Author: 조왕신

Esperanto was a language created to be an international and shared-medium that facilitated cross-cultural communication. It therefore ridded people of language-problems that were deemed to prevent ideas being easily understood and transmitted between different cultures.¹ Having never encountered Esperanto prior to reading “A Language for Asia? Transnational Encounters in the Japanese Esperanto Movement, 1906-1928” by Ian Rapley, I found the reasons for its spread in Japan fascinating. From the readings I identified that a mix of pragmatism and optimism led to the popularity of Esperanto as it was practical as an international language to learn, whilst also being associated with notions of fairness and equality because  it was upheld that anyone could learn and speak Esperanto.² Further to this, I will analyse why the Esperanto movement grew in Japan and what the key foundations that enabled the growth of the movement where.

Esperanto within Japan relied heavily on the Japana Esperantista Asocio (JEA) which allowed them to gather together students and speakers, whilst providing sets of texts to support them and the learning of the language.³  I believe from the readings that the philosophy of the language was an incredibly motivational factor, because it surged the popularity of the movement as it was seen to place language “at the heart of transnational engagement”⁴ I found this an interesting concept, that links with the idea of Wordism which later on promised the emancipation from the nation state, racial and ethical barriers.⁵ Because Esperanto as a movement shined light onto the intellectual underpinnings of internationalism and consequently how Japan began to link itself with the world.⁶

But how far can Esperanto be seen as an example of the desire for emancipation within Japan. I would argue that they can be closely linked, because the Esperanto movement was centred around an ideal of free and transnational associations across the world.⁷. The key aim of Esperanto was to make it so any learner can make direct use of his knowledge with people from any nationality, which opens up intellectual discussion and makes it easier to interact with other nationalities. Alongside this it was studied “by elites and nonelites alike in noninstitutional spaces” outside of state guidance.⁶. This reveals that the movement strived for uninhibited and transnational connections across persons of any nationality who could converse without barriers of language or ideology. As efforts to create a planned international language are a blatant example of prevailing work to create a global identity.

 

1. Ian Rapley, A Language for Asia? Transnational Encounters in the Japanese Esperanto Movement, 1906-1928, (2016), p.75 [↩]
2. Ian Rapley, A Language for Asia? Transnational Encounters in the Japanese Esperanto Movement, 1906-1928, (2016), p.167 [↩]
3. Ian Rapley, A Language for Asia? Transnational Encounters in the Japanese Esperanto Movement, 1906-1928, (2016), p.176 [↩]
4. Ibid., p.168 [↩]
5. Sho Konishi, “Translingual World Order: Language without Culture in post-Russo-Japanese war Japan”, Journal of Asian Studies 72 (2013), p.93 [↩]
6. Ibid., p.92 [↩] [↩]
7. Ibid., p.93 [↩]

Yasukuni Shrine is a Japanese Shinto Shrine created for the war dead who served the Emperor of Japan during wars from 1867 until 1951. It was built in 1869 under the orders of Emperor Meiji. According to Shinto belief it houses the actual souls of the dead as Kami which are spirits or ‘holy powers’ that are venerated within the religion of Shinto.¹ Furthermore within Shinto there is a belief that the process of enshrinement is permanent and therefore irreversible as a soul cannot be removed from the shine once placed there.² are various controversies surrounding the Yasukuni Shrine, that I wanted to analyse to understand further the tradition of Shinto and how in this case it has been brought into debates concerning Japanese historical memory.  I will analyse some of the key issues with the Yasunkuni Shrine, and why internationally there has been such a widespread reaction as shown by the vast amount of discourse on the shrine alone.

One of the most notable controversies is the issue of some of the war dead that have been enshrines at the Yasukuni Shrine, as some of these individuals have since been found guilty of war criminals by the International Military Tribunal for the Far East.³  This has resulted in the shrine being viewed as nationalist, explaining the outrage when the shrine is visited by politicians.  The controversial nature of the shrine is complex, as it has become an internationally recognised subject.  For instance, China and South Korea who suffered war crimes under the Japanese have called the Yasukuni Shrine a demonstration of historical negationism and an unremorseful approach to their crimes during World War Two.⁴ The shrine was merely a domestic concern until the 1970’s when it “increasingly took on an international dimension” as issues such as citizens of South Korea and Taiwan objecting to the post-war enshrinement of their family members have arisen.⁵ In contrast many supporters of the Shrine have voiced that it is a Japanese affair and that the government and even Japanese citizens have a  patriotic duty that should not be ignored to participate in the care of the military war dead.⁶

Criticisms of the shrine have highlights two key issues: firstly, the enshrinement of spirits of executed war criminals; and secondly the biased and patriotic narrative of the Second World War that is presented within the Yūshūkan war museum at the site of the Yasukuni Shrine.⁷) There is an interesting debate to be had here, about entitlement and whether it is “the right of any nation to commemorate and write its past as it sees fit”.⁸ As nations other than Japan have forged similar tradional narratives in order to commemorate those who died in the war. These narratives have been rendered into public memory and ensure they are not forgotten as regularly they are the entity of a national consensus that symbolises specific national virtues.⁹ But the issue with the Yakusuni narrative is that it is widely contested within Japan and internationally by historians who criticize the propagandist elements of the exhibitions in the Yūshūkan war museum. Ian Buruma shared this view by asserting during the 1990’s that the exhibitions were “straight out wartime propaganda” by removing from public memory suggestions of suffering and upholding a distinctly nationalistic view.¹⁰

However, the issues surrounding the shrine cannot be simplified to whether the shrine should exist or not, as the controversies encompass complex matters on an international scale that stretch beyond the shrine itself.¹¹  These issues are chiefly focused on public memory and how to judge the correct process of commemoration for the war dead. The politics of representation therefore is present within this issue, as the Yasukuni Shrine has resulted in a “cult of the war dead” and questions of whether countries should be free to honour their war dead as they see fit without condemnation.¹²

Consequently, as it is such a multifaceted and widely debated topic my analysis of the controversy of the Yasukuni Shrine has not touched on all of the issues that are presented by this example of the battle between historical memories. Commemorative politics continues to be debated with regards to the shrine and its depiction of World War Two within its war museum, especially as the relationship between social memory and the values that mould its purpose are continually realigning.¹³ It is interesting to consider why the Yasukuni Shrine has inspired such widespread international attention, and the Yasukuni Shrine is a useful example that reveals a lot about Japanese historical memory and the tensions associated with its approach to the past.

 

 

1. Tamura, Yoshiro, Japanese Buddhism: A Cultural History, (2000,Tokyo) p.40 [↩]
2. Mark Mullins, “How Yasukuni Shrine Survived the Occupation: A Critical Examination of Popular Claims”, Monumenta Nipponica 65 (2010), p. 92 [↩]
3. Ibid., p.92 [↩]
4. Ibid., p.94 [↩]
5. Ibid., p. 90 [↩]
6. Ibid., p.90 [↩]
7. Shaun O’Dwyer, “The Yasukuni Shrine and the Competing Patriotic Pasts of East Asia”, History and Memory 22 (2010), p.147 [↩]
8. Shaun O’Dwyer, “The Yasukuni Shrine and the Competing Patriotic Pasts of East Asia”, History and Memory 22 (2010), p.147 [↩]
9. Ibid., p.148 [↩]
10. Ian Buruma, The Wages of Guilt, (London, 1994), p.223 [↩]
11. John Nelson, “Social Memory as Ritual Practice: Commemorating Spirits of the Military Dead at Yasukuni Shinto Shrine”, The Journal of Asian Studies 62 (2003), p.447 [↩]
12. Ibid., p.445 [↩]
13. Ibid., p.464 [↩]

In the chapter ‘Defining Orthodoxy and Heterodoxy’ in the book Moulding the Japanese Minds: The State in Everyday Life by Sheldon Garon I recognised certain themes alongside the rise of State Shinto and the religious control that accompanied this movement. There were references to absolutism and the adoption of religious tradition for new ideological uses. I wanted to analyse whether State Shinto was a political religion that drew on religious tradition in order to uphold the concept of the Emperor as sanctified. State Shinto can be described as the ideological use by Imperial Japan of the traditions of Shinto in order to emphasise the central role of the Emperor in both religious and political affairs.¹ This ideology was forged during the Meji Era from 1868 to 1912 after governments created a brand-new orthodoxy that centred on the Emperor as sacrosanct who should be worshiped as a revered figure and leader.² This bound together ritual and also government bureaucracy. Therefore, it can be identified that State Shinto became an absolute doctrine, as it blended together patriotism and values of social harmony. I am going to analyse how State Shinto led to reduced religious freedom but also a widespread adoption of religious practices as political instruments.³

“In a nation like Japan, where the Emperor system was the source of all values, any true religion inevitably came into conflict with the emperor system”⁴

It can be argued firstly that State Shinto became a political ideology and was successful by establishing Shinto practice as a patriotic honourable tradition. Through the analysis of different historical discourse one can recognise how State Shinto utilised pre-existing traditions of shrine worship, whilst endorsing the cult of the emperor. This is illustrated by how the Meji Constitution of 1889 positioned “sovereignty in the hands of a mythic imperial house”.⁴ This effort to create a religion centred around the emperor did succeed, as Sheldon Garen writes in his book that a new doctrinal absolutism was formed, for instance the use of shrines as political instruments is highlighted as enabling propagation of the system of rites and rituals.⁵ These methods can be identified as quasi-religious, because in order to mobilise popular support the state used traditional religious formats to inspire devotion.

There was also a movement to restrict religious practice in order to bring different sects and religions under the control of the Emperor. This took place during a religious revival after World War One when new religions sprung up outside of the main thirteen established Shinto sects.⁶ These sects “resembled the charismatic mass sects fo the Mid-Nineteenth Century”, and therefore greatly concerned the officials of the Imperial State because they worshiped deities that had not been officially endorsed and were free from bureaucratic control. This is demonstrated by the strong reaction against the rise of these new sects of Shinto, as they were regarded as ‘evil cults’ that needed to be eradicated. For example, the Governments Religions Bill in 1927 was created to as  an intrusive attempt to gain more control over religious teachings and conduct by offering tax exemptions and some protections in exchange for state intervention.⁷

Consequently, it can be argued that there is a link between Shinto and the concept of a political religion, as alongside the emphasis of the Emperor at the centre of Shinto religion it became the official doctrine that since the Japanese were descended from the Gods, they were superior to all other existing races. As the Emperor was given a newfound political status, political, military, social and religious institutions positioned themselves around the Emperor, who became a revered icon and a symbol of the spirit of Japan. State Shinto therefore became similar to that of a national cult whereby the Japanese government mobilised Shinto thought and practice as a pillar of “national integration”.⁸

1. Earhart Byron, Religion in the Japanese Experience: Sources and Interpretations, (California, 1974), p.50 [↩]
2. Sheldon, Garon, Moulding the Japanese Minds: The State in Everyday Life, (Princeton, 1997), p.61 [↩]
3. Sheldon, Garon, Moulding the Japanese Minds: The State in Everyday Life, (Princeton, 1997), p.67 [↩]
4. Ibid., p.61 [↩] [↩]
5. Ibid., p.65 [↩]
6. Ibid., p273 [↩]
7. Ibid., p.283 [↩]
8. Susumu Shimazono, “State Shinto and the Religious Structure of Modern Japan”, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 73, (2005), pp.1078 [↩]

“These incongruities bring to the fore the contradictions that a woman had to embody as remnant of the old order and bearer of the new”¹

Within the book ‘Cinderella’s Sisters: A Revisionist History of Footbinding’ I found the Tianzu movement to be a double-edged concept which Dorothy Ko analysed from a controversial perspective. Ko regarded that alongside anti-footbinding movements being chiefly male organised they were also misonganistic in their approaches to foot binding. As they did not take into account the irreversible nature of the process or the pain these woman had experienced, but rather the male “Chinese elite” wanted to distance themselves from the backwards tradition of foot binding.² As they recognised this tradition as halting their advancement in the modern world. The Anti-footbinding movements that gathered urgency during the early Twentieth Century were known as Tianzu, meaning literally “heavenly foot”.³  Through the use of Dorothy Ko’s book we can reflect on the paradoxical issues that accompanied the work of male Chinese abolitionists to reveal the historical implications of Tianzu and the enforcement of unbinding.⁴

“One womans pride and freedom was prediction on another woman’s shame and bondage”⁵

The humiliating view of women who had their feet bound became a hallmark of Chinese modern nationalist discourse. Ko sort to present an alternative to the transitional period that was the end of foot binding, by revealing the true and authentic female voice that demonstrates the complexity of Tianzu.⁶ One of the chief outcomes of this process was the criminalisation of foot binding, and to enforce this social surveillance was used to check that the process was being stamped out.⁷  For example newly installed authorities were able to “scrutinise and look” to gather the number of footboard females in their area.⁷ However, this surveillance was humiliating, and treated women as objects to be gazed at. One of the key factors behind the aura of foot binding had previously been the concealment of the flesh by bindings. However these checks meant that women were forced to show their feet in public, and felt ashamed rather than liberated. Ironically this had a more humiliating effect as it was public, resulting in issues of groping during inspections. Alongside this, the bureaucratisation of feet inspection led to ambiguity between the aims of the movement, as rather than freeing women it led to a misogynistic attitude towards those with bound feet as they were called “parasites and femme fatales harmful to the nation”.⁵

This humiliation, however, did not stem from the abuses and imperfect method of inspections, but rather from a culture of national shame that resulted in an urgency to unbind feet. This reveals that the tactic of these campaigns was paradoxical because the female suffering, that had previously provoked people to challenge traditional thinking, stressed the link of femaleness with victimhood.⁸ And in this way the experiences and pain of these women were adopted by anti-foot binding movements that dictated the response to foot binding, resulting in those who had undergone the irreversible process being branded as symbols of China’s backwardness.

 

1. Ko, Dorothy, Cinderella’s Sisters: A Revisionist History of Footbinding, (California, 2007), p.14 [↩]
2. Ibid., p.29 [↩]
3. Ibid., p.22 [↩]
4. Ibid., p.18 [↩]
5. Ibid., p.68 [↩] [↩]
6. Ibid., p11 [↩]
7. Ibid., p55 [↩] [↩]
8. Ibid., p.58 [↩]

During a period of national crisis within China Anarchism evolved into a strong force within radical intellectual discourse. It succeeded in making a lasting impact on Chinese thinking by forming a new consciousness of society and awareness of the self. A key aspect of Anarchism was its introduction of novel themes, as Chang Hao wrote that it encouraged people to “re-examine the institutional foundation of the Chinese socio-political order”.¹ Socialism was another radical political movement at the beginning of the Twentieth Century in China that propagated a belief in building a revolution through the use of the elected office as an implement for social change. Therefore despite similarities in their desire for the transformation of society we can detect variation between these two radical movements.

By analysing chapter’s 2 (“Nationalism, Utopianism and Revolutionary Politics”) and 4 (“Anarchists against Socialists in Early Republican China”), I have identified differences in these movements approaches. A large part of these differences can be attributed to their attitude towards revolution and consequently how the transformation of society should be approached. This is the aspect the following article with chiefly concentrate on.

1. Interpretation of ‘revolution’

Whilst both movements wanted to alter society there was a discrepency between their visions for achieving social change through revolution. Therefore an underlying reason for their differences was their vision of how the revolution should occur and thus their concept of political space.

The Anarchists wanted to “transform society at its very base”, and did not believe in replacing one government with another.²  For instance, they “believed revolution could not be imposed… through inherently authoritarian institutions”.³ This reveals that for the Anarchists the revolution meant a total abolishment of all existing institutions, not the use of them as a method for gaining control. This explains the friction and conflicting interests between the Anarchists and Socialists as this use of the elected office as a tool deviated from the spontaneous revolution that the Anarchists envisaged. As shown by their awareness of “the rift between political structures and society”.⁴ This difference is highlighted by how the Communist Party of China (CPC) regarded social revolution as the “basis of a new world of politics but not a substitute for it”, making clear the two movements varied outlooks.⁵

2. Organisation

On another note, the newly formed CPC began to take influence from the Anarchist movement after its formation in 1921, predominantly due to its superior organisation and the use of institutions to aid cross-regional synchronisation.⁶  The early Socialists had also succeeded in creating a distinct policy and identity, resulting in less inconsistency within the Socialist movement and therefore increased support. In comparison the Anarchists had the disadvantage of the diffusion of their concepts and ideas to the point where is was difficult to “define the contours of anarchism as a movement”.⁷  This lack of a clear-cut identity meant that it was unable to distinguish itself against other schools of thought, leading to its loss of support to the CPC who showed organisational skills that the Anarchists lacked.

 

1. Arif, Dirlik, Anarchism in the Chinese Revolution, (London, 1991), p.53 [↩]
2. Ibid., p.118 [↩]
3. Ibid., p.86 [↩]
4. Viren, Murthy, “Reviewed Work: Anarchism in the Chinese Revolution”, Philosophy East and West 46 (Hawai, 1996), p.123 [↩]
5. Arif, Dirlik, Anarchism in the Chinese Revolution, (London, 1991), p.147 [↩]
6. Ibid., p.147 [↩]
7. Ibid., p.12 [↩]