Authenticating Culture in Imperial Japan: Kuki Shūzō and the Rise of National Aesthetics

Shuzo Kuki, a prominent Japanese philosopher of the early twentieth century, is best remembered for his seminal work, ‘Iki no Kozo’ (The Structure of Iki). His book was published in 1930; it explores the aesthetic concept of ‘iki’, which is a term that encompasses a sophisticated style prevalent in the late Edo urban culture of Japan. Kuki argued, that ‘iki’ embodied both ideas of cosmopolitanism and modernity, comparable to that of Western cultures. Furthermore, especially after the second world war, Kuki’s work would become more well known on the global scale, sparking recognition as a successful synthesis of both Western and Japanese aesthetics. 

Leslie Pincus, in her work ‘Fascism and Aesthetics’, critiques the general presupposition of a favourable western interpretation of Kuki’s philosophy. Indeed, she makes the argument that there is a link between Kuki’s modern aestheticism and political fascism, believing that Kuki both admired and was antagonistic towards the West, fearing complete cultural colonisation, which is why he tried to assert Japan’s cultural superiority over the West. Pincus calls for a reevaluation of Kuki’s legacy; to reexamine the extent to which his work influenced cultural nationalism in Japan. She believes that by romanticizing the imperial rule as having ‘traditional harmony’, it led to the Japanese assertion of fascist ideologies, who sought to impose these ideas that perhaps never even existed in history to begin with. Pincus offer’s a critical look on Kuki’s work, relating it to still have prevalence in the discussion of Japanese nationalism, modernity, and the ongoing dialogue between the West and Japan nowadays.  

The Role of Contingency in Kuki Shūzō’s Philosophy of Japanese Identity and Aesthetics

Kuki Shūzō was a philosopher on the fringes of the Kyoto School in 20th century Japan. He pursued a uniquely Japanese aesthetic identity amidst the assimilation of Japanese culture to Western modernization, combining Western philosophical frameworks and Japanese sensibilities in his construction of iki–an identity made up of pride and restraint calling back to Edo-period lifestyles. Kuki’s philosophy negotiates contingency in defining Japanese identity, and his use of contingent aesthetics–particularly in his exploration of iki–can be both a source of cultural insight and critique.

Kuki’s major philosophical writings celebrated difference and individuality, defining the concept of contingency as the gap between analysis and experience which is generally opposed to universal judgments.1 Though this particular discussion is heavily metaphysical, it is useful in understanding Kuki Shūzō’s contributions to identity during the interwar era. Iki was seen as possessing unstable qualities of being, which centered the role of tradition while moving into the future. Because every contingency is unlabeled, its existence is fragile and faces an inevitable realization of destruction.2 This abstract concept relates to Kuki’s engagement with iki as a necessary but fluid development of Japanese culture and, in a contradictory manner, as a source of stability during the rapid development of the 20th century.

Kuki’s exploration of contingency allows his construction of Japanese identity to remain fluid and free from the essentialist constraints seen in Western identity frameworks.3 Kuki understood iki as contingent on historical and social factors, highlighting the inherent fluidity of the non-essential characteristics which shape Japanese cultural identity. From this perspective, iki became a tool to signify a unique sense of Japaneseness against the encroaching influence of Western universalism, yet Kuki relied on the frameworks of Western aesthetic to explore and justify it.4 Pincus further problematizes iki’s cross-cultural contingent foundations by arguing that Kuki’s exploration of the subject was built off of ‘Western desire’. She elaborates that Japan had spent a significant period assimilating to the West, which forced them to “delineate Japaneseness against, and within, Western discursive modes”5 Kuki reached for iki as an aesthetic style which preceded direct Western engagement with Japan, elevating it as the last distinctive signifier of Japanese culture.6 This makes iki contingent upon the West even as it reaches to establish itself as wholly Japanese, further complicating the role of contingent identity in establishing a cultural standard.

This is additionally explored by Koshiro, who critiques how the iki aesthetic could be used within Japanese nationalist ideologies by attempting to fix a contingent identity as a pure authentic ideal. As one example, Kuki has been criticized for his aristocratic worship of the emperor and his portrayal of it as an integral part of Japanese tradition in iki.7 The implications of using unstable aesthetics to define identity draws into question whether Kuki’s construction of iki has the potential to serve Japan’s authoritarian ends by masking contingency as pure authenticity, interacting with nationalist endeavors and Japan’s imperial identity. Thus, the role of contingency in Kuki’s work is both an intellectual asset and an obstacle, whose analysis offers insights into the complexities of building a stable cultural identity in a globalized world.

  1. John C. Maraldo, ‘Kuki Shūzō’ in James W. Heisig, Thomas P. Kasulis, and John C. Maraldo (eds) Japanese Philosophy: A Sourcebook (Honolulu, 2011) pp. 829, 834. [↩]
  2. Ibid., p. 846-847. [↩]
  3. Leslie Pincus, ‘In a Labyrinth of Western Desire: Kuki Shuzo and the Discovery of Japanese Being’, Boundary 2 18: 3 (1991), p. 147. [↩]
  4. Ibid., p. 148. [↩]
  5. Ibid., p. 144. [↩]
  6. Ibid. [↩]
  7. Yukiko Koshiro, ‘Fascism and Aesthetics’ Review of Leslie Pincus, The Review of Politics, 59: 3 (1997), p. 607. [↩]

Imperial Internationalism in Japan: The Bahai Faith Meets the Concordia Movement

The Bahai faith originated in Iran in the mid-19th century led by its living prophet Baha’u’llah. His teachings called for the unification of the world’s religions, viewing all faiths as different manifestations of God.1 The eldest son of Baha’u’llah, Abdu’l-Baha, succeeded his father and led a campaign to spread the teachings of Bahai to the United States and Europe. Agnes Baldwin Alexander, a young American woman from Hawaii, would spread the religion in Japan in the 20th century. The faith’s humanist, internationalist doctrine fit neatly within the nation’s imperial ideology.

In London in 1912, Agnes B. Alexander wrote an account of the meeting between Abdu’l-Baha and Jinzo Naruse, President of Japan’s Women’s College. Naruse was a liberal educator who sought support for Japan’s Concordia Movement, an internationalist project intending to find “Common ground on which all nations could harmonize”.2 Abdu’l voiced his support for Naruse’s movement, positioning the Bahai cause as central to the peace and unity of the human race while stressing the need for a “Divine Power” to put these principles into practice. He signed Naruse’s autograph book with the following prayer:

“O God! The darkness of contention, strife and warfare between the religions, the nations and the people has beclouded the horizon of Reality and hidden the heaven of Truth. The world is in need of the light of Guidance. Therefore, O God, confer Thy favor, so that the Sun of Reality may illumine the East and the West” (December 30, 1912. Translated by Ahmad Sohrab)

Abdu’l’s prayer demonstrates the faith’s capacity to justify Japan’s imperial internationalism. The symbolic power of light for human purification, “The Sun of Reality”, is central to the Bahai teachings. Likewise, the Sun has great symbolic importance in the history of Japan. The Japanese imperial army’s adoption of the ‘Rising Sun Flag’ illustrates the nation’s mission to bring peace, unification, and modernity to Asia. Similarly, the Bahai faith is a humanist religion. Abdu’l-Baha shows his humanist values by denouncing the war and hatred that stems from national differences. In “Bahai World Faith” he argues the spread of Bahai to all nations will birth a unified “heavenly civilization”.3 This utopian vision of world peace and unity aligns with the Concordia Movement. Abdu’l-Baha saw the Japanese as uniquely capable of spreading his faith through its imperial internationalism. However, this reveals an obvious contradiction in the imperial Japanese and Bahai doctrine.

Historians like Mark Linicicome are critical of 20th-century Japanese liberal internationalists like Naruse for the paradox of justifying imperialism on humanist grounds. Lincicome shows how during the Taisho Democracy Era, educators advocated for Japan’s role in promoting world peace through the cultural, political, and economic assimilation (Doka) of weaker Asian nations.4 This internationalism adapted to become hypernationalism after the Manchurian Invasion in 1931. The Concordia Association of Manchuko, originally established to promote left-leaning ideas of Panasiamism and self-determination would become a totalitarian puppet regime after the Japanese Kwantung Army’s occupation in the Second Sino-Japanese War.5 Like Taisho educators, Naruse’s Concordia movement turned away from its liberal values through political pressure and liberal internationalism’s adaptability. Likewise, Abdu’l-Baha viewed Japan as a divine power to bring God’s purifying light for an international utopia. This humanist logic explains Japan’s ability to justify “world war in the name of world peace”.6

Although Jinzo Naruse and Abdu’l-Baha criticize war, nationalism, and militarism, it becomes clear how internationalist rhetoric during Japan’s liberal Taisho Era would quickly be adapted to justify Japan’s hypernationalism, militarism, and imperial expansion in Asia during the Showa Era leading into the Manchrua Invasion and the Second World War.

 

  1. Abdu’l-Baha, ‘Baha’i World Faith’ (1975), pp.254-257  [↩]
  2. Agnes B. Alexander “Abdu’l Baha meets President Naruse of Japan Women’s College.” Bahai Reference Library (1912) p. 113. [↩]
  3.   Abdu’l-Baha, ‘Baha’i World Faith'(1975), pp.254-257 [↩]
  4. Mark Lincicome, “Imperial Subjects As Global Citizens: Nationalism, Internationalism and Education in Japan.” Lexington Books (2009) p. 40 [↩]
  5. Young L., “When Facism met empire in Japanese-occupied Manchuria.” Journal of Global History 12, no.2 (2017) pp.282-283 [↩]
  6. Mark Lincicome, “Imperial Subjects As Global Citizens: Nationalism, Internationalism and Education in Japan.” Lexington Books (2009) p. 104 [↩]

Zhang Tianran and Li Yujie: Models of Sainthood in Redemptive Societies

Charismatic sainthood was a tool used by redemptive societies in the twentieth century to construct magnetic leadership for emerging salvationist organisations.

‘Redemptive societies’ is a western term for the wave of religious activity that emerged particularly in Republican China seeking to save China and the wider world from social decline and apocalypse. China had undergone a destabilising series of transformations in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries that challenged its conceptions of the world order and traditional cosmology. The nation-state became the normative model of authority and legitimacy, restructuring Chinese value systems away from the domination of the religious to include those of secular modernity, such as science and human rights.1 For redemptive societies, sainthood provided a middle ground where modern science and technology could be used to legitimate a religious leader’s practices and authority in a new system, while simultaneously referencing an established familiar cultural heritage of sainthood practices, such as establishing a lineage, constructing a hagiography or the practice of spirit writing. In this way, redemptive societies reframed traditional conceptions of religious leadership to survive in the modern context.

David Ownby isolates the systematic construction of charisma in religious leadership, defined as ‘the embodiment of the qualities of leadership, the attraction of followers, the representation of their interests and dreams in real or utopian projects’.2 The two charismatic leaders discussed in this blog post, Zhang Tianran and Li Yujie, used their charismatic power and practices to influence the actions of the divine and the humans around them. Under Zhang Tianran’s leadership, the redemptive society Yiguandao became the largest religious organisation in China, while Li Yujie successfully guided and established Tiandijiao as a redemptive society organised around spiritual healing and science. Nonetheless, both leaders offer very different forms of charismatic authority, providing a fascinating comparison in terms of their relationship with the divine, their interactions with the political system and their long-term legacy.

Both Li and Zhang were highly skilled at establishing relationships with the secular power structures around them, utilising their charisma to foster support and legitimation from the state, academia and business. However, while Zhang Tianran consciously assimilated into the traditional religious hierarchy, Li Yujie maintained a more mediatory role as an interlocutor between the divine and the earthly realm. Zhang claimed to be the reincarnation of the Living Buddha Jigong, a twelfth century Buddhist monk associated in popular religion with eccentricity and spirit possession cults. Jigong’s image has been used extensively as symbolic representation of Zhang, who has thus become deified as a transcendent omnipresent, omniscient figure. This was strengthened after his death when Zhang maintained his charismatic authority through appearing in spirit writing sessions, directly interacting with his disciples and impacting the present organisation of the movement. Billioud describes anthropological accounts of followers describing greater connection to his physical presence compared to the more abstract entity of the Eternal Mother, Yiguandao’s conception of the power of the universe.3 While there is an abundance of documentary evidence of Li, Zhang remains ‘elusive’4, with sources about his life restricted to hagiographical accounts or propaganda pieces against him. This, combined with mystery around the location of his burial site, results in a further intangibleness attributed to his self that elevates him beyond the earthly realm.

On the other hand, Li Yujie’s time as leader of the Tiandejiao movement was grounded in his political principles and institutional ties. While Li would also appeal to traditional perceptions of holy men by preaching about the intimate relationship between god and man, retreating for a few days every year to ascend to heaven and wearing dark glasses so as to protect others from his blinding healing gaze, he was also engaged in earthly matters to a very high degree, as listed in President Li Denhui’s eulogy in 1994.5 He served as a member of the Finance Ministry under the GMD, owned and edited a newspaper that extensively advocated for freedom of the press, and used scientific language to frame his religious treatises. As Ownby argues, this did not appear to be a contradiction for Li, and in fact, his secular contacts served to strengthen his religious goals as in the case of gaining approval from the Taiwanese government to operate as a public religious institution despite their martial law.6

This differing use of charisma, the relationship between the leader and their followers, from these two saints, demonstrates the abundance of approaches to sainthood amongst redemptive societies at the time, all seeking to aid China and rescue the world from apocalyptic decline.

  1. David Ownby, ‘Introduction’, in Making Saints in Modern China, eds. David Ownby, Vincent Goossaert, and Ji Zhe (New York, 2017), p.7 [↩]
  2. ibid. p.17 [↩]
  3. Sébastien Billioud, ‘Yiguandao’s Patriarch Zhang Tianran: Hagiography, Deification, and Production of Charisma in a Modern Religious Organization’, in David Ownby, Vincent Goossaert, and Ji Zhe (eds), Making Saints in Modern China (New York, 2017) p.235 [↩]
  4. ibid. p.229 [↩]
  5. David Ownby, ‘Sainthood, Science, and Politics: The Life of Li Yujie, Founder of the Tiandijiao’, in David Ownby, Vincent Goossaert, and Ji Zhe (eds), Making Saints in Modern China (New York, 2017) p.252 [↩]
  6. ibid. p.249 [↩]

“Roaming through the Heavens”; Kang Youwei’s Imagined Cosmos and Global Unity

In Datong Shu, Kang Youwei highlights his lineage from a “tradition of literary studies for thirteen generations” and his survey of “several tens of nations of the earth,” giving him intimate knowledge of the world1. Yet in this preface, he also delineates the limitations of his discussion, and in doing so also defines the limits of his global unity, the heavens. He admits he has no connection to “the living creatures on Mars, Saturn, Jupiter, Uranus, Neptune”, and that his Jen or Wisdom “can extend [only] to [this] earth.”2 The achievement of his global unity does not represent the ‘end of history’ but instead the perfection of one singular world in a complex cosmic system filled with “uttermost happiness” and “uttermost suffering.”.3 It’s hard not to link this view of the universe with his view of distinct civilizations and his utopia’s emphasis on racial unity and natalism. When considering the framework of these imaginary worlds with their unique “states, men and women, codes of social behavior (Ii), music, civilized pleasures”, one can appreciate how Kang hasn’t abandoned the paradigm of competing civilizations but instead projected it from the earth onto the heavens.4

Kang Youwei’s interest in astronomy dates back to 1886, when he began writing the Book of the Heavens.5 Cited in Datong Shu by name, the book opens with Kang gazing at Mars through a telescope, and deducing that “the heavens being infinite in number, they then must be hosting an infinite number of peoples, governments and religions, customs and traditions, rituals, tunes, and written records”.6 The book weaves Confucian doctrine with modern scientific discoveries, asserting in chapters 10 and 11 the existence of extragalactic heavens and God, who resided above all the heavens.7 Lecturing on the subject in Shanghai, Kang was deeply attuned to Scientific debates at the time, refuting Einstein in the final chapter of his book and citing the discovery of “Martian canals” as proof of extra-terrestrial civilization.8

Whilst he does occasionally pull from these imagined communities to mirror mankind’s flaws such as war, more often this focus on Earth represents a place in contrast with the “vast and boundless” space around it.9 Similar to how Kang describes the expansion of “our Yellow Emperor race” displacing the Hmong-Mien peoples and filling geographic space, he recognizes that the earth constitutes the final geography boundary.10 This historic expansion of the Han from the Central Plain to all of China through incorporation and extermination is the model for the spread of a single “superior race” to encompass a single planetary state.11 He envisions this super race inheriting the best traits from the “silver” and “gold” race, embodying all the qualities of the world as he sees it.12

Furthermore, Earth’s place among a family of imagined communities ties with Kang’s championing of natalism. The primary goal of his great unity is to relieve suffering which is independent of population growth, however Kang’s vision for a unified society emphasizes childbirth, something he believed would increase once certain social barriers were lifted. Despite praising the power of the “silver race”, he is deeply critical of Western family structures, describing how many Westerns did not wish to get married and that “Frenchwomen do not wish to bear children; the population of France is declining”.13 Kang relates the danger of population decline with the metaphor that whilst those who dedicated themselves to Buddhism are “noble”, if everyone did so “China would not be inherited by the Chinese” and “all the vastness of the Divine Land would for ever be a colony of a different race.”14 Kang’s interpretation of Divine Land transcends China however, made clear when he applies the latter principle to the whole world, arguing “inside of fifty years mankind would become extinct”.15

He argues just as it would be a betrayal to let Chinese people die out and their land be occupied, so too would it be a betrayal of the earth to not grow its population. Why Kang Youwei insists on smelting the “silver” and “gold” races together was their supposed balance in power, with the white race being “assuredly superior, while the yellow race is more numerous”, showing he recognized population size as a strength in and of itself.16 Social Darwinism assumes that if one group can successfully propagate more relative to another group, they are self-evidently superior, and therefore global population growth is occurring in the context of the “billions” of lives on Mars and other planets.17 This is why Kang applies special emphasis to how his abolishment of family and marriage would liberate families from the “toil of nurturing” and therefore encourage “human propagation”.18

Even if Kang concedes the limits of his knowledge in Datong Shu, elsewhere in his writtings he asserted that “There must be wireless electronic devices to communicate with our earth and other planets”, and given his global vision transcends millennia, he almost certainly believed contact was inevitable.19 These glimpses into his vast spatial imagination are invaluable to understanding his perspective on humanity and global relations, just as Confucianism is to understanding his philosophy. His ideal world was deep within the context of and theoretically modeled against the many competing civilizations of his imagined galaxy. Kang’s universalist philosophy was limited by the pace of scientific progress and his ability to imagine a cosmos, and yet that did not prevent him from applying his principles of universal brotherhood to all life;

“All us earthlings are heavenlings: we truly are creatures of the heavens…when all of us will realize that the Earth is but one celestial body [among many] in the heavens, we will then understand ourselves as celestial beings.”20

  1. Laurence G. Thompson, Ta t’ung Shu: The One-World Philosophy of K’ang Yu-wei (London: Routledge, 2005) 67-68 [↩]
  2. Ibid, 66-80 [↩]
  3. Ibid, 67 [↩]
  4. Ibid, 67. [↩]
  5. Lorenzo Andolfatto, “Kang Youwei’s Book of the Heavens and the Porous Epistemological Grounds of Early-modern Chinese Science Fiction,” in Chinese Science Fiction: Concepts, Forms, and Histories, ed. Mingwei Song, Nathaniel Isaacson, and Hua Li (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2024), 39. [↩]
  6. Thompson, Ta t’ung Shu, 40. [↩]
  7. Zheng Wan, “The Relationship between Science and Religion in Kang Youwei’s Confucianism” (PhD thesis, University of Oxford, 2019), 222. [↩]
  8. Ibid,
    Andolfatto, “Kang Youwei’s Book of the Heavens”, 48. [↩]
  9. Thompson, Ta t’ung Shu, 67 [↩]
  10. Ibid, 142 [↩]
  11. Ibid, 147 [↩]
  12. Ibid, 141 [↩]
  13. Ibid, 174-175. [↩]
  14. Ibid, 157. [↩]
  15. ibid. [↩]
  16. Ibid, 141. [↩]
  17. Ibid, 80. [↩]
  18. Ibid, 165-186 [↩]
  19. Andolfatto, “Kang Youwei’s Book of the Heavens”, 48. [↩]
  20. Ibid, 49. [↩]

How Do We Utilize Historical Figures? Comparing and Contrasting Two Narratives of 20th century Kyoto School Philosophers

Hi all! This blog post finds itself pondering over the ways in which we, as historians, write about historical figures. There’s such a wealth of different styles, methodologies, frameworks, and so on, all with their own different merits and drawbacks on analysis and narrative levels, that it can get a bit overwhelming. A social history or a political history or microhistory or a biography? A microhistorical biography? A biographic microhistory? Oh my. Terminology is not the subject of this blog post, but it feels worth mentioning how the language around history-writing-that-focuses-on-one-figure is already a bit confusing sometimes.
Today, I want to consider two different takes on this genre of historical writing, both concerning similar figures from a similar corner of the historical record: two twentieth century Japanese philosophers, both part of an intellectual network called The Kyoto School. The first is an incredibly influential figure in the philosophical world, the founder of said Kyoto School, a man named Nishida Kitaro (1870-1945). The other was a close student and contemporary of his, a man named Miki Kiyoshi (1897-1945). The books that I’ll be looking at are, respectively, Political Philosophy in Japan: Nishida, the Kyoto School and co-prosperity (Routledge, 2005) by Dr. Chris Goto-Jones and Miki Kiyoshi 1897-1945 (Brill, 2009) by Dr. Susan Townsend. These two pieces engage with their chosen figures in very different ways, and I’ve found myself wondering how both books can engage directly with such similar figures (demonstrated by a principal focus on the mens’ own writings as primary sources) yet feel like such different final products. So, let’s get into it.
First, a look at Political Philosophy in Japan. Dr. Goto-Jones adopts a flexible, interdisciplinary approach to his work which marries together philosophical, historical, and religious lenses of analysis. His argument is focused on the idea of Nishida and his philosophies in wartime Japan: I would argue that while the man Nishida is, of course, crucial to this book, it is the idea of Nishida the philosopher and the different cultural connotations and judgements which surround that idea which Goto-Jones is fundamentally engaging with. I believe that this is the principal reason why this book, despite being focused wholly on Nishida, does not feel like a microhistory, biography, or any other style of life writing.
Townsend also adopts a bit of an interdisciplinary approach to her analysis of Miki Kiyoshi, but where Goto-Jones zigged toward philosophy she instead zags toward psychoanalysis and cognitive psychology. Townsend is deeply concerned with the motivations, machinations, and inner workings of who she deems “Japan’s itinerant philosopher”, a query which directs her down a road of Miki’s familial connections, emotional turning points, and intellectual points of struggle, all explored primarily through his surviving writings. That’s not to diminish her work: this is the first biography concerning Miki to ever be published in English, and offers insightful and well-conducted historical work into the brilliant and tragic figure up (he died in prison in the death throes of the Second World War).
Both of these pieces harness disciplines beyond the strictly historical to craft their narratives. Both are concerned with deeper truths of the lives of their subjects. These subjects are remarkably similar men, yet, once again, the two pieces read completely differently. When I started working on this post, I was fully intending to conclude with a definitive statement about the more compelling, ‘better’ of the two books. Yet now, on the other side of the process, I can only find a lesson on the versatility of historical figures and the stories we may responsibly attempt to glean from them. Political Philosophy in Japan is an example of the legacy, memory, and impact of a historical figure taking center stage. Biographic undertones are still present: they serve the narrative by offering a sense of timeline and keeping the figure of Nishida firmly rooted in the reminder of his humanity. Meanwhile, Miki Kiyoshi draws us into the intimate space of a man’s mind, ideals, and intellectual grapples throughout a Japan in flux. It offers us insights into both his reality and, by proxy, suggests dimensions of the lived experience of those around him.
Thanks for joining me for this exploration, and until next time! Have a great week.

Deguchi Onisaburō: The Tensions of National Identity and Universal Spirituality

Deguchi Onisaburō’s Oomoto-kyo religion embodied the tensions of nationalism and internationalism in 20th century Japan, blending Japan’s traditional beliefs with a vision of universal harmony to adapt to the fluctuating circumstances and trends of his time. Onisaburō’s teachings expressed a unique fusion of nativist pride and internationalist ideals, illuminating his complex vision for both Japan, as a spiritual beacon, and the world, to collectively unite in peace. Oomoto-kyo emerged as an unrecognized sect of Shinto from a wave of ‘new religions’ in early 20th century Japan, imbued with nativist beliefs in Japanese spiritual superiority and the people’s call for a proper reform of the Meiji government.1 It was from this environment that Onisaburō shaped Oomoto-kyo into a version of Neo-Nativism that retained utopian characteristics of earlier teachings whilst placing Japan in a global context.2

A key part of this process was his interpretation of saisei itchi–the unity of religion and governance, particularly in the upholding of the divine laws found in the classics–which clashed with Japan’s utilization of Shinto for strictly nationalistic purposes. Onisaburō saw Oomoto-kyo’s role as leading a moral transformation that could benefit all of humanity, yet the teachings themselves aligned directly with the elevation of the Japanese self as superior.3 This is further exemplified by his redefinition of yamato damashii–the ‘Japanese spirit’ or Japaneseness–which usually denoted the racial superiority of Japaneseness but was redirected to align with spiritual values of activism and humanitarianism.4 Onisaburō reshaped existing nationalist terms and mythology to align with internationalist ambitions within his religious teachings, exposing the complex web of influence on Oomoto-kyo philosophy and the ambiguous position it held in political discourse during a time of modernization and contact with imperial powers.

The spirit world within Oomoto-kyo’s ideological frameworks occupied a noteworthy place in this dialogue, resituating traditionalist beliefs in modern contexts and threatening the political order in its authority over spiritual truths and even undermining Japan’s divine imperial heritage. Onisaburō claimed that Oomoto-kyo provided the authority to speak for the gods primarily through spiritual possession and the practice of chinkon kishin5 Chinkon invited a spirit into a person as a receptacle for their knowledge, enabling kishin for the communication with the deities.6 This promotion of traditionally modeled spiritual practices appealed to the Japanese population which was faced with global contact and influence, providing a wholly Japanese practice that reconnected them with a national culture.7 It seems counterintuitive, then, that these practices and frameworks could be utilized in an internationalist mission to emphasize universal equality and advocate for peace.

Onisaburō’s ‘Mongolian expedition’, however, outlines exactly how the contradictory national and nativist religious beliefs fit into his movement for international appeal. This was done primarily through a combination of universalist and spiritually imperialistic orientations of Oomoto-kyo. Onisaburō could foster world peace and happiness, yet it would be situated in an expansionist spiritual framework which was specifically pioneered by Japan and connected to Japaneseness.8 Onisaburō wanted to bring spiritual relief to the Mongolians, yet he also wanted to reform them, highlighting the superiority of Oomoto-kyo’s belief structure and the inferiority of the Mongolians while claiming to provide them with an ideology that would permit universal equality and happiness.

In this sense, Onisaburō shaped the Oomoto-kyo religion to adapt to his own personal mission as well as the climate he operated within. With Japan’s increasingly imperial military activity, Onisaburō employed his universalist yet national religious structure to justify their expansion in the 20th century. He went so far as to claim that “Japan had received a mission from heaven to guide the development of Manchuria and Mongolia”, clearly embracing Japan’s superior status stemming from Nativism and identified through his own traditionalist spiritual practices.9 Because Onisaburō developed Oomoto during a time of political change, international contact and conflict, Oomoto reflected the shifting needs of the Japanese population and Onisaburō’s own universalist ideals. This climate resulted in a constant fluctuating tension between universalism and nationalism, tying directly to Nativist roots in Oomoto’s philosophy and Onisaburō’s desire for spiritual equality and peace.

  1. Nancy K. Stalker, Prophet Motive: Deguchi Onisaburō, Oomoto, and the Rise of New Religions in Imperial Japan (Honolulu, 2008), p. 48. [↩]
  2. Ibid. [↩]
  3. Ibid., p. 70. [↩]
  4. Ibid., p. 71. [↩]
  5. Ibid., p. 60. [↩]
  6. Ibid., p. 88. [↩]
  7. Ibid., p. 105. [↩]
  8. Ibid., p. 149. [↩]
  9. Ibid., p. 174. [↩]

Resituating Esperanto in East Asian world imaginaries

Esperanto, a ‘planned’, universal language created by Ludovic Zamenhof in 1887, enjoyed particular popularity in Japan and, to a lesser extent, China in the early twentieth century; Japan was home to the largest Esperanto community outside Europe in the 1920s and 1930s.1 Developing in the paradoxical era of the early twentieth century which involved the simultaneous intensification of nationalism and the emergence of ideas of internationalism, reflected in the establishment and development of international institutions like the League of Nations, Esperanto represented the synthesis of these developments, providing a “transcendent basis for cooperation and common identity at the global level even as national differences persisted”.2 The universalism and ahistoricity of Esperanto meant it was envisioned as a transnational medium to connect all peoples on a non-hierarchical, international basis.

Traditionally, the focus on either cosmopolitanism introduced through interaction with the West, or Pan-Asianism as the reactionary other leaves less space for the appraisal of Asian forms of cosmopolitan internationalism. Esperanto’s popularity in Asia should arguably be viewed in terms of what it represented and its fusion with ideas developing out of Japan and Asia of universalism, global humanity, and world integration: for example Kang Youwei’s visions of world unity from China3 or Kotoku Shusui’s anti-imperialist critique of the Russo-Japanese War as part of the Nonwar movement and his utopian imaginations of transnational sokuin dojo (compassion or empathy).4 Consequently, Esperanto provides a frame through which to examine Asian conceptions of ‘worldism’, which derived as much from indigenous imaginations as ideas transposed from the outside.

In the ‘worldist’ imagination, whose roots are traced back to the Nonwar movement by Kanishi, utopian peace could never emerge through cooperation between nation-states. Instead, they advocated a more total vision of heimen (‘the people’) as a global, transnational construct that “transcended nation-state borders”.5 Esperanto must be viewed through this complexity; its popularity acted as a manifestation or exemplification of an alternative visions of world unity emerging from Asia which embraced cultural diversity and cosmopolitanism and transcended the (Western) system of international relations. In this light, the European roots of Esperanto and its inscribed Eurocentrism are of less immediate relevance, as it is argued that it not necessarily the content of Esperanto that mattered, but more what it symbolically represented. As Rapley rightly emphasises, Esperanto represented both a medium of global communication and, critically, an idea or ideology of world unification.6 ‘Worldism’, of which Esperanto is imagined as a constituent part, takes the world (‘sohei’) and ‘the people’ (‘heimen’), in the abstract sense, as its fundamental basis, rather than the nation or ‘the people’ with the emphasis on ‘the’. As Chan notes, historicising Esperanto brings to light its importance in China as a propaganda medium against both Japanese imperialism and, for the Communist Party, in the civil war against the Nationalists.7 In Japan itself, Konishi argues that it should be considered as part of anti-imperial resistance, part of projections of world order that equally contested Japanese state participation in, on the one hand, Western ‘international relations’ based on the primacy of territorial sovereignty and, on the other, anti-colonial (yet often imperialist) pan-Asian constructions of an Asian collective ‘other’.8

This is not to deny the significance of transnational connections and networks of intellectual exchange; imaginations of internationalism and cosmopolitanism are impossible to conceive in closed spaces and are thus inherently products of transnationalism. Yet, at the same time, reframing Esperanto in this way, as an idea which fused with preexisting and emerging conceptions of world unity, an endpoint for East Asian cosmopolitan imaginaries, helps to rebalance transnational relations between East and West, and highlights that, for some, Esperanto marked a useful endpoint for their ‘worldist’ visions, rather than being the starting point for a new Asian cosmopolitanism. East Asia, especially Japan, was a receptive audience to Esperanto not just because it represented something new, but also because it could be integrated into local imaginations of ‘worldism’.

  1. Ian Rapley, ‘A Language for Asia? Transnational Encounters in the Japanese Esperanto Movement, 1906-1928’, in Pedro Iacobelli, Danton Leary and Shinnosuke Takahashi (eds.), Transnational Japan as History: Empire, Migration, and Social Movements (London, 2016), p.167. [↩]
  2. Young S. Kim, ‘Constructing a Global Identity: The Role of Esperanto’, in John Boli and George M. Thomas (eds.), Constructing world culture: international nongovernmental organizations since 1875 (Stanford, 1999)., p.147. [↩]
  3. Kang Youwei and Laurence G. Thompson, Ta T’ung Shu: The One-World Philosophy of K’ang Yu-wei (London, 1958). [↩]
  4. Sho Kanishi, ‘Translingual Word Order: Language without Culture in Post-Russo-Japanese War Japan’, The Journal of Asian Studies, 72:1 (2013), p.96. [↩]
  5.  Ibid., p.99 [↩]
  6. Rapley, ‘A Language for Asia?’, p.170. [↩]
  7. Gerald Chan, ‘China and the Esperanto Movement’, The Australian Journal of Chinese Affairs, 15 (1986), p.11. [↩]
  8. Kanishi, ‘Translingual Word Order’, pp.91-114. [↩]

Esperanto: Universal Language or Failed Prophecy?

Imagine a global order free from national boundaries, where only a singular state governs the world- what language would its citizens communicate in? would we see the creation of one, universal language? This question is addressed in many utopian theories that conceptualise such a nation-free world. K’ang Yu-Wei, a prominent Chinese political thinker in the late  Qing period, proposes the notion of a universal language in Ta t’ung Shu– his book arguing for an ideal ‘one-world’ state free from conflict. He claims that such a world will have a ‘Universal Parliament’ and one of its responsibilities would be to introduce a ‘new system’ of language which would serve as a ‘single way of expressing important ideas’.1

Before this new universal language can become the only language, he claims that an ideal scenario would be bilingualism: where citizens are fluent in the language of their own state, and the universal language.

Is this idea really utopian? Not quite. The early 20th century witnessed the development of a worldwide interest in Esperanto- an artificial language created by Ludwig Zamenhof, intended to allow speakers of different native tongues to converse with one another. This interest particularly grew amongst internationalist groups, that pushed for the transcendence of national boundaries, and the adoption of a ‘cosmopolitan’ global identity.2

So, was Yu-Wei prophetic in his idea of a universal language? Not quite. While Esperanto captures Yu-Wei’s idea of a new universal language, it didn’t live up to its potential. Moreover, if any language comes close to what Yu-Wei hoped for, it is English: not only is it one of the most popular language in the world, it also fits the description of the kind of bilingualism Yu-Wei anticipated. 

Given that the interest in Esperanto as a global language (as well as a tool for transnational communication) was present in the 20th century, why did it lose to English in the race for linguistic hegemony? I argue that this loss can be attributed to the success of British imperialism as a dominant force in shaping global order at the time.

Kim S. Young, in a study tracking the spread of Esperanto across the world in the 20th century, mentions that International Non-Governmental Organisations (INGOs) dedicated to Esperanto were the primary method of facilitating its growth (which was initially significant).3 However, he argues that while this method did foster the growth of globalist sentiment across the world in a rapid manner, it focused on Esperanto very generally; as a consequence, the growth of Esperantist organisations was sporadic. INGOs with more specialised interests and functions took over the responsibility of pushing globalist ideas, while the Esperantist INGOs dwindled, with occasional lukewarm attempts at revival.4  This somewhat informal, unofficial interest in Esperanto is what allowed for British Imperialism to take centre-stage in the proliferation of English.5

English isn’t the universal language Yu-Wei had in mind; he hoped for a world order established on equality, one that is free from conflicts and divisions. To characterise English as Yu-Wei’s ideal universal language, then, would be inaccurate, since its popularity was a result of a world order with a very clear power imbalance.

Would it be fair to say that the proliferation of Esperanto in a more rigorous, formal manner via government institutions would have resulted in it becoming a universal language as intended by Yu-Wei? we cannot say for sure. A possible cause for Esperanto’s failure that remains unexplored in this piece is its linguistic strength- its cleared Indo-European linguistic origins may have hampered its ability to take over as a universal language. These origins are also reflective of the power imbalance which I claimed is present in English’s popularity. The quest for an all-encompassing utopian universal language, thus, persists.

 

  1. Yu-Wei, K’ang, and Laurence G. Thompson. Ta t’ung Shu: The One-World Philosophy of K’ang Yu-Wei. Reprint. Routledge, 2007. pp. 92-94 [↩]
  2. Young, S. Kim“Constructing a Global Identity: The Role of Esperanto.” in Boli, John, George M Thomas (eds.) Constructing World Culture International Nongovernmental Organizations Since 1875. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1999. [↩]
  3. Ibid., pp. 127-129 [↩]
  4. Ibid., pp.144-145 [↩]
  5. Ibid., pp. 146-148 [↩]

Mark Lincicome’s ‘Imperial Subjects as Global Citizens’

Mark Lincicome’s Imperial Subjects as Global Citizens offers an account of the development of the doctrine of international education, spanning a century from the 1880s to the 1980s.1  He presents a radical reunderstanding of Japan’s pre-war education system, which he believes had previously only been written about as one that taught nationalism and militarism. His work seeks to bring to light the nuance and opposition that this system faced throughout the period. Furthermore, he argues that internationalism has been overlooked as a Japanese ideology, and his thorough analysis of the movement’s history certainly does it justice.

To give a brief summary, the movement of international education begins in the 1870s, when reformers such as Tokutomi Soho, Egi Kazuyuki, and Saionji Konmichi argued that teaching of foreign languages and learning of other cultures should be implemented into the education system. However, these campaigns are swiftly condemned by the Meiji government and fail to take off. Only in the period of Taisho Democracy, the ‘high-water mark’ of the philosophy, do prominent writes and reformers set up institutions and physical schools which put this doctrine into effect.2 He pays particular attention to the thinkers of Noguchi Entaro, Sawayanagi Masataro, Shimonaka Yasaburo and Harada Minoru, and their organisations such as the International Education Society of Japan and the All-Japan League for World Federation. As their names suggest, these organisations were focused on encouraging collaboration, integration and familiarity in global education. Noguchi, in particular, wrote that a mutual understanding and point-of-contact between cultures would lead to global peace, the ultimate goal of humanity.

However, as Japan’s invasions and colonisations of parts of Asia grow, the doctrine begins to conform to the propaganda of the military government and espouse nationalist, imperialist and militarist sentiments. Noguchi becomes a ‘chauvinistic ultra-nationalist’ and dedicates his public writings to defending Japan’s imperialism; while Shimonaka writes that educators must reform Japan from within, removing European influence and realising Japan’s goal of conquering the eight corners of the world.3

Following the end of the Second World War the movement had another revival – or, perhaps, a renaissance of the 1920s – and once again becomes a movement advocating for global peace, prosperity and connectedness. Shimonaka, despite being ‘purged’ in 1947, championed world peace, nuclear disarmament and the liberation of colonised peoples in Asia and Africa until his death.4

Lincicome’s book mostly fails to engage with what one might consider the most important part of education; the children. He does not write about the number of children being taught according to the principles of the reformists, nor the impact the textbooks he writes about had on the children who read them. Ultimately, it is an intellectual history of around a dozen thinkers spanning a century. For a study of the ramifications of the Japanese education which has been in use for the past century, perhaps another book is required; but for a deep analysis of one of Japan’s forgotten yet most interesting ideologies, Lincicome’s history of internationalist education should not be missed.

  1. Lincicome, Mark. Imperial Subjects as Global Citizens: Nationalism, Internationalism, and Education in Japan (Lexington Books, 2009). [↩]
  2. Ibid, p. 87. [↩]
  3. Ibid, p. 91. [↩]
  4. Ibid, p. 116. [↩]