deliberation was not unique to the village of Ina. In Chiromo, a village on the east coast of Tsushima that I visited some ten days later, when I asked if they could show me their old documents, representatives of the four villages along Chiromo Bay gathered and taught me deeply just how important meetings are. I learned that meetings of the representatives of these four villages have continued for more than four hundred years, ever since they began hunting dolphin together in the bay. When I said that I wanted to see their communally owned documents, the representative of Chiromo said, “Let’s send a messenger to the other representatives,” and I, thinking nothing of it, made do with a simple “Thank you.” As it would happen, the messenger had to go by rowboat to a representative’s house that was at the back end of the bay. It was two and a half miles one way. More than three hours passed from the time of my request until the messenger returned to tell us that he had contacted the representatives of the other three villages. When I spread out a map, I realized what trouble I had caused them.
Another hour passed, and the three representatives arrived by boat. Finely dressed in traditional haori [half-coats], they all carried fans. It being summer, they must have been hot, but it seemed that meetings of the representatives were stern affairs. They told me that they wanted to discuss things for a time, so I went to another house to make inquiries. At about nine at night I was called back to the representative’s house where the meeting was being held. I arrived to find the four representatives gathered in the front room. They had deliberated without eating dinner. The representative of Chiromo said, “We have decided that you cannot take the documents with you, but you can look at them for one full day.” The reason: the quantity of fish that had been caught in the communal nets was inscribed in the account books, and they couldn’t allow such information to leak out. This being quite reasonable I said, “That would be fine.” The representative of Chiromo cut the seal on the register box and opened the lid. Confirming the number of books inside, he handed them to me. Then dinner was brought out on small wooden tables, and as I had not eaten yet, I partook as well. These aging lacquered tables had small compartments that contained rice, boiled taro stems, and pickled eggplant. I was told that since long ago this had been the protocol at gatherings of this sort. While we ate, the four men told stories of catching dolphin in the old days, and most likely such talk had continued throughout their deliberations from five until nine o’clock. If I had been there, I would like to have written down every single one of their stories.
I was up all night that night too, transcribing the account books. Feeling somewhat melancholy, I stepped out into the moonlit night. In front of the house was a bay and across it the distinct line of low, dark mountains. A wind blew across the ocean, and the moonlight was finely chopped by the waves. There, by the shore, an old woman from my lodging was spinning thread all through the night, “Because the moon is beautiful . . . ”
Working, she enjoyed the moonlight and the cool night breeze.
I pressed on with my transcription work during the day too, and in the evening, when I had finally finished, I went to the home of the representative to return the account books. That night while I went to one of the old families in the village and made inquiries there, again the three representatives gathered in the home of the Chiromo representative, placed the account books back in the register box, sealed it, and at around midnight, returned to their respective villages. I had finished my inquiries and was on my way back to my lodgings when I heard voices from the shore and saw the light of a pine torch. I arrived at the shore just as the representatives were getting into a boat to return home. Feeling truly bad for having put these men to such trouble for the past two days, I attempted to hand them money I had wrapped in paper, saying it was to pay for the sake consumed at the meal we had shared. But they refused to take it, explaining, “It was our duty.” When the boat departed I thanked them, calling out, “I’m sorry to have troubled you and thank you very much.” To this, one of the representatives responded, “Now I have performed my duties,” and saying this he rowed off across the sea in the moonlight.
I have written these stories in great detail because I want it to be known in concrete terms how the villages of old appeared, when and under what circumstances a handing down of traditions was necessary, and what it meant for villagers to discuss old conventions. I am not saying that all villages in Japan were this way. But at least in the villages to the west of Kyoto and Osaka, village meetings of this sort have taken place since long ago. At these assemblies it would appear that no distinction was made between rural samurai and farmers. In the order of succession from feudal lords and their retainers down to farmers, the status of farmers was low, but when it came to being a member of a village community, their ideas seem to have been treated equally.
When I was looking at the old documents of a place nearby, also near the north end of Tsushima, I found a passage that was almost three hundred years old. It was a criticism of a rural samurai family in the village that was directly descended from the So clan [who had once controlled Tsushima] saying that it was inexcusable that they sent only their manservant to meetings. This would suggest that the rural samurai himself normally attended such meetings—showing his face and speaking his mind like all others—and that he would have had to listen to what the other villagers had to say as well. When the rural samurai interacted with their retainers and landless younger brothers who had formed branch families, they probably put on airs with them. But when it came to interactions with common villagers, and there was no lord–vassal relationship, it was only natural for villagers to file a grievance when the rural samurai skipped meetings.
Just the same, numerous distinctions remained. Rural samurai and farmers could not intermarry; only the rural samurai could perform a scene from Kabuki on the occasion of the Bon festival [Festival of the Dead]; and so on. When one looks only at such distinctions, the class system appears to have been strong, but when one looks at life in the villages, there were many instances of a rural samurai working a farmer’s land. And this situation was by no means limited to Tsushima.
In this we can see that villages had their own distinct life. I imagine that at village meetings there were many instances where matters were not settled using today’s logic. Rather, people would have told parables and no doubt likened the matter at hand to their own lives and experience in a way that was easy to convey and easy for others to understand. In the middle of the discussion, time was set aside to cool down. If there were objections, fine, and for a time things would be left like that. When, in time, a voice came out in favor, that opinion would be left to stand and everyone would think together about it. In the end the person in charge would make a decision. In this way there were likely few unpleasant feelings, even in a small village where people came face to face with one another every day. At the same time, it is clear that these village meetings held authority.
There was a register box in every village on Tsushima, and these held records of agreements that had been reached. It was in this way that, supported by the passing down of institutions, customs, and beliefs, self-government was effected. And while the opportunity for everyone to speak of their own experiences and observations certainly did serve to strengthen their unity and bring order to village life, it also impeded the village’s forward progress.
Chapter 2
Folksongs
[Tsushima Island, Nagasaki Prefecture, July 1950 and July 1951]
As I had been delayed in the village of Ina, it was after five o’clock when I departed. Even though it was summer when the days are long, the sun was already on its way down. From Ina to the back end of Sago is a little over seven miles. Although I couldn’t be sure, if I hurried I might just be able to arrive with a little daylight left. At any rate, I departed with the thought of hurrying, and then someone from the place where I’d been staying came chasing after me. “Some people came to Ina from Sago to buy wood, and since they’ll be heading back now it would be good to join them.”
When I reached the edge of the village,
