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AllAfrica
16-07-2025
- General
- AllAfrica
Exploring meaning, ethics and belief through Japanese anime
As a scholar who studies Japanese religion and has a lifelong love of visual storytelling, I started using anime in my class to spark conversations around the Buddhist ideas of karma and Shintō notions of 'kami,' or spirits in nature. When I introduced the idea of karma, a scene from 'Mob Psycho 100' – a Japanese manga and anime series from 2016 to 2022 about a shy teenage boy with powerful psychic abilities – came up in discussion. It sparked a conversation about how our intentions and actions carry real moral weight. In Buddhism, karma is not just about punishment or reward in a future life. It is believed to play out in the present – shaping how we relate to others and how we grow or get stuck as people. Later, when I explained kami in Shintō, a quiet moment from 'Mushishi' helped students think differently about the world around them. 'Mushishi' is a slow-paced, atmospheric anime about a wandering healer who helps people affected by mysterious spiritlike beings called mushi. These beings are not gods or monsters but part of nature itself – barely seen, yet always present. The series gave students a visual language for imagining how spiritual forces might exist in ordinary places. Over the years, two moments convinced me to create a full course, Anime and Religious Identity: Cultural Aesthetics in Japanese Spiritual Worlds. First was my students' strong reaction to Gyōmei Himejima, the Pure Land Buddhist priest in 'Demon Slayer.' He is a gentle but powerful guardian who refuses to hate the demons he must fight. His actions lead to honest and thoughtful conversations about compassion, fear and the limits of violence. One student asked, 'If Gyōmei doesn't hate even the demons, does that mean violence can be compassionate?' Another pointed out that Gyōmei's strength does not come from anger, but from grief and empathy. These kinds of insights showed me that anime was helping students think through complex ethical questions that would have been harder to engage through abstract theory alone. The second moment came from watching 'Dragon Ball Daima.' In this 2024 series, familiar heroes are turned into children. This reminded me of Buddhist stories about being reborn and starting over, and it prompted new questions: If someone loses all the strength they had built up over time, are they still the same person? What, if anything, remains constant about the self, and what changes? This course helps students explore questions of meaning, ethics and belief that anime brings to life. It examines themes such as what happens when the past resurfaces? What does it mean to carry the weight of responsibility? How should we act when our personal desires come into conflict with what we know is right? And how can suffering become a path to transformation? We start with 'Spirited Away,' a 2001 animated film about a young girl who becomes trapped in a spirit world after her parents are transformed into pigs. The story draws on Shintō ideas such as purification, sacred space and kami. Students learn how these religious concepts are expressed through the film's visual design, soundscape and narrative structure. Later in the semester, we watch 'Your Name,' a 2016 film in which two teenagers mysteriously begin switching bodies across time and space. It's a story about connection, memory and longing. The idea of 'musubi,' a spiritual thread that binds people and places together, becomes central to understanding the film's emotional impact. 'Attack on Titan,' which first aired in 2013, immerses students in a world marked by moral conflict, sacrifice and uncertainty. The series follows a group of young soldiers fighting to survive in a society under siege by giant humanoid creatures known as Titans. Students are often surprised to learn that this popular series engages with profound questions drawn from Buddhism and existential thought, such as the meaning of freedom, the tension between destiny and individual choice and the deeper causes of human violence. The characters in these stories face real struggles. Some are spirit mediums or time travelers. But all of them must make hard decisions about who they are and what they believe. As the semester goes on, students develop visual or written projects such as short essays, podcasts, zines or illustrated stories. These projects help them explore the same questions as the anime, but in their own voices. Anime has become a global phenomenon. But even though millions of people watch it, many do not realize how deeply it draws on Japanese religious traditions. In this course, students learn to look closely at what anime is saying about life, morality and the choices we make. Through these characters' journeys, students learn that religion is not just something found in ancient texts or sacred buildings. It can also live in the stories we tell, the art we create and the questions we ask about ourselves and the world. Ronald S. Green isa professor and the chair of the Department of Philosophy and Religious Studies, Coastal Carolina University. This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article. Uncommon Courses is an occasional series from The Conversation U.S. highlighting unconventional approaches to teaching.
02-07-2025
- General
Ultranationalism Lingers Within Shintō's Shadowy Leadership
Shintō shrines are a familiar presence in every corner of Japan, yet few here are aware of the powerful national organization that oversees them—let alone its historical and ideological ties to State Shintō. The author sheds light on Jinja Honchō's origins and activities. Shintō, Japan's indigenous religious tradition, has no founder and no definitive scripture. It originated from an ancient animistic, polytheistic folk religion that deified mountains, megaliths, and other features and forces of nature. Animism and polytheism are by no means unique to Japan but can be found throughout the world. Hinduism, the indigenous Phi animism of Southeast Asia, and Native American shamanism are just a few examples. What is unusual about Shintō is the fact that it has a strong leadership organization despite being a natural religion with no codified system of beliefs. Organized and Natural Religions Natural religions have no identifiable founders and no definitive scriptures. Believers are free to commune with their divinities and practice their faith as they see fit, with no need for top-down supervision. Hinduism has upwards of 1.1 billion followers, but there is no overarching 'Hindu church' and no single entity with authority over matters of Hindu doctrine. That is typical of natural religions. By contrast, Catholicism, Christianity's largest church, has a hierarchical organization led by the pope and headquartered in the Vatican. It traces its origins to Jesus of Nazareth, and it has a holy scripture, the Bible. From the beginning, it has had a leader and a set of doctrines united by fairly clear-cut principles. The Vatican functions as a kind of executive body that prevents clergy members or followers from undermining the doctrinal discipline of the faith with their own individual interpretations of Christian theology. For much the same reason, each sect of Buddhism generally has a head temple that exerts authority over the others and functions as a unifying symbol of that sect. Shintō differs somewhat from the majority of natural religions in that it does in fact have a central executive body, known as Jinja Honchō (Association of Shintō Shrines). Headquartered in Tokyo's Shibuya, this 'comprehensive religious corporation' boasts a membership of more than 78,000 shrines all around Japan. It also oversees around 20,000 priests (kannushi), whom it groups into five ranks (jōkai, meikai, seikai, gonseikai, and chokkai). These priests take a portion of the offerings collected by their shrines and contribute it to the association, which has an annual operating budget of roughly ¥5 billion. Jinja Honchō also draws up and enforces various regulations governing the operation of member shrines, including rules—some carrying penalties—pertaining to the conduct of Shintō rites and the management of shrine finances. In short, it tells the shrines and priests what they may and may not do. Is a body like Jinja Honchō really necessary for a natural religion like Shintō? A good number of priests have asked this question and even called openly for the organization's elimination. But how did such a body ever come to wield control over a natural religion like Shintō? The answer lies in the politicization of Shintō during the modern era. The Shrines of State Shintō The religion that has exerted the greatest spiritual influence over the Japanese people during their long history is Buddhism. Entering Japan in the sixth century, Buddhism impressed the Japanese with its sophistication, having an actual founder (Siddhartha Gautama, or Sakyamuni Buddha) and systematic teachings codified in various scriptures, or sutras. The emperor himself converted to Buddhism, and thereafter the ruling class embraced the religion, erecting great temples in cities like Nara and Kyoto. Meanwhile, Buddhism and Shintō intermingled in a number of ways. The Chinese-derived architecture of Buddhist temples affected the construction of Shintō shrines, and Buddhist services are said to have influenced Shintō ceremonies. The Heian period (794–1185) saw the spread of honji suijaku, the theory that Shintō kami were incarnations of Buddhist deities. It became increasingly common for shrines to be incorporated inside temple complexes. It is said that by the Edo period (1603–1868), few people—especially among the general public—even distinguished between temples and shrines. But this syncretism between Shintō and Buddhism (shinbutsu shūgō) did not sit well with the architects of the Meiji Restoration (1868), who toppled the semi-feudal Tokugawa shogunate in order to establish a modern nation with the emperor as head of state. Japan's emperors trace their lineage back to the sun goddess Amaterasu Ōmikami, one of Shintō's most important kami, or deities. The architects of the restoration believed that establishing Shintō as the de facto state religion would solidify the emperor's status as the nation's supreme ruler. Thus was born the institution known as State Shintō. In 1868, the fledgling Meiji government moved to suppress Buddhism with an imperial order on the separation of the two religions (Shinbutsu Hanzen Rei). That set off an anti-Buddhist movement (haibutsu kishaku), which led to the destruction or closure of many temples. Of the Shintō shrines familiar to people nowadays, a large number were created artificially during the modern era with government backing. Under the Empire of Japan (1868–1945), shrines were treated as state facilities and priests as government officials. Fallout from the 'Shintō Directive' The environment surrounding Shintō changed abruptly with Japan's defeat in World War II. The US Occupation authorities, viewing Shintō as the wellspring of Japanese militarism, moved quickly to abolish State Shintō. In addition, the Constitution that they drafted, promulgated in 1946, explicitly mandated religious freedom and the separation of religion from government. Within the Shintō community, there was deep concern that many of Japan's shrines would not survive if suddenly deprived of government support and guidance. In 1946, leaders of that community created Jinja Honchō as a nongovernmental religious organization to replace such state organs as the Home Ministry's Bureau of Shrines and Institute of Divinities, which had been entrusted with shrine administration under the prewar government. Given this history, the upper echelon of shrine priests—the core of Jinja Honchō's leadership—have tended to view themselves as victims of the Occupation's coercive, misguided policies, which abruptly wrenched the priesthood out from under the government's wing. Of course, there is an element of truth to the accusation that the Occupation's religious policies were precipitate and high-handed. But some of those at the core of Jinja Honchō are driven by a deeper ideological aversion to the democratic reforms undertaken by the Occupation. They see it as their mission to overturn the postwar Constitution and restore the State Shintō of the prewar era. Indeed, over the years there has been a distinctly nationalist, reactionary tinge to the Jinja Honchō's activities. The organization's political arm, the Shintō Association of Spiritual Leadership (Shintō Seiji Renmei) has aggressively courted and supported far-right members of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party and in so doing has exerted a significant influence on Japanese politics. That said, today—80 years after the end of World War II—there are very few living priests who actually remember the situation before and shortly after the war. The status of shrines as private-sector religious corporations is more or less taken for granted, and the Shintō world has adapted to that reality. Few of the working priests with whom I have spoken seem to harbor strong political views. Where the future of Shintō is concerned, most seem to support the status quo. By the same token, however, one sees little evidence of the sort of ideals and aspirations that might help steer a new course for an organization born of resentment against the United States. Tanaka's Entrenched Leadership Over the past few years, serious rifts have emerged within Jinja Honchō's leadership. In the wake of scandals over real estate dealings, President Tanaka Tsunekiyo (age 81) has been the focus of mounting criticism, and at one time Tanaka himself spoke of stepping down. But in May this year, he was elected for the sixth time. If he serves out this last term, he will have reigned over the association for 18 years, despite the customary limit of two three-year terms. Of course, this situation has drawn a good deal of criticism, including talk of a 'Tanaka dictatorship.' But ultimately the situation reflects the state of the Shintō community, which is plagued by stagnation and a lack of new blood entering the priesthood. The individual shrines scattered about Japan are under no obligation to join Jinja Honchō. Fed up with the stultifying atmosphere that persists under the prevailing leadership, more and more shrines are opting to leave the association and strike out on their own. But such dispersion raises further questions about Shintō's long-term vitality and survival. What we need now is the collective will to forge a new understanding of the role of Shintō in contemporary Japanese society. (Originally published in Japanese. Banner photo: Headquarters of Jinja Honchō in Tokyo's Shibuya, April 2024. © Jiji.)
01-07-2025
- General
Roughhousing with the Deity: Three Festivals in Ishikawa, Kumamoto, and Shiga Prefectures
In a typical Japanese matsuri , a deity is carried from its shrine and placed in a mikoshi , often an elaborately decorated portable shrine. Borne by parishioners, the mikoshi makes the rounds of the neighborhood and receives the prayers of the people under the deity's protection. But in some festivals, the mikoshi are treated with rough reverence. Here we introduce three prominent examples. Ushitsu Abare Matsuri (First Friday and Saturday of July, Noto-chō, Ishikawa Prefecture) Kiriko surround a 7-meter-tall torch. (© Haga Library) Every summer and autumn, over 200 communities across Noto Peninsula in Ishikawa Prefecture hold matsuri featuring towering kiriko , floats carrying elongated paper lanterns. Women and children riding on a kiriko float provide musical accompaniment. (© Haga Library) The first of these kiriko festivals is the Ushitsu Abare Matsuri, held in early July in the northern part of the peninsula. The festival traces its origins to the seventeenth century, when an epidemic spread through the region. In response, a protective deity from Kyoto's Gionsha (now Yasaka Shrine) was enshrined to ward off misfortune, and a festival was held to pray for relief. When the epidemic subsided, the villagers paraded kiriko through the community to express their gratitude. The kiriko can reach 7 meters in height. Before 1921, when power lines were installed, they were even taller. (© Haga Library) The first day of the festival features a parade of 30 to 40 kiriko through the streets. On the second day, the floats precede the two mikoshi that are the main attraction of the event. The mikoshi carry the spirit of Susano-o, the most unruly and impetuous deity in the Shintō pantheon, and pass through the neighborhoods to drive away evil spirits. The deity Susano-o occupies these two mikoshi . (© Haga Library) As the mikoshi are returned to the shrine, the bearers shout in unison and throw them to the ground, into a river, and even into the sea. It is believed that this rough treatment pleases the wild deity and increases his sacred power. All the while, the kiriko move around the battered mikoshi , adding to the festival's energy. Rough handling pleases the deity. (© Haga Library) Into the water, into the flames! (© Haga Library) The festival reaches its climax when sparks from the torch rain down on the bearers, and their excitement builds to a frenzy. They throw the mikoshi into the flames again and again, slam them to the ground, and climb atop them. Oblivious to the heat, bearers expose the mikoshi to the bonfire. (© Haga Library) By the time the mikoshi return to the shrine late at night, they are scorched and their roofs often broken. But no matter how battered the mikoshi are, they are painstakingly repaired every year, part by part. This perseverance is a symbol of the community's resilience as it continues its path to recovery from the devastating January 1, 2024, Noto earthquake. The mikoshi return to the shrine late at night. (© Haga Library) Ohoshi Matsuri (October 30, Mashiki, Nishihara, and Kikuyō, Kumamoto Prefecture) The mikoshi is thrown to the ground. (© Haga Library) Twelve neighborhoods in Mashiki, Kikuyō, and Nishihara in the western foothills of Mount Aso take turns hosting the Ohoshi Matsuri, centered on Tsumori Shrine in the town of Mashiki. Each year, one community is designated to build a temporary repository for Ohoshi, the shrine's object of worship. Transported in a mikoshi , the deity is carried to the next community. The route and destination of this unusual festival vary each year, with each community taking its turn once every 12 years. Everyone in the village turns out to give the deity a sendoff. (© Haga Library) Dancing to welcome the deity to its new home for the year. (© Haga Library) But what happens along the way is hardly typical. As the mikoshi makes its journey, bearers deliberately fling the mikoshi onto the road or into nearby fields. The gūji , or shrine priest, then steps forward to inspect the damaged mikoshi , shouting ' Mada, mada ' (Not yet, not yet). The mikoshi is then thrown into the air two or three more times, crashing loudly to the ground each time. Finally, when the gūji declares ' Kore made ' (That's enough!), the mikoshi is handed over to the next community. The mikoshi is thrown down multiple times during the procession. (© Haga Library) The origins of the festival are unclear, but oral tradition holds that descended from the heavens near Tsumori Shrine and visited each of the 12 communities in turn, every second year. Today, the rough handling the mikoshi is said to express the villagers' sorrow at the deity's departure and the happiness the deity feels at their devotion. The cost of repairing the mikoshi , which can reach \1 million, is borne by the receiving community. The more banged-up the mikoshi is, the greater pleasure it gives to the deity and the villagers. (© Haga Library) Iba no Sakakudashi Matsuri (May 4, Iba, Shiga Prefecture) Ropes control the mikoshi 's descent down the steep slope. (© Haga Library) The 432-meter-tall Mount Kinugasa rises above Iba, a neighborhood in the city of Higashi Ōmi on the eastern shore of Lake Biwa. Midway down the mountain stands Sanpōsan Shrine, known for the Sakakudashi, a dramatic 850-year-old ritual where a mikoshi is slid down a steep, rocky slope. The mikoshi weighs over 500 kilograms. (© Haga Library) From the torii gate at the foot of the slope, the shrine's approach appears like a cliff that can only be climbed on all fours. The path to the main shrine stretches 503 meters with a vertical difference of 175 meters. The mikoshi is hauled up the day before the festival and waits at the top to begin its perilous descent. This 60-degree incline is the most challenging spot. (© Haga Library) On festival day, a teenage boy rides in front of the mikoshi as it is slid down the slope. There is a 6-meter stretch with an especially steep incline, and the crew must tightly hold on to the rope to prevent the mikoshi from overturning. When the mikoshi reaches the torii at the foot of the hill, the waiting crowd erupts into cheers for the courage of the crew young participants. The cheering crowd greets the safe arrival of the mikoshi . (© Haga Library) The festival is also a coming-of-age event. (© Haga Library) (Originally published in Japanese. Dates given are those on which the festivals are usually held. Banner photo: The mikoshi is burned in flames in Ishikawa's Ushitsu Abare Matsuri. © Haga Library.)
30-05-2025
- General
'Occupied Kyoto': New Book Explores Postwar Treatment of Historic Sites
The most interesting details in Akio Satoko's book Kyoto senryō: 1945 nen no shinjitsu (Occupied Kyoto: The Truth About 1945) relate how and why famous and historic sites in the city came to be requisitioned during the postwar Allied Occupation of Japan, as well as the determined opposition to the occupying authorities' plans by Kyoto municipal officials and religious leaders. Below are just a few examples of the sites affected by requisition orders. Many of Kyoto's grand avenues, some of them 50 meters wide, run north to south. Dwellings lining those streets had been forcibly cleared away during the war, to prevent fire from spreading to the Kyoto Imperial Palace. After the war, one of them, Horikawa-dōri, was even used as a runway for small US forces' aircraft, since Kyoto had no airport. In December 1945, the Allied Occupation issued the Shintō Directive to end state support for Shintō, although shrines throughout the country were left undisturbed so that people could worship there if they saw fit. As a result, Heian Jingū's main shrine was spared, but surrounding structures were requisitioned, transforming the area into a so-called 'American village.' Other buildings requisitioned by the Occupation forces included the Kyoto Enthronement Memorial Museum of Art, erected to commemorate the enthronement of Emperor Shōwa (Hirohito); it is today the Kyoto City Kyocera Museum of Art. The building was used for lodgings and as a hospital for Occupation personnel. A martial arts hall was turned into a noncommissioned officers' club, half of the Kyoto City Zoo became a parking lot, and other structures were used as storage depots for arms and materiel. At one point, the Imperial Palace, where generations of emperors had lived, and its surrounding gardens, were in danger of being requisitioned as well. Occupation authorities were looking for a spacious plot of land on which to build homes for 245 families, but to Kyotoites, handing over the Imperial Palace was unthinkable, even if Japan's emperors had resided in Tokyo since the nineteenth century. After long negotiations, Occupation officials accepted an offer of land at the Kyoto Botanical Gardens instead. It is likely that this decision was influenced by Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers General Douglas MacArthur's pronouncement after meeting with Emperor Hirohito in late September 1945 that the imperial system would be maintained. But site preparation at the Botanical Gardens saw over three-quarters of the more than 25,000 trees there cut down in the process. Gods or Golf? The Occupation authority's Kyoto commander was a golf lover who attempted to turn Kamigamo Shrine, Kyoto's oldest Shintō shrine, into a golf course. Shrine leaders learned of this when they were called to the Kyoto prefectural government office in September 1946. They were told that the proposed site for the golf course was the sacred Mount Kōyama, where the shrine's deity is said to have descended to earth and where the miare rite, the most important ritual of the shrine's Aoi Festival, is conducted. The shrine opposed the plan, but construction nevertheless began in October. In the end, the project was scrubbed when the central government objected, but by that time 4,000 of the shrine's sacred trees had been felled, with less than half remaining. The commander was tenacious, though: he finally got his golf course two years later, built on land owned by the shrine, the experimental forest of Kyoto University's faculty of agriculture, and privately-owned land. Today, that course is the Kyoto Golf Club. The war did not spare the heart of Kyoto's traditional culture either. In March 1944, all geisha quarters throughout the country had been ordered closed and okami teahouse proprietors, geisha, and nakai room attendants were put to work for the war effort. Gion's Kaburenjō, where young geisha trained in dance and the grand Miyako Odori dance performance took place, became a denture factory, and balloon bombs were fabricated at the Yasaka Kaikan hall next door. During the Occupation, the Kaburenjō became a dance hall for the US military, and the building was only returned to Gion in 1951. Today, 80 years after the end of the war, older Kyotoites remember this dark period of Kyoto's history, but such episodes are mostly unknown to Japanese and to foreign visitors. Even so, it is interesting to explore the story behind each of these examples. Kyoto senryō: 1945 nen no shinjitsu (Occupied Kyoto: The Truth About 1945) By Akio SatokoPublished by Shinchōsha in December 2024 ISBN: 978-4-10-611070-2
