, 98–106; introduction, 11, 95; establishment and goals, 98; Japanese support and membership, 99, 100; Nikkei in Brazil and, 141, 149; on race, 99–100, 110; racial discrimination study, 103–106; “Tensions Affecting International Understanding” project, 103 Union of Tsushima Natives in Mainland Japan (Tsushima Chōson Rengōkai), 123 Unit 731 (Kwantung Army), 88, 240n106 United States of America: human scientists, 74; Japanese immigration to, 142; militarization of academy during WWII, 68–70; U.S.-Japan Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security (Anpo), 197, 205 United States of America, occupation of Japan, 67–93; introduction, 9–11, 67–68; appropriation of imperial knowledge, 88–90; establishing objective research, 74–82; exoneration and reconstruction of Japanese human sciences, 71–72, 74–76, 88; land reform, 84, 132; legacies of, 90–93; modernization and, 68–74; resuming fieldwork, 82–88. See also

I ndex     317

Civil Information and Education Unit (CIE); Public Opinion and Sociological Research Division (PO&SR); Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers (SCAP) universities: decoupling of research from, 212–213; in Japanese colonies, 29; Japanese concerns, 198–199; militarization of academy during WWII, 68–70. See also student protests; specific universities University of Chicago, 74, 119, 120, 158, 159 University of Hawai’i, 89 University of Hokkaido, 133 University of Illinois at UrbanaChampaign, 80 University of Kyoto, 80, 112, 116, 169. See also Kyoto Imperial University University of Tokyo (Tōdai): American Studies Seminar, 78; cultural anthropology program, 11, 112, 113–114, 115–116; female students, 117; student protests, 199–200. See also student protests; Tokyo Imperial University University of Tokyo Scientific Expedition to the Andes (Tokyo Daigaku Andesu Chitai Gakujutsu Chōsadan), 168–174; introduction, 164–165; artifact exhibitions from, 181; end of, 206; first expedition, 170–171; follow-up research to, 215; international and public interest, 172–173, 174; Japanese state expectations, 169–170; Nihonjinron (Japanese uniqueness) and, 186; participants, 168–169; preparation and sponsorship, 168, 170; relations with locals, 173–174; second expedition to Kotosh, 171–172; Yomiuri Shinbun coverage, 175, 177–178. See also Inca; Inca boom

University of Tsukuba, 212 V Volk, 23 W Wako Shungorō, 144–145, 145–146 Ward, Robert E., 91, 125 Watanabe Hitoshi, 135 Watsuji Tetsurō, 27, 97 Way of the Subject League (Shindō Renmei), 147–148, 149, 154, 160 Willems, Emilio, 149, 152 Willey, Gordon, 172 women, 6–8, 117, 124–125 X Xiaowutaishan, 49, 50 Y Yamada Ryūji, 116 Yamanouchi Sugao, 113, 213 Yamato, use of term, 249n48 Yanagita Kunio, 25, 42, 63, 83, 106, 109, 115, 215 Yanaihara Tadao, 81, 81, 90, 100, 112, 167 Yawata Ichirō, 113 Yomiuri Shinbun (newspaper): on Andean exhibition, 182, 183; Andes expedition coverage, 175, 177–178; fieldwork sponsorship by, 56, 170; New Guinea expedition and, 56, 65; promotion of Inka teikoku (Izumi), 259n42; on Tsushima expedition, 121, 129; use of gakujutsu in, 223n5 Z Zenrin Kyōkai (Good Neighbor Association), 44