Voice, Silence, and Self: Negotiations of Buraku Identity in Contemporary Japan 0674088409, 9780674088405

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Voice, Silence, and Self

Harvard East Asian Monographs 386

Voice, Silence, and Self Negotiations of Buraku Identity in Contemporary Japan

Christopher Bondy

Published by the Harvard University Asia Center Distributed by Harvard University Press Cambridge (Massachusetts) and London 2015

© 2015 by The President and Fellows of Harvard College Printed in the United States of America The Harvard University Asia Center publishes a monograph series and, in coordination with the Fairbank Center for Chinese Studies, the Korea Institute, the Reischauer Institute of Japa nese Studies, and other facilities and institutes, administers research projects designed to further scholarly understanding of China, Japan, Vietnam, Korea, and other Asian countries. The Center also sponsors projects addressing multidisciplinary and regional issues in Asia. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Bondy, Christopher, 1969– Voice, silence and self : negotiations of Buraku identity in contemporary Japan / Christopher Bondy. pages cm. — (Harvard East Asian Monographs ; 386) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-674-08840-5 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Buraku people—Japan. 2. Buraku people—Education. 3. Youth movements—Japan. I. Harvard University. Asia Center. II. Title. HT725.J3B66 2015 305.5'680952—dc23 2015005305 Index by the author Printed on acid-free paper Last figure below indicates year of this printing 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15

This work is dedicated to the youth of Takagawa and Kuromatsu, who so willingly gave their time and shared so much with me.

Contents

1

Acknowledgments

xi

Note to the Reader

xiv

List of Abbreviations

xv

Silent Introductions

1 4 10 12

Social Silence Experiencing Silence Chapter Progression

2

Backgrounds and Struggles Historical Background Emancipation

Finding Backgrounds Early Social Movement Organizations Postwar Buraku Social Movements Dōwa Policies Denunciation Sessions

Fracturing of the Movement Conclusion

3

Movement Integration: Silence and Cultural Practices Kuromatsu and the Jiyū Dōwa Kai Takagawa and the Buraku Liberation League Children’s Club

15 17 19 20 21 24 26 28 30 32 34 35 39 42

Contents

viii Literacy Classes Signs and Symbols

Creating the Kaihō no Matsuri The Festival Conclusion

4

Lessons of Silence: Buraku Issues in School Schooling in Japan Dōwa Education Kuromatsu Buraku Issues in Hinode Junior High School Dōwa Education within the District The Curriculum

Takagawa Centering Buraku Concerns Local Experiences Outside the Classroom Takagawa Elementary School Student Reactions

Conclusion

5

Social Space and Social Interactions: Practicing in the Protective Cocoon Making Friends and Marking Difference in Kuromatsu The Takagawa Children’s Club Social Interaction and Trust Club, School, and Community: Making Connections Preparing Burakumin Children for the Future Fateful Moments: The Graffiti Incident Open Space: A School-Wide Discussion of Discrimination “Safety” of the Children’s Club

Conclusion

6

Beyond the Cocoon: Passing on to the Next Stage The First Steps beyond the Cocoon: The Move to High School Beyond Hinode Junior High School Beyond Takagawa Junior High School Entering the Adult World Sustained Silence in Adulthood Unexpectedly Silent

42 43 44 45 52 55 55 57 60 61 62 64 67 69 71 77 80 82 84 86 88 92 93 95 97 98 101 107 108 110 111 113 117 123 124 126

Contents Institutional Changes Municipal Consolidation Continued Silence in Kuromatsu Changes in Takagawa

Conclusion

Conclusion: Calling for a Discrimination-Free Society

ix 128 129 131 133 140

Managing Stigma What Does the Future Hold?

143 147 151

Appendix: Methods of Silence

155

Notes

163

References

167

Index

181

Acknowledgments

As with any work, thanking all who supported the research, directly and indirectly, could likely go on as long as the work itself. I will try to refrain from taking up an excess of space on this, but there are many who deserve mention here. First and foremost, I want to express my sincere gratitude to the youth of Takagawa and Kuromatsu for their willingness to share so much of themselves, over many years, to a strange foreigner whose research may have seemed quite unusual to them at the time. The teachers in both schools were gracious in terms of their time and energies in providing me a place in their classrooms, even when my presence was, no doubt, upsetting to the everyday routines they would likely have rather had. I am indebted to the Takagi family, whose friendship and support over the years has made me feel that what I am doing is worthwhile. The work began as a dissertation at the University of Hawai’i under the guidance of Patricia Steinhoff, a mentor and scholar whose skill and dedication I can only aspire to. David Johnson, also of the University of Hawai’i, was encouraging both academically and personally, and always pushing me to “be comparative.” The Center for Japa nese Studies provided financial and academic support over the years, seeing something in me even at the earliest stages of my graduate career. Two others at the University of Hawai’i who helped me with this project deserve special recognition: Mark Levin and Sharon Minichiello. Friends from my time in Hawaii are too numerous to mention, but without the help and urging of the following, this work would never have seen the light of day: Sarah Burgess-Herbert, Renee Cade, Matt Carlsen, Henghao Chang, Janet

xii

Acknowledgments

Davidson, Barbara Holthus, Matt Jones, Shinji Kojima, Brian Masshardt, Cindy and Mark Montgomery, Akemi Nakamura, Andrew Ovenden, Lisa Pasko, Geoff and Emiko Pickens, and Ryoko Yamamoto. Harvard University’s Reischauer Institute of Japanese Studies provided an unparalleled opportunity to work further on the manuscript and interact with leading scholars from around the world. In particular, I want to thank Anna (Anya) Andreeva, Ed Drott, Seth Jacobowitz, Aaron Moore, and Rebecca Suter for their support and camaraderie, and Ted Bestor, Mary Brinton, Ted Gilman, and Merry White for their encouragement and critical engagement with my research and writing. Along the way there have been many who provided proverbial hand holding and support along this very long process. My colleagues at DePauw University—in particular, Rebecca Bordt, Hiroko Chiba, David Newman, Rebecca Upton, and Paul Watt—made my first steps into professional academia incredibly rewarding. I cannot thank them enough. My colleagues at International Christian University have been most welcoming and encouraging along the way. A special thank-you goes out to John Maher for his unparalleled dedication in guiding junior scholars and doing so with incredible flair. Scores of people in Japan and elsewhere helped make this work possible, some of whom remain nameless based on their request for privacy; I can only express my appreciation anonymously. The following list, though by no means exhaustive, is for the many who have given of their time and energies to help see this project to fruition. John Davis Jr., Ted Fowler, Joseph Hankins, Honda Yuki, the late Ikeda Hiroshi, Ishida Hiroshi, the Ito family, the Kakimoto family, the Kasai family, Komori Megumi, Kurokawa Midori, Lee Kayoung, Michele Mason, Lisa McLachlan, Ian Neary, the O’Connor family, Oda Kyōjun, Yuko Okubo, Donna Penzell, Glenda Roberts, Tomonaga Kenzō, Tsuda Yōko, Tsuneyoshi Ryoko, Uchida Ryushi, and Yoshida Tsutomu. I also owe a debt of gratitude to the dedicated teachers at the Inter-University Center for Japa nese Language Studies, whose help with my language training allowed me to navigate this topic with much more nuance than I could have otherwise. Generous support for the initial research was provided by the Crown Prince Akihito Scholarship through the University of Hawai’i, with the Dai Ho Chun fellowship providing the resources for my first round of follow-up research. The National Endowment for the Humanities

Acknowledgments

xiii

Fellowship for Advanced Social Science Research on Japan (FO-5011810) allowed me to further investigate the experiences of the youth into adulthood, as they moved beyond their local communities to various places throughout Japan. Part of chapter 4 appeared as “Centering and Marginalizing: The ‘Soft Middle’ and Japanese Minority Education” in the Asia Pacific Journal of Education, and part of the appendix appeared as “How Did I Get Here? The Social Process of Accessing Field Sites” in Qualitative Research. Both are included here with permission. The tireless effort of Robert Graham, editor of the Harvard East Asian Monograph Series, helped shepherd this work through the process with dedication and support that made the experience nothing other than pleasant. In addition, the work of Angela Piliouras and Jamie Thaman, along with the comments of the anonymous readers, helped strengthen the work tremendously. Finally, to my family, without whose support I could never have reached this point, I can only say thank you from the bottom of my heart. My mother, Mary Laing, has provided me a lifetime of education on how we understand and treat those on the margins of society and always encouraged me to try to make the world a better place. My father, Stephen Bondy, gave me much guidance and support throughout the process, seeing things in me that I never could and encouraging me to try to find the same. The Saeki family provided much support in myriad ways, and I owe them much. To Sofie, who has been a steady companion throughout the writing, thank you for the much-needed tail wagging. To Aiden Saeki-Bondy, thank you for always bringing a smile to my face. May the world you make be one in which people are able to be open about who they are. Last but by no means least, to my partner and best friend, Eiko Saeki, who has been there every step of the way, listening to my insecurities, my thoughts, and my hopes for this work and beyond: I thank you for everything.

Note to the Reader

Japanese names follow the convention of surname first. Macrons are used for long vowels unless it is a term that is commonly used in English (such as Tokyo). Unless other wise indicated, all translations of Japanese have been made by the author.

Abbreviations

BLL JDK LDP NCBL

Buraku Liberation League (a buraku social movement organization) Jiyū Dōwa Kai (a buraku social movement organization) Liberal Democratic Party National Committee for Buraku Liberation

Chapter 1 Silent Introductions It was just after my eighteenth birthday. I really had no idea I was burakumin before my parents told me. I never really thought about it until I heard. I mean, we studied a little bit in school, I guess, but I just don’t really remember much about that. It just surprised me more than anything. My parents, my dad especially, must really have gone through a lot. I really had no idea. They said they wanted to wait to tell me until I was an adult. They still haven’t told my [sixteen-year-old] brother. — Midori, twenty-year-old female I was pretty active in a number of different social issues when I was in college. I continued to be involved after I left. I was at a meeting one day, and there was a guy from a buraku social movement group there. I went over and was just asking about the group and what they were involved in. I knew about buraku issues, but never gave them much thought. The guy at the table asked where I was from. I told him the city, and then he asked in more detail. I told him the town. He asked my name, and I told him. I didn’t think much of it, until he said, “You’re burakumin.” I had no idea. Here I was, well into adulthood, and after meeting him, I called my parents. They finally told me that yes, I was burakumin. — Mitsuru, sixty-four-year-old male

ou are a member of a minority group but do not know it. How is this possible? The paradox arose repeatedly during my research on the burakumin and raised further questions: How do you learn that you are a minority when discussions of that minority group are mostly rendered invisible? How does this (new) knowledge then shape your experience of the world? To be burakumin is accompanied by a framework of understanding, expectation, and stigma. As will be discussed in more detail in chapter 2, the burakumin are Japan’s largest minority group, with population estimates ranging between 1.5 million and 3 million people. The discrepancy, as we shall see, comes from how membership is counted

Y

2

Chapter 1

and does not take into account the complexity of silence surrounding these issues. The burakumin bear no physical markers of difference from majority Japanese though continue to be labeled different as a result of past governmental actions and social beliefs. The category burakumin comes out of a legacy of outcaste groups in Japanese history, and the continued vacillation between action and inaction by the government in the contemporary era has only served to reinforce this marking of difference. The core argument of this study is that buraku issues stem from a struggle with silence and that for buraku groups and individuals, their relationship to this identity is essentially the search for a voice for their complex experience. This is a study of how young people initially learn about being burakumin in school and in their community, and how, over time, they negotiate the silence that surrounds the issue in Japan. It considers the ways in which schools and social relationships shape people’s identity as burakumin within a protective cocoon, where risk is minimized. The work examines the ways in which these youth are taught buraku issues once they enter junior high school, the tools that experience provides, and the ways in which lessons learned are carried along the life cycle, as expanding social interactions force individuals beyond their protective cocoon. It does so by following these youth through high school and into young adulthood. The protective places in this study are the communities of Takagawa and Kuromatsu.1 Takagawa is a small town on the island of Shikoku, the smallest of the four major islands of Japan, and Kuromatsu is located in the Kinki region of western Honshu, the main island of Japan. Community leaders, schoolteachers, and others in Takagawa reject silence and adopt an open, engaging approach to buraku concerns. Far from being lodged in the background, buraku issues in Takagawa are at the fore, both literally and symbolically. Local events, such as festivals and town publications, place buraku issues at the center, and thus encourage townspeople to be active and open with their buraku identity. Conversely, policies implemented by community leaders in Kuromatsu remove buraku issues from discussion. Although some in Kuromatsu are aware of buraku issues, many do not openly engage with them; a form of self-censorship regarding buraku issues renders them silent. The silence surrounding buraku issues in Japan is alternately challenged and sustained by differing social movements: the Buraku Kaihō Dōmei, or Buraku Liberation League (BLL), which confronts silence,

Silent Introductions

3

and the Jiyū Dōwa Kai (JDK), or Liberal Assimilation Association, which embraces it. The BLL—the largest and most vocal group (Davis 2001)— encourages burakumin pride and is determined to challenge discrimination wherever and whenever it is found. By contrast, the JDK engages with the same issues but argues that continued discussion, and what it regards as the problematic approach of the BLL, perpetuates the stigmatization of the burakumin. In the JDK approach, individuals and organizations should work to eliminate all forms of discrimination in a way that does not marginalize or turn people away. These two groups are found in the communities of Takagawa, which has a strong BLL presence, and Kuromatsu, which has a JDK branch within its buraku district. Each approach shapes the local environment and the socialization of youth and forms of knowing as young people deal with their background and interact with others. The self and its public visage change as the youth move from childhood to adulthood and encounter fateful moments of challenge and risk. In order to understand how young people respond to these challenges, this study follows them as they move beyond their “safe” environment of junior high school to young adulthood, where they will face the reality of what it means to be burakumin in the wider society. Contemporary society approaches buraku issues with silence, and many of the youth, likewise, learn to manipulate that silence, knowing when and how to bracket parts of their identity—that is, deciding what part of their background to share and what part to hide. Bracketing is a social process that all people undertake at certain points in time, depending on the social setting. The youth in this study learn various ways to present themselves as burakumin and the consequences of such actions. The process of bracketing brings with it the unintended consequence of continuing silence. Bracketing derives from a sense of agency: youth making clear decisions about how to present themselves within a broader social framework. Rather than a passive acceptance of the marginalized status of a stigmatized social position, bracketing is conscious and proactive. The initial research was based on twelve months of participant observation and interviews of forty youth in the two communities, conducted while they were in ninth grade—their final year of compulsory education. The youth were re-interviewed in subsequent years, as they moved through different life stages.2 Some entered college, whereas others

4

Chapter 1

went directly into the workforce. Some married, had children, and divorced, whereas others remained single. Throughout these experiences, the youth were facing a broader social silence on buraku issues; thus, in each new social setting, they reflexively reconsidered how to present themselves. Th is presentation of self was not just a one-time event, for the process of bracketing one’s identity is based on a continued assessment of the social field in which one is embedded. This continued approach allows for an exploration of the way in which the youth create a protective cocoon through the process of bracketing at different points in time.

Social Silence Silence is about what is rendered missing: both aural and visual—the unsaid and the unseen.3 Both forms of silence must be unraveled. We can “see” silence because there are no physiological markers of difference between burakumin and majority Japanese. Whereas difference was once marked by occupation, the marking of difference now centers on area of residence and can be determined through the koseki, Japan’s family registry system. If you did not live in a known buraku district or were not told of your background, it would be possible to be burakumin and not know it. This fact has led many English-language sources to refer to the burakumin as “invisible” and has also rendered them invisible, or even silent, to most majority Japanese.4 Nevertheless, in addition to the population range of the burakumin being between 1.5 and 3 million people, in some parts of the country the burakumin make up well over 50 percent of the local population (Noguchi et al. 1998, 14–15). For many individuals, burakumin or not, the burakumin are not invisible, nor are they silent. Silence as unspokenness is self-replicating, and when it becomes the dominant approach to any issue, it becomes difficult to challenge. Buraku issues are rarely addressed in media or political discussions (though there are exceptions), and this shapes the narratives that challenge silence. Silence requires formal and informal consensus. Some are taught that they are burakumin, together with the dominant approach to buraku issues, even while being taught to challenge these approaches. Silence is both symbolic and literal marginalization. You know a burakumin only if he or she “comes out,” is willing to tell others. Much like

Silent Introductions

5

compulsory heterosexuality, whereby the assumption of sexuality centers on heteronormative understandings (Adams 2010; Rich 1980), the assumption for many minorities in Japan is that one is majority Japanese. There is no way to know other wise. Marking groups as different from the majority essentializes a binary of majority and minority, minimizing or eliminating overlap (Brekhus 1996). You are either burakumin or not. This labeling removes a sense of what the label means and glosses over the diversity within buraku groups (Amos 2011; Boocock 2011). The assumptions are true not only for burakumin but also for resident Koreans, the largest ethnic minority group in Japan (Ryang and Lie 2009; Ryang 1997, 2000; Fukuoka and Gill 2000). Silence is an intentional devoicing of knowledge. Silence is part of a set of social relations that requires an agreement, a shared understanding, and acceptance of what should be talked about (Zerubavel 2006). Silence can be considered a process by which people are aware and knowing, but are caught in a social environment that discourages open discussion. Silence has a dual power: it can serve to perpetuate the marginalization of certain groups and social problems by replicating the suppression of thoughts and ideas, and it can provide security, or a respite from one’s stigmatized status—even if that security is temporary and comes at a cost. Silence evokes multiple meanings. It is not the same as acceptance (Sheriff 2000; Kanuha 1999), and alternate “voices” may be invoked in response to their marginalized status (Scott 1990). The unyielding power of silence, even when challenged by the marginalized, is difficult to break. We “hear” silence when social actors remind us of its presence, giving voice to highlight social problems that did not capture the attention of, or were ignored by, broader society (Hirschman 1970). Silence is a window on how powerful groups or individuals can control the dialogue. The highly public and vocal demands by AIDS activists in the 1980s that people listen (and the “Silence = Death” slogan) is a striking example. If silence is institutionalized, it perpetuates itself with modest effort (Zerubavel 2006, 68; Rusch 2005, 87); and unless there is a social environment ready to break down the wall of silence, dissenting voices will not be heard, despite the actions of numerous social movements (Meyer and Minkoff 2004; McAdam 1999). How do we arrive at knowledge of who is and who is not burakumin? There are a number of clues: (a) knowledge of the geographic area, though this is not always an effective marker (Davis 2000); (b) family

6

Chapter 1

backgrounds, which private investigators can look into to discern membership as burakumin or as resident Koreans (Murphy-Shigematsu 2003, 207; Hayashida 1976); and (c) perceived cues from individuals. Thus, what is not said becomes an indicator of what might be. Being intentionally elusive about personal background ineluctably sends out a signal that there is something to be told. One adult informant— a middle-aged man who had moved from a buraku district to attend college in Osaka (Japan’s third largest city)— was formerly active in the BLL. He was not, he said, intentionally hiding his background, but he did not reveal it to his coworkers; in short, he was bracketing part of his identity, sharing with some and not with others (Brekhus 2003; Heritage 1984, 140–41). He had a coworker whom he thought was burakumin. “One day after work, when we were the only two left in the office working overtime, I decided to break the silence and find out about his background.” He began to whistle a song and symbol of the BLL, known to insiders and recognizable to anyone in the movement, though outsiders would likely be unaware. The coworker looked up, “Are you?” he asked. The answer was apparent. The symbol came and went, the silence momentarily broken, then resumed. Here, silence is a social process, the outcome of a shared understanding of what is not to be talked about and a cipher of the issues surrounding buraku concerns in Japanese society. Numerous agents shape and reinforce the public discourse on buraku issues. We can “see” silence in the media, education, and government policies. The media are agents that silence public exposure to buraku issues. They selectively engage with topics as both an economic and a political entity. First, as an economic entity, it is in the interest of owners, producers, and editors to highlight issues that will sell. Second, as a political entity, the media play a role in shaping par ticu lar public policy (Bernhard 2003; Cook 1998; Humphreys 1996), reflecting and shaping the prevailing social norms on many issues, such as global warming (Boykoff and Boykoff 2007), racial understanding (Larson 2006; Sommers et al. 2006; Jacobs 2000), gender (Holtzman 2000), and prejudices against religious groups (Nacos and Torres-Reyna 2007). The Japanese media is criticized for its history of ignoring sensitive issues (Adelstein 2009; Freeman 2000; Krauss 2000; Hall 1998; Jameson 1997; Pharr and Krauss 1996). The canonical example is the enforced silence on the coverage of the imperial family (Gamble and Watanabe 2004;

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7

Ruoff 2001, 107–8). Media self-censorship keeps hidden any unflattering information about the imperial family, highlighting positive, staged images. The Imperial Household Agency exerts a strong grip on official information, and rarely is gossip presented to the Japanese press (Gamble and Watanabe 2004; Eisenstodt 1998). Compare this to the information leaked to the press for decades about the British royal family; the differences are clear. When Australian journalist Ben Hills’s book about Crown Princess Masako was to be published in a Japanese edition, the publisher faced diplomatic challenges and protest from the Japanese government ( Joyce 2007). There are security issues for those who violate the codes of media silence, particularly in regard to the imperial family. Right-wing groups act aggressively as “protectors” of the honor of Japan and the imperial family. Honda Katsuichi—an investigative journalist formerly with the Asahi Shimbun, a center-left newspaper—resorts to disguises when going out in public; his articles have been perceived as anti-emperor or antiJapanese (Gamble and Watanabe 2004; Honda 1993). David McNeill, an independent reporter and author, has written about how right-wing groups have tried to intimidate him and how threats inspire a high degree of selfcensorship among media outlets (McNeill 2001). These are not idle threats. In 1987, an Asahi Shimbun reporter was shot and killed (an exceedingly rare crime in Japan), allegedly by a member of a right-wing group; the crime was never solved. Such events shape reportage. Indeed, reporters covering the imperial family, “hoping to avoid such attacks,” are often “purposefully vague” (Feldman 1993, 199). A similar approach is taken with buraku issues. However, coverage for the imperial family centers on positive events, such as ceremonies, and symbolic acts, like the opening of the Diet, whereas buraku issues are, if even covered, done so in as neutral a manner as possible. As scholars have noted, there is a “virtual taboo” on reporting on the burakumin ( Jameson 1997, 2; Pharr and Krauss 1996, 13). According to Yuko Matsuyama, a former editor of the Asahi Shimbun, this is because “nobody likes to read those stories” (Farley 1996, 138). This signals the role of the press in shaping what is to be discussed. As Gottlieb (2005, 106) comments in her discussion of discrimination and the media, “If [the] public only ever sees censored texts, people will not be able to develop any real awareness of the realities of discrimination.” This speaks to the manner in which the media shape discussions of the burakumin. Gottlieb continues, “Media

8

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became its own best watchdog and to a large extent ceased what little coverage there was of burakumin-related items, in particular, for fear of provoking unwelcome retaliatory publicity” (106). Further, she argues, “Language controls do nothing to eradicate discrimination itself but merely push it further underground by hiding the sort of language which bests manifests the discrimination while at the same time making people feel inhibited about expressing themselves freely” (105). The media will often consider buraku issues euphemistically, using the term Dōwa or even the less direct “ human rights issues.”5 Using such terminology disguises buraku issues under a larger linguistic umbrella, rendering them silent under the broader category of human rights issues. The Sayama Incident well illustrates how the media treat buraku issues. Named for the city outside of Tokyo where the case occurred, it has been famous among activists since 1963, when the initial events took place. The case involved the kidnapping and subsequent murder of a high school girl and the arrest of Ishikawa Kazuo, a young man from a buraku district. From the start, there were several problems with the police investigation. First, it took repeated searches of the suspect’s home (a full fifty-nine days after the initial search) to find the pen alleged to have been used in the ransom note. The pen was found sitting on the doorframe of Ishikawa’s room, at eye level, and yet was missed in previous searches of the home. Second, the suspect, who had only a third-grade education, was alleged to have written a grammatically correct ransom note in flowing prose (unlikely, considering the complexity of the Japanese language). This case, for those active in buraku movements, still represents the power of the state and long-standing personal and institutional discrimination. In the media reports on the Sayama Incident, the suspect’s buraku links went unmentioned until May 1976, over thirteen years after the incident. In the 525 newspaper articles on the Sayama Incident, reported in the Asahi Shimbun between May 1963 and December 2010, the connection to buraku issues was made in only forty-six articles. In the intervening years, there were numerous requests for retrial, and after Ishikawa was paroled in 1994, lawyers requested the initial verdict be overturned. The few media overviews of the case that mentioned a buraku connection were relegated to final paragraphs (“Man Found Guilty,” May 24, 2006). Clearly, buraku issues were not completely ignored by the media, but their delivery highlighted the silence surrounding them. In 2005, a television network ran a program describing various cases of false accusation,

Silent Introductions

9

confession, and imprisonment—issues that had gained recent notoriety. Following a segment on the Sayama Incident, the announcer made a final crucial point: The reason that most people had not heard of the case was that the alleged perpetrator, the victim of false accusation, was burakumin. As such, the media has been reluctant to address this issue (Kasamatsu 2009). This coverage was isolated and did not lead to long-term open engagement with buraku issues as a whole. Silence is self-sustaining. The editor of a well-known national newsmagazine commented to me thus, “We know there are a lot of people and things connected with burakumin, but we also know we can’t cover them. It’s better not to say anything.” Silence is institutionalized, and institutions, like the media, employ terms that shape the public discourse on marginalized populations, such as the burakumin and the physically challenged. The determination of this terminology mostly happens behind the scenes, and the general public is not aware of how their understanding is being manipulated (Gottlieb 2005, 105). Government institutions also perpetuate silence. Bills emerge from committees and are silently buried within other bills. The criminal justice system is caught up in silence. In the United States, Japan, and other countries, the fundamental right to silence provides protection from the state (Mirfield 1997; Foote 1995). A suspect’s past actions are often inadmissible in court, as is the past sexual history of a victim of sexual violence. Judges, throughout a trial, instruct juries on what to consider and what to ignore during their deliberations. There are formal and informal sanctions for violating norms of silence. Formal sanctions include the use of the legal system. The awareness of sanctions and the need to protect the violator of these norms has led to the creation of whistle-blower protection laws in some countries. Not all violations of silence are protected ( Jackson and Raftos 1997), and there are informal sanctions for various violations of norms of silence. This can lead to either ostracism from the group or the silent treatment. The United States policies that prevented gays and lesbians from openly serving in the military—Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell— directly punished those who came out by not permitting them to serve in the military.6 The language of Japanese government policies reinforces the silence that shrouds buraku concerns. In government-created policies aiding buraku communities, the term buraku was missing. In 1969, the national government implemented a series of affirmative action laws for buraku

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districts, known as Dōwa laws. These laws were designed to improve living conditions, increase educational opportunities, and aid buraku-run businesses. Yet the initial law, and its subsequent continuations, eschewed the term buraku in the title, and once Dōwa came to be understood as standing for buraku, it too was removed from the official name of the laws.

Experiencing Silence How is silence experienced and reproduced through individual interaction? This work examines how youth experience silence in various social practices, such as local communities and schools where silence and voice are socialized. In schools, students learn what is important, what is to be valued, and what is to be hidden— silence as a form of suppressing ideas. They learn how to highlight issues by placing some at the fore and others in the background, rendering them silent (Brekhus 1998; Zerubavel 1997). Knowing what to talk about is part of knowing what not to talk about— what is not acceptable for discussion. Lessons in school can enforce silence as the status quo approach to buraku issues, or they can reshape understanding, with lessons that place buraku issues and pride in being burakumin as a key pedagogical approach. The outcomes are based on the complex interaction between a socialized self and the broader social world. People struggle with how to present themselves to others based on an assessment of perceived risk over any violation of expected silence. The process of impression management and presentation of self are connected with bracketing: sharing part of an identity in one setting while bracketing out other parts (Garfinkel 2002, 135–44). We control the self that we are presenting at a given moment, and at the same time it is the self that forms the foundation for future interaction. Bracketing is also a method for controlling or minimizing risk. As Goffman (1959) notes, “Defensive and protective practices comprise the techniques employed to safeguard the impression fostered by an individual during his presence before others” (24). In other words, we avoid risk by presenting a self that is least likely to harm ourselves. These defensive practices are not passive internalization of stigma but risk-conscious decisions at specific points in time. Individuals replicate silence in their interactions with others, perhaps sharing part of themselves—the stigmatized self—with one audience but

Silent Introductions

11

hiding that same part from another (Brekhus 2003; Garfinkel 2002, 135–44; Heritage 1984, 140–41). Bracketing is an examination of passing. As Renfrow (2004) notes, passing is distancing and aligning at the same time: distancing from the stigmatized identity and aligning to the less or non-stigmatized identity (495)—two parts of one existential self. Passing provides a degree of freedom for the individual but is socially constrained in terms of what is defined as stigmatized (Renfrow 2004, 502). It is not necessarily about internalizing norms of broader society and rejecting the problematic self. In her work on passing among gay men and lesbians of color, Kanuha (1999) describes silence as dissociation from a stigmatized role, a mechanism for separating majority views on their status from their own experiences. This silence, she notes, plays out in the form of passing. Silence and passing, then, are the same actions: forms of protection that engage with specific issues. We present ourselves according to how we understand a given situation, knowing that what is “established in one interaction setting will be quite different in content from the working consensus established in a different type of setting” (Goffman 1959, 10). This is also the case with the presentation of the “burakumin self ” in Japanese society. Bracketing is closely related to the concept of “covering” stigma (Yoshino 2007; Goffman 1963), in which one “makes great effort to keep the stigma from looming large” (Goffman 1963, 102). What makes bracketing different is the degree of effort involved. Covering is based on a strong conscious decision to downplay some forms of stigma; bracketing is less a process of hiding than simply ignoring or minimizing parts of one’s social self. Creating and maintaining an identity is inherently interactive: a process of social understanding and individual actions that both respond to and reshape those understandings. Anthony Giddens (1991) writes on identity formation: “The self is not a passive identity, determined by external influences; in forging their self-identities, no matter how local their specific contexts of action, individuals contribute to and directly promote social influences that are global in their consequences and implications” (2). The construction of an identity is part of preparing for future interaction. The individual is acting with an awareness of past experiences, which forms a foundation for behavior in future experiences. Buraku youth fi lter their past experiences in order to prepare for their future. These preparations are maintained where they can be controlled. In the early period of identity formation, an individual is typically in a protective cocoon, where risk is minimized though not entirely eliminated:

12

Chapter 1 The protective cocoon is essentially a sense of “unreality” rather than a firm conviction of security: it is a bracketing, on the level of practice, or possible events which could threaten the bodily or psychological integrity of the agent. The protective barrier it offers may be pierced, temporarily or more permanently, by happenings which demonstrate as real the negative contingencies built into all risk. (Giddens 1991, 40)

For the youth in Takagawa and Kuromatsu, the communities where this study takes place, the protective cocoon is structured in part through an organized education system in Japan, with minimal interaction with outsiders. Once youth leave the protected world of the junior high school (the end of compulsory education), the probability of risk in terms of confronting the reality of being burakumin rises dramatically. The concern over risk is a real one, as burakumin in contemporary Japan continue to be stigmatized, marginalized, and discriminated against (Buraku Kaihō—Jinkenseisaku kakuritsu yōkyū chūo jukkō inkai 2009). The possibility that one will be marked as burakumin can happen anywhere and anytime. Here youth learn the lessons of risk and the tools of silence. Some decide that the risk is too great and continue in silence’s embrace: a form of protection, a personal decision, and the replication of a social norm.

Chapter Progression In order to understand how silence and stigma prevail in reference to buraku issues in contemporary Japan, we must first consider the historical legacy of contemporary buraku experiences, as well as social movement organizations and state responses to these histories. Chapter 2 provides a brief background of the burakumin and establishes a theoretical and empirical framework for understanding who the burakumin as a social category are, as well as a comparative understanding of how we can consider their stigmatized social positioning vis-à-vis members of the majority society. Chapter 3 considers the role of social movements in both challenging and reproducing silence. It begins by introducing Kuromatsu and exploring how the JDK works together to strengthen a collective identity in one’s community through the process of community revitalization

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(machi zukuri) and local festivals. Following this, the chapter turns to Takagawa and the local BLL branch, and finally to the role of the Festival of Liberation (Kaihō no Matsuri) in challenging silence and building pride in being burakumin through fun, engaging events. In both communities, the interests of the social movement and local government coincide, providing a degree of legitimacy to the approaches for the youth— silence in Kuromatsu and openness in Takagawa. Chapter 4 centers on the formal and informal lessons of identity and silence within the school environment. I begin by examining the national standards for how buraku issues are to be engaged in schools through Dōwa (assimilation) education. Not all communities used Dōwa education in the same way, which results in profound outcomes for the children. Following this, I examine the role of schools in replicating silence in Kuromatsu and the ways in which silence is challenged through school lessons in Takagawa. Schools provide formal and informal lessons on what it means to be burakumin and how that social identity is viewed by the majority society. As long as the youth are in the protective cocoon that the school provides, these formal lessons carry a degree of legitimacy. It is in the school setting and within the protective cocoon that youth are first learning the lessons of silence, though it will not be their last. Chapter 5 examines the role of social networks in shaping dialogue on buraku issues. Kuromatsu provided a forum outside the formal school setting for buraku students to gather through an after-school study session. Yet the very act of these buraku youth engaging in after-school club activities only further marked them as different from their classmates. On the other hand, the Kodomo Kai (Children’s Club)—the BLL-led children’s group in Takagawa—provided an evening forum for students to develop and maintain a positive buraku identity while in the protective cocoon of Takagawa. Students were encouraged to share their experiences with those whom they knew and trusted, shaping how they would cope with this identity in the future. I will show that despite the approaches found in both communities to reinforce a set perspective—silence in Kuromatsu and challenging silence in Takagawa—there are events that occur in the lives of the children that pierce the protective cocoon. Through this, I demonstrate how the children respond to incidents that do not fit with their experiences within the protective cocoon, how they respond, and what this response can tell us about the relative strengths and weaknesses of openness and silence.

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Chapter  6 follows the children beyond their home community, through high school and into adulthood, where they are now interacting with those who have different backgrounds, different experiences, and different understandings of buraku issues. It is during these stages that the youth begin to bracket their identities and reconsider how they present themselves to others. The actions and interactions of youth from Kuromatsu and Takagawa beyond their respective communities demonstrate the process of silence being reproduced in its most direct form. It is not surprising that those from Kuromatsu continue to practice silence with those outside the protective cocoon, for this is how they have been socialized. Yet for the youth of Takagawa, who have been socialized to challenge silence, their actions beyond their protective cocoon ironically replicate the silence that is found in the broader society. This use of silence is not, however, an acceptance of their social position in relation to majority Japanese. Rather, this bracketing that results in silence is a rejection of outward labeling and, at the same time, a form of protection. This chapter concludes with a discussion of institutional changes that have direct and indirect impact on silence, stigma, and the burakumin. The work concludes with an understanding of how the youth manage their stigma and how that shapes a broader understanding of discrimination in Japan and beyond. The silence that surrounds buraku issues must be historically and spatially contextualized. How did various outcaste groups become marked as different and subsequently stigmatized? This question leads to the creation and response of the modern social category of burakumin. What were, and are, the responses of various buraku groups to their position in society? The next chapter begins with an overview of the ways in which many burakumin have challenged or embraced silence over the years by considering the historical trajectory of a number of social movement organizations. Although broader historical and contemporary trajectories of social movement groups are important for understanding the overall response to marginalization, most people experience these approaches in their daily lives, within their local communities.

Chapter 2 Backgrounds and Struggles “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” —William Faulkner, 1951 “Burakumin don’t exist anymore. That’s all historical.” —Taxi driver, Tokyo, 2001

he burakumin are racially and ethnically Japanese, though this statement becomes complicated if we invoke markers of ethnicity as “sharing cultural traits” different from those of majority society (Zagefka 2009; Abizadeh 2001; Omi and Winant 1994). Under such a consideration, the burakumin are similar to an ethnic group, though they are not an ethnic minority. Conversely, if we (commonly) assume ethnicity as being connected with a national heritage and religion, then the burakumin are not an ethnic group. They are ethnically Japanese, speak Japanese, follow the similar religious and cultural practices as other Japanese, and thereby ought not be considered a separate ethnic group. The question that invariably follows, then, is this: How do people know who is or isn’t burakumin? The short answer is that unless a person tells you, you cannot know. Knowing who is burakumin is much like knowing who is gay or lesbian. That is to say, unless those persons “come out” and share their background, there is no way to know. These are foundational questions about the construction of difference. The longer answer requires a deeper discussion of how difference was created and maintained over time. Social categorization of groups, whether by race, ethnicity, or gender, is considered a social construct (Glenn 2000; Burr 1995; Berger and Luckman 1967), meaning that there is no inherent difference between groups, only what society defines as different. These definitions of difference have real consequences, having been created and reinforced through social, legal, and cultural practices over time. Here, consider the Thomas

T

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theorem as a framework for understanding this process: “If people define situations as real, they are real in their consequences” (Thomas and Thomas 1928, 571–72). One way to consider how race is a social construct is to consider how whiteness— and, for that matter, non-whiteness—has been historically defined in the United States. In some states, a person defined as one-eighth nonwhite (i.e., one great-grandparent) could not be considered a white person. Other states set the threshold of whiteness differently, defining one thirty-second nonwhite (meaning one great-greatgreat-grandparent would not have been white) as not being white, or instituting the infamous one-drop rule, meaning that if any ancestor was not considered white, one could never be defined as white. These various definitions imply that a person who is defined as white in one location can change his or her racial categorization simply by moving. Race, therefore, is not based on biological difference but on social definition; in other words, it is a social construct. There are real outcomes for such categorizations. Being white in the United States brings with it strong economic, political, and legal privileges (Lopez 2006). Historically, it has meant that one had the right to property (and the economic rewards of property ownership) and citizenship (with the right to vote). Numerous immigrant groups in the United States have sought such rewards and privileges, though this has not been easy.1 Indeed, groups now considered “white” were not always regarded as such—for example, the Irish (Ignatiev 1995; Roediger 1999), Italians (Guglielmo and Salerno 2003), Jews (Brodkin 1994), and other European immigrants (Roediger 2005). By “becoming” white, they were able to reap the benefits of membership. As whiteness/non-whiteness has been a contested category in the United States, so also have modern-day burakumin and their historical antecedents. Definitions of burakumin were based on set decisions made by people in power and reinforced through a system of laws and social behavior (Amos 2011; Hirota 2009; Uesugi 2000; Ooms 1996). Once beliefs about the burakumin were replicated, they became self-perpetuating. Being burakumin is the legacy of a legal categorization from the Tokugawa period (1603–1867). Although there are no differences between burakumin and majority Japanese as people, laws and economic policies have had a lasting and profound effect. How, then, was the category of the contemporary burakumin created?

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Historical Background The social category of burakumin is often described as a direct legacy of Tokugawa-era policies toward outcaste groups, though this was a fluid and uneven marker (Amos 2011).2 The largest of these marginalized groups were known as eta and hinin (Fujii 2009, 107–18; Teraki and Noguchi 2000, 140–56; Uesugi 2000, 176–82). These two terms are considered highly discriminatory, meaning “full of filth” and “non-human,” respectively.3 Broadly speaking, those in the eta category were tied closely to particular locations and employment types, performing such necessary work as dealing with animals or leather, or caring for the dead; the hinin included traveling entertainers and others who were used as bounty hunters (Uesugi 2000, 169–76). Historically, discrimination against marginalized populations was based on legal, social, and political rationales (Amos 2011; Groemer 2001; Ooms 1996). Though not codified until the early eighteenth century (Uesugi 2000, 176–82), social customs from the Nara period (645–794) and Kamakura period (1192–1333) created a system of discrimination; some marginalized populations were labeled as “impure” and treated differently from the majority population (Nagahara 1979, 386–91; Neary 1989, 13). The placement of these outcaste groups was part of a larger system of social control implemented and codified in the Tokugawa period. The Tokugawa government established a hereditary social hierarchy that placed samurai at the top, followed by peasants, then artisans, then merchants. Below the merchants were the eta, the hinin, and other marginalized groups (Watanabe 1998). Though this hierarchy was designed to control movement and aid the collection of taxes, the categories were not rigid. There was considerable movement between these groups (Ikegami 2005, 130–31), and some were able to move between outcaste groups and majority society (Amos 2011; Ooms 1996). This hierarchical system also served a political purpose. By maintaining a social group below peasants, artisans, and merchants, the government could maintain a society that was rigidly controlled and heavily taxed. As Neary (1989) notes: The Bakufu [military] government took the lead in implementing measures which divided the eta:hinin from the rest of the Japanese population in a

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Chapter 2 way that both enabled the poor peasant to take consolation from the fact that there were groups in society of lower status than himself and provided the authorities with a group that could be relied on to put down peasant uprisings. (20)

Discrimination against marginalized groups during the Tokugawa period took the form of both individual and state-sanctioned discrimination. There were established curfews on when the eta could be out, as well as requirements on clothing: that they wear a piece of leather and a particular type of sash or kimono (Ooms 1996, 265). These regulations, as part of the Kyōhō reforms (kyōhō no kaikaku), were implemented between 1715 and 1730 and were designed to control daily life and codify the differences between groups. This was achieved through rules on the length of hair, the blackening of teeth, special taxation, and extended control over movement, though the implementations of these regulations were discretionary (Ooms 1996, 265). It was during this era that leaders in both Kyoto and Edo (present-day Tokyo) conducted a census of outcaste areas, keeping family registries of the outcastes separate from those of everyone else (Neary 1989, 17). One long-lasting marker of difference between burakumin and the general population was control of particular industries—that is, establishing a hereditary connection to an occupation. Though not all marginalized groups were in the leather or butchering industries, these were areas in which the eta were overwhelmingly involved—positions that, by law, were hereditary (Uesugi 2000, 169–76). There was flexibility in marking an industry or occupation as being specific to an outcaste group (Amos 2011, 87). Indeed, as Neary (1989) notes, “An eta monopoly in one area might be a normal [sic] pursuit elsewhere” (17). The flexibility of these occupational categorizations highlights the fluidity of these categories. Control of certain industries carried economic benefits. In localized areas, monopolies enabled wealth, demonstrating that membership in these status groups was not as simple as one’s social class. The categorization of these status groups as such was not a historical constant; creating and maintaining labels of difference were part of a social construct: the state gatekeeping membership of social categories. These categories were shifting even before Japan began its modernization project in the Meiji period (1868–1912).

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Emancipation The new Meiji government attempted to validate its position as a “modern” nation-state through declaring the elimination of the status system pre sent under the Tokugawa regime. However, social stratification continued under different labels. Those from the former samurai/peasant/ artisan/merchant categories became “commoners” (heimin), though not the outcaste groups. The change in labels came in 1871, when the Meiji government issued the Emancipation Edict (Kaihō Rei), nominally ending the discrimination and legal controls on employment for marginalized populations.4 In parts of western Japan, the edict was met with protests and even killings of the now former eta (Watanabe 1998, 48; Teraki and Noguchi 2000, 174–75). The destabilizing of the hierarchy was disruptive to social understanding of one’s “place” in society, leading many to respond violently to perceived inappropriate actions by marginalized groups (Howell 2005, 71). Many uprisings were part of larger protests over the “downfall of the status order” (Howell 2005, 90). Government proclamations eliminating discrimination seldom result in immediate changes in attitude at the community or individual level, and the Emancipation Edict was no exception (McCormack 2013). In addition, no programs were promoted to aid those who lost their monopolies in the period following emancipation (Neary 1989, 33–36). The social position in which marginalized populations found themselves after emancipation did not differ greatly from that prior to emancipation. Living conditions, social marginalization, and discrimination continued largely as before. The former outcaste groups, now known as shin-heimin (new commoners), were labeled as different from the other heimin (commoners), and many were still socially and economically tied to the ghettos in which they had lived for generations. These communities became known as Tokushu Buraku, or “special hamlets,” and are the source for the term burakumin, or “people of the hamlet” (Uesugi 2009, 16–30). The Emancipation Edict was a double-edged sword (Amos 2014). It struck away the hereditary bond that kept people connected to a particular area and occupation for generations. Also, the monopolies the burakumin held over necessary industries were eliminated. Many non-burakumin were able to enter into these occupations without suffering the stigma faced by the burakumin (Uesugi 2009, 16–30). Categorizing social groups

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was not a historical constant; creating and maintaining labels of difference were legal decisions, with the state maintaining a degree of control over membership in such categories. Discrimination remained. Indeed, even the designation of the areas of residence, the officially recognized buraku districts, is not a historical constant. Over time, districts have been both added to and removed from official records (Amos 2011; Kurokawa 2003). In addition, urbanization has engulfed districts into larger urban settings, changing names and borders, and blurring the boundaries between the inside and the outside of buraku districts (Davis 2000). With such blurring, determining membership takes considerable effort. What was once a historical categorization based on occupation was now based on area of residence and family background.

Finding Backgrounds The Japanese state institutionalized labels of heimin and shin-heimin through the koseki, a family-based legal record that contains all births, deaths, marriages, and other information pertaining to each family. Every family in Japan, provided they are Japa nese, has a koseki, which was originally designed to provide the government with information for unifying the body politic (Krogness 2014; McCormack 2013, 64–65). The fact that the koseki lists residences means that it can be used to track family backgrounds. Koseki were kept at local government offices and were open to the public, allowing anybody to determine who was burakumin. It was not until 1976, over one hundred years after the Meiji government promulgated the Emancipation Edict, that koseki were closed to public perusal, though buraku organizations had attempted to limit access to koseki for years (Neary 1989, 222). As a number of scholars note, the koseki system acts, in part, as a state-supported tool of discrimination and control (Bryant 1991; Chapman and Krogness 2014; Reber 1999). The koseki does not allow for multiple names or hyphenated names in a household (meaning that spouses must, by law, have the same last name). The koseki also categorizes children born out of wedlock differently (White 2014). The requirement that all changes in a household must be recorded in the koseki makes it an effective means of social control.

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Discrimination against the burakumin is intertwined with the koseki system (Amos 2014; T. Tsukada 2014). Though records do not indicate how often the koseki are viewed, legally or illegally, the fact that it is a method of determining background makes the koseki a potential indicator of burakumin membership. Any attempt to change one’s place of residence can be traced: move enough times, and this too will raise questions. Though the koseki are officially closed to public view, a person’s refusal to allow his or her koseki to be shown to others, such as on the occasion of marriage or job application, suggests that he or she is trying to hide something. The illegal use of buraku lists—chimeisōkan (Tomonaga 2006), noting the locations of buraku communities throughout Japan— demonstrates how the “value-neutral” koseki can be used in conjunction with more subversive tools to discriminate against the burakumin. These lists are purchased by wealthy individuals and large companies to track background. Further, there is growing concern over the use of the Internet as a tool for determining burakumin identity (Davis 2000; Tomonaga 2006). Google faced this concern in 2009 when it published a number of Tokugawa-era maps from the University of California at Berkeley. These maps, used in conjunction with contemporary maps, could indicate former outcaste districts, thus increasing the potential of marking a person as burakumin, even centuries later. In short, history bites back. It is through such illegal searches that families could determine a buraku background of the spouse or potential spouse of their child. As scholars have found, Japan’s private investigation industry is often called on to handle such searches (Ooms 1996, 308; Hayashida 1976, 189–95). The number of such agencies would suggest that it is a lucrative business. Anecdotal stories of relationships being broken off after a buraku background was discovered abound in literature about the burakumin.

Early Social Movement Organizations The koseki is just one of the areas that burakumin social movements have sought to address since such movements were first established. Japanese society was undergoing profound social changes as it opened itself up to new influences in the early Meiji period, such as the rise of political

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parties and social movement groups (Ishii 2009, 31–44; Teraki and Noguchi 2000, 176–81). Burakumin-related social movement organizations date back to the Meiji period, when the Yūwa Undō (Harmony Movement), which took a strongly assimilationist approach, was founded, and expanded during the Taisho period (1912–26) together with the liberal Suiheisha (Levelers’ Society), which took a more self-reliant approach (Bayliss 2013). From the late Meiji through the Taisho period, the Japanese government was concerned with social upheavals and outbreaks of anti-state violence (Bayliss 2013; Hane 2003; Kaneko 1997; Mitchell 1976). One of the most famous was the Rice Riots (kome sōdō) of 1918, which involved a widespread series of protests over the hoarding and inflated price of rice, in which over seven thousand people were arrested, including a large number of burakumin (M. Lewis 1990, 124–27). As a result of the Rice Riots and other uprisings, the government began to take an active interest in providing aid to buraku communities (Teraki and Noguchi 2000, 182–83), though this was more a concern over a security risk than a desire to aid impoverished communities (Neary 1989, 43). The primary avenue through which the government approached buraku issues at this time was through the Yūwa Undō, or Harmony Movement. The prevailing view was that for discrimination to end, the burakumin themselves needed to work harder to “prove” that they were as good as mainstream Japanese. Thus, the ethos dictated that discrimination existed because there was something wrong with the burakumin. Framing discrimination in such a way meant that the Yūwa Undō rejected the notion of open, direct engagement with buraku issues or a challenge to the prevailing social order. The Yūwa Undō did not undertake any wide-scale action to raise awareness of buraku issues. A loosely connected organization with chapters throughout western Japan, the Yūwa Undō facilitated local, prefectural, and national governmental aid to buraku districts. Through this funding, the government was able to maintain a voice in buraku issues, though it remained an independent organization (Neary 1989, 59–60). There were burakumin who challenged the close connection between the government and the Yūwa Undō, the passive approach, and the slow pace of action in combating discrimination and improving living conditions. As a result, a group of young burakumin in 1922 announced the

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formation of a new, more radical organization, by burakumin for burakumin: the Suiheisha, or Levelers’ Society. The difference in approaches between these two organizations, as Neary points out, was fundamental: The Yūwa movement argued that opportunities within Japanese society existed which the burakumin could not or would not take advantage of because of the attitudes they held, where those in the Suiheisha argued that the will to achieve existed, but the opportunities did not and this was the fault of the social structure. (71)

The two organizations were different as night and day. The Suiheisha attempted to promote a positive burakumin self-identity and to radically change social conditions; the Yūwa Undō encouraged burakumin to “work harder.” The Suiheisha attempted to raise awareness of buraku issues by challenging discrimination through breaking the silence that prevailed, whereas the Yūwa Undō sought to minimize open discussion, in essence perpetuating the silence on buraku issues. Differences also existed in how incidents of discrimination were dealt with. The Yūwa Undō did not directly challenge these incidents, whereas the Suiheisha confronted perpetrators of discrimination through kyūdan, or denunciation sessions. These emotional, highly charged sessions were public meetings where burakumin would confront and denounce the accused until buraku leaders were satisfied with the person’s remorse and apology. The use of kyūdan continued in the postwar period. The sessions were confrontational, and elements of violence were not unheard of (Uehara 2014; Upham 1987; Buraku Kaihō Dōmei Chūō Honbu 1981; Rohlen 1976; Yagi 1994, 63). In addition to challenging discrimination directly, kyūdan placed buraku issues at the center of social interaction. Discrimination against the burakumin was nothing new. What the Suiheisha and its tactics did was an attempt to change public discourse. Unwilling to accept discrimination without a challenge, it was the first organized, large-scale direct challenge to burakumin discrimination. As Japan slid toward militarism in the 1930s, state policies sought stronger control of civil society organizations (Kushner 2006, 28). After the Marco Polo Bridge incident in 1937, an event that led to the mass

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mobilization of Japanese troops, which were ultimately sent to China, the Suiheisha’s approach changed radically. Although the Suiheisha leadership “looked forward to a rapid return to peace and a situation of mutual co-existence between the Japa nese and Chinese people, they felt obliged to participate in plans to foster national unity” (Neary 1989, 203). Complete with a police presence at meetings and police control over meeting records, the Suiheisha and the Yūwa Undō agreed to work together for national mobilization (Asaji 2009, 280–96; Neary 1989, 204–5). By 1941, both organizations were supportive of the government and its policies, though as Bayliss (2013) notes, this was by no means a uniform response to state takeover.5 Governmental control of buraku groups was part of a broader set of policies to consolidate civil society organizations from 1941 known as the Imperial Rule Assistance Association (Taisei Yokusankai). This measure effectively ended social action by buraku groups until after the war (Kushner 2006, 28; Neary 1989, 194). Organizational control shifted from civilian leaders to members of the government with a new group known as the Dōwa Hōkōkai, the Assimilation Public Ser vice Group (Neary 1989, 211). The term Dōwa, or “assimilation,” came from an imperial proclamation calling on all Japanese to work hard for the good of the nation (Teraki and Noguchi, 2000, 202–3).6 The kanji compound for dō is “same” and wa is “harmony.” The term continued to be used in the postwar era.

Postwar Buraku Social Movements The relics of the prewar buraku social movement organizations reemerged in 1946 as the Buraku Kaihō Zenkoku Iinkai, or the National Committee for Buraku Liberation (NCBL).7 One of its leaders was Matsumoto Jiichirō, a Diet member in the prewar and postwar eras, and a founding member of the Socialist Party (Neary 2010a). After his election in 1947, Matsumoto shocked many by not only refusing an invitation to visit the imperial palace but also, when the emperor appeared before the Diet, refusing to approach him from the side, as was customary. Matsumoto walked directly up to the emperor, an unheard action that greatly upset

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conservatives in the Diet. Following this, Prime Minister Yoshida requested to the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers (SCAP) that Matsumoto be purged, allegedly for his activities in a wartime organization, the Greater Japan Asian Development League (Dai Nippon Kyo A Dōmei). Neary argues that Matsumoto’s purge was more about his public questioning of the emperor’s war responsibility (Neary 2010a, 149–57). Yoshida’s allegations were tenuous at best but served to remove Matsumoto from the Diet until 1953. Nonetheless, the experienced Matsumoto was a key figure in the creation of postwar buraku social movement organizations. His approach was shaped also by the growing unease between Japan’s left and the direction of the American occupation and postwar relationship between Japan and the United States (Neary 2010b), affecting much of the discourse on buraku issues and domestic and international politics for years to come (Neary 2010a; Hawkins 1995; Rohlen 1976). The NCBL adopted tactics similar to those of their prewar predecessors, including the use of denunciation sessions. The overriding goal remained equality for the burakumin and was now articulated through three demands: (1) governmental support to improve living conditions, (2) educational policies to raise awareness of buraku issues and instill pride in membership, and (3) anti-discrimination legislation. The NCBL also established a wider approach to combating discrimination, gyōsei tōsō (administrative struggle), which highlighted the role of governmental policies in perpetuating the marginalized position of the burakumin. Coupled with the use of kyūdan, these approaches embraced an anti-discrimination strategy directed toward individuals who committed discriminatory acts as well as engagement with the underlying social structure. The All Romance incident stands out as an extraordinary example of this approach. In 1951, the pulp magazine All Romance published an inflammatory article entitled, “Tokubetsu buraku” (Special Buraku), written by an employee of the Kyoto City Public Health Center. The story, which included greatly exaggerated sexual exploits of burakumin, made numerous references to the substandard living conditions within buraku districts. The NCBL used both administrative struggle and denunciation sessions to challenge this incident (Maekawa 1995). At the individual level, they demanded an apology from the author and challenged his knowledge of buraku experience through a denunciation session. At the administrative

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level, NCBL members presented a map of the city to the mayor, asking him to indicate the areas with higher disease, lower education, and fewer ser vices. With each set of markers on the map— a visual representation of community conditions— a pattern emerged: all of the marked areas were buraku areas (Hirano 1988; Asada 1979). This challenge proved to the government that miserable conditions did not derive from inherent differences between the burakumin and majority Japanese, but were clearly the result of deleterious policies that left the burakumin out. With the All Romance incident, silence about buraku issues had clearly been broken, yet the NCBL was not satisfied. The issue seemed to be what form of broken silence was permissible, and the NCBL was declaring itself the arbiter of what was acceptable to take the place of silence. Although there is little doubt that the article itself was offensive (Fowler 2000), it provided a lesson as to the types of language that could be used surrounding buraku issues. Through the actions surrounding the All Romance incident, public and political awareness of buraku issues grew, and there was a sense among many in the NCBL that these actions could affect change. In 1953, in part as a result of the administrative struggle tactics employed by the NCBL, the national government provided subsidies to local buraku communities in an attempt to raise the standard of living and increase funding for local education. At the tenth annual national meeting in 1955, the NCBL changed its name to the Buraku Kaihō Dōmei, or Buraku Liberation League (BLL), both to bring together other groups and to give the organization a stronger sense of permanence (Neary 2010a, 210). Even today, this organization is “the largest and arguably the most powerful organization representing the burakumin” (Davis 2001, 34). The BLL has its own research facility and maintains a large publishing house, with over one thousand titles published in its annual publishing guide (Kaihō Shuppan Zūsho 2007–2008).

Dōwa Policies Following the All Romance incident and other actions undertaken by buraku social movement organizations, the national government established a fact-finding committee on buraku issues in 1961. Four years later, the committee issued its findings as the Dōwa Taisaku Shingikai Tsūshin

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[Deliberative council assimilation report]. In the report, the government admitted, for the first time, that burakumin discrimination existed in part due to governmental actions, and that governmental measures should be taken to improve conditions. The report called for policies to raise the educational level of burakumin as well as changes in the school curriculum to raise awareness of buraku discrimination and human rights—both within buraku districts and throughout the country. Finally, it noted numerous economic difficulties that the burakumin faced and called for scholarships for students who wished to advance beyond compulsory education (ninth grade). Based on the 1965 special report, the Dōwa Taisaku Jigyo Tokubetsu Sochi Hō (Special Measures Law for Dōwa Projects, or SML) was implemented in 1969. This law called for (1) improving buraku district infrastructure, (2) increasing social welfare and health policies, (3) modernizing buraku farming and fishing facilities, (4) aiding small and midsized firms in buraku areas, (5) improving the working environment and job security, (6) improving education and encouraging advancement in education, (7) encouraging activities to promote human rights, and (8) anything else needed to implement these recommendations. Although some buraku groups criticized the law for the absence of any enforcement mechanisms, the special funding, plus continued pressure by the BLL, produced significant changes, including an improvement in living conditions and increased levels of education. Although the original SML lasted for only ten years, the provisions established in this law, through a series of extensions, continued for over three decades. In 1997, the Dōwa laws were extended for a final five years. In the previous year, 1996, the Diet passed the Law for the Promotion of Human Rights Protection ( Jinken Yōgo Shisaku Suishin Hō), which provided funding to improve human rights education, to increase awareness of a wider range of human rights issues, and to provide aid to various groups. This law was designed to address all minority groups, thus making the additional laws, exclusively for buraku districts, superfluous. However, the elimination of Dōwa laws further silenced buraku issues by rendering them equal to other concerns. This removal allowed people to discuss human rights issues without directly addressing any specific marginalized group. The final Dōwa law ended in 2002. The Dōwa laws demonstrated government engagement with buraku issues at the same time as a replication of silence. Instead of employing

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the terms buraku or burakumin, the government promulgated Dōwa laws. Even the term Dōwa, now understood to mean “buraku,” was removed from all subsequent laws after 1979. The change in terminology further silenced engagement with these issues. The implementation of the Dōwa laws, however, did not diminish challenges against discrimination. The BLL, in particular, continued denunciation sessions before and after the Dōwa laws.

Denunciation Sessions Kyūdan, or denunciation sessions, are highly charged events where people or institutions are challenged (primarily by members of the BLL) to recognize the discriminatory nature of their actions. Two of the more famous denunciation sessions were the Yata Kyūdan in 1969 and the Yoka High School Kyūdan in 1974. These events took place during a period of social and political turmoil in Japanese society (Oguma 2009; Steinhoff 1984; Takazawa 1982). The Yata Kyūdan centered on teachers in a public school and a Communist candidate in a local election who  had issued an allegedly discriminatory pamphlet (see Upham 1987). The three teachers had refused, on a number of occasions, to discuss the pamphlet with members of the local BLL, leading to a denunciation session that began on April 9, 1969 (Upham 1987, 87). Upham cites court transcripts to further demonstrate the tense atmosphere surrounding these sessions: The defendants [members of the local BLL branch] met Okano and Kanai [two teachers] in the employees’ lounge and pressed them, “Why haven’t you come to meet us?” “Why didn’t you come last night as you promised?” “We can’t talk here, let’s go to the Citizens’ Hall [in the buraku district].” Whereupon two others grabbed Okano’s arms and lifted him out of his chair, then walked and pushed him the 30 meters out the front door to the parked car. Koizumi then pushed him into the back seat and rode with him to the Hall. Meanwhile, defendant Toda and two others grabbed Kanai by his jacket and lifted him out of his chair while a third BLL member kicked away the chair. They then grabbed him by the arms and belt and dragged him out the front entrance where he was pushed into the car and driven to the Hall. Kanai complained about the violence and tried to plant his feet but to little effect. (87–88)

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Later, during the kyūdan at the Citizens’ Hall, the vice chair of the Osaka BLL arrived with a warning for the teachers: The BLL thoroughly denounces discriminators; no one has ever been able to escape. Frankly admit that you’re one of them and self-criticize. No matter where in Japan discriminators may try to hide, we will run them down. Sometimes people who are denounced go crazy or are socially abandoned and useless. Think about it. (90)

Another was the Yoka High School Kyūdan in 1974 (Uehara 2014; Pharr 1990; Rohlen 1976). The incident stemmed from a request by Yoka High School students who were from a buraku district for a BLL-led study group within the school. Because there was already a buraku study group in the school, led by teachers affiliated with the Communist Party, the proposed study group was rejected.8 There was consternation among students and the local BLL. Schoolteachers and BLL leaders sought to address the concerns of both sides, but negotiations collapsed, followed by the appearance of sound trucks, school boycotts, extramural teachers’ staff meetings, and student hunger strikes. Teachers—arms linked and in sitdown strike mode— clashed with the BLL outside the school gates, where the BLL yelled at them, demanding that they return to work. Physical attacks followed, with the teachers being kicked and punched. The teachers returned to the school followed by the BLL, which continued to shout demands. Denunciation sessions continued for nearly thirteen hours, and as Rohlen (1976) notes, the hospital report after the incident is most telling. Of the 52 teachers involved, 12 “were listed with broken ribs, vertebrae or tibia. . . . Th irteen, including the 12 just mentioned, required at least six weeks of hospitalization, five more were hospitalized for a month, 15 for from two to three weeks, and 15 more for over a week” (687). Although these events were characterized by extreme violence, other less dramatic kyūdan were employed by the BLL throughout the period. Ironically, fear and concern over extreme denunciation tactics silenced supporters of burakumin (McLauchlan 2003). There was disagreement and resistance within the BLL over such divisive measures, which led, inexorably, to an internal challenge to BLL authority.9

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Fracturing of the Movement There had been divisiveness within the movement since the early 1960s; the first organization to break away from the BLL, in 1960, was the Zenkoku Dōwa Kai, the National Assimilation Association, though it was not the last. A central goal of the Dōwa Kai, in contrast to the confrontational stance of the BLL, was to work with, rather than challenge, the government. Thus, the Dōwa Kai maintained a close working relationship with the ruling Liberal Democratic Party (LDP). The Dōwa Kai disavowed denunciation sessions; rather, eliminating buraku discrimination would come from cooperation and dialogue with those outside the movement. From the perspective of the BLL, the Dōwa Kai was simply a mouthpiece of the LDP to gain a voice in buraku movements and was the heir to the Yūwa movement, letting the government dictate the pace and structure of reform. The conflict between differing organizational approaches to buraku issues emerges, inevitably, at the national and community levels. In his study of one buraku community, Brameld (1968) explored these organizational differences. In one instance, both the Dōwa Kai and the BLL sought the same goal— the building of a public bath in the buraku district— yet because each organization sought a different location (and organizational credit for the facility), the building of the bathhouse was delayed (104). When the bathhouse was finally erected, each group sought control over the opening, resulting in physical altercations at the opening ceremony (104). The BLL continued with denunciation sessions and administrative struggles throughout the postwar era despite concerns over violence and the fracturing of the BLL itself. Th is confrontational approach led to widespread alienation. Yamashita Tsutomu, a BLL member and leader of numerous denunciation sessions, noted, “There was a community backlash against the BLL. Even those who were ‘enemies’ of each other banded together to work against what I was doing” (Yamashita 2004, 51–52). Inevitably, the call for change arose from within the BLL itself. When a group of members in the early 1970s concluded that such reform was impossible, they quit and in 1976 formed the Zenkoku Kaihō Undō Rengō kai (National Buraku Liberation Alliance), or Zenkairen for short. The

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approach of the Zenkairen, politically affiliated with the Japan Communist Party, accords with the Marxist analysis common to the JCP. Zenkairen argues that the fundamental problem of buraku discrimination was lingering feudalistic thinking, the imperial system, and the class structure system in a stratified society. In the postwar era, they argued, conditions improved greatly for the burakumin, one of many groups that were being systematically marginalized. Two years after the termination of the final Dōwa law in 2002, Zenkairen disbanded. By the early 1980s, there were three buraku social movement organizations: the Buraku Liberation League (BLL), an organization that favored open engagement with buraku issues; the Dōwa Kai, a conservative organization that favored a more conciliatory approach; and Zenkairen, a Communist Party–affiliated organization that called for improvement in conditions for the burakumin and other marginal groups in Japan. Although the BLL remained relatively stable, some members of the Dōwa Kai pointed to stagnancy within the organization and eventually, in 1986, formed the breakaway Jiyū Dōwa Kai ( JDK), the Liberal Assimilation Association. Even the long-ruling conservative LDP, which had been working closely with the Dōwa Kai, supported the establishment of this new group.10 The goals of the JDK followed those of the Dōwa Kai in their opposition to the use of kyūdan and other BLL activities. The JDK approach to buraku issues is similar to that of its parent organization. The modus operandi is nonconfrontational, typically derided by the BLL as the “Don’t wake a sleeping baby” or “Let sleeping dogs lie” approach. In short, for the JDK, the silent approach is a more effective way to deal with discrimination. The organization continues to lobby the government for a broader human rights agenda, rather than specifically focusing on buraku issues. With the expiration of the Dōwa laws, the BLL continues to call for a fundamental law on buraku liberation (Buraku Kaihō Kihon Hō). Conversely, though the JDK also supported the Dōwa laws, it argues that the Human Rights Advanced Mea sures Law ( Jinken Yōgo Shisaku Suishin Hō), which placed buraku issues on an equal standing with those of other marginalized groups, is a more crucial shift. At an individual level, the differences between the two organizations are more apparent. As the Yata and Yoka kyūdan demonstrate, the BLL has traditionally taken a direct, even confrontational approach to combat

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the silence surrounding buraku issues. In contrast to the denunciation sessions of the past, BLL sessions are now fairly formalized events, without the previous level of conflict. The tactics of the BLL now embrace more open, engaging techniques, such as promoting positive portraits of burakumin, suggesting that people discriminate due to a lack of awareness of the burakumin, past and present. For the JDK, the primary approach is, in essence, silence. In its view, raising a commotion in an open, attention-grabbing manner, as the BLL does, only serves to further marginalize the burakumin. The struggle against discrimination is multilateral and must proceed by working together with other marginalized groups domestically and internationally; with a softer, quieter approach, existing discrimination in Japan will gradually ease. In the United States, the ambiguous role of silence in the fight against discrimination— against African Americans, for instance— has a long history. One perspective, espoused by W. E. B. Du Bois, took a more direct, vocal approach; whereas another leading perspective, led in part by Booker T. Washington, was more an assimilationist approach, which was a more gradual and arguably more silent approach. As Booker T. Washington ([1910] 2008) noted with respect to race relations, “There is another class of colored people who make a business of keeping the troubles, the wrongs, and the hardships of the Negro race before the public. . . . They have grown into the settled habit of advertising their wrongs, partly because they want sympathy and partly because it pays” (50). In short, to repeatedly bring up issues of discrimination only serves to perpetuate it. This perspective is also seen in the contemporary gay and lesbian movements in the United States. The Human Rights Campaign, a leading gay and lesbian social movement organization, has been accused of being too conciliatory and too closely connected with the Democratic Party, thus perpetuating the legal and social status quo (Sullivan 2007).

Conclusion The burakumin are a category of people that have been historically marginalized based on a set of presumed differences. Their marginalized status is real, but the mark of difference has changed over time and place,

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demonstrating that discrimination against the burakumin is not a historical constant but an arbitrary distinction. The social position of the burakumin has not been passively accepted, and liberation organizations have maintained a presence for over a century. Organizational approaches have a common thread but inevitably vary. Movements such as the Yūwa Undō and the JDK have worked within the broader social order, where buraku issues do not take a central role in public discourse. Groups such as the Suiheisha and the BLL have vocally challenged the prevailing silence surrounding buraku issues. How the two paradigms, silence and voice, have played out in everyday actions at the community level—in par ticu lar, through the use of community festivals— are explored in the next chapter.

Chapter 3 Movement Integration Silence and Cultural Practices “Revolution is the festival of the oppressed.” — Germaine Greer, 1970 “The mark of solitude is silence, as speech is the mark of community. Silence and speech have the same inner correspondence and difference as do solitude and community. One does not exist without the other.” —Dietrich Bonhoeffer, 1938

ultural values provide strong lessons on how to engage with social issues. Local settings inform an understanding of what is acceptable for discussion, and daily practices reinforce the rules of engagement when it comes to buraku concerns. Social movements in the two communities in this study, Kuromatsu and Takagawa, make use of cultural practices, in the form of community revitalization projects and festivals, to advance their goals while remaining distant from direct engagement. Blended approaches in community action simultaneously place movement goals at the fore and in the background. As Sampson et al. (2005) delineate, blended social action “blurs traditional boundaries [between social movement organizations and other civic actions] by combining common types of civic participation, such as festivals or neighborhood association meetings, with a stated claim and an organized public event” (680–81). Blended social action, which is “neither wholly civic nor wholly protest in nature” (Sampson et al., 681) provides an analytical framework in which to consider the Jiyū Dōwa Kai ( JDK) and the Buraku Liberation League (BLL). These movements are able to seamlessly integrate their goals with types of events that exist independently from movement connections. Rather than considering social movement actions exclusively

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through the lens of protest events, such as marches, direct challenges, and denunciations, we examine how the JDK and the BLL make specific claims for buraku concerns within an established framework of localized cultural practice and civic action. Through blended events, the JDK and the BLL can engage with specific issues while encouraging broader-based participation. In Kuromatsu, this engagement takes the form of community and neighborhood revitalization projects—an explicit part of JDK goals ( Jiyū Dōwa Kai H26 do undō hōshin [2014 Movement Policy])—that exist independently of the movement. Likewise, the BLL connection with an enjoyable summer festival in Takagawa provides cross-community links. These two organizations demonstrate the commitment to local experience whereas the respective organizational approaches remain in the background.

Kuromatsu and the Jiyū Dōwa Kai Kuromatsu city has a population of just over sixty thousand. The major industries of the city are manufacturing—in particular, a farm tool plant and a chemical plant. Many smaller factories dot the landscape of Kuromatsu, where over 2 percent of the population are employed in the primary sector, 45 percent in the secondary sector, and 55 percent in the tertiary sector (Kokusei chōsa 2010 [2010 National Census]). Owing to its history and proximity to a number of major cities in the region, Kuromatsu is also a popular destination for day tours. The city center overflows with buses for weekend tourists. Along the main east–west thoroughfare, the road leads past the entertainment district before reaching the city hall and one of four junior high schools. Beyond the city hall and under the expressway, the scenery shifts from densely packed stores and residential areas to small factories and fields, with periodic residential areas dotting the landscape. This is the area served by Hinode Junior High School. With roughly four hundred students, Hinode is the smallest of the four junior high schools in Kuromatsu and one of two that serves the more rural areas. Hinode is the only school in the city that serves a buraku district, and approximately 20 percent of the student body comes from Nakata-chō, the buraku district of Kuromatsu.

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As the mountains come into view, a traveler would be unaware of passing Nakata-chō; the only sign even suggesting that one is passing a buraku district is the green and white municipal sign indicating the board of education branch office located in the community center. The district is bordered by rice fields and a river and includes browning, two-story box apartments; single-family homes; and a handful of grassless parks. In the center of the district stands a community center, something common throughout the country (Bestor 1989, 66–77). Near the center of the district sits what used to be a small store, its awning in tatters, its windows dirty, and its shelves empty, unable to compete with a discount store that opened nearby. City employees staff the community center, which sits in front of a recently renovated preschool. The board of education maintains a branch office within the center. Residents have to leave the area to access public ser vices like hospitals and post offices, though this is not unusual for a community of roughly two thousand people. Nakata-chō was incorporated as a village shortly after the Meiji Restoration (1868) and established a Suiheisha branch in the mid-1920s. It was a leader in the Suiheisha movement in the prewar era, though in the postwar era, the movement presence in the community was the conservative Dōwa Kai, followed by the Jiyū Dōwa Kai. The JDK adopted the silent approach toward buraku discrimination. District records indicate that the Suiheisha branch took an active role in anti-discrimination struggles in the area throughout the prewar period. Records of postwar approaches to buraku issues in Kuromatsu are noticeable by their absence.1 There is a JDK branch in the district. The sign outside the organization’s office is a small plate, symbolically minimizing the presence of the group and reflecting its policy of quiet engagement. The school mirrors this more reserved approach. Buraku issues in Nakata-chō, Hinode Junior High School, and the City of Kuromatsu were nonissues. Buraku issues were rendered missing, affecting access to information. Silence does not come easy; it takes effort to maintain. According to the JDK, the reason people continue to discriminate against the burakumin is that the BLL consistently remind people of the issue.2 As the JDK notes in its 2014 policy statement, “When the BLL says things like ‘Discrimination against the burakumin remains deeply ingrained’ people tend to believe it, even though this is a factually incorrect statement” ( Jiyū Dōwa Kai H26 do undō hōshin [2014 Movement Policy]). In other words, if groups like the BLL were not consistently trying

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to raise the issues of discrimination, reminding people of buraku concerns, the issues would disappear. The policy statement continues, “If people were told that the differences between Dōwa districts and others were minimal or non-existent, they would be more likely to recognize that discrimination has lessened” ( Jiyū Dōwa Kai H26 do undō hōshin [2014 Movement Policy]). The JDK does not argue that discrimination is acceptable; rather, it urges that all people be treated with respect and equality in the context of an embracing community, without explicitly referencing buraku issues. Silence can be aural and visual, representing physical and symbolic control, as well as a matter of discourse. There is very little to mark the area as a Dōwa district. Only flowerpots lining the road boundaries of Nakata-chō, the buraku district, symbolize a “difference.” A teacher in school commented, “You know, it’s really nice that they do that. This is not something you see in any other community around here. They [those in the buraku district] have made a concentrated effort to work together to raise their children.” The flowers, a nice touch, are nevertheless a symbolic reminder of the boundaries between the Dōwa district and beyond, but previous knowledge is necessary to know the denotation. The JDK’s silence in Kuromatsu does not equate with lack of action. National JDK policies implemented here highlight the positives of one’s location, encouraging mutual respect and a good living environment. The JDK policy statement for 2014 reflects this perspective: “Visible improvements in living conditions in Dōwa districts have eliminated the old image of Dōwa districts, effectively changing views on discrimination” ( Jiyū Dōwa Kai H26 do undō hōshin [2014 Movement Policy]). Community revitalization projects in Nakata-chō build pride in the community—not because it is a buraku district but because it is a community, effectively removing overt discussions of buraku issues. Nakatachō holds events throughout the year, including sport competitions and neighborhood cleaning campaigns—activities that make the community a nicer place to live. Historically, buraku districts have been marked as different from majority communities through differences in infrastructure, living conditions, and sanitation (Watanabe 1998). Civic activities and projects reframe the difference as improving the neighborhood rather than remedying a buraku district. Improving local conditions while not making explicit connections to the legacy of burakumin discrimination further removes such connections from public discourse.

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Residence shapes the understanding of membership in the social category of the burakumin. The JDK makes a separation between those living in Dōwa districts and burakumin, counter to the view of the BLL. To the BLL, regardless of one’s area of residence, if one’s background (as stipulated by the family registry) is burakumin, that person remains burakumin. The JDK, however, makes the claim that area of residence is the only marker of difference ( Jiyū Dōwa Kai H26 do undō hōshin [2014 Movement Policy]). This definition corresponds with the larger government definition of membership. The moment a person moves away from a district, according to the JDK, the label burakumin is effectively erased. Systems of inequality are embedded in social beliefs and practices far beyond an awareness of living conditions. Although the foundational markers of the burakumin are connected with areas of residence, the reality is not that simple. If discrimination against the burakumin were a matter of residence only, JDK policies to improve living conditions and make Dōwa districts more like majority areas would seemingly eliminate discrimination. The fact that discrimination has continued, despite improvements under the Dōwa laws, gives pause to such claims. Community revitalization projects improve living conditions and address institutional discrimination, but can they eliminate it? Community revitalization projects, part of machi zukuri (city revitalization), fit well with the goals of the JDK. Sorensen and Funck (2007) describe machi zukuri as “an attempt to strengthen and gain greater involvement and legitimacy for local community-based organizations in managing processes of urban change” (2). Urban revitalization projects are based on national policy (guided by the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism). In the words of a Kuromatsu city official, community revitalization is about “developing cultural understanding, making communities more attractive and building pride in local communities. We want people to be happy about living where they are, seeing how there is something unique or attractive that people can be proud of.” At both neighborhood and city levels, Kuromatsu uses this approach to (re)claim its history and mark itself as unique: a reclamation that helps Kuromatsu market itself as a minor tourist locale. The residents of Nakata-chō, whether involved with the JDK or not, create a sense of worth without having to “come out” as people of a buraku district. Recalling Sarup’s (1996) point that identities “are fragile and

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unstable, and so what political agencies try to do is institutionalize group identity” (42), the community leadership, as a political agency, tries to build a group identity, though not as burakumin. Even without engaging with buraku issues, community revitalization in Nakata-chō fosters pride in belonging— a felicitous blend of JDK and machi zukuri that achieves the desired result. The sense of pride in community was something understood at Hinode Junior High School. Ryūtaro, a boy from Nakata-chō, commented, “I like the fact that it’s got a lot of greenery. It’s natural, a peaceful, nice place to live.” The “blended event” and “silent” goals of local government (machi zukuri) and the JDK policy present a radical contrast to the BLL approach in Takagawa.

Takagawa and the Buraku Liberation League Along National Road 17, you pass convenience stores and pachinko parlors, chain ramen shops, clothing stores, and car dealerships: a landscape indistinguishable from many others in Japan. A roadside sign alerts the traveler that this is Takagawa-chō. The town is about 1.5 square kilometers in size, and one can pass through it very quickly: over a river, then out. Takagawa town hall sits across the river, and over the entrance a sign urges citizens, “Let’s work together to eliminate buraku discrimination!” The national road bisects the town, both physically and symbolically. To the west lies the buraku district, to the east the non-buraku district. The highway divides the population, with approximately nineteen hundred residents in the buraku area, and eighteen hundred in the non-buraku area. The numbers pertaining to households also break down evenly: 788 dwellings in the buraku district and 763 in the non-buraku district, with 2.39 and 2.36 people per dwelling, respectively. This ratio for both is higher than the prefectural mean of 2.44 people for buraku districts and the national mean of 2.99 for buraku districts. The national mean, buraku district or not, is 2.67 per household (Buraku Kaihō Kenkyusho 1998, 36–37). Though there are no specific statistics for the buraku portion of town, the overall employment structure in Takagawa has 10  percent in the primary level of employment, 30 percent in the secondary level,

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and 60 percent in the tertiary level. The junior high school is small, with approximately one hundred students total and one class per grade. Over half the student body comes from the buraku district in Takagawa. In the buraku portion of town, along the riverbank, sits the promenade— one of several parks in town and the location of the annual Kaihō no Matsuri (Festival of [Buraku] Liberation), held every August. A community center, built in 1979 with Dōwa funds, houses the local board of education and the BLL branch offices. Unusual for a town this size, the board of education is separate from the other governmental offices. A permanent sign hangs over the entryway to the community center, stating, “This is a Liberated Town,” liberation being a direct reference to the Buraku Liberation League. Further, a stone monument engraved with the closing words of the Suiheisha declaration greets visitors to the building: “Let there be warmth among people, let there be light among humanity.” Community center activities include classes on dance, personal computers, health, and cooking; a community lecture series; and the Children’s Club (Kodomo Kai). The Takagawa cultural festival is held here in November. Prior to the building of the community center, there was no reason for the residents of the non-buraku part of town to enter the buraku side, as they had everything they needed on the non-buraku side. The BLL in Takagawa has a long history. The movement was established in 1959 during a struggle over access to education and living conditions. Even prior to the implementation of the first national Dōwa law in 1969, the local movement found success. A health center was built in 1961, and dwellings for those from the district followed in 1967. In addition, through the Dōwa laws, neighborhood parks were constructed, and low-interest loans became available to residents. Reminders of the centrality of buraku issues in Takagawa are substantial: signs on town buildings and schools, local news publications and functions, and the long history of the movement itself. All this demonstrates that Takagawa is very open and engaged with buraku issues. The Takagawa BLL branch brought these issues into direct interaction with the local board of education and city government, and this pattern of inclusion when working on educational and other issues helped to institutionalize the movement in Takagawa. The public display of banners urging citizens to work together to eliminate buraku discrimination, as well as the institutionalization of events, is clearly influenced by the BLL— symbolic not of a co-optation by the town government but as a collaboration of

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state and movement. At the coming-of-age ceremony in Takagawa, the head of the local chamber of commerce and Takagi Takenobu, the head of the BLL in Takagawa, present gifts to the young people. VIP seats at school functions hold a spot for the local BLL representative. Most salient of the institutionalization of the movement, and the success that it brings, was the election of the current mayor, himself burakumin. The strength of the movement in Takagawa provides for a culture of openness in being burakumin and a sense of self-worth for all residents. As Ikeda (1991) notes, “In the communities where the liberation movements flourish, children can find respectable role models offered by youth and adults” (84). At the social level, the collective community acts as a model for interaction and behavior. The worth in being burakumin is reinforced in a number of ways: the symbolic reminders in public buildings, the curriculum in the schools, discussions in the local media, and town events, especially within the Kaihō no Matsuri, a blended event created specifically to highlight the burakumin experience. From the inception of the BLL branch in Takagawa in 1959, local goals echoed the national BLL goal: education as a way to overcome discrimination and to build a positive identity. As part of its repertoire, the local branch used national tactics, such as denunciation sessions and other self-described “struggles.” Over its more than forty years of existence, the BLL branch in Takagawa (BLL-T) has engaged in a total of forty-three actions, thirty of which occurred between 1959 and 1980. The shift by BLL-T to a less combative and more open stance coincided with the move to blended events. As one BLL member I interviewed noted, It’s pointless to follow the same patterns of protest as used in the 1960s. We need to work with burakumin and non-burakumin to increase awareness for all. But this is hard to set up at the national level, that’s why we must start with this locally, with all the people working together.

Th is criticism was echoed by a national member of the BLL, who commented on the role and size of the BLL in contemporary Japa nese society: We should make connections with other organizations, like non-profit organizations that are dealing with similar issues. The BLL is too big. Just being big doesn’t mean that we’re contributing to society. Even though

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we’re big, we’re not influencing the general public. (Kaihō Shuppansha 2003, 26–28)

At the first Kaihō no Matsuri in 1979, contentious policies were still the norm at the national level. Denunciation tactics, though less commonly used than they were in the 1960s, continued to be employed, and national conferences continued to emphasize the connection between movement goals and denunciation sessions. In order to soften its confrontational approach, the BLL began to implement blended approaches, highlighting education and openness in the buraku experience. The Takagawa Children’s Club and literacy classes were two such blended approaches.

Children ’s Club The Takagawa Children’s Club, a weekly extracurricular gathering for students, is held in the community center, with different groups based on school level: one for upper-level elementary students, and others for those in junior high and senior high.3 The Children’s Club allowed for a counter-narrative to be engaged: there is nothing wrong with being burakumin, and it is not something to be hidden— a challenge to the prevailing approach of Japanese society. The Children’s Club supplemented educational curricula in the form of catch-up work and study skills, and spent considerable time on buraku issues. The classes were structured to show positive aspects of the burakumin experience, including having guest speakers from the community. Students studied both the history of the district and the history of the movement (BLL and Suiheisha), as well as the impact of national policies on the lives of children and the entire community. Children’s Club classes were aimed at the youth of the community, but other activities by the BLL centered on older residents, such as literacy classes.

Liter acy Classes One serious consequence of burakumin discrimination was lower levels of education, leading to higher rates of illiteracy among older members. According to BLL statistics, in a 1984 survey on literacy, 16 percent were described as “completely illiterate or hardly literate,” and slightly under

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30 percent as “slightly literate.” The Japanese government has not undertaken a literacy survey since 1955 and regards Japan as having 100 percent literacy (Buraku Kaihō Kenkyūsho 1990, 6). To remedy the low literacy rates within this group, the BLL sponsored classes for community members. One student in the Takagawa literacy class wrote the following in the early 1980s, when she was nearly seventy years old: Because my family was poor, I wasn’t able to go to school. That’s why I was illiterate. Since I’m now taking literacy classes, I know pretty much all the kana. Up to now, when I would go to the doctor’s office, I would have the receptionist write my name for me, but the other day, I tried it  myself. When the nurse called out my name as I wrote it, I was overjoyed. . . . When I go to an inn, I’m no longer ashamed because I can now read the room numbers. I want to learn more. I want to live another 10 years, so I can continue studying. (Takagawa Kyōiku Iinkai 2001, 31)

By having elderly participants repeatedly practice the kanji (characters) for “kaihō” (liberation), literacy classes made symbolic connections to the movement. The power of this symbol and its connotations cannot be underestimated. It means liberation from internalized oppression and a liberation to enter the world of the literate.

Signs and Symbols Other methods were also used to highlight the openness of buraku issues in Takagawa. The weekly, town hall–produced newspaper features a section devoted to discrimination issues broadly and buraku issues particularly. In addition, the BLL sponsors a yearly parade, held on the Sunday closest to December 10—the anniversary of the signing of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The parade route goes primarily through the buraku district, though nearly one-third of the route moves through the non-buraku area. The town’s mayor (himself from the buraku district); Mr. Takagi Takenobu, the leader of the BLL branch in Takagawa; and the head of the board of education lead the parade, carrying a banner strung between them: “Eliminate Buraku Discrimination!” Symbols throughout Takagawa also act to reinforce the openness surrounding buraku issues, providing visual cues to the masses that buraku issues should not be made invisible. It is impossible to enter a public

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building in Takagawa without being reminded of buraku concerns. Whether in the preschool, the elementary school, or the junior high, the visitor finds something to remind him or her of the centrality of buraku issues: at the preschool, a framed calligraphy of “kaihō” (liberation); at the elementary school, a stone carving with the final words of the Suiheisha declaration; and at the junior high, a buraku proclamation at the entrance. The board of education, as noted earlier, was not located at the town hall, as is customary, but shared a facility with the BLL branch office in the community center, symbolically strengthening the importance of buraku issues. In addition, the community center also has symbolic reminders. Like the elementary school, the community center features a stone monument with the final words of the Suiheisha declaration and, above the entrance, a permanent sign: “This is a Liberated Town.” Although these elements all act to foster and maintain pride and collective identity, perhaps more than any other single event the Kaihō no Matsuri (Festival of Liberation) stands out as an example of the process of a blended event that connects movement goals with alternate forms of engagement, clearly vocalizing buraku issues.

Creating the Kaihō no Matsuri In 1978, the children of the Takagawa Children’s Club began a new series of classes, designed as a forum for older members of the community to share their experiences with younger members. Stories of joy and stories of sorrow marked these meetings, in which elderly community members took turns talking about their lives. The students were moved by these stories and experiences, but one story in particular remained with the students, the adult leaders of the Children’s Club, and even the elderly community members themselves. As the older members of the group talked with the children, a number of them mentioned a dance that was performed in the buraku district when they were young but that had gradually faded from public awareness and performance. The dance told of the toils of the men who went out fishing (the primary industry of the burakumin in Takagawa), the support of those back home in helping with the catch, and the celebrations surrounding a bountiful catch. Hearing this, and watching several members of the group actually perform the

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dance, everyone in the room felt moved to act. The sense was that a part of their history, a part of their culture, was slipping away. What could they do to prevent this from happening? The members of the Takagawa BLL, from the children to the elderly, recognized that something must be done before all those who knew how to perform this dance were gone. Yet no event existed that would highlight the dance. If the dance were performed at the town’s cultural festival, it would simply become one of many performances, thus losing its importance. If it were performed at the spring festival, which focuses on drinking, the dance would compete for the central event and would be treated as less a celebration of the buraku experience than something connected with large amounts of drinking. If it were held in July, it would be overshadowed by the town’s painting festival, which dates back to the eighteenth century. The only available solution was to create a new festival that centered on the performance of the dance. The Takagawa Kaihō no Matsuri (“Festival of Liberation,” a direct reference to the Buraku Liberation League) was first held in January 1981. The central part of the festival was the performance of the dance, though there were other parts celebrating burakumin history and culture in both Takagawa and elsewhere in Japan. The Kaihō no Matsuri was originally held at the community center in January; however, the festival was held in January only for the first ten years. In a further attempt to encourage interest in the event as well as greater participation, the date and location were changed.

The Festival Throughout Japan, August is a time of festivals. In towns and cities, both small and large, streets are filled with men and women in yukata, a summer weight kimono, browsing the numerous stalls set up along the main thoroughfare or within the grounds of a local shrine. The cry of the cicada; sights of children trying to catch a goldfish with a paper ladle at one stall and of adults looking for a cold drink at another; obon dancing, which honors one’s ancestors; and fireworks make these festivals seemingly indistinguishable from one another. Though they seem ubiquitous, not all communities have such summer festivals, and Takagawa was one such

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community. In an effort to draw more people to the Kaihō no Matsuri and broaden its base, in the early 1990s the Takagawa BLL decided to move the festival from January to August. Because Takagawa did not yet have such a summer festival, the town government welcomed the change and took an active role in the festival. What had been a movement festival became a town and movement festival. The location also changed: from the auditorium at the community center to the park alongside the riverbank. The two-day festival now took its place as one of the three major festivals in Takagawa. As Mr. Takagi Yoshihiro, a government worker and son of the BLL-Takagawa leader, noted: The festival was created to preserve the culture of the district, while working to build a new culture. The festival originally had much more discussion of discrimination issues, including personal experiences. Because we didn’t have an obon dance, the dance at the center of the festival then shifted to be the obon for the entire town.

Holding the festival in the summer and having fireworks—in other words, making it like any other summer festival— allows others to learn about buraku issues in a way that is very open, relaxed, and nonthreatening. I was able to attend several Kaihō no Matsuri. For the first one I attended, Mr. Takagi Yoshihiro asked me to help with the setup, because “by helping to set up, you can really feel a part of the festival.” I went to the riverside park to help, though I was not quite sure what to expect. A short time later, several small pickup trucks came down to the riverbank. All the men who came to work were wearing matching coveralls (despite the stifling heat), all with the Takagawa town symbol. The setup of the Kaihō no Matsuri was not done exclusively by BLL members but by town employees (some of whom were BLL members, but many of whom were not) who were being paid for their work. Once the festival moved to August, the cost of undertaking it was borne entirely by the town, even though it began, and remained influenced by, the BLL. The second day of setup involved stringing rows of lanterns across the river. The south bank of the river was the festival site; the north bank was a major road. With six or seven people on either side pulling, as if it were a game of tug-of-war, the seven rows of lanterns were strung across the river. Town employees and teachers from the local elementary school

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and junior high took part in this. After stringing the lanterns, which read “Life. Love. Human Rights” on one side and “Kaihō no Matsuri” on the other, we set up vendor tents and audience chairs. A few of the teachers lined the street opposite the park with large blue banners proclaiming “Kaihō no Matsuri–Takagawa town.” The park and the town were now ready for the festival. The organizers of the Kaihō no Matsuri engaged buraku issues in ways that were subtle and overt, unusual and typical, all at the same time. The Kaihō no Matsuri used numerous tools and practices familiar to festivalgoers throughout Japan. Japanese summers can be oppressive; to combat this, and as an advertising ploy, many companies and organizations regularly distribute small fans to passersby on street corners or pass them out at a local festival. As festivalgoers entered the Kaihō no Matsuri, they were handed such fans. These fans, however, were not from a company advertising a product; rather, they were supplied and distributed by town hall employees and simultaneously highlighted town events and movement goals. One side of the fans displayed the Takagawa name and town logo, highlighting an upcoming town-sponsored event. The other side stated “Let’s join our hearts in this, the century of human rights.” The fan then listed seven areas of human rights concerns: (1) buraku problem, (2) the rights of women, (3) the rights of children, (4) the rights of the elderly, (5) the rights of foreigners, (6) the rights of the disabled, and (7) the rights of those who are HIV-positive. The order of the list, however, was not a random choice. Although the BLL sought to end all forms of discrimination, buraku issues were, of course, paramount. The festival itself began with a rousing parade by preschool students, with their teachers keeping the beat on stage. After the children finished and the audience settled down, two high school students active in the Children’s Club read the Suiheisha declaration to a hushed crowd. After the reading, various VIPs were introduced on stage. Prior to climbing up to the flag-draped stage (four BLL flags draped the front: the elementary, junior high, and high school Children’s Club flags, and in the center, the branch flag), the VIPs donned matching happi coats (festival coats). The sight of festival or community leaders wearing coats like this is nothing unusual; what was unusual here was the design of the coats. The left lapel of the light blue and white coats read “Life. Love. Human Rights”; the right lapel read “Takagawa Kaihō no Matsuri.” The back of the coat

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depicted a crashing wave on the lower third, and in the center of the back was a bright yellow crown of thorns with a red star: the symbol of the BLL and the Suiheisha. The central part of most summer festivals in Japan is an obon dance (a dance to honor and celebrate one’s ancestors). Here, too, dance was the central part of the Kaihō no Matsuri. This dance, however, was not designed to recognize the dead but to celebrate buraku culture. The dance and corresponding song celebrated the work of the fishermen in the district and the families who supported them—the same dance the elderly members of the district had shown to the children at the Children’s Club years ago. Ten girls from the elementary and junior high school Children’s Clubs gathered on stage to perform the dance. They had been practicing at the community center in the weeks leading up to the festival and were quite nervous. The audience numbered around seven hundred people, and all eyes were on the girls. The dance was followed by the junior high school Children’s Club performing a short play about the history of the shrine in the buraku district. It is unusual for a shrine to be located in a buraku district, considering the issues of purity and pollution surrounding each. The shrine in Takagawa’s buraku district was created to honor a princess of the imperial family who had Hansen’s disease and was exiled from the capital. The narrative of the story tells us that one community after another refused to take her in until she arrived in the buraku district of Takagawa, where she was accepted and cared for until her death. After the play, the students spoke of how this story demonstrates that the burakumin in Takagawa, themselves victims of discrimination, understood what it meant to be excluded and for that reason welcomed those on the margins of society. In addition, they talked about how all the residents of Takagawa (not just those of the buraku district) continued to care for others, helping those who needed it. On both days, residents from the entire town, regardless of their background, took part in the festival. The local folk dance class performed, as did the aerobics class. The highlight of the first night was the karaoke contest, though the children of the town might argue that the magician was more enjoyable. Members of the koto (a harp-like instrument) class played, as did a band composed of several local high school students. A nationally known enka (folk) singer performed just before the end of the

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festival. A common finale to other summer festivals in Japan also marked the end of the Kaihō no Matsuri: a rousing fireworks show. As a blended event, the Kaihō no Matsuri itself engaged the audience in a number of different ways, using both cultural and movement symbols to reinforce the centrality of buraku issues and challenge silence. Symbols, which need not be overt or direct to have meaning for an audience, can act as “tangible reminders” of the struggles of a group (Hunt 1984, 55). The symbols, through a collective awareness by the audience created over an extended period of time, acted as constant reminders of the issues at hand, even when those issues were not specifically addressed. As Hunt accurately notes, “The sign and the symbol, when correctly chosen, serve the purpose of political propaganda by ‘grabbing hold of the senses’ and penetrating the soul” (92). The symbols used in the Kaihō no Matsuri grab the senses in just such a manner. The symbol of the BLL, a crown of thorns with a star on the left side, so clearly seen on the back of the happi coats, is never once referenced during the festival. It need not be, for the symbol is prevalent in town buildings, at town functions, and in town publications. A collective understanding already exists of what the symbol represents and thus serves its purpose in an unspoken manner. Were the BLL not so firmly entrenched in the community, such widespread understanding of the symbols would be impossible. Cultural meanings can be created for both members of an organization (helping to further collective identity) and nonmembers (addressing potential future members). The cultural practices seen in the Kaihō no Matsuri took a form accepted by the greater society and, at the same time, were transformed to have meaning for both movement participants and outsiders, for both burakumin and non-burakumin. The goals of the movement were framed and approached in such a way that the Kaihō no Matsuri made the ordinary unusual. When buraku issues are looked down upon or even ignored, there is little benefit in identifying oneself as burakumin. The literacy classes helped to create pride among elderly residents within the community. Informal social networks within the community also acted to influence those residents who were neither part of the literacy class nor had children in school. In a town of under four thousand people, with a buraku district population of just over seventeen hundred, the members of the literacy class were neighbors; the students in school were the children or grandchildren of friends. The Kaihō no Matsuri acted

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to celebrate the buraku experience while also celebrating the openness of Takagawa as a whole. Burakumin and non-burakumin came, participated, and celebrated. It was, in essence, a celebration for all. In his study of a dialect festival in Okinawa, Allen (2002) found that such festivals provided the forum for a duality of identity to emerge. On the one hand emphasizing the idiosyncrasies of the hamlet traditions and life, the other patrons sought to encourage the reemergence of a local identity, yet on the other hand, the district focus of the event engendered a regional identification among the audience. (101)

In the Kaihō no Matsuri, this duality of identity was a celebration of both burakumin-ness and Takagawa-ness. This duality blurred the lines between the two identities and allowed for all the audience, burakumin or not, to openly celebrate this identity. Openness in being burakumin is not fixed; rather, it is a process constantly being created and re-created. Successful movement actions foster such openness, but this does little to ensure that it will continue during periods of inactivity or periods of failure. Making use of blended events acts to protect against such risks, though it does not eliminate the chance that such blended events may cease to continue. In Takagawa, improvements in schools and living conditions, spearheaded by the BLL, added to a sense of worth. By continually stressing openness and a positive identity in school and social activities in town, the BLL sought to maintain an openness and connection to buraku identity over time. The Kaihō no Matsuri’s mix of commonly accepted festival activities and buraku issues foster a sense of worth and belonging, whereas the reading of the Suiheisha declaration reminds people of the connection to broader national movements, both past and present. Performances and speeches on the history of openness and the caring citizens of Takagawa further act to encourage pride in membership at the local level. Members of the audience watch these speeches and performances not as outsiders but as true insiders. Again, these were not strangers on stage but friends and neighbors. These informal social ties aid in the building of openness in being burakumin. In addition, the Kaihō no Matsuri is the only festival in town that is geared toward all members, young and old. This was based on a clear decision by the BLL in Takagawa. By placing children at the center, the

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festival actively encourages family participation. The drinking festival and the painting festival (two other festivals in the town), though including parts geared toward the entire family, are directed primarily toward adults. By including children as it does, the Kaihō no Matsuri acts as the only festival for all the residents of the town. This approach encourages participation by residents, burakumin and non-burakumin, and aids in the formulation of a collective openness with buraku issues. Perhaps the most important element of the festival that encourages participation is that it is, quite simply, fun. The Kaihō no Matsuri is a place where people from Takagawa can go, be entertained, see friends, and interact with others. In short, people want to attend. Numerous students would ask me if I was going to be in town for the Kaihō no Matsuri, each explaining to me how much fun it is. As Hide, a third-year boy remarked, “The festival is fun. I go with both my family and with my friends. It’s great that it shows Takagawa and buraku stuff to everybody, insiders and outsiders.” Using culturally accepted symbols and forms of interaction and engagement make buraku issues much more open and normalized (Cangia 2013). This is in clear contrast to the use of denunciation sessions to combat discrimination—by definition a confrontational and combative approach. As Takagi Yoshihiro said, using a festival to engage all members of the community with buraku issues allows for a “safe,” acceptable way to approach the issue. The culturally accepted actions and activities, here in the form of a festival, allow the BLL to encourage participation in the festival as a celebration of “burakumin-ness” and a celebration of Takagawa, encouraging pride in both. This feeling is found among the students as well. Yuka, a third-year girl, commented, “Takagawa is such a great place. I was born here and raised here. The people here are really nice, you know, they’re kind. I feel like I want to work hard, to do my best, for the sake of Takagawa, for those who have helped me.” This point was echoed by Minoru, a third-year boy who only periodically attended the Children’s Club: “The really good thing about Takagawa is how it deals with Human Rights. With buraku stuff, the whole town works together. It’s not just burakumin doing it, everybody does it together.” Broadly, the Kaihō no Matsuri resembles many summer festivals in Japan: the centrality of a dance performance, lanterns hung within the festival grounds, banners along the street alerting passersby of the festival. Large banners marking the entrance, fans handed out to visitors, leaders wearing happi coats, and the smell of grilled chicken give the Kaihō no

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Matsuri a large degree of familiarity, even for the first-time visitor to Takagawa or to the festival. As a festival, the Kaihō no Matsuri is, in some sense, constrained by culturally accepted definitions of festivals in Japan. Yet the BLL in Takagawa is not constrained to the point of inaction. This accepted knowledge of all members of the community, regardless of background, allows the BLL to reshape that knowledge to create the Kaihō no Matsuri. The Kaihō no Matsuri uses a traditional dance performance to build solidarity and stress the value of the burakumin community. By stressing the openness of the community through song and dance, the BLL in Takagawa works to reshape the understanding of the buraku experience. This, in turn, acts to encourage collective identity among the burakumin and speaks to the value of the buraku experience to the broader audience. By working with town officials, in effect sharing the Kaihō no Matsuri with the entire community, the BLL in Takagawa is able to share its message with a larger audience and acts to reinforce the institutionalization of the BLL position in Takagawa. Blended events like the Kaihō no Matsuri help those who attend gain an awareness of buraku issues. As Matsushita (2002) found from her indepth study of burakumin families and communities, The earlier youth learn about and recognize buraku issues, the greater their self worth for the future. Learning of Dōwa issues and participation in local activities are likely to make them deal with the issue in a more open way, provide them with greater hope for the future, and give them a greater self-esteem. (69)

This is precisely what attending the Kaihō no Matsuri does. It helps not only youth but also other members of the community to engage in buraku issues in an open manner. This provides all those who attend with the lesson that openness is the best way to deal with these concerns within the protective cocoon that Takagawa provides.

Conclusion Silence and voice are not directed as an “order” but are embedded in cultural practices through blended events in Kuromatsu and Takagawa. Such events provide alternative forms of engagement with buraku issues

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that connect movement goals with localized practices. By connecting these goals with broader cultural actions, members of both communities are encouraged to follow similar approaches in their daily lives. These forms of engagement act to bring forth specific connections to buraku issues, connections that are carried out beyond the confines of the local setting. Connecting movement activities with preexisting cultural and social practices helps normalize the respective approaches. Blended social actions undertaken in each community increase the chance for community members, and youth in particular, to internalize the approaches the events highlight. Rather than being explicitly told what is acceptable for discussion vis-à-vis buraku issues, youth are growing up and being socialized in an environment that takes specific approaches for granted. When one’s entire community follows a particular approach to any issue, it is difficult for children to question it, at least while they remain within the protective cocoon. At the same time, depending exclusively on community cultural values to shape how youth approach buraku issues is not enough to ensure that they will sufficiently internalize such approaches. For that, it is impor tant for there to be formal lessons directing youth to learn community-specific forms of engaging with buraku issues. Embedding silence and engagement in such a way that reinforces the approaches without making specific overt claims normalizes localized engagement with buraku issues. The actions of both the JDK and the BLL in their respective communities take the form of preexisting understandings of cultural practices. Approaching buraku issues in such a way, regardless of the community or movement, allows for a “safe” engagement with these issues (either directly or indirectly) and reinforces the sense of community for all. In each setting, the values of the local community, as a protective cocoon, reminds all members as to what is considered the “correct” form of discourse on buraku issues. These reminders come through institutionalized practices that shape what is acceptable for discussion. These localized cultural practices, in turn, shape how the residents, youth in particular, learn the “appropriate” form of engagement. In Kuromatsu, youth are socialized to have a love of community, but this is based on abstract notions of place and beauty. There is little beyond ideals of a safe, pleasant environment to draw youth in and instill in them an interest and overarching connection to place. The youth here are learning to value community in a very specific way: through place rather than people. Th is reinforces

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silence on buraku issues by removing people from the equation; the experiences of discrimination (though not the underlying foundations) are rendered missing. Conversely, in Takagawa, the cultural practices act to reinforce buraku issues, placing them in established events that encourage dialogue about these issues, both in Takagawa and in the broader society. In so doing, Takagawa youth are encouraged to make a strong connection between vocalizing buraku experiences in their daily life and doing so in specialized cultural practices. Episodic events do not have the same power to influence the daily experiences of residents as those events that are incorporated into everyday life. The blended social actions in each location, though acting to reinforce specific localized approaches to buraku concerns, are limited events and, as such, do not have the ability to sustain the approach to which each community aspires. For the youth in particular, in order for the lessons to have as strong an impact as the leaders of the community desire, it is necessary to implement these lessons into a social arena that has a stronger modeling component. It is in school where youth find formal lessons to prepare them to approach buraku issues in ways that the protective cocoon they are embedded in expects. The next chapter considers how school lessons in Kuromatsu and Takagawa reinforce either silence or openness.

Chapter 4 Lessons of Silence Buraku Issues in School “Is this going to be on the test?” —Anonymous student, 2002 “One of the main things about teaching is not what you say but what you don’t say.” —Itzhak Perlman, 2007

hildren learn many different lessons in school, in addition to classroom facts and information. There are lessons of socialization: learning what can be talked about and what is best left unspoken. Children learn how to present themselves, bracketing parts of their identity— a cogent issue for minority students of all stripes (Halperin 2012; Ogbu 1978). What is the positioning of buraku issues within the broader education curriculum, and what were the specific educational policies under Dōwa education, or assimilation education, from 1969 to 2002? I suggest that Dōwa education has both centered and marginalized buraku issues—a situation most evident in the junior high schools of Kuromatsu and Takagawa.

C

Schooling in Japan Compulsory education in Japan comprises the first nine years of schooling, ending with the completion of junior high school, though the vast majority of students continue on to high school. At 98  percent, Japan boasts one of the highest high school matriculation rates in the industrialized world (U.S. Department of Education, National Center for Education Statistics, 2006).1 Compulsory education is considered to have four

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broad roles in society: (1) transmission of knowledge, or things taught; (2) socialization, or learning to interact with others in order to become adults; (3) differentiation, or learning different skills and talents differently; and (4) legitimization of knowledge, or learning in an established, structured environment (Okano and Tsuchiya 1999, 3–6). Transmission of knowledge is based on five core subjects: Japanese, social studies, math, science, and English. Other areas of study include music, art, physical education, shop and home economics, moral education, electives, and integrated studies (Fukuzawa and LeTendre 2001, 12). Socialization of students is also highly valued. Students learn a variety of skills in this area: to work within small groups, unsupervised; to learn informal social control; to gain an awareness of one’s position within a hierarchy; and to understand the values prescribed by the society overall (Fukuzawa and Letendre 2001, 37–39; Mansfield 2000, 8; C. Lewis 1995, 122–23; Peak 1993, 94–96). The values taught in schools reinforce the ideals of the local community and society at large. A close connection is maintained in part because most students in public schools attend neighborhood elementary and junior high schools. For the youth of these communities, the impact of socialization and connection to the community shapes how they understand buraku issues. How do buraku youth learn what it means to be burakumin in their community and in the rest of Japan? Buraku issues are minimized or missing in most schools. This legitimizes the silence and shapes what students understand as “factual” in their social world. By the time they reach the third year of junior high school, students have spent much of their time learning facts that might appear on a high school entrance exam. There is much differentiation in the types of high schools students attend, but all require students to prepare for entrance exams in one form or another (Tsukada 2010; Fukuzawa and LeTendre 2001; Rohlen 1983). Exam difficulty varies based on the type of school, but there is a general awareness of what knowledge is expected based on Ministry of Education guidelines. If certain materials are unlikely to appear on an entrance exam, it is not worth spending valuable time learning or teaching them. Thus, if buraku issues do not appear on standardized entrance exams, the lesson is that those issues are not impor tant and therefore not worth studying. Knowledge is legitimated in textbooks that highlight some concepts and minimize others. The materials covered in textbooks are often

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contentious in Japan, just as they are in the United States, as debates regarding textbook adoption, historical memory, religious issues, and scientific content demonstrate (Blake 2010; Price 2010; Shorto 2010; Loewen 2007). How do texts engage with marginalized populations, including burakumin? Textbooks in Japan are selected through a combination of local choice and national control. The Ministry of Education approves textbooks for each subject from approximately ten different publishers. Textbook companies produce books that will pass the ministry’s selection, and following approval, local boards of education can choose which books to use from the selected texts. The textbook company Tokyo Shoseki supplies over 50 percent of junior high school third-year textbooks. In its 201-page civics textbook, there are 16 pages on minority issues and human rights as a whole, with 11 lines dedicated to buraku issues. The coverage is minimal and reads as follows, “The burakumin were liberated by the Meiji Government [1868–1912], but policies were not put in place to aid them, and since then, discrimination has continued in marriage, employment, and education” (Atarashii shakai kōmin 2006, 44). The text notes that laws were put in place to aid buraku communities, but the aforementioned Dōwa laws no longer exist. The message is that buraku issues are simply not important and are substantially “historical.” Avoiding buraku issues is the rule of engagement in most schools. In an overview of historical trends and human rights education, Yokojima (2001) explains the reasons why schools do not deal with buraku issues: (1) teachers are loathe to spend time on buraku issues, which will not appear on entrance exams; (2) teachers are concerned about saying something wrong, which could lead to getting into trouble or facing a denunciation session; and finally (3) teachers still hold negative images of burakumin (43).2 The message to students in general is that buraku issues are not important, and to burakumin students in particular is that they themselves are not important (Ikeda 2000, 29).

Dōwa Education Although buraku issues have been marginalized in schools, Dōwa education, as part of the Dōwa laws, provided an opportunity for schools to

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engage with human rights and buraku issues. The initial goals were to improve the scholastic abilities of burakumin students by having them learn about the nature of buraku discrimination and experience. Despite these goals, Ministry of Education guidelines were aspirational in nature, suggesting that Dōwa education “should be handled in each district, depending on the particulars of a given situation” (Dōwa kyōiku shinten no tame no kihonhōrei shiryōshū 1997, 248–50). To this end, the ministry did not approve any national texts for Dōwa education, though a number of prefectures published their own local texts (Nakano et al. 2000, 80). Thus, local boards of education had considerable latitude as to the information they covered and the texts they used under the broad umbrella of Dōwa education (Nakano et  al. 2000, 78; Hawkins 1995, 206–7). To some, Dōwa education was exclusively about buraku issues; to others, it allowed for a broader discussion of social issues, such as gender, the problems encountered by foreign residents in Japan, and ideal forms of behavior and interactions. Implementation was discretionary, meaning that a board of education could sidestep the issue. Thus, buraku concerns became marginalized within an educational policy designed to foreground them. The origins of Dōwa education derive from the period known as the Taishō Democracy, an era of relative openness in prewar Japan (Minichiello 1998). Initially known as harmony ( yūwa) education, these policies were part of the aforementioned Harmony Movement (Yūwa Undō). This form of education, much like later government policies, was created and implemented by non-burakumin, and was regarded by burakumin as an attempt by government outsiders to invade a local community and control the direction of social action. The policies matched the stance of the Yūwa Undō, teaching children that the social ills facing the burakumin were an outcome of their own shortcomings rather than a fundamental problem of society. Early Dōwa education policies were handled on a prefectural basis rather than at the national level, and it was not until 1952 that the government implemented guidelines for Dōwa education, though Dōwa education of 1952 took a different form from the Special Measures Law of 1969. Dōwa education tended to focus exclusively on improving the academic performance of burakumin children. Given higher absentee and lower matriculation rates, the early Dōwa education policies were designed to address inequality between burakumin and non-burakumin students. National statistics are not available, but a 1951 study in Nara Prefecture

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reported that although burakumin made up 7 percent of the junior high school–age population, they constituted 50  percent of school absentees in a one-month period (Nakao et al. 2000, 63). In 1969, the Special Measures Law (Dōwa Taisaku Jigyō Tokubetsu Sochi Hō) became the first national law designed to aid burakumin and buraku districts, including Dōwa education. Included in that law and in the series of laws that followed were three interrelated provisions related to education, which (1) provided money for extra teachers, allowing for a lower student–teacher ratio within the classes; (2) funded extra classes for the students after school; and (3) created scholarships for students from buraku districts to continue on to high school. The effects of these provisions were seen almost immediately in high school matriculation rates among buraku students. Although national rates for buraku districts are not available, prefectural data shows how the changes affected burakumin youth. For example, consider Kochi, a prefecture with approximately 55,000 burakumin, making it the fifteenth largest out of thirty-four prefectures with officially recognized buraku areas. In 1969, the year the first Dōwa law was implemented, the national average for matriculation to high school was 82.1 percent, whereas the average in Kochi was 74.8 percent, and the rate for Dōwa districts in Kochi was 56.5  percent. By the expiration of the first law in 1979, the national rate was 94.2  percent, for Kochi 90.7  percent, and for Dōwa districts in Kochi 76.2 percent. By March 2002, the rates were 97.0 percent, 95.8 percent, and 91.1 percent, respectively. Whereas the national rate increased by just under 15  percent the rate for the Kochi Dōwa districts increased nearly 35 percent over the thirty-three years the laws were in place. The final law expired on March 31, 2002, with no plans for continuation. The national government passed the Law for the Promotion of Human Rights Protection ( Jinken Yōgo Shisaku Suishin Hō), which shifted focus from the buraku districts to all minority groups. National funding designed exclusively for buraku communities and schools that serve buraku districts was terminated. Buraku issues were marginalized in the curriculum. The manner in which schools responded to the Dōwa laws and their termination reflected the degree of importance placed on buraku concerns. Takagawa, with a strong Buraku Liberation League presence, challenges silence in its approach to buraku issues— a form of engagement mirrored by Takagawa Junior High School. Conversely, Kuromatsu, with

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its Liberal Assimilation Association ( JDK) presence, effectively silences direct engagement with buraku issues there and in Hinode Junior High School, the school that serves the local buraku district.

Kuromatsu In policy and design, Hinode Junior High School in Kuromatsu emphasizes separation, hierarchy, and silence. Curricular approaches to buraku issues underscore the silence that is found in the community and broader society. Hinode, the smallest and arguably the most remote of the junior high schools in Kuromatsu, is the only school that serves a buraku district. From a school population of just over four hundred students, nearly one-quarter of the students are from the buraku district. This separation of students reinforces the hierarchy that is embedded in social relations in Japan. The school is designed in a block U shape, with classrooms segmented by floor and grade. Third-year students have their own entrance to the school and have very little interaction with the other grades. First- and second-year students walk to school, whereas third-year students are allowed to ride their bikes. At the entrance to the school hangs the city declaration on human rights claiming equality for all, honoring all members of society in order to build a bright, peaceful, and discrimination-free society. Hinode Ju nior High School has a reputation in Kuromatsu as being a “rough” school. Residents of the city gave me ominous warnings: “That’s a violent school” and “You should be careful out there” and “Aren’t you scared?” I did observe some incidents that seemed to support these warnings. One afternoon after school, a fight between two third-year boys occurred. Shouting in the courtyard grew louder, and the two students were brought into the staff room, where they were placed in opposite corners. After a few minutes, one of the boys jumped up, grabbed a metal baseball bat from the gym teacher’s desk, and ran toward the other boy before being tackled by two male teachers. Calling the school “violent” was a shorthand way of labeling the school within the broader community, as Arima Yukari found. Ms. Arima was a graduate of Hinode, who went on to the highest-level high school in the area and ultimately became a high school teacher. Even when doing

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her student teaching in a well-respected academic high school, she continued to deal with these stereotypes. Teachers would ask if she had been a delinquent when younger, or how she handled the violence at the school. In a conversation about the school, Ms. Arima was willing to voice the unspoken: “Hinode is the only school in the city that serves a [buraku] district. That’s why people say it’s violent.” Violent, scary, rough—these are code words for burakumin. The words are metonymic devices that mark the common point being addressed, burakumin in this case, while removing the actual term from one’s speech. Politically difficult topics adopt such words with a metaphoric wink: there is knowledge of what is behind such words (Hutchings and Jardina 2009; Smorag 2008; Graber 1985). Thus, buraku issues can be talked about and at the same time not be explicitly referenced. Code words take on a life of their own, becoming frequently used and believed. Recalling the Thomas theorem (Thomas and Thomas 1928), which posits that situations defined as real are real in their consequences, we see that even though labels may not reflect reality, they shape the view of Hinode and its students, be they burakumin or not. Students were generally well behaved, yet this image of the school as a violent one remained. As one resident of Kuromatsu explained, “Well, it is [violent]. There are violent kids there; they’re always getting into fights with others.” This adult had no connection with the school. When I asked the students themselves, a few said that they, too, had been scared when they entered as first-year students (seventh grade). Kumiko, a girl from outside the district, noted, “I was kind of worried when I first started here. But once I entered, I realized it wasn’t scary at all.”

Bur aku Issues in Hinode Ju nior High School Teachers and administrators at Hinode Junior High School intentionally avoid open engagement with buraku issues. The school principal forbade me from using the words burakumin, buraku, or Dōwa while talking with the students. Even Dōwa, a governmental policy term, was mentioned only in hushed whispers by teachers and administrators. Hasegawa Satoshi, a teacher employed at the board of education branch office within the district, noted, “The word buraku [and burakumin] is considered by residents to be a discriminatory term, so it’s not used at all.3 Instead, the

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word Dōwa is used.” Dōwa was synonymous with buraku yet remained a linguistic step removed from the term. At Hinode Junior High, buraku issues were not openly discussed in the staff room, though some teachers were willing to talk with me even as they strug gled with words, as I first learned within days of arriving at Hinode as a teacher. When the principal took me into his office to describe the school, he outlined the expectations of me as a teacher and, taking a deep breath, proceeded to talk about Japanese history: Tokugawa history and the system of status hierarchy. He was uncomfortable, searching for words, starting one sentence and stopping in the middle to start another. When I said, “Do you mean buraku issues?” he let out a sigh, leaned back in his chair, and said, “That’s right.” I told him that I did know of the issue, and that I had read Sumii Sue’s famous The River with No Bridge (Hashi no nai kawa), a novel that centered on a buraku youth’s experiences in school and in society in the early twentieth century. He visibly relaxed, settling further into the leather sofa that filled his office, exclaiming, “If you know that book, you know everything.” I told him that though I did not know everything, I was at least familiar with the topic. He then told me that Nakata-chō was the buraku district that Hinode served. Here, even in the relative security of his office, with no other teachers or students around, it was difficult for him to discuss the topic or to use the word burakumin. At the same time, he was unable to use the prevailing code words within Kuromatsu, as saying that his school was “violent” or “scary” would clearly have been problematic for the principal of the school. Without the code words to draw on, and not being willing to use the term burakumin, the conversation slid into one that depended on a mutual understanding of the unspoken topic. Other wise, communication would have been impossible. Th is was my first introduction to the ways silence and buraku issues allowed for communication within silence, though it would not be my last.

Dōwa Education within the District Decisions on Dōwa education were made with competing concerns: children’s education and economic realities. During my time as a teacher in Kuromatsu, my desk happened to be next to that of Tsujimoto Kenta, the teacher who was the liaison between the buraku district of Nakatachō and Hinode. This position was created as part of the Dōwa laws,

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encouraging a stronger connection between school and district. Mr. Tsujimoto was a math teacher who still taught a few classes at the school, but most of his time was spent going to meetings and traveling back and forth between the education center in Nakata-chō and Hinode. It was through Mr. Tsujimoto that I was introduced more fully to buraku issues. Through his introduction, I began conducting English classes for students in the education center during that time. When I returned to Kuromatsu to conduct research, I hoped to use the education center as my entrée into the district and as a place where I could interact with the children, though I was not able to do so. The education center in Nakata-chō—with a small library, a gymnasium, and a classroom—provided a place for children to go after school. Built with Dōwa funds in 1978, it was established in response to the lower education rates among residents of Nakata-chō. When the center was built, the high school matriculation rate for the district was 68  percent, as compared with a citywide rate of 91  percent. By 1998, this rate had climbed to a district matriculation rate of 81.5  percent, the city rate to 95  percent (Nakata Chō no ayumi 1999, 10). The students who came to the education center tended to be elementary students; in my visits to the center during my fieldwork, I never saw a junior high school student using the center. The education center conducted extra classes once a week, with a different subject each week. These extra classes were designed for the upper-level elementary students, those in fourth grade or higher. However, this was not always the case. Prior to the end of the Dōwa laws in 2002, there was cooperation between Hinode Junior High School and the education center, as Mr. Tsujimoto’s position demonstrated. Until the end of the last law, each week a different teacher from Hinode would go to the district and teach review classes for the students there. The end of the Dōwa laws meant the end of this interaction; school and community were no longer as connected as before. Hasegawa Satoshi, the teacher who was in charge of the education center, commented: With the end of the law, we felt we had to make a decision as to where to focus our attention, the elementary or the junior high. We just felt it was more important to continue to stress study skills and extra reviews at an earlier stage rather than later. Since there are only two of us, we decided to go with the elementary students.

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The decision to focus on elementary students over junior high students was an economic one, and it removed additional educational opportunities for many of the junior high school students from the district. It attempted to shift the focus to elementary students, but in so doing, it eliminated a social and educational space at a crucial time for the junior high school students as they prepared for their entrance examinations for high school.

The Curriculum Buraku issues in Hinode Junior High School were noticeably missing. The veil that was placed over open discussion meant that there was not a space in which buraku issues could be openly grappled with. Although buraku issues had at one point taken a more central role in school policies, this was no longer the case when I began my fieldwork. The school did not ignore buraku issues, but the manner in which they engaged them reproduced this silence. Even before the ending of the last Dōwa law, the curriculum at Hinode had moved away from the teaching of buraku issues. Rather than buraku issues specifically, the school conducted human rights classes in which the students learned about a number of issues. The goals listed for Hinode’s Dōwa education classes were “Motivation, Friendship and Autonomy.” For third-year classes, the goals were as follows: 1) To gain an awareness of the irrationality of various forms of discrimination and create students whose mission is to build a discriminationfree society; 2) To prepare students to be active members of a democratic society (Hinode Chūgakkō 2002).

The goals for the school are largely aspirational and exist without any sense of meaning for buraku issues. This approach corresponds with how the local and national Jiyū Dōwa Kai ( JDK) calls for eliminating buraku discrimination: buraku discrimination is one form of many types of discrimination, all of which need to be challenged, none rising above any other in terms of importance. These goals are approached through creating citizens who are aware of various types of discrimination and who will work to eliminate discrimination in all its forms. The absence of

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buraku issues in the curriculum was a conscientious policy decision and not simply a result of the ending of the Dōwa laws. As one teacher explained, “If you were to even use the word Dōwa, you’d probably get a reaction of ‘Dōwa’? What’s ‘Dōwa’? I think we had a couple of classes on human rights issues last year, but that was about the handicapped, gender, and the elderly.” His comment about the students’ response to the term Dōwa and the classes “last year” was regarding the period prior to the ending of the law. The Dōwa laws were, however, written in such a way to allow this discretion in approaches (Bondy 2014). Even before the Dōwa laws were terminated, the school made use of the laws without directly engaging with buraku concerns. The approach of the community constrained open discussion of buraku issues. At the same time, much as Gordon (2008) found, there were teachers who were dedicated to anti-discrimination education and worked to improve society for all. These teachers and administrators considered buraku issues worthy of discussion in the classroom; however, local constraints meant that they did not teach buraku issues beyond what was covered in the civics textbooks (which was very little, as previously noted). As the current principal at Hinode commented, “Burakumin discrimination was a result of human actions, and only through human actions and working hard can we eliminate discrimination. The ending of the law does not equal the end of districts nor does it mean the end of discrimination.” On teaching buraku issues, the third-year social studies teacher commented, “There was a sense of heaviness in the air when this topic came up.” Another social studies teacher echoed this, saying that a number of the students from the buraku district would shrink down in their chairs when the topic turned to (historical) discussions buraku issues.4 If the teachers recognized a sense of heaviness or general unease among some of the students, their inability to use that unease as a starting point for discussion also speaks volumes. Clearly some of the students were aware of these issues, for what else could explain their response? At the same time, both the teachers and the students were constrained by a broader environment in which there was no social space that permitted open discussions of buraku issues. Seemingly the classroom would be an ideal location for discussion, yet this was not possible. The social environment in Hinode and Kuromatsu did not provide for a deeper grappling with buraku concerns, rendering them unspoken and therefore reinforcing silence for the students.

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Generally speaking, the school chose not to engage in buraku issues any more than necessary during the period of my research there. The third-year social studies teacher who returned to Hinode after a twentyyear absence from the school commented on the change: “At that time [his previous time in Hinode], the teachers would talk more about discrimination. In class, we would come out and say that Nakata-chō was a buraku district, and discuss the discrimination burakumin continue to face. Once I came back, I found out that this was not even mentioned anymore.”5 During the intervening twenty years, the JDK was established in Nakata-chō. Changes in the approach of the school match those of the community and social movement orga nization. Hinode Junior High School moved to follow the lead of the buraku district it served. Another teacher, responding to a question regarding the change in approaches, commented, “Since the community took the position that not discussing the issue is better, we did too.”6 Despite the institutionalized silence in the textbooks, the schools, and the community, some students do know and talk about buraku issues. After school one day I found myself at the soccer field, where I ended up talking with two third-year boys. The boys, Takeshi and Shinya, were in a different third-year class from mine, but I had often chatted with them informally. On the field that day Takeshi was asking me what musical bands I liked. I gave him the names of some music I liked, and he had never heard of those artists. He then asked if I liked a few different heavy metal bands, including KISS and Ozzy Osbourne. I told him that though I thought Ozzy was OK, I preferred his old band, Black Sabbath. As this conversation was in Japanese, I gave Black Sabbath the Japanese pronunciation, “Burakku Sabasu.” Takeshi quickly snapped his head around to me and said, “Buraku sabetsu? [Buraku discrimination?]” I said no, “Black Sabbath,” and wrote it in the dirt. Takeshi then turned to Shinya and said, “You know about buraku sabetsu, don’t you?” and Shinya answered no. While looking back and forth between Shinya and me, and in a manner suggesting he knew this was not a topic that was to be openly discussed, Takeshi lowered his voice and said, “You know, we learned about it that one day in social studies class. It’s those people who live in Nakatachō,” while pointing in the direction of the buraku district, though we could not see it from the school grounds. Nothing from Shinya indicating awareness was forthcoming. Takeshi was trying to speak in a hushed

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tone the whole time, continually looking around to see if anyone was nearby. I was about to ask a follow-up question about the burakumin (I kept my promise to the principal about not bringing up the term, but because the student brought it up, I felt I could ask further questions), but at that moment the coach came out of the school and called all the players over. I felt that this was a lost opportunity to learn how Takeshi would describe it to his friend. It does suggest, however, that some students know, and others do not.7 As Takeshi’s example demonstrates, silence in Hinode Junior High School was not total, and just below the surface were buraku issues, remaining unspoken but not unknown. Takeshi was aware that there was a buraku district in the area, and he could name the actual district. At the same time, however, he was aware that it should not be talked about. His immediate shock at thinking he heard me say “buraku sabetsu” and his subsequent repeated checking to see if others were around suggest that he was also keenly attuned to the fact that buraku issues were kept under wraps. Buraku concerns were effectively removed from discussion, though this clearly did not equate with a lack of knowledge or awareness, at least for some. This is where code words filled the void, allowing people to talk about the school as problematic without specifying the underlying reasons.

Takagawa Reminders of buraku issues are impossible to miss in Takagawa Junior High School, for they permeate the curricular and the social environment. Takagawa Junior High School, much like Hinode in Kuromatsu, was designed with utility over aesthetics. The school itself sits behind a small factory, a few hundred meters off the main road. As one follows the sign from the main road to enter the school grounds, an aging gym sits on the right, with the school farther ahead on the left. In front of the school stands a row of bikes, with helmets hanging from the handlebars or stuck in baskets, showing that school is in session. The third-year students are given the prime “parking spots” in front of the student entrance, whereas the first- and second-year students must park their bikes on the far side of the building, forcing them to walk farther to the shared entrance. Although

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there is a hierarchy here, it is not as strict as the one found at Hinode Junior High School in Kuromatsu; here, it symbolically reminds students of the sense of community over hierarchy, a lesson that matches other approaches found in the school. On entering the school, the students here, just as in thousands of other junior high schools, are required to change shoes to their officially designated indoor school shoes. Stepping up to the main hall there sits a fish tank, and posters announcing an upcoming national English test and a framed declaration from the town line the walls. The framed declaration is of interest and marks this school as being different from many others. The declaration grabs the reader’s attention with the large title “Buraku Liberation Declaration,” informing the reader that the community has dedicated itself to buraku issues. After changing shoes, the students make their way up to the second floor, where classrooms are located for all three grades. Prior to climbing the stairs, the students will pass the office, noting any new or important information for the day written on the office chalkboard. The information posted here also informs students of changes in club activities. Permanent sections on the board include first-, second-, and third-year class information; club names; and, interestingly, information on the Children’s Club (the Kodomo Kai), the joint BLL- and school-sponsored evening program for students. Outside the door to the staff room is a newspaper stand, with children’s versions of national newspapers along with the Kaihō Shinbun, a nationwide weekly newspaper of the BLL. Posters line the wall opposite the chalkboard, some promoting good hygiene, others introducing various national parks, and one describing the struggles of the aforementioned Sayama Incident. Unlike the mainstream press, the Sayama Incident is not ignored here. The physical layout of the school reinforces the egalitarian approach espoused by the community and the BLL. The students freely interact throughout, without a strong sense of a senior–junior (sempai– kōhai) relationship, encouraging a close relationship among all, regardless of year in school. Although Takagawa Junior High is a small school, with 108 students in the school, one class per grade, and 21 teachers, the school itself looks much like Hinode in Kuromatsu: a block U shape with the north wing (the left side of the U) having three stories and the south wing having two. Above the teachers’ communal office in the south wing are the classrooms, and closest to the front stairway is the first-year room,

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with the third-year room at the end of the same hall. In the north wing, the first floor contains the art and science rooms, the second floor houses the library and band room, and the third floor holds the homemaking and woodshop classrooms. The two wings are divided by an open square, where students from all grades are often found playing tag or talking with each other during class breaks or lunchtime. Having all the regular classrooms on one floor and this open communal space allows for, and indeed encourages, interaction among students of all grades. This close interaction of students from all grade levels was something the students also commented on as a positive trait of the school. Takagawa Junior High School is extremely unusual in approaches to sociohistorical issues and the materials covered. Though the curriculum at Takagawa Junior High is mandated by the Ministry of Education, making it like that of virtually all junior high schools in Japan, it is when we consider how buraku issues are placed within the school that we are able to see how Takagawa Junior High School deviates from what is found elsewhere—though, as Uehara (2014) shows, other schools do follow similar approaches to Takagawa (8–15). Here, far from being missing or minimized in curricular approaches, buraku issues take a central role.

Centering Bur aku Concerns Special classes on buraku issues were a central part of the curriculum in Takagawa, reminding the students that these issues were both to be talked about and to be engaged with. These classes varied based on grade, and specific classes were scheduled three times a year, lasting a month each. Classes were held, on average, three times a week. The first-year students spent their time talking primarily about awareness of the feelings of others and why people discriminate. Second-year classes focused on the history of burakumin through the Tokugawa period (1603–1867), and third-year classes covered the period from the Emancipation Edict (1871) through the creation of the Suiheisha (1922) and into modern day. Students in Takagwa were encouraged to engage with Japa nese history in a very critical manner, with lessons that expanded beyond buraku concerns. By approaching lessons in such a way, the teachers were able to place issues of marginality as part of the broader Japanese experience. All the teachers took an equal part in teaching these classes, demonstrating to the students that all were involved and concerned. Three of

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the five teachers were themselves burakumin, and they let the students know by peppering their teachings with personal anecdotes of their experiences in school and growing up. The classes I attended for the thirdyear students began with a broad review of history, beginning with the policy of sakoku—the period when the Tokugawa rulers nominally closed the country to foreign contact—and moving into the arrival of Commodore Perry and the subsequent extraterritoriality treaties (the so-called Unequal Treaties) between Japan and the Western powers. The students learned that it was at this time that the decision was made to place the emperor at the center of the new system of government. The teachers made clear that the placement of the emperor was a political decision, one that had a profound impact on the burakumin. As the teachers told the students, the buraku experience is closely connected with the imperial system. The teachers told the students that if the emperor was believed to be “pure,” there had to be a person or group defined as “impure.” This is where the burakumin and their Tokugawa predecessors came from. It was also during this period, the students learned, that the new government was attempting to make itself “modern,” and part of that modernizing project was to eliminate the Tokugawa era status system. It was at this point that the Emancipation Edict (Kaihō Rei) was promulgated. Within these classes, teachers rejected rote memorization and onedirectional learning found in many schools in Japan and encouraged a more analytical approach to class materials. In many of the junior high schools, teachers lecture and students take notes; there is little give and take between students and teachers over the materials. The direction of instruction is so fixed that I once observed a teacher telling students what color highlighter to use when marking a passage in the text. Yet this was not the case for these classes. All the teachers would ask students questions, encouraging them to think about the material. For example, when discussing the broader issues surrounding the Emancipation Edict, one teacher asked, “What was the purpose of the edict?” One student answered, “To eliminate the codified status hierarchy (mibun seidō)?” The teacher asked a follow-up question, “What was the ‘real’ purpose, and why then?” After a momentary pause, the student replied, “They were thinking about how the foreign countries would think about the hierarchy system.” “Exactly!” continued the teacher. “In order to eliminate unfair treaties, Japan had to show that it, too, was ‘advanced.’ ” The elimination of the status hierarchy was just such a way to demonstrate Japan’s “modern”

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status. Despite this, the teacher said, discrimination continued. The change in the law, without aiding the conditions under which the burakumin lived, did little to change things for them. On the contrary, it made them even more difficult. Most of the former samurai, merchants, and artisans were now classified as heimin, or “commoners,” whereas the burakumin were classified as shin-heimin, or “new commoners.” These social categories were listed in official government records. By changing only the title in government documents and not making changes in access to political and economic power, the government ensured a continued separation between the commoners and the “new” commoners. Placing buraku history in the context of other struggles and demonstrating the challenges their ancestors faced encouraged students to see their individual and historical experiences in a broader framework. In discussing other areas of history, the teachers attempted to combine national and international issues and events with burakumin experiences. Discussing the People’s Rights Movement in the late Meiji period, the teachers made connections to the early burakumin movements; the broader framework of the Taisho Democracy and the Rice Riots of 1918 were used to show how political and social conditions of the nation aided in the establishment of the Suiheisha. In further discussions of the creation of the Suiheisha, the class watched documentaries and fictionalized accounts of early buraku social movement history and wrote reactions to the struggles of Saikō Mankichi and others who helped to create the Suiheisha. The key to this discussion was the shift of outside support to self-reliance behind the creation of the Suiheisha—an organization for burakumin, by burakumin. One of the films the students watched ended with a reading of the Suiheisha declaration. When asked to comment, half a dozen students immediately raised their hands, calling out before waiting to be recognized by the teacher, often talking over one another, with comments like, “I got goose bumps.” Another student, active in the BLL-sponsored Children’s Club, read her response to a hushed class: “Discrimination will not end if we blame ourselves. It is not because there is something wrong with us. It’s a social problem.”

Local Experiences In an attempt to regain a degree of symbolic control, teachers in Takagawa rejected Dōwa education but not buraku education. Takagawa classes that

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centered on buraku issues were referred to not as Dōwa education but as Liberation (Kaihō) education. As one teacher commented on the differences between Dōwa education and Liberation education, “Dōwa education is government centered; Liberation education is community centered.” Framing the differences in such a manner, teachers at Takagawa Junior High are sending a message to their students: more than national issues or perspectives, community stands paramount. The language also made a symbolic reference and connection with the BLL (Buraku Kaihō Dōmei), for Kaihō was the same word that was used there and in these classes, along with the Kaihō Kodomo Kai (Children’s Club). For many junior high school students, discussions of national history seem far away, both temporally and experientially. To combat this, teachers in Takagawa attempted to make symbolic and historic connections to the experiences of those in Takagawa. This was done in a number of ways, from having those from the community share their experiences with students, to teaching students about how buraku issues were once taught at Takagawa Ju nior High School. These speakers had been brought in throughout the year to speak with the students, and they visited classes for all three grade levels. In one Kaihō class, a special guest came to talk to the third-year students about marriage discrimination. Fujita Yoshiko, an elementary teacher from a neighboring town, talked with the students about her personal experiences with marriage discrimination. Not burakumin herself, Ms. Fujita married a man from a buraku district. Although her family was against the marriage, she went through with it, even though it meant being cut off from them. She left home and moved in with her husband’s family in a buraku district in a neighboring town. She settled into her married life and, after a few years, got pregnant. In Japan, when a woman becomes pregnant, it is common for her to return to her natal home, yet for Ms. Fujita, this was not a possibility, as her family had forbidden her ever to return. Over the years, she explained to the students, she wanted so much to return to her home, but she never had the nerve. Deep down, she admitted, she, too, held feelings of prejudice against the burakumin. She rarely interacted with other families or neighbors in the buraku district, though she said many had tried to establish contact with her. She often fought with her husband and felt that he was somehow below her. At some

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point, she continued, she began to attend courses on buraku history, and through these classes she began to realize just how pointless and harmful discrimination was to those around her, to those she loved, and even to herself. By attending these classes, Ms. Fujita explained to the students, she was able to learn more about what her husband had gone through in life and, even more importantly to her, what her children would most likely go through. While she was learning more and more about burakumin history and buraku issues, Ms. Fujita’s father had become very ill. He was dying, yet he had never met his own grandchildren, nor had he seen his daughter in over twenty years. She decided that it was more important for her children to meet their grandfather, even if just once, than to harbor feelings about the years of animosity that had built up between her and her father. Coming to this realization, Ms. Fujita said, was a direct result of having attended classes through the local chapter of the BLL. Throughout the presentation by Ms. Fujita, the students listened intently. A few even passed packets of tissues back and forth, wiping away tears. Ms. Fujita’s presentation clearly had an effect on the students. One student, a non-burakumin, noted that having Ms. Fujita talk to the students about her own experiences, rather than about something historical, seemed much more real to her. Another girl described her reaction to the presentation: Whenever we would have class about discrimination, I would think “oh yuck” again and again. I always felt like no matter how much I would do, discrimination was just there. But, after the talk, I realized that I could do something. My father is burakumin, but my mother isn’t. They’ve never talked about it, but if they hadn’t overcome it, I wouldn’t be here.

Presenting actual life experiences to the students provides a greater sense of reality than the other materials and issues covered in Liberation classes. It is the “living” histories, the living experiences, that give the stories their importance and provide a counterbalance to the marginalization of buraku issues found in textbooks. It is not a surprise that Ms. Fujita came to talk to the students about marriage discrimination, for the BLL places a strong emphasis on overcoming discrimination in marriage, not only in Takagawa but also throughout the country. Indeed, the opening chapter of a BLL-published book for high school students to use as an introduction to buraku issues

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is devoted to discussions and experiences of discrimination in marriage (Kōkōsei no buraku mondai 1996). The impact of such discussions on students is strong in other communities as well. Namie, a nineteen-year-old burakumin woman who was interviewed by Matsushita (2002) commented on this: I want to marry somebody from a buraku area, if possible, my own district. That way, I won’t have to worry about dealing with marriage discrimination. When I was in elementary school, I saw a video about marriage discrimination. It was very shocking. I realized that I’ll only be able to marry a person from a buraku area. (58)

Other Kaihō classes also placed local, personal experiences as the centerpiece of their approach, with the implicit lesson that one can overcome hardship and suffering no matter how difficult things may seem at a given point in time. As noted previously, one outcome of structural discrimination against the burakumin was lower matriculation rates for high school. As a result of the Dōwa education laws, this gap in education levels between burakumin and non-burakumin gradually decreased. Historically, however, burakumin had much different schooling experiences than those of majority Japanese. A month after Ms. Fujita spoke with the third-year students, six students from the BLL-run literacy class (with an average age of about eighty years old) came to speak with the first-year students. The elderly students, some of whom were educated in the prewar system, had attended Bunkyōjō, a place of education for those who had difficulties in attending “regular” schools. When attending these schools, the burakumin who spoke said they studied a separate curriculum from those of other Japanese students of the day. The elderly guests told the first-year students their reasons for having left school, all with a remarkable degree of similarity to the stories: poverty, family responsibilities, and a sense of rejection from the school. Kimura Saburō, a resident of the district who was in his early eighties, told the students, “I had to leave school when I was seven and went to work in the port. . . . We didn’t have our own textbooks. We had to use a book that was somebody else’s, if they had one. Of course this made studying very hard.” Yoshimi Izumi, in her late sixties, explained that she had to go to school with her younger sister on her back. Whenever the baby would cry, Ms. Yoshimi would have to leave the class. It was just a matter of

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time, she explained, before the teacher told her not to come back. Kimura Kyoko, in her late seventies, echoed this: There were six kids in my family, and my mother died when she was in her thirties. I had to stay home and take care of my brothers and sisters. Because of this, I couldn’t stay in school. Even when I went, I had to use a slate to practice kanji. I couldn’t afford a notebook.

These stories served two purposes: caution and affirmation. They were a cautionary tale to the students of the type of discrimination they may face (as was the case of Ms. Fujita’s discussion of marriage discrimination), and they also provided an affirmation that discrimination can be overcome. As such, we can see parallels with the campaign in the United States to tell LGBT youth that “it gets better.” Suffering at one particular point in time does not necessarily mean that one will always suffer discrimination. It reminds young people that others have gone through similar experiences and survived. These stories of discrimination are also stories of affirmation and survival. Lessons also acted to create a sense of pride in membership, as a counter-approach to prevailing narratives of buraku issues. Classes for the second-year students focused on the experiences of outcaste groups in the Tokugawa era. Even though this was when the status system was institutionalized, the teachers highlighted a number of positives of that era. Students were taught that it was during this time that Kabuki was created by a woman who was an outcaste. Further, the students were taught that much of what is now considered “high” culture in Japan, including calligraphy, taiko drums at festivals, and the bamboo tools for the tea ceremony, was all based on the work of outcaste groups during this era. Whether this was true or not is secondary to the fact that the teachers were attempting to instill a sense of historical pride in the students. Many internalize these lessons and carry that pride for years to come. As one adult informant claimed to me, “Japanese culture would not exist if it were not for burakumin.” Yet, as Amos (2011) has eloquently argued, such framing attempts to connect disparate groups and experiences into an unbroken narrative highlighting a simple historical experience when the reality is much more complex. State policies can contain both de facto and de jure elements of discrimination, and as the school is an instrument of the state, it, too, has been complicit in such discrimination. During one class period, teachers

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brought in a copy of a student record from Takagawa Junior High from the early postwar period. The social studies teacher stood in the front of the room, and the other teachers lined the side of the classroom. The teacher began by opening a folder and showing a list of names, some with red circles around them, others without. He asked the students what they thought this was. After a few minutes of incorrect guessing, he told them it was an official class list from Takagawa Junior High and that the names circled in red were those of burakumin students. The school kept clear records of who was and who was not burakumin. This was met with calls of “No way!” and “I don’t believe it!” from around the room. The teachers explained that the school had taken part in perpetuating discrimination. This should not be surprising. The role of state institutions in perpetuating difference was seen in the United States with numerous Jim Crow laws as well as in laws and policies nominally expressing equality (Omi and Winant 1994). Because the state has played an active role in the construction and continuation of difference it is culpable for the differences in outcome. Although they are not racially different, the burakumin experience, vis-à-vis the Japanese state, parallels this. One state practice in Japan that has enforced this sense of difference was the aforementioned family registry system (koseki). Although designed to be equal, these had particularly adverse effects on women, foreigners, and burakumin (Chapman and Krogness 2014; Bryant 1991). The family registry system is a state-supported policy that reinforces symbolic markers of difference between burakumin and other Japanese. During one Liberation class, the social studies teacher told the students they were going to watch a play, and with that he stepped out of the room. Then, the physical education teacher came to the front with a board around his neck, informing the class that he was a town bureaucrat. The social studies teacher, along with the Japanese teacher, came in dressed in costumes and asked to see their family registry. The sight of their teachers dressed up like an old couple, using affected Japanese, was a source of amusement to the students. The students yelled out how funny they looked or how strange they sounded. The teachers would periodically smile at the students, but once the students settled down and the play started in earnest, the students and teachers both took the issues seriously. The “ family” that went to the town office found that their old status was simply blocked out of their registry with black ink.8 That is, the “new”

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part of “new commoners” was the only thing changed. Clearly replacing “new” with a black mark did little to change the status marking of individuals. These official markings simply allowed the state to perpetuate markers of difference in myriad ways. The play ended, and the teachers wrapped up their discussion with the following: There were a lot of things that we covered, and a lot we could not, but these classes are meant to help you. Please remember this: When you get out of school you will face discrimination. If you get married, you will face discrimination. You or someone around you will face discrimination. If you face it on your own, chances are you’ll fail. It’s important to work together. The more we work together, the stronger we are.

The youth are learning that the protective cocoon is safe and that the broader social world is dangerous. Although the teachers are telling the students in no uncertain terms that they will face discrimination, what remains unsaid is that this will only happen if people know your background. In being socialized to challenge silence, the initial warnings of the potential risk they will face (and it is important to stress that the students are not being told that they may face discrimination but that they will face it) also plant the seeds of protection. As long as they remain in their protective cocoon, there is no “if you share,” for the size of the community and the openness in which it approaches buraku issues renders silence meaningless. For the power of the unspoken lesson of if to be fully realized, the youth must leave their protective cocoon. At this point, however, the full meaning of sharing remains unknown to them.

Outside the Classroom Pride in membership is an essential part to challenging silence. From formal classes on buraku history to club activities and the culture festival, youth are being taught to be open and to be proud of who they are. Liberation education teaches students that buraku issues should be openly engaged with, not something that should remain hidden. Further, the youth are taught that buraku experiences are part of a larger social framework, which include other minorities and their experiences with discrimination.

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Understanding of inequality and discrimination are key components of education at Takagawa Junior High School, both inside and outside the classroom. Nearly every junior high school in Japan puts on a cultural festival in early autumn, and in this regard, Takagawa Junior High School is no different. During my stay, student art projects lined the walls of the gym, and awards for various sports teams and the school band were prominently displayed. The school band played, as did a group of thirdyear boys who had started their own band. In addition to this, however, it was the other events that made the Takagawa Junior High Cultural Festival different. Along with the awards and banners for the clubs were banners about HIV/AIDS issues, asking questions like, “Do you think AIDS is of no concern to you?” There were materials along the back wall, opposite the stage, on the battle of Okinawa (where second-year students went on their school trip), its effect on Okinawa, and issues of war in general. Students from the Children’s Club also took part, not simply as junior high students but as members of the Children’s Club. The students from the club performed a play they had performed during the Kaihō no Matsuri, highlighting the historical openness of the buraku district in Takagawa. As could be expected from junior high students who had not practiced in earnest in several months, there were forgotten lines, moments of laughter, and moments of silence on the stage, yet this did not take away from the message. The play ended with all of the students on stage singing the Buraku Liberation League Youth Anthem. Other activities outside of class stressed the centrality of buraku issues. As previously noted, the symbols and signs were found at the entrance to the school, but these were not the only symbols. In nearly all public junior high schools in Japan, students are expected to take part in club activities (Cave 2004). These clubs range from sports teams to art and music clubs to English or science clubs. One such club at Takagawa Junior High School was the poetry club. The poetry club, however, was not a club that dealt with traditional Japanese poetry per se; rather, the theme of the poetry the students discussed was based on works done by burakumin poets. At the school’s cultural festival, the six girls who were members of this club went to the stage to read some of the works they had discussed over the course of the school year. One piece they read was an award-winning poem written by Eguchi Ito (1998), which follows the themes covered in class, including the importance of working together

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on the struggles that students may encounter, and that with the strength of numbers, discrimination can, and will, be overcome: Hito no Neuchi (The worth of a person) One time, wearing work clothes on the bus The person next to me called me “Grandma” Dressed in a formal kimono Riding the train, I was called “Madam” Evidently the worth of a person Is based on the clothes they wear At a speech By a famous university professor Even if it is terribly boring Those in attendance will say it was great Evidently the worth of a person Is based on the title they have People do not pay attention To the stories of the nameless For them, shopping is more important Than the stories of others The daughter of an elite family Marries into a buraku family The children will be called Burakumin Evidently the worth of a person Is based on where they were born When will the day come When people realize this mistake?

Using existing cultural markers to engage with buraku concerns placed these issues within a context that the youth already understood. For example, whereas the morning portion of the school’s cultural festival

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focused on the school and community, the afternoon portion of the festival was a traditional puppet show (bunraku). The performers were all from a buraku district in the neighboring prefecture and discussed their desire to show some of the “high culture” of burakumin to everyone. The troop performed various short plays, using the intermissions as a time when each could describe his or her own experiences growing up in a buraku district. The leader of the troop told the students, “Our culture is strong, with many things to be proud of !” As Matsushita (2002) notes, the repeating of such messages has an impact on burakumin youth. Eiji, a burakumin youth she interviewed, commented, “After hearing so many messages, that I should be proud, I really did become proud in being from a [buraku] district” (94). The goal of such approaches, according to one teacher in Takagawa, was “to show the students the value, past and present, of being burakumin.” These lessons of pride were taken to heart by many of the students. As Shota, a third-year boy, commented in response to such classes in school: When the teachers taught us about their being embarrassed about being burakumin when they were young, I thought they were just telling us not to be like that. But now I was able to learn about buraku history and culture, and watch it unfold before my eyes. If I hadn’t learned about the good points in buraku history, I’d probably be ashamed that I was born in a district.

Many of these lessons of openness and pride began even before the youth entered Takagawa Junior High School, making the transition from elementary school to junior high school a smoother process.

Tak agawa Elementary School Teaching elementary students about marginalized populations and discrimination normalizes such discussions and reinforces the fact that such topics are part of what one should be talking and learning about. The in-depth learning of these issues challenges the widespread silence of minority issues that prevail outside of Takagawa. Although youth at the elementary level may not have the capacity to fully comprehend the lessons they are receiving, they are learning about discrimination and at

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least one form of engagement. The children in the elementary schools are learning of commonalities with other minority groups—in Japan and elsewhere. These teachings also prepare them for the lessons that come in junior high school and the broader socialization in Takagawa. It shapes their response to these future lessons, even though they may not have a full understanding of what they are being taught. Elementary schools in Japan stress the concept of community and present values that are important to society overall and to the local community (C. Lewis 1995, 54–57). In Takagawa, this connection is not simply an issue of “let us work together,” for it also includes Liberation classes, much as in the junior high school. Although these classes do not focus exclusively on buraku issues, they do explore various topics that are missing from most schools. The elementary school in Takagawa is important, as it was where all of my informants explained that they learned about buraku issues. As Junko, a member of the school band who was active in the Children’s Club, told me, “I first learned about the fact that there was a buraku district in Takagawa when I was in late elementary, either fifth or sixth grade. Even though I lived in the area, I didn’t really know what that meant until I learned more in junior high school.” The Liberation classes in the elementary school also focus on Japanese history, but not a sanitized history. A series of activities designed to broaden the perspective of the students take the form of independent research, resulting in a school-wide assembly at which the students look at topics in Japanese history, such as Unit 731 (the infamous germ and chemical warfare unit of the Japanese Imperial Army) and the occupation of Korea. The students also study international issues by bringing in guest speakers, such as foreigners living in the greater area who can speak of discrimination in their home countries. On several occasions I, too, was asked to speak about the history of the civil rights movement and about majority–minority relations in the United States. On one occasion, the elementary school brought in a teacher from the neighboring prefecture, a teacher at the only North Korean–affiliated school in the area. The teacher spoke of a typical day at this school, the amount of homework the students did, and how the teachers and students interacted. All this demonstrated to the students at Takagawa Elementary School how, despite going to different schools— schools that were not even Japanese—the lives of the students were, in fact, quite similar. Other areas within the elementary Liberation classes included issues

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related to women, resident Koreans, and those with disabilities. Although other marginalized populations were covered, burakumin issues stood out above all others.

Student Reactions Students respond to the teachings in ways that reinforce both the centrality and marginalization of buraku issues. Teachers at Takagawa Junior High School have brought the engagement of the community toward buraku issues into the school. There is a close connection between community and school approaches to buraku issues, which further legitimizes the open engagement. As one might expect in such an environment, students internalize the lessons learned in school and engage with buraku issues in an open manner. The normalization of open engagement with buraku concerns in Takagawa brought with it critiques of approaches and responses by many students. Virtually all the students I interviewed from Takagawa emphasized the importance of education in overcoming discrimination. “Through education we can overcome discrimination” was repeated so often, it was clear that this idea was one that was constantly emphasized in the school. When pressed, however, there was an awareness among students that this approach was not necessarily effective. One student, a girl who did not attend the Children’s Club, had the following comment: I think that with discrimination, no matter how much burakumin study, it’s never going to end. I’m burakumin, but in my heart I think much of this studying of buraku stuff is just stupid. No matter how much we study, there are still lots of people out there who will discriminate. I think burakumin are wasting all this time studying, when it’s those outside the buraku areas who need to study.

Other students view education not simply as learning about burakumin history and experiences but as providing them with the tools necessary to combat discrimination when they face it. Through learning about buraku issues in school, a third-year girl commented, “We learn that when we see discrimination, we know how to say something, to say ‘That’s wrong!’ ” The response of teachers and students to Liberation education is also a marker of commitment or rejection to buraku concerns. The students also see a difference in the level of commitment by the teachers. Despite

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all the third-year teachers taking part in Liberation classes, the students feel there are certain teachers to whom they can turn in times of crisis, whereas other teachers were known to simply give lip ser vice to the goals of the school. Another girl pointed out that “one teacher is there during the Liberation classes, but his mind seems elsewhere. When he’s outside of that class, it’s like he didn’t believe what he was saying.” This disjunction was not simply a matter of difference between student and teacher but a disjunction between burakumin and non-burakumin. Though this teacher had a long tenure at Takagawa Junior High, there was little connection between him and the other teachers and students over buraku issues. Although I saw all the other teachers throughout the year at other community functions, I never once saw this teacher outside of school. This sense of difference between district students and nonburakumin teachers was also the case for Azusa, a woman Matsushita (2002) interviewed, recalling her school days: What the teacher would say was correct, but I didn’t have a good feeling about him. That teacher wasn’t from the district, after all. The teacher had his own life, outside the district and only works here. When the teacher corrects us, I think “who are you to say such things to us?” (93)

This was not just the case for teachers, as a number of students appeared bored and uninterested in the Liberation classes as well. This lack of interest, or lack of engagement, greatly troubled some of the burakumin students. During the Liberation classes I attended, there were a number of students who were sleeping or otherwise not paying attention. This was something that took place in all three grade levels. Burakumin and non-burakumin alike were among those who were openly disinterested in the materials covered in the Liberation classes. As Ikeda (2000) found, “If the non-burakumin students do not take Dōwa classes seriously, it has meaning to the burakumin students that they themselves are not being taken seriously” (29). In addition to Toru and Takehiro, two boys who rarely paid attention in any class, a number of students were visibly “tuning out” for the Liberation classes by sleeping, passing notes to one another, or working on homework for other classes. One student, Yuka, a girl from the buraku district, was really only interested in Japa nese language class, which she described as being her favorite class, and would pay little attention to all her other classes, including Liberation classes. That said, in Japanese class one day, when a classmate was asking her

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about a specific kanji (character), the first kanji in the word cave (dōkutsu), rather than telling her friend the “dō ” is “the water radical with onaji” (same), she said that the “dō ” character is written with the water radical and then is the same character as “dō ” in Dōwa. Explaining characters in such a way is a very common process, but what is not common is using Dōwa as the term to explain. Even though Yuka found the Liberation classes pointless, she was still aware of the concepts and found them useful in other areas, though likely not in the way policy makers and teachers imagined. In learning of past experiences and alternative histories, the students at Takagawa are presented with an alternate form of legitimacy. The relationship between past and present, official national history and the reformulation of local history, is not exclusive to Takagawa. In his study of Okinawan villages, Allen (2002) notes that discussions of local, marginalized experiences “constitute the making of a counter history, legitimated in constructions of local identity” (30). By their presentation in textbooks, information and facts take on a degree of legitimacy for these children. Yet for the burakumin students, because their experiences tend to be missing from textbooks, it suggests that those experiences lack value or importance for the students. This is what the Liberation classes seek to remedy; they are teaching the children that there is value and worth in being burakumin. The youth are gaining a sense of pride in being burakumin, learning to challenge discrimination and overcome silence. Regarding this form of alternative teaching, Allen continues, “These are not the memories of a homogeneous Japanese ‘self.’ In passing on these stories to the students, the storytellers have empowered their listeners with the knowledge of who they are” (31). The lessons in Takagawa Junior High School act to build a bond with the past, a social environment where they can be open with their background, and a sense of pride in being burakumin.

Conclusion School lessons carry with them a degree of legitimacy simply by virtue of being taught. This chapter has shown the ways in which buraku issues were placed in the junior high school curriculum and how the youth then responded. Putting buraku issues in the forefront in Takagawa meant that

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the youth were learning that it was acceptable, indeed encouraged, to embrace these issues. Takagawa youth were being taught an alternative history, one that centered on the role of burakumin in Japan—highlighting both the contributions of burakumin and state-sponsored discrimination. At the same time, these lessons provided tools to challenge discrimination in an attempt to prepare the youth for the discrimination they will face outside the protective cocoon. It was here that the youth were being given the first nascent lessons of bracketing as well. The unspoken if in these lessons is crucial in how the youth begin to consider the self they will present to the outside world. The centering of buraku issues was clearly not part of the lessons in Kuromatsu. By marginalizing buraku concerns to such a degree that they were not talked about at all, Hinode Junior High School sent the message that buraku issues were to be treated with silence. This did not mean that people did not talk about buraku issues or were not aware of such issues. When the topics were discussed, it was typically through the use of code words that served to mask the issue while still providing a linguistic space where people could make reference to the school and buraku district (albeit with negative codes). The full impact of these lessons will come after they leave the protective cocoon. Until they are forced to engage with their backgrounds and images of who they are, the school lessons will find a receptive audience among the children, for these lessons match what they experience outside of school. The lessons the children learn in both communities reflect the approaches taken in each community and the social movement organizations located there. Rather than being “cultural dopes” (Garfinkel [1967] 2003), the youth in Kuromatsu and Takagawa are presented with alternative forms of approaching buraku issues, and they have the ability to decide how they wish to engage with these issues, albeit constrained by the community in which they are embedded. In both communities, the students learn lessons regarding engagement with buraku issues within the protective cocoon. The approaches taken in each community—silence in Kuromatsu and openness in Takagawa—filtered through schools, shape individual experiences. It is here that the youth also learn early lessons of bracketing with an audience that is learning these same lessons. The following chapter explores the way in which these lessons are practiced in a routinized space within the protective cocoon.

Chapter 5 Social Space and Social Interactions Practicing in the Protective Cocoon “A man with few friends is only half-developed; there are whole sides of his nature which are locked up and have never been expressed. He cannot unlock them himself, he cannot even discover them; friends alone can stimulate him and open him.” —Randolph Bourne, 1912 “I have a friend who says that she’s glad that she was born in a buraku. I wish I could say that I’m burakumin so I could have that same sense of pride.” —Yasuko, third-year student in Takagawa, 2002

he cultural practices of Kuromatsu and Takagawa, reinforced through locally embedded social movement orga nization actions, shape the community approaches to buraku concerns. In addition, both schools highlight and reject silence as foundational approaches. How does the protective cocoon connect with the lessons of silence learned by the youth themselves? In large part, it centers on the relation of space, silence, and the protective cocoon. This chapter highlights the nascent steps taken by the youth as they implement the lessons of silence they have learned up to this point. Although Giddens (1991) considers the protective cocoon as a singular state, I would argue that we should view it with greater nuance and depth. To consider the metaphor in a bit more detail, cocoons have three broad parts: a hard, outer shell that protects the inside from the elements; a middle layer that provides the structure and shape of the cocoon itself; and a soft, inner section that embraces and envelopes the living thing within. The outer shell is shaped by where students go to school and with whom they interact, providing protection from the broader world. The

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middle layer influences what students are taught and what they can talk about. The inner protective layer of the cocoon can be considered as the social space whereby youth gain support through interactions with others. The layers of the protective cocoon all keep risk at bay. In Kuromatsu, the protective cocoon prepares youth to engage with buraku issues in much the same way that the broader society does: silence. In Takagawa, it grooms youth to prepare for a world different from their experiences, one that ignores and silences buraku issues. The embracing inner layer of the cocoon is structured social space where youth practice the designated “appropriate” approach to buraku issues. The space within the inner layer of the protective cocoon is both informal and routinized at the same time, a voluntary setting that exists to provide frequent participation. Both communities provide a setting whereby youth can interact openly outside the formal lessons of school. In Kuromatsu, this setting takes the form of an after-school study session; in Takagawa, it centers on an evening Children’s Club, co-created and managed by the school and the BLL. These settings, unlike festivals or community revitalization projects, are part of a routinized project with set meeting times throughout the year, allowing the youth to “test” various forms of how they present themselves to others and, perhaps more importantly, how they approach buraku issues. Silence is one type of joint action. As Blumer ([1969] 1998) has noted, any form of joint action must be interpreted and re-created among participants (17). Youth learn how to approach the silence of buraku issues through social interactions with peers. In most schools, there is a code of silence around topics that are not to be discussed, and there can be a tremendous cost to violating the silence (Syvertsen, Flanagan, and Stout 2009, 228–30). The approach that each community takes to buraku issues is filtered through an understanding of this code (even if the understanding is implicit). Finally, silence can act as a form of protection from discrimination or as a suppression of tragedy. This is the case for gay men (Adams 2010), survivors of the Holocaust (Stein 2009), or even male victims of sexual abuse (O’Brien 2011). Silence leaves certain things unsaid.

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Making Friends and Marking Difference in Kuromatsu The interactions related to buraku issues for the youth in Kuromatsu, like those in Takagawa, are shaped by the social movement organization found in the community. The Jiyū Dōwa Kai ( JDK) calls for an open interaction (though not necessarily vocalizing buraku issues) inside and outside a buraku district. This openness should take place “not only with regard to Dōwa issues, but should be expanded to include elderly, handicapped, and others” ( Jiyū Dōwa Kai H26 do undō hōshin [2014 Movement Policy]). Although the JDK does not explicitly call for a Children’s Club, they do call for “open participation and interaction between the school, parents and guardians, and members of the community” ( Jiyū Dōwa Kai H26 do undō hōshin [2014 Movement Policy]). Prior to the end of the Dōwa laws, Hinode maintained this interaction through special after-school classes. These classes were designed to improve educational outcomes for buraku youth, even though buraku issues were not directly engaged. Named Blue Sky Study Sessions (Aozora Benkyōkai), these classes were designed more as study skills classes than as classes created to discuss buraku issues. Each week, a different teacher would stay after school and meet with students about a different subject. In short, these sessions were about academic outcomes rather than about the teaching of what it means to be burakumin in Japa nese society. The lessons reinforced the silence surrounding buraku issues, but they provided exactly what the Dōwa laws called for: areas to help improve academic outcomes for students from buraku districts. Ironically, the timing of these classes served as a symbolic reminder to all of the difference between students attending the classes and the rest of the school. In public junior high schools throughout Japan, students are typically expected to join an after-school club (Cave 2004; Fukuzawa and LeTendre 2001). If certain students were missing from their club activities one day a week yet still at school, the unspoken message sent to students who attended the classes and those who did not was that these students were somehow different. Many students who could have attended these classes on a regular basis would only take part when club activities were not being held so as not to further mark themselves as different.

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Though these classes were not designed to engage with buraku issues, some students were aware of the connection. As one student commented, recalling these classes, “I knew those classes were for students from the buraku district, but really, I was a bit jealous of the students who participated, though they never mentioned Dōwa things. They were able to get extra lessons, and the teachers were really friendly to them. Among students, those attending these classes would talk openly about them, but I remember the teachers never talked about it in front of other students.” Another former student at Hinode noted, “I think it was for students from the district, but it was not something we ever talked about.” Here we see that some students did have knowledge of the connection to buraku issues, but they were also aware that the issue was best approached with silence. Once the nationally mandated Dōwa laws ended in March 2002, Hinode dropped these classes. Rather than burakumin-specific classes, the ideological approach of the JDK called for educational policies that dealt with numerous minority groups, from women and wheelchair users to the elderly and burakumin. For the JDK in Kuromatsu, these local approaches matched the national policies. The end of funding designed specifically for buraku districts removed the focus from the burakumin. The school and the JDK did not reject all discussion of minorities. The school, in order to encourage social interaction and awareness among students of the experiences of others, provided special classes that specifically highlighted such issues. In Kuromatsu, the largest minority group was a sizable population of Brazilians of Japanese ancestry.1 In order to highlight the experiences of Brazilian Japanese, the school undertook an interesting experiment. Incorporating both classroom time and after-school club activity time, the school scheduled classes that began sixth period (the final period of the school day) and continued for an hour after school. These classes were instructional yet far less formal than typical classes. In an effort to highlight the separation from regular classes, these classes were held in various rooms, such as multipurpose rooms, the gym, music rooms, or computer rooms—spaces where students were able to feel more relaxed and closer to the guests. Brazilian Japa nese from the community came in and shared their experiences in Japan, told the students about Brazilian culture, and also taught some simple Brazilian greetings.

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Creating these interactions reminded students of the experiences of others, those that appear different— linguistically, nationally, and culturally— and yet are of similar Japa nese ancestry. Such discussions were actively encouraged, in contrast to how buraku issues were approached. These after-school interactions made the issues more approachable and less formal, though this ironically minimized their importance. Whereas some students were obviously interested, asking questions of the guests and laughing good-naturedly while making mistakes with this new language, most of the students spent the time working on homework, sleeping, or simply talking with their friends. Highlighting the experience of voluntary minorities while ignoring that of involuntary minorities serves to create a divide that ignores the broader social structural position of each (Ogbu and Simons 1998). Permitting the discussion of Brazilians of Japanese ancestry while silencing that of burakumin further reminds students what cannot be discussed. Owing to broader sociocultural differences between Japanese and Brazilians of Japanese descent, the “invisibility” factor that plays a role in silencing buraku issues is missing. From dress to language to how they carry themselves, the Brazilians of Japanese ancestry are visible at shopping centers, at city events, and at a host of other social venues. Burakumin are also present at such locations, yet unless there were a preexisting awareness of membership as burakumin, they would be rendered missing from the perspective of the youth. These classes, created after the termination of the Dōwa laws, provided a place for the JDK and school to engage with issues of discrimination without placing buraku issues at the forefront. At the same time, the Kuromatsu Board of Education branch in the buraku district established classes at its branch office for elementary students, similar to the former Blue Sky Study Sessions. Although a board of education branch officer said that teachers wanted to hold classes for both elementary and junior high school students, owing to funding constraints they felt they had to make a decision as to whom they should work with. They decided to focus their attention on elementary students in order to set a pattern of good study habits early on. This is not to say that the education office in the district would turn junior high school students away—quite the contrary. Throughout the year the branch office offered lectures for all members of the community on study skills and home life, and provided a place for teachers from the school to come and meet with parents. Yet these classes were

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run by government employees and in no way explicitly centered on, or indeed even mentioned, buraku issues. Interactions and social networks develop as part of a broader process rather than as a centerpiece of policies on buraku issues. In most junior high schools throughout Japan, these social networks are facilitated through participation in after-school club activities. Students at Hinode Junior High explained that their closest friends were from their club activities. This is hardly a surprise, as Fukuzawa and LaTendre (2001) found, “Clubs provide stable sources of friendship relations over the students’ three years in junior high school or high school, and students who do not participate in a club lack these crucial skills” (55). Toshi, a third-year boy from the buraku district, would often spend the entire day in his baseball uniform, and during breaks in class would throw the ball with his friends. Although Toshi would walk to school with Yoichi, another boy from Nakata-chō who was not in the baseball club, throughout the school day, all of Toshi’s interactions were with his teammates, both those from the district and those from outside. When I asked him about his closest friends, he listed his baseball teammates before mentioning anyone from his neighborhood. These interactions also take place in non-sport activities, as was the case for two girls from Nakata-chō, who were best friends. Although they were involved in different club activities, both were active in student government, along with a number of non-burakumin students. Friendships and social networks clearly existed between the burakumin and non-burakumin in Hinode Junior High and were part of the structured patterns of interactions found in any Japanese junior high school. The Blue Sky Study Sessions provided an additional protective cocoon, whereby youth could interact with others, yet they also reflected the ways in which the JDK in Kuromatsu approached buraku issues: they were not something to be highlighted as being somehow different from others. These classes were designed to improve scholastic abilities, not to highlight buraku concerns. As such, they reinforced the silence surrounding these issues while providing a routinized setting for youth to interact with others. It should not be a surprise that such institutionalized activities in Kuromatsu and Hinode Ju nior High School reinforced silence, even in activities that were funded by the Dōwa laws, for the JDK emphasized just such engagement. Routinized, institutionalized events could be part of a broader engagement with issues that were of concern to burakumin and non-burakumin alike, without placing buraku issues

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at the center. These types of events were designed to improve the lives of the burakumin by minimizing differences between them and majority Japanese.

The Takagawa Children’s Club Takagawa also implemented routinized projects that highlighted the centrality of silence and the buraku experience. The BLL-led Kaihō Kodomo Kai (Liberation Children’s Club) highlighted the openness of buraku issues. The role of the Children’s Club was (1) to provide social space to create and re-create an openness with one’s buraku identity; (2) to reinforce the materials learned in school on buraku issues, further stressing openness as a foundation for buraku identity; and (3) to remind children of the importance of depending on these social relationships when preparing challenges to future discrimination (Ikeda 1991, 84; Matsushita 2002, 91). Overcoming silence was an important lesson provided by the Children’s Club, both implicitly and explicitly. Broadly, the Children’s Club began as after-school classes to improve study skills, and in Takagawa, this was the pattern of these classes until the early 1990s. Originally, teachers from the schools would either go to the community center or stay on school grounds to provide help for students in the form of extra teaching of material and study skills. Over time, many felt that these were things for which the school should be responsible. As Ms. Abe Michiko, the teacher in charge of the Children’s Club in Takagawa, noted, Parents taught what they learned, based on their own education levels. For the burakumin in Takagawa, at that time, only 20 percent went on to high school, so teaching study skills was important for those who came from a background where education was not stressed. Over time, however, more and more went on to high school and further. By the early 1990s, the parents complained that education was the responsibility of the school, not the Children’s Club. With this, the Children’s Club began to focus exclusively on broader issues of social discrimination.

Placing discrimination issues as a fundamental pillar of the Children’s Club meant that the sessions acted to reinforce the lessons of school and

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community: be proud of being burakumin, reject silence, combat discrimination. With this approach, in multiple locations, they were able to test these lessons and forms of identity within the protective cocoon.

Social Inter action and Trust A fundamental feature of formulating identity and overcoming silence is the sense of trust and security that being open with one’s background provides. Trust, as Giddens (1991) accurately notes, is “basic to a ‘protective cocoon’ which stands guard over the self in its dealings with everyday reality” (3). For burakumin youth, movement activities such as the Children’s Club provide a forum for building trust within the protective cocoon and provide children with the tools necessary when they are away from it. This provides a framework that place values in being burakumin, particularly when such membership is marginalized. In her discussion of racial identity development in the United States, Tatum (1997) recognizes the importance of such interaction with one’s peers in negotiating a social world that devalues minority experience. As she notes, As one’s awareness of the daily challenges of living in a racist society increase, it is immensely helpful to be able to share one’s experiences with others who have lived it. Even when White friends are willing and able to listen and bear witness to one’s struggles, they cannot really share the experience. (70)

The Children’s Club provides for this type of social interaction. Children who participated often spoke of the connection with others and sense of security that the openness of the Children’s Club provided. Izumi, a third-year girl who frequently attended the meetings, commented, “For me, I go to show a different person, to show the real me, where I can be with friends, both burakumin and non-burakumin. At school, of course there are friends, but sometimes it’s hard to say things to them. At the Children’s Club, there are friends who have and are going through the same things.” Social relationships play a strong part in the Children’s Club, which then shape how youth view their social world. Indeed, youth learn much of their understanding of their social world through such social relationships (Harris 1998). Participation is voluntary, and for most students, the decision to attend is made in elementary school. Calling it a decision may

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be too strong, as most of the students I interviewed spoke of attending the elementary Children’s Club, held after school, as a matter of course. Many described being invited by older friends or attending as a result of being in the community center after school anyway. Others spoke of attending once they entered junior high school, having been encouraged by teachers. Setsuko, a third-year girl active in a number of school activities and the Children’s Club, credited a teacher for encouraging her to attend: “If she hadn’t encouraged me to come to the Children’s Club, I’d probably have dropped out of school by now and joined a gang.” This was the pattern that her older sister, who had not attended the Children’s Club, had followed. Participation was not necessarily based on an initial desire to combat discrimination or learn about the burakumin experience. The Children’s Club was enjoyable. It not only allowed for interaction outside of school but also allowed them to learn more about burakumin experiences. As Izumi put it, “The reason I go to the Children’s Club is to work to eliminate discrimination and to work with others in this struggle, but up until two years ago, I just went for fun.” The Children’s Club provided a space for students to be open with their thoughts, feelings, and presentation of self. Among the thirty-nine thirdyear students in Takagawa Ju nior High School, nearly one-quarter attended the Children’s Club. Whereas the Children’s Club played a central part for many, for others, time was too valuable to attend. A number of students talked about attending when they were in elementary school, but once they entered junior high school, they had too many constraints on their time, such as preparation for high school entrance exams or club activities at school. For many, this was said with a sense of regret. One third-year girl commented, “I didn’t go to the Children’s Club [in junior high school]. Most of us went there on the way home from elementary school for fun, but in junior high I couldn’t go at all. I have nowhere to go to express my feelings.” This highlights the importance of openness and sharing on buraku issues. Even in a community as open as Takagawa, this was really the only available space for such openness. Though the Takagawa youth who attended the Children’s Club embraced it, apparently not all viewed their experience in the same manner. A twenty-yearold man interviewed by Matsushita (2002) commented, “I went to the Children’s Club when I was in elementary and junior high school, but I didn’t like it. The meetings were long and I didn’t really understand why I had to be there. It was kind of a pain in the ass” (41).

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There was no stigma in attending the Children’s Club in Takagawa. At school, as part of the general after-school announcements, all students were invited to attend the Children’s Club, thereby highlighting the openness of participation. On the same bulletin board with permanent sections for club activities, there were sections for the Children’s Club, alerting students to changes in activities or other news, further suggesting that attending the Children’s Club was not something to be hidden.

Club, School, and Community: Making Connections In addition to addressing buraku issues, the Children’s Club served two other purposes: it strengthened the bond between differing minority groups, and it highlighted to children that they were not alone in suffering discrimination. The burakumin are not the only silenced minority in Japan, and the youth attending the Children’s Club learned about these other minority groups, strengthening their understanding of those groups. By studying other minority groups, the Children’s Club addressed discrimination as a broader social issue. At the beginning of my fieldwork in Takagawa, Children’s Club students were studying Korea and Korean issues, including culture, history, contemporary society, and zainichi issues.2 The students created posters and presentations at a town-wide open house held in December at the community center. Students made Korean food for visitors to purchase, showed videos of Korean culture, and presented their storyboards. Books published by Amnesty International and other materials covered in the Children’s Club contained information that differed greatly from what was being taught in school. One third-year boy, Tetsuya, was very surprised about Japan’s past actions, exclaiming, “Wow, Japan did some really bad stuff ! I had no idea.” The connection between the Children’s Club and school lessons reinforced for students the importance of challenging discrimination and the broader social silence they encounter. The centerpiece of the Children’s Club highlighted the historical challenges to buraku discrimination, reminding the youth that their experiences and challenges were part of a larger community. The club began with the study of marriage discrimination, which, in some incidents, ended in suicide. Further, students studied the history of the Suiheisha, the prewar buraku social movement organization. At the same time students were learning about

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the Suiheisha in the Children’s Club, they were learning about the events surrounding its creation in their social studies class in school, including issues of democracy during the Taisho period (1912–26) and the general social climate during the late teens and early 1920s. Further, in the Liberation class in school (as discussed in chapter 4), the students watched the same video on the creation of the Suiheisha that was shown in the Children’s Club. The breaking of silence was not only an explicit lesson but also something the students experienced. Rather than being a self-contained group, the Children’s Club created activities whereby they could practice various forms of breaking silence, all while in the protective cocoon. In addition to detailed discussions about discrimination, participants in the Children’s Club selected scenes from a film they found important and created a short play based on those scenes. The play the students created was performed at a special event at the community center. The performances were open to the entire community, and the school band played as well. The Children’s Club sponsored the event, though with the school band playing, those not connected with the Children’s Club were also participating in the activities. Parents, siblings, and other members of the community were in attendance—not because they had to but because they wanted to. These events provided a safe space for children to learn various forms of presenting themselves as burakumin, as they knew they would find a responsive, embracing audience, at least as long as they were in the protective cocoon. The Children’s Club was a central part of BLL youth policies, and the connection between it and the school was both implicit and explicit. Because the teacher who ran the Children’s Club was also a teacher at Takagawa Junior High, overlap in information and materials covered was to be expected. When the topics in the Children’s Club turned to buraku issues, there was a concentrated effort at convergence between the school curriculum and the Children’s Club teachings. Far from being marginalized, Children’s Club activities and experiences were integrated into school activities in myriad ways. As discussed in chapter 4, in early November, Takagawa Junior High held its cultural festival, a common event for junior high schools throughout the country. About one-third of the way through the program, which featured musical performances and speeches by teachers and students, the Children’s Club students performed a play, the same play they performed at the

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Kaihō no Matsuri the previous August. The play highlighted the events surrounding the establishment of Sonoko Shrine. As previously noted, this shrine was dedicated to the memory of a princess of the imperial family who had Hansen’s disease and was exiled from the capital. In the Children’s Club, the leaders spoke of how this demonstrated that the burakumin of Takagawa, themselves victims of discrimination, understood what it meant to be excluded and for that reason welcomed those on the margins of society. The connection to Hansen’s disease was not simply historical. The youth of the Children’s Club also spoke about a trip they had taken the previous summer to a former Hansen’s disease colony. The Children’s Club also makes the connection between youth and community. It is the primary group in town dedicated to the upkeep of Sonoko Shrine. Having the Children’s Club as caretakers of the shrine serves two purposes: it highlights awareness for the children of the actions and historical openness of the buraku district, and it ensures that the children see themselves as part of the town’s history, linking past actions and present experiences. In early December, the Children’s Club takes part in the Human Rights Parade, a BLL-led parade held near the anniversary of the signing of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The parade route takes the marchers through both sides of town and down the main street. Because the timing of the parade coincides with an outdoor arts festival, a wider audience is guaranteed. The mayor, the head of the Takagawa board of education, and the head of the BLL-T lead the parade, and the students from the elementary, junior high, and high school Children’s Club all fall in line behind the leaders. This participation further reminds the children of the strength in numbers. Being burakumin was not something to hide, at least in Takagawa.

Preparing Bur akumin Children for the Future Making connections between the past and the present demonstrated to members of the Children’s Club that they were not alone; those who came before them had challenged the system of inequality. This prepared the children for their future once they left the protective cocoon of Takagawa. Showing of fi lms and discussions of the history of buraku social movements demonstrated the continuity of the buraku struggle

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over time. The leaders of the Children’s Club actively made connections to historical actions, both nationally and locally, to help the children see this interaction. Preparation for the future is central to the formation of an identity. Leaders were attempting to provide the children who attended the Children’s Club with the tools necessary to face and challenge discrimination when they encountered it in future situations, strengthening their buraku identity. The leaders consistently reinforced the when over the if in terms of facing discrimination. Implicit in the Children’s Club discussions of the past were connections to the future. Discussions of incidents of marriage discrimination were in place to explain to students that they would likely face such occurrences in their own future. When the discussions centered on movement actions, the goal was to show students that there have been challenges to the prevailing social order, demonstrating that burakumin have in the past voiced opposition to their social position— and continue to do so in the present. A clear lesson was that one should be open with one’s burakumin identity and be ready to challenge discrimination. This preparation for the future was built through trust: they will have a support network in times of crisis. By establishing this web of support through social relationships, the leaders attempted to provide youth with both warnings of future discrimination and methods of combating it when the time came. Silence only acts to reinforce discrimination and further marginalize its victims. These networks would be ready, the leaders stressed, for youth to call on at times of conflict or crisis outside the cocoon. The teaching, then, served to enhance this protective cocoon for youth while reinforcing the idea that the cocoon would, at some point, burst.

Fateful Moments: The Gr affiti Incident When the protective cocoon is pierced, it is what Giddens (1991) describes as a “fateful moment.” These are “moments at which consequential decisions have to be taken or courses of action initiated” (243). There is no one reaction or preestablished response to fateful moments. Reactions are built on past preparations and experiences created within the protective cocoon. The responses can range from retreating further into the protective cocoon to a compete rejection of the previously formed response. The reactions of the youth in the Children’s Club to a specific discrimination

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incident is one example of a fateful moment and provides an interesting example of how such incidents fit with the community’s and the BLL’s use of openness as a form of engagement. One day in early January, there was a buzz in the school that something had happened. Before classes started, many of the students who were usually quite boisterous and energetic were huddled together, whispering to one another. Periodically, voices would rise above the whispers, exclaiming, “You’re kidding!” or “That can’t be!” The homeroom teacher came in and told the room that, indeed, “something had happened,” and that more information would be given out at the Children’s Club that evening. At the Children’s Club that night, the room was filled. There were twenty-three students there, a number that represented nearly onequarter of the entire student body at Takagawa Junior High. There was not the usual chatter and play that went on before the adult leaders entered. The room was quiet as students came in and took their seats. About ten minutes past seven, Mrs. Abe Michiko came in and sat down in a chair in the front of the room. The room grew even quieter, if such a thing were possible. “In early December, an incident took place at the Win Now! pachinko parlor in town. Somebody scrawled graffiti in the men’s room that said: ‘Takagawa’s eta (hinin) pachinko parlor.’3 What do you think we, the Children’s Club, should do about this?” Mrs. Abe continued, “The whole school doesn’t know yet, only the teachers and those from the Children’s Club.” However, with the size of the school and the apparent change in behavior by the students in the Children’s Club earlier in the school day, it seemed that most students already knew of the incident when they arrived that evening. Though the town board of education found out about the graffiti on December 3, the teachers at the school were not told until December 26. After learning of the incident, the teachers felt it would be better to tell the Children’s Club students first, before explaining the incident to the whole school. The graffiti, written in pencil on the wall of the men’s room, had been there for over a month before anybody had said something to the leaders in Takagawa. After explaining this to the children of the Children’s Club, Mrs. Abe asked the children what their reactions were and what they would like to do about this. Virtually all of the students spoke of the anger they felt. One third-year girl, through tears, said, “It hurts to think that the manager must have known about this, but did nothing for a month. I wonder about

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his lack of awareness of buraku discrimination?” Th is comment was echoed by another third-year girl, barely concealing her anger, “What have we been working for all these years?” A second-year boy commented, “Discrimination used to be more open, more obvious, but now it’s more ‘invisible,’ but it still hurts!” His friend continued, “Starting a new year out with something like this makes it seem like it will never go away!” A normally quiet first-year student spoke up, her voice cracking, moving from anger to tears, “Th is is unforgivable. It’s shocking. The person who wrote it, and the manager who didn’t report it, need to think about this. Don’t they know just how painful this is for us? How much it hurts us?” As the students went around the room explaining how they felt, others were crying or looking down at the floor. There was none of the usual laughter and none of the usual whispering that goes on at Children’s Club meetings. All understood the seriousness of the situation. Junko, a Children’s Club and class leader, found her anger at both the pachinko incident and at the community itself: “Again” was my first thought when I heard about this. With Takagawa declaring itself as a “liberated” town [in reference to the sign over the community center “This is a liberated town”], if the manager didn’t say or do anything for a month, the sign itself is meaningless. The physical distance between the pachinko parlor and the school is very close, but the human rights awareness is just at the school. This distance is too far.

This incident can be seen as an early experience of a fateful moment for the children of Takagawa. It provided a living example of the message the teachers were giving to the students: the outside world is a scary, dangerous place— a place where you will face discrimination. This experience was one of many mediated experiences that offered students a reflexive awareness of the future. The youth had learned the lessons of silence and openness within the protective cocoon, but now they faced an opportunity to respond to challenges. This initial piercing of the cocoon did not carry with it the same amount of risk that facing it alone would. Youth face a fundamental decision on how to present themselves, how to respond to discrimination, and what it means to be burakumin.

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Open Space: A School-Wide Discussion of Discrimination The most effective form of learning to reject silence and challenge discrimination is, quite simply, to do it. Within the protective cocoon of Takagawa, Open Space was the central forum for youth to take their tentative first steps in openly rejecting silence and talking about discrimination and the buraku experience. Open Space is held annually on March 3, the anniversary of the creation of the Suiheisha, and is held in the school gym as a part of school activities. Whereas the Children’s Club provides one forum for youth to talk openly, Open Space goes beyond the intimate setting of the Children’s Club by including all of the other students, all the teachers, and members of the broader community, including parents and community leaders. On the day of Open Space, the first thing one notices is the large banner hung across the gym stage, reading, “Let there be warmth among people, let there be light among humanity”—the final words of the Suiheisha declaration. The students in the calligraphy club wrote the words, and the stamp of the club was clearly seen at the bottom of the banner. The seats in the gym were set up in three major blocks, in a U shape, with the first-year students on the left of the stage; the second-year students on the right of the stage; and the third-year students between them, facing the stage. Two third-year girls acted as facilitators for the event. In addition to students and teachers from the school, there were a large number of guests in the audience. Members of the town council were there, along with all the staff of the Takagawa Board of Education, some parents, and other members of the community. A number of teachers from surrounding areas, even from neighboring prefectures, were in attendance. One member of the audience stood out in importance to the students of the Children’s Club: the manager of the local pachinko parlor. The members of the Children’s Club had hoped for his attendance at Open Space after the graffiti incident, and his presence was soon known among the students, as witnessed by their whispering to each other, pointing to where he was sitting. Scheduling nothing but Open Space on that day, the school sent a symbolic message to students and teachers alike that the school took buraku issues seriously. There was little doubt about the centrality the school placed on buraku issues, through symbols and through the curriculum.

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Open Space allowed for the students from all three grade levels to respond to what they had learned and to share their views with one another and with those attending the event. Here they were practicing how to reject silence in a larger form, but still within the protective cocoon. The preparations leading up to Open Space had been going on in both school and the Children’s Club for several weeks. In class, students had been given time to think about what they wanted to discuss in Open Space, as had the members of the Children’s Club during their meetings. In addition to the extra class time given to students in the weeks leading up to the event, discussions in the Children’s Club had been referencing Open Space from the day I began my fieldwork. Open Space was of clear importance to the Children’s Club and the school. At precisely 10 a.m., Open Space began. The facilitators explained that this was a forum to speak about any issues or concerns they had. It was a chance for all to speak, students, teachers, and guests, as equals, and not to judge or be judged. After this introduction, another leader from the Children’s Club took the stage and read the Suiheisha declaration. Following the reading of the declaration, Ms.  Abe, the Takagawa Junior High teacher who also led the Children’s Club, took the microphone, though she did not climb to the stage. In fact, the stage was not used for the rest of the day. Speaking from the stage in nearly any setting highlights a separation and sense of distance between the speakers and the audience, something that was an anathema to those leading Open Space. Ms. Abe read the pillars of Open Space to the audience: Here we are, eighty years since the founding of the Suiheisha. Our mayor is in Nara as we speak, there for the celebrations. We are now faced with the ending of Dōwa laws at the end of this month. Th is change will affect Takagawa Junior High greatly. We don’t even know if the Children’s Club will continue. Think about what you’ve learned in the Kaihō classes, at the Children’s Club. The question is, “What do we want Takagawa Junior High to become?” We have Open Space once a year. This is our chance to say anything we want, so use this chance well. Say what you want. We have a number of guests who have come today to hear what you have to say.

There were crucial lessons found within the few sentences that Ms. Abe spoke to the students: voice, empowerment, and support. The messages that had long been infused into the community, the curriculum, and the

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Children’s Club were now being connected for the youth in a public forum. They were given the space to test out their newfound voices within the protective cocoon, and as such, they could find the power that can come from rejecting silence. By doing it in such an environment, the youth were also being reminded of the importance of community and support in engaging with buraku issues. The first speaker was Tetsuya, a third-year boy, arguably the most popular, “coolest” boy in school, who read a statement from the Children’s Club, outlining a number of important issues for them: (1) the Children’s Club as a place to be open, where one could say what one wanted to and be oneself; (2) the connection between the Children’s Club and school; (3) the support given to the Children’s Club from members of the community; (4) the ability to challenge and combat discrimination; and (5) the effect of the end of the law on the community. Following this statement, the facilitators opened the floor to comments after saying, “The end of the law may end the Children’s Club. Today we’ll talk about why the Children’s Club is important and what we’ve learned. Let’s hear from you. Please raise your hands.” The ending of the law was a central theme, as it was something that would affect all the students at the school, regardless of their background. Part of the final Dōwa law contained funding for additional teachers for schools that served buraku districts. The presence of additional teachers allowed for a lower student–teacher ratio, something of which all the students were aware. The students saw the ending of the law as bringing fundamental changes to the school. One third-year girl, who attended the Children’s Club, noted, “If we have fewer teachers at the school, the experiences at Takagawa Junior High will be greatly changed. Without these teachers, we wouldn’t be where we are; we wouldn’t be who we are.” In junior high schools throughout Japan, the teacher plays a very important role in the development of the child (Fukuzawa and LeTendre 2001, 70; Mansfield 2000, 18). Having additional teachers in the school helps all students—burakumin and non-burakumin, those who attend the Children’s Club and those who do not. The students were aware of the connection between funding of the Children’s Club, teachers, and the school. The allocation of funds for the Children’s Club came, in part, from the national Dōwa laws. As noted earlier, each school that serves a buraku district has one teacher who is designated as a liaison between community and school, and in

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Takagawa, Ms. Abe served in this role. In addition to her school duties, she was the leader of the Children’s Club, a role she played as both mentor and teacher. The ending of the laws, however, meant the end of national funding for this position and, thus, the connection with the Children’s Club. This issue held consistent importance for those who attended the Children’s Club. Tetsuya, the third-year boy who read the statement from the Children’s Club to begin Open Space, made an impassioned plea to the audience. Rather than facing the moderators, as other students had done, he turned to face the gathered audience. With tears rolling down his face, he addressed those in the audience: The teachers and the Children’s Club have done so much for us. They have made us stronger. The end of the law will mean the end of the Children’s Club, the end of the scholarships [for students going on to high school], the reduction in the number of teachers. There is a connection between the Children’s Club and Takagawa Junior High. We can say what is bothering us at the Children’s Club, and that helps us to do better in school. I’m still trying to understand how this [the end of the law] could happen.

The Children’s Club provided a sanctuary of security for many students, and the loss of this space also meant a loss of voice. One second-year girl commented, “For me, going to the Children’s Club, I can think about a lot of things, saying what I really feel, what I really think. The Children’s Club is the only place I can do this. If Children’s Club ends at the end of the month, I won’t be able to have a place where I can say what I feel. I don’t want it to end.” The importance of the Children’s Club was clear, even for those who did not attend with great frequency or even at all. One third-year girl from the buraku district who attended the Children’s Club while in elementary school but stopped coming once she entered junior high spoke out about what the Children’s Club meant to her: I haven’t gone to the Children’s Club since I entered junior high school. Most of us went in elementary on the way home because it was fun. In junior high school, I didn’t go at all. I had nowhere to talk about my feelings. For the first time, I had a chance to express my feelings when I went this year [she began attending in early January]. If we lose the Children’s Club, we’ll lose a great place to express our feelings [here, she began

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crying]. I can’t say this very well. When I first went [in January], I realized that people could and would listen to my views. This was the first time that this had ever happened to me.

The Children’s Club provided a secondary protective cocoon within the broader one of Takagawa for youth to be open with their feelings, their thoughts, and their experiences as burakumin. The youth were now beginning to realize the importance that social relationships would play when experiencing a world that did not provide such a safe space. Despite still being in the protective cocoon, the third-year youth were facing the fact that if they were to decide to break the silence on buraku issues, they would need to depend on the support of those from within the protective cocoon. Because students who attended the Children’s Club went to Takagawa Junior High and because the Children’s Club was led by teachers from the school, it is impossible to view the Children’s Club and school as entirely separate spheres. Ayako, a third-year girl who periodically attended the Children’s Club and who would sometimes keep her head down during the Kaihō classes, spoke about this during Open Space: “There are some who treat Children’s Club and school as separate, saying good things at the Children’s Club and acting differently at school. This is inexcusable. If the Children’s Club ends, how will people treat each other in school? It’s going to change, but for the worse.” Besides speaking of the connection between the Children’s Club and the additional teachers at Takagawa Junior High, the discussion also included charges against a number of students who, while physically in the Liberation classes, did not interact or seem to give the topic the amount of respect that others felt it deserved. Akiko, who was very active in the Children’s Club, commented: When Open Space is over, many will go back to “normal,” not doing anything, and just paying lip ser vice to burakumin discrimination. In our Liberation classes, I learned a lot, not only in terms of issues of others but also about myself. In Liberation classes, [here, she started crying] there are students who sleep, students who don’t say anything. I want them to know they shouldn’t continue like this. I know graduation is close, but I really want them to think about this. I want them to come to the Children’s Club.

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A first-year boy who periodically attended the Children’s Club echoed this sentiment, “Some here say they want to eliminate discrimination. They’re only saying that. Some students in Liberation classes sleep. There are even some now in Open Space who aren’t listening.” His comments demonstrate an early lesson, within the protective cocoon, of the silence and invisibility of how buraku issues are engaged with in the wider society. The lack of engagement of some students in classes at Takagawa Junior High School is reflective of what the youth will soon encounter beyond the protective cocoon. By exploring the changes to the community based on the upcoming ending of the Dōwa laws, Open Space demonstrated to all present— students, teachers, and audience— the interconnectivity of movement actions, school curriculum, and community perspective. Although the mayor was unable to attend (he was at an event in Nara, celebrating the creation of the Suiheisha), all members of the board of education were there, as were a number of the teachers from the elementary school. Seeing their elementary teachers present at such a time, all the students, especially the first years, were reminded of the continuity of this issue. It was not just an issue that they covered in elementary school, to be forgotten once they left that environment; it was something that should be talked about. Through Open Space, a message was sent to the students that interest in and concern about buraku issues continued over both time and space. The size of Takagawa also meant that the students present at Open Space knew most of those in the audience. These were the community leaders who were introduced on stage at the Kaihō no Matsuri and other festivals in town. These were the same leaders who attended the sports festivals at the elementary school or who were there during the cultural festival at the junior high school. As was the case with the Kaihō no Matsuri, more than just distant VIPs, the students recognized these leaders as the grandparents and parents of their friends or their neighbors in town. The presence of the community leaders further sent a message to the students that the issues being discussed at Open Space were important to all—that buraku issues mattered. Leaving school, they would still find a place in Takagawa where buraku issues were embraced by young and old, leaders and laypeople alike.

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“Safety ” of the Children ’s Club The materials that students study in the Children’s Club provide an alternative education, one that they do not receive in school, despite the openness of Takagawa Junior High. In his study of local identity in Okinawa, Allen (2002) found that localized, extracurricular education (such as the Children’s Club) provides “young people with the cultural and social skills, and familiariz[es] them with their history, their traditions” (125). He continues, “The self-esteem that such an education can foster could be of great value in coping with the pressures of both the main island, and mainland Japan” (125). Though the focus of his study is Okinawa, there are parallels with Takagawa. The tools and esteem, particularly in the lessons of voice and the support found in the Children’s Club, also provide children with the skills necessary for engaging with greater Japan. The education they receive in the Children’s Club reminds the students of their part in a number of larger communities: as a minority in Japan, as a resident in Takagawa, and as a minority within Takagawa. When the children spoke of being able to “be themselves” or to be more open among a less judgmental group, they were speaking in contrast to their school experiences. The students in the Children’s Club, over a short period of time, formed close social bonds—bonds of trust among the other children of the Children’s Club, burakumin and non-burakumin. A sense of trust is important in building an identity as a burakumin and being open with one’s background. Being surrounded by leaders whom the students looked up to, and being around others with whom they could be open, the students were strengthening their own self-awareness and sense of self as burakumin. This sense of trust with one’s friends and within one’s community is something that Matsushita (2002) often noted as well. Mana, a twenty-year-old college student Matsushita interviewed, notes, “The district is the most comfortable place for me. I feel relief with the social relations there. In a word, safe” (31). Trust is essential in these social bonds. The Children’s Club leaders were teachers from the school and the board of education. Though both parties represented the state, at the same time, these two were both burakumin and active members of the BLL. Despite being a teacher and a government employee, essentially agents of control, the teacher and the board of education employee both openly criticized the local government in their handling of the graffiti incident, thus suggesting to students that

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the identity of being burakumin trumps the identity of being a teacher or government employee. The Children’s Club, as a social space within the protective cocoon, is an essential component of how the children learn to be burakumin and where they are able to take the steps in breaking the silence surrounding buraku issues within Japan. In the end, it provides the youth with a support network within Takagawa beyond that of the community. The concern, however, is about what will happen to the youth as they move beyond the protective cocoon and face the broader social world.

Conclusion Until the youth have a social space in which they can practice various presentations of self, they have no solid understanding of how the lessons of silence and voice are reflected in action. In each community and in each school, the youth are exposed to various forms of engagement with buraku issues, but in order for these formal and informal lessons to have meaning, there has to be a space in which they are able to implement these lessons. Though they differ in form and content, both communities provide social spaces for the youth to perform these forms of engagement. Beyond events such as community festivals, community and school leaders have implemented routinized social spaces for the youth to engage with repeated per formances of these identities and approaches. It is through this repetition that the youth are exposed to and learn the consequences of silence. In Kuromatsu, the repeated silence in peer relationships and through interactions with teachers in and out of class all served to reinforce the notion that one should not be talking about buraku issues at all. The Blue Sky Study Sessions, though implemented as a portion of the Dōwa laws, reflected the silence in which the JDK, the school, and the community approached buraku issues. In these sessions, buraku issues were explicitly ignored. In short, the silence surrounding buraku issues in this social space was a silence of omission. Teachers and some students were aware of the connection, but coupled with this was a notable recognition by some students that these were issues not to be discussed; these students had learned the lessons of silence. These sessions provided academic

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review and a place where students from the buraku district would explicitly not talk about issues related to discrimination or other issues they might have to deal with as they get older. Even if there was a knowledge of buraku issues, because virtually all of their social relations render these issues invisible, it is exceedingly difficult to break this silence or mark oneself as different. Takagawa provides multiple spaces where the youth are allowed, and indeed are encouraged and expected, to be open with themselves and others as burakumin and, as such, reject the silence that many face in the broader society. The Children’s Club provides one such routinized source, but beyond interacting directly with the same group of peers, Open Space is an additional space in which the youth can expand their voice with others. In all of these locations, the youth are consistently being exposed to a social environment that rejects silence while also being encouraged to be open with their identity as burakumin. By establishing a sense of trust in one’s social interactions, the leaders of the Children’s Club have created an environment in which the children are comfortable interacting with one another and presenting themselves as burakumin. In essence, this trust is the foundation of the protective cocoon. As they discover more about buraku history and learn that they are able to open up to each other and trust one another, the sense of security and sense of self as burakumin is strengthened, which, in turn, creates an environment in which the youth will be less likely to embrace silence. Social spaces are a key component of the protective cocoon, but they are not permanent spaces. The protective cocoon is, as Giddens (1991) notes, a specific time and space, and it can be treated with a sense of unreality (40). In both communities, the youth will soon begin to interact with others outside the protective cocoon and find a new set of social relations that will challenge the ways in which they have both thought about and presented themselves up to this point. The next chapter examines how the youth respond to life outside the protective cocoon.

Chapter 6 Beyond the Cocoon Passing on to the Next Stage “Silence is sometimes the answer.” —Estonian proverb “When the music changes, so does the dance.” —Nigerian proverb

p to this point, I have described the manner in which youth learn various forms of approaches to their buraku identity: silence in Kuromatsu and openness in Takagawa. In both communities, these lessons play out within a protective cocoon that, by definition, minimizes risk and limits exposure to the outside. The youth are learning to approach buraku issues in settings that, while real, may not reflect the reality they will face in the broader society. Just as the cocoon must be burst in order for the butterfly to emerge, the protective cocoon that embraces the youth in Kuromatsu and Takagawa must, ultimately, burst as well. The youth have been shaped by their experiences within the cocoon, but as this chapter demonstrates, numerous changes, inside the cocoon and out, individual and political, shape the silence and stigma surrounding buraku issues. As the youth move through high school and beyond, they encounter a social milieu that requires them to reevaluate the lessons learned in the cocoon in order to make the transition to life beyond. Further, as we shall see, the protective cocoon itself undergoes changes that are more about macro-level changes in Japan that end up placing buraku issues in an adverse position. The protective cocoon is a multilayered social and structural space that is connected with specific places and institutions, but it is also a sense of personal protection, albeit one that is shaped by the social settings in

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which one lives. The broader social forces related to buraku issues in Japan, from silence to open engagement and variations between, shape how a personal protective cocoon is established and maintained. As I will show, this move beyond the initial protective cocoon requires the youth to consider their social settings, the relationships therein, and ultimately who they are, as they reflexively grapple with how to present themselves in the broader social world. Each interaction can be considered a potential “fateful moment” (Giddens 1991, 114), at which the youth are faced with decisions as to how to present themselves to others: to share or not to share, and if so, under what conditions? In the various stages the youth encounter, from high school to early adulthood, they confront situations in which they make conscious decisions about how to present themselves—whether to share or not to share their backgrounds; whether to share part of their background with some but not with others. All of these are fundamental questions surrounding how to bracket part of one’s self, stigmatized or not. The bracketing of one’s background is a common social practice (Brekhus 2003). Through bracketing their buraku backgrounds, the youth from both communities present themselves in a manner that reproduces silence in both expected and unexpected ways. As we shall see, despite the dramatically different approaches taken in Kuromatsu and Takagawa, the outcome of how the youth present themselves is remarkably similar. In the end, silence, embraced in Kuromatsu and rejected in Takagawa, is reproduced by youth from both communities. The reproduction of silence should not, however, be considered as a fait accompli. It comes out of decisions actively made by individuals based on their understanding of their social environment. Let us now consider how one’s social environment shapes the process of bracketing and the decision one makes in how to present one’s identity.

The First Steps beyond the Cocoon: The Move to High School The move to high school brings much change to the youth of Japan. Until this point, most public school students attend the schools nearest their

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homes. The third year of junior high school marks the beginning of formal differentiation among students, based on the high school where they take entrance exams. This period, sometimes described as “exam hell,” is fraught with uncertainty and intense pressure on students. The high school a student attends will greatly affect one’s future choices, from the type of college one attends, if at all, to the type of work he or she will end up doing, to where the student may end up living. These are tremendous burdens to place on the shoulders of a fifteen-year-old child (Fukuzawa and LaTendre 2001). Th is move also presents a new and impor tant opportunity for the youth to engage with being burakumin. It is precisely this transition that Yamashita (2004) is concerned with when passing becomes a viable method for those who do not want to share their background. As he rightly notes, “Once children graduate from junior high school and spread out to various high schools, they will become a minority in their new school, making it harder for them to talk about their background. This is when people will start passing and hiding” (128). There are ways in which they can avoid this engagement. For the youth of both Kuromatsu and Takagawa, the possibility of remaining silent under certain conditions—of not sharing one’s background—is one available method for engaging with the majority society. The youth remain aware that their experiences prior to high school must be reassessed and reframed to meet the new relationships in the new social setting, outside the initial protective cocoon. Marking oneself as different takes tremendous courage, something high school students anywhere are loath to do. While in junior high school, the youth from Takagawa learned that they should share their buraku background with others, but now that they are outside the cocoon, they gain awareness that this sharing brings with it a degree of risk. At this stage, the youth must decide how to present themselves: burakumin or not, different from their new classmates or “just like them.” Masking some part of one’s experience, however defined, is a common part of high school life. Indeed, there is a code of silence prominent in schools, particularly among peer groups with a tremendous price to pay for violating that code, regardless of the source or reason for the silence (Syvertsen, Flanagan, and Stout 2009, 228–30). Youth are more likely to break the silence if they feel that they hold a degree of security and trust with others. Yet once broken, it is impossible to return to the previous silence.

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Although some may try, the knowledge of what was shared will reshape the social relations within any context. For the youth of Kuromatsu and Takagawa, the deflecting of any stigma away from oneself, making oneself seem the same as everyone else, is a common teenage concern arising from not wanting to appear different in any way. Difference can come in a host of ways, but the “invisibility” of burakumin and the ability to keep silent about one’s background can provide a degree of security and help perpetuate the protective cocoon. How, then, do the youth of Kuromatsu and Takagawa engage with their backgrounds in these new social settings? In the following section, we will see that the foundations laid within the respective protective cocoons have shaped the response that the youth have to fateful moments when they assess how to present themselves to the outside world.

Beyond Hinode Junior High School Socialization that highlights the legitimacy of silence is carried well beyond the protective cocoon and provides a schema for the youth to understand their experiences. The youth from Kuromatsu have learned in both school and community that there is nothing about buraku issues that warrants open discussion. Using silence as the approach, community leaders and teachers shared the message that there was nothing special about buraku issues above any other marginalized group. That is, buraku issues should not be treated as anything special or out of the ordinary. Having been socialized and trained in such a social setting, in essence to not talk about buraku issues, the youth of Kuromatsu reacted to life beyond the protective cocoon in a different way than did the youth of Takagawa. The size of Kuromatsu plays an impor tant role in shaping what it means to move beyond the protective cocoon. In the city of Kuromatsu, the largest city in the region, there were four junior high schools; and within Kuromatsu and the surrounding area, there were six high schools. The levels of the high schools ranged from a high-level academic school, where nearly all the students go on to college, to an agricultural high school, where few, if any, students continue on to college. Thus, the students from Hinode Junior High School have a number of options within

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their own city. As discussed earlier, Hinode has a reputation as being a rough school, and not only did students from other junior high schools in Kuromatsu know Hinode, but they also knew of its reputation. It was the stigma of this reputation that came up frequently when meeting new classmates, regardless of the high school the Hinode graduate attended. In the first steps beyond the cocoon, the youth from Kuromatsu are confronted with a coded label of violence. They must face and respond to events that reflect on these views in ways that normalize their experiences and place the stigma on “the other” and never the self. Doing so acts to separate their own experiences from those of others and thus render themselves as “normal” to those in their new social setting. The stigma of Hinode had to be managed by graduates to make them appear as “normal” as possible to their new classmates. When the Hinode graduates gave self-introductions at their new high schools and mentioned what junior high school they had graduated from, the reactions were the same. The students who had come from other schools all had a sense of Hinode as being “scary” or “violent.” As one Hinode graduate who attends a lower-level academic high school in the neighboring city commented, “When I gave my introduction, the moment I told them I was from Hinode, everyone looked up, and some said, ‘Hinode? Isn’t that a rough school?’ I told them they were wrong, it’s a peaceful school.” All but one of the Hinode graduates I interviewed spoke of reactions such as this from their new classmates. The one Hinode graduate who said that none of her new classmates had any idea as to the reputation of the school was attending high school in a neighboring prefecture and thus her classmates had no knowledge of the school or its reputation. This fact, despite her isolation from friends from home, ironically made the transition easier for her; she did not have to respond to the stigma of Hinode. The Hinode graduates also mentioned that their new classmates seemed surprised that they (the Hinode graduates in the class) seemed like regular students who were neither scary nor violent. A girl who attends an upper-level high school in Kuromatsu told her new classmates, “It’s just a normal school!” Another noted, “I told them the school was just like any other, full of ‘regular’ students.” It was clear that the other high school students, those who had come from schools other than Hinode, had a specific impression of what a Hinode graduate was supposed to be like and what went on in Hinode Junior High School, and these youth did not fit that image. The impression of what a Hinode graduate

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would be like was something that the students had to combat actively. The Hinode graduates explained that they tried to tell their new classmates that Hinode was, in fact, a “typical” school, as one student described it. The students from Hinode recognized that there was a well-known history of violence in the school and that it had a reputation of having rough students, but struggled to find an explanation beyond connecting it to an unsubstantiated past. One girl commented, “Hinode has a reputation of violence from a long time back. The impression just continued, even though it’s not really violent.” Some of the Hinode students themselves spoke of being ner vous and scared of other Hinode students when they first started attending Hinode. Another girl noted, “At first I thought it was a little scary, but I got used to it. I don’t think it’s scary at all.” The uniformity of the reactions from other students suggests that the reputation of Hinode is widespread, even among Hinode graduates themselves. None of the Hinode graduates commented on being surprised at the reactions of their new classmates to Hinode. Yet when I asked the Hinode graduates why the school seemed to have that reputation, the answers the students gave suggested a sense of conflict. The Hinode graduates said that although there were some violent or delinquent students there, they could come up with no reason as to why Hinode continued to have this widespread reputation. One student commented, “Hinode just has that image, that’s all. It’s just a regular school.” Arima Yukari, the former student from Hinode and now a high school teacher in the area, explained that the reputation of Hinode was a long-standing one.1 As an adult, reflecting back on the reason for Hinode having this reputation, she echoed the comments of some of the students, but added one additional factor that none of the students mentioned, “Hinode is the only junior high school in Kuromatsu that serves a buraku district, and there are still those who have discriminatory views on this.” Not one of the students brought this up as a possible reason for the outside views on Hinode Junior High. Rather than openly referring to Hinode as a buraku school, it is considered a violent school. Marking Hinode with metonymic devices such as “violent” or “scary” without engaging with the underlying foundations prevents further discussion or a deeper understanding of what these terms represent. The students from Hinode in Kuromatsu, when confronted with the new experiences of moving to high school beyond the protective cocoon Hinode provided, found themselves unable, or unwilling, to express why

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Hinode had the reputation it did or how to engage their new classmates on this topic other than to say the school was not that bad. It is impossible to say what specific reason the students had for considering Hinode a dangerous place, but as there is knowledge within the adult community that Hinode serves a buraku district, and as chapter 4 showed, at least some of the Hinode students were aware of this connection. Because silence was the approach taken in Kuromatsu and at Hinode, as they moved beyond the protective cocoon, the youth were not socialized to recognize and make a connection between the reputation of Hinode and the fact that it serves a buraku district. Even outside the school, this silence was maintained. Although I was not able to interact with parents of the burakumin students from Hinode directly, I was able to speak with some parents with buraku backgrounds in the Kuromatsu area. These parents maintained the same approach as the Jiyū Dōwa Kai ( JDK) urges: silence. For some families, silence was an approach taken for the sake of the children, and as such, it was temporary, lasting as long as the children were young. For others, silence remained an ongoing form of engagement. One adult informant has yet to tell his two adult children of their background. Indeed, whenever his children would ask me about my research, before I could answer, he would cut me off and tell them that I was studying junior high school students and would then steer the conversation to another direction. In another family I spoke with, their oldest child was told of her background when she turned eighteen. They still had not told her younger brother of this, as “this is not something he needs to know until he is an adult.” Using silence as the method to engage buraku issues allowed the youth to shift attention away from underlying views of Hinode as scary being based on the fact that it serves a buraku district. Indeed, focusing on violence as the primary reputation of Hinode allowed for continued silence surrounding buraku issues. Having been socialized with silence as the form of engagement with buraku issues, the students acted as one would expect: they did not consider the reputation of Hinode as being anything more than a reputation of violence. Because the reputation of Hinode did not match the individual experiences of the students there, they were able to deal with that issue alone and explain it away. Once they denied the violence and demonstrated to their new classmates that they were not violent, this became a nonissue. In this sense, silence worked

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to move beyond any potential discussion of buraku issues, and in so doing, the youth reframed the issue. Silence on buraku issues was clearly a success in insulating the youth from directly engaging with buraku issues, though it did not remove them from having to engage with issues of stigma.

Beyond Takagawa Junior High School The protective cocoon Takagawa provided beyond the junior high school was small. All the students had to leave the community in order to attend high school. The closest was a mid-level academic school that sat just over the border of Takagawa, and the next closest was a highlevel academic school, a twenty- to thirty-minute bike ride away (some students apparently made the trip much faster than others). The commercial schools— agricultural and trade schools—that the graduates of Takagawa Junior High School attended were in the capital city, twenty kilometers from Takagawa. For students attending these schools, commuting time was thirty to forty-five minutes at minimum, and they used a combination of bikes, buses, and trains. This was also the case for the highest-level academic school, which was over an hour away from Takagawa. Without a receptive, knowing community, the sharing of one’s background presents a considerable challenge. Despite having been socialized to be open and proud of being burakumin, the youth from Takagawa have learned what the outcome of sharing might mean. They are aware of the potential outcome of exposing oneself and one’s background, or of being exposed by others. What might be simple comments from strangers or new friends could elicit feelings of anxiety and confusion. Questions as mundane as Where are you from? or Where did you go to school? are not as simple as they might first appear, for each time someone asks such a question, there is an awareness and internal anxiety as to how the person might respond upon hearing the answer. In their move to high school, students from Takagawa Junior High may have been facing questions such as this for the first time. Because the students are aware of the possible negative consequences of their answers, they have the power to either explain their background

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or not. Moments such as this, explaining one’s background, are inherently filled with anxiety, as Keiko’s comment so aptly demonstrates: One time when I was talking with some friends from high school, the conversation turned to scholarships. It used to be that scholarships were just for burakumin [this was one of the parts of the Dōwa law that Takagawa unilaterally continued after the expiration of the final Dōwa law], and I said that I had a scholarship to attend high school. My friends looked at me with an, “Oh?” expression on their faces. It was the chance for me to tell them I am burakumin, but I just couldn’t. The pain, the hurt inside me, was so terrible that I couldn’t tell them. I just wanted to say “I am burakumin,” but I just couldn’t do it.

Keiko did not attend the junior high Children’s Club, but began to attend once she moved to high school. Though she had some preparations for the future because of her schooling experience in Takagawa, she did not have the full complement of tools that the youth who had participated in the Children’s Club throughout junior high school had. As they move on to high school, the youth from Takagawa, for the first time, directly experience the silence prevalent in much of Japanese society. Teachers in Takagawa repeatedly told the students that their experiences were unique. The high schools that they were to attend would not engage with buraku issues at the level of their own experience or knowledge, if they were to discuss them at all. Indeed, all of the Takagawa youth I interviewed noted that this was the case: none of their new classmates had anywhere near the same level of awareness of buraku issues, and because of this, they were reluctant to share their background. These youth, in essence, had to face this new social situation without the strength of others with them. As Tetsuya, the popular boy who was active in the Children’s Club, described, pausing to weigh his words, “In junior high, we learned how to have the strength to challenge discrimination in high school and beyond . . . but now . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t really have that strength.” Echoing this was Junko, who was an active leader in the Children’s Club in junior high school, who noted, “When we talk about human rights issues in high school, it’s almost always about issues of gender and disabilities. Stuff about burakumin never comes up.” Miyuki, a girl who did not attend the Children’s Club in junior high school and attended a

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high-level academic high school, said, “We do talk a bit about buraku issues in high school, but nothing in comparison to what we learned in Takagawa.” The sense of insecurity that shapes the interactions beyond the cocoon reminds the youth of the security found within. Not only are the students from Takagawa facing schools and schoolmates who do not engage with buraku issues at the level of their experiences, but many of the students are engaging these fateful moments alone. The Takagawa students all spoke of returning to their junior high school friends when confronted with times of trouble or conflict surrounding buraku issues at their new school. The connection to the protective cocoon remains, even after they have moved on to a new social setting. Mana, a twenty-yearold from Matsushita’s (2002) study, commented, “The district is the most important place for me. I can feel a sense of security with the social relations there. In a word, ‘safety’ ” (31). The students are very much aware of the impact of the new social setting and how that affects their interactions as burakumin. These new interactions shape the process by which they compartmentalize their experiences between those whom they trust and those they do not. Michiko, a quiet girl who was active in the Children’s Club, talked about this: “I can only talk about buraku issues with my friends from Takagawa Junior High School. I don’t feel like I’m close enough to my high school friends.” These sentiments were echoed by Yūji, a boy who periodically attended the Children’s Club while in junior high school. He said, “In junior high school, I could talk about anything with my friends, but now in high school, there are a lot of things I can’t talk about. Now when I go to the high school Children’s Club, I can talk with my friends about how they deal with this at their school.” The opening up and sharing of one’s background is fundamentally about trust and its connection to security. In his study of gay men passing as heterosexuals, Berger (1992) found that passing occurs when support is missing (94). The youth from Takagawa are not yet comfortable or satisfied with their high school support networks and thus make the proactive decision not to share their background, to remain silent about their buraku background. For that reason, they are far more comfortable in returning to the social support at home, in Takagawa, with which they are comfortable. These choices about sharing or passing are based on decisions regarding whom they share parts of their background with. This

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bracketing of their multiple identities is a common social process (Brekhus 1996), one that rests on active rather than passive decisions. In essence, they are selectively silent. The bracketing of an identity is a learned behavior, in part from observing how others respond to fateful moments. This is not just the case for the youth; adults from Takagawa also undergo this tension each time they face a fateful moment. I observed a number of adults from Takagawa shifting how they presented themselves while outside the community. On one occasion, at a restaurant in a nearby large city that I often went to with the Takagi family, I watched Takagi Machiko—the wife of Takagi Yoshihiro, my primary contact—make a marked shift in how she presented herself. The family was well known at the restaurant, and the manager would often come over and say hello. The manager, having seen me there on a number of occasions, asked if I was doing a home stay with them. Mrs. Takagi told her that I was not a home stay, rather that I was conducting research. The next question from the manager, directed at me, was, not surprisingly, “Oh? What are you researching?” and before I could answer, Mrs. Takagi responded, “It’s a secret.” This interaction was being intently followed by the Takagi’s late-elementary-aged son, who was clearly learning what should and shouldn’t be spoken about in specific contexts. When I was out on another occasion with Mr. Takagi, he introduced me as a researcher, not explaining what the topic of my research was. I asked him what he thought would be the best way of presenting my research topic. He said that perhaps it would be best to say that I was studying “ human rights education” in Takagawa. For those who knew Takagawa, this was a euphemism for buraku issues; for those who did not know Takagawa, it did not have the same symbolic baggage as saying I was studying buraku issues and thus protected Mr. Takagi from having to repeatedly discuss his background. Although this is an example from just one family, the Takagi family’s position within the community and movement suggest that they would be among the least likely to make this dramatic shift when outside the community. If they were bracketing out their buraku identity outside the protective cocoon, there is little reason to think that other adults are not exhibiting a similar pattern of bracketing their buraku identity. This shift, however, runs counter to what the youth in Takagawa are taught. They are taught to be open with their background, yet they see the actions of their parents and learn the lessons of bracketing and passing

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firsthand. They have been taught in school that they will face discrimination outside their protective cocoon, but seeing how their parents mask this background while interacting with members of the majority society, the youth learn that there are alternatives to sharing their background. By passing, they learn that no one will immediately know their background, and they will be able to put off openly dealing with discrimination until they are ready or they consider the timing appropriate. How we present ourselves is based on a series of active decisions, with an objective awareness of how others will respond (Goffman 1959). The decisions people from Takagawa are making by bracketing various parts of their identity are done with an awareness of what it means to be burakumin in broader Japa nese society. These are not decisions forced on them, nor is the bracketing of one’s buraku identity done based on an internalization of stigma. These are proactive decisions that are dependent on the definition of a situation and an understanding of the level of trust between the self and others. Although some students attempt to prolong their time in the protective cocoon as an individual, psychological space, others take the opportunity to break free on their own terms. This opening of oneself— coming out—is not a decision that is reached lightly. Once open, there is no turning back, at least within that specific social location. Other opportunities will arise for further reinvention of how to present themselves as they move on to other life stages, but as long as they remain in the same social setting, they will be labeled. As such, a sense of deep trust in the person or persons to whom one is opening oneself up is necessary. The awareness of who one is, the reflexively constructed self-identity, will undergo a dramatic shift at such moments. By introducing a new element, one must then interact through this reorganized identity. However, for some, this was worth the risk. Junko’s case provides an alternative example of engaging in such a fateful moment. Junko was a class leader, both in school and in the Children’s Club. Students throughout the school turned to her for advice and always listened to her when she spoke. On occasion, she would take charge of the Children’s Club meetings, chiding those she felt were not doing enough or were not serious enough in dealing with buraku issues. She was one of the emcees for the Open Space, and had a long family history of involvement in the local BLL branch, from her parents through her older siblings. When she went to high school, she chose a school nearly an hour

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train ride away that was well known for its English language program. Because her school was so far away, none of her new classmates seemed to have any idea where Takagawa was, let alone its connection to buraku issues. Just as Junko initially chose to bracket her buraku identity as she moved on to high school, she ultimately chose to open up about it. It is important to stress that both were active, not passive, decisions. With her background, her role in the movement, and the engagement her family had with buraku issues, Junko was one of those most likely, if not the most likely, to openly maintain and interact through her buraku identity. Yet Junko refrained from using this buraku identity with her new friends. Despite having numerous new friends at school, as well as a boyfriend, she did not share her buraku background with anyone. At the same time, she did not feel comfortable, in her words, “hiding” her background either. It was not until ten months after she began dating her boyfriend that she decided to tell him about her background. She was fi lled with anxiety about telling him. She had spoken at length with her parents; Ms. Abe Michiko, the Children’s Club leader; and her friends from Takagawa, and they all encouraged her to do what she felt comfortable with. Th is was ultimately Junko’s decision, as she would have to live with the outcome. She did not know how he would react. Would this be the end of their relationship? This was a possibility, as she had been warned in her classes in junior high school that such sharing might lead to a breakup. Junko said that although she did not want that at all, she did not want to go on with such a big part of herself hidden from the one she cared about. She explained to me that the anxiety was almost overwhelming in knowing that sharing a part of who she was could mean that her boyfriend might leave her. At the same time, she did not feel that she could continue on with him without telling him about all of herself. She made her decision. She told him that she grew up in a buraku district, that she was burakumin. His reaction to this confession was one of the last things that Junko expected: “Burakumin? What’s that?” Though he was from the same prefecture, her boyfriend did not have any idea what this meant. She found herself explaining what it meant for her to be burakumin. For him, this meant little in how they related to each other. He did not fully know what being burakumin meant, but he knew that he wanted to be with her.

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The response of Junko’s boyfriend is telling, for it demonstrates the way in which silence also produces people like him. Though he was from the same prefecture, his educational and socialization experiences were vastly different. His experiences seemed to be much closer to that of the students from Kuromatsu. Buraku issues, if talked about at all, centered on historical events. For him not even to know of buraku issues does not suggest that he was not smart or showed no interest. Simply put, he was a product of a school system and a society that had put little, if any, effort into engaging buraku issues.

Entering the Adult World The development of an identity is an ongoing, reflexive project, one that shapes how we present ourselves based on several factors: past experiences, present understanding of what is happening around us, and expectations for future interactions. In order to have a more complete understanding of how the youth interact with their buraku identity, we should consider experiences beyond high school and examine the decisions they make about sharing their background as they move into adulthood. Many of the youth, out of economic necessity, have to leave their hometown or home district in order to find work. Doing so expands their interactions, yet it also takes them farther away from their original protective cocoon. Decisions to share one’s background remain constrained, in large part by a broader social environment that encourages silence, but the youth do not continue silence simply because it tends to be the approach taken by the broader society; the youth are not some kind of “cultural dopes” (Garfinkel [1967] 2003) who do not have a sense of agency or the ability to consider their own approaches to social issues. Rather, the youth continue to make decisions on sharing their background based on their understanding of their relationships and the social setting in which they are embedded. Beyond the protective cocoon, the youth now have more experiences and thus more to draw on in understanding the process and outcome of bracketing. As their experiences expand as they move into adulthood, the youth are able to approach the bracketing of their experiences and themselves with a greater degree of sophistication and nuance. That said, the youth

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from both communities continue to face a decision with every interaction outside the protective cocoon: should they share, and if so, how much? In short, they must decide how to manage their identity with every new social interaction. Deciding to share or to pass becomes part of a social process of managing stigma in a broader society that does not embrace their minority status. Finally, owing to their increasingly diverse experiences, the youth are able to reflect on the approaches to buraku issues found in their respective communities and make decisions that combine their past socialization with present interactions.

Sustained Silence in Adulthood Silence beyond the protective cocoon continued for the youth from Kuromatsu, but it was framed in a way that highlights a continued bracketing out of buraku identities. Silence on buraku issues was not viewed as resulting from the approach of the JDK but owing to the general sensitivity of the issue in the broader society. When asking one female graduate of Hinode Junior High School, who is now an employee of the Kuromatsu city government, to reflect on buraku issues from her school days, she noted, “I guess we didn’t learn about it [buraku issues] because it wasn’t part of our experiences. I mean, it’s hard to explain that kind of thing to children, isn’t it?” As this comment demonstrates, she was aware of the issue but considered it to be an adult concern, highlighting the value of silence as a tool of socialization. The combination of silence and metonymy worked to mask buraku issues, even in settings where they could have been openly discussed. One youth from Kuromatsu went to college in Osaka, a prefecture with a sizable buraku population (Noguchi et al. 1998, 21), and did work on issues of marginalized populations there, specifically homeless men. Nonetheless, she remained unaware of buraku issues, or at least unwilling to openly discuss them. This was despite the fact that the research was conducted in a ward in Osaka that has a fairly large buraku population. When I pressed for more details about her research and its potential connection to buraku concerns, she responded with a puzzled look and said that her professor did not mention anything about the burakumin, but he did say to be careful not to do the research alone, not to go there at night, and

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other warnings based on the target population. Although these may have been real security concerns for a young college student, they also fit with the ways in which buraku issues have been discussed in Kuromatsu and other parts of the country as well. The “fear” factor connected with the burakumin her professor talked about fit with her past experiences within the protective cocoon. As such, it was not a dramatic shift in how she understood the issues; she found a match with her past experiences. The silence found in society constrains how some burakumin youth from Kuromatsu bracket their identity. Being raised in a society that masks buraku issues means that even if youth wanted to be open about their buraku background, they would find it a considerable challenge. Th is is the case for youth anywhere, but for those from Kuromatsu, without the tools necessary to prepare for such interactions, it becomes considerably more difficult. Another young woman from Kuromatsu commented, “Because buraku issues aren’t talked about in everyday society, there really isn’t a way to talk about it.” The youth are cognizant of the approach of the broader society and make decisions based on this understanding, coupled with their experiences. It is this type of connection that replicates the approach of the broader society and thus reproduces silence. Some refuse to be defined through a simplistic binary of burakumin– non-burakumin, preferring to be defined as a host of categories making up a whole person. Doing this provides a forum for the youth to proactively place their buraku identity as one component of themselves, rather than an essentializing characteristic of who they are. Framing their buraku background in such a way allows the youth to resist being defined by a stigmatizing identity. It also has the unintended consequence of rendering hidden one part of their identity, though this is not based on a desire to hide from who they are, simply not to be defined by that one characteristic. As such, this bracketing empowers them, while also rendering the buraku part of their identity invisible. The words from Midori, who now lives approximately one hour from Kuromatsu, illuminate this point: “I feel like I have multiple selves, not just one. I’m not just a mother or just a worker, but these are all parts of who makes up ‘Midori’ as a person. It’s the same thing with being burakumin; it’s part of who I am, but not the only thing.” The bracketing of her buraku background renders that part of her identity silent and, as such, replicates and reinforces the silence found in the broader society.

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Unexpectedly Silent Despite the differences in approaches to silencing buraku issues between Kuromatsu and Takagawa, the outcomes for the youth as they move into adulthood are surprisingly similar. For most of the youth, being burakumin is part of who they are, not the defining characteristic. As such, most commented that in their day-to-day lives, buraku issues are rarely at the center of their experiences. They spend their days working, interacting with others, and sharing relationships where buraku issues are simply nonissues. What marks the outcomes for the youth from Takagawa as different from those for the youth from Kuromatsu is that the Takagawa youth remain far more aware of discrimination and thus remain aware of the disconnect between how they were socialized and how they present themselves now. The lessons the youth took from Takagawa Junior High School require a more complex evaluation than being considered a simple success or failure: discrimination was challenged, but buraku identity was bracketed. The anti-discrimination education that the youth experienced in Takagawa shaped how they present their identity and how they approach issues of discrimination. Junko highlighted this when she explained the role buraku issues and her background play in her daily life: “If something comes up where another person says something discriminatory, I’m not afraid to call the person out and tell them my background. It is about making people realize that discrimination is wrong.” Even with her willingness to share her background when the situation calls for it, she also considers sharing her background to not always be a necessary step. She continued, “Still, I’m not going to go around telling everyone my background, especially when it doesn’t matter, but I’m not about to let discrimination go unchallenged.” The socialization the youth from Takagawa experienced shaped their social experiences far beyond the protective cocoon, though not always for the best. The impact of teaching the children to challenge discrimination wherever and whenever they encountered it meant that the youth were socialized to see the world as an unfriendly, even scary place. The words of their teachers from junior high school, warning them that they will face discrimination outside of the protective cocoon, stayed with them long after they left Takagawa. The outcome was that it was difficult for them to feel comfortable with others outside the protective cocoon. Yōko’s experience in college highlights this tension:

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When I went to college I was able to interact with more people than ever before. There were times when some of the people I was meeting were rude, or said some mean things to me. I kept thinking, “They’re like this because I’m burakumin. They’re discriminating against me.” It took me a long time to realize that there are just jerks in this world. Those people [who were rude to her] had no idea that I am burakumin; they were just idiots.

Understandably, Yōko used her lessons from Takagawa Junior High School as a filter to understand her new experiences. She continued, Because of the education I had, I felt like any little bad thing that happened to me was because of my background. It took me a long time to get close to people, and it was really hard to get over that. I understand why the school taught us the way they did, but I feel like it made it harder for me.

For Yōko, then, her socialization in the protective cocoon acted to create a barrier between her and others. Preparations for future discrimination can have a negative outcome for some minorities, depending on the manner in which they are prepared for the potential discrimination they will encounter as they grow older. In their study of racial socialization and awareness of discrimination among African Americans, Harris-Britt, Valrie, and Kurtz-Costes (2007) found that continued explanations about discrimination that youth will face can lead to lower self-esteem: Messages that signal to youth that they will consistently and persistently face prejudice and discrimination because of their race (a personal and internal factor), regardless of their own effort, may be maladaptive. Thus, an overemphasis on bias—that is, . . . frequent reminders of racial barriers— may lead adolescents to feel helpless and lacking control over their environment and consequently result in lower self-esteem. (679)

Although this research focused on African American youth, as Yōko’s comments indicate, there are clearly parallels with the burakumin experience. Though the youth from Takagawa were socialized to highlight pride and openness in being burakumin, the message of risk outside the protective cocoon that Takagawa provided takes on more credence for some. The concern over risk is real, and as the youth move into adulthood, with

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the deeper relationships that occur therein, the risk becomes magnified. Sachie struggled in junior high school and intentionally picked a high school where she would be the only one from Takagawa, and no one would know her or her background. Beyond high school, this symbolic break from her past continued. Much like others from Takagawa and Kuromatsu, she does not explicitly hide her background but simply views it as one part of who she is, something that does not need constant reference. Despite not “hiding” her background, she has not yet shared her background with her boyfriend, whom she was preparing to move in with and planning on marrying. In explaining why she had not shared, her answer highlighted the conundrum between pride and risk: “I feel like it [my being burakumin] is one part of me. I’m not trying to hide it; it just doesn’t play a big part in who I am. Still, I’m kind of scared about telling him. I can’t help wonder about what he’ll think, what he’ll do.” The tension between her knowledge of her background and the risk involved with sharing speaks to the delicacy of managing stigma and being burakumin.

Institutional Changes Individuals change how they present themselves based on the social milieu in which they are embedded. The social environments of Kuromatsu and Takagawa themselves also changed in profound and lasting ways. These changes— some of which centered specifically on buraku issues, whereas others did not— shaped how buraku concerns were addressed in each setting. The shifts occurred politically, demographically, and legally, and left a lasting effect on the environment into which the youth returned. In both settings, buraku issues were marginalized. As the protective cocoon further silenced buraku issues, the youth were presented with the message that silence really was an appropriate approach. Individual decisions to share their background as burakumin are only one aspect of how buraku concerns are engaged. Other social and political factors, while nominally unrelated to buraku issues, also act to reinforce silence. Three broad changes shape how buraku issues are referenced in each community: (1) the national policy of consolidation of cities, towns, and villages ( gappei); (2) demographic changes being addressed in

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Japan, including the rapidly aging population and the declining birth rate; and (3) legal policies, including the termination of the Dōwa laws. Though the first two factors clearly do not have buraku issues as core components, all three had the result of marginalizing buraku experiences. The rest of this chapter examines some of the effects of these changes in how they impact the approaches taken in each community toward buraku issues. The changes in Takagawa were much more dramatic than those in Kuromatsu, owing to the relative silence found there. Kuromatsu saw very little change in terms of how buraku issues were rendered silent, whereas Takagawa faced many changes and challenges in the manner in which buraku issues could be and were discussed. Although some of the youth had physically left, they all maintained a connection to their home community and to the protective cocoon in which they had grown up. As such, these changes reinforced the way in which they saw buraku issues both inside their community and beyond. Policies need not be designed explicitly to address minority issues to have a disproportionate impact on such populations. This is true for longstanding policies, such as those surrounding Japan’s family registry system (koseki). Chapman and Krogness’s (2014) insightful work on the way in which this places women, children, and minorities at a distinct disadvantage highlights this quite nicely. For example, the family registry system requires that only one family name be listed in the registry. Although the Japanese government does not explicitly require that this be the name of the male in the household, the patterns of employment and marriage make it such that the de facto listing of names is virtually always the husband’s name. Further, children born out of wedlock are listed differently than those born within a marriage, even if both parents are the same. Although the state did not explicitly set out to emphasize these differences, this has clearly been the outcome.

Municipal Consolidation Political boundaries, both literally and symbolically, are not fixed lines. Nowhere is that more apparent than in the changes that occurred in Japan between 1995 and 2005, when numerous cities, towns, and villages undertook governmentally sponsored mergers. These changes occurred throughout Japan and were done with the rationale of streamlining economic costs borne by governments, consolidating welfare programs

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owing to demographic changes, and providing greater autonomy to local communities (Prime Minister’s Report; Rausch 2006, 138–39). Local communities were offered incentives to join with other communities in the form of funding allocated from the national government, including tax rebates. As a result, it was in the financial interest of many communities to participate in such mergers, and a vast number of them did so. The number of cities, towns, and villages as of April 1, 2012, stood at 1,719, down from 3,232 on March 31, 1999 (Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications 2012). As Japan was entering its second decade of economic malaise, such funding came at an opportune time for many communities. Allocations from the national government could be used to increase local ser vices, which were growing as a result of the demographic changes in Japan. Japan is facing a ticking demographic time bomb, one that has lasting social and political impact: an aging population and a declining birth rate. As of October 2011 (the most recently available data), the total population of Japan was 127,799,000, with roughly 23 percent of the population defi ned as elderly (over sixty-five), and only 13  percent of the population under fifteen (Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications, Statistics Bureau 2012). By 2025, the national population is expected to decrease to 119,270,000, a decrease in population by over 8 million people, roughly the equivalent to the population of New York City. With an increasing demand on government ser vices and aid, the rapidly aging population will necessarily deflect other ways that government resources, including financial support, could be distributed. As Schoppa (2006) has poignantly illustrated, this connection between government spending and demographic changes is a tightening noose (206). Highlighting these challenges, he notes that the “the fiscal and demographic crises are interactive: the faster the population is projected to decline, the more difficult it is for the government to balance its books, and the more government raises taxes and cuts spending in order to balance its books, the worse the demographics get” (207). A result of such crises means that resources, regardless of their target, will have to be curtailed if not eliminated. This includes programs for the elderly, school funding for children, and—perhaps most important for the topic here— funding that had gone toward minority programs. The demographic changes and the concern over government fiscal constraints meant that many programs had to be reassessed to consider

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the most effective allocation of resources. The governmental policy shift that most directly affected the lives of burakumin was the termination of the Dōwa laws. The series of laws begun in 1969 to aid officially recognized buraku districts drew to a close in 2002. With the elimination of these laws, buraku issues ceased to be addressed directly at the national level, with the impact felt in many local communities as municipal governments were now forced to reconsider their priorities with the change in financial support. Some communities began to dismantle their Dōwa programs almost immediately, whereas others attempted to continue some aspects of the law as the best they could, considering budgetary constraints.

Continued Silence in Kuromatsu Through community consolidation, Kuromatsu was affected by the same broader changes that other communities in Japan faced, though these did little to change the manner in which buraku issues were approached. Kuromatsu, already the largest city in the region, doubled in size as a result of the consolidation policies. The “new” Kuromatsu continued to reflect the demographic changes found elsewhere in Japan: fewer children and more elderly. In 2011, 14 percent of the population of the city was under fifteen, and 24 percent was over sixty-five. Despite the increase in absolute numbers, the proportion of youth decreased and that of the elderly increased. At the time of the initial research, Kuromatsu had 16 percent of the population under fifteen and 18  percent over sixty-five (Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications, Statistics Bureau 2012). Buraku issues continue to be rendered silent at both individual and institutional levels. In Kuromatsu, even with the demographic and political changes, silence continues to be the prevailing approach to buraku issues. The youth from the city continue to refrain from giving voice to buraku issues, and the local social and political institutions continue to do the same. Public policy on buraku issues in Kuromatsu changed little after consolidation. As it was the largest city in the area, a number of surrounding smaller towns were incorporated into Kuromatsu, and those smaller political institutions saw their policies change more than those of Kuromatsu itself. Kuromatsu remains committed to a broad view of human rights and creating an environment that is welcoming to all. The larger, expanded city continues to provide specialized services to its largest

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minority, the Brazilian population within the city. Road signs throughout the city appear in Japanese, English, and Portuguese, and the city hall provides a number of ser vices for the immigrant communities within the city. These changes are not exclusive to Kuromatsu, as a number of other cities throughout Japan have taken an increasingly proactive approach to providing ser vices to an increasingly multicultural population (Niwa 2011; Tsuneyoshi, Okano, and Boocock 2011; Lie 2001). The expanded city has further increased its efforts to encourage understanding and interactions between the Japa nese residents and the growing Brazilian population. From a community-produced newsletter introducing aspects of Brazilian culture, such as dating rituals and dancing, to a host of recipes for Brazilian food on the city’s website, to Friendship Communication— a bilingual journal to introduce the Brazilian population to city ser vices and Japanese culture—the city government has made great strides in improving understanding and increasing interactions between these populations. As noticeable as these policies and promotions highlighting the Brazilian experience are, another sizable minority population is missing from city policies. The continued marginalization of buraku issues is particularly interesting, considering the buraku population of Kuromatsu increased by nearly three-fold as a result of the community annexation (Noguchi et al. 1998). Despite this increase, buraku issues remain unspoken. In part, the silence in Kuromatsu has tremendous power to perpetuate itself, but opportunities have and continue to exist to break it. That the silence has continued reflects the continuing perspective of both the JDK and city government, which consider direct vocalization of buraku discrimination to be problematic. The commitment to which Kuromatsu has dedicated itself to Brazilians in the city demonstrates that city leaders do consider issues of marginality and assimilation to be important—at least for some groups. Buraku issues continue to remain on the margins of school policies as well. School classes maintain their silence on buraku issues, and there remains no overt social movement presence, save the small plaque that marks the office of the JDK in Nakata-chō. In effect, silence remains the overarching approach to buraku issues. On repeated trips to Kuromatsu, and in meeting with school and city leaders, the silence of buraku issues remained. Again, this is not to suggest that the community, the JDK, or

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the school consider buraku discrimination unimportant. Their approach is one that, although working to improve the lives of anybody who is marginalized in Japanese society, does so in a less overt manner than was found in Takagawa. In short, the changes that Kuromatsu faced did little to change the preexisting placement of buraku issues. In some ways the silence was even more pronounced, owing to the increase in the buraku population, highlighting even further the silencing of buraku issues there.

Changes in Tak agawa Considering that the initial approaches in Takagawa were based on a centering of buraku concerns in town and school policies, the changes in how buraku issues were addressed in Takagawa was far more dramatic than was the case in Kuromatsu. The reasons for the changes were numerous, but the outcome was the same: buraku issues, though not completely silenced, were considerably less noticeable in Takagawa in the years after the youth left the community. These changes occurred largely within political and demographic arenas, though as we shall see, they affected cultural understandings within the community. Community consolidation changed not only how buraku issues were approached in Takagawa but also the existence of the town itself. Takagawa is gone. As an independent political entity, the town of Takagawa no longer exists, having been subsumed in the newly created city of Hatanaka. This consolidation has had an impact on a host of issues within the community, including an influx of money, with funds that allowed for the rebuilding of the community center, but it is the approach to buraku issues in which we can see the greatest change. Takagawa no longer has the ability to place buraku issues at the center of community and school policies, as it no longer has its own government or board of education. The BLL no longer has an office in the community center. Perhaps the biggest symbolic change is that of the Kaihō no Matsuri (Festival of Liberation). The label of being burakumin has the potential to extend beyond the boundaries of a buraku district, marking surrounding communities as well (Davis 2000). The consolidation process changed local boundaries and brought with it the possibility for stigma to an expanded population. The town of Takagawa was one of several towns of roughly the same size

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to join together as a new city. The creation of this new city, however, was not without controversy. In order to assess the views prior to consolidation, anonymous “comment boxes” were placed in the town hall of each community, whereby residents of any of the communities could place their views on any aspect of consolidation. Such an act in and of itself was atypical. According to Rausch (2006), a 2001 study by the Japan Research Institute indicated that few local governing bodies tasked with considering and preparing for consolidation took steps to include the voices of local residents (140). Although many of the comments were based on specifics of policies to be established in the new city, a large number were clearly directed against joining with Takagawa. Though not all expressed a reason for being against joining Takagawa, others explicitly stated that the reason for such views was based on the buraku population of Takagawa. None of the neighboring towns had buraku populations, and many of the commenters were concerned about the stigma of being associated with a buraku community (personal communication with Hatanaka city government official). There were concerns within Takagawa as well. As vocalized as buraku issues had been in Takagawa, they were equally silenced in most of the surrounding communities. As such, there was a tension in how such issues would be engaged even prior to the creation of the new city of Hatanaka. Would buraku issues remain at the center of events in Takagawa, as a new neighborhood (chō) in Hatanaka city? What would be the approach taken within the schools toward buraku issues now that they were serving a larger population? Based on the historic centrality of buraku issues in Takagawa, one might question whether it was in their interest to join with the other communities to create the city of Hatanaka. Two factors shaped that decision. One was the economic reward for consolidation, which occurred shortly after the expiration of the Dōwa laws and, as such, acted to fi ll a fiscal void in Takagawa, making the merger more attractive. The second was that the town government represents all the citizens, burakumin or not, and such a move would benefit all residents, whereas the Dōwa laws largely benefited the burakumin. Despite the concerns, both within and outside Takagawa, the town joined the surrounding communities and became part of Hatanaka. The consolidation had a profound effect on how buraku issues were approached, highlighted by dramatic changes in Takagawa—changes that were visible in the school, at the community center, and in town functions.

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Local school boards of education are designed to meet the needs of the local community. When Takagawa maintained its own board of education as an independent town, it was constrained by Ministry of Education policies but was nevertheless able to maintain a degree of flexibility in how it approached certain issues, in particular buraku concerns. So connected was the Takagawa board of education to buraku issues that it shared space in the local community center with the local BLL branch and was separate from the town hall. After becoming a part of Hatanaka, the citywide board of education needed to meet the needs of a larger population, and those needs no longer included buraku issues. Once the consolidation occurred, changes in Takagawa Junior High School were seen almost immediately. Buraku issues were removed from the school curriculum entirely. This process had begun with the ending of the Dōwa laws in 2002, though for the intervening years, Takagawa attempted to keep many of these issues within the curriculum, even without the use of the Liberation (Kaihō) classes. As the head of the board of education at the time told me, such an approach was important to both the town and to the youth as they prepared for their lives outside the community. However, the board of education of Hatanaka was now in charge of a larger number of schools and a wider set of issues, which did not include buraku concerns as a core issue. The change in approach to how buraku issues were taught was met with surprisingly little resistance among residents of the buraku district of Takagawa. In part, this may have come from recognition of the changes that being a part of Hatanaka brought to the school, based on an understanding of the changes that were inevitable as a result of consolidation. However, the experiences of the parents themselves also shaped these views. In the words of the current principal of Takagawa Junior High School (himself burakumin and a former social studies teacher there), “The parents of the current students were all educated under Dōwa education.” As such, he continued, “They tend not to be aware of educational differences prior to the implementation of the first law.” For those parents, having no means of comparison of policies prior to the implementation of Dōwa education meant that they did not place demands on the new board of education to highlight buraku issues. Even if they had made such demands, however, the fact that Takagawa Junior High was now only one school of many in the new city meant that it would be exceedingly difficult to maintain a curricular approach different from that of

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other schools within the same system. The parents from the buraku district in Takagawa no longer had the same level of power to make changes even if they had wanted to do so. The limited attempts taken under the new policies to address buraku issues in school ended up further silencing the very issues they were nominally trying to address. There were still some attempts to teach about buraku issues at Takagawa Junior High, though if we compare those approaches to the former Liberation classes (Kaihō kyōiku), the removal of buraku issues becomes even starker. Rather than having specific classes, as was the case under the Dōwa laws and maintained briefly by the school independently after the law ended, the school placed discussions of discrimination within morals (dōtoku) classes. In these classes, however, buraku issues were rendered silent; instead, the classes centered on teaching the youth to “treat others with respect.” This is not, however, the same thing as openly discussing buraku issues. In fact, this matches the approach taken in Kuromatsu. As the principal of Takagawa Junior High noted, “The outcome is that [buraku issues] are becoming hidden. This is not what was necessarily intended, but this seems to be the outcome of how the school is handling it.” In short, the unintended outcome was a further silencing of buraku issues. There were subtle signs around the school that still highlighted the importance of buraku issues, but because they were not connected with curricular issues, they did not carry the same weight that they once did. The stone monument at the front of the school remained, as did the BLL newspaper on the stand outside the office, though they were simply reminders of what Takagawa Junior High School used to be, reinforcing the dramatic changes that had taken place. The formerly permanent sign announcing the time and meeting place for the Children’s Club was covered over with a sign for the newly formed soccer club, and the framed calligraphy of “Liberation” found at the entrance was removed; symbolic reminders of the former centrality of buraku issues were gone. Some of the same factors that marginalized buraku issues in the school also marginalized the Children’s Club. The Children’s Club was a shadow of its former self; although it still existed, the number of participants could now be counted on one hand. This was not just a matter of fewer children and an aging membership within the BLL, though, as previously noted, such demographic issues common throughout Japan are of concern here as well; this marginalization reflects what was prioritized

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within the community (in particular, among the parents of the youth) and the school. Buraku issues broadly, and the Children’s Club specifically, were no longer treated as a central component of growing up burakumin in Takagawa. As such, the ability for the youth to participate was considerably more difficult. Rather than simply “going because my friends went,” as earlier students had commented as initial reasons for participating, taking part in these events now required a conscious effort and dedication, something that busy junior high school students, in an environment that does not encourage and reinforce such actions, are less likely to do. There was not the same space for gathering, and because the school, and indeed the community as a whole, did not prioritize the Children’s Club, it was less likely that the children could or would easily participate. Some of the youth who had participated in the Children’s Club while in junior high school reflected on its decline with a combination of resignation and melancholia. Junko’s thoughts echoed this quite nicely: “I understand that the community has changed, so it’s harder now, but really, I wonder how the children will learn about buraku issues now.” Such comments demonstrate a tension regarding how much change can happen, but the messages the youth in this study were taught about the importance of community as a unique and safe place ring hollow when buraku concerns have all but disappeared from the former Takagawa town and the new Hatanaka city. Other changes that marginalized buraku issues were visible in Takagawa after consolidation. The community center, the only facility in the buraku side of town that brought non-burakumin into the district and shared space with both the Takagawa board of education and the local branch of the BLL, was rebuilt using funds from the national government connected with consolidation policies. On the one hand, this rebuilding modernized the facility, making it a much nicer space for residents. The auditorium was completely rebuilt, a gym was added, and the building now housed a branch of the city hall, providing a place where people could complete governmental paperwork without having to travel to the city hall, something that was particularly helpful for older residents. On the other hand, these changes also reinforced the marginalization of buraku issues. The BLL branch was no longer housed there, having been moved to a smaller building further into the district, meaning that unless one were seeking it out, there would be no reason to interact or even be exposed to the movement presence there. The new BLL branch was no

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longer staffed full time, and on several repeated visits to the community, I found the branch office closed. Finally, the large sign that formerly hung over the entrance to the community center “This is a liberated town” (Kaihō sengen no machi) was nowhere to be found, and the monument with the final words of the Suiheisha declaration that formerly sat at the entrance to the center was moved to the back of the building, in essence hiding it from view. Just as signs act as signifiers of meaning for observers, the removal of signs carries with it powerful messages. The removal of signs and symbols that reinforced buraku issues in Takagawa Junior High School and in the community at large served as a reminder that these issues were no longer paramount in the new political setting. Seemingly the era of focusing on buraku issues had passed. The unspoken message to the residents, young and old, was “out of sight, out of mind.” Buraku issues were not to be visible in the classroom or in the community, and talking about these issues was also discouraged. The new community acted to silence buraku issues as best it could. Perhaps the most visible change in Takagawa concerning buraku issues can be seen in the transformation of the Kaihō no Matsuri, which changed to such a degree that it, too, was arguably silenced. The Kaihō no Matsuri had been treated as one of the major festivals in the town, an event in which all residents could freely participate. By holding the festival alongside the riverbank, in an outdoor public space, even those who were not aware or interested in buraku issues would still be able to drop by and enjoy the events while perhaps learning something in the process. With consolidation, this was no longer the case. Virtually everything about the festival has changed. It is no longer held in August, it is no longer held by the riverbank, and it is no longer a weekend-long festival. In fact, the dates for the festival have been in constant flux in the years since consolidation, shifting from August to October, then to February, then to December, based on the official in charge of the community center. The scheduling is now based on when it fits within the schedule of the community center; as long as the center is not in use by another group or event, the festival can be scheduled. This constant movement of the festival makes it less of a central part of the community experience and is seemingly designed to minimize the importance of the event. The location of the festival has changed as well. Rather than having a permanent

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space in the public park along the river, the festival has moved back to the community center (the original location for the festival). Finally, the festival has shifted from a two-day event to one that lasts less than a day. The festival now runs from approximately 1 p.m. to 6 p.m. on a Sunday. Children still play a central role in the festivities early in the day, from preschool students drumming to girls from the junior high school performing the dance on the flag-draped stage. The dance performance also speaks to the diminished role of the Children’s Club. The performers in the festival I attended included graduates of Takagawa Junior High School because the numbers of the junior high school Children’s Club were so small. After a thirty-minute break, a speaker is typically invited in to discuss human rights issues, broadly defined. This can include buraku issues but is not necessarily exclusively those. Indeed, in the post-consolidation festival I attended, a national politician spoke, but only after the BLL flags were removed and explicit instructions were given not to record or take a video of the talk. These changes to the festival have removed a great degree of its serendipity. Prior to the changes that consolidation brought, anybody who wanted to could attend the events as a festival, while being exposed to a deeper understanding of buraku issues. This is no longer the case. Because the festival is no longer as visible as it once was, participation comes out of a preexisting desire to attend. One must already know about the festival and its connection to buraku issues in order to attend. The symbolic hiding of the festival through the new location, the changing schedules, and the brevity of the festival means that it is exceedingly difficult to simply “happen upon” it, as would have been possible earlier. In effect, the festival is much more hidden and simply became another community center event. These institutional changes have had a dramatic impact on how buraku issues are addressed, particularly in Takagawa. For a community that had previously placed buraku issues at the center of town policies and practices, the changes have been overwhelming. A number of the older adults from the district bemoan the changes and the removal of buraku issues, knowing how hard it was to reach that level of integration to begin with. The youth, however, seem not to be as concerned. As one young woman noted, “It’s like when you get married, the name might change, but it’s still you. The name Takagawa might have changed, but

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it’s still the same place.” Although it may be the same place in terms of physical location, it is far from the same place with regard to buraku issues. Though the changes in Takagawa are considerable, they have simply brought the community closer to the prevailing approach to buraku issues throughout the country. The silence that is creeping into Takagawa does not reflect the end of buraku discrimination, however. A lack of discussion does not equate to a lack of concern or knowledge. Some members of the community remain committed to challenging the silence surrounding buraku issues and overcoming buraku discrimination, however their numbers are decreasing with age. What has changed is the mechanisms and materials that they have at their disposal to affect such changes. The community, district, and movement leaders are now struggling with new and alternative ways to vocalize buraku concerns. Although Takagawa may remain a protective cocoon for some, it no longer places buraku issues at the center of that cocoon. Many of the youth who grew up in Takagawa and left the protective cocoon ended up replicating silence through their individual actions, but they are also finding, when returning home, that their former protective cocoon has also rendered buraku issues silent. The protective cocoon of Kuromatsu has changed little. Buraku issues tended to be marginalized to begin with, and even when the youth have experiences outside the cocoon that challenge their experiences within, the power of silence means the youth rarely challenge those contradictions.

Conclusion By not placing buraku issues at the forefront in Kuromatsu, indeed, by engaging such issues with silence—and it cannot be stressed enough that silence itself is a form of engagement—the school and community prepared the students for the broader social world outside the protective cocoon in a very similar manner to which they engaged it within. This engagement takes time and effort, but because there is continuity between their experiences in Kuromatsu and the broader society, the youth have the experience and skills necessary for the transition between the two. They simply have to deflect the stigma away from themselves to the reputation

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of the school. Once they have moved into adulthood, even this deflection fades and they interact by bracketing out their buraku identity. This is in stark contrast to the disjunction the youth from Takagawa face. The students from Takagawa were told they will face discrimination in the future, and they are aware that their protective cocoon does not provide real security—immunity in this case—from facing the reality of buraku discrimination. Events such as the graffiti incident at the pachinko parlor speak to this. The protective cocoon, for the youth of Takagawa, had been pierced even before the students left. However, there is a fundamental difference between the splitting of the cocoon when the youth are in Takagawa and when they are away, for the initial rupture was confronted collectively. The solitude of such experiences beyond Takagawa makes the transition to the broader social world more difficult and complex. The unintended consequence of structuring an identity that emphasizes pride in being burakumin and rejects silence, designed to prepare the youth of Takagawa to face the challenges of prejudice and discrimination, is that the youth can, quite simply, opt out of interacting with this open buraku identity. If students choose not to discuss openly the issue or present their identity as burakumin, there are no negative sanctions for doing so. No one from the community or school will be there to challenge them or check to see if they are openly interacting with a buraku identity. They have informally learned that there is an option for protection: bracketing their identity by not sharing in specific contexts. If the youth have learned only one lesson regarding buraku issues, it is this: they will face discrimination. As we have seen, for some, coming out is not worth the risk. For those youth, bracketing that part of their identity serves to re-create the protective cocoon, even if only for a brief period. Institutional changes also send powerful messages. The silencing of buraku issues, whether they were formerly centralized or not, reminds individuals of the “proper” placement of those issues. Social institutions, through particular policies and political decisions, can shift approaches to buraku issues. These institutional changes, some specifically engaging with buraku concerns and some not, affect the way in which individuals act to reassess how they present themselves. Even after they have left the protective cocoon, the changes therein shape how youth view buraku issues. Whether the political and institutional decisions were intended to

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silence buraku concerns are, in fact, secondary. The outcome reminds people that buraku issues, even when once centered, are no longer important enough to warrant overt discussion. The silencing of buraku concerns at the institutional level reflects the experiences of the youth at the individual level. Through the very typical and common social practice of bracketing, individuals are deciding to silence or share a particular part of their background. Seeing the institutional changes that have taken place where they first learned about buraku issues reinforces the idea that silence is acceptable and thus lessens some, though not all, of the tension in bracketing out their buraku background.

Conclusion Calling for a Discrimination-Free Society “I am invisible, simply because people refuse to see me.” —Ralph Ellison, 1952 “Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?” —Lawrence Durrell, 1957

ilence does not “happen” by chance, nor is it inevitable. Any study of social interactions must consider not only vocalized aspects of communication but also those moments when communication does not occur. This book has examined the role of silence as a central component of social interactions among a group of burakumin in Japan, not as a passive outcome but as part of an active process. Silence is based on decisions individuals have made regarding what is to be centered in a given interaction and what is to be marginalized. At the same time, silence within individual interactions should not be considered independent from the broader social environment. Institutional approaches to specific issues also shape what is given voice and what is rendered missing in interactions. Returning to the question posed at the start of the book: How can one be a member of a minority group and not know it? It is possible, but it depends on two factors: a complicit society and the common social act of bracketing one’s identity. People bracket a part of their identity not because they are unwilling or unable to discuss buraku issues, or because they are somehow trying to hide their membership based on an internalization of prevailing social attitudes. On the contrary, many in Japan, both social movement organizations and individuals, spend considerable time and effort vocalizing the struggles they are facing, often against a

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society that does not want to hear. Nonetheless, in everyday interactions, their buraku background becomes less their defining characteristic and simply one of many roles they fill. As such, by bracketing this part of their identity, many render their buraku identity silent to the outside observer. Buraku issues in Japan are both silenced and vocalized. These seemingly contradictory stances are a result of many factors. One factor is the so-called invisibility of burakumin in Japan. As they bear no physiological, cultural, or linguistic markers of difference when compared to majority Japanese, it is possible to live near, work alongside, or interact with a burakumin without knowing it, unless that person were to come out and share his or her background. In this sense, silence comes from a form of “compulsory majority-ness”—akin to “compulsory heterosexuality,” as proposed by Rich (1980). Further, the long-standing, though incorrect, myth of homogeneity in Japan minimizes, if not eliminates, discussions of difference. The “invisible” of difference are ignored, and as a result, various groups who do not fit within this model are rendered missing and are treated the same as majority Japanese. A second factor that acts to continue the silence surrounding buraku issues comes from the lack of discussion in the public sphere. Media stories rarely focus on buraku issues, and open discussions of buraku concerns in pop culture are virtually non-existent. At the same time, however, there are organizations that challenge the silence surrounding buraku concerns, such as the Buraku Liberation League (BLL) and other anti-discrimination social movement organizations. These groups actively seek to end the silence on these issues by directly and openly rejecting the prevailing approach. Knowledge of what is to be vocalized or silenced is part of the socialization process. This study has shown how youth in two communities, Takagawa and Kuromatsu, have been socialized to approach buraku issues. Each community takes a differing tactic to the way in which buraku concerns should be engaged— silence in Kuromatsu, voice in Takagawa— and both attempt to provide lessons for children through school and community events. Kuromatsu, along with its local buraku social movement organization, the Jiyū Dōwa Kai ( JDK), considers silence the ideal approach, arguing that giving precedence to buraku concerns only serves to perpetuate buraku discrimination. Rather, all forms of discrimination and intolerance should be combated equally. In this sense, Kuromatsu and the JDK take a broader, minority-centered approach,

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though ironically silencing buraku issues. The second community in the study, Takagawa, along with the local BLL branch, takes a much more buraku-centered approach. From this perspective, challenging silence is challenging discrimination. The only way to eliminate discrimination is to provide the tools necessary to overcome discrimination; building pride in membership is a central component of that tool kit. In both communities, youth learn these initial lessons in a structured space where exposure to risk is kept to a minimum. This space is a protective cocoon that provides a social location for the practicing of these alternative responses to engaging with one’s buraku background. It allows for the youth to prepare themselves, through formal and informal lessons, for life outside the somewhat safe, protected confines of their local community, though as we have seen, this is not a total protection from risk. Within the protective cocoon, the youth learn lessons of how to best present themselves to others and, directly and indirectly, are taught about bracketing. The youth from Kuromatsu are being taught to bracket out their buraku background, even though they are never actually told what it is they are bracketing out. Since buraku issues are unspoken there, the youth informally learn the lessons of silence. The fact that some of the youth do know about buraku issues makes the understanding of bracketing and silence even more compelling. These youth are aware of what these issues are, yet they are also presented with a social environment that rejects open discussion. Such an awareness of what is to be ignored provides the lesson to the youth of what should not be talked about in very clear terms. Takagawa’s protective cocoon, though different from that of Kuromatsu in its approach to buraku issues, provides the youth with a similar social space for learning about buraku issues and to practice what it means to be burakumin. In this setting, the youth are taught to be proud of being burakumin, to be open with their identity, and to challenge discrimination. However, with these lessons come warnings of what they will face beyond the cocoon: the world is filled with risk, and the possibility of being discriminated against beyond Takagawa is great. Although these lessons are designed to provide the youth with a strong foundation of pride in being burakumin and prepare them for life beyond the cocoon, they have the unintended consequence of sending a second message to the youth: being discriminated against will happen only if you share your background.

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Life beyond the protective cocoon is the first chance the youth have to present themselves to people who come from different backgrounds and have different approaches to buraku issues. Although the youth from Kuromatsu find life beyond the cocoon much the same as they found it within, where buraku issues are silenced, the youth from Takagwa find a much different experience. For them, this new social arena is filled with potential risk. Questions on how to present oneself, how to engage with their buraku background, and whom to tell are central parts of this new experience. They have learned what the possible outcomes of sharing their backgrounds are, and as such, many use the lesson of bracketing to intentionally not share their background. Bracketing out their buraku identity provides them with a degree of security, albeit temporary. This work has highlighted the complexity of what it means to be burakumin in Japan. For the youth here, being burakumin is part of who they are, and although it is central for some, it is by no means the only part of how the youth define themselves. The silence that many use to engage with this background is not based on an acceptance of a socially stigmatized identity; rather, it is an outcome of the very common social process of bracketing part of their identity based on the audience. The vocalizing of their buraku identity, giving that part of their identity sound, is one way of overcoming the prevailing silence surrounding buraku issues. It is when such sharing becomes loud enough that the silence may be forever broken. Silence surrounding buraku issues can manifest itself in myriad ways, from individuals bracketing part of their identity to policies that marginalize these concerns. This is not the same as individuals accepting their stigmatized position as burakumin in contemporary Japan or specific groups not openly challenging discrimination. There are at least two broad ways of considering how silence surrounding buraku issues is created and maintained: individual and institutional. Individuals make decisions about whom to share their background with based on their assessment of individual relationships and the social settings in which they are embedded. The youth have learned an important lesson in social bracketing, something any member of any society learns through socialization and an understanding of the social environment (Brekhus 2003; Heritage 1984, 140–41). At first, for many of these youth, bracketing their stigmatized background is an outcome of what virtually all youth go through: not sharing

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that which marks you as different from others. High school is a time of fitting in, and for many of the youth in this study, fitting in means masking that part of their identity that separates them from others. The youth from Kuromatsu did this by demonstrating that a reputation for violence was based on the action of others or on historical events. Once this was accomplished, these youth were able to highlight their similarities with others. For the youth from Takagawa, they were able to not vocalize their background. This use of silence and the compulsory “majority-ness” meant that their new friends would not, in most cases, assume that a lack of discussion of buraku issues meant that one was hiding something. Bracketing is not a one-time act. The continuous reflexive examination of what their background means and how to best represent themselves means that the youth are making a series of active decisions with each interaction. What was first an act of minimizing difference became much more complex as the youth gained more experiences beyond the protective cocoon. Not sharing this part of one’s background shifted from “hiding” to a conscious examination of “is this person worth sharing my background with?” If the answer to this question was no, then the buraku background remained silent. Bracketing should be considered a critical decision in relationships. Choosing not to share part of one’s self is an active process that provides the youth with a greater degree of agency, allowing them to define themselves, rather than being defined or labeled by others. The decision on sharing is not an immediate process; it takes time for the youth to reach this point. At a younger age, such proactive decisions are harder to contemplate, but this was less a function of being burakumin and more a function of being a teenager, for which marking oneself as different is consciously avoided no matter the location or the marker of difference.

Managing Stigma Marginalized groups struggle to challenge widespread silence. The experience of the burakumin in Japan, as this study has shown, adds to the literature on silence, stigma, and social marginalization in other contexts. Sheriff ’s (2000) work on race in Brazil demonstrates that silence comes

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out of an awareness of the cultural censorship that precludes open discussion of marginality. Similarly, in her work on passing among gay men and lesbians of color, Kanuha (1999) describes silence as dissociation from a stigmatized role, whereby people actively embrace silence, not out of a desire to hide but out of an awareness of their specific social settings. Yet there is a paradox about the use of silence as a mechanism to engage with stigma; as Adams (2010) notes in his discussion of gay men being in and out of the closet, masking can be interpreted as an ac ceptance of one’s stigmatized self. The power of silence, reinforced through various structures and interactions, becomes a self-replicating process that, even when challenged by marginalized groups, becomes tremendously difficult to break. Further, even for subaltern groups that have been socialized to challenge silence, they may, unintentionally, end up replicating it on a broader scale. Despite having been socialized in Takagawa to challenge the silence surrounding these issues, the power of silence, and the possible risks of rejecting it, was too strong for these youth in their initial steps beyond the protective cocoon. For them, silence meant security. This security was fleeting, but for these youth, as they entered high school, there was nothing fleeting about it. As Stein (2009) discusses regarding silence and stigma: silence is “sometimes an intentional act designed to exercise agency, to avoid being defined by one’s victimhood” (53). Th is is especially true for young people, who may view their current experiences as exemplifying a degree of permanence, making the silence seem even more compelling. These youth were weighing what Zerubavel (2006) describes as the security of silence in the short term as compared to long-term costs of maintaining that silence (79). Institutional forces also shape how silence is viewed, experienced, and maintained. One can live in a local community where there is knowledge of being burakumin and, with the tacit participation of others, maintain this silence. In situations such as this, silence can, indeed, be a form of security. However, people cannot always remain in their local community. It is through leaving their local setting that we see where silence as security may no longer protect, if it ever did. Though the broader society still tends to treat buraku issues with silence, this does not mean that people will necessarily continue this silence. In this case, if individuals break the silence by identifying someone as burakumin (or even mistakenly do so), there can be long-term consequences.

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Being outed as a burakumin can have life-altering consequences. Stories of broken engagements (Buraku Kaihō—Jinkenseisaku kakuritsu yōkyū chūo jukkō inkai 2009; Saitama-shi Kyōiku Iinkai 2010), suicide (Buraku Kaihō—Jinkenseisaku kakuritsu yōkyū chūo jukkō inkai 2009), rescinded job offers (Buraku Kaihō Dōmei Tokyoto Rengōkai 2010), and divorce speaks to the depth of such changes. One of my adult informants was divorced based on her buraku background. She had not actively hidden her background, having thought very little of it at all. She did not consider it part of her background—it was her grandmother who was burakumin. This mattered little in how her husband viewed her background. For him, this was part of who she was, regardless of how far back or how little it was part of her daily life. Her buraku background was enough for him to terminate the marriage. This tension, surrounding passing or coming out, between silence and voice, is a struggle for all the youth who have not yet shared their background, especially for those who know what the outcome might be. Despite this, even if a person chooses not to share his or her background, there is always the possibility that at any given time, someone will confront that person with his or her buraku background, or accusations of hiding his or her background. This tension is always present even if a person does not think of it consciously. There is always the possibility that one’s protective cocoon will be burst, with potentially life-changing consequences. The burakumin operate in a majority society that is complicit in maintaining silence. In his groundbreaking study that examined historical attitudes toward African Americans in the United States, Jordan (1968) found that not sharing one’s background—using silence as a tool for passing—has a long history and requires a “conspiracy of silence” by both the individual and society (174). For the JDK and as seen in Kuromatsu, such silence is the key to passing, serving to protect buraku youth from having to engage openly with buraku issues. What, then, would prevent all the burakumin youth from passing? One element that the BLL in particular has tried to focus on to prevent this from happening is pride in being burakumin. Indeed, it was the issue of pride that many have noted as being a deterrent to passing. In his seminal study of race relations in the United States, Myrdal ([1944] 1997) notes that pride is what keeps people from passing (683, 687). This act of creating and encouraging pride among a stigmatized group encourages a

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sense of self-worth for the individual and reshapes the broader social understanding of stigmatized populations. The bracketing of a stigmatized self is both empowering and disempowering. One can proactively share one’s background and consider it nothing to hide, or one can be presumed to be part of the majority, hiding one’s minority status. The fact that this potential stigma has not yet been shared means that there is a constant state of anxiety that individuals feel when they know that they are passing. This tension is managed, in part, by opening up to a select group while keeping this stigma hidden from most areas of one’s life (Goffman 1963, 95). In a society where one is presumed to be part of the majority owing to the lack of visible differences between burakumin and majority Japa nese, the hiding of stigma rests on an assumption of being part of the majority. In her study on passing, Kroger (2003) suggests, “Passing means that other people actually see or experience the identity that the passer is projecting, whether the passer is telegraphing that identity by intention or chance” (7–8). Thus, passing is based in part on how others interpret specific behavior and how they then make assumptions and expectations based on these interpretations. One does not need to set out with the intention of passing, but as for the case of the burakumin youth in this study, the decision not to share their buraku background means that their new acquaintances, colleagues, and friends are placing on these Kuromatsu and Takagawa youth their own understanding of who they are, correctly or incorrectly. For most, this placement means they are being viewed as majority Japanese, with their buraku background hidden. Decisions on sharing are based on trust and on the depth of relationships. This is true for anybody, but it is particularly salient for so-called invisible minorities. In his work on the connection between place and being gay in the United States, Pasfield (2011) quotes Trace, from Orlando, Florida, who describes the manner in which he decides whom to share the fact of his sexual orientation with: If someone feels the need to ask me directly about my sexual preference, I have a few responses. If you’re an important person in my life, I’ll say, “Yes of course I’m gay.” If I’m asked in connection to a civil rights issue, I’m happy to stand up and be counted as gay and fight for our rights as I do for all civil liberties. If you’re a relative stranger and are prying, I take the

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Southerner’s approach by politely saying that it’s my personal business and has nothing to do with you. (58)

The strategy of selective sharing is an active process that is dependent on both individual agency in recognizing the level of the relationship and an understanding of what it means to be a minority in that particular setting, be it a gay man in the United States or a burakumin youth in Japan. In each setting, sharing cannot be separated from the broader social environment that marginalizes minority experiences. As such, raising the issue of being burakumin carries with it a degree of caution; social constraints make it difficult (though not impossible) to simply come out and ask, Are you burakumin?

What Does the Future Hold? No society is static. The manner in which buraku issues have been addressed by various social actors—from the government, to social movement organizations, to individuals—has changed over time. Having moved from indifference to action during the period leading up to the creation of the Dōwa laws, the government did consider buraku issues to be important. With the termination of these laws, it no longer addressed buraku issues on its own. This does not, however, mean that discrimination ceases to be an issue, or that the burakumin somehow cease to exist. The governmental approach does not maintain separate laws dealing with buraku issues. There is clearly a message that if buraku issues are no longer worthy of governmental action, why should any other group in society address buraku issues? Yet other groups in society clearly do consider buraku issues to be important. Primary among these groups is the BLL. With a history that can be traced back to the prewar Suiheisha, the BLL has long led the fight in challenging buraku discrimination and the social inequalities that many burakumin face. Although they continue to work to improve conditions for burakumin, along with other minority groups, the BLL is also facing some of the same conditions faced by Japanese society as a whole: an aging population. At local and national meetings that I

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attended, I was repeatedly struck by the comparative lack of young people in attendance. The vast majority of the participants in movement actions in Takagawa were also well into their seventies, if not older. This was not simply a matter of deference to age by younger people, for there were virtually no young people even among audience members. What will such changes mean for the BLL? These generational changes have, up to this point, led to periodic fracturing of the movement, but with fewer and fewer younger members, if such fracturing were to occur, it might be the end of the movement. One factor that has led to a diminished role of the BLL was the institution of the aforementioned municipal consolidation policies ( gappei). These policies have removed the ability of locally embedded social movement actors to maintain the level of control over and interaction with local policies that they once had. This does not mean that social movement actors will no longer play a role in Japanese policy. The rise of the antinuclear movement following the events of March  11, 2011 demonstrates that this is clearly not the case. However, in localized settings, where the BLL has long worked to improve conditions, such influence has waned. Social movements have had, and continue to maintain, a great role in bringing about legal and social change, particularly for those in marginalized positions (Steinhoff 2014). However, changes in society mean that social movement organizations must also change. In this case, the combined structural changes—an aging membership and a diminished role in an expanded population—have forced social movements such as the BLL to reassess their role in society. The BLL and the JDK have already begun to take steps that address these changes. For both groups, the expansion to larger issues of discrimination takes a central role in their policies. The JDK highlights the importance of women’s rights and the rights of the handicapped, as two examples. The BLL has expanded its focus, adding the rights of foreigners and those who have Hansen’s disease. Both groups remain committed to eliminating discrimination, though their approaches and tactics continue to differ. Both call on the government to more directly challenge discrimination in the post–Dōwa law era. Ironically, the success of the Dōwa laws has made multiple generations unaware of the dramatic changes that these laws brought. As such, many have no means of comparison between the current conditions and

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where things were prior to the start of the laws. Thirty-three years of laws addressing many of the inequalities that the burakumin faced have meant that the parents of children today would have likely gone through Dōwa education and reaped the benefits of many of the community changes brought about by the Dōwa laws. Improved conditions and educational outcomes have always been that way, meaning they see no reason to push for social change. And yet these are the very times that vigilance must be maintained. Dedicated groups of young people, members of the BLL or not, remain committed to challenging discrimination at the national and local levels (Uchida 2014). A number of activists from the BLL have become involved in supporting refugees from the Fukushima area (centering on nuclear radiation concerns following the events of March 11, 2011) to prevent discrimination based on stigma of where they are from and that they may be somehow “polluted.” Others are working hard to save Liberty Osaka— a human rights museum in the heart of a buraku district in Osaka—from having its funding removed by the city government. All of these actions reflect on the central issue to many of the members of the movement, and indeed to the youth of Kuromatsu and Takagawa: everybody should work to make society a better place for all.

Appendix Methods of Silence “Your silence gives consent.” —Plato “Silence remains inescapably a form of speech.” — Susan Sontag, 1969

he process of doing the research was integrally related with the topic of the research itself. In the following discussion, I address some of the specifics of the research, from the practicalities of gaining access to the specifics of my interviews, along with general points on researching topics that are contentious or difficult to access. Silence and openness were the two major approaches in Kuromatsu and Takagawa, respectively, reflecting the competing perspectives of the locally embedded social movement organizations. These approaches shaped not only how each community dealt with buraku issues but also the guidelines with which each community allowed me entrance and continued access to the research itself. In Kuromatsu, silence influenced my access and was something that I had to continually negotiate throughout the research process, whereas in Takagawa, the openness enabled my access, and it, too, was negotiated through my interactions while in the field (Bondy 2013).

T

Finding the Settings I first encountered buraku issues while teaching at Hinode Junior High School. One teacher there acted as the liaison between the buraku district and the school as part of the Dōwa laws, and I made a number of visits to the local district through him. After spending two years teaching

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at Hinode, I continued to maintain contact with friends, former students, and teachers through periodic visits and letters, and these connections allowed me to return to the area to conduct research. Indeed, the principal agreed to let me in in part because I could demonstrate my continued interactions with Hinode teachers and graduates. Unsure of how to find a second setting, I put the word out about my proposed research. After telling a fellow graduate student that I was interested in buraku issues, he said, “Burakumin? I think my girlfriend is that.” A few days later we met. She was from a buraku district in Osaka, and though we spoke only briefly, she arranged for me to meet with the head of the community center in her buraku district. It was in the middle of that meeting that the leader left the room for a few minutes, returning with a piece of paper with Takagi Yoshihiro’s name and phone number. He told me that he had just called Mr. Takagi and that I should call him that evening. When I called that night, Mr. Takagi said I could come down for a visit, but that there was likely not much to see. Mr. Takagi was most welcoming, even on my initial visit to Takagawa. He called the head of the Takagawa Board of Education along with his father, the head of the Buraku Liberation League branch in Takagawa. Eventually, the community leaders gave me permission to conduct research in the community and encouraged me to teach others about buraku issues. The head of the board of education added, “More than teaching, we want you to create kōhai [those who will follow you] who will come back for years to come and continue to study.” With this, the door to Takagawa opened.

Gaining Access How we gain trust, information, and even access—or, conversely, how we are inhibited in our ability to carry out research—is part of a larger set of socially embedded practices. This was, in part, what allowed me into Takagawa. Had the community not approached buraku issues so openly, there would have been no way for me to enter or maintain continued access. In entering the community, the heads of both the BLL and the board of education said that they welcomed me not only to do the research but also to teach others about these issues. In short, this openness was in their interest, as I was serving a purpose for them by conducting

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the research there. Further, in order for me to have a more complete picture of the local environment and of buraku issues, they suggested that I spend a minimum of five continuous years there conducting fieldwork. Clearly, this was not something I could do, but I have continued to be given access to the field for longitudinal research over a period of almost fifteen years now. This was not the case in Kuromatsu. As previously noted, I was allowed in, but not because of the interest in the community in being open with buraku issues. I was allowed into the community because I had a history there and knew a number of the teachers and community leaders already. Indeed, as one teacher told me as I was completing the research, “We never would have let you in based on the research. The reason we let you in was because we knew you.” The silence of the community on buraku issues was such that my presence was tolerated not because of the work itself but because of the strength of preestablished personal relations. At the same time, the approaches taken in both communities acted to shape access, the language I could use, and even the research topic itself. In order to gain access to Kuromatsu, and to remain there to conduct my research in the school and in the community, I had to be continuously cognizant of the words I used. I first understood the expectation of silence as a directive. The principal told me what words I could and could not use in my research. Yet it was through interactions with others that I learned implicitly that these terms were not to be used. Before interviewing the students, the principal dictated that he would have the right to review any questions I would ask. Above all else, I was not, under any circumstances, to bring up the term buraku or burakumin, or even the word Dōwa, with the students. At this point, my entire research project passed before my eyes. I had planned on having an equal comparison, using the same techniques and, most importantly, asking some of the same questions on buraku issues and awareness. Despite this, if I wanted any access to the school and students at Hinode, I had no choice but to agree. Not being able to use terms central to one’s research presents challenges, but it does not mean that research cannot be done (Venkatesh 2008; Scheper-Hughes 2001). Researching buraku issues without actively talking about the topic meant that as a researcher, I had to be even more cognizant of when and where such topics would come up. The approach in Kuromatsu, coupled with the approach of the local branch of the Jiyū

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Dōwa Kai, was that buraku issues were simply not discussed. If buraku issues were brought up in school or in the local community, it was typically in hushed voices or with people looking around first to decide if it was “safe” to talk about these things. The extreme caution common to Kuromatsu was evident in one case when, after asking a teacher about buraku social movement groups in the area, I was taken from the open staff room to a small storage room in another wing of the school before the teacher was willing to say anything to me. Even then, however, she still felt the need to speak in whispers. Through engaging with silence, researchers have the ability to gain a more nuanced understanding of the process by which research participants construct their social world. This extends to researchers as well. Silence shapes the process of research. The principal’s statement of what I could or could not talk about in my research was not a decision that was reached by only the two of us. Rather, his request and my response were part of a socially embedded interaction, one in which words, both used and not used, mattered greatly. It was only later that the centrality of his, and the broader community’s, use of silence became more salient in my research. Entering the field involves striking a bargain (Sultana 2007; Taylor 1987), though this is not a one-time event. The researcher continues to strike multiple bargains throughout the research process and negotiates this bargain based on unfolding expectations. The bargain was to agree to follow each community’s approach to buraku issues. In Kuromatsu, this meant engaging with silence; in Takagawa, it meant being open in discussing issues. There is a tension in conducting social science research about openness of one’s own positionality with research participants (Barron 1999; Goode 1996). Scholars have hidden parts of their research and of themselves from their research participants, from sexual orientation (Blackwood 1995) to marital status (Wolf 1996) to coworkers (Holdaway 1982). The concern over how much to share is a function of the researcher’s role in the research setting. As Burawoy and Lukás (1992) note, “The genealogy of research— entry, normalization, and exit—reveals as much about the society as the research itself ” (4). In both communities, my ability to share my research topic tells as much about the community as it does about my research. In Kuromatsu, I framed my research as an exploration of how rural youth experience their social world; in Takagawa,

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the research was about human rights issues and education. Both issues were part of my research, but they were constructed to reflect the ways in which the communities themselves engaged with these issues. Being an outsider both to the burakumin and to majority Japanese provided me with a degree of freedom to ask questions that, if asked by those from Japan, would be considered ignorant or perhaps insulting. I was borrowing from Simmel’s (1971) “stranger,” in which one is both near and far, an outsider and an insider, at the same time. I was a stranger as an outsider, yet living in the districts and attending school with the youth made me somewhat of an insider. It was owing to this role that I was afforded the luxury of being able to be told things that could not or would not be shared with other members of the in group. Conducting research as a stranger meant that I could move easily between being expected to have knowledge of the issue and not being expected to know very much (Mische 2005). The role of researcher as stranger means that the researcher must be aware of and delicately negotiate his or her position within the research setting.

Within the Communities I interviewed forty children in the two communities, twenty-two in Takagawa and eighteen in Kuromatsu. The initial research began in Takagawa in September 2001 and lasted until the end of March 2002. Following my time in Takagawa, I moved to Kuromatsu in April 2002 and remained there until August 2002. Both schools allowed me to conduct participant observations in the classroom, and the schools sent out requests for parental permission to interview the students. At the time of the interviews, I did not know who was and who was not burakumin (though I did know where some of the youth lived). The initial interviews, conducted in an empty classroom after the school day ended, were unstructured, centering on broad themes rather than specific questions, and ranged in time from fifteen minutes to two hours. All of the interviews were conducted in Japanese and recorded, along with extensive postinterview notes, to ensure reliability of the information. I decided to focus specifically on junior high school students for several reasons. I wanted to explore students’ experiences in a localized setting

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within the closed, protected world that junior high school provides. Further, because it is the end of compulsory education, students will leave this protective place and move on to interactions with others who have different experiences than theirs. I wanted to talk with the students at a particular moment in time, the time when they were learning the lessons of voice and silence. I felt that the third-year students (ninth graders) would be better than the first- or second-year students at articulating their own opinions and could better reflect on their (potential) position in society. Further, this allowed me to interact with the students while they remained in their “protective cocoon” before moving on to different high schools. In both settings, my presence in the school provided me an opportunity to interview teachers, to observe student behavior in and out of classes, and to engage the myriad ways the schools addressed buraku issues. My presence in both classrooms followed a similar pattern. At first I was ignored, though stared at (not surprisingly, as one does not typically see an older white American as a member of a Japanese junior high school class). This initial ignoring typically lasted for about a week and a half to two weeks, at which point I became the center of attention, with students from my class and others coming to talk with me during the breaks, and sometimes even in class. After about two weeks, I was again ignored. It was with this round of being ignored in the classroom that I felt my presence had become normalized and I would now be able to observe and interact with the students in as natural a setting as possible. In subsequent years, I returned to conduct interviews and follow the youth longitudinally. The initial follow-up interviews were over a threemonth period in summer 2003, when I returned to both Takagawa and Kuromatsu. Because I did not have access to the schools, the interviews in Takagawa were held in the community center and in Kuromatsu at various family restaurants or parks. These locations were not ideal for sharing personal information, but the silence found in Kuromatsu meant that even if we were to have been in a more private setting, it would have been unlikely that the youth would have shared more. As with any longitudinal study, there was attrition among the participants over the years. Even with this, because the youth remained part of their local social networks, I was able to garner some information about them, even without directly interviewing them. By the time of the most recent round of interviews in 2012, I was in direct contact with five from Kuromatsu and twelve from Takagawa.

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The research took place in two very different eras: before and after the widespread use of the Internet. In keeping up with my research participants, even before entering the two communities, I kept in contact with people via periodic postcards, usually two or three times a year. Takagi Yoshihiro even told me years later that it was these initial connections through the postcards that demonstrated to him that my interest was real. In addition, I continued to send New Year’s cards (akin to Christmas cards in the United States) to remind others what I was doing and to maintain that contact. Now in an era of widespread Internet use, I have been able to maintain contact with research participants through various forms of communication, from email to instant messaging. In both forms, the key element for the longitudinal research was the continued relationship and contact.

Gaining Access In Takagawa, I was able to live in the district, which provided access to town materials, events, and people. Owing to the size of the town, coupled with the open engagement with buraku issues, I was able to have discussions with movement and town leaders in both formal and informal settings. Rather than formal interviews with leaders, I was able to talk informally when I would see them on the streets, at parties, or at events, such as the Kaihō no Matsuri (Festival of Liberation). Participating in the Kaihō no Matsuri, for example, allowed me to take part in the post-event reflection meetings, where people voiced their views on the event. Kuromatsu was, unsurprisingly, a different experience. There were no available apartments to rent in the district, and the geography of the area meant that I was forced to live closer to the city center, well removed from the district. Considering that community leaders in Kuromatsu did not want me there, such living conditions likely did not hinder my research in any meaningful way. Owing to the silence found there, interviewing various leaders was challenging. Nonetheless, the teachers in the school who knew my research topic (and it was not entirely clear that all did know) were willing to talk, albeit in controlled circumstances. Although this situation was not ideal, it did allow me to remain in the community and thus provided an opportunity to observe silence in a more direct way.

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In this work, I have tried to respect the privacy of all those who have made the research possible. The topic is considered taboo in much of Japan, and many I spoke with were open and frank with their views and experiences. Yet because not all members of each community agree with the prevailing approaches taken in the respective locations, I made use of pseudonyms and masked many details. The openness of Takagawa in its approach to buraku issues does not mean that people in the community wished to be outed. Nor does the silence found in Kuromatsu mean that all there consider it to be the most effective approach to eliminating buraku discrimination. Considering the size of the communities, even limited details on people may expose their background; I have intentionally avoided providing specific details on the various leaders and community members I interviewed. At the same time, in the case of Takagawa, I remain aware of the irony of replicating silence in an area that broadly rejects it. Nonetheless, I feel it is both important and ethical to respect those wishes. As such, the details that would other wise be common in a qualitative research project such as this must remain silenced.

Notes

Chapter 1. Silent Introductions 1. Community names and names of all study participants are pseudonyms. It was necessary to change the names of the locations in order to accommodate those community members who did not wish to be identified as burakumin. At the same time, this represents the power of silence, even at the level of conducting research. 2. A more detailed discussion of the methodological approaches can be found in the appendix. 3. I am indebted to Joseph Hankins for suggesting this idea of silence as aural and visual. 4. The first comprehensive work in English on the burakumin, still widely referred to, highlights this point even in the title: Japan’s Invisible Race: Caste in Culture and Personality (1966) by George DeVos and Hiroshi Wagatsuma. 5. Dōwa is a governmental policy term and best translates as “assimilation.” It will be discussed in more detail in chapter 2. 6. A further discussion of institutionalized silence and assumptions of visibility can be found in Yoshino 1998, 2007.

Chapter 2. Backgrounds and Struggles 1. In two famous cases from the early twentieth century, the United States Supreme Court took a very direct stand in establishing and clarifying these categories. In Ozawa v. United States (1922) and United States v. Thind (1923), the court ruled on what categories would be considered white (and thus American) despite cultural assimilation (Ozawa) or being “Caucasian” (Thind). The famous line defining whiteness came out of the court’s ruling in the Thind case: whiteness is “the common man’s understanding of the term.” 2. The historical development of the contemporary category of burakumin is decidedly more complex than space here allows for. Amos’s (2011) study tracing the trajectory of premodern and early modern outcaste groups and their connection to the modernday burakumin explains this history far better than I could hope to.

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3. Owing to the highly discriminatory meanings of these words, I will use them only when quoting directly from other sources or dealing with them in historical contexts; other wise, I will use the contemporary term burakumin. 4. This was more or less concurrent with the timing of the emancipation of slaves in the United States and of serfs in Russia. The “liberation” of certain groups was part of modernizing projects undertaken by a number of countries during this era. 5. The state control over social movement organizations was not limited to buraku organizations. A number of other groups that the state defined as potentially dangerous were also expected to take an active role in the war effort (Bayliss 2013; Kushner 2006; Garron 1997). There were serious, even potentially life-threatening consequences in refusal (Steinhoff 1991). 6. Though this has become the accepted origin of the term, Neary (2010a, 116, f13) indicates that the term had been used to reference buraku issues prior to the emperor’s use. 7. Information regarding the postwar movement, unless other wise noted, comes from Akisada, Masataka, and Sueo (2002). 8. The Buraku Liberation League was primarily affi liated with the Japan Socialist Party ( JSP), whereas the teachers’ union was affi liated with the Japan Communist Party ( JCP). Hawkins (1995) discusses these differing approaches and how they shaped political discussions of the issue, and Neary (2010) explains the origins of the division between the JSP and the JCP regarding buraku issues. 9. The splitting of the various buraku organizations is decidedly more complex than is suggested by the following discussion, in which I pre sent the general outlines of these divisions. For a more detailed discussion, see Neary 2010a and Tomotsune 2012. 10. The Liberal Democratic Party, a conservative political party, governed Japan from 1955 until 2008, with a brief break from power in the mid-1990s, and returned to power in 2012.

Chapter 3. Movement Integration 1. Although there was conflict during the early postwar period, the conflict seemed to have subsided by the 1950s, according to my informants and the written records to which I was given access. This is not to say that records of postwar conflict do not exist, but my repeated attempts to access postwar documents were rejected. I was given access to materials that covered discussions of prewar activities but nothing related to the postwar movement. 2. The JDK embraces silence as its fundamental approach, encouraging people to work to overcome all forms of discrimination, not necessarily centering on buraku concerns. It does view discrimination against those from Dōwa districts as problematic, though from its perspective, the manner in which such discrimination should be overcome takes a decidedly different approach from that of other social movement organizations. 3. More discussion on the Children’s Club is found in chapter 5.

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Chapter 4. Lessons of Silence 1. By comparison, the average for the United States is 93 percent, Korea is 94 percent, and the United Kingdom is 86 percent. 2. I was told of one case in which an entrance exam for a high school in Tokyo used a question about buraku issues, though this was viewed by many as simply a way to create a gap between those who would pass and those who would fail. In other words, the question was used to intentionally deceive. 3. Other groups in Japan have found similar terminology as being acceptable at one point in time and problematic at another, such as Ainu groups changing from the Hokkaido Ainu Association to the Hokkaido Utari Association and then back to the Hokkaido Ainu Association. 4. Teachers had knowledge as to who was from the buraku district of Nakata-chō based on home visits that teachers would often make to students’ homes as part of parent– teacher conferences. The knowledge the teachers gained from such home visits provided teachers with much information that they would other wise not know (Fukuzawa 1998, 308). 5. Public school teachers in Japan are rotated between schools, typically staying in one school for an average of five years. 6. The shift in the form of engagement is even seen in how I was able to gain access and information. When I tried to get historical background on the district, everyone I spoke to, including teachers, city officials, and community leaders, effectively stonewalled me. Again, this is not surprising when the JDK approach is to engage buraku issues in relative silence, working to eliminate buraku discrimination through less open and direct means. 7. The reason I did not talk more with Takeshi about his knowledge after this incident was that I did not have parental permission to conduct interviews with him, beyond general chatting in school. It would have been extremely unethical of me to bring this up again, as then it would have been an interview rather than an informal conversation. 8. Although this was taught to the students as “fact,” Bayliss (2013) rightly notes that it is impossible to ascertain if this happened, as access to these materials, even for research, has consistently been denied (37).

Chapter 5. Social Space and Social Interactions 1. Japan has seen an influx of Brazilians of Japa nese ancestry over the past twenty years, owing to both economic push-pull factors in Brazil and Japan, and specific immigration policies in Japan that encouraged people of Japa nese ancestry to move to Japan to work. For a greater discussion on this, see Roth (2002) or Maeda (2007). 2. Zainichi (literally “in Japan”) issues refer to resident Koreans in Japan. Secondand third-generation zainichi, who were born in Japan, are not Japa nese by nationality, despite being linguistically and culturally Japa nese. 3. As noted earlier, these terms are highly discriminatory, meaning “full of filth” and “non-human,” respectively. They would most closely parallel with the n-word in the United States.

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Chapter 6. Beyond the Cocoon 1. Arima Yukari was the teacher described in chapter  4 who had graduated from Hinode and also found herself explaining away the stigma of Hinode, not only to her classmates when she was in high school but to the teachers she worked with during her student-teaching period and beyond.

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Index

administrative struggles, 25 African Americans, 32, 76, 93, 127 Ainu, 165n3 (chap. 4) All Romance incident 25–26 attitudes toward burakumin, 2, 3, 6–9, 12, 17–22, 61, 66, 71–74, 98–101, 117, 123, 134, 144, 149, 157 bracketing, 3–4, 6, 10–12, 55, 85, 111, 119–22, 146–47; and silence, 124–26, 128, 141–47, 149–51. See also impression management; risk; security Brazilians of Japa nese ancestry, 89–91, 132, 165n1 (chap. 5) Brekhus, Wayne, 5–6, 10–11, 111, 119–120, 146 Buraku Kaihō Zenkoku Iinkai. See National Committee for Buraku Liberation Buraku Liberation League (BLL), 2; approaches of, 2, 31–32, 144; blended events, 34–35; fracturing 30–32; future of, 133, 137–38, 152–53; origins, 26; political party relationships, 164n8; in Takagawa, 39–44. See also burakumin; Takagawa burakumin, 1–2; backgrounds, 4; boundaries, 19–20, 32, 37, 39; history, 16–33; markers of, 5–6; name lists (chimeisōkan), 21; prewar social

movement organizations, 21–24; private investigators and, 21; postwar social movements, 24–26, 30–32. See also Buraku Liberation League; Children’s Club; Jiyū Dōwa Kai; Kaihō no Matsuri; Kuromatsu; National Committee for Buraku Liberation; outcaste; Suiheisha; Takagawa; Yūwa Undō Children’s Club, 40, 68; as alternate source of education, 42; changes in, 92, 136–37; connections with community, 97, 101, 106; connections with school, 94, 96–97, 102–5; effect on youth, 94–95, 98, 104–8; goals of, 92; other minorities and, 95; origins 92–93; structured social space, 93–94; Suiheisha, 95–96, 101. See also social networks code words, 60–62; challenging, 114–16; incorporation of, 85; strategic use, 67, 124–25. See under silence coming out, 38, 121–22, 125 commoners/new commoners, 19–20; koseki, 20, 165n8; lessons in school, 70–71 community revitalization. See machi zukuri compulsory majority–ness, 5, 144, 147, 150

182

Index

cultural practices, 34, 45–47, 49–54, 77–78, 96 demographic changes, 128–31 denunciation session. See kyūdan discrimination, 22, 71, 134; challenging, 98; language, 61–62; personal experiences, 72–75, 98–100, 116, 149; potential, 77, 98, 100, 117–23, 126, 141, 145; state role in, 75–76. See also fateful moments Dōwa education, 57–59; discretion, 59, 61, 64–66, 69, 71–72, 88–90; guest speakers, 72–75; in Hatanaka, 135–136; history lessons, 70, 75–77; lack of commitment, 82–83; lack of open discussion, 64–67; student response, 65–67, 73, 80; teacher views, 61–62, 65–66, 69–70; termination, 59–60 65–66 102–105. See also schools Dōwa Kai 30–31. See Jiyū Dōwa Kai Dōwa Taisaku Jigyō Tokubetsu Shochi Hō. See Special Mea sures Law Dōwa Taisaku Shingikai Tsūshin (Deliberative Council Assimilation Report), 26–27 Emancipation Edict, 19–20; lessons in school, 69–70; and occupational markers, 19 family registry. See koseki fateful moments, 98–99; experiences with, 117; youth response, 99–100, 111, 113. See also risk festival of liberation. See Kaihō no Matsuri Giddens, Anthony, 11–12, 86, 93, 98, 109, 111 Goffman, Erving, 10–11, 121, 150 graffiti incident, 98–101, 107 gyōsei tōsō. See administrative struggles Hatanaka City, 133–140; buraku issues in, 134–35; Kaihō no Matsuri in, 138–39; response to town merger, 134; schools

within, 135–36; symbolic changes to, 136–37 heimin/shin-heimin. See commoners/new commoners hierarchy, 60, 67–68, 102 Hinode Junior High School, 35–36; after-school programs, 87–92; approaches to buraku issues, 64–67; Brazilian culture in the curriculum, 89–91, 165n1 (chap. 5); discussion of local buraku district, 66–67, 165n4; reputation for violence, 60–61, 114–16. See also Dōwa education; Kuromatsu history. See under burakumin, Dōwa education; See also Tokugawa era identity, 2; beyond binary, 125; creation of, 11–12; duality of, 49–50, 52–53; as an ongoing process, 123; reflexivity, 10–12, 123–24, 146. See also impression management imperial family, 7, 48 impression management, 10–12, 38–39, 55, 100, 108, 111, 128; and stigma, 113–23, 140–41, 146–47, 150 Jinken Yōgo Shisaku Suishin Hō (Law for the Promotion of Human Rights Protection), 27 Jiyū Dōwa Kai (JDK), 3, 31; approaches of, 2, 31–32, 35–37, 88 144, 164n2; blended events, 34–39; future of 152–53; in Kuromatsu, 35–37; and political parties, 30–31; and schools, 64, 66, 88 Kaihō no Matsuri (Festival of Liberation), 40–42; as blended event, 41–42, 49–52; in Hatanaka, 133, 138–40; role of Children’s Club, 44, 47–48; orga nization, 46–49; origins, 44–45; response to, 51–52; scheduling, 45–46, 133; use of symbols, 46–52 Kaihō Rei. See Emancipation Edict Kodomo Kai. See Children’s Club

Index koseki, 4; discrimination and, 20–21, 76, 129; finding background, 20 Kuromatsu City, 2, 35–36; buraku district, 35–39; community center, 62–64; community consolidation, 131–33; and Jiyū Dōwa Kai, 3, 35–37; minority issues in, 131–32; new Kuromatsu City, 131–33. See also Dōwa education kyūdan (denunciation sessions), 23; criticism, 30–31, 41–42; local use, 41–42; Yata, 28–29; Yoka High School 29. See also All Romance incident Law for the Promotion of Human Rights Protection. See Jinken Yōgo Shisaku Suishin Hō LGBT, 11, 32, 75, 119, 148, 150–51 Liberal Democratic Party, 30–31 liberation education, 71–72. See also Dōwa education literacy classes, 42–43. See also Kaihō no Matsuri machi zukuri (city revitalization), 37–39 marginality. See discrimination methods, 3; expectations of researcher, 156; framing research topic, 158–59; interviews, 159–60; role of researcher, 159–61; and silence, 157–62; and social movement approaches, 156–58 Ministry of Education, 56–58, 69, 135 National Committee for Buraku Liberation (NCBL) 24; demands, 25; Matsumoto Jiichirō, 24–25; move to become Buraku Liberation League, 26 Okinawa, 50, 78, 84, 107 open space, 101–6, 109 outcaste, 2, 14, 16–19 passing, 11, 38–39, 112, 119, 149. See also bracketing; impression management pride, 41, 43, 51–52; in challenging silence, 77, 145; in community, 39, 41, 51; as a lesson, 75, 80, 84

183

protective cocoon, 2; changes in, 140; Children’s Club and, 96–98, 105–8; impermanence of, 109–11; lessons in school, 77, 85; moving beyond, 111–13, 123, 146; multiple layers of, 86–87; as protection, 12, 145; returning to, 119, 121, 129; rupturing of, 98–100. See also fateful moments; risk; security resident Koreans, 5, 81–82, 95, 165n2 (chap. 5) Rice Riots, 22; school lessons about, 71 risk, 3, 7, 12, 77, 85, 94, 98–100, 104, 109–13, 118–19, 126–28, 140–41, 145–150. See also bracketing; protective cocoon; security Sayama Incident, 8–9, 68 schools, 55–57; clubs, 78, 88, 91; connection to community, 56, 62–64, 82, 85, 88, 101; entrance exams, 56, 64 165n2 (chap. 4); festival, 78; legitimacy, 56, 84; matriculation, 111–17; teaching about other minorities, 81–82, 89–91. See also Dōwa education security, 3, 8, 42, 53, 77, 87, 93–94, 96, 98, 102, 104–5, 106–10, 112–17, 119–22, 137, 140–41, 143–50. See also bracketing; protective cocoon; risk silence, 3–4, 163n3; and blended events, 37–38; and bracketing, 124–26; challenging, 96, 102–4, 108–9, 121; code words, 60–62; as directive, 61, 157–58; first experiences with, 118–20; as form of marginalization, 4, 144; as form of protection, 10–12, 116–17, 147–48; and government, 9–10; institutional changes affecting, 138–40, 142; and media, 6–9, 144; reinforced in school, 91, 108–09; reproduction of, 111–12, 148; as a social process, 5–6, 10, 87, 116, 140–41, 143, 146, 149; and Special Mea sures Law, 27–28; violations of, 7. See also identity management; passing

184

Index

social construction, 15–16, 61; of whiteness, 16, 163n1 (chap. 2) social networks, 49–50, 91, 105, 107 Special Mea sures Law, 26–27; education, 58–59; silence, 9–10, 27–28; termination of, 31, 65, 102, 106, 129, 135, 151. See also Dōwa education; open space stigma. See under impression management Suiheisha, 22–24; approaches, 23–24; challenging discrimination, 23; connections to current movement, 40; government control, 23–24; relation to open space, 101–2; state response, 24, 164n5; teachings, 71. See also burakumin; kyūdan

82–83. See also Dōwa education; schools Takagawa town, 2, 39–41; Buraku Liberation League, 3, 39–44; gappei, 133–34; Human Rights Parade, 43, 97. See also Hatanaka City; Kaihō no Matsuri textbooks, 56–57, 66, 84 Thomas theorem, 15–16; 61 Tokugawa era, 17–18, 163n2 (chap. 2); lessons in school, 75–77

Takagawa Junior High School, 67–69; in Hatanaka City, 135–36; hierarchy, 67–69; open space, 101–2; school festival, 78; symbolic connection to buraku issues, 68; teachers, 69–71,

Zenkoku Kaihō Undo Rengō Kai (Zenkairen) (National Buraku Liberation Alliance), 30–31; and political parties, 164n8 Zerubavel, Eviatar, 5, 10, 148

voice, 2, 5, 103; challenges, 143–44; as embedded process, 39–54, 145; and symbols, 39–40, 43–51 Yūwa Undō (Harmony Movement), 22–24, 58, 164n5; government control, 23–24

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Harvard East Asian Monographs 290. Eve Zimmerman, Out of the Alleyway: Nakagami Kenji and the Poetics of Outcaste Fiction 291. Robert Culp, Articulating Citizenship: Civic Education and Student Politics in Southeastern China, 1912–1940 292. Richard J. Smethurst, From Foot Soldier to Finance Minister: Takahashi Korekiyo, Japan’s Keynes 293. John E. Herman, Amid the Clouds and Mist: China’s Colonization of Guizhou, 1200– 1700 294. Tomoko Shiroyama, China during the Great Depression: Market, State, and the World Economy, 1929–1937 295. Kirk W. Larsen, 7UDGLWLRQ7UHDWLHVDQG7UDGH4LQJ,PSHULDOLVPDQG&KRVʼnQ.RUHD 1850–1910 296. Gregory Golley, When Our Eyes No Longer See: Realism, Science, and Ecology in Japanese Literary Modernism 297. Barbara Ambros, (PSODFLQJD3LOJULPDJH7KHņ\DPD&XOWDQG5HJional Religion in Early Modern Japan 298. Rebecca Suter, The Japanization of Modernity: Murakami Haruki between Japan and the United States 299. Yuma Totani, The Tokyo War Crimes Trial: The Pursuit of Justice in the Wake of World War II 301. David M. Robinson, ed., Culture, Courtiers, and Competition: The Ming Court (1368– 1644) 302. Calvin Chen, 6RPH$VVHPEO\5HTXLUHG:RUN&RPPXQLW\DQG3ROLWLFVLQ&KLQD·V5XUDO Enterprises 303. Sem Vermeersch, The Power of the Buddhas: The Politics of Buddhism DuriQJWKH.RU\ʼn Dynasty (918–1392) 304. Tina Lu, Accidental Incest, Filial Cannibalism, and Other Peculiar Encounters in Late Imperial Chinese Literature 305. Chang Woei Ong, Men of Letters Within the Passes: Guanzhong Literati in Chinese History, 907–1911 306. Wendy Swartz, Reading Tao Yuanming: Shifting Paradigms of Historical Reception (427–1900) 307. Peter K. Bol, Neo-Confucianism in History 308. Carlos Rojas, The Naked Gaze: Reflections on Chinese Modernity 309. Kelly H. Chong, Deliverance and Submission: Evangelical Women and the Negotiation of Patriarchy in South Korea 310. Rachel DiNitto, Uchida Hyakken: A Critique of Modernity and Militarism in Prewar Japan 311. Jeffrey Snyder-Reinke, Dry Spells: State Rainmaking and Local Governance in Late Imperial China 312. Jay Dautcher, Down a Narrow Road: Identity and Masculinity in a Uyghur Community in Xinjiang China 313. Xun Liu, Daoist Modern: Innovation, Lay Practice, and the Community of Inner Alchemy in Republican Shanghai

Harvard East Asian Monographs 314. Jacob Eyferth, Eating Rice from Bamboo Roots: The Social History of a Community of Handicraft Papermakers in Rural Sichuan, 1920–2000 315. David Johnson, Spectacle and Sacrifice: The Ritual Foundations of Village Life in North China 316. James Robson, Power of Place: The Religious Landscape of the Southern Sacred Peak (Nanyue ◦が) in Medieval China 317. Lori Watt, When Empire Comes Home: Repatriation and Reintegration in Postwar Japan 318. James Dorsey, Critical Aesthetics: Kobayashi Hideo, Modernity, and Wartime Japan 319. Christopher Bolton, Sublime Voices: The Fictional Science and Scientific Fiction of Abe .ŇEŇ 320. Si-yen Fei, Negotiating Urban Space: Urbanization and Late Ming Nanjing 321. Christopher Gerteis, Gender Struggles: Wage-Earning Women and Male-Dominated Unions in Postwar Japan 322. Rebecca Nedostup, Superstitious Regimes: Religion and the Politics of Chinese Modernity 323. Lucien Bianco, Wretched Rebels: Rural Disturbances on the Eve of the Chinese Revolution 324. Cathryn H. Clayton, Sovereignty at the Edge: Macau and the Question of Chineseness 325. Micah S. Muscolino, Fishing Wars and Environmental Change in Late Imperial and Modern China 326. Robert I. Hellyer, Defining Engagement: Japan and Global Contexts, 1750–1868 327. Robert Ashmore, The Transport of Reading: Text and Understanding in the World of Tao Qian (365–427) 328. Mark A. Jones, Children as Treasures: Childhood and the Middle Class in Early Twentieth Century Japan 329. Miryam Sas, Experimental Arts in Postwar Japan: Moments of Encounter, Engagement, and Imagined Return 330. H. Mack Horton, Traversing the Frontier: The 0DQ·\ŇVKş Account of a Japanese Mission to Silla in 736–737 331. Dennis J. Frost, Seeing Stars: Sports Celebrity, Identity, and Body Culture in Modern Japan 332. Marnie S. Anderson, $3ODFHLQ3XEOLF:RPHQ·V5LJKWVLQ0HLML-DSDQ 333. Peter Mauch, SailRU'LSORPDW1RPXUD.LFKLVDEXUŇDQGWKH-DSDQHVH-American War 334. Ethan Isaac Segal, Coins, Trade, and the State: Economic Growth in Early Medieval Japan 335. David B. Lurie, Realms of Literacy: Early Japan and the History of Writing 336. Lillian Lan-ying Tseng, Picturing Heaven in Early China 337. Jun Uchida, Brokers of Empire: Japanese Settler Colonialism in Korea, 1876–1945 338. Patricia L. Maclachlan, 7KH3HRSOH·V3RVW2IILFH7KH+LVWRU\DQG3ROLWLFVRIWKH-DSDQHVH Postal System, 1871–2010 339. Michael Schiltz, The Money Doctors from Japan: Finance, Imperialism, and the Building of the Yen Bloc, 1895–1937 340. Daqing Yang, Jie Liu, Hiroshi Mitani, and Andrew Gordon, eds., Toward a History beyond Borders: Contentious Issues in Sino-Japanese Relations 341. Sonia Ryang, Reading North Korea: An Ethnological Inquiry 342. Shih-shan Susan Huang, Picturing the True Form: Daoist Visual Culture in

Harvard East Asian Monographs Traditional China 343. Barbara Mittler, A Continuous Revolution: Making Sense of Cultural Revolution Culture 344. Hwansoo Ilmee Kim, Empire of the Dharma: Korean and Japanese Buddhism, 1877–1912 345. Satoru Saito, Detective Fiction and the Rise of the Japanese Novel, 1880–1930 346. Jung-Sun N. Han, An Imperial Path to Modernity: Yoshino SakuzŇand a New Liberal Order in East Asia, 1905–1937 347. Atsuko Hirai, Government by Mourning: Death and Political Integration in Japan, 1603– 1912 348. Darryl E. Flaherty, Public Law, Private Practice: Politics, Profit, and the Legal Profession in Nineteenth-Century Japan 349. Jeffrey Paul Bayliss, On the Margins of Empire: Buraku and Korean Identity in Prewar and Wartime Japan 350. Barry Eichengreen, Dwight H. Perkins, and Kwanho Shin, From Miracle to Maturity: The Growth of the Korean Economy 351. Michel Mohr, Buddhism, Unitarianism, and the Meiji Competition for Universality 352. J. Keith Vincent, Two-Timing Modernity: Homosocial Narrative in Modern Japanese Fiction 354. Chong-Bum An and Barry Bosworth, Income Inequality in Korea: An Analysis of Trends, Causes, and Answers 355. Jamie L. Newhard, Knowing the Amorous Man: A History of Scholarship on Tales of Ise 356. Sho Konishi, Anarchist Modernity: Cooperatism and Japanese-Russian Intellectual Relations in Modern Japan 357. Christopher P. Hanscom, The Real Modern: Literary Modernism and the Crisis of Representation in Colonial Korea 358. Michael Wert, Meiji Restoration Losers: Memory and Tokugawa Supporters in Modern Japan 359. Garret P. S. Olberding, ed., Facing the Monarch: Modes of Advice in the Early Chinese Court 360. Xiaojue Wang, Modernity with a Cold War Face: Reimagining the Nation in Chinese Literature Across the 1949 Divide 361. David Spafford, A Sense of Place: The Political Landscape in Late Medieval Japan 362. Jongryn Mo and Barry Weingast, Korean Political and Economic Development: Crisis, Security, and Economic Rebalancing 363. Melek Ortabasi, The Undiscovered Country: Text, Translation, and Modernity in the Work of Yanagita Kunio 364. Hiraku Shimoda, Lost and Found: Recovering Regional Identity in Imperial Japan 365. Trent E. Maxey, The “Greatest Problem”: Religion and State Formation in Meiji Japan 366. Gina Cogan, The Princess Nun: Bunchi, Buddhist Reform, and Gender in Early Edo Japan 367. Eric C. Han, Rise of a Japanese Chinatown: Yokohama, 1894–1972 368. Natasha Heller, Illusory Abiding: The Cultural Construction of the Chan Monk Zhongfeng Mingben

Harvard East Asian Monographs 369. Paize Keulemans, Sound Rising from the Paper: Nineteenth-Century Martial Arts Fiction and the Chinese Acoustic Imagination 370. Simon James Bytheway, Investing Japan: Foreign Capital, Monetary Standards, and Economic Development, 1859–2011 371. Sukhee Lee, Negotiated Power: The State, Elites, and Local Governance in TwelfthFourteenth China 372. Foong Ping, The Efficacious Landscape: On the Authorities of Painting at the Northern Song Court 373. Catherine L. Phipps, Empires on the Waterfront: Japan’s Ports and Power, 1858–1899 374. Sunyoung Park, The Proletarian Wave: Literature and Leftist Culture in Colonial Korea, 1910–1945 375. Barry Eichengreen, Wonhyuk Lim, Yung Chul Park, and Dwight H. Perkins, The Korean Economy: From a Miraculous Past to a Sustainable Future 376. Heather Blair, Real and Imagined: The Peak of Gold in Heian Japan 377. Emer O’Dwyer, Significant Soil: Settler Colonialism and Japan’s Urban Empire in Manchuria 378. Martina Deuchler, Under the Ancestors’ Eyes: Kinship, Status, and Locality in Premodern Korea 379. Joseph R. Dennis, Writing, Publishing, and Reading Local Gazetteers in Imperial China, 1100–1700 380. Catherine Vance Yeh, The Chinese Political Novel: Migration of a World Genre 381. Noell Wilson, Defensive Positions: The Politics of Maritime Security in Tokugawa Japan 382. Miri Nakamura, Monstrous Bodies: The Rise of the Uncanny in Modern Japan 383. Nara Dillon, Radical Inequalities: China’s Revolutionary Welfare State in Comparative Perspective 384. Ma Zhao, Runaway Wives, Urban Crimes, and Survival Tactics in Wartime Beijing, 1937-1949 385. Mingwei Song, Young China: National Rejuvenation and the Bildungsroman, 1900-1959 386. Christopher Bondy, Voice, Silence, and Self: Negotiations of Buraku Identity in Contemporary Japan 387. Seth Jacobowitz, Writing Technology in Meiji Japan: A Media History of Modern Japanese Literature and Visual Culture 388. Hilde De Weerdt, Information, Territory, and Elite Networks: The Crisis and Maintenance of Empire in Song China 389. Elizabeth Kindall, Geo-Narratives of a Filial Son: The Paintings and Travel Diaries of Huang Xiangjian (1609–1673) 390. Matthew Fraleigh, 3OXFNLQJ&KU\VDQWKHPXPV1DUXVKLPD5\şKRNXDQG6LQLWLF/LWHUDU\ Traditions in Modern Japan 391. Hu Ying, Burying Autumn: Poetry, Friendship, and Loss 392. Mark E. Byington, 7KH$QFLHQW6WDWHRI3X\ʼnLQ1RUWKHDVW$VLD$UFKDHRORJ\DQG Historical Memory 393. Timothy J. Van Compernolle, Struggling Upward: Worldly Success and the Japanese Novel