Toake Endoh Exporting Japan Politics of Emigration To Latin America

Exporting
Japan
Politics of Emigration to Latin America
Toake Endoh
Exporting Japan
Exporting Japan
Politics of Emigration
toward Latin America
Toake Endoh
University of Illinois Press

Urbana and Chicago
© 2009 by the Board of Trustees
of the University of Illinois
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
c 5 4 3 2 1
∞ This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Endoh, Toake.
Exporting Japan : politics of emigration toward
Latin America / Toake Endoh.
p. cm. —
Includes bibliographical references and index.
isbn 978-0-252-03402-2 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Japanese—Latin America—History.
2. Japan—Emigration and immigration—
Government policy—History.
I. Endoh, Toake. II. Title.
f1419.j3 e53 2009
325.8089/956 22 2008036538
Contents
Notes on the Translation and Usage of

Japanese Names and Words vii
Introduction 1
Part I. Origins, Historical Development,

and Patterns of Japanese Migration to
Latin America
1. The First Wave of Japanese Migration to Latin America 17
2. The Second Wave: Post–World War II Period 35
Part II. Latin American Emigration

as a National Strategy
3. Building the Emigration Machinery 59
4. Post–World War II Resurgence of State-Led Migration to
Latin America 80
Part III. State Expansion through

Human Exclusion
5. Social Origins of Japanese Emigration Policy 101
6. Latin American Emigration as Political Decompressor 138
7. State Expansion through Emigration 170
Conclusion 197
Notes 205
Bibliography 239
Index 253
Notes on the Translation and Usage
of Japanese Names and Words
In this book, Japanese names and words are Romanized based on the modi-
fied Hepburn style. The names of Japanese persons are written with the family
names first, followed by the given name, except for Japanese who themselves
adopt the customary Western style (the given name first, followed by the
family name). All translations from Japanese-language texts are done by the
author unless otherwise specified.
The term “Burakumin,” as used throughout the text, is highly contro-
versial in the legal, political, and social worlds of Japan. This social group
is so-named because they are, historically, the people of a “special hamlet”
(tokushu buraku). Thus, the word itself is already discriminatory, differen-
tiating this communal group from the rest of the Japanese based on place
of origin or occupation. In this book, the author uses the term simply as a
matter of pragmatism, instead of naming them, for example, a “discriminated
people by birth origin.” The reification of the “Burakumin” brand is, after all,
as meritless as the reasons for discriminating against them.
Exporting Japan
Introduction
The Prime Minister’s Tears

On September 14, 2004, three helicopters hovered over the Colonia Guata-
para in the state of São Paulo—a Plymouth Colony for Japanese immigrants
to Brazil and their descendents.1 One of the helicopters, carrying Koizumi
Jun’ichirō, the prime minister of Japan, suddenly descended and landed
where about a hundred Guatapara residents were standing. This stopover
was unplanned: when the prime minister saw the message, “Welcome Prime
Minister Koizumi,” and the Japanese flag drawn in lime on the red soil from
his seat in the sky, he requested the surprise visit. On the ground, the people
who had been told that the prime minister would toss down flowers from
his helicopter around a memorial to the early immigrants, “fell into rapture”
at this totally unexpected “masaka” (impossible) event.2 Surrounded and
jostled by the exuberant crowd, Mr. Koizumi shook hands and exchanged
greetings. Almost a century after the first settlement of Japanese on that soil
in 1908, the descendents of those early immigrants and later arrivals literally
and figuratively reunited with their home nation—in the person of the prime
minister—on the land of their struggle.
The next day, Mr. Koizumi met with another contingent of Nikkeijin
(people of Japanese ancestry born or living outside Japan) in the city of
São Paulo, which has long been a mecca for Japanese immigration to Latin
America.3 Some twelve hundred Nikkeijin listened to his speech in the hall
of the Brazilian Society of Japanese Culture in the Liberdade district. It was
their first chance since 1974 to meet the prime minister of their ethnic home.
In his speech, Koizumi described how much he appreciated the warm-
2 Introduction
hearted welcome by the Guatapara compatriots the previous day. “Everyone

welcomed me with tears. I was deeply moved. I cannot imagine how many
hardships they went through in a foreign country with a different language
and climate . . .”4 He was suddenly choked with tears. The audience was
silent, some also in tears.
In that moment, both the Japanese prime minister and the Nikkei-Brazil-
ians embraced a sense of fraternity. According to Mr. Koizumi, Brazil was
“the closest country to [his] heart,”5 and apparently his compatriots (dōhō)
had not severed their sentimental or cultural ties with their homeland despite
distance in time and space. They shared the remembrance of ordeals and
sacrifice. In this sense, their tears were innocent and genuine. Nevertheless,
the historical relationship between the Japanese state and the emigrants to
Brazil, Peru, Paraguay, Bolivia, the Dominican Republic, and elsewhere under
the state-guided emigration policy was knotty and turbulent.
From the end of the nineteenth century until the mid-twentieth century, some
three hundred thousand Japanese immigrants crossed the Pacific, seeking
a new life in terra incognita. Among them, the majority of migrants who
left Japan after 1923 were so-called kokusaku imin, or immigrants under a
strategic national policy. They were recruited, financed, trained, transported,
and resettled in the Latin American colonies by their own government.
There are shades of interpretation and evaluation of the meaning of Latin
American-bound migration in Japanese history. Opinions are at times sharply
divided. Some acclaim the migration as a monumental achievement of Japan’s
international advance. The Brazilian Nikkei community of about 1.5 million
in population, the largest Japanese community outside Japan; and Alberto
Fujimori, the first Nikkei president of the Republic of Peru (1990–2000), are,
in this view, quintessential examples. Others call the emigration program
nothing but kimin (dumping people) for having abandoned the migrants
in the hostile and difficult natural or socioeconomic climates of foreign
countries over ten thousand miles away. Some former emigrants have filed
suit against the Japanese migration authorities, who the plaintiffs believe
were responsible for their plight and affliction. Such contradictory images
of Latin American-bound migration motivated me to write a book on the
relationship between the Japanese state and the emigrants, as well as the
historicity of this trans-Pacific migration within the larger framework of
Japan’s nation-state building.
Introduction 3
Paradoxes
The paradoxical image of Japanese migration to Latin America, as noted
above, relates to three conundrums. The first is the mode of migration and
settlement. In the history of Japanese migration since the 1880s, Hawaii and
North America had been the major destinations for the migrants, the major-
ity of whom were dekasegi (migrant workers). At the start of the twentieth
century, this trans-Pacific human flow was rerouted south of the equator,
to the Ibero-Americas. While relatively lower paid by western hemisphere
standards, jobs offered to the Japanese on plantations or mines in Mexico,
Peru, Brazil, Argentina, and other countries paid far better than what a ru-
ral peasant would earn at home. This pattern of migration, from a lower to
higher economy, which corresponds with the natural law of the international
labor market in neo-classical economics, would break down in the 1920s
and thereafter.6 Reversing the trend, Japanese immigrants began trekking to
the frontier—isolated, deserted, and undeveloped places like the Peruvian
jungles, the Brazilian Amazon, and the hinterlands of Paraguay. These new
destinations lacked not only the commercial or industrial dynamics to en-
able foreign workers to “get rich quick” (ikkaku senkin), but also the social
infrastructure necessary for a basic life.
This counter-intuitive migratory flow recurred after World War II, follow-
ing the decade-long hiatus of the Pacific War and the postwar occupation.
Japanese people started to migrate to South America and the Caribbean in
1952, soon after Japan’s independence. They settled in the Brazilian Amazon
and sertão (hinterlands), the Bolivian and Paraguayan serva, and mountain
areas and barren lands in the Dominican Republic, where locals or other
immigrants did not dare enter. Their frontier expeditions made the Japanese
immigrants, already ravaged by the war, much poorer. For the most part,
both prewar and postwar Japanese migrants were motivated by a utilitarian
rationale—to benefit from income differentials or to seek job opportunities—
or by the general expectation of a better life by moving to a more prosperous
economy where opportunities beckoned.7 Why, then, did these individual
rational actors migrate to the “peripheries”?
The fact that this frontier migration was supported and propelled by the
state of Japan raises other questions. Since the 1880s, North American-bound
emigration had been underwritten by private migration agencies, but those
were supplanted by the Japanese state in the mid-1920s. From that point, the
government and its related ministries and agencies directed it as kokusaku
(strategic national policy). Postwar migration was also conducted under
the same type of state management. When a series of debacles and ordeals
4 Introduction
began to beset the migration-settlement projects, some settlers deserted, and

settlers’ appeals for relief or repatriation mounted. Why, in response, did the
Japanese administrators not suspend, revise, or adjust the faulty programs?
Or, why did the sender state endorse a scheme so deleterious to its own
people in the first place?
Overpopulation was the official rationale for the overseas migration policy
in both the prewar and postwar cases. The pre–World War II government
enacted organized migration as a silver bullet to alleviate the population
pressure and poverty that were worsening with Japan’s economic modern-
ization, while the demographic chaos after Japan’s defeat in World War II
prodded the government to again broach the policy. Scholarship in the field
also broadly supports this Malthusian explanation.8 Nevertheless, a closer
and critical examination of socioeconomic realities and the changing public
discourse on the migration policy over time indicates that the legitimacy of
the demographic rationale was becoming obscure. In addition, it suggests
that the sender state might have had other, more concrete or immediate goals
in pursuing Latin American migration.9 The perceptions, ideas, and intent
of the migration policymakers and administrators have been overlooked to
date, but this study pays special attention to them, and explicates why the
Japanese state insisted upon Latin American emigration.
The third puzzle surrounds the origin of the emigrants. Where did the
Japanese immigrants come from, and what sort of people were they before
migration? These rather intuitive and mundane questions have rarely been
taken seriously.10 In fact, from 40 to 50 percent of Latin American-bound
emigrants in both prewar and postwar periods originated in the southwest.
What made the region lead these migrations?
Some historians attribute this geographical concentration to a cultural fac-
tor.11 In their view, the southwesterners were accustomed to and had practiced
overseas migration for generations since the early migrations to Hawaii and
North America, and many villages in the region had an established commu-
nal norm that any avid, risk-taking individuals explored their life chances
abroad. According to Douglas Massey and others, “Migration becomes deeply
ingrained into the repertoire of people’s behaviour, and values associated
with migration become part of the community’s values.”12
This “social capital” theory may specify locally embedded properties as the
main driver of the southwesterners’ migration to Latin America. Kinship ties
and friendship networks across the Pacific, maintained via letters and visits,
helped diffuse information about the adventure. Remittances were often
used to subsidize travel costs for latecomers from the same home village;
they impressed the poor villagers and convinced them to make the gamble
Introduction 5
to get rich abroad. More formal and institutionalized social networks, includ-
ing locally based migration agencies and labor contractors, may also have
reinforced specific migration paths.13 In addition, the formation of ethnic
communities in settlements overseas facilitated the acculturation process
for new immigrants by providing an ethnic comfort zone where compatriots
shared a language, lifestyle, and community.14
These variables, communal values and social capital, may have impacted
the southwesterners’ historical migration to Hawaii, the continental United
States, and affluent parts of Latin America before 1923. But in Latin American-
bound migration from the 1920s to the 1960s, a preexisting path or capital
had little effect, since the destinations had changed and the migrants were
headed down untrodden roads, entering into new, unfamiliar settlements.
Moreover, these frontier expeditions were initiated and advanced by the
state of Japan, as mentioned earlier. It was not social but state agents that
designed, supported, and financed the emigration enterprise.15 Last, and most
important, the Latin American migration policy was in theory a national
strategy, but was applied most rigorously in the southwestern region. How
did the national policy become so locally specific?
Looking for an Alternative Analytical Approach

As noted above, previous studies on Japanese migration to Latin America
mostly took the perspectives of international economy, structuralism, or
transnational social networks, but did not look into the domestic politi-
cal aspects of Japan. The domestic—national or local—political parameter
has been largely ignored and under-researched in general, as Massey et al.
point out.16 In fact, migration can be induced or affected by specific policy
or institutional incentives from the sender government, as the Japanese case
illustrates. Emigration policy is enacted based on the specific intent and
calculations of policymakers, shaped by a dominant ideology. Policymakers
and administrators appropriate institutional, financial, or political incentives
to spur a push for emigration, while actively negotiating with host countries.
Aside from the “invisible hand of the market,” the visible and willful hands
of the sender state can cause and shape international migration.
Adopting a state-centric paradigm, this study focuses on the intentions,
perceptions, ideology, and actions of the Japanese state in undertaking Latin
American emigration through its policy and institutions. By the state, I mean
here the multilayered and multifaceted apparatus and personnel who bol-
stered and administered this national enterprise. On the central level, the
government bureaucracy—chiefly, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs or MOFA,
6 Introduction
embassies and consulates, and the prewar Ministries of Home Affairs and
Colonial Affairs—was the main architect and ultimate authority. As the policy
assumed multiple roles over time, for labor management, social accommoda-
tion, and colonial expeditions, other ministries (agriculture, labor, and wel-
fare, among others) joined the national enterprise. Semi-public entities, such
as the prewar Overseas Emigration Association, the Kaigai Kōgyō migration
company, institutions for the welfare of the socially marginal, and MOFA’s
affiliate organizations (such as the postwar Kaigai Kyōryoku Rengō-kai) func-
tioned as more immediate overseers of this cross-border program.
On the local level, the governments of prefectures, cities, and villages took
charge of the day-to-day tasks of advertisement, hands-on recruitment of
migration candidates, and their training. Generally speaking, the local au-
thorities were subordinate to Tokyo’s decisions. But at times, prefectural gov-
ernments took the initiative in advancing the emigration program in their
jurisdictions, or by building satellite villages in Latin American settlements.
Their parochial and idiosyncratic interests themselves merit analysis, but
more important, review of their bottom-up efforts to promote emigration
policy is critical to seeing how the national policy became localized, and how,
as a result, geographical concentration in the origin of emigrants occurred.
Individuals—politicians and intellectuals—and private organizations (e.g.,
pro-emigration advocacy groups and the Nikkei diaspora’s agricultural co-
operatives and voluntary associations) are here viewed as part of the state’s
apparatus for overseas migration. Their advocacy and engagement in the
migration-colonization operations were the nuts and bolts of the national
enterprise. Betting Japan’s future on overseas advance (kaigai hatten, to use
their favorite phraseology), the emigration advocates disseminated the vir-
tues of migration among the public, and mobilized capital and personnel to
colonization plans in collaboration with government officials. The Nikkei
diaspora’s semi-autonomous associations (such as nihonjin-kai or kenjin-kai)
embraced their “home” state’s vision of reproducing a perfect Japan in the
Americas. These functionaries acted like chargés d’affaires to communicate
the will and vision of the home government, administrate the co-ethnic com-
munity, and harness the spatially divided state and society far abroad. As this
book illustrates, the Latin American emigration enterprise was bolstered by
the mutual, transnational engagement of the state and the diaspora society.
While taking a state-centered approach, this study holds that the Japanese
state’s ideas and actions were shaped by and reflected specific social con-
ditions. According to Anthony Marx, specific social policy is “historically
embedded, reflects ideology, is constrained by dominant political and eco-
nomic claims, and responds to protests.”17 The Japanese state, which power-
Introduction 7
fully intervened in the international migration regime and set the pace and
course of trans-Pacific migration for decades, had been subject to enormous
pressure from economic, social, and political instability inside the coun-
try since national modernization and consolidation commenced in the late
nineteenth century. The road of the “Great Transformation” to social mod-
ernization, capitalist development, and nation-state building was far from
unilinear, rife with recurrent obstacles.18 There were incessant struggles for
power and influence between the state and social contestants. State-society
antagonism fermented in the interwar period of the 1920s and early 1930s,
and again in the 1950s. These relatively peaceful eras (in terms of international
relations) saw highly contentious mass politics that developed dialectically
out of socioeconomic changes and ideological cleavages (e.g., capitalism vs.
communism). In particular, people who were marginalized, disadvantaged,
and unrepresented in the state’s modernization and nation-building scenario
took up the most radical positions of resistance. Deeply concerned about los-
ing the efficacy and legitimacy of their governance, the officialdom devised
various means of conflict resolution and social control.19 The social ethos of
the Latin American emigration policy must be understood in this historical
and political context.
As preemption to stabilize society and consolidate the nation, power hold-
ers can enact a systemic mass relocation overseas.20 Modern world history has
witnessed many such state actions. Some took the direct and forceful form
of expulsion or ostracism. Others were more indirect and accommodative,
encouraging the target population to migrate abroad by providing them in-
stitutional incentives, such as loan subsidies, transportation, and settlement
lands. Besides a great number of convicts from its overcrowded prisons, Brit-
ish rulers sent the Irish, ex-convicts, and urban lumpen-proletariat to Aus-
tralia, and the U.S. government brought freed slaves “back” to Liberia in the
early nineteenth century under what Zolberg, Suhrke, and Aguayo called an
“opportunistic deportation policy.”21 Japan’s emigration policy towards Latin
America assumed a similar function as a political safety valve—selectively
relocating the seeds of potential social ills overseas via government-sponsored
emigration—at a crisis moment for the polity and nation.22
Emigration may benefit a nation with “a double commodity, in the avoidance

of people here, and in making use of them there.”23 This quote from Francis
Bacon’s proposal to King James I in 1606 is also reflective of what overarch-
ing international strategy the Japanese state projected in its Latin American
emigration policy. Aside from the internal goal of social control, the state
sought to expand the scope of the nation-state beyond its territorial borders
8 Introduction
via a migration-colonization strategy. In this progressive (in the imperialist

sense) scheme, emigrants were no longer unproductive or undisciplined
masses but useful and dutiful agents of colonial development and a surrogate
in Japan’s expansionist overtures.
Such an ingenious synthesis of migration, social control, and state expan-
sion is not unique to this case. The British model, mentioned above, presents
another, earlier example. Japan itself expanded its territory and consolidated
its sovereignty via emigration first to Hokkaido, then to Taiwan, Korea, and
Manchuria. These and other historical examples of such a hybrid model—or
what Joseph Schumpeter conceptualized and Louise Young cited as “social
imperialism”—belong to the pre–World War II colonial period.24 Japan’s
hybrid approach toward Latin America continued in the postwar era, serv-
ing to translocate a part of the undesirable population abroad, on the one
hand, and, encapsulating postwar Japan’s international agenda of peacefully
expanding its sphere of influence in the western world, on the other.25
How did the state lay claim to sovereignty over its co-ethnic diaspora com-
munity in other sovereign nations? How did it maintain transnational ties
with its co-ethnic diaspora? What were its goals in constructing a nation-state
abroad? This book is informed by the study of diaspora politics, especially
those focusing on state strategy to enrich and empower the nation.26
A state may attempt to consume the resources of its co-ethnic diaspora
overseas for its own nation-building goal.27 The unique skill set possessed by
the diaspora and the ethnic community—“innovative economic techniques,”
“technical role specialization,”28 communications skills, and interpersonal
networks—are indispensable capital for the development-minded state.
Countries in Asia (such as South Korea, the Philippines, and Bangladesh)
and Latin America (such as Mexico and El Salvador) have mobilized and
benefited from their kin community’s talents and linkages for foreign ex-
change earnings, export marketing, and other economic goals.29 For its part,
the Japanese state engineered, constructed, and fortified a diaspora platform
from scratch in the South American hinterlands, where Nikkei diaspora had
scarcely existed. Economic institutions for agricultural development and
production were built in the diaspora community. Through these institutions,
the emigration-colonization administrators tried to shape Nikkei farming
activities in such a way as to serve the home country’s commodity needs.
A diaspora’s political or symbolic resources may also be a major attrac-
tion to the expansionist home state, particularly so when the home nation
is under the stress of economic or political exigency.30 The diaspora’s pres-
ence or wealth in a foreign country helps the home state raise its prestige in
Introduction 9
international relations. Their political channels to the host governments or

engagement in “people’s diplomacy” may arouse the host country’s supports
toward their homeland, like the Chinese American’s anti-Japanese imperial-
ism movement in the United States in the 1930s and 1940s and the American
Jewish lobbyism for Israel.31 Japan recognized the political potential of the
Nikkei diaspora living in the Western world.32 When doors to immigration
were shutting against the Japanese, Japan used the elite among its co-ethnic
diaspora as brokers to negotiate with the host governments of Latin America
for Japanese immigration. Wartime political mobilization was meant to en-
courage the Nikkei diaspora to lend moral and material support to their
compatriots at home and consolidate national unity across distance. De-
velopment of the Amazon and other frontier expeditions marked the range
of imperial Japan’s influence. Postwar Japan’s universalism in international
relations was also to be materialized by mobilizing the emigrants into its
foreign policy of economic assistance toward Latin America.
Mobilization of the diaspora is predicated on their allegiance to their ethnic
homeland and their collective consciousness of an ethnic identity. 33 Their
unique position—having a foot in two nations—does not assure their identity
as “given” or “immutable,” nor their loyalty to be constant or permanent.34
Thus, the state must seek to define and construct the diaspora’s identity to fit
into the national suit and stimulate patriotism. In the case of Japan, physical
remoteness, cultural differences, and international conflict compounded to
make the conscious and laborious construction of a genuine Japanese identity
imperative. Stressing cultural orthodoxy (especially civic virtues and emperor
worship) as the first and foremost ingredient of a Japanese national identity,
the home state behaved like an ideological preceptor to give orthodox regi-
mentation to its co-ethnic population abroad.
A state’s nation-building that demands diasporic linkage creates another
political authority within the diaspora’s “host” country. As a result, it may
muddle the host’s sovereignty. Some states remain cautious and alert to such
potential interference. An extraterritorial statehood that counters the univer-
sal norm of territorial sovereignty may cause rivalry, friction, or war between
nations.35 Prewar Japan observed diplomatic ambivalence and circumspect
political maneuvering in its eastward expansionism toward America’s West.36
The pacifist, postwar Japan abides by the doctrine of what Ryuji Mukae terms
“paternalistic pan-statism”—that a state “should take care of its citizens out-
side its territory” (“paternalist outreach”) and respect other states’ equal rights
towards their people in its territory.37 When it came to Japan’s ethnic sover-
eignty in Latin America, however, such diplomatic consideration or interna-
10 Introduction
tional reciprocity gave way to superpower mentality and ethno-chauvinism.

The logic of Japan’s paternalism and unilateralism toward the host nations
of Latin America is another crucial point of investigation in this study.
Outline of This Study

This study consists of three parts: part I provides the historical contours of
the evolution of Japanese migration to Latin America. Therein, an immi-
gration-side narrative—the origin, rise, and decline of cross-border human
flows as well as the scale, time frame, and patterns of the immigration—is
overviewed. The Ibero-Americas, which had attracted fewer immigrants
from Japan than had North America and Hawaii in earlier migrations, be-
came the main destination in the western hemisphere from the 1920s. The
pattern of the Japanese flow thereto was counter-intuitive by the norms of
international migration—it was a downward flow from a developing economy
(prewar Japan) to less developed economies. In new settlements in unknown
lands, the immigrant-settlers had to build colonies from scratch. Chapter
1 illustrates how and explores why this anomalous pattern of immigration
took place, with concrete cases from Peru and Brazil. The social climate of
these host countries was becoming increasingly anti-Japanese, and the racial
politics was raising the stakes against Japanese immigration. In response to
such negative socio-political environments, the sender state of Japan inter-
vened and advanced trans-Pacific migration. Stirred by Japan’s new strategy
of rerouting immigrants to remote and unpopulated hinterlands, Japanese
emigration rose to an unprecedentedly large scale by the mid-1930s.
The paradoxical pattern of Japanese immigration from high to lower
economies recurred in the postwar second wave of Latin American emigra-
tion. Citizens of the war-defeated nation met harsh natural and economic
conditions in new settlements, no better than those in the prewar years, in
either the underdeveloped countries of Bolivia, the Dominican Republic, and
Paraguay, or the backwater frontier areas of the Brazilian Amazon and sertão
(hinterland). Chapter 2 explains why such harsh and adverse migration was
imposed on the Japanese migrants, in the context of postwar international re-
lations. The chapter also questions what went wrong with the state-sponsored
settlement programs, which caused tremendous hardship to the settlers.
In unraveling the major conundrums involved in the history of Japanese
emigration to Latin America, this study examines the flip side of the story
and sheds light on the emigration-side narrative. At the center of the do-
mestic analysis to be conducted in part II is the role of the Japanese state,
which spurred the endogenous push for large-scale emigration. The state—
Introduction 11
in both its prewar authoritarian and postwar conservative incarnations—

prescribed and advanced Latin American emigration as a strategic national
policy. What was the rationale for this institutionalization? Perceptions,
ideas, and actions of the emigration advocates and administrators within or
associated with the state are critically examined, especially in the context of
social conditions of the time (the prewar case in chapter 3 and the postwar
case in chapter 4). The issue at stake in these chapters is whether the official
rationale for overseas migration—overpopulation—was legitimate in the
light of socioeconomic realities.
Public discourse in prewar Japan on the virtues of Latin American emigra-
tion had vacillated on the question of the state’s non-interference or engage-
ment. When structural problems associated with Japan’s capitalist develop-
ment worsened in the 1920s, the government changed its attitude toward
favoring emigration. Policy legislation and the building of administrative and
support institutions in both Japan and Latin America ensued. Observation of
the actual operations of the national enterprise and official pronouncements
suggests, however, that the policy transformed its ethos from a single-issue
policy into an organic formula for the nation-expansion of imperial Japan.
Chapter 4 traces the process through which the post-surrender govern-
ment of Japan formulated and executed its overseas migration policy under
the exigencies of demographic chaos and socioeconomic distress. Policy-
makers and emigration advocates were desperate to have Japan return to
the international migration regime. By the time the emigration program
came into full operation in the mid-1950s, however, Japan’s socioeconomic
environment was changing rapidly and drastically, and the legitimacy of the
policy in alleviating the population crisis and poverty became obscure. The
policy’s continuity and forceful expansion despite the gap with a changing
reality prompts the question as to why the GOJ insisted upon Latin Ameri-
can emigration.
Part III provides a systemic explanation of the essence of the Latin Ameri-
can emigration policy in the context of Japan’s domestic and international
politics and nation-building. Latin American emigration as political ma-
chinery comprehended two dimensions: (1) internally it was instrumental
to decompress social protest and radicalism and assure stability and national
unity by physically removing abroad the seeds of social havoc; and, (2) inter-
nationally, the emigration-colonization strategy supported the Japanese state’s
ambition for wealth, power, and status, capitalizing on Japan’s transnational
organic ties with its co-ethnic diaspora in Latin America. The state’s Janus-
faced treatment of the diaspora—exclusion here and inclusion there—as
well as its expansionist overtures toward Latin America were historically
12 Introduction
continuous through both the prewar and postwar periods. The three chapters
in part III shed light on the common thread that ran through both eras.
Chapter 5 explores the social origins of the emigration policy. At issue here
is why this national policy was applied most rigorously in the southwestern
part of Japan. First, I examine whether structural conditions had determined
the pattern of geographical concentration in the origin of emigrants through a
cross-regional comparison. I then probe into the socio-political environment
of the region. Contemporaneous with the surge of Latin American emigra-
tion in the 1920s-1930s and the 1950s, class relations that developed uniquely
in the southwestern region were fomenting social antagonism against the
economic and political establishment. The dispossessed or marginalized
population was radicalizing their ideology and actions against their class
enemy and the state. Caught in these political developments, those in power
became increasingly vulnerable to the defiant masses, and felt it necessary to
reconfigure and reinforce the structure and strategy of governance. Chapter
6 details the process of policy deployment for crisis mitigation against the
backdrop of the political stalemate in both the prewar and postwar periods.
The emigration promoters and administrators applied the policy most vig-
orously to the localities and social sectors that they perceived as undesir-
able for the nation and, consequently, best suited for emigration—poor or
landless farmers, less skilled labor, and the so-called Burakumin outcasts.
The multi-party and multi-level collaboration between Tokyo and the south-
western prefectures—among ministries and agencies, and between Japan and
overseas—finessed the emergence of an overarching institutional platform
to effectively recruit an optimal number of migration candidates. In this
process, the role of prefecture-based emigration agents was vital. This is a key
to answering why and how the southwest led the emigration totals. The local
authority’s direct responsibility for keeping social contestation in check and
their parochial pride in creating an “emigration kingdom” were their main
drivers for leading the national emigration campaign in their districts. Lastly,
I explain why the state took recourse to the emigration-qua-decompressor
formula relative to other forms of control, such as repression and welfare. The
emigration policy’s political implications are examined in the larger context
of the historicity and ideology of social governance in prewar authoritarian-
ism and postwar anti-leftist conservatism.
Okinawa’s unique relationship with Japan and its postwar occupation re-
sulted in a different mode of migration to Latin America from that of other
Japanese. But in the 1950s, mass Okinawan relocation was enacted by the
U.S. occupation authorities and thousands were sent to the Bolivian and
Brazilian frontiers. What explains this action by the United States? What was
Introduction 13
the relationship between the occupier and the occupied on the war-ravaged
island? These questions are answered in the last section of chapter 6, in
a comparison with the Japanese matrix of state-society antagonism, crisis
management, and emigration.
The distinctiveness of the Latin American emigration enterprise lies in its
continuity: even after emigration, the relationship between the Japanese state
and the emigrant-diaspora was not severed, but was instead reprogrammed
and reinforced in a transnational setting. Thinking of its co-ethnic diaspora
as a surrogate actor in Japan’s international advancement, the state engineered
and managed multiple institutions for developing, organizing, and mobiliz-
ing diasporic resources. Chapter 7 describes how the emigration policy was
conjoined with Japan’s global strategies in economic, political, and ideological
terrain. In the international economy, Japan’s colonial management policy
guided Nikkei farmers or cooperatives to engage in developing agricultural
products and commercial centers, with the aim of reinforcing Japan’s food
security. What sort of arrangements were made to engineer the food supply
base? In what way did the agricultural undertakings at Nikkei centers assist
Japan’s economic efforts worldwide?
The Nikkei diaspora’s political and cultural engagement with the homeland
was also sought by both the prewar imperialist and postwar international-
ist orientations. Japanese nativists and nationalists projected the image of
a highly moralistic, perfect nation-family based on the national orthodoxy
upon diasporic relationships. What official instruction and discipline were
given to the diaspora in order to authenticate them as Japanese, shape their
identity, and raise their allegiance to the home nation? I examine the way in
which long-distance nationalism was fortified under the aegis of Japanese
imperialism in the prewar period, and how postwar Japan’s internationalist
principles were translated into new diaspora politics.
Prewar diaspora nationalism resulted in the unintended consequence
of the enclave nationalism of Nikkei South Americans. The news of Japan’s
“sudden” surrender to the Allied Forces in August 1945 triggered an intense
ideological and political fight within the Nikkei community in Brazil. Why
did the diaspora split and fight against each other over Japan’s war defeat?
How did prewar imperial instruction impinge upon that development? How
did the government of Japan react to this co-ethnic fray? What ramifications
or implications did it have for Japan’s postwar emigration policy?
Finally, this study analyzes the cultural implications of Japan’s approach
to Latin America via emigration and colonization. Japan’s effort to govern
the diasporic society cut across national boundaries and meddled with the
sovereignty of host nations, raising questions about its overall attitude to-
14 Introduction
ward Latin America and how that disposition related to Japanese claims to
expanded statehood. My examination of the discourse of emigration strate-
gists indicates that Japan’s worldview took the form of an imperialist cultural
and political agenda that led it to adopt a selective, transgressive sovereignty
in Latin America.
Part I
Origins, Historical Development,
and Patterns of Japanese Migration
to Latin America
1. The First Wave of Japanese
Migration to Latin America
In the history of Japan—an island nation surrounded by oceans on all sides—

overseas migration was a natural undertaking. From ancient times, Japan sent
its people overseas to obtain exotic goods, or to learn of different cultures
and ideas. The modern state that emerged in the late nineteenth century also
used the international circulation of people to acquire foreign resources, as-
sess potential opportunities, and enrich the nation-state. Outward-looking
Japanese people of various classes and origins, freed from the feudal seclusion
of the Tokugawa shogunate (1603–1867), avidly exploited new life chances
abroad, mostly in the United States and Europe. Early Japanese emigrants
during the Meiji period (1868–1912) included government-sponsored elite
students from the privileged classes, less affluent, self-financed students, and
ordinary laborers who wished to get rich in a foreign land. This last contin-
gent was the most numerous. They were generally poor and eager to take
even cheap, dirty, or dangerous jobs. The billowing wave of these job seekers
headed eastward, mostly to Hawaii, the Pacific Coast of the United States,
and Canada, as table 1.1 shows. America was seen as a land of opportunity,
where ordinary yet industrious individuals could “get rich quick.”
Japanese migration to the Iberian Americas, which is the central focus
of this book, started relatively late, initially ran parallel to the mainstream
of preceding migrations, and then took an unorthodox development path.
Latin America-bound migration began about a decade later than migration
to Hawaii and on a more humble scale. A group of 790 contract workers
who entered Peru were the first organized example. After them, the flow of
Japanese emigration continued in parallel with the larger flows to Hawaii and
the continental United States. One of the factors that made Latin American
18 origins, historical development, and patterns
Table 1.1 Japanese Immigration by Destination (1868–1941)
Destination 1868–1900 1901–20 1921–30 1931–41 Total
Latin America 911 60,731 85,342 97,962 244,946
Argentina 811 2,100 2,487 5,398
Bolivia 17 64 168 249
Brazil 28,661 70,913 89,411 188,985
Paraguay 1 708 709
Peru 790 19,378 9,172 3,730 33,070
Mexico 121 11,428 2,141 977 14,667
Other Latin American
countries 436 951 481 1,868
U.S. 30,130 61,018 16,105 0 107,253
Hawaii 90,572 128,124 12,484 0 231,180*
Canada 8,891 17,556 8,603 727 35,777
Asia / South Pacific** 5,202 32,369 26,333 28,463 92,367
Other countries 33,069 14,764 11,182 5,786 64,801
Total 168,775 314,562 160,049 132,938 776,324
Source: Kokusai Kyōryoku Jigyōdan, Kaigai ijū tōkei.

Note: * Excludes 26 immigrants, year of arrival unknown. ** Excluding emigrants to Manchuria,
Korea, Taiwan, and other Japanese colonies.
emigration less popular in its early period was the relatively underdeveloped
economic level of the receiving countries. The Latin American economy,
whose degree of development varied, of course, from country to country,
was generally agrarian, less industrial, and poverty-stricken by the standards
of the western hemisphere. Therefore, wages and job opportunities available
to Asian immigrants were limited. The early Japanese immigrants, who were
profit-seeking dekasegi (migrant workers), believed that no other place in
the Americas could match the U.S. labor market.1 Latin America was their
second or third choice. Secondly, the Japanese dekasegi workers preferred
migration to Hawaii, where although working conditions for the immigrant
plantation workers were no less favorable, the islands were physically closer to
Japan, already had a growing Japanese population, and provided the chance
of subsequent migration to the mainland United States. In fact, many of those
who first settled in Hawaii quickly left the miserable plantation work in the
islands, once having paid off their original debts, for more and better op-
portunities, re-migrating to the mainland. Third, some of the early Japanese
immigrants also understood Latin America, like Hawaii, as only a transit
point for their eventual entry into the United States. In particular, Mexico,
America’s neighbor, assumed such a springboard role. Likewise, some of those
who went to Peru and Brazil also made similar decisions, moving northward
by way of Mexico or Puerto Rico.2
The First Wave of Japanese Migration 19
The proportions of Japanese influx to North and South America reversed

in the 1920s, as tables 1.1 and 1.2 demonstrate. Migration to Hawaii, the United
States, and Canada plummeted, while that to Latin America, including Mex-
ico, showed strong growth. Among the 160,000 Japanese who migrated over-
seas in the 1920s, 53.2 percent headed to Brazil, Peru, Mexico, Argentina,
or other Latin American countries, while North America’s share, including
Hawaii, fell to 23.2 percent. This was in stark contrast to the previous two de-
cades when North American emigration accounted for as much as 70 percent
of the total while Latin America’s share was less than 13 percent. From the
1920s until the mid-1930s, Latin America was the most favored destination
for Japanese emigrants. All in all, from 1899 till the eve of the Pacific War in
1941, Japan sent as many as a quarter million citizens to Latin America.
Japanese migration to Latin America followed an unorthodox trajectory in

its evolution: those Japanese emigrants flowed from a developing economy
(i.e., prewar Japan) to less developed economies, such as Peru, Brazil, Mexico,
Bolivia, and Paraguay (Argentina was a relatively more prosperous excep-
tion), as opposed to the dekasegi emigrants who went to the richer North
America. These waves of downward migration never ceased, and even in-
tensified through both liberal (until the 1910s) and state-controlled (from
the 1920s to the 1930s) periods. Despite the fermenting anti-Japanese climate
in the host societies, growth in the number of immigrants continued to be
strong, owing much to large-scale immigration to Brazil. Furthermore, the
government of Japan grew heavily involved with, and influential on, Latin
American emigration, which reached its apex in the 1920s and 1930s. And it
was under that period of state-patronized migration that anomalous destina-
tions for Japanese immigration—such as the Peruvian and Brazilian interiors,
and to a lesser extent, Bolivia and Paraguay—emerged.
With these distinct traits of Latin American emigration in mind, this chap-
ter will provide a historical overview of how the prewar Japanese migration to
Latin America began and how it was shaped by adversarial socio-economic
and political conditions in the host societies. The destinations of prewar
Japanese migration ranged from Cuba and the northern part of Mexico to
the southern tip of Argentina and Chile. This chapter will concentrate on the
two major destinations, Peru and Brazil, where Japanese migration was heavi-
est, and more importantly, where the prewar transnational linkage between
Japan and its co-ethnic diaspora would emerge most strongly over time.
Peru
When Alberto Ken’ya Fujimori won the presidential election in Peru in 1990,
not a few were surprised at the sudden ascension to power of this Asian-
looking candidate, who was running independently of any party affiliation.
What was his nationality, chino or japones? The ethnic profile of President Fu-
jimori (tenure: 1990–2000) revealed to the world the existence of a substantial
number of Japanese-Peruvians—descendents of Japanese immigrants who
came to Peru as contract workers in the early twentieth century. Indeed, they
were the pioneers of Japanese immigration to Latin America, arriving there
almost a decade prior to the Brazil-bound immigrants. Moreover, Fujimori’s
ethnicity surprised not only the international community but also Peruvian
society, especially the Japanese-Peruvian community itself.
In this Andean nation, the Nikkei ethnic group has long existed in an
inconspicuous manner. Because of the painful memories of discrimina-
tion and persecution during the prewar years, descendants of the Japanese
diaspora in the post–World War II period tried not to stand out in either
a positive or negative sense. They were fearful of becoming the subject of
suspicion, hatred, or envy by other Peruvians. In particular, politics was a
big taboo. Considering these historical and cultural sensitivities, Fujimori’s
sudden entry to the central political arena was a total shock to the Japanese
diaspora. Fearful of the negative reaction of Peruvian society, the Japanese-
Peruvian community, including Fujimori’s own mother it is said, hesitated
to endorse his presidential candidacy when he decided to join the electoral
race in 1990. Japanese-Peruvians met this “tsunami shock” not with pride in
his accomplishment but rather with worry or mixed feelings. The collective
memory of the persecution they suffered was still acute.
The first collective Japanese migration to Peru can be traced to 1899. This
was an organized labor migration, promoted by private entrepreneurs—
Japanese migration agents and Peruvian sugar hacienda (plantation) own-
ers. Upon the request of Peru’s Sugar Producers Association for a supply of
contract labor on sugar plantations, the Morioka Shōkai migration agency,
represented by Tanaka Sadakichi (or Teikichi) agreed to recruit and send
Japanese dekasegi workers. With ample experience in the Hawaii-bound
migration business, Morioka Shōkai made a proposal to Japan’s Ministry
of Foreign Affairs (MOFA) to set up Japanese contract migration to Peru,
“Iminchi kakuchō kyoka negai” (a Request for Your Approval of an Expansion
of Emigration Locations).3 The Tanaka recommendation emphasized the
project’s profitability, with the specific estimate that each immigrant’s potential
savings under the four-year contract would be up to 600 yen. This convinced
the Japanese government to approve the enterprise, although the deal was
not as lucrative as the migration business with Hawaii or the United States.4
Thorough field research by the Government of Japan (GOJ) was barely made,
however, prior to the first transport of Japanese workers to Peru.5 The only
official information gathering, evaluation, and judgment was done by Mo-
rioka Shōkai’s Tanaka and Consul to Mexico Murota. Their assessments were
either too business-motivated and inaccurate (in Tanaka’s case) or too hasty
(in Murota’s case, due to his hurried research trip) for this first experiment
in collective Japanese migration to the terra incognita of South America.6
Seven hundred and ninety emigrants, all adult males, left the port of Yo-
kohama, destined for Lima’s Callao port, on February 28, 1899. When they
arrived, they were transported to eleven sugar haciendas in Casablanca, San
Nicolas, and other locales in the Pacific coastal area. What awaited these
Japanese immigrants, who had no knowledge of the Spanish language or
Western lifestyles, were harsh working and living conditions in the haci-
endas and an unfamiliar tropical climate. Disputes between Japanese and
Peruvian employers occurred soon after the first settlement. The Japanese
colonos (indentured laborers) felt mistreated and exploited, whereas their
employers felt frustrated with these “inefficient” laborers, who were slow in
adapting themselves to the hacienda conditions and becoming productive.
Local Peruvian unions and townspeople also did not welcome the “colored”
alien workers either as neighbors or competitors in labor markets.7 Only a
few months after the first settlement, some Japanese colonos fled the quasi-
slavery of the plantations—some appealing to the Morioka Shōkai office in
Callao for repatriation, while others crossed into Bolivian territory to seek
better jobs.8 Those escapees were luckier than those others who fell to malaria.
Masterson records that 143 out of the original 790 contract migrants died of
the disease after the first year.9
The death rate declined and the settlement rate improved in the long run,
but only after the tragic sacrifices of this initial period. The stabilization of
Japanese immigrants’ settlement in Peru—enabling quicker adaptability to
working/living conditions, higher profitability, and more savings—followed
a trial-and-error stage that cost many of the early settlers their lives.
Ironically, Tokyo started to view Peru as a “favorable land for migration”
after the fiasco of the initial settlements. Such change of perception within
the home government came not so much because of improvement in the
objective conditions of the labor contracts or the working environment in the
haciendas, but because both the settlement rate and the immigrants’ savings
and remittance rate gradually improved. Such optimism provided the grounds
for the ensuing state takeover of the migration business in the early 1920s.10
Migration to Peru reached its peak by 1923, with as many as 20,630 contract
migrants in total. That year, the contract migration period ended with the
termination of the bilateral agreement between the two nations. Thereafter,
international migration proceeded on a voluntary basis. But this was, in
fact, “controlled” migration under the influence of the sender state, as will
be discussed in detail in chapter 3. In 1924, Japan implemented the national
strategy of state-led collective migration. Under Tokyo’s control, 12,440 fresh
immigrants entered Peru by the outbreak of the Pacific War in 1941. Among
them, some were new brides of pre-settled male immigrants in arranged
marriages (known as shashin hanayome or “picture brides”). Others included
“corporate immigrants” (kigyō imin): employees of Japanese-owned planta-
tions in the Peruvian interior.
Japanese immigrants settled, stabilized, and improved their life abroad by
boldly and strategically relocating to urban centers. Leaving the hacienda
life and moving to Lima, Callao, Libertad, and other coastal cities, the mi-
grants switched to better-paying or independent jobs. The service sector—
barbershops, bodegas, “cafetines” (café-restaurants), tailor shops, and general
merchandise stores—was the most favored since they were independent and
entrepreneurial ones that would not harm or conflict with Peruvian inter-
ests.11 Indeed, “do not stand out” and “do not anger Peruvians” were mantras
of survival for the urban Nikkei of the time. Urbanization thus proceeded:
out of a total of 20,433 immigrants surveyed by the Peruvian historian Mary
Fukumoto, 86.7 percent lived in the district of Lima as of 1930.12 Accordingly,
the Nikkei population in the Lima-Callao region outnumbered other foreign
groups, with 32.6 percent of the total.13
Limeños and other urbanites in Peru were not happy with the accelerating
influx of Japanese immigrants to their neighborhoods. They were afraid that
the Japanese would overpopulate and “Asianize” their cities as Chinese immi-
grants had threatened to do half a century earlier.14 Preemptive political action
was needed, so they thought. In 1903, only four years after the first Japanese
group had entered agrarian haciendas, a bill to eliminate Japanese immigra-
tion was proposed in the national legislature. This “Proposal of Elimination
of Japanese Immigrants” passed the Lower House but was narrowly defeated
in the Upper House.15 This incident, while aborted in the legislative process,
offered ample evidence that Peruvians’ hostility toward Japanese immigra-
tion was not an amorphous hysteria, but a real, ideologically grounded, and
politically supported exclusionary movement.
Another political attempt was made to eliminate the Asian elements from
Peruvian society. The bill, “Rule to Encourage Immigration of White People,”
was successfully enacted in 1906. Under the new law, the Peruvian govern-
ment would subsidize travel expenses for European and American immi-
grants. This pro-European immigration policy indirectly tried to discourage
immigration of people of color, including Asians. Later, more audacious and
less apologetic exclusionary politics were exercised against Japanese and other
Asians. In 1918, the “Proposal to Eliminate Asians” went to the Congress. It
was voted down in the Upper House, but the wildfire of racist politics was
never fully extinguished. Outside the legislature, unions and the populist
political party, Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Americana (APRA), sup-
ported such efforts at institutionalization by intensifying their anti-Japanese
campaigns. The nationalist-populist demonstrators marched in the streets of
the capital, legitimizing their xenophobic zeal in the name of the protection
of Peruvian workers’ jobs and wages from the Japanese invaders.
Support for the incorporation of Japanese immigration in the country’s
plantation economy came from Peru’s executive office. The return to power
of the pro-Japanese president, Augusto B. Leguía (1919–30) quelled the heated
anti-Japanese movement and induced more immigration. President Leguía
was a sugar hacienda owner himself, and was probably the most influential
Peruvian patron of early Japanese immigration. Thanks to the patronage of
“Regia san,” as the Japanese fondly called him, Japanese migration to Peru
rebounded during the decade of the 1920s, adding another nine thousand
newcomers.16
The golden age of Japanese immigration to Peru under presidential pa-
tronage, coupled with the home state’s institutional push, did not last long,
however. An economic crisis caused by the Great Depression hit Peru, which
was heavily dependent on international commodity markets. Amid the eco-
nomic instability, the Leguía administration was toppled by a coup in 1930.
The incoming leadership was far less benevolent to this ethnic minority than
its predecessor. Japanese immigrants, having lost their patron, were exposed
to the naked hatred and direct assault of anti-Japanese politics. According to
the report of the MOFA, the coup and ensuing political instability of 1930–31
involved physical assaults and looting against Japanese residents.17 During the
street violence, one Japanese national was killed and Japanese businesses and
properties were damaged. The GOJ made an official diplomatic complaint to
the Peruvian revolutionary government, demanding monetary compensation
for the victims. Nonetheless, the anti-Japanese sentiment expressed by the
Peruvian administration and public was so fierce that, in the end, the GOJ
yielded and withdrew its original claim. Although fearful of an aggravated
anti-Japanese atmosphere, Tokyo did not suspend its emigration policy. To
reconcile the contradiction of its resolve to continue the policy in the an-
tagonistic environment, the Japanese consulate in Lima sought to redirect
its emigrants to the interior, in the Huallaga Valley, hoping to “placate the
Peruvian government and diffuse growing anti-Japanese sentiment.”18
The new administration of Luis M. Sánchez Cerro responded to public
sentiment by trying to complete the task of institutionalizing restrictions on
Japanese immigration and on the lives and freedom of the immigrants then
living in Peru. In April 1932, it approved Act No. 7505, a Peruvian version of
affirmative action requiring all businesses to employ a workforce composed
of at least 80 percent Peruvians.19 The law intended to protect Peruvian labor
from the possibility of unemployment while at the same time discouraging
employment of non-Peruvians in all workplaces. Effectively, its true intent
was to prevent Japanese ethnics from achieving further prosperity in Peru.
By then, the Nikkei residents were only expecting something worse to hap-
pen in their future.
What aggravated the sociopolitical tensions against Japanese in the Peru
of the 1930s was a trade dispute that started to disturb bilateral relations
between the two countries. In the early 1930s, Peru felt disadvantaged in the
cotton trade vis-à-vis Japan: a disproportionate amount of Japanese cotton
products flooded into Peru’s domestic market, but the Japanese purchase of
Peruvian cotton remained irritatingly small. The Peruvian cotton business,
already sluggish with declining world demand for the product during the
Depression, complained that Japan was acting unfairly towards Peru, given
that Japan was importing heavily from the United States, and that the influx of
Japanese products was destroying Peru’s frail local textile industry. Peruvian
business lobbyists, representing cotton, other agriculture, and commerce,
elicited congressional sympathy, and, in 1934, the Congress approved the
unilateral repeal of its bilateral trade treaty with Japan.20 A commodity trade
dispute thus pushed Peruvian-Japanese relations further downhill.
In the international relations arena, Peru, sympathizing with U.S. efforts
to deter Japan’s imperialism, spearheaded a region-wide anti-Japanese cam-
paign. At the Inter-American Peace Conference in Buenos Aires in 1936,
Peruvian representatives asked their neighboring nations to tighten legal
restrictions on naturalization of Japanese immigrants.21 They appealed for
an effort to not let Japan’s military-imperial expansion in Asia be repeated
in their region. Other Latin American participants, including Brazil, Bolivia,
and Panama, concurred with the Peruvian caution. The populist political
party, APRA, acted as a passionate anti-Japan crusader, warning the United
States and other nations of the Americas of the “depth of the Japanese threat,”
alleging that Japan sent its imperial foot soldiers to Peru in the guise of im-
migrants. The Apristas offered a deal to Washington: the party would intensify
the anti-Japanese campaign by employing its internal intelligence network
in exchange for U.S. support of the party’s legalization.22
The international zeitgeist against Japanese imperialism was quickly

translated into hate politics at the local level. Peruvians complained that the
economic prosperity of the Japanese diaspora was clear evidence of Japan’s
systemic exploitation of the Peruvian economy.23 In urban commerce, employ-
ment, and international remittances, Nikkei were squeezing out wealth from
Peru and its people and devouring the local economy. Having failed to create
employment for Peruvians, Japanese urban entrepreneurs were destroying
indigenous small businesses, and immigrants’ remittance of their savings
back home was causing a perfidious capital flight, and so on. “El peligro de
la asanizacion” was also addressed in the countryside. Land acquisition and
the implantation of Japanese citizens in Japanese-owned lands in the moun-
tain areas appeared as a sign of Japan’s imperial infiltration of Peru’s national
sovereignty. “¿Es esta absorción de la tierra obra planeada y dirigida por el
gobierno japones? Si.”24 Japan’s intention to detour new immigrants from
racism-ridden urban areas to the depopulated countryside bore unintended
consequences. Already seen as racially inferior, culturally misfit, and legally
unworthy of civil rights and freedom, the immigrants were now accused of
being economic traitors who sabotaged the nation’s economic development
for the benefit of their imperial homeland.
A nationalist-populist movement to eliminate Japanese immigrants and their
descendants assumed legitimacy once Peru’s politicians declared war against
Japan in the form of the abrogation of bilateral trade in 1934. Racism against
the Japanese became a completely righteous act. Irresponsible demagoguery
about the potential danger of the Japanese population in society flourished not
only in people’s daily conversations, but also in the major mass media, such
as La Prenza or La Cronica, which intensified the anti-Japanese tone of their
editorials. The racist menace finally erupted in an openly anti-Japanese rally,
sponsored by the APRA in Lima on May 13, 1940. The demonstration deterio-
rated into looting, assaults, and murders, with Japanese as victims; financial
damages, mostly in Lima, were equivalent to 3.98 million soles.25 The riot was
violent and hateful. One of those looted recalled that the looters “came in a
truck, and with police help, stole everything and emptied our store.”26
The breakout of the Japan-U.S. war in the Pacific was another catastrophic
blow to Japanese immigrants in Peru. The government of Peru joined the
Allied Forces, and soon severed diplomatic relations with Tokyo. It ordered
the shutdown of the Japanese Legation and Consulate, confined Japanese
diplomats, and deported them altogether. Chargé d’affaires Yodokawa Masaki,
when closing the office, gave instructions to the imperial subjects that “no
Japanese should forget his pride as a subject of the Empire.”27
Japanese nationals and their family members also fell victim to forced
relocation overseas. Japanese, both socially influential figures and ordinary
adult males, became the target of arrests, based on lists prepared by the U.S.
Consulate following inappropriate and erroneous investigation, according to
Seiichi Higashide, a former president of the Japanese Cultural Association of
Ica, Peru, and an internee in the Crystal City Camp.28 They were transferred
to U.S. concentration camps in Crystal City, Kennedy, and Seagoville in Texas.
From January 1943 to February 1945, 1,771 men and women of Japanese origin
and of various ages, occupations, social status, and nationality were deported
from all over Peru to the camps (the total included family members who
voluntarily went to the U.S. camps to join their husbands and fathers). That
accounted for more than 80 percent of the total number of Japanese deportees
from Latin American countries (Bolivia, Venezuela, Panama, and El Salvador,
among others), which suggests the severity of Peru’s persecution against the
Nikkei.29 Other Japanese immigrants and their families, including the Nisei
(second generation) children who were Peruvian citizens, managed to escape
from the internationally plotted expulsion but could not escape the destruc-
tion of their lives. Under the state of emergency, their civic lives were severely
restricted and their economic assets looted or destroyed. It became illegal for
more than five Japanese to congregate in any way, mutual aid societies were
dissolved, and business capital and properties frozen or confiscated. Assets,
both tangible and intangible, that took the Japanese immigrants decades to
accumulate were quickly destroyed by the systemic persecution.
The end of World War II did not bring much peace to the Japanese
diaspora. Instead, they had to endure the negative legacy of prewar perse-
cution. Separated from their family members, many deportees could not
return to Peru for long periods, while others never did. Neither reparation nor
official apology has been made to the deportation victims or others who lost
property during the war. After the end of the war, Peruvian society was not
enthusiastic about reflecting on the legacy of hate politics and amending the
legal strictures against Japanese immigrants. War victory legitimized Peru’s
mistreatment of its ethnic Japanese minority. Without an apology, remorse,
or reflection on the wartime injustice, racism against people of Japanese
origin lingered in the peacetime society and workplaces. Not surprisingly,
no postwar Japanese immigration was made.
Brazil
There is no doubt that Brazil is the heartland of Japanese immigration in
South America. It embraces more than 1.5 million multi-generational de-
scendants living in its vast territory, forming the largest Japanese commu-
nity outside Japan. Their social advance and cultural contributions to the
country are equally remarkable. First-generation settlers (the Issei) and their
descendents reclaimed lands for development no local Brazilians had dared
to enter. Agricultural products, such as soybeans, pimentos, and cotton, for
both local and external markets, are the fruit of the Japanese immigrants’
entrepreneurship. Their linguistic, religious, and cultural heritage added color
to the already multicolored Brazilian ethnic landscape. Japanese-Brazilian
statesmen also appeared, represented by Fabio Yasuda, the first Japanese-
Brazilian minister under the Costa e Silva government in 1969, followed
by the federal statesmen João Sussumu Hirata and Diego Nomura. Today,
Japanese Brazilians enjoy economic and cultural prosperity they and their
ancestors strove to build. Yet, the flip side of the flourishing image of the
Japanese Brazilian community is as pitch-dark as a shadow under the tropi-
cal sun: in order to achieve their present status, prestige, and wealth, earlier
Japanese immigrants had to endure and overcome numerous ordeals—some
physical and environmental, others social, political, and psychological.
The history of Japanese migration to Brazil started on the eve of the twen-
tieth century and evolved in tandem with the coffee industry. Building on
its robust growth since the nineteenth century, the coffee industry faced
a chronic labor shortage and was eager to import foreign workers. But its
appetite for immigrants was explicitly race-specific. As Henrique J. Rebello
wrote in his “Treatise on the Population of Brazil” (1836), “If Brazil wants to
increase its population, it ought to encourage German, Swiss, and immigrants
from other civilized nations to come to our land.”30 The economic urgency
of importing foreign workers had to conform to the nation’s socio-cultural
preference for the principle of white supremacy. From a social Darwinian
viewpoint, the “inferior racial blood” of Japanese and other Asian immi-
grants was not as suitable as that of whites for Brazil to create an advanced
and civilized nation. In comparative terms, however, “yellow” people were
regarded better than “blacks” or “browns” (i.e., the indigenous population) in
the cultural process of helping to “bleach” the nation’s ethnic composition.31
In the context of that racial-priority principle, Brazil conditionally accepted
Asians in order to meet the sectoral economic needs of coffee when white
Europeans were not available. A law that enabled easier importation of Asian
workers (Act No. 97 of October 1892) was thus enacted.32
Important events on the diplomatic front encouraged the immigration ad-
vocates. A bilateral “Japanese-Brazilian Amity and Trade Treaty” was signed
in November 1895.33 The first accord between the two newly established na-
tion-states had it well in mind to stress Japanese migration to Brazil in their
bilateral relations.34 Both states firmly believed in the necessity, desirability,
or even inevitability of Japanese immigration to Brazil. In particular, Japan
began to be aware that the anti-Japanese movement in the United States was
becoming prominent and politicized during the 1900s.35 It was imperative
to explore and secure an alternative destination for Japanese in case of an
outright ban on Japanese immigration to the United States. When the United
States prohibited further Japanese immigration in 1924, and after Peru tight-
ened its restrictions soon afterwards, Japan swiftly shifted its focus to Brazil
as the target destination for its out-migration.
Brazil’s national policy toward immigration came to a crossroads at the
turn of the twentieth century. The recession of the Brazilian coffee industry
in the 1890s resulted in the massive repatriation of Italian immigrants. At
the same time, the Italian government issued an order prohibiting Italian
emigrants from fazenda (plantation) work in Brazil in 1902.36 With the disap-
pearance of their most favored foreign workers, the Brazilian coffee business
was made to feel keenly the value of Japanese labor. It lobbied federal and
state governments to pave the legal way for systematic Japanese immigration.
The state governments of São Paulo and Minas Gerais agreed to help the
Japanese immigration program, subsidizing the travel costs of the sojourners.
Moreover, São Paulo state, the center of Brazilian coffee growing, amended
its immigration law of 1906 (Act No. 1045) to legalize Japanese entry there.37
Its land-ownership law welcomed aliens as well. The new state law allowed
an immigrant, who had been employed as a fazenda laborer in his original
contract, to become an independent farmer after the contract tenure.38 This
contrasted with Peru’s restrictive land-ownership policy against foreigners,
which hindered Japanese immigrants from becoming agricultural entrepre-
neurs. Later on, this tenure system would contribute greatly to the expansion
of Japanese immigration to Brazil: it convinced many land-hungry Japanese
that Brazil was their shin-tenchi (new paradise).
The triple alliance between Japanese migration agencies, the coffee busi-
ness, and the governments of the coffee states drove the first round of Japa-
nese immigration in 1908. In November of the prior year, Kōmin Shokumin
Kaisha and the Department of Agriculture of the state of São Paulo signed
a contract in which as many as three thousand Japanese immigrants would
be sent within three years.39 Based on that contract, the Kasato-maru left the
port of Kobe on April 28, 1908, with the first batch of 781 contract immigrants
aboard. It docked at the port of Santos on June 18, ten years after the initial
contact between the two countries regarding planned migration.
Life for the pioneer immigrants on the fazenda was far from paradise. De-
spite the enthusiastic welcome and support by the coffee-state governments
of Brazil, the first contingent of Japanese immigrants in 1908 soon found
that in actual plantation life they were deemed and treated as little more than
slaves. Unfamiliar diet and living conditions, low productivity due to poor
harvests, higher than originally estimated living expenses, snowballing debts,
and employers’ abuse in the workplace—all these predicaments made the
immigrants’ adaptation to their new environments difficult and their future
dismal. Immigrants reacted to their adversities in various ways—from spo-
radic protests to strikes, escapes from fazendas, and migration to large cities
or to the wealthier Argentina. To Japan’s disappointment, the settlement rate
of the first group was no higher than 26 percent.40 That first attempt was a
bitter lesson. From then onward, Japanese immigration agencies tightened
contract obligations in order to improve the performance of their migration
schemes. As a result, settlement gradually stabilized overall, although incom-
ing Japanese colonos hardly felt an improvement in their treatment on the
plantations.41 This statistical, if not substantial, improvement pleased both
the migration companies and the home government.
Immigration agencies played a remarkable role in initiating and develop-
ing the first Japanese migration to Brazil and other countries. International
transportation of labor immigrants based on contracts involves a variety of
legal, logistic, and administrative procedures and political deliberations. After
the privatization of the immigration business in Japan in 1894, this entre-
preneurial business took charge of the rather tedious arrangements for the
safe transportation of migrants on behalf of the Japanese authorities. Nanbei
Emigration Company, Kumamoto Emigration Company, Morioka Shōkai,
Meiji Emigration Company, Tōyō Emigration Company, Hiroshima Kaigai
Tokō Kaisha, and other smaller migration businesses actively explored export
opportunities in the Latin American market by directly contacting local inter-
ests. In their dealings with immigrants, the migration agencies acted like the
state. In the contracts, they stipulated various restrictions on workers’ morals
and behavior on plantations, ranging from the number of holidays to a ban
on union activities, desertion, rioting, and gambling, to maintain order in
plantation life and improve the settlement rate.42 If need be, they functioned
as chargés d’affaires to mitigate disputes between employers and immigrant
workers, and to improve the latter’s working and living conditions. These re-
quirements and functions facilitated the stabilization of early immigration.
Meanwhile, the role of the actual government was minimal in the liberal
migration period until the 1910s. The GOJ focused on regulation and super-
vision of the operations of migration agencies based on the national laws to
protect emigrants (the Imperial Ordinance No. 42 in 1894 and, later, the Rule
to Protect Emigrants in 1896). The imperialist-expansionist incentive of the
government did not yet operate within the policy realm of Latin American
migration in the first two decades of Brazil-bound migration.
In the wake of World War I, a sea change in the immigration market in

Brazil brought a bonanza to Japan. Military expansionism in Europe caused
Italy, Portugal, and Spain, which had been the major white immigrant ex-
porters to Brazil, to tighten restrictions on emigration of their citizens.43 To
offset the foreign labor shortage, there was an acceleration in the rate that
Japanese immigrants were sent to Brazil, in place of Europeans. During the
1914–23 period, Japanese immigrants nearly doubled in number, totaling
20,398, compared with the previous period (11,868 for 1904–13), whereas
Italian and Portuguese immigration had passed its peak (see table 1.2).44
This trend—the acceleration of Japanese immigration and either a decline
or stagnation of European immigration—continued to define the pre–World
War II Brazilian immigration landscape. For its part, the Japanese immigrant
cohort maintained steady and large growth under the state tutelage from
1923 till the outbreak of World War II. From the mid-1920s till 1941, Japanese
became a major component of the newcomers to Brazil, averaging about 20
percent of the total.
The attractiveness of Japanese immigrants to Brazil was in itself rather
shaky, as evidenced by Brazil’s still-dubious national commitment to these
Asian immigrants. In the 1920s, anti-Asian sentiment reared its ugly head
on the Brazilian social and political scenes. In this “first anti-Japanese move-
ment,” a Minas Gerais legislator proposed a bill to the national congress in
1923 to encourage the return of European immigrants while simultaneously
restricting immigration of the colored races.45 This infamous “Reis Bill” was
essentially exclusionary of Asian immigrants, and was aborted in the face of
strong protests by the Japanese government and pro-Asian-immigrant poli-
ticians in the Brazilian Congress. But the anti-Japanese-immigration camp
won a concession: it forced the Brazilian government to withdraw its financial
Table 1.2 The Number of Immigrants to Brazil (1884–1944)

1884–93 1894–1903 1904–13 1914–23 1924–33 1934–44
Japanese — — 11,868 20,398 110,191 46,158
(percent of total) (1.2 %) (4.1%) (15.0%) (23.4%)
Italian 510,533 196,521 86,320 70,177 11,432 75,983
Portuguese 170,621 157,542 384,672 201,252 233,649 75,634
Spanish 103,116 93,770 224,672 94,779 52,405 5,184
German 22,778 6,698 33,850 29,339 61,728 17,862
Russian 40,589 2,886 48,110 8,196 7,953 275
Others 35,031 63,430 106,925 63,697 201,120 2,264
Total 883,668 862,090 1,006,608 503,981 737,223 223,360
Source: Compiled by the author based on statistics from Inomata and Tamai, Kūhaku no burajiru
iminshi, 235.
support of Japanese immigration. With this development, how did Japanese

immigration to Brazil achieve its “golden age” in the 1920s and 1930s?
Tokyo seemed aware of the future implications of such xenophobic de-
velopments in the host country, and was probably apprehensive about a
potential decline in Japanese emigration to Brazil unless there were strong
financial sponsors. Given Brazil’s weakened draw, Japan had to create incen-
tives on its own so as not to lose the momentum of Brazil-bound migration.
To solve the problem, the GOJ instituted a critical policy shift from non-
interventionism to direct involvement (which will be thoroughly analyzed
in chapter 3). Here I confirm two points. First, Japanese immigration to
Brazil came to a major turning point in the 1920s when state-level migration
initiatives moved from the Brazilian to the Japanese side. Second, Japanese
immigration to Brazil crested from the mid-1920s to the mid-1930s under
the sender state’s close direction.
As the number of new Japanese immigrants to Brazil increased, their ethnic
presence in Brazilian society also gained prominence. In the years 1933 and
1934 alone, almost 50 percent of the total foreign entrants to Brazil were of
Japanese origin. To the eyes of anti-Japanese Brazilians, such overrepresenta-
tion of “amarelo” (yellow) immigrants was an annoying and unacceptable
trend, making Brazil’s ethnic canvas more yellow. Despite a persistent and
even intensifying anti-Japanese movement, Japan managed to maintain and
even increase its emigration by strategically changing the mode of immigra-
tion and settlement. Under its new policy, large numbers of the Japanese
were herded to rural, unpopulated hinterlands, such as the northern interior
of São Paulo and Paraná, or the Amazon jungles, where neither Brazilian
townspeople nor European immigrants cared to move. This “reshuffling”
strategy was adopted to prevent any conflict of interest with local Brazilians,
and also so that the ethnic presence of the Japanese would not stand out.
In the period of state-controlled overseas emigration, the relationship
between immigrants and their home country also changed: the immigrants
stopped returning to Japan. In some statistics, as many as 85 percent of the
total number of immigrants to Brazil, whose original dream was kin’e kikyō
(“repatriating with a golden cloth on”),46 did not return home but remained
in Brazil or re-migrated to other Latin American countries, such as Argen-
tina, as part of the overseas diaspora.47 Masterson estimates that more than
93 percent of the Japanese immigrants to Brazil did not repatriate, which far
exceeded the settlement rates of other ethnic immigrants to the country, such
as Spaniards, Portuguese, Italians, and Germans.48 As a result, the settlement
rate became quite high, compared to the Hawaiian case, where the rate was
reportedly about 50 percent. Originally considering themselves as sojourners,
the immigrants to Brazil had various reasons for not returning home. First,
the relatively low economic level of the settlements in which these immigrants
found themselves hindered them from saving enough to pay for a return
ticket, let alone a gold-embroidered cloth. Second, the GOJ was aloof or unre-
sponsive toward the immigrants’ pleas for repatriation and took no significant
rescue actions. There were legal means to rescue a troubled immigrant (the
Law on Immigrants’ Rescue and Repatriation), but these were rarely applied.
One of the exceptions was in 1930, when the Depression-triggered plunge of
Brazilian coffee markets worsened the lives of Japanese immigrant farmers.
Tokyo sent a rescue ship to Brazil and retrieved no more than seventeen
Japanese, many of whom had some government affiliation. Oda Kōsaku and
Matsunaga Hyakutarō, among the repatriates, told the Japanese press that
“the fellow immigrants’ plights are getting unimaginably worse, and most
of the 80,000 immigrants are desperate to return home.”49 A third reason
was the physical distance between Japan and Brazil—especially for those in
such hinterlands as the Amazon, located several thousand kilometers away
from São Paulo. This remoteness from Japan or from urban cities made it
far more difficult for immigrants to repatriate than for those who lived in,
say, Hawaii, Taiwan, or Southeast Asia.
On the political front, the Republic of Brazil entered into a period of
radical transformation in the 1930s, with the rise of an authoritarian-na-
tionalist leadership. Getulio Vargas seized the federal executive government
in 1930, and discerningly identified his political allies and foes. Foreigners
who would not fit into the new Brasildade (Brazilness)—including Japanese
immigrants—were targeted as Brazil’s enemies.50 Another, and this time far
more systematic, round of anti-Japanese sentiment loomed. In the new proto-
fascist authoritarianism, the Japanese were portrayed as peons of the coffee
barons and thus an enemy of President Vargas and his working class ally;
the “yellow perils” were illegitimate children that Paulista business greedily
imported without the federal authority’s endorsement. The Japanese were
also deemed cultural heretics, clinging stubbornly to old-country traditions
and unwilling to be acculturated into Brazilian society, according to the
sociologist and anti-Japanese Oliveira Vianna.51 As Vargas’ federal govern-
ment overpowered the coffee states, Japanese immigrants to São Paulo coffee
fazendas lost powerful patrons, who had earlier economically and politically
sponsored the Japanese as “good labor,” if not “good citizens.”
Brazil’s new constitution framed by Vargas well reflected the anti-Japanese
sentiment in Brazilian society. The “Act to Restrict the Immigration of Aliens
by Two Percent” ruled that the number of immigrants to Brazil from a foreign
country be limited annually to no more than 2 percent of the total number of
immigrants from that country in the past fifty years.52 The law was informally
called the “Japanese Exclusion Act” because the Japanese comprised the larg-
est immigrant ethnic group in the fifty years prior to 1935, and the 2 percent
quota system affected the number of new Japanese entrants more than any
other ethnic group.53 This racially based action successfully obtained support
from the Brazilian working class and small businesses in particular, who
felt themselves victimized by the emerging Japanese entrepreneurs in their
urban neighborhoods. The Brazilian immigration policy, which exhibited
a “higher sentiment of nationalism,” as drafted by Vargas, triumphed over
economic pragmatism, which had managed to rationalize the importation
of colored laborers.54
Vargas’s Estado Novo regime (1937–45) went further and promulgated laws
to eradicate foreign elements in Brazilian civil culture.55 In 1937, the law pro-
hibited foreign language education to children under the age of fourteen; the
next year, all foreign language schools were closed down. The 1934 constitu-
tion hindered Japanese, as well as other foreigners, from becoming medical
doctors or lawyers.56 Freedom of the press was also denied the Japanese
diaspora. With the 1937 restriction on foreign-language publications, Japanese
newspapers such as Burajiru Jihō and Seishū Shinpō, which had served as the
main sources of information and communication for the community, and
which provided a connection with the homeland, were discontinued. An-
other major newspaper, Nippaku Shinbun, managed to survive by changing
its language to Portuguese under the new name Burajiru Asahi. These laws
limited the immigrants’ freedom to maintain their Japanese cultural identity
and their information networks in Brazil. They also severed immigrants’
connections to their homeland.
Under the restrictive immigration policy of the Estado Novo, Japanese
immigration to Brazil continued only on a limited scale until 1941, when the
last immigration vessel, the Buenosuairesu-maru, left Kobe. After the peak
years of 1933 and 1934, when 23,300 and 22,900 entered Brazil, respectively,
Japanese immigration rapidly decelerated. In 1935, entrants were reduced to
a quarter of the previous year, amounting to 5,750. In the six years of 1936 till
1941, Japan sent only 22,500, many of whom were new brides of the settled
immigrants. Moreover, distressed by the social antagonism against them and
uncertain about their future, an increasing number of immigrants in Brazil
began to desire immediate repatriation. As many as 85 percent of Japanese
immigrant families in the Noroeste and São Paulo regions wished to return
home, as of 1938.57 Their home government, preoccupied with its total war
against China, paid scant attention.
Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor and the outbreak of the Pacific War on
December 7 (or 8 in Japan time), 1941, encouraged Vargas to hammer out a
harsh measurement against Japanese immigrants in Brazil.58 In January 1942,
Brazil joined the Allied Forces against the Axis, and simultaneously broke
diplomatic relations with Japan. Immigrants got stranded and some were
actually arrested inside Brazil as enemy aliens. To disable intra-ethnic com-
munication and cohesion, the government arrested some 2,300 prominent
leaders of the Japanese community. In the industrial area of Port Santos, six
to seven thousand ordinary Japanese were forcefully evacuated for national
security reasons and sent to internment camps.59 In the countryside as well,
Japanese settlements were unilaterally confiscated by the Brazilian authorities.
With the door to newcomers shut and ties with the home country severed,
the social and economic fate of the Nikkei fell at the mercy (or lack of mercy)
of Vargas’s proto-fascist treatment of exclusion and persecution until (and
even after) Japan’s total surrender.
Overall, the prewar Japanese migration experiences in Peru and Brazil il-
luminate two contradictions. The first is the “from high to low economies”
paradox of the international flow of Japanese migrants to Latin America.
Particularly during the period of Japanese state-dictated migration, the im-
migrants’ destinations in Peru and Brazil were less developed and more iso-
lated localities, with more limited economic opportunities, than their homes,
which inevitably rendered the settlement process erratic. Second, prewar
Latin American migration was complicated by the opposed political forces
of the host and sender states. The Peruvian and Brazilian governments’ at-
titudes toward the Japanese vacillated between inclusion (pro-migration)
and exclusion (anti-migration and race-based restriction), and increasingly
inclined toward the latter in the midst of invigorated racist hate politics in
each society. Despite the conspicuously precarious and hostile immigration
environments in these nations, emigration promoters in Japan encouraged
more migration with a new tactic—rerouting the immigrants to remote and
deserted hinterlands—while keeping to a minimum its responsibility to pro-
tect its citizen-migrants. Why did the sender state remain so assertive in
advancing the emigration policy?
These contradictions that shaped the mode of Japanese emigration over-
seas also held prominence during postwar Japanese emigration, as the next
chapter shows. In the new international and domestic circumstances—with
Japan’s submissive position to the international community and under a
democratized regime—the second wave of Japanese emigration proceeded in
an equally distorted manner, the result of a marriage of convenience between
the different interests of the sender and host states.
2. The Second Wave
Post–World War II Period
Yuko ka san pauro, kaero ka japon
Koko ga shian no parāshū
Kiite gokuraku, kitemirya jigoku
Ochiru namida wa akara gawa
Shall I go to São Paulo, or shall I go back to Japan?
I am lost in thoughts in Pará
I heard it was paradise, but found hell
My tears flow like the acara
—An elegy of the Japanese immigrants to Brazil
In December 1952, only eight months after Japan regained its independence,
54 Japanese citizens got on board the Santosu-maru, destined for Brazil. They
were part of the first contingent of postwar Japanese emigrants to South
America and the Caribbean. They also symbolized the “new Japan,” a nation
just reclaiming national sovereignty after seven years of occupation (1945–52)
as well as freedom of international migration (during the occupation period,
the international mobility of the Japanese had been strictly controlled).1 From
that time until 1970, 79,534 Japanese, not including Okinawans whose home-
land remained under U.S. occupation,2 went to Latin America, predominantly
to Brazil, followed by Bolivia, Argentina, the Dominican Republic, and Para-
guay (see table 2.1). In fact, the region was virtually the sole destination of
Japan’s postwar overseas migration, except for those who went to the United
States for family reunification. Many of these emigrants, having “heard that
Latin America is a paradise on earth,” and in high spirits at having a fresh
start in the new world, found instead that they “came to jigoku [hell],” as in
the song above, popular among immigrants to the Amazon.
The ordeals experienced by the postwar Japanese immigrants to Latin
America were structural: many of the areas receiving postwar immigration
were less-developed economies by any standard. In some cases, such as Bo-
Table 2.1 The Second Wave of Japanese Migration (1952–70)
Destination 1952–60 1961–70 Total
Latin America: 58,353 21,190 79,534
Argentina 2,377 1,708 4,085
Bolivia 3,043 2,215 5,258
Brazil 44,520 14,938 59,458
Dominican Rep. 1,319 11 1,330
Paraguay 6,168 1,586 7,754
Others 926 732 1,649
U.S. 50,502 36,115 86,617
Source: Kokusai Kyōryoku Jigyōdan, Kaigai ijū tōkei, 98–101.

Note 1: The number of immigrants is defined as the number of passports
issued for the purpose of permanent migration by the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs.
Note 2: The number of immigrants in this table does not include Okinawans.
Note 3: Other major Latin American destinations of Japanese immigrants
are Mexico and Peru.
Note 4: Other major destinations of Japanese immigrants are Canada and
Australia.
livia, Paraguay, and the Dominican Republic, the destinations were under-
developed countries as a whole, or the emigrants may have found themselves
in less-developed frontier areas of the Brazilian Amazon or interior. Japan
had little or no experience with emigration to these localities. Remoteness
from major cities, the small scale of these peripheral economies, and the
harsh environments of untrodden lands and virgin forests—these condi-
tions suggested a dim prospect of sustainability or success in settlement. As
the case of each country below will show, many people became poorer than
before immigration. Thus, the paradoxical “from high to low economies”
pattern of Japanese migration to Latin America recurred in the postwar
period. Meanwhile, Peru and Mexico—once popular destinations—did not
receive Japanese immigrants in the postwar period. In particular, the Peru-
vian government explicitly rejected immigrants from its former enemy.
The disadvantageous conditions of Japanese immigration and settlements
grew out of the postwar international animosity that faced the defeated Ja-
pan. While the GOJ under the occupation was desperate to send its citizens
abroad, given the limited domestic resources after the end of the war, it
faced widespread rejection by the international community, which did not
welcome the forlorn offspring of a former Axis power. This reaction to the
Japanese was especially strong in the countries that had fought against or had
suffered the aggression of Japanese imperialism. In this general atmosphere
of antagonism, some nations in Latin America and the Caribbean stood
out as exceptions, and showed a willingness to host Japanese immigration
The Second Wave 37
on a large scale. Although the level and size of the regions’ economies were
not as desirable as in North America, they still represented potential for fu-
ture prosperity in the eyes of the war-devastated Japanese. Japan was deeply
moved by the generosity of these Latin American nations. A friend in need
was a friend indeed.
Postwar Japanese emigration to Latin America was initiated and advanced
by confirmed volition at the highest levels of both sender and host govern-
ments. In particular, the GOJ’s engagement and presence throughout the ef-
fort was significant. Desperate to secure outlets for its relatively unskilled and
impoverished families, the sender government (via the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs or MOFA) actively solicited potential host countries. (Details of state
activism in postwar emigration will be further discussed in chapter 4.)
The majority of immigrants entered Latin America for permanent settle-
ment. This was mandated by the GOJ and recorded in their passports, which
were valid only for one-time travel and specified the purpose of travel as “per-
manent migration.”3 The stipulation of permanency made many immigrants
bring their family members with them.4 These family-based immigrants, with
an average of five to six people per family, were relatively young men and
women with children. Based on Japan International Cooperation Association
(JICA) statistics that cover the period from 1952 to 1974, the male-female
ratio among some 80,000 immigrants (destination unspecified) was about
4:3.5 The immigrants were mostly in their twenties (19,000, or 27 percent
of the total were in this age group), with smaller numbers in their thirties
(12 percent), and forties or fifties (11 percent in total). Children made up 41
percent of the total.
Another common characteristic of the “second wave” of immigrants, across
all destination countries, was that they were farmer migrants. In Brazil, Bo-
livia, the Dominican Republic, and Paraguay, the occupational category of
Japanese immigrants was predominantly “agriculture,” either “self-employed”
or “employed” (i.e., farmers employed by the JICA or other public/private
concerns) (table 2.2). Even in Argentina, Latin America’s most industrialized
and urbanized country, the greatest number of Japanese entered as agrarian
immigrants. Other job categories were “engineering/specialists” (such as in-
dustrial engineers) and “others” (such as trader, clerk, typist, and teacher), but
these urban industrial occupational groups were marginal. Furthermore, the
postwar emigrants had been relatively low-skilled, less-educated workers in
their homeland. More than half of the immigrants who responded to the JICA
questionnaire (destination unspecified) held only a middle school diploma,
or more precisely, a diploma from an elementary school under the old impe-
rial system of education.6 High school graduates were smaller in number, at
Table 2.2 Occupation of Immigrants in Latin America (1952–65)
Occupation Brazil Paraguay Bolivia Dom. Rep. Argentina Total*
Agriculture 45,534 6,344 1,605 1,323 1,051 55,936

Self-employed 6,609 5,157 1,605 1,316 431 15,118
Employed 16,832 990 0 0 89 17,911
Reunion 22,093 197 0 7 531 22,907
Engineering 933 0 0 0 9 942
Others 463 14 51 2 74 661
Total 46,930 6,358 1,656 1,325 1,134 57,539

Note: The total number (*) includes other Latin American countries.
10.2 percent, while immigrants with a higher educational background were

far fewer still. Presumably, these immigrants were those who missed the op-
portunity for a decent education because of the inegalitarian prewar system,
or who were caught up in the midst of social chaos after the war.
Many of those who applied for the Latin American emigration program
claimed they had been farmers previously (69.3 percent said so in the JICA
survey of 1987).7 The accuracy of the immigrants’ identification as “farm-
ers” is dubious, nonetheless. Whatever their previous occupations were,
the immigration candidates, once selected, were trained and categorized as
professional farmers before being sent to the host countries, since that was
a condition demanded by the host nations. Already experienced or trained
overnight, they functioned as farmers to reclaim and cultivate untrodden
lands of the Americas.
The third commonality found in the second wave of Latin American migra-
tion is the low rate of settlement across destination countries. As I illustrate
in the cases of Brazil, the Dominican Republic, Bolivia, and Paraguay, the
Table 2.3 Mode of Immigration to Latin America (1952–74)

Number of Number of Number of
Destination families immigrants single immigrants Total
Brazil 7,920 40,666 10,710 51,376
Bolivia 318 1,715 56 1,771
Dominican Rep. 251 1,321 7 1,328
Argentina 325 1,316 970 2,286
Paraguay 1,128 6,597 144 6,741
Other Latin America 16 64 100 164
Total 9,958 51,679 11,987 63,666

Note: The number of immigrants in these statistics equals the number of passports issued
for the purpose of permanent migration by the GOJ.
The Second Wave 39
physical environments of the settlements themselves were burdensome. Ill-

designed and poorly managed settlement plans from Tokyo, coupled with
the host states’ noncompliance in providing basic socioeconomic support
systems, worsened the already-difficult settlement conditions. As the folk
song at the beginning of this chapter describes, not a few new immigrants
pondered in despair where to resettle, since their current conditions were not
sustainable. Many decided to transmigrate to urban cities or third countries
since repatriation was not possible because of their lack of savings. Inevitably,
the settlement rate was markedly low. Only 47 percent of the original settlers
in the Brazilian Amazon, and just 43 percent of those in central Brazil, stayed
permanently in the colonias. The rate for Dominica was far lower, with only
38 percent remaining in the country.8
The high desertion rate does not mean that the postwar immigrants were
less dogged or capable than their predecessors, although they were often
criticized as being “lazy” or “incompetent” by Japanese government offi-
cials, prewar immigrants, or the general public. The cost of exit, through
either desertion or repatriation, was always high. Since permanent settle-
ment was a prerequisite when applying for the state migration program, the
settlers liquidated all their assets before leaving Japan, and their children
bade farewell to their classmates.9 They made the resolution to depart from
home for good. Repatriation meant that they would have to become paupers
back home. When they realized that their settlement was unsustainable, the
overwhelmed immigrants preferred to re-migrate to more promising lands
in larger cities or wealthier countries in the region, if possible. But they
could not do so financially (due to their scarce savings), structurally (due to
their contracts with the host governments), or psychologically (due to tacit
or explicit intimidation by both host and home governments). Therefore,
it is fair to say that the poor settlement performance does not only reflect
or relate to the quality or capability of the second-wavers. Rather, the high
desertion rate is evidence of the impossibility of the settlement conditions
imposed upon them in the first place.
Indeed, postwar Latin American migration was the distorted product
of compromise between half-hearted and opportunistic Latin American
host countries and the ineffective and injudicious migration planners of the
sender state. In particular, the latter, which was weak-kneed in bilateral ne-
gotiations with the host states, accepted virtually any terms proposed by the
host governments—what Wakatsuki critically called the “we-go-as-you-wish
principle” (dokoedemo shugi)—but had no contingency preparations in place
when the migration-settlement plan went wrong.10 Such an indiscriminate
attitude of the GOJ turned out to be a key to the “success” of Japan’s postwar
migration policy in sending eighty thousand people overseas, as we will see

in the country cases of Brazil, the Dominican Republic, Bolivia, and Paraguay.
(Postwar Japanese migration to other Latin American nations did occur, but
I will omit such cases since they were either on a smaller scale, or, as in Ar-
gentina, the immigrants were either family reunions or voluntary migrants,
unrelated to the state-guided migrations.)
Brazil, Again
When the postwar GOJ considered overseas migration, Brazil was its natural
pick because of that country’s proven track record with large-scale Japanese
immigration in the prewar period. But Brazil itself had quite different feelings
about the possible resumption of Japanese immigration precisely because
of its own prewar experience. It felt that the country already had too many
amarelos. The Nikkei community, although fragmented by Brazil’s wartime
campaign of ethnic persecution, might soon reemerge, because the Japanese
were, to borrow the words of an anti-Japanese congressman, “unassimilable
to Western culture like sulfur to water.”11 Furthermore, a bloody, quasi-civil
war among the Nikkei that broke out soon after Japan’s capitulation rein-
forced Brazilian suspicions about this ethnic group’s dual loyalties to their
motherland and host nation, as well as of their “barbaric Asiatic nature.”12
Historical details of this ethnic tragedy—the Kachigumi-Makegumi incident
(or the Shindō Renmei incident) from 1946–47—will be discussed in chapter
7 in the context of Nikkei Brazilians’ nationalist linkage with their homeland.
But simply put, it was a bloody, internecine purge of Nikkei by Nikkei in Brazil
over the veracity of the international news of Japan’s surrender to the Allied
Forces. Intransigent factions of the kachigumi loyalists, who did not believe in
Japan’s defeat and continued to support imperial Japan, took up arms against
the makegumi Japanese, who peacefully acquiesced to the historical fact. The
larger Brazilian society, horrified with the fratricide in the minority com-
munity, lost confidence in their civility and integrity as a part of the nation.
Brazilians’ negativity toward the Japanese immigrants grew throughout the
Nikkei debacle, and inevitably loomed over the national political arena in
light of a potential postwar renewal of Japanese immigration to Brazil.
In 1946, when the Kachigumi-Makegumi conflict intensified within the
Nikkei community, the Brazilian Congress in Rio de Janeiro held delibera-
tions on Japanese intake. Miguel Couto Filho and Jose Augusto proposed
a bill to amend the Brazilian Constitution in such a way as to totally ban
Japanese immigration. Democratic constitutionalists, Hamilton Nogeira
among them, were opposed to including the racial discrimination clause in
The Second Wave 41
the Constitution, arguing that “this is exactly what we the Brazilians fought
against [i.e., fascism] during World War II.”13 After heated debate, the council
for the constitutional reform took a final vote that split exactly in half (the
“crisis of 99 votes versus 99 votes”). A breakthrough ending this stalemate
came when the council’s chairman, Melo Bianna, convinced the council to
not include the anti-Japanese element in the Constitution. He disagreed with
giving the Brazilian Constitution a “racist nature” and his efforts scrapped the
amendment effort at the last minute. The chairman’s pro-democratic decision
saved Japanese immigration, and, potentially, the Brazilian democratic Con-
stitution itself. At the same time, these immigration politics were a reminder
that Brazil did not wholeheartedly welcome the Japanese. Postwar Japanese
immigration had to proceed under the weight of widespread animosity.
Nervously watching these legislative developments in Brazil, Tokyo was
afraid that the situation would handicap Japan’s negotiations with Brazil over
the resumption of Japanese immigration. But once the constitutional crisis
was over and the chance for immigration was preserved, it began soliciting
the Brazilian governments and key immigration-related persons on both the
federal and local levels by mobilizing influential local Japanese-Brazilians in
São Paulo and elsewhere. Matsubara Yasutarō, in São Paulo, drew upon his
personal relationship with President Vargas, and created a plan to bring four
thousand families to the northwestern, northeastern, and western regions
(the Matsubara Plan). Tsuji Kōtarō, stationed in Belém, drew up a similar
plan to send five thousand families to federal- and state-owned lands in Pará
and Amazonas to grow jute (the Tsuji Plan). Congressmen from prefectures
in Japan, such as Hiroshima, that had historically supplied immigrants, also
visited the country to promote the ability of immigration candidates from
their districts. After having regained national sovereignty in 1952, Tokyo
publicly launched an all-out diplomatic and political campaign for Japa-
nese migration to Brazil. Japan concentrated its efforts on President Getúlio
Vargas, a former dictator-turned-democratic president and long-time foe of
Japanese immigration, in order to convince him of the utility and necessity
of Japanese migration for the benefit of the Brazilian economy. Emphasizing
the past achievements of its pioneering immigrants in agricultural expansion
and product diversification in the central and peripheral regions, the GOJ
held that its people could again make positive contributions to the economic
development of the unpopulated and unproductive Brazilian hinterlands.14
In the end, Japan’s passionate and persistent solicitation changed the presi-
dent’s mind. In particular, Japan’s promise to deploy migrant-colonizers to
the underdeveloped states of Paraná, Mato Grosso, Pará, Amazonas, and
Pernambuco appealed to the development-minded Brazilian leadership.
Sweeping aside the remaining domestic opposition, a presidential decision

began the second wave of Japanese migration to Brazil.
In a way, the plan to deploy Japanese immigrants to the underdeveloped
regions of Brazil was a product of compromise between the sender and host
nations, given Brazil’s national ambivalence toward the Japanese. Brazil’s
gates swung partially—not entirely—open. Even after anti-Japanese poli-
tics had been turned back and Japanese immigration remained legal in the
Brazilian constitution, a national distaste for Japanese migration remained,
especially in elitist urban areas. Ironically, it was the modern, economically
prosperous, and culturally diverse cities like São Paulo, where foreign im-
migrants naturally clustered, that did not welcome the postwar Japanese
immigrants. Besides, urban cities were already being saturated by massive
internal migration. The country’s own North-South problem—wealthier and
vibrant southern states in stark contrast to the poor and stagnant interior
and northeast—drove large-scale internal, southward migration. The arrival
of new Japanese immigrants would worsen these mounting demographic
pressures. Therefore, complying fully with the host country’s situation, Japan
decided to send out its citizens to the backward sertão (hinterland) regions
of central Brazil and the Amazon interior.
The introduction of new Japanese immigrant families into the underde-
veloped Amazon region ironically met strong opposition from some con-
scientious leaders of the local Japanese-Brazilian community as well. The
Amazon’s impenetrable jungles still resisted human advance at that time.
In fact, because of the predictable difficulties in Amazon colonization, no
European government had approved sending its people there to exploit the
frontier. Local Nikkei Brazilians, who knew more about the backwardness of
the Amazon region than the Japanese government, objected to the program
out of consideration for their newcomer compatriots. There was no signifi-
cant communal foundation of kinship or cultural linkage that could provide
personal, economic, or cultural support to these new migrants. Nor was there
an ethnic infrastructure that could provide amenities for living and working.
A Nikkei journalist in São Paulo reported: “The Nikkei community opposed
[the government-planned] immigration to the Amazon region. The GOJ’s
reply was ‘the country is in a difficult condition and has no other option but
to send out emigrants. . . . If one of the new immigrants should [fail in the
original settlement and] go to São Paulo, please take care of them.’ In the end,
the government went ahead with the plan against our opposition.”15
Despite these drawbacks, the sertão colonization project kicked off. Japanese
promoters of Latin American migration, led by MOFA, the Ministry of Ag-
The Second Wave 43
riculture, Forestry, and Fisheries (MAFF), and the Ministry of International

Trade and Industry (MITI), were confident of its success, stressing the Japa-
nese immigrants’ capability and endurance in exploring the wilderness as was
proven by their prewar predecessors.16 Agreeing that Japanese immigration
under bilateral state sponsorship assumed the task of regional development
and took the form of permanent settlement and farming, the GOJ accepted
virtually all the destinations that the Brazilian government had proposed for
Japanese settlements (the Japan-Brazil Agreement on Emigration, Article No.
23). These state-owned lands were, contrary to what the agreement specified,
far from “the most appropriate sites for Japanese settlers.”17 But Tokyo spent
little time or energy investigating the appropriateness of the proposed des-
tinations and mechanically accepted its counterpart’s decisions. Whenever
a settlement lacked infrastructure, such as roads, schools, and hospitals, the
agreement stipulated, and the GOJ believed, that the host government, either
federal or state, would take the responsibility to provide it (Article Nos. 33
and 34). Interestingly, the Immigration Agreement was signed in September
1960, eight years after the first group of postwar Japanese immigrants entered
Brazil. That means the migration of some 30,000 people from 1952 to 1959
took place on a case-by-case basis between Japan and each state government
of Brazil in the absence of a formal diplomatic accord that specified criteria
to administer the entire program.
Inaugurating the above-mentioned Matsubara and Tsuji plans, the first
cohort of 54 Brazil-bound emigrants left the port of Kobe in December 1952.
Even though the original plans reached an impasse and ultimately failed
when they could not transport as many immigrants as planned (Matsubara
withdrew from the program due to illness), the influx continued to grow, year
after year. Over the first decade, the average annual number of immigrants
was 5,000, for a total of 50,346. Migration fever crested in 1957—on the eve
of the fiftieth anniversary of Japanese immigration to Brazil—when 9,400
migrated there. All in all, the total number of Japanese emigrating to Brazil
was 59,458 over two decades. While not as impressive a number as that in the
prewar period, it was by far the largest among Japanese overseas migrations
in the postwar period.
What attracted sertão colonists were the favorable terms for immigration
and settlement presented by MOFA’s affiliate agency for overseas migration.
In its “Guidelines of Overseas Migration Recruitment” (Kaigai imin boshū
yōkō), the emigration agency—Zaidan Hōjin Nihon Kaigai Kyōryoku Rengō-
kai (the Federation of Overseas Societies), aka Kaikyōren—spelled out the
state provision of loans for travel expenses (repayable, of course), agricultural
loans, stipends, and complete social infrastructure, such as hospitals, schools,
roads, and irrigation. (Again, it was only after the 1960 bilateral agreement
that Brazil formally assumed responsibility for these services.) All the neces-
sary basics for long-term settlement in remote areas like the Amazon jungle
were promised to would-be migrants.18 Above all, “free provision of land after
colonization” was the feature most attractive to Japanese who wanted to leave
the crowded homeland. They were thrilled to become a fazenda owner on
the South American continent.19
Once they entered the colonies, however, the settlers realized that the
promise of such necessities for work and living was no more than fabrica-
tion. For example, 400 settlers who were heading for a state-owned rubber
plantation formerly owned by Ford Motors in Belterra, Pará, in 1954 found
much discrepancy between the paper and reality while on their Amazon
voyage.20 Tsuji Kōtarō—a prominent member of the Nikkei community in
Brazil and representative of the Amazon branch of Kaikyōren—and Japanese
consulate staff told the immigrants that their actual wage would be only two-
thirds of what was originally promised.21 The immigrants angrily protested
the arbitrary change, and in response to officials’ half-hearted advice that
they pick up coconuts on the ground and sell them in nearby markets, they
shouted, “We are not beggars. There is a limit to insulting us!” But they had
no other option but to accept the downward adjustment in the end. They
had come too far to turn back.22
Another 3,919 Japanese who entered into twelve state-owned colonies in the
Brazilian Amazon were “independent” agrarian developers (jiei kaitaku-nō).23
The name, “independent farmers,” was rather misleading because the im-
migrants were employed by the state governments, and their contracts with
the host governments limited immigrants’ freedom in living (e.g., choice of
settlement sites) and working (e.g., landownership). They were promised
landownership only after they reclaimed their land. In reality, though, land
distribution did not happen in many cases, even after immigrants fulfilled
the requirement. Uncertain about future prospects, overwhelmed by the
impregnable and impenetrable rain forests, and alienated from the outside
world, some colonizers left the original settlements to migrate elsewhere as
colonos on others’ estates. For those who managed to survive the initial or-
deals, establishing themselves took them as long as two decades.24 In the case
of Suda Kiyoko, she, her parents, a grandmother, and three siblings entered
into Macapá City in the border state of Amapá, near French Guiana. After
failures in the crops initially assigned to them, the Suda family switched to
Asian produce varieties, such as Chinese cabbage, eggplants, and cucumbers.
Despite good harvests, their products were unfamiliar to Brazilian consumers
and found few customers. The family solicited every neighbor, teaching them
The Second Wave 45
recipes for the Asian vegetables. Suda does not remember how they man-
aged to communicate with the locals when their Portuguese was so poor.25
The Tome Açu colony is another one of a few successful cases. There, im-
migrant farmers developed unique and innovative agricultural technologies
that would suit the harsh climate and soils of the Amazon area to produce
commercial crops. Today, the Tome Açu colony is highly regarded as a model
for cash-crop production of jute, cocoa, and black pepper, earning foreign
currency in the international trade markets for these goods.
But the Tome Açu success was the exception rather than the rule for the
second wave of Latin American migration. In contrast, the agricultural de-
velopment enterprises underwritten by the Kaikyōren and MAFF officials of-
tentimes went wrong, resulting in further burdens on the immigrant-settlers’
shoulders. In the case of the settlers in the Rio Bonito colony in the state of
Pernambuco, the originally specified crops turned out to be impossible to
grow in the local environment. When the immigrants decided to grow flowers
instead, a local Kaikyōren representative dismissed their new plan: “A cash
crop is more important than flowers [hana yori dango]. Make something
that feeds yourself!” But their persistence and innovation turned flowers into
cash crops: the Rio Bonito colony has become a major flower-growing center
in the region. Its success, of course, does not owe to the Japanese officials’
direction.26 To be fair, there were cases in which thoughtful and appropriate
advice from local staff saved the immigrants’ lives and livelihood.27 But these
cases were exceptional rather than usual.
Another type of settlement, as defined by the GOJ, was by seinen imin
(youthful immigrants) who were employed by private farmers.28 These were
single males from eighteen to twenty-four years old who were employed as
colonos by family-based, small-scale farmers. Their employers were mainly
the predecessor Japanese families, under the brokerage of the COTIA Sangyō
Kumiai—a gigantic and influential Japanese agricultural cooperative in Bra-
zil.29 With Nikkei farmers’ demand for a young and strong labor force, the
COTIA persuaded state governments to host the planned Japanese immigra-
tion by emphasizing their own past achievements, status, and contributions
to the Brazilian economy. Under this agreement, each Nikkei family hired
one or two male youths to work on its small farm. Hoping for a new, bet-
ter life, the “youth brigade”—indeed reminiscent of the Manchurian youth
brigades under Japanese colonialism—landed in the heartland of the Nikkei
ethnic community.30 More than twenty-five hundred youths were employed
by Nikkei Paulista farmers, who had migrated during the prewar period,
from 1955 to 1967.31 Were these young migrants more fortunate than the
sertão pioneers, hosted as they were by the more prosperous states of São
Paulo and Paraná? My answer is “No,” since their working conditions were
“no better than that of a fazenda colono, or similar to slavery.”32 While the
older generation of Nikkei farmers complained about the low morality and
poor work ethic of the newcomers, many postwar youths were not farmers
in the first place. They had received scant training in farming before leaving
Japan, and suffered from maltreatment by their ethnic compatriots in the
settlements. To dramatize their hardship, more than thirty of these young
men committed suicide.33
Tragedy in a Caribbean “Paradise”

“A Paradise in the Caribbean,” “Ownership of 300 Tareas for Free,” “Housing,
School, Roads, and Hospitals Prepared”—these were some of the enticing ad-
vertisements created by the Kaikyōren to attract Japanese citizens to migrate
to the Dominican Republic. Japanese immigration to that Caribbean island
nation got underway in 1956, four years after the start of the Brazil-bound
migration. There was no precedence of migration between the two countries,
either Japanese or Dominican. Economic and political relations between the
two nations had historically been almost nonexistent. In fact, the idea of
Japanese immigration to Dominica had a rather accidental beginning. It was
around 1956 when the Dominican president Rafael L. Trujillo was mulling
over the idea of introducing foreign immigrants. His ambassador to Tokyo,
Guzman Sanchez, occasionally visited the Ministry of Foreign Affairs regard-
ing the possibility of Japanese immigration to his country. It is unclear why
the president became interested in Japanese immigration in the first place.
But he probably began to consider seriously the idea of Japanese intake after
his meeting with U.S. Vice President Richard Nixon in 1955 when the latter
praised the early Japanese immigrants.34
Exuberant at having secured another destination for emigration, the GOJ
accepted the Dominican offer and exchanged letters of intent regarding
planned Japanese immigration to the Republic in 1954. The MOFA’s Im-
migration Bureau instructed Kaikyōren to draft its Guidelines of Immigra-
tion Recruitment based on this bilateral agreement.35 The guidelines listed
numerous attractive incentives for emigration to the “Caribbean Paradise,”
including travel expense subsidies, farming supplies, full preparation of hous-
ing and social infrastructure, and even minimum income guarantees during
the start-up period. The conditions looked attractive enough to outweigh
other unfavorable aspects of the host economy. Above all, the grant of land
tenure as large as 300 tareas (equivalent to 44.6 acres) allured would-be
migrants.36 Three hundred tareas is the equivalent of several Tokyo Domes
The Second Wave 47
(the Yomiuri Giants’ baseball field)—an unimaginable offer to the ordinary

Japanese living in the small island nation. The Kaikyōren pamphlets were
distributed through the agency’s Chihō Kaigai Kyōkai (Local Overseas Mi-
gration Associations). In fact, Kaikyōren, anxious to kick off the program,
had circulated the pamphlets prematurely, before the bilateral accord had
been finalized.37
In reality, the Caribbean “paradise” was far from heaven. Dominica is
among the less developed countries in the western hemisphere, as economic
data suggests, with a GDP per capita of U.S. $5,400, infant mortality of 36 per
thousand, and unemployment of 20 percent (in 2003 figures).38 Agriculture is
the main economic sector (15.6 percent of GDP) but suffers from scarce arable
land and a large population concentration—the same structural problems
as in Japan itself.39 The country is itself a source of emigrants, mainly to the
United States, and had no particular appetite for foreign farmer-migrants,
especially from a more developed economy like Japan. To justify the struc-
turally unnecessary immigration, President Trujillo directed the Japanese
immigrant settlers to relatively less-populated interior and Haitian-border
areas. Like Brazil’s Vargas, he expected the Japanese to develop the nation’s
mountain and jungle hinterlands into agricultural centers.
The offer of opportunity in the unfamiliar country boosted the popular-
ity of Dominican-bound emigration, easily exceeding that to the Brazilian
interior or its Bolivian counterpart. Overnight, migration fever to the “Ca-
ribbean Paradise” swept Japan. The first contingent of 185 emigrants, feeling
like lucky lottery winners, headed to the country in 1956.40 Within five years,
a total of 1,319 family immigrants moved from one overpopulated country
to another as agrarian pioneers.
Upon arrival at the port of entry, Japanese farmer-immigrants were scat-
tered across the country in small groups, to either geopolitically dangerous
areas on the Haitian border or barren, agriculturally inauspicious lands in the
mountains. The largest camp was the one in Dajabón, where the first group
settled. The Dajabón community, right on the Dominican-Haitian border,
eventually hosted 340 people in 58 families. Other groups of 315 people and
220 people settled in Agua Negra and Constanza, respectively. The new set-
tlers were not informed of the precarious conditions in their new lands by
either home or host governments.
Trujillo had his own reasons to accept Japanese immigrants to the already
overcrowded territory. The republic had long been troubled by the influx of
Haitians, who illegally crossed the national border area that divides the island
of Hispaniola into mutually antagonistic nations. The president came up with
an ingenious idea to solve the historic national security concern: to fend off
Haitian smugglers and squatters with a human shield of other immigrants,

that is, the Japanese.41 In the immigration blueprint, which was never shown
to the immigrants, the Dominican government even explicitly stated: “Japa-
nese immigrants will be allocated to the border areas unless an immigrant
has a particular objection to it.”42 This was reminiscent of prewar Japan’s
imperialist tactic—the geostrategic allocation of immigrants for defense of
the border areas against Chinese and Soviet troops in Manchuria. And, as
Masterson points out, it resonated with the Paraguayan scheme to locate its
Japanese guest immigrants to guard its border area against Argentina.43
The GOJ may not have been aware of its counterpart’s hidden agenda. It
was more concerned about its own goal—to send as many emigrants abroad
as soon as possible, despite other considerations, such as natural and social
climates in the settlements, geopolitical risks, and the prospects of success.44
In a mood of exuberance and exigency (namely, to send a large number of
emigrants before the immigration gates shut), Japan did not scrupulously
assess potentials and risks involved with the migration scheme—the same
error it committed in other South American emigration plans. The Japanese
Embassy and Kaikyōren explained to the immigrants that the locations in
Dajabón, Agua Negra, and elsewhere were safe and suitable for their settle-
ment. But such confidence was weakly grounded by its limited preliminary
research. In its haste, the MOFA rubber-stamped the migration scheme
crafted by the host country and executed the program.45
The host government also recommended (read: required) that the immi-
grants produce such commercial products as peanuts, maize, tobacco, and
coffee. The selection of these crops was rather arbitrary, without reasonable
consideration of the land’s suitability. Nevertheless, immigrants were obliged
to cultivate the specified crops, lest they be subject to deportation.46 Water
was scarce and no irrigation systems were available for the new settlers,
contrary to the statements of the official preliminary guidelines. The soil was
dry and rocky, or swampy. Roads needed for commercial farming, let alone
the social infrastructure of schools and hospitals, did not exist at all in the
colonies. Since the local authorities strictly controlled internal migration,
settlers had no freedom to re-migrate elsewhere. Internal re-migration was
physically impossible in any case since land-hungry Dominicans or other
foreign farmers had already occupied most arable land. The Japanese settlers
felt like de facto “prisoners or slaves on the quasi-Gulag plantations.”47
The only way to survive was to find cultivatable crops while at the same
time creating farming and social infrastructure by themselves. Money and
food were constantly in short supply. In Dajabón, immigrants endeavored to
improve rice crops for commerce, and after ten years of trial and error, they
The Second Wave 49
succeeded in developing a crop harvestable three times a year.48 With this

breakthrough, farmers’ lives in the region finally improved to a sustainable
level. Nevertheless, the Dajabón case was exceptional. Other colonies where
immigrants made comparable efforts were never able to achieve economic
independence. The longer they clung to the settlements, the more poverty
and ailment prevailed. The settlements saw twenty deaths, including infants
through malnutrition, and an unnatural death—one person was found stran-
gled near the Haitian border.49
The progress of the settlement plan was further troubled by a dispute
between Japanese immigrants and the host government over the legality of
land tenure. Contrary to the home government’s grandiose advertisement
(“ownership of 300 tareas for free”), the largest parcel that the host govern-
ment distributed to immigrant farmers was far smaller than promised. In
Dajabón, each family received only 85 tareas. In Constanza, the proposed size
of future distribution was 100 tareas, but the settlers actually received only
50 tareas.50 Latecomers received even less since inventories of land for dis-
tribution were already drying up. The immigrants protested strongly against
this breach of contract by the Dominican government, which, annoyed by
the impoverished foreigners’ grumblings, tried to suppress their revolt with
verbal and physical harassment. It threatened to confiscate rented farming
tools or deport the complainers.51 The response of the Japanese Embassy
and the Dominican branch of Kaikyōren was inept or indifferent; no proper
action was taken to save the troubled immigrants or to mediate the dispute
between the parties. They merely guided the migrants to “wait-and-see” for
a better day to come.
The Dominican government had some reasons for rejecting the collective
grievance by the Japanese immigrants. First, it felt that the latter had failed to
correctly understand the actual terms of agreement regarding land owner-
ship. In fact, the letter of intent specified that the proposed amount of land for
free distribution was “conditional,” depending upon other sine qua nons, like
the completion of land reclamation, the kind of crops planted, the number of
family members, and so on.52 However, this disclaimer was lost in translation
in the Japanese-language guidelines prepared by Kaikyōren. To compound
matters, despite the ongoing legal trouble involving the first settlers in the
host country, the Kaikyōren kept sending new immigrants to the country,
only to encounter similar troubles. In addition, the legal dispute between the
host state and Japanese settlers became knottier and more precarious without
a formal bilateral agreement between the two countries regarding the terms
of settlement. The agreement remained informal, only in the form of letters
of intent, signed by both ambassadors. Therefore, pointing at the absence of
legal obligations, the Dominican government dismissed the complaints of

the immigrants-plaintiffs as meritless and insisted that there was no breach
of contract on the Dominican side.53
Domestic and international political developments in and around the
republic at the end of the 1950s made future prospects for Japanese immi-
grants even more dismal. In January 1959, Fidel Castro’s revolutionary forces
seized Havana and established a communist regime in Cuba. The political
upheaval in a nearby nation inevitably dragged the country into Cold War
confrontations. As a front-line soldier of the United State’s Cuban contain-
ment strategy, the Trujillo government decided to directly confront Castro’s
force. The regionalized Cold War soon worsened the country’s internal se-
curity. Occasional Cuban raids disturbed immigrant colonies. Not familiar
with, or fully informed of, the political sea change around their community,
the Japanese remained worried and forlorn.
Furthermore, the assassination of President Trujillo in May 1961 added
fuel to the blaze of violence. The death of a dictator much hated by a large
part of the Dominican populace suddenly unleashed anti-Trujillo protest-
ers against Japanese immigrants. Since the former dictator had patronized
the Japanese immigrants, the latter symbolized the dictator’s dirty doings
in the eyes of the Dominicans. Claiming that lands the former government
provided the immigrants had originally been confiscated from Dominican
farmers, the Dominicans looted or took over by force the immigrants’ lands.54
Anti-Japanese activists took to the streets in urban cities, shouting xenopho-
bic slogans and racist slurs. Alienated from the host society and faced with
life-threatening danger, the immigrants made a final plea to return home
by any possible means.
The first reaction of the local Japanese embassy to the immigrants’ request
for repatriation was denial. For fear that news about the disaster would spread
to the home government and general public in Japan, the embassy dismissed
the immigrants’ demand for repatriation, expecting to conceal the fact.55
It was only when the desperate immigrants contacted the Japanese media
and a Diet politician to publicly call for their rescue did the GOJ finally but
grudgingly act.56 The Dominican government finally acceded to the Japanese
repatriation. Kaikyōren adopted the International Aid Act for the immi-
grants’ return, and provided temporary loans for repatriation expenses.57
Out of the original 249 families (1,319 immigrants), 133 families (about 600
people) returned to Japan in a ship prepared by the GOJ in 1962. Another 70
families re-migrated to South America.58 Forty-six families decided to stay
in the country. The eventual settlement rate was less than 40 percent, which
was extremely low compared to that in other Latin American countries. This
The Second Wave 51
first and last Japanese immigration program to the Dominican Republic

ended in disgrace, and is remembered as a symbol of disastrous Japanese
state-led migration.
Bolivia and Paraguay

Japanese emigration to Bolivia and Paraguay was similarly ill fated. The two
nations, situated in the center of the South American continent, are the
least-developed economies in the region. In 1955, GDP per capita was U.S.
$496.20 for Bolivia and $447.30 for Paraguay.59 Their sociopolitical climates
were also unstable, dictated by a primitive, oligarchic power structure. The
countries have traditionally been immigrant exporters: their people migrate
to wealthier neighboring countries, like Argentina, seeking wealth and op-
portunity. Some 13,000 postwar Japanese migrants—about 5,300 to Bolivia
and 7,800 to Paraguay, excluding Okinawans—were directed to the less de-
veloped areas of these lower economies.
Before the second wave of Japanese immigration took shape, there was
virtually no significant Japanese presence in either Bolivia or Paraguay, even
in the capital cities, with the exception of a few small businesses.60 The large-
scale prewar Latin American immigration of Japanese never materialized
in these nations. Only a small historical footprint of Japan remained in the
Amazonian jungles in Bolivia. At the turn of the twentieth century, some
Japanese sugar plantation workers in Peru smuggled themselves into the
Bolivian territory and became seringueros (rubber tappers) on plantations
in the Amazon region.61 But these sugar-workers-turned-seringueros were
few in number. The only major Japanese community in Riberalta, a city of
the rubber boom, did not survive after the bust of the 1920s. In addition,
when World War II broke out, Bolivia sided with the United States and col-
laborated in extraditing some one hundred Japanese from its territory to
American concentration camps. Less than ten eventually returned to their
South American home after the war’s end.62
The postwar Japanese migration to Bolivia began in 1955. Nishikawa Toshi-
michi, the proprietor of a sugar refinery in Japan, planned to build a sugar
plantation with Japanese immigrants in the eastern lowland of the state of
Santa Cruz.63 Nishikawa brought his proposition to the MOFA, which then
authorized the dispatch of the first agrarian migrant group, consisting of
sixteen families (eighty-six people), with Nishikawa as commander, to the
Colonia San Juan. The “Nishikawa Plan” obtained the generous support of
the host government: Bolivia prepared fifteen thousand hectares of land for
Japanese settlers.64
Only a few months after arriving at San Juan, the Nishikawa platoon hit a
roadblock. The plantation, administered by Santa Kurusu Nihonjin Nōgyō
Kyōdō Kumiai (the Japanese Agricultural Cooperative Association in Santa
Cruz), was poorly financed, depending solely upon Nishikawa’s private funds.
Human labor, including children, was too limited to conquer the untrodden
serva (forest). Commander Nishikawa himself quickly decided to retreat,
leaving behind the eighty-six settlers in a tropical rainforest.65
Despite the Nishikawa debacle, Japan never lost interest in migration to
Bolivia. It decided to take the initiative in underwriting a regional develop-
ment project. MOFA’s diplomatic records show that Japan started to prepare
for an immigration agreement with Bolivia as early as August 1952, and
actual inter-governmental negotiations began in 1954. At the time of these
diplomatic deliberations, a colony of Okinawan immigrants (called Colonia
Uruma) near the settlement sites proposed for the Japanese was plagued with
an unidentified fatal disease and its settlement plan was on the verge of col-
lapse. (Okinawan emigration to Latin America will be discussed separately in
section 5 of chapter 6.) The acting chargé d’affaires stationed in Peru wrote to
foreign minister Shigemitsu Mamoru that, “The Japanese immigration plan
to Bolivia should be separated from the Uruma incident, from which future
immigrants can learn a lesson.” He felt that the failure was a result of the er-
roneous selection of the settlement site, which had little access to drinking
water and commercial centers, and argued that as long as a proper settlement
site was chosen, no such debacle would happen again.66 Unfortunately, the
lessons of Uruma were not learned.
The GOJ’s insistence upon the Bolivian emigration plan was based on a
strategic choice to diversify the distribution of Japanese migrants to countries
other than Brazil. Immigration to Brazil, despite the GOJ’s early expectations,
remained stagnant, and it was hoped that the Bolivian alternative would make
up for the Brazilian shortfall.67 For this reason, neither a “minor” error in
the Nishikawa Plan, nor the Uruma debacle, would arrest advancement of
the larger goal; the failed plan could be a stepping-stone for later and larger
success, as the chargé d’affaires advised.
Meanwhile, the Bolivian government had its own reasons to accept the
citizens of its former enemy. Regional development of the near-empty east-
ern part of the country had been a long-held national goal ever since the
1930s. Once the transcontinental railroad system was established linking the
region with Brazil and Argentina, international trade of agricultural products
with these countries became possible. The 1952 revolutionary government of
the Movimiento Nacional Revolucionario (MNR) undertook the “marcha
al este” (march to the east) initiative, encouraging internal migration from
The Second Wave 53
the Andean mountain area to the eastern lowlands.68 Land ownership of

fifty hectares without compensation was offered to each potential migrant-
developer. But the response of local Bolivians was far from enthusiastic.69
Therefore, the development-minded state decided to have the Japanese play
the role of conqueror of the virgin forests instead.
In order to carry out the San Juan initiative, Tokyo and La Paz signed
the Nihon-boribia ijū kyōtei, or Japan-Bolivia Migration Agreement, in 1956,
the first immigration treaty drawn up by the postwar Japanese state.70 The
agreement specified sending as many as one thousand families (six thousand
people) to the region within five years. Bolivia guaranteed settlers ownership
of up to fifty hectares of land for free. Moreover, settlers were promised a social
and agricultural infrastructure to support the colonization scheme. The GOJ
agreed to provide loans to migrants for traveling costs via Nihon Kaigai Ijū
Sokushin Kabushiki Kaisha (Japanese Emigration Aid Co., Ltd., or JEAC).
As in the case of Dominica, the honeyed words, “land ownership for free,”
attracted Japanese to migration to Bolivia. In the first round of state-run im-
migration, 160 families with 591 people entered the Colonia San Juan in 1957.
They soon found that the favorable conditions of settlement, promised by the
Bolivian government and emphasized by the Japanese recruiters, were simply
a sham.71 Their settlement was surrounded by a hundred-foot-high tropical
virgin forest, where trees grew so fast and dense that there were no game trails,
let alone paved roads. Japanese colonists had to clear the thick rainforest armed
only with machetes. Farming of the products prescribed by Kaikyōren turned
out to be an impossibility. Shipment of products was another challenge since
the roads to and from their settlements were, in the immigrants’ expression,
“horse-trapping swamps.”72 Some immigrants cursed the Japanese officials for
having them migrate in the midst of the rainy season. As one complained,
“Every day we had nothing but rain. We could not dry rain-soaked clothes.
What’s worse, we could not find [dry] logs to boil water. It is so ironic because
our camp was surrounded by forest. . . . Rain did not stop for half a month.”73
The first and second groups of immigrants, who had hands-on experience
of the dreadful serva and knew the poor judgment of the two governments
in selecting the settlement sites and schedule, became more distrustful of
Kaikyōren and the MOFA, which continued to send more immigrants. They
appealed to Japanese politicians and the media for their collective transmigra-
tion to better places and a suspension of further immigration since there was
“too much rain, no road, and [it was] impossible to cultivate.”74
Compounding the problem of the absence of adequate infrastructure as
a result of Bolivia’s noncompliance, the GOJ failed to provide emergency
aid for building roads and bridges or purchasing construction machinery.
Wakatsuki Yasuo, a Japanese migration scholar and former Kaikyōren staff

member, recalls that when he tried to rescue the troubled immigrants by
providing emergency funds through the JEAC, the request, albeit of a rather
modest amount, was denied by his headquarters in Tokyo.75 It was only in
1959 that the home government took the immigrants’ plight more seriously,
establishing the Committee for Reconstruction of San Juan Colony for im-
proving their living and working conditions. (At the same time, it suspended
any further emigration until the conditions improved.) But it took the im-
migrants decades to become self-sufficient, independent farmers, with much
owing to their own efforts.
Migration to Paraguay also occurred in a collective, state-planned form,
based on a bilateral agreement on Japanese immigration between Tokyo and
Asunción. As in other cases, there was a division of responsibilities between
the host and sender states: Paraguay would provide suitable agricultural land
for Japanese immigrants as well as the socioeconomic infrastructure needed
for a sustainable settlement; the GOJ would manage the recruitment and
transportation of immigrants, and finance the immigration-related expenses.
Both governments signed the Japan-Paraguay Immigration Agreement on
July 22, 1959, pursuant to which an immigration plan was drawn up to send
eighty-five thousand Japanese in total within thirty years.76 The destinations
were the farming lands that the GOJ purchased from Paraguay in Chávez,
Fram, Alto Paraná, and Iguaçu. The lands were to be distributed to each
migrant family (about 50 hectares per family).77 In exchange for Paraguay’s
intake of Japanese immigrants, Japan agreed to provide a loan of $3.8 million
for Paraguay’s purchase of seven ships.78 Details of the Japanese settlements in
Paraguay must be omitted due mainly to the space limitations of this book,
but, in general, they were similarly as ill fated as other attempts at Latin
American emigration and settlement. Under difficult conditions and a poorly
designed settlement plan, 7,754 Japanese were sent to the settlements in total.
Without much support from the host government, the settlers counted on
their own efforts and perseverance to develop farms in the wastelands.
In sum, postwar Japanese emigration to Latin America was a product of

compromise between sender and host states. The former, desperate to secure
destinations for large-scale emigration, and the latter, intent on utilizing the
immigrants as frontier pioneers, directed Japanese immigrants to the most
difficult and challenging areas. As a result, the immigrants became more
impoverished than they had been prior to immigration. Considering these
results, the migration program would not have lasted for more than a decade
or expanded to involve as many as 79,534 people without the intervention of
The Second Wave 55
Japanese officialdom. The counterintuitive evolution of the second wave of

migration—the immigrants’ flow from “high” to “low” economies—presents
the same puzzle as that in the first wave: What was the sender state’s ratio-
nale for continuing such an innately contradictory and dangerous migration
scheme? In the chapters that follow, Japanese domestic conditions will be the
focus of this search for the sources of this policy’s strength and longevity.
Part II
Latin American Emigration
as a National Strategy
3. Building the Emigration Machinery
The great earthquake that devastated the Tokyo metropolitan area in Sep-
tember 1923 was a watershed for the beginning of the government of Japan’s
intervention into Japanese Latin American emigration. The Yamamoto Gon-
bei cabinet (September 1923–January 1924) created a relief program for some
of the quake victims who had lost homes, families, and jobs, to assist them
in migrating to Brazil. The program subsidized 200 yen in travel expenses
for each of the 110 applicants to the program.1 Though a relatively small-scale
and temporary measure, it was the first government-appropriated budget for
overseas migration in eight years.2 More importantly, the government became
engaged in migration from that point forward, positioning it as national pol-
icy (kokusaku) and laying the institutional foundations for the program.
Chapter 1 provided a historical overview of the shaping of prewar Japa-
nese emigration to Latin America by socioeconomic and political factors in
the host countries. These immigration-side narratives—stories of Japanese
immigrants’ struggle to survive under restrictive and adverse conditions in
Latin America—highlighted one of the major conundrums of the migra-
tion history: that is, why the Japanese emigrants went from higher to lower
economies. In addition, there is another unsolved question as to why Japa-
nese migration to Latin America saw a remarkable surge in the total number
of emigrants from the early 1920s until the mid-1930s, when anti-Japanese
sentiment became rife in many Latin American host countries. As a first step
in answering these questions, this chapter will examine the flip side of the
migration story and look at the domestic conditions in Japan from which
emigration sprang. At the center of this analysis is the endogenous “push”
factor, that is, the Japanese state’s ideas, decisions, and actions that elevated
migration to Japan’s national imperative.
60 latin american emigration as a national strategy
Early Public Discourse

With the demise of feudalism in 1868, the imperial Meiji government aspired
to quickly modernize the nation-state. The state builders looked to western
Europe and the United States for effective political, legal, and administra-
tive structures, economic and industrial systems, military technologies, and
“high culture.” They also realized the importance of international human
exchanges in acquiring material and intellectual resources for modernity,
and enthusiastically supported migration of the best and brightest students
and scholars, often from the former samurai class. One hundred seventy-four
civil servants and private students who went to the United States in 1869 were
among that government selected and sponsored elite.
In contrast, the early Meiji government did not embrace or encourage
emigration by people from the lower classes. A European venture to transport
153 Japanese workers to Hawaii without the authorization of the government
of Japan (the gannenmono incident of 1868) hardened its attitude against
labor emigration. After hearing of the quasi-slave treatment of its citizens
on sugar plantations in Hawaii, the government was convinced that overseas
migration was a dangerous undertaking for its people.3 Furthermore, the
Japanese government, seeking revisions in the unequal treaties that had been
imposed upon it by the Western nations, worried that Japanese emigration
would worsen the chances of those revisions since uneducated dekasegi (la-
bor migrants) would “reinforce the western image of Japan as an uncivilized
nation.”4 After the gannenmono incident, no organized Japanese emigration
took place for seventeen years.
The early Meiji government felt that commoners should instead migrate
within the nation, engaging in development of Hokkaido, Japan’s large north-
ernmost and underpopulated island. With the establishment of the Office of
Development in 1869, the government began developing this vast yet almost
virgin territory. It administratively defined the realm of the indigenous Ainu
people as “Hokkaido,” erected a modern legal structure of property rights
in agriculture and fisheries, and deployed farmers and tondenhei, meaning
armed farmers, from the mainland to the territory, which was only sparsely
populated by the Ainu “barbarians.” 5 By Japanizing the land, cultivating
natural resources, and raising industry, the government of Japan attempted
to substantiate its claim over the territory and its unassailable sovereignty
over it, especially against potential aggressors such as Russia. A detailed and
thorough account of Japan’s colonization of Hokkaido is beyond the scope
of this study,6 but it is noteworthy that the Hokkaido colonization was a
pioneering initiative to build the nation via migration. This colonialist model
Building the Emigration Machinery 61
would later be deployed in Taiwan, Korea, and Manchuria. Furthermore, as

this book will demonstrate, the same expansionist ambition would also be
applied toward Latin American soil.
As the tangible benefit of overseas migration in the form of remittances
grew, the Japanese state finally realized the economic virtues of overseas
migration by commoners. In particular, remittances sent by Japanese immi-
grants to Hawaii and the United States were rapidly growing.7 In Hiroshima
Prefecture—one of the major emigrant exporters—total remittances were
equal to 54 percent of the prefectural budget in 1891.8 Hiroshima, Yamaguchi,
and other prefectures in the southwestern part of Japan were particularly en-
thusiastic about the immigration “industry,” which could bring large income
to the otherwise underdeveloped local economies, and went about promoting
the migration of their locals overseas.
In regard to migration to Latin America, however, Japanese bureaucrats
and politicians remained ambivalent and evasive. Indeed, it took almost
twenty-five years from the first arrival of Japanese contract migrants in Peru
in 1899 for the state to fully engage, institutionally and ideologically, in the
cross-equatorial migration. One of the reasons for the delayed state involve-
ment was that Latin American emigration seemed economically unworthy.
Remittances from the regions were relatively meager. The rate of immigrants’
settlement was also poor since the immigrants themselves viewed the region,
especially Mexico, as a stepping-stone for transmigration to the continental
United States. Therefore, the Japanese state refrained from direct involve-
ment, and instead let private businesses lead the way.
In addition, Latin America remained a low priority among Japan’s geopo-
litical interests. Since the late nineteenth century, Japan had been targeting
East Asia, following mercantilist interests in colonial land and resources,
and expanding its hegemonic sphere in the region. Defining a strong na-
tion vis-à-vis the approaching western imperialism as one with wealth and
military prowess, Japan fought against the empires of China and then Russia,
gained its first imperialist footing in Taiwan and Korea and colonized them.
Spurred by these advances, Japan unilaterally participated in the First World
War, and following the defeat of Germany, rewarded itself with Qingdao and
other former German territories in Northeast China. The GOJ strategized
that Japanese overseas migration should parallel the military’s trajectory,
and that ishokumin (migrant-colonizers) should focus on its newly acquired
colonies in Taiwan, Korea, and Manchuria. Japanese migration to second-tier
regions, such as Latin America, was deemed as diffusion of national resources
and energy, and thus was to be avoided. This mode of migration, termed
“mankan shūchū ron” (the doctrine to concentrate migration on Manchuria
and Korea), was preferred by mainstream proponents of migration in those

days. Komura Jutarō, a career diplomat and the then-Minister of Foreign
Affairs, was one such thinker. In hearings at the 25th Diet on February 2,
1909, Komura explained that Japanese overseas migration must focus strictly
on the existing colonial territories, since the nation had just entered into
the critical initial phase of imperialist advance abroad: “As a result of the
Russo-Japan War, Japan has succeeded in expanding the area of our influ-
ence. Therefore, we should avoid any proliferation of the Japanese people to
other nations, and try to concentrate it [migration] on one destination. It is
crucial to coordinate our colonial administration in these colonies.” 9
The imperial military agreed with Komura’s non-proliferation doctrine
and opposed any migration beyond the strategic focus. The Ministry of War
voiced security concerns about the shrinkage of the army reserve as a re-
sult of large-scale emigration of Japanese males. The conscription system,
which was introduced in 1873, was highly unpopular among the people, es-
pecially farming families who always needed male labor. One way for youth
to avoid conscription was to emigrate abroad—to the Americas, for example.
In preparation for expanding its sphere of influence in Northeast Asia, the
pool of soldiers needed to be expanded, not reduced. Bitter over the boom-
ing emigration of youths, which they viewed as unpatriotic, the military felt
hostile towards overseas migration. This was particularly so in the case of
migration to the decadent western nations. If Latin American emigration
received direct state support, the generals thought, it would lead to hemor-
rhaging of manpower and weaken the nation’s military power.10
Faced with opposition to Latin American emigration for mercantilist,
imperialist, and national security reasons, emigration proponents stressed
its virtues from an economic perspective. One such liberal proponent, the
Viscount Enomoto Takeaki, proposed the future of Japanese emigration in the
service of national development as follows: “The migration business should
become an agent of Japan’s external trade in the course of its development
by means of not only relaxing the population pressure, but also stimulat-
ing the maritime industry, encouraging exports, and promoting industries.
Furthermore, overseas migration to Nan’yō [Southeast Asia and the South
Pacific] and Latin America would assume the critical duty of stimulating the
people’s aspirations toward the outside world, and enlightening and changing
the people’s mentality by importing new knowledge.”11
Beyond scholarly arguments on the economic benefits of emigration, Eno-
moto materialized the idea publicly and privately. As the minister of foreign
affairs (1891–92), he established a new bureau of international migration, and
managed administrative operations in support of migration, including field
research to find suitable settlements for Japanese migrants. What the minister
envisioned was an ishokumin (migration and colonization) business that
would purchase land in a foreign country and have Japanese farmers engage
in agricultural or extractive production in their ethnic colonies.12 To that end,
the government should design and underwrite the master plan of collective
migration-colonization. After retiring from public life, the former foreign
minister conducted a hands-on experiment: in 1897, he founded a migra-
tion company, Kumamoto Imin Kaisha (Kumamoto Migration Company),
through which a Japanese colony was built in the state of Chiapas, Mexico
(the so-called Enomoto Shokumin-chi, from 1897 to 1901).13 The ethnic Japa-
nese coffee plantation hired thirty-five Japanese immigrants, including an
agricultural scholar and twenty-four contract workers. This early experiment
by a high-ranking government official to build Japanese colonies employing
ethnic immigrant labor in Latin America was ill-fated and short-lived. This
and other failures were sometimes blamed for the GOJ’s early avoidance of
Latin American-bound migration.14 But to say the least, the entrepreneur-
ship of such efforts demonstrated that Japanese migration to Latin America
was possible in various forms other than the conventional contract dekasegi
who were cheaply employed and often abused by foreigners, and that the
ethnic ishokumin businesses would provide material basis for the economic
independence of Japanese migrants, on the one hand, and Japan’s market
gains in international trade and investment, on the other.
Ōkuma Shigenobu was another early enthusiast of Latin American emigra-
tion. Ōkuma, the political heavyweight who served as prime minister twice
and was also the founder of Waseda University, published the thesis “Yamato
minzoku bōchō to shokumin jigyō“ (Expansion of the Japanese People and
Colonial Enterprise) in 1908.15 Therein, he presented his liberal vision of mi-
gration, wherein “the next generation of Japanese should be willing to leave
their overpopulated homeland, migrate to any place with large space and less
people in any part of the world, work there freely, and gain economic power.”
Ōkuma believed that a freer flow of people across nations was not only desir-
able but also inevitable in a coming era of liberalism. He ardently promoted
his vision of “emigration for modernity” to the general public, while opposing
Japan’s imperialist expansionism in Asia. He argued that Japanese migration
overseas should not be constrained by the state’s colonialism and mercantil-
ism. Specifically mentioning the Japanese advance toward South America, he
argued, “It does not matter whether the place [of immigration] be a part of
our empire or not,” and that the Japanese should freely look for opportunities
anywhere in the world. Contrary to the fretful, non-proliferation ideologues,
Ōkuma believed that a peaceful economic migration to resource-rich South
America would benefit the nation, and thus the government should support
and engage in the migration enterprise so as to advance national interests
for wealth and power in international relations.
In the long run, these politicians’ endorsement of Latin American emigra-

tion paved the intellectual ground for the formation of the cross-equatorial
migration policy and its supporting institutions. In particular, the policy con-
cept of ishokumin, which the GOJ had domestically deployed in conquering
Hokkaido, was articulated as a new potential mode of engagement with Latin
America. Nevertheless, as of the late nineteenth or early twentieth century,
when Japan was hardly familiar with the region and the regional labor market
for immigrants was overshadowed by its North American counterpart, enthu-
siasm and activism by a limited number of liberal-minded proponents could
hardly spur positive momentum within the state for its direct involvement
with migration as national policy. In time, however, when Japan’s structural
conditions further deteriorated and the political leadership came under the
stress of solving those problems, the state’s Latin Americanists found an op-
portunity to broach their initiative in the domain of social issues.
A Demographic Crisis and the Rise of the

Latin American Emigration Policy
Population is a double-edged sword for modern nation-state builders. A large
population makes possible a massive military, expands domestic markets,
and brings tax revenue to the state’s coffers. The Argentine, Juan Bautista
Alberdi, succinctly stated that “gobernar es poblar”—national power and
wealth emanate from a large population. Population may also give a nation
headaches, and very serious ones at that. When excessive, it burdens the
state and shakes its economic base. This is particularly so when the society is
undergoing a “great transformation,” in Karl Polany’s phrase, and the process
of modernization and industrialization does not support enough growth with
stability to feed and employ the entire population.16
Modern Japan was faced with this internal dilemma. In that insular country
of limited land and resources, the national population grew drastically from
the early Meiji period to the early twentieth century. For example, it grew
from 32 million in 1879 to 51 million in 1910, and to 58 million in 1920. The
developing economy often failed to absorb (into job markets) and support (in
basic consumption) the whole population. Overpopulation and poverty was
particularly grave in the rural agrarian areas. In the modernizing economic
system, commercialization of land was active, and as a result the concentra-
tion of land in the hands of a small number of large landowners accelerated.

The number and proportion of smaller and tenant (landless) farmers grew
accordingly.17 The land tax system that was instituted in 1873 also deepened
agrarian poverty. The tax, which was technically payable by landlords, became
the tenants’ liability since the landowners would reduce their tax burdens
by increasing tenancy fees. It was not unusual that 60 to 70 percent of ten-
ants’ harvests would be collected as rent. Therefore, under the new peonage
system, the tenants’ home economy was constantly deficit-ridden.18
Primogeniture also contributed to the growth of the tenant population as
well as the population pressure on agrarian land. This system, in which the
first son of a family would exclusively inherit the entire family estate, had been
traditional in the agrarian sector since the Tokugawa era. In order to maintain
a certain level of productivity from the family land and avoid fragmentation
in the size of private property, land distribution to other members of the
family, like the second, third, or fourth sons, was avoided. (If such did occur,
it was derided as “foolish” and an irrational act, as expressed in the word,
tawake—literally meaning both “land share” and “foolish” or “idiot.”) The
less fortunate members of families, siblings of the first son and unable to own
land, were apprenticed to urban merchants from childhood, or migrated to
big cities, seeking jobs in factories and mines. Otherwise, they became tenant
farmers. In fact, a disproportionately larger number of the second and third
sons of agrarian families migrated to Latin America and, later, Manchuria.19
Those marginalized and hopeless youngsters sought life opportunities in
new worlds, pursuing a dream that was not possible at home—to become a
landowner in those vast open territories. In this context, the institution of
primogeniture was a socioeconomic foundation of overseas migration.
In the early twentieth century, Tokyo increasingly felt the stress of wide-
spread population pressure and rural poverty associated with modernization.
Public works for the jobless, housing programs for the homeless, and emer-
gency aid for the paupers were provided to cope with these social problems.
Coupled with these domestic measures, the idea of overseas migration was
increasingly discussed among policymakers. One month after the Great Kantō
Earthquake, Nihon Imin Kyōkai (Japan Emigration Association), a voluntary
organization of pro-migration businesses, presented a “Proposal to Promote
Overseas Migration for the Post-Quake National Reconstruction” to the Prime
Minister’s office in October 1923. Overseas migration, according to the pro-
posal, could alleviate the post-quake distress, especially the massive inflow of
rural population into the capital, which then triggered commodity price infla-
tion. “It is a most urgent matter to translocate the excess population overseas
and balance out Japanese demography. More specifically, the jobless in the
urban manufacturing sector should be taken care of domestically, whereas

excessive population in the rural agrarian sector should migrate abroad.”20
Other proponents of overseas migration also feared that overpopulation
and poverty in the countryside might cause urban chaos, and the proposal
that the government should encourage overseas migration for long-term
stabilization of the national demography increasingly gained momentum
within the government following the quake disaster.
In the public discourse over the state-led emigration initiative, Latin Amer-
ica, especially Brazil, was frequently mentioned as the major or only possible
destination for large-scale Japanese migration. Inoue Masaji,21 the president
of Kaigai Kōgyō Kabushiki Kaisha, a national policy company (kokusaku
kaisha)22 specializing in overseas migration and colonization, spoke to the
Kiyoura Keigo cabinet about Latin America’s accessibility to Japanese im-
migrants and the structural compatibility between the two regions: “While
many countries in the world are increasingly restricting Japanese immigra-
tion, . . . Brazil and other Latin American nations are relatively less populated
and embrace an unlimited amount of resources. Their bottleneck is a lack of
labor to use these resources and develop industries. Japan and Latin America
can be reciprocal in this regard, benefiting from each other’s affluence and
amending their disadvantages. Japanese immigrants can be a point of inter-
national compatibility. There is no doubt that the region is the most appro-
priate site for Japanese immigration.”23 Matsuoka Kinpei, a law professor at
Tokyo Imperial University and later an advisor to Japan’s colonial enterprise
in Manchuria, also endorsed the Latin American migration, through which
Japan could exploit the region’s abundant natural resources.24
A subtext of the emphasis on Latin America by Inoue and Matsuoka, as
well as the GOJ’s increasing interest in the region, was provided by politi-
cal developments in the United States regarding Japanese migration. The
Japanese immigrant population in the United States, mainly in West Coast
states, grew rapidly in the first decade of the twentieth century.25 At the same
time, so did anti-Japanese sentiment and actions. The state of California—the
center of Japanese migration to the United States—was the crucible of the
Japanese exclusion movement with organizations, laws, and enforcement
of restrictions at the local, regional, and national levels. Responding to the
Golden State’s fervent admonition regarding the “yellow peril,” President
Theodore Roosevelt issued an executive order that “prohibits those aliens
whose passports had been issued for destinations other than the U.S., from
entering it” as of March 14, 1907;26 the executive order was further reinforced
by the Gentlemen’s Agreement of 1908, in which Japan agreed not to issue
passports to anyone who might become a laborer-immigrant in the United
States. The anti-Japanese movement culminated in the 1924 Immigration Act,

which contained an exclusionary clause banning the admission of any alien
ineligible for citizenship as an immigrant. This law, the so-called Japanese
Exclusion Act, intended to fix racial quotas based upon political and cultural
preferences, and exclude Japanese immigrants in particular. Facing the harsh
American reality of racism, which was also prevalent in other Anglo-Saxon
nations like Canada and Australia, Tokyo was persuaded to look for alterna-
tive countries that would accept the Japanese, and came to the conclusion
that “there is no other place on earth than the South American continent
where its immigrants thrive.”27
In order to popularize the state-sponsored Latin American emigration
program among the general public, Matsuoka argued, strong government
support and engagement with the “national imperative” were indispensable.
Migration had thus far been sluggish mostly because it was managed solely
by profit-oriented private agencies, and there had been no strong state leader-
ship in the enterprise. Matsuoka recommended that the government form a
national policy company specializing in emigration, and collaborate with the
private sector in raising public consciousness about this national imperative.
Adopting his approach of state engagement, the government commenced
construction of the system of institutions that would advance the national
emigration initiative.
Institution Building for Latin American-bound Migration

Behind the scenes, there occurred a power shift within the Japanese state.
Through ministerial reshufflings, pro-migration politicians won predominant
positions within the cabinet. In 1914, the pro–Latin American-emigration
Katsura Tarō became prime minister and employed Takahashi Korekiyo,
who had earlier privately established a migration-colonization enterprise, as
minister of finance.28 Takahashi himself became the prime minister in 1922.
On April 21 of that year, representatives of all related ministries were called to
the Naimu-sho (the Home Ministry) and directed to conduct an assessment
of the effectiveness of Latin American emigration as an anti-poverty and
anti-unemployment measure. These administrative changes created positive
momentum for the institutionalization of emigration.
On the diplomatic front, Japan’s activism for Latin American emigration
was also set in motion. In 1922, the government of Japan dispatched three
battle cruisers to celebrate the centennial jamboree of the Republic of Brazil.
The Japanese admiral’s diplomatic mission continued on to Peru to pay an
official visit to President Leguía, the patron of Japanese immigrants to that
Andean nation. The extravagant voyage to South America was meant to

convey Tokyo’s message that it was ready and willing to expand its emigration
enterprise in the region, and that it expected the host countries to warmly
accept its people. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MOFA), the long-term
bureaucratic advocate of Latin American emigration, launched a series of
diplomatic initiatives to advance its cause. In 1925, the Emigration Coun-
cil, headed by the minister of foreign affairs, Baron Shidehara Kijūrō, sent
official missions to South America. On their extensive tours, the Japanese
representatives visited the states of São Paulo and Minas Gerais, where they
held meetings with state governors and local politicians, and investigated
the future prospects for Japanese immigration.29 Their report concluded
that these Brazilian states were most appropriate for Japan’s emigration and
agricultural business, with amicable social climates to accept the Japanese.
These elaborate diplomatic actions meant to announce to South America
and the rest of the world the inception of Japan’s new international mission
of full-fledged migration.
In April 1924, the Imperial Economic Conference was convened by the
Kiyoura cabinet, and a state policy on protection and promotion of emigra-
tion and colonization was discussed. Through policy deliberations, several
initiatives emerged, among which were that Japanese emigration would focus
on Brazil, and that the government would underwrite the migration business
of the national policy company, Kaigai Kōgyō Kabushiki Kaisha, especially
to increase state travel expense subsidies.30 The Latin American emigration
program had already secured an annual budget of 400,000 yen for fiscal year
1923. That was twenty times the amount in fiscal year 1914, when a migra-
tion budget had last been appropriated. From 1923, the GOJ lent its fiscal
backing to the migration policy (table 3.1).31 For the fiscal year of 1924, the
emigration-related budget was tripled to 1.21 million yen, which was to be
used for subsidies to five thousand immigrants (200 yen per person) and to
Kaigai Kōgyō for advertisement and immigration brokerage.32
State-subsidized emigration was made permanent in 1925. Almost anyone
who applied to, and was selected for, the emigration program would receive
state subsidies for all their basic travel outlays, via the policy company, Kai-
gai Kōgyō. The public financial support substantially boosted the flow of
emigration, because most of the migrants were of very humble origins and
would have otherwise been unable to afford overseas travel and resettlement.
Kaigai Kōgyō was pleased to report the solid growth of its business: “[With]
the growing number of migration applicants this year [1926], the migration
fever is a result of public campaigns/advertisement by our company and the
[Japanese] authorities to raise public awareness of the domestic population
Table 3.1 Japan’s Emigration-Related Budgets
Annual budget for Emigration-related
emigration business Percent of the subsidies per person
Year (unit: thousand yen) total national budget (unit: yen)
1914 20 0.003 1
1915–22 *
1923 400 0.003 25
1924 1,208.8 0.07 200
1925 1,250.6 0.08 100
1926 1,844.5 0.1 130
1927 2,322.3 0.1 150
1928 1,168.5 0.07 65
1929 8,516.7 0.5 350
1930 8,131.0 0.5 350
1931 10,651.0 0.7 520
1932 9,811.9 0.5 315
1933 6,666.9 0.3 145
1934 7,027.4 0.3 179
1935 5,930.5 0.3 230
1936 9,856.9 0.4 910
Source: Compiled by the author based on the chart in Nihon Kaigai Kyōkai Rengōkai,
Kaigai ijū no kōka, 43.
Note: * The emigration-related budget was suspended during this period on the
grounds of fiscal savings.
problem and to start advertising overseas migration since last year. In addi-
tion, the current situation of over-application with the outstanding number
of applicants to migrate to Brazil is attributable to the increased amount of
state subsidies of travel expenses to be provided to cover expenses of an ad-
ditional 1,800 migrants.”33
Kaigai Kōgyō was the first national policy company established by the
Terauchi Tsuyoshi government in 1917, for the purpose of managing migration
and colonization operations, mostly in Latin America. Originally started as a
Brazilian affiliate of a private migration-colonization concern, Tōyō Takush-
oku Kabushiki Kaisha, Kaigai Kōgyō came under the government’s control
through state investment. With a large initial capitalization of 10 million yen,
the quasi-public migration company merged five major private migration
agencies as well as Japanese-owned plantations, such as the São Paulo-based
Burajiru Takushoku Kaisha,34 which flourished during the liberal migration
period in the first two decades of the twentieth century.35 Through these
mergers, the GOJ consolidated the formerly fragmented private migration
business into a single consolidated operation, dealing with everything from
advertisement to recruitment and travel arrangements. Kaigai Kōgyō took
charge of operations, following the official guideline that “emigrant candi-
dates shall be gathered from all across the nation (except for Korea, Taiwan,
and Sakhalin) by way of newspaper ads, circulation of guidebooks, movies,
and other means, and those who qualify under the official criteria shall be
chosen for migration.”36
Persuading the public of the virtues of Latin American emigration was a
key element of the national strategy. Hoping to popularize that lesser-known
migration path and stir up a nationwide migration fever, the Bureau of Social
Affairs of the Home Ministry assigned Kaigai Kōgyō the role of propagan-
dist to disseminate the newly launched state program among the Japanese
population. The company invested in marketing activities through its local
branches located in several prefectures. Its activities took various forms,
from lectures to posters, flyers, movies, newspapers, and radio broadcasts,
so as to reach every corner of the street, in hospitals, barbershops, and public
baths.37 Extensive advertisement was necessary in order to reach the rural
population who had little access to outside information, and inform them of
the new international program and its advantages and virtues. The rhetoric
used often exaggerated, if not falsified, the bright economic prospects in
the New World, such as “trees bear gold nuggets in Brazil,” “Latin Ameri-
can nature is so rich that no one needs to work,” or “the people are friendly
and welcoming to Japanese immigrants.” Normano writes that the official
propaganda, emphasizing the physical or sociocultural similarity between
home villages and the South American destination, purposefully soothed
concerns of reluctant migration candidates.38
Subsidies for travel expenses became another crucial tool of migration
promotion.39 In February 1928, the House of Commons of the Imperial Par-
liament agreed on a “Proposal Concerning an Extensive Implementation
of the Emigration Policy,” in which the government pledged to provide full
support, both institutional and financial, to promote the emigration policy
and expand the program in order to address the issues of population and
food shortage.40 In 1929, when the Colonial Ministry (Takumu-shō), an office
specializing in migration and colonial affairs, was founded, and the Latin
American emigration program under the new ministry’s administration
was in full swing, the migration-related budget, “Ishokumin hogo shōrei hi”
(Expenses for Protection and Promotion of Migration and Colonization), was
expanded to 8.5 million yen, or 0.5 percent of the entire fiscal budget. Almost
a half of the migration budget was allocated to subsidies for travel expenses,
which covered 50 percent of a migrant’s fare on railroad or ship, plus the
entire amount of passport and other immigration fees.41 The colonial affairs
office spent as much as 520 yen per immigrant. In company policy, Kaigai
Kōgyō prioritized the poor in the recruitment process: “Since the migration
program assumes the nature of a social policy, the subsidies for immigrants’
travel expenses should be provided in principle to those who cannot pay
for the outlays by themselves.”42 Indeed, the majority of immigrants applied
for and received the government subsidies. Backed by generous migration
budgets, the number of immigrants greatly increased, from 1,349 in 1922 to
18,016 in 1929, and reached its peak of 24,032 in 1934.
Kaigai Kōgyō’s president Inoue was pleased to see that at long last the public
understood the benefits of the emigration policy for national progress: “Pro-
tection and promotion of ishokumin is a crucial national strategy that will
affect our nation’s rise or fall in the future. Nevertheless, it has been totally
neglected in the past. . . . Given the exigency of the recent population and
food crises, ishokumin is finally recognized for its importance as a social
policy following the Great Kantō Earthquake.”43
A São Paulo-based Japanese newspaper, Nippaku Shinbun, also observed
the changes in the political and intellectual currents surrounding the Latin
American emigration policy:
In the past, government officials and intellectuals of our country [Japan] had
no favorable view of overseas migrants, whom they considered trouble-makers
that caused international problems no matter where they went. However, re-
cently the government, particularly the Home Ministry, became increasingly
concerned about problems of rapid population growth, food scarcity, and the
deterioration of ideologies [social unrest], and came to the conclusion that it
must encourage overseas migration on a large scale in parallel to the rational-
ization of internal land distribution and the promotion of domestic industries.
Towards that goal, the government established overseas migration companies as
well as various kinds of organizations to support “corporate migrants” [migrant-
colonizers] mainly to Brazil.44
The Imperial Ordinance on the Overseas Emigration Association of 1927

defined Latin American-bound migration as a national strategy, taking the
form of “permanent, family-based migration” based on a family unit of more
than three members who would settle in designated colonies. That is, immi-
grant families settled in the farmlands prepared by state planners, instead of
being employed as colonos by local (foreign) plantation owners. They either
managed their own farms as jisaku-nō (independent farmers), or worked for
a Japanese farming company as kigyō imin (corporate immigrant-farmers).
Institutional arrangements were made by the official migration planners to
enable these particular forms of emigration and settlement in foreign terri-
tory. First, Kaigai Ijū Kyōkai (the Overseas Emigration Association, “OEA”
hereafter) was created based on the Imperial Ordinance on the Overseas

Emigration Association. Backed by low-interest state loans, the association
purchased farming land in Brazil and distributed the land to its member
immigrants. While ultimate authority over the Latin American emigration
program and responsibility for the protection of migrants resided in the
central government—specifically, the ministries of internal affairs and foreign
affairs until 1928, and the ministries of colonial affairs and foreign affairs after
1929—the day-to-day management of migration and colonization was in the
association’s jurisdiction.
The operations of the OEA ran parallel to Kaigai Kōgyō in promotion,
recruitment, training in languages, geography, and foreign customs, and
health and hygiene measures, such as disease testing, immunization, and
medical service in the settlements. The association had a vertical structure
that linked Tokyo and the local (prefectural) units to systematically recruit
migration candidates across the nation. Eighteen local branches were set up in
the southwestern prefectures of Okayama, Yamaguchi, Hiroshima, Fukuoka,
Kagawa, Kagoshima, Kumamoto, Tottori, and Saga, the western prefectures
of Ehime, Mie, and Wakayama, and the northern prefectures of Niigata,
Toyama, Yamanashi, Nagano, Iwate, and Hokkaido. With Kaigai Ijū Kumiai
Sōgō-kai (the General Assembly of the Overseas Migration Association) as
the central entity, the headquarters in Tokyo and the prefectures coordinated
for effective policy execution. Each prefectural association recruited and
selected well-motivated and qualified farmer migrants from each prefecture;
if necessary, it provided them adequate training to improve their skills.
At the end of the 1920s, major administrative reform took place relating to
migration oversight. On June 10, 1929, the Colonial Ministry was created to
manage a range of emigration and colonization efforts in Asia and beyond.45
Pursuant to this reform, most of the responsibilities for migration—both in
migration itself and for farming operations in the settlements—were trans-
ferred from the Home Ministry to the newly established Colonial Minis-
try, while the MOFA continued to hold responsibility for passport and visa
issuance. Accordingly, the colonialist nature of the operation—from legal
research on land titles to land purchase and distribution and agribusiness
formation by individual and corporate migrants in new settlements—came
into prominence. The Colonial Ministry itself opened overseas branches in
São Paulo, Lima, and Mexico City to oversee the immigration and settlement
process.46 It also took charge of managing the far-flung Japanese settlements
in the region, in close collaboration with the OEA and Kaigai Kōgyō.
Together with private Japanese proprietors who had already acquired land
titles in Peru or Brazil, the OEA acquired land or concessions for Japan’s
migration-colonization enterprise in the states of São Paulo and Pará in Brazil,

Junin Province in Peru, La Colmena in Paraguay, and elsewhere. Interestingly,
the home government of Japan did not directly participate in land purchase
or ownership. Concerns regarding international relations explain this. In the
general guidelines for the promotion of the migration-colonization enterprise,
the Colonial Ministry instructed that “land in Latin America be purchased
and owned by private entities, in consideration of Japan’s relations with these
nations.”47 Similarly, a staff member of the international trade bureau of the
MOFA who traveled to Peru for field research suggested that “it is undesirable
from an international relations perspective that Japan’s government agencies
directly purchase land [in the Peruvian Amazon], and that it is better to
use an appropriate private organization as the title holder.”48 Such Japanese
considerations on the matter of Latin American sovereignty stemmed from
the growing antagonism against Japanese imperialism in the region and the
U.S. influence over the region against Japan. In order not to unnerve the host
countries and arrest the advancement of Japan’s migration-colonization plans,
the GOJ resorted to a “peaceful guise” for title acquisition—using the names
of the OEA, Kaigai Kōgyō, or individuals who represented these organiza-
tions, exemplified by Miyasaka Kunihito, the senior director of the OEA and
the proprietor of the La Colmena colony in Paraguay.49
For this reason, the central planners of Latin American emigration ex-
pressed concern about independent actions taken in the Americas by some
prefectural governments. Some regional enthusiasts for emigration, such as
the governments of Hiroshima, Fukuoka, Kumamoto, and Okinawa, not only
actively supported the effort at home but also began directly establishing
their own colonies in order to translocate their kinsfolk. As a result, com-
munities such as “Hiroshima-mura” or “Colonia Kumamoto” sprouted on
Latin American soil. The emergence of these mini-Japans concerned Tokyo
since such small-scale nationalism might spoil its own efforts at camouflag-
ing its actions.50
Seeking the long-term success of the Latin American emigration effort, the
Japanese state looked after the health and well-being of migrants—a public
concern long neglected during the period of emigration through private
enterprises. The health and hygiene facilities and training centers mentioned
above manifested the authorities’ attention. In contrast with private migration
companies whose main concern was profitability, the state-guided migration
enterprise emphasized safe and smooth transportation and settlement of
migrants as well as maintenance of their health. These welfare-related items
consumed some portion of the government budget for immigrants’ protec-
tion and promotion of migration-colonization. How much these institutions
actually protected the immigrants in the colonies is a separate issue (and

one that will be critically examined in chapter 7), but the inclusion of these
safeguards as part of migration policy presumably reduced the psychological
cost of migration to an unknown world.
Growth in the number of migrants to Latin America was a critical indica-
tor of policy success. The target number of immigrants to be recruited was
specified periodically. The Colonial Ministry set aggressively high targets,
particularly to its major destination of Brazil, from its inception in 1929:
10,000 for 1931, despite the weak demand for immigrants in Brazil due to the
Depression; 14,000 for the following year; and 21,000 for 1933—the twenty-
fifth anniversary of Japanese migration to the country. The actual number of
immigrants easily surpassed the targets, with over 15,800 in 1932 and 24,000
in the celebrated year of 1933. The ministry executed the family migration-
colonization plans for Peru and Paraguay on a much smaller scale. In the
name of Kaigai Kōgyō, the Colonial Ministry purchased 1,000 hectares of
land in Chanchamayo in the Peruvian Amazon in 1930, and transplanted
twenty-two families there for yucca and onion farming.51 In Paraguay, Ja-
pan founded the La Colmena colony in 1936, with the OEA’s executive as
the nominal proprietor, introducing thirty-seven Japanese families. This
enterprise is remarkable in the sense that it took place at a time when the
home government’s main focus had already shifted from Latin America to
Manchuria—the newly established fortress of Japan’s imperialism in Asia.
This implies that Japan still maintained some degree of colonial interest in
the Americas in the midst of its Asian expedition.
Private Capital Joins the State Enterprise

In March 1928, Prime Minister Tanaka Giichi invited a group of industrial
and financial tycoons to a Tokyo hotel’s banquet room, personally presented
the essence of his government’s migration-colonization plan in Brazil, and
asked for business’s cooperation with and participation in the national en-
terprise. According to the Tokyo Shinbun, the zaibatsu participants included
Shibusawa Eiichi, a financial and business tycoon and a long-term proponent
of overseas migration, Dan Ikuma of Mitsui Mining, Nomura Tokushichi of
Nomura Securities, and Fukuhara Hachirō of Kanegafuchi Spinning Com-
pany.52 The prime minister convened the magnates not for philanthropic
reasons—asking for donations to the anti-poverty migration program—but
from a business and national interest perspective. That is, the migration-col-
onization initiative was a national project worthy of large capital investment
and carried forward the imperial mission of Japan’s advancement overseas
along with migration.
Responding to Tanaka’s eagerness, the business community pledged their

support to the Latin American emigration policy. Shibusawa and Gotō
Shinpei, the first president of the Manchurian Railroad Company and the
iconic architect of Japan’s colonial administration of Manchuria, sponsored
numerous private meetings to enlighten a larger business circle about this
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for migration to the New World. One of the
Shibusawa-sponsored lecture meetings was held at the Yokohama Specie
Bank building, with a diplomat to Brazil as a guest speaker. The meeting
drew participants from various business sectors—trading firms, bankers, and
the shipping industry. Shibusawa promoted the Latin American emigration
scheme by touting anticipated business opportunities in the private sector,
such as emigrant transportation, remittance transfers, and the import and
export of commodities.
In their quest for the globalization of their business operations, some of
the zaibatsu groups and other corporations began direct investment in South
America from the mid-1920s. Financial and industrial giants, such as No-
mura and Mitsubishi, purchased lands in Northern Paraná and São Paulo
from the state governments, and operated large-scale coffee plantations, de-
ploying Japanese emigrant-farmers. The spinning company, Kanegafuchi
Bōseki (originally founded by the Mitsubishi zaibatsu, which later became
the cosmetics company Kanebō) realized its president’s ambitious vision of
Amazon development further north in Brazil, in the form of Nanbei Takush-
oku Kaisha in August 1928. The state of Pará granted it as much as 1.3 mil-
lion hectares of free land, mostly along the Acara River. With the Tome Açu
colony as its headquarters, the company’s activity focused on agricultural
research directed at developing locally based agribusiness suitable for the
difficult but resource-rich Amazon climate.53 One of their most successful
innovations was pimenta (black pepper), which the company transplanted
from its Singaporean plantation. Japanese private capital also advanced to
Peru. President Inoue of Kaigai Kōgyō identified a business opportunity in the
Peruvian cotton industry. Raising funds from Japanese investors, he founded
Perū Menka Kabushiki Kaisha in 1925, and started the cotton production and
export business with an emigrant labor force.54 The pharmaceutical company,
Hoshi Seiyaku, purchased 300,500 hectares of land in the Wanuco region from
Peruvian landowners.55 While the vast majority of land remained unculti-
vated, the drug maker started a coca plantation on a relatively small scale.
Historically speaking, these financial and industrial giants had already
made investments in the Asian territories controlled by Japan prior to the
South American experiments. In tandem with Japan’s imperialist thrust into
the latter region in the 1920s, they transferred repatriated capital to Latin
America as an extension of their business globalization strategy. As I will
discuss in detail in chapter 7, the agribusiness interests in the region coexisted

well with Japan’s colonial-imperialist ambitions.
Hard Times for the Japanese Economy and the

Golden Age of Latin American Emigration
The Japanese state’s Latin American emigration machinery, which developed
throughout the 1920s as a new instrument of demographic adjustment, dem-
onstrated its full potential in the early 1930s. At the turn of the decade, the
Japanese economy was devastated by both domestic problems (the financial
crisis of 1927) and the worldwide and more devastating Great Depression.
Japan fell into a period of protracted recession (the “Showa Depression”
of 1929–32). Between 1929 and 1931, the GDP growth rate plummeted by
18 percent, exports by 47 percent, private investment in equipment by 30
percent, employment in the private manufacturing sector by 18 percent,
and workers’ real wages by 13 percent.56 The fall of net production in the
primary sector was even more precipitous, showing a 57 percent contrac-
tion. Worldwide commodity oversupply depressed rice and silk prices. The
“too-good” rice harvest in 1930 eroded the commodity’s price further, and
terrible cold-weather damage hit the northeastern region of Japan in 1931
and again in 1934. These multiple factors converged to squeeze the agrarian
sector. The Department of Internal Affairs of Hiroshima Prefecture reported
that commodity price indices plummeted from 1929’s index of 100 points to
74 points for basic commodities and 63 for agrarian products in 1932. 57 The
shrinking urban-industrial labor markets also troubled farming households.
Large-scale layoffs in urban manufacturing plants, silk-thread factories, and
mines threw dekasegi workers and spinners, both of whom had contributed
to the growth of Japanese exports with their low wages, out of work. Com-
paring 1926 and 1931, the rate of return home by these unemployed dekasegi
grew from 33 percent to 43 percent in manufacturing.58 The return of laid-off
manufacturing sector workers swelled the agrarian demography again. The
agricultural sector, struggling with low productivity, was simply unable to
feed its dependents.
Having no place to stay in their home villages, some of the excess popula-
tion was forced back to the cities, living on the streets. Others made their exit
via migration overseas. Some of these poor left for Nan’yo, often meaning
Southeast Asia or the Pacific, where Japanese colonialism was enlarging its
sway, but the absolute majority of them took the Latin American route, of
which they had learned from either prefectural or city social service depart-
ments or village offices. The state emigration machinery opportunely and
efficiently scooped up the forlorn poor into its program and pumped them
out to South America. Japanese outflow to the region during the 1920s and
1930s was impressive: compared to the previous two decades, it tripled from
60,731 to 183,304. At the time of Japan’s unprecedented economic hardship,
migration to Latin America was enjoying its golden age.
The Transformation of the Policy Essence

The structural ills of overpopulation and resource scarcity hurt the Japanese
rural population in the tangible forms of landlessness, poverty, hunger, or
unemployment. From among these factors, which specific challenges did
overpopulation present to the Japanese state, to the extent that it decided to
take full control of the costly overseas migration program? Not a few migra-
tion exponents refer to the macro-political issues of “social uncertainty or
instability” (shakai fuan) and “radicalization toward communism” (sekika)
as threatening potential ramifications of the population problem.59 But they
do not elaborate on the particular nature of such political topics or on the
political dimensions of the migration policy. The causal linkage between
the demographic parameters and political effects was in fact vital for state
policy executives in positioning the overseas migration policy as a national
inevitability. This linkage has rarely been addressed in conventional migration
discourse; it will be critically scrutinized in chapters 5 and 6.
Meanwhile, a new policy concept, “the Japanese people’s overseas advance-
ment” (hōjin no kaigai hatten), was pronounced more and more frequently
in the public discussion of the deployment of Latin American emigration
for demographic equilibrium. This concept, previously mentioned by lib-
eral migration proponents such as Enomoto Takeaki or Ōkuma Shigenobu,
hardly addressed the prosperity and happiness of each individual migrant.
In the context of the increasingly imperialist and authoritarian tendency of
prewar Japanese politics, it was more appropriate to read “Japanese people’s
overseas advancement” in terms of the nation’s pursuit of power and wealth
in international relations, and its people’s mobilization to those higher ends.
In other words, overseas migration was no longer a personal decision to
seek and expand one’s own gains, but had become a collective expression
of national and social obligation to progress. The nationalistic normative
claim was juxtaposed with the rhetoric of population relief, obscuring and
eventually replacing it. Latin American emigration began to imply national
progress and nation-building.
Historically speaking, such a hybrid model that synthesized population,
migration, and state expansion had already been articulated along with Ja-
pan’s imperialist advance toward Asia in the first two decades of the twen-
tieth century. With the Sino-Japanese War as prelude, Japan was rapidly
expanding its colonial territory and sphere of influence in Northeast Asia.
The conqueror-suzerain, while exuberant with its newly acquired territories,
was dissatisfied with their underdevelopment, stagnation, and backwardness.
The colonies’ regressive social conditions would frustrate politically and
economically sustainable colonial rule. The colonial backwardness needed to
be cured through agrarian and industrial development under Japan’s gover-
nance. Thus, Tokyo recruited migrant-colonialists from Japan’s countryside
and sent them to its Asian colonies.
Tōyō Takushoku Kabushiki Kaisha (the Oriental Development Company,
aka Tōtaku) was instrumental in Japan’s colonial management, and exercised
the hybrid model of population control, migration, and colonial development
overseas.60 Tōtaku, a special-purpose company for Japan’s colonial gover-
nance of Korea, arranged colonial migration of many “elite immigrants”—
bureaucrats, public servants, and merchants—across the Tsushima Strait.
The company also engaged in the business of arranging migration for poorer,
non-elite farmers, an effort that ended in utter failure due to Japan’s higher
economic level: “low-level” competition with cheaper and more exploitable
local Korean farmers turned out to be too fierce, unprofitable, and unattract-
ive to lure the Japanese poor to the colony.61 After the eventual withdrawal
of Tōtaku and other colonial companies from the migration-colonization
business in Japan’s Asian territories, the national policy of sending agrarian
migrants to East Asia was shelved until the Manchurian migration policy
emerged in the late 1930s.
The decline of the migration business in Asia did not mean, however, the
abandonment of the national migration enterprise. In the 1920s, the regional
focus of migration policy made a major swing to South America. In this radi-
cal move, the GOJ counted on the portability of Tōtaku’s operations. Kaigai
Kōgyō, Japan’s first policy company for Latin American emigration, men-
tioned above, was fitted with business expertise in immigrant recruitment,
land acquisition, and agrarian colonization inherited from the Tōtaku era. It
supplied the Colonial Ministry with an institutional platform and knowledge
useful for the South American enterprise. Owing much to the Tōtaku legacy,
the hybrid model of population control, overseas migration, and coloniza-
tion managed to preserve itself. And, in different socioeconomic settings and
under new institutional arrangements, the multi-purpose migration initiative
was resuscitated and even reinforced on South American soil.
Overall, it is uncertain if the Latin American emigration policy truly ful-

filled its original goals of population control and resource stabilization inside
Japan. In fact, the issue of policy effectiveness in weathering demographic
and economic crises was hardly addressed by migration advocates, leav-
ing aside the question of how much happiness the long-distance migration
brought to the people who left their homeland. These fundamental ques-
tions, as well as the legitimacy of the migration policy, were either uncriti-
cally affirmed or subsumed by Japan’s larger cause of national progress. The
essential transformation of the Latin American emigration policy—from a
single-issue policy addressing population control to an organic formula for
nation-building—would be repeated in the case of the postwar migration
policy toward the region.
4. Post–World War II
Resurgence of State-Led
With the end of World War II, global demographics were radically changed
through massive cross-border migration. After years abroad, both the per-
petrators and the displaced victims of imperialism began to make their ways
home. These included soldiers returning from the front lines, citizens of
empires who had migrated outward to their colonies, and refugees or the
colonized peoples who had been uprooted from home and forced to live
abroad. Japan experienced an unprecedented scale of demographic reshuf-
fling after the surrender to the Allied Forces in August 1945. With the sud-
den collapse of the Japanese Empire, more than six million (some estimates
range as high as eight million) war veterans and civilian colonial emigrants
to northeast and southeast Asia were forced back home.1
This hurried and sizeable return of population caused enormous distress to
the homeland. By war’s end, after the final raids on the mainland, the Japanese
economy was exhausted and destroyed. With surrender, Japan’s territory was
dramatically diminished—almost halved from 675,400 to 368,470 square
kilometers—as a result of the loss of its colonies in Asia and the Pacific.2
Japan’s domestic industries and urban infrastructure had been devastated by
the final U.S. air offensive. In the subsequent occupation by Allied Forces,
domestic economic activity became distorted and chaotic, ridden by hyper-
inflation and mushrooming black markets. With the homeland population
malnourished and struggling to survive on a day-to-day basis, there was little
leeway in the society to welcome, comfort, or aid the returning compatriots
(hikiagesha), including widows and orphans, who had barely made their way
home after long and perilous overseas journeys.
While Japanese postwar society may have neglected, marginalized, or even
stigmatized the hikiagesha, Japan needed to accommodate its demographic
Resurgence of State-Led Migration 81
crisis as a first step toward national reconstruction and economic normalcy.

This dilemma was keenly felt by both the occupier, the Supreme Commander
of the Allied Powers (SCAP), and the occupied (the government of Japan).
How could Japan address its problem of population pressure on limited
resources and capacity? Overseas emigration might have been an intuitive
answer, particularly given Japan’s experience with that strategy. However,
Japan lost sovereignty upon surrender, including freedom of international
movement for its citizens, including emigration. The restriction on Japanese
emigration for seven years was part of the international punishment of the
former warmonger state and its citizen collaborators. Even policy discus-
sion of Japanese emigration was forbidden by SCAP, which was zealously
eradicating the prewar roots of Japanese colonial imperialism.3
How, then, did an entirely hemmed-in Japan succeed in resuming a once-
taboo emigration policy toward Latin America, where many nations had
been Japan’s wartime opponents? This chapter will first describe the turbulent
postwar social conditions that drove the GOJ to broach the idea of Latin
American migration. Then, it will look into the process of policy formation
and institution-building, wherein the solution of overseas migration was
incubated by its proponents, new institutional arrangements to bolster the
state-guided emigration scheme were made, and various actors, both old
and new, engaged in materialization of the national initiative. As will be seen
throughout this process, an ethos prevailed among emigration exponents
that overseas migration was Japan’s natural course for the sake of smoother
and quicker postwar reconstruction. Lastly, this chapter will examine the
legitimacy and validity of the Japanese state’s policy rationale for advancing
Latin American emigration in the light of Japan’s social reality. While the
migration policy was being mulled over, formulated, and institutionalized
during the occupation period, the social environment was rapidly changing
in the late 1940s and 1950s. Given the lapse between policy preparation and
implementation, did migration truly address the domestic structural neces-
sities of the nation?
Reordering the Postwar Demographic Chaos

The eight-year-long total war mobilized and consumed the entirety of the
nation’s population and resources. In particular, the intensive incendiary
U.S. air raids in the war’s final year, culminating in the dropping of two
nuclear bombs, totally devastated and paralyzed Japan. Cities were left in
ashes, while their people supported themselves by digging out pieces of food
and other necessities. Damage was severe, especially in the urban areas.
Some 40 percent of the highly populated areas in sixty-six major cities had
been demolished by air strikes.4 One of every three urban dwellers had lost
homes and fortunes, and sought shelter in barracks or under bridges. The
food shortage was also acute. The 1945 harvest turned out to be historically
poor, down about 40 percent from the normal level.5 Loss of all the former
colonies in Asia meant the loss not only of imperial power and territory, but
also of grain supplies. Without emergency food relief from the United States,
Japan could hardly feed its hungry citizens.
Japan’s industrial base was also severely reduced. Intensive air raids by the
Allied Forces destroyed as many as half of Japan’s production centers across
the nation. The B-29 raids wrought havoc on sixty-two urban industrial
areas.6 Industrial productivity dropped to a quarter of its prewar level, and
as many as 4.5 million lost their jobs.
The recovery of industrial productivity was imperative but would not be
easy. Japan was also faced with innumerable liabilities for its wartime ac-
tions. Denied access to overseas markets, the Japanese economy was further
squeezed. The entire nation was teetering on the edge of starvation.
Upon capitulation, Japan lost its vast colonial territories, but ironically
gained a huge population increase at home. More than six million hikiage-
sha returnees added roughly eight percent more to the existing 76 million
Japanese population.7 In the first fifteen months, about five million returnees
disembarked from ship after ship, arriving in the ports of Maizuru, Sasebo,
and elsewhere. Beyond its scale alone, the overpopulation was incomparably
graver than the prewar situation, since the country’s socioeconomic condi-
tions were unprecedentedly indigent as well. With the unwelcome arrival
of the returnees, the Japanese people’s struggle for food and income was
intensified. A postwar marriage boom, coupled with the declining death
rate at war’s end, boosted population growth as well. It is said that within
four years after the surrender the Japanese population swelled by nearly 10
million. The number of unemployed was estimated at three million as of
1945.8 Post-surrender Japan was described as “desperate small islands,” in
the words of a SCAP officer.9
Feeling the urgency of adjusting to the demographic changes and keeping
social order, the Japanese government under SCAP supervision looked for
a silver bullet. It attempted first aid by restricting people’s entrance to large
cities. At train stations, those who had evacuated to the countryside during
wartime and now wished to return home could not purchase tickets due to
the travel restrictions.10 But the necessity and desire to return home were too
strong to be held back by the band-aid measures. The government carried
out emergency programs to supply urbanites with blankets, cooking pots,
and prefabricated houses. It also provided a total of 8.6 billion yen in spe-
cial loans to homeless hikiagesha. All other means imaginable—from emer-

gency job creation to birth control campaigns—were attempted on behalf of
population stabilization. But while birth control might help regulate future
population growth at a sustainable level, immediate and substantial results
could not be obtained overnight. Industrialization could definitely stimulate
labor demand and employ excess workforce, but the country did not have
enough domestic capital or access to external markets to immediately induce
any industrial growth that would benefit the country during the occupation
period. A more effective policy instrument with immediate and substantial
results was needed.
A return to overseas migration might have been a natural inclination for
the GOJ, which thought of it as a quick remedy for overpopulation—the
prewar Japan had already experimented with the formula based on such
conviction, sending hundreds of thousands overseas. But Japanese cross-
border mobility was tightly restricted under occupation. Compounding that,
international sentiment and immigration policies toward Japanese migration
were extremely restrictive. Korea, China, the Philippines, other Asian nations,
and Australia, which had suffered from Japan’s colonial cruelty, kept their
immigration gates tightly shut against the Japanese.
The United States, as the main occupying power, strictly regulated Japanese
travel abroad and frowned on renewed emigration.11 The General Headquar-
ters (GHQ) of the U.S. Occupation Army dismissed such a form of population
control as a potential revival of Japan’s expansionism and imperialism. Even
discussion about the matter was subject to censorship. When the MOFA
conducted a study on future emigration by Japanese, the research group’s
head was seriously admonished by SCAP.12 For the occupiers, Japan’s over-
seas emigration was something suspect and impermissible. Instead, SCAP
recommended internal resettlement of the former Manchuria and Karafuto
residents in Hokkaido and the northeast, if Japan wished to tame population
growth.13 Japan could not consider overseas migration as a viable option, as of
1945.14 For instance, when the Shidehara Kijūrō cabinet (October 1945–April
1946) instructed several ministries to devise a policy to cope with the repa-
triates and unemployed, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs—one of the main
architects of the prewar Latin American emigration program—was excluded
from policy deliberations.
Refurbishing the Emigration Machinery

In the early days of the occupation, SCAP demolished or reorganized pre-
war Japan’s imperialist machineries—the government, the military, the bu-
reaucracy, pro-regime political parties and organizations, and the zaibatsu

conglomerates—to fit the new democratic mold. The institutions for overseas
migration were also demolished. Therefore, emigration advocates had to
develop tactics to resume overseas migration privately and on a small scale.
One of the early emigration advocacy groups was Kaigai Ijū Kyōkai (Associa-
tion for Overseas Emigration), founded in October 1947 as a non-partisan
assembly and chaired by Matsuoka Komakichi, a socialist and chairman of
the Lower House of the Diet.15 The association consisted of Japanese politi-
cians and policymakers who were familiar with, or experienced in, the prewar
migration enterprise. They mulled over how to legislate organized emigra-
tion and disseminate the policy idea of emigration as a population stabilizer
among the Japanese public through their journal, Kaigai e no tobira (“A Door
Abroad”). Another key organization was Nippaku Keizai Bunka Kyōkai, or
the Association for Japanese and Brazilian Economic and Cultural Affairs.
Originally founded for the purpose of managing donations to the war-rav-
aged homeland from the Nikkei diaspora living in Brazil, this transnational
cultural institution assumed a new mission: to promote the idea of Japanese
emigration to Brazil within political circles during the occupation period.16
Shidehara Kijūro, a former prime minister, eminent career diplomat, and the
association’s first chairman, even appealed to General MacArthur in person
about how important it was for the nation and its people to regain the right
to migrate abroad.
A diplomatic effort by an individual politician who was experienced in
Japanese migration-colonization in Brazil also helped pave the way for the
resumption of Latin American emigration. Kamitsuka Tsukasa, a Kumamoto-
based politician and a successful businessman in Amazon development,
proposed his Japanese emigration plan to the Brazilian government. The
immediate response of postwar Brazil, like most of the other Allied nations,
was, unsurprisingly, negative. No emigrant from its former enemy nation
was welcome. The Kachigumi-Makegumi purge in the Nikkei community was
another obstacle to resumption of immigration. In fact, the Brazilian federal
legislature was in the midst of heated debate on whether or not to amend the
national constitution in a way to ban Japanese immigration (“the crisis of 99
votes versus 99 votes” in 1946). Given these diplomatic and political road-
blocks, Japan could have in no way persuaded President Getúlio Vargas and
the state governments of Brazil to change their anti-Japanese minds. What
changed the course of events were strenuous lobbying efforts by Kamitsuka
and other prominent Japanese diasporic leaders, such as Matsubara Yasutarō,
a successful immigrant-turned-entrepreneur. Their personal relationships
with the Brazilian immigration officials and agencies, as well as their exper-
tise in brokering collective immigration, became political capital for Japan’s

postwar diplomacy toward Latin America. Japan now counted on deploying
such political and knowledge resources along transnational routes to advance
Japanese interests in Brazil. At the same time, Japan predicted that Brazil
would be the main target of its emigration policy, since no other countries
in Latin America or elsewhere maintained such robust emigration support
institutions as those in Brazil.
No doubt the spinnaker of postwar migration progress within the Japanese
state was the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The Ministry’s Bureau of Europe
and the Americas, Section Two, with its preeminent expertise in overseas
migration within the state bureaucracy—as it was the only surviving agency
experienced in overseas migration following the SCAP purge—initiated and
influenced the evolutionary course of Japanese migration to Latin America.
The other influential prewar migration bureaucracy, the Colonial Ministry,
had been dissolved. As late as 1948, migration advocates within the foreign
affairs office were preparing for the institutionalization of overseas emigra-
tion by first forming Kaigai Jinkō Idō Taisaku Kenkyūkai (Study Group for
the Policy on Overseas Population Movement). This informal study group
produced a report assessing the effectiveness of overseas emigration in solving
domestic demographic and unemployment issues. The report ascertained the
importance and urgency of emigration for overpopulated Japan, but a quintes-
sentially bureaucratic attitude restrained the MOFA policymakers from using
a provocative term like imin (emigration), which had immediate associations
with prewar Japan’s imperial colonialism. Instead, the more awkward phrase,
jinkō idō (population movement), was used to describe Japan’s need to return
to an international migration regime. For the same reasons, Japan preferred
to use the term ijū to imin in its postwar migration policy.
With its emigration proposal in hand, the MOFA officials launched in-
ternal diplomacy, making more frequent visits to cabinet members and
statesmen, to lobby for endorsement of state-organized emigration. They
also asked the ministries of agriculture, labor, and construction for inter-
ministerial coordination in policy implementation. Externally, the MOFA
contacted potential host governments, mostly in Latin America, by way of
Nikkei diaspora associations, sounding out the host nation’s willingness
to accept Japanese immigrants, and preparing for bilateral agreements on
legal and economic requirements. Thanks to the behind-the-scenes spade-
work (or nemawashi, the typical Japanese expression for consensus-building
among Japanese organizations) by the MOFA, both domestically and inter-
nationally, a policy initiative for Latin American emigration steadily gained
consensus within the Japanese government as a plausible policy instrument
for solving the internal demographic problem. With the democratic Japa-
nese constitution promulgated in 1947 and Japan’s independence seemingly
at hand, prospects for the country’s return to international migration ap-
peared equally hopeful and tenable. The initiative was representative of the
national aspiration for becoming a “normal nation,” and was soon given
legislative form.
The May 13, 1949, session of the Lower House of the Diet unanimously
approved a “Resolution Pertaining to the Population Problem” (even sup-
ported by the Japan Communist Party). It included the following passage:
[The government] shall prepare research and study [the feasibility of] overseas
migration in the future, and request assistance and cooperation from those to
whom it may relate. It is unrealistic to solve overpopulation by migration alone.
However, a lifting of the ban on Japanese emigration in the future will not only
be useful for improvement of the well-being of the nation’s people, but also
will contribute greatly to postwar reconstruction in the world. In this way, we
can express the sense of thankfulness to the world for allowing and accepting
migration in the hearts of the people. Therefore, in order to achieve this [emi-
gration scheme], it is important that the people [i.e., immigrants] themselves
sincerely acknowledge the many errors committed by their predecessors, be
truly accepted by the rest of the world, and become model immigrants who
contribute to progress and world prosperity. We believe that this conforms to
our effort to become a highly cultured, peaceful, and democratic people.17
The GOJ was well aware of the limited leverage of this policy device for
demographic control, as it stated in its own resolution: “It is unrealistic to
solve overpopulation by migration alone.” The same solution was already
attempted before World War II, with apparently limited results in alleviating
overpopulation. Nevertheless, the sense of urgency regarding the “population
explosion” overrode such long-term policy prospects or more basic concerns
about the migration’s impact on the well-being of individual immigrants. In
addition, compared to other population control devices, such as birth control
and job creation, the emigration policy seemed more appealing in terms of
swiftly delivering results. The whole process of sending emigrants, including
recruitment, training, and transportation, would take no more than half a
year in the official estimate. Physical dispersal of the excess population abroad
meant an instant decline in the entire domestic population, whatever the
magnitude. Such prompt and visible delivery of a policy result was a major
benefit of overseas migration. “Faster and more” relocation of the excess
population was to become the mantra of the postwar emigration effort. The
“fast-track, high-impact” principle is clearly pronounced in the GOJ’s opinion
on the promotion of overseas migration: “The government shall implement
various measures to enable swift and large-scale transportation of emigrants

in order to promptly respond to the improving international environments
in favor of Japanese migration.”18 The execution of the plan did not wait for
the completion of necessary infrastructure, such as transportation. For the
passage of 690 families to Brazil and Paraguay in 1953, in one of the earliest
contingents, Japan did not have a passenger ship available; it had to hurriedly
renovate two cargo ships to accommodate the immigrants.19
For the best results (in speed and numbers), the migration policy needed
rationalized and efficient support institutions. During the prewar period, the
Colonial Ministry was the core bureaucratic body that broadly and efficiently
mobilized the nation for the imperial emigration policy. Postwar, however,
there was no such leading state institution acting on behalf of migration
to Latin America—one had to be reconstructed. To fully promulgate and
patronize the migration initiative, the MOFA expanded and upgraded its
“Emigration Team,” which had been an arm of the Bureau of Europe and
the Americas, Section Two, for Latin American Affairs, into an independent
“Emigration Section” in 1951. Since that time, the Emigration Section has
specified the national interests and goals in migration, crafted blueprints of
planned mass emigration to designated settlements in Latin America, and
directed its affiliate agencies managing the emigration.
Zaidan Hōjin Nihon Kaigai Kyōryoku Rengō-kai (the Federation of Over-
seas Societies), aka Kaikyōren, was formed in 1954 as an affiliated agency of
the MOFA, for the purpose of managing migration policy and various related
matters. The federation was an extra-governmental organization (gaikaku
dantai), officially entrusted with supervision of the entire emigration opera-
tion, from advertisement and recruitment to selection, training, transporta-
tion, and the settlement of emigrants. Although a quasi-private entity, not
founded by law or ordinance, Kaikyōren assumed immediate responsibility
for and substantial authority over the management of the overall migration
scheme in the postwar period, and was heavily infiltrated by former govern-
ment bureaucrats. Typically, the directors of the organization were retired
officials from the agricultural ministry or the prewar ministries of internal
and colonial affairs.20 The federation, headquartered in Tokyo, established
forty-six regional offices (Chihō Kaigai Kyōkai, or Local Associations for
Overseas Migration), one located in each prefecture.21 Emigrant-recruit-
ment pamphlets, boshū yōkō (Guidelines of Recruitment), were widely dis-
tributed to citizens from Kaikyōren via these local associations to city and
ward (ku) offices. One Kaikyōren pamphlet spelled out in detail the mission
of the agency: to disseminate the national imperative of emigration (imin
shisō) at the grassroots level, provide the opportunity of emigration equally
among citizens, and expand the migration enterprise as a national movement

equivalent to its prewar scale. According to the standard procedure, Tokyo
distributed guidelines specifying the number wanted for each emigration
program and the application deadlines to the prefectural governments; the
prefectural staff in charge of overseas migration interviewed and selected
migration candidates from among the applicants; and the Kaikyōren made
the final choice of participants.
Emigration financing was also an important staple for boosting postwar
Japanese emigration to Latin America and the Caribbean. Those who may
have desired to emigrate abroad usually came from a lower socioeconomic
group and were financially unable to emigrate independently. From the very
beginning of the postwar migration, the GOJ dispensed the Emigration
Promotion Expenses that would underwrite the immigrant’s travel expense
and early settlement cost. In the fiscal year of 1953, 171 million yen was
expropriated for emigration, which amounted to 114,000 yen per migrant
(see table 4.1). The migration-related budget continued to grow in the fol-
lowing years, up to 726 million yen for 1956, which in turn augmented the
number of emigrants to Latin America. In 1955, the financial agency Nihon
Kaigai Ijū Shinkō Kabushiki Kaisha (Japanese Emigration Aid Co., Ltd.,
or JEAC) was founded for the purpose of providing loans to individual
emigrants and companies that supported would-be emigrants. Its purview
was the financial side of the overseas migration effort, with Kaikyōren in
charge of administrative affairs. The JEAC, with an initial capitalization of 3
billion yen, was quite a luxury for the cash-strapped government. Its initial
budget was heavily dependent on U.S. foreign aid. The U.S. government had
generously pledged $15 million in loans for the capital-hungry emigration
program (including 2 billion yen in loans from private U.S. banks). Without
this external assistance, the postwar migration enterprise could not have
come together so readily. Looked at from a different perspective, the GOJ
wished so desperately to execute and expand Latin American emigration as
to borrow from one of the victor nations.
Table 4.1 Japan’s Emigration-Related Budget (Postwar)

Annual budget for Emigration-related
emigration business Percent of the subsidies per person
Year (unit: thousand yen) total national budget (unit: yen)
1953 170,825 0.02 114,000
1954 385,832 0.04 104,000
1955 623,449 0.06 178,000
1956 726,216 0.07 117,900
Source: Compiled by the author based on the chart in Nihon Kaigai Kyōkai Rengōkai,
Kaigai ijū no kōka, 43.
Figure 4.1. The Structure of Emigration-Related Agencies
Figure 4.1. The Structure of Emigration-Related Agencies.
Others
Transportation
Japan Emigration Overseas branch

Aid C., Ltd.
Finance
Cabinet
Emigration Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Japanese Embassy
Council Emigration Bureau
Ministry of International
Trade and Industries Federation of
Overseas Society Overseas branch
(Kaikyoren)
Ministry of Labor
Local
emigration assoc.
Ministry of Agriculture,
Forestry, and Fishery
Source: Nihon Kaigai Kykai Rengkai, Imin dokuhon, 37.
The migration policy gathered momentum under the old leadership of

the MOFA and the new, postwar leadership of the Ministry of Agriculture,
Forestry, and Fisheries (MAFF). While assuming the official policy goals of
alleviating domestic population pressure and realizing people’s desire for
emigration, the initiative was comprised of multiple and mutually exclusive
bureaucratic interests. MOFA wished to consolidate emigration administra-
tion under its own jurisdiction and authority; other agencies started to inde-
pendently involve themselves in the migration business in order to pursue
their turf interests. If the MOFA monopolized the recruitment and relocation
processes via Kaikyōren, likewise the MAFF and the Ministry of Construc-
tion found (or created) their bureaucratic niches in settlement activities in
the underdeveloped regions. The MAFF even resorted to an inter-ministerial
competition with the MOFA by expanding its sphere of influence into the
policy realm. The agricultural bureaucrats pronounced their own rationale
for intervention: Japanese migration to Latin America was, in essence, a
scheme for farmers’ migration to underdeveloped regions, and it would be
better off affiliating itself with the ministry’s expertise in rural farming, as
well as recruiting and training excellent agrarian emigrants. Despite its lack
of experience with the earlier migration to the Americas, MAFF participated
(or “trespassed,” in MOFA’s view) in the migrant recruitment process inside
Japan. Later in 1961, Zenkoku Takushoku Kumiai Rengōkai (the National
Federation of Agricultural Development Associations)—a quasi-corporate
institution similar in its influence to Nōkyō (Nōgyō Kyōdō Kumiai, the Agri-
cultural Cooperative Association)—was founded to independently promote
the emigration program through its many representatives.
Another reason for the engagement of agricultural officials was that the
policy showed promise in solving the land scarcity problem affecting farming
families. Throughout the occupation period, the GOJ consistently discour-
aged population flow from rural regions to major cities like Tokyo, Osaka,
and Nagoya, so as to avoid urban concentration. Local governments in the
countryside were instructed to create employment and alleviate unemploy-
ment locally. Agriculture officials, however, lamented the impossibility of
such an autonomous economic recovery within the agrarian sector at a meet-
ing of the Committee on Agriculture, Forestry, and Fisheries of the Lower
House.22 At the same time, the MAFF began discussing the utility of overseas
migration for creating employment for the second or third sons of farming
villages as well as for repatriates from Mainland China. By moving the super-
fluous agrarian population overseas, the ministry could, it believed, instruct
emigrant-farmers in the operation of modern agricultural enterprises in the
new settlements. This actually occurred in some places, such as São Paulo,
in close collaboration with existing Nikkei agricultural cooperatives, such

as Burataku and COTIA.
The Ministry of Construction—which from its name would seem to have
little to do with overseas migration—joined the enterprise in its own way,
assigning itself the duty of providing “technical assistance to emigrants” in
their Latin American settlements. The ministry established a training system
called Sangyō Kaihatsu Seinen-tai (Youth Brigade for Industrial Develop-
ment) through which Japanese settlers were trained in the use of construction
equipment for land clearing, at newly built training centers in the interior of
the state of São Paulo and elsewhere. In both farming and civil engineering,
Latin American emigration indeed presented ripe opportunities for these
bureaucrats.23 The rich emigration budget encouraged these ministries to tap
into its wealth—via increased ministerial budgets, larger ministerial juris-
diction and operations, and more resulting political power within the larger
state and society.24 Territorial competition by the self-promoting mandarins
only served to reinforce the overall emigration enterprise.
The “Fast Track, High Impact” Mantra in Policy Execution

How many emigrants could be recruited and how quickly they could be
moved to host countries were top-priority issues for the migration advo-
cates. As shown in the two sets of migration plans issued by MOFA in 1953
and 1954 (tables 4.2a and 4.2b), the ministry placed clear emphasis on speed
and quantity in the organized migration, that is, the rapid transportation
of large numbers of migrants. Quantity mattered above all else. While ac-
knowledging the limitations of the emigration policy in solving the overall
demographic problem, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs attempted to increase
the policy’s impact by transplanting an unprecedentedly (and unrealistically)
large number of emigrants. The ministry’s plans proposed numerical targets
of 49,000 emigrants (Plan I) over five years, 426,000 (Plan II) over ten years,
and 101,000 emigrants (Plan III) over 5 years. In Plan I, the target number
for 1953 was moderate and realistic. But from 1954, the numbers increased
drastically, with plans for as many as 11,000 emigrants annually. That had been
the level of emigration at its prewar peak in the early 1930s. Furthermore, the
revised ten-year plan issued in 1954 raised the target numbers to a seemingly
preposterous level of over 40,000 emigrants every year.
In order to open the window for emigration as wide as possible, Japan zeal-
ously solicited many host governments, regardless of their level of economic
development or political situation, as long as they might willingly accept
Japanese migrants. This resulted in the emigrations to Bolivia, Paraguay,
Table 4.2a Migration Project Targets, Plan I (1953)
Brazil Argentina Paraguay Bolivia Mexico Others Total
1953 1,460 NA NA NA NA NA 2,500*
(1,040)
1954 5,600 1,000 400 500 NA NA 9,000*
(1,500)
1955 6,900 1,000 600 500 500 NA 11,500*
(2,000)*
1956 7,700 1,000 800 500 500 500 13,000*
(2,000)
1957 7,700 1,000 800 500 500 500 13,000*
(2,000)
Total 49,000
Note: * Including the estimated number of “free” migrants outside state sponsorship (as
indicated in parentheses).
Table 4.2b Plans 2 and 3

Period of implementation Targeted number of migrants
Plan II (1954) 1955–64 426,000
Plan III (1958) 1959–63 101,000
Source: Suzuki and Wakatsuki, Kaigai ijū seisakushiron, 105–6.
and the Dominican Republic—Latin American economies with some of

the lowest standards of living in the western hemisphere and with relatively
shallow histories of relations with Japan. The migration promoters may not
have intended to deceive the public, but certainly felt the pressure of the
self-assigned numerical targets, especially when earlier emigration plans fell
short. Their sense of urgency may have driven them to create grandiose or,
at times, false recruiting advertisements so as to attract sufficient numbers
of emigrants. Fully aware of the risks of such inflated claims, the Emigra-
tion Administration Guidelines of the Kaikyōren instruct: “[The] method
of advertisement needs to be as stimulating as possible, even at the cost of
accuracy to some extent. . . . [The promoters] should learn from the com-
mercial advertising business for methodology. It is crucial to always bear in
mind that [emigrant recruiters] should employ every means possible, again
and again, as long as it maintains decency” (emphasis added).25
In addition to the ambitious numerical goals, speedy migrant relocation
was another dictum of the MOFA plan. While the duration of the plan was
left open, the opportunities to place migrants might not be available in the
future. The ministry hurried to send as many emigrants as possible while
the climate for Japanese immigration in Latin America remained warm.
The nearly fivefold expansion of the annual target number in the above-
entioned Plan II reflected the ministry’s anxiety. The plan to send about
m
426,000 Japanese within a decade—a far higher rate than at any time in the
past, in which a quarter million were sent in the seventy years before World
War II—was more quixotic than grandiose. And the goals of this quan-
tity- and time-oriented migration plan far exceeded the migration-related
agencies’ capacity in program management and risk control. Inadequate
or incorrect information from Kaikyōren to prospective emigrants about
contract terms, poor selection of settlements, and insufficient infrastructure,
welfare, and support systems all contributed to this bureaucratic shortfall.
Speed was also a concern in the actual transportation of immigrants. Ac-
cording to an investigation by a Diet member, in most cases there were only
ten to thirty days from the date local offices received a Recruitment Outline
to the application deadline specified. Tsuji Masanobu (independent) made
the sensible criticism, “Who on earth can make a once-in-a-lifetime decision
to clear off his or her property and migrate abroad within ten days?” Further-
more, the immigrants, once having decided to emigrate, had only another
month until departure; within one month they had to liquidate their assets
in Japan.26 The Immigration Section of the MOFA well understood that more
preliminary research was needed, yet at the same time it also knew that thor-
ough preliminary research or immigrant support systems were luxuries for the
financially troubled Japan: “Unlike [West] Germany, which conducts careful
research, negotiates with host countries for the best terms of agreement, and
invests a large amount of capital in migration projects, our nation, whose
economy is so poor [note: Germany also had to pay colossal reparations],
cannot afford such a perfect system. . . . It would cost lots of money to fully
secure immigrants’ safety, and Japan cannot afford it. So, in implementing the
migration plans, the GOJ must anticipate some degree of risk and therefore
select and send only those ‘pioneers’ who could endure any hardship.”27
In order to expedite the relocation process and enable as many of the mi-
grant hopefuls to pack up and go as soon as possible, the state supplemented
its financial assistance program. In the ten-year project plan, for example,
MOFA proposed budgets totaling 49.7 billion yen, which included the cost
of transportation, initial capital, subsidies, and the building and maintenance
of ships.28 Moreover, loans were provided to emigrants through JEAC in
order to expedite the whole emigration process, as mentioned above. In ad-
dition, the public fund for overseas migration, Jisakunō iji sōsetsu shikin seido
(Fund of Credit Provision for Establishment and Maintenance of Indepen-
dent Farmers) was created. Its purpose was to give loans to potential buyers
of land being vacated by the emigrants so that the emigrants could quickly
liquidate their assets and receive full payment in cash from the buyers. The
fund made loans of up to 200,000 yen each.29 The Nōgyō takushoku kikin
(Agricultural Development Fund) was another public institution providing
loans in support of the emigration policy. In Hiroshima, the fund guaranteed
an emigrant-borrower’s creditworthiness and provided a long-term loan (up
to ten years) of as much as 300,000 yen, with a favorable annual interest rate
of 5.5 percent.30 These funds assisted emigrants with financial difficulties, and
with the urgent need to liquidate their assets, so they would not give up or
postpone their decision to migrate. In reality, however, the emigrants often-
times had to dispose of their property at an unreasonably discounted price
in exchange for instant cash to complete their preparations for departure,
since they had only one month until embarkation.
These policy loans for needy emigrants were not provided as charity: the
borrowers’ liability of repayment, in either U.S. dollars or Japanese yen, was
attached: the borrowers were obliged to make repayment in these hard cur-
rencies. In the 1950s and 1960s, however, the Latin American economies were
unstable across the board, plagued by volatile foreign exchange markets and
violent inflation. The hard-currency-denominated loan arrangements enabled
the GOJ, the lender, to hedge foreign exchange and inflation risks on the one
hand; but on the other hand, these risks were then transferred to the bor-
rower/emigrant, who then had to struggle not only with natural ordeals but
also with the unstable economies of their host countries. This “debt crisis” was
already raised as an issue in the Japanese legislature in 1955. Nakamura Tokio
(Japan Socialist Party) indicated that the U.S. dollar-denominated interest
payments of immigrants in Brazil to the Japanese government was snow-
balling from 28 cruzeiros in 1952 to 90 cruzeiros (per person) in two years in
local currency terms. Responding to Nakamura’s proposal for an adjustment
of the debt or the method of interest payment, a MOFA councilor admitted
that the immigrants were having trouble in debt repayment but dismissed
the proposal on the grounds that “[the immigrants’ financial] trouble stems
from their inexperience in the new environment.”31 Similar debt crises also
affected immigrants in the Dominican Republic, Paraguay, and Bolivia.32
As mentioned in chapter 2, another peculiarity of the state-emigrant
contract was the strict conditions it imposed on the migrants. The postwar
state-sponsored migration was based on the rule of family migration and
permanency in settlement. The official application for migration as well as
the formal loan contracts for emigrants prepared by the JEAC specified the
borrowers’ obligation and responsibility to “permanently settle down in a
designated location.”33 That the sender state required permanency in emigra-
tion is historically rare, unless for extradition or political exile. The reasons
why the GOJ stressed the condition of “permanent emigration based on the
family unit” will be discussed in later chapters. But this idiosyncrasy intui-
tively suggests that the migration was not a simple palliative to alleviate the
post-surrender demographic imbalance in the short run, but instead assumed
a much longer-term and deeper mission to serve Japan’s interests.
A Lapse between Policy Preparation and Implementation

The postwar Japanese economy made an astonishing comeback in less than
a decade after surrender. This relatively quick recovery coincided with—and
owed much to—new developments in East Asia at the turn of 1950. The com-
munist’s self-declared victory in China on October 1, 1949, and the outbreak
of the Korean War on June 25, 1950, intensified the East-West conflict in East
Asia. In the context of the U.S. security strategy to defend East and Southeast
Asia from communism, Japan’s role was changed from that of a penitent war
criminal to an anti-communist fortress. SCAP prioritized economic recon-
struction and capitalist development as part of its vital geopolitical interests
in Japan. Now Japan was forgiven, thanks to the Cold War, and focused on
industrialization.
The outbreak of the Korean War was indeed an inadvertent bonanza for
a recovering Japan. With these new international events came more war-
related orders for Japanese industries (for the use of U.S. and UN forces),
more export revenues that increased domestic capital, more credit liquidity
available to producers, an expansion of production, and more jobs for work-
ers. Japan’s export revenue grew to the level of $600–800 million annually
during the war. In 1951 alone, exports grew by 65 percent, compared to the
previous year. Industry and mining increased their production by 38 percent
in the same year. With this special procurement boom as a threshold, Japan
entered into a stage of sustained development by the early 1950s.
The literature critic Nakano Yoshio observed the rapid economic recovery
and changing social landscape of Japan in his 1956 essay entitled “Nihon wa
mohaya sengo dewa nai” (Japan is no longer in its postwar defeated situation).34
The once-devastated nation was now seeing a bright dawn on its horizon.
The year 1955 was a turning point in Japan’s trajectory of development. The
economy started to score double-digit growth and attain monetary stability.
Exports of textiles, automobiles, steel, radio transistors, and other products,
supported by a cheaper yen, allowed the nation to earn and accumulate hard
currencies. Two consecutive strong economic booms (Jinmu Keiki in the late
1950s and Iwato Keiki at the turn of 1960—the growth itself as mythical as the
mythological ancestral Japanese names suggest) proved the self-expansionary
dynamics of the high-growth model: more capital investment helped the pri-
vate industrial sector, which in turn stimulated the labor market; the expansive
labor market was then translated into more private income.
The labor market landscape changed from one of labor redundancy to one
with an absolute shortage. The jobless rate peaked at 2.5 percent (1.05 million)
in 1955 and then continued to decline from 1.7 percent in 1960 down to one
percent throughout the rest of the decade.35 A utopian capitalist society was
taking shape in Japan, with a legendarily low jobless rate. Japanese workers,
many of whom were the former lumpenproletariat loitering in the black
markets, were now the nation’s precious workforce, relatively well-educated,
highly disciplined, and efficient. Middle school graduates were the “golden
eggs” of small-sized companies, while blue-chip companies preferred college
graduates from top-tier universities like Tōdai (University of Tokyo).
Income disparities between large and medium/small companies were
gradually corrected, and income distribution among workers became more
egalitarian. The cohort of the self-categorized middle class accordingly grew
in number. With more income flowing into the home economy, the mate-
rial desires of this mass market were stimulated. Japanese households began
craving larger and more sophisticated goods for modern living. Electrical
appliances were in great demand as contemporary sanshu no jingi (sacred
treasures).36 Television sets (even though black and white), refrigerators,
and washing machines became new symbols of household affluence. In late-
night street bars, sararî-man (male white-collar workers) on the way home
sipped not kasutori (poor-quality, rice- or-potato-based moonshine), but
domestically produced Suntory whisky. The Japanese masses were no longer
running after whatever edibles they could find on burnt-out fields; they were
becoming voracious consumers, as well as a productive labor force to sustain
and stimulate the expansion of the domestic economy.
In the countryside—once the evergreen heartland of overseas migration—
poverty was becoming a thing of the past. SCAP’s agrarian reform in 1946
liberated agrarian land formerly owned by large landlords and enabled land-
less farmers to purchase it with government subsidies.37 The land reform
marginalized the tenancy system in the agricultural sector from about 50
percent of total agrarian land to 13 percent within two years. The disappear-
ance of large landownership led to the minimization of agrarian poverty. The
rural-urban wealth gap greatly narrowed.
The chronic problem of population excess in farming households under the
old primogeniture system also found solution in the expanding urban-based
labor market. Companies’ big appetite for workers of all sorts absorbed the
ranks of second or third sons. Cohorts of graduates from middle schools in
the countryside were recruited to migrate and work in urban factories under
the shūdan shūshoku (collective placement) program, which started around
the mid-1950s. Long-distance trains arriving at Ueno Station, the one-time
hub between Tokyo and rural (mainly northeastern) areas, discharged 30,000
to 70,000 “golden eggs” from the provinces every year. Together with adult
dekasegi workers, these youngsters became an important workforce in tex-
tile, electric, and other relatively labor-intensive manufacturing. With the
economic gap between urban and rural sectors gradually narrowing, the
prewar stigma of a poverty-ravaged rural population was dissipated.
The horrendous sengo (postwar) image of a chaotic, starving, and des-
perate Japan was out of sight and mind by the second half of the 1950s,
when the state-guided migration program came into full swing. Accelerated
industrialization led to a structural change from labor redundancy to scar-
city. The demographic conditions also stabilized. Younger couples, wishing
an American-like modern, urban, and affluent life style, formed families
of a smaller size. Tellingly, the annual population growth showed rather
restrained increase: from 83.2 million in 1950 (when the postwar official
statistics started) to 89.3 million in 1955, and 93.4 million in 1960. The average
annual population growth rate during the decade was 1.16 percent, with a
sharp decline after 1955. Comparatively speaking, the demographic concern
was sharper in urban centerslike Tokyo, Kanagawa, Aichi, and Osakathan
rural areas, given the massive influx of un- or underemployed people.38 For
instance, the population of Tokyo grew from 6.28 million in 1950 to 9.68 mil-
lion in 1960; during the same period, the population of Fukuoka grew from
3.53 million to 4 million; that in Fukushima, from 2.01 million to 2.05 mil-
lion.39 In short, the quickly improving domestic economic and demographic
reality was outpacing the progress of the overseas emigration policy.
A former chairman of the Brazilian-Hiroshiman Cultural Association
lamented that Japan’s domestic labor shortage in combination with industrial
growth made emigration projects less and less attractive to would-be appli-
cants by the early 1960s.40 Frustrated with the stagnation of the grandiose
project, Latin American emigration promoters had to reconsider their strat-
egy to stimulate the program. In response to cabinet inquiry about the poor
policy performance, the Council of Overseas Emigration replied that more
intensive advertising, dissemination of information about emigration, and
more state subsidies would revitalize overseas migration.41 But in truth, the
officiated rationale that “Japan needs emigration to tame overpopulation” was
lagging far behind the fast-changing structural reality. Whereas large-scale
outmigration was prohibited when Japan needed it most badly (i.e., during
the occupation period), the structural necessity for migration dissipated by
the time of the policy’s implementation.
Certainly, overpopulation was Japan’s chronic bedevilment until the 1990s,
when a low birthrate led to population shrinkage. As of the late 1950s or the
early 1960s, however, was the problem so imminent and grave that no other
domestic policy—be it social, economic, or industrial—could cope with it?
Or did the policy continue for other reasons? If the latter, what was the gov-
ernment’s true or newly determined intent in continuing the policy?
As long as the Latin American emigration policy continued, no major
question or criticism was raised about the government’s claim of the abso-
lute necessity of Japanese migration for demographic control, either in the
legislature or among the general public. In 1954, Hitotsumatsu Masaji of the
ruling Liberal Party defended the policy, stating that all of Japan’s social ills—
“whether inflation, corporate bankruptcy, unemployment, or uncomfortable
life style”—stemmed from overpopulation and that overseas migration was
a necessary, if not complete, solution for overcoming the domestic pain.
“Even if the effect [of emigration] is as minimal as to pull out one piece of
hair from nine cows, Japan must send out as many people, or even children,
as possible,” according to him.42 Hitotsumatsu’s rhetoric is rather sweeping
and farfetched, but the common reference to overpopulation and emigra-
tion in the same breath was also made by many other Japanese policymak-
ers of the time. Skepticism or criticism of the government’s resolute stand
on population and emigration was a distinctly minority position. Sunama
Ichirō (Japan Communist Party) interpellated the Shidehara cabinet about
the way postwar migration policy should be conducted, in the plenary ses-
sion of the Lower House on May 12, 1949—the eve of the passage of the bill,
“Resolution Pertaining to the Population Problem.” Sunama warned: “The
population issue that is setting the government and the public agog is in es-
sence a social problem that entails the destruction of life, unemployment, or
poverty. Prewar Japan talked much of overpopulation when its economy was
hit by recession. . . . The prewar military clique and zaibatsu appropriated
population and immigration for their imperialist aggressionist use while the
government failed to provide sufficient institutions to fundamentally solve
the social problems.”43
Sunama’s points—that multiple social problems were minimized into the
rhetoric of overpopulation by the prewar policymakers and that the Mal-
thusian claim camouflaged Japan’s imperialist agenda—underscores my con-
jecture about the transformation of the essence of post–World War II Latin
American emigration. The outdated policy, despite the quickly changing
social reality, managed to survive because it served other policy aims. What
sort of new roles, then, did the policy assume in addition to, or instead of,
its original one? What specific problems did the policymakers identify and
attempt to solve via emigration? These questions, pertaining to the politics
of emigration policy, will come to the center of the ensuing analysis.
Part III
State Expansion through
Human Exclusion
5. Social Origins of Japanese
Emigration Policy
The surge in Japanese migration to Latin America beginning in the 1920s

and its reemergence in the post–World War II period were consequences of
the purposeful and powerful forces applied by Japanese officialdom, which
claimed that the national emigration policy was instrumental in address-
ing the demographic crisis and poverty that plagued the country. In the
context of Japan’s changing social reality over the period, the policy raises
the following questions: What exactly did migration proponents mean by
“overpopulation” and in what context? What sort of people were deemed
“superfluous”? Where did the emigrants originate? These intuitive ques-
tions lead us to shift our level of focus from the national to subnational, and
make us recognize an incontrovertible fact: a significant number of Japanese
migrants to Latin America came from a very specific locality, namely, the
southwestern part of Japan. If the Latin American emigration policy was a
national strategy (kokusaku) and applied equally to all across the nation, why
did this conspicuous geographical concentration develop at all? Was there
a stronger demographic necessity to reduce population through emigra-
tion in the southwestern region than in other regions? If not, in what other
contexts—social, economic, or political—did the migration policy make
sense for the region? These relationships between the origins of the Japanese
emigrants and emigration policy will be the focus of this chapter.
Geographic Concentration in the Origin of Emigrants

Many Italians who migrated to the United States in the 1920s came from
Sicily and southern Italy. Swedes who settled in Minnesota originated in the
102 state expansion through human exclusion
lower south and coastal areas of Sweden. Spaniards in Cuba are predomi-
nantly Galicians. Overseas Chinese historically came from today’s Fujian and
Guangdong provinces. Likewise, the cradle of Japanese emigration to Latin
America was predominantly the southwest, more specifically, the eight pre-
fectures (ken, equivalent to a province) of Hiroshima, Yamaguchi, Fukuoka,
Saga, Nagasaki, Kagoshima, Kumamoto, and Okinawa.
Figures 5.1, 5.2, and 5.3 illustrate the geographic distribution of the origins
of Japanese emigrants during the pre– and post–World War II period. Clearly,
the southwest has been the champion of Japanese emigration overseas. In
particular, the prefectures of Hiroshima, Kumamoto, Fukuoka, and Okinawa
can be identified as the “Big Four” among ongoing contributors. This pat-
tern of geographic clustering is also observable in Latin American–bound
emigration. In the prewar period, about 120,000 southwesterners moved to
Argentina, Bolivia, and Peru (if other destinations like Mexico and Paraguay
are included, the number would be even higher). That means the southwest
provided 50 percent of all Japanese emigrants to the region, or, more specifi-
cally, 49.6 percent of Brazil-bound emigration, 58.2 percent to Bolivia, 68.4
percent to Peru, and 69.4 percent for Argentina (see table 5.1). The pattern
of geographical concentration was clearly diluted in the postwar era, with
39.4 percent originating from the southwest (excluding Okinawa under U.S.
occupation). But the region was still the major exporter of the migrants to
Bolivia, Brazil, and the Dominican Republic.
The southwest, the national incubator for Latin American emigration, is
not a mainstream locality in Japan. Overshadowed by the Tokyo metropolitan
area and by Osaka, the second largest metropolis, it is on Japan’s periphery
by various standards. According to national statistics, the land area of the
seventeen southwestern prefectures amounts to 92,777 square kilometers,
or 24.6 percent of the entire national area of 377,887 square kilometers.1 The
regional population is not small but is not particularly large either: its propor-
tion of the nation’s total population was 30 percent in 1920 and 28.9 percent
in 1950.2 Although the region embraces Fukuoka and Hiroshima, two of
Japan’s major industrial and urbanized cities, the southwest’s landscape is
generally rural, agrarian, and less industrialized.
Interestingly, this pattern of geographic concentration continued beyond
the disruption of World War II. The postwar pandemonium—following total
destruction by U.S. air raids, the unconditional surrender, and the sudden
and massive repatriation of war veterans and civilians—caused a major dis-
continuity in the old demographic and socioeconomic order. The repatriates
and those who returned home from their evacuation sites in the countryside
literally could not find their houses in the fields of ashes to which many cities
Figure 5.1. Map of Japan’s Regions and Prefectures
Figure 5.2. Prewar Distribution of Overseas Emigration by Origin, 1899–1941
Figure 5.3. Postwar Distribution of Latin American-Bound Emigration by
Origin, 1952–77
Table 5.1 Regional Distribution of Japanese Emigrants: Pre–World War II
Top 5 prefectures to produce
Percentage of emigrants and the percentage
southwestern of southwestern emigrants
emigrants (Southwest italicized)
Latin America: 50.0
Argentina 69.4 Okinawa (53.3)
Kagoshima (33.9)
Hiroshima (3.5)
Kumamoto (3.4)
Fukushima (2.5)
Bolivia 58.2 Okinawa (18.5)
Gifu (12.9)
Hiroshima (10.8)
Kagoshima (8.4)
Yamaguchi (7.6)
Brazil 49.6 Kumamoto (10.5)
Fukuoka (8.4)
Okinawa (7.6)
Hokkaido (6.9)
Hiroshima (6.7)
Peru 68.4 Okinawa (17.4)
Kumamoto (12.6)
Hiroshima (10.5)
Yamaguchi (5.9)
Fukuoka (5.1)
U.S. 74.9 Hiroshima (29.0)
Yamaguchi (14.0)
Kumamoto (12.5)
Okinawa (7.1)
Fukuoka (6.5)
Hawaii 87.6 Hiroshima (24.3)
Yamaguchi (20.6)
Kumamoto (15.7)
Okinawa (13.1)
Fukuoka (4.0)
Manchuria 10.5 Nagano (11.8)
Yamagata (5.3)
Kumamoto (3.9)
Fukushima (3.9)
Niigata (3.9)
Source: Compiled by the author based on data from the following: Saga-ken, Saga-ken kaigai ijūshi,
114, 280, 290 (for Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil); Fukumoto, Hacia un Nuevo Sol, 142 (for Peru); Wakat-
suki, Sengo hikiage no kiroku, 23, 25 (for the U.S. and Manchuria); Kimura, Issei, 22 (for Hawaii).
Note 1: The statistical periods represented are: Brazil (1899–1941), Peru (1899–1923), Bolivia (as
of 1940), Argentina (as of 1940), U.S. (as of 1925), and Hawaii (as of 1924). The statistical period for
Manchuria is unspecified.
Note 2: The “southwest” includes: Tottori, Shimane, Okayama, Hiroshima, Yamaguchi, Fukuoka,
Saga, Nagasaki, Kumamoto, Ōita, Miyazaki, Kagoshima, and Okinawa.
Social Origins of Emigration Policy 107
Table 5.2 Regional Distribution of Japanese Emigrants by Destination (Postwar: 1952
and 1965)
Top 5 prefectures to produce
Percentage of emigrants and the percentage
southwestern of southwestern emigrants
emigrants (Southwest italicized)
Latin America: 39.4
Bolivia 70.1 Nagasaki (46.4)
Fukuoka (8.3)
Kumamoto (5.1)
Hokkaido (5.1)
Kōchi (5.0)
Brazil 43.8 Kumamoto (8.7)
Fukuoka (8.2)
Hokkaido (7.1)
Nagasaki (6.7)
Tokyo (6.0)
Dominican 54.2 Kagoshima (22.6)
Republic Kōchi (12.2)
Kumamoto (10.8)
Fukushima (6.8)
Fukuoka (6.5)
Paraguay 30.9 Kōchi (16.7)
Hokkaido (11.1)
Ehime (7.9)
Fukuoka (7.7)
Hiroshima (7.2)
had been reduced. Nevertheless, the southwestern region reemerged as the

major supplier of candidates for postwar overseas emigration. Okinawa also
sent as many as 11 percent of the total emigrants to Latin America during the
U.S. occupation period. This geographic clustering of emigrant origins is a
distinct and persistent feature of Japanese emigration to Latin America.
Was Emigration Inevitable for the Southwest?

Regarding the connection between Latin American emigration and the
southwest of Japan, some assert that the pattern of southwestern preemi-
nence was already long established in the earlier migrations to Hawaii and
North America.3 Before Japanese emigration to Latin America took place,
this view holds, the southwesterners were familiar with and accustomed to
overseas migration through their own experience with the trans-Pacific mi-
grations or through that of their acquaintances. The people were ambitious
and adventurous, ready to bet their lives on a chance for more and better.
Whether to North or South America, the people from these “traditionally

emigrant-supplying prefectures” migrated anywhere, as if the voyage abroad
were a personal or communal destiny. According to this view, migration to
Latin America was an outgrowth of this established pattern.
The data provided in the charts above seem to agree with the traditional-
ist claim that the modality of the migration was preconditioned by prior
Hawaiian or U.S. experiences. As shown in table 5.1, U.S. and Hawaii-bound
emigration in the prewar period exhibits geographical concentration in the
southwest. In these cases, the rate of regional concentration is very high: 87.6
percent for Hawaii and 74.9 percent for the United States.
However, a fundamental difference lies between Latin American- and
U.S.-bound migration in terms of the parties that institutionalized overseas
migration in the southwest. While U.S. emigration flourished under a liberal
migration regime in which private agents played crucial roles in consolidat-
ing the trans-Pacific path, most routes in the Latin American cases, except
for early immigration to Peru and Brazil until the 1910s, were prepared and
promoted by the sender government and its agencies. For the most part, the
all-encompassing institutions and funding for Latin American emigration
were state-owned capital with the mission of constant promotion of migration
and exploring new destinations. The tradition of Latin American emigration
was “invented” and reinforced by Japanese state planners.4
Another peculiarity of the Latin American emigration is the deviation of
the path under state-directed migration. Unlike the preceding migrations
and contrary to the path-dependency theory, the migrants under the state
program were herded to new, unfamiliar, and disadvantaged settlements in
the Amazonian jungle or the Bolivian hinterlands, where no relatives, compa-
triots, or ethnic comfort zones were awaiting them. Postwar emigrants were
directed to far more bizarre, isolated destinations in the border areas of the
Dominican Republic and Paraguay. These migrations occurred in isolation
from existing co-ethnic settlements or communal networks. The emigrants
were indeed accidental pioneers: they had to build their own socioeconomic
infrastructure and comfort zones from scratch. In a situation where the extant
co-ethnic diaspora community could have warned the latecomers and their
home government about the difficulty and risk of their hinterland settlements,
Tokyo ignored any such warnings that got in the way of its own agenda.5 In
other words, latecomer immigrants failed to benefit from the expertise and
prudence of their predecessors. The state’s arbitrary decision increased the
costs of settlement and reduced the chances of success. Extant social capital
may have supplemented the state migration-colonization enterprise, but its
influence was limited and subject to the larger will of the home state.
In the conventional structuralist argument, overpopulation and an unsus-

tainable rural economy seem to justify the Japanese state’s emigration policy
toward Latin America.6 It is true that agrarian and demographic ills were
pandemic in rural Japan. But all regions were not affected equally. Though it
is difficult to say definitively which region was poorer than the other, there
was a gradation of poverty among the peripheries: some rural areas were
poorer than others. Still, the comparative poverty does not quite match the
scale of outmigration. More specifically, the northeast—consisting of the six
prefectures of Aomori, Iwate, Miyagi, Fukushima, Akita, and Yamagata—may
have been worse off than the southwest in terms of the key poverty indicators
for migration. But the northeastern region, known as the crucible of agrarian
poverty, never matched the southwest in sending emigrants overseas, includ-
ing Latin America, though some of them did contribute to the “colonial”
migration to Manchuria.7
To compare the southwest and the northeast in terms of climate, the former
is more blessed with a temperate and moderate climate varying between a
semitropical climate in Okinawa to a moderate, Mediterranean-like one in
San’yō (Okayama and Hiroshima). The relatively mild climate has helped
the region’s agricultural development from ancient times, and fostered pre-
historic civilizations that evolved around rice-crop culture. In contrast, the
northeastern region is located in the far north, where the low productivity
of land combined with a harsh climate made rice production precarious in
prewar times when agro-technology was still underdeveloped. Long winters
made it difficult for local farmers to cultivate secondary crops aside from rice,
which could otherwise have stabilized their economy. The harsher weather
also exhausted the northeast with incessant frosts, crop failures, and famine.
A typical supplementary product for the struggling farmers, silkworms, was
no less stable in commercial markets. The so-called Shōwa Depression in
1930 and the severe frost in 1934 were major blows to the market price of silk
cocoons, which Louise Young argues was a direct cause of the mass emigra-
tion to Manchuria (but not to Latin America).8 Malnutrition, epidemics,
household indebtedness and bankruptcy, and human trafficking—child labor
and prostitution—plagued the region.
In terms of population density—the official rationale for Japanese migra-
tion—the southwestern region surely felt more demographic pressure than
the northeast or the nation as a whole before and after World War II. The
eleven southwestern prefectures combined—Okayama, Hiroshima, Yama-
guchi, Fukuoka, Kumamoto, Nagasaki, Saga, Ōita, Miyazaki, Kagoshima,
and Okinawa—cover about the same territorial area as the northeast, yet
more people lived in the former region, and population pressure was his-
torically much greater than in its northeastern counterpart, with 203 people
per square kilometer as opposed to 98 in the northeast in 1930. The south-
western number was also larger than the national average of 169 people per
square kilometer. (The population density in large cities was, of course, far
more daunting.) Population density continued to haunt the southwest in
the postwar period. After the end of World War II, the “peace factors” (few
war-related deaths and greater longevity due to economic prosperity) helped
to expand the local population. Regional population density increased from
203 per square kilometer in 1930 to 273 in 1950. It continued to outpace the
northeastern and the national averages.
But this simple measurement of population pressure, as a proxy for Japa-
nese emigration, does not describe the relative (un)sustainability of demo-
graphic or economic conditions in a regional comparison. In fact, the mode
of land ownership may better measure the tension between land and poverty
than population density. Land ownership in the rural areas of pre–World War
II Japan was characterized by a small number of large landowners and a vast
majority of small and/or landless tenant farmers.9 This distorted land tenure
structure was particularly distinct in the northeastern region. As table 5.3
shows, the proportion of tenants and small farmers to the total population of
farmers was 72.6 percent in the northeast (regional average). In the southwest,
it was 63.8 percent. That is, the number of poor farmers lacking enough land
for subsistence or profit was much larger in the northeastern region than in
the southwestern. Meanwhile, among the independent farmers, there were
clearly more large landowners possessing 5 chō (about 12 acres) or more in
the northeast than in the southwest. Such latifundia included 1,279 families
in Aomori Prefecture, the largest in the region, outside of spacious Hokkaido
with 54,662 families, 1.6 percent of the total 177,000 farming families. In
contrast, Kagoshima Prefecture—embracing the largest number of latifundia
in the southwest region—held 1,069 such rich families, but in relative terms,
this accounted for only 0.5 percent of the total of 212,000 farming families.
The national average was 1.26 percent. These figures also show the distorted
structure of land tenure in the northeast, compared to the southwest or the
national average.10
Household debt also reflects agrarian plight and this gauge illustrates more
clearly the relative poverty of the northeastern farming families, compared
to their southwestern counterparts. According to 1935 statistics, the average
northeastern family held debt of 504 yen, compared to the southwesterner’s
382 yen.11 This surpassed other regions, too, while at a prefectural level, house-
holds in Nagano (in the central region) held the largest debt, of 668 yen
per family.12 The rural population attempted to mend the worsening home
Table 5.3 Concentration of Landownership—the Southwest and the Northeast (Year: 1928)
Number Percentage of Percentage of Number of large
of farming “independent” quasi-independent landowners (owners
households (,000) farmers and tenants farmers of more than 5 chō)
National 5,576 31.3 68.7 70,429
Hokkaido 177 35.0 65.0 54,622
Northeast: 28.4 (average) 72.6
Aomori 82 29.0 71.0 1,279
Iwate 104 39.4 60.6 821
Miyagi 98 22.4 77.6 1,200
Akita 90 18.9 81.1 584
amaguchi 96 24.0 76.0 918
Fukushima 134 36.6 63.4 1,140
Southwest (selected): 36.2 (average) 63.8
Okayama 162 28.4 71.6 26
Hiroshima 196 35.2 64.8 12
Yamaguchi 125 37.6 62.4 17
Fukuoka 149 28.1 71.9 49
Saga 67 29.9 70.1 37
Kumamoto 144 27.8 72.2 649
Kagoshima 212 35.8 64.2 1,069
Okinawa 87 66.6 33.4 539
Source: Naikaku Tōkei-kyoku, ed., Dai yonjūkyūkai nippon teikoku tōkei nenkan, 71.
economy by more borrowing. It is said that, amidst the post-Depression crisis

of the 1930s, small farmers in the northeast borrowed larger amounts more
frequently, to the extent that there was no money to lend in the vicinity.
To say the least, these indicators of rural distress in a simple comparison of
two peripheral societies suggest that the southwest was not the only troubled
area in Japan, and that, though real enough, its structural conditions were
not decisive in the advance of state-managed migration to Latin America.
The northeast arguably had more preconditions for emigration, but they did
not drive the northeasterners abroad. Why didn’t Latin American emigration
promoters recruit more actively among the impoverished northeasterners,
if they cared about their compatriots’ plight? In their stead, the national
emigration policy to Manchuria did reach out to the northeast, as well as
Nagano, later in the mid-1930s. (In contrast, the southwest played a minor
role in the Manchurian migration, with the region’s share of migrants only 11
percent.)13 That said, the connection between the southwest and emigration
policy still remains puzzling.
In the following, I look into the realms of class and politics in the southwest-
ern region in order to find a closer and more conclusive linkage between
the region and the emigration policy. In this subnational political arena,
where various collective interests and goals interacted, what social classes
were formed by material relations uniquely developed in the locality? Which
classes were empowered or marginalized in the process of Japan’s economic
modernization? How did the victims of modernization react to or try to
change the conditions of their exploitation or suppression? And how did the
powerful—the central and local governments and the economic establish-
ment—perceive the mounting antagonism from below? The unique political
landscape that evolved in the southwest at certain historical moments—in
the 1920s prewar period and in the 1950s—is a backdrop, albeit a crucial
one, to the state’s employment of the Latin American migration policy. The
social classes that will be described in the next two sections—one for the
prewar period and the other for the postwar—are, of course, only a part of
the intricate social fabric of the region. But they are the groups that affected
the Japanese state’s perception of crisis most gravely during those periods
and have much to do with the emigration policy toward Latin America.
Class and Political Landscape of the Southwest before

Emigration: The Pre–World War II Period
With the demise of the Meiji Emperor in June 1912 and the arrival of a new
era (the Taishō period: 1912–26), a democratic ethos of constitutionalism and
political participation bloomed as the nation’s new political zeitgeist (known
as the Taishō Democracy). As symbolized by the 1918 accession to power of
Hara Takashi, the first commoner prime minister of Japan, the monopoly on
power held since the Meiji Restoration by clan-based oligarchies waned, and
people’s political participation and empowerment in the forms of a universal
franchise (though generally limited to males) and freedom of speech and
assembly (including unions) seemed sure to happen. While the pace of politi-
cal liberalization pushed by the rights movement was gradual and its future
trajectory was limited given the emperor’s divine sovereignty and the de facto
unchecked power and prerogative of the military, the people’s aspirations for
their political freedom and influence was genuine and widespread.
While the rights crusaders marched most loudly in the capital and other
urban cities, the peripheral regions also took part in the new social movement.
In the southwest, the peasants, labor, and the socially marginalized “Bura-
kumin” emerged as new protagonists of local politics from the very bottom
of the social hierarchy. Their growth, radicalization, and confrontation with
authority raised the region’s political temperature to record high levels.
Peasantry
In the post–Meiji Restoration Japanese polity, the southwest—especially
Yamaguchi, Kumamoto, and Kagoshima prefectures—produced numerous
political and bureaucratic heavyweights who became loyal servants to the
young Meiji Emperor.14 But the region itself remained rural and less devel-
oped, and its people poor and powerless. Shimura Kazushige, historian of the
peasants revolt in Fukuoka in 1872, describes the plight of poor peasants in
the region: “The major concern of Hiko jīsan [the old Hiko] was whether his
daughter [who was indentured as collateral for his debt to a moneylender]
could return home safely. If no natural disaster hits his rice crop and Hiko
harvests enough rice, he can retrieve his daughter in three years. But if his
crop is damaged by a disaster, which is almost a regular occurrence, he would
be in trouble with his debt payments, and have to ‘sell’ his daughter again.
For him, this pessimistic scenario was most likely. Like Hiko, the majority of
peasants cannot get out of the quagmire of indebtedness, once they borrow
money—unless a miracle happens. That’s the fate of peasants.”15
The peasants’ lives had already been miserable in the pre-modern era, but
Meiji’s modernization further worsened their poverty with new forms of
exploitation. The commercialization of land facilitated the already-wealthy
landed class to buy more land, uprooting many small-scale farmers from
their ancestral homes and making them landless. These latter worked on
others’ land as tenants, typically paying the rent of 50 to 68 percent of the
proceeds from their crops, sometimes paying as high as 85 percent in Fu-
kuoka and elsewhere.16 After having paid the rent, usually in kind, and other
farming-related expenses in cash, tenants often barely broke even. The new
central government showed little sympathy for the peasants’ plight, but in-
stead further deepened it. The Meiji government introduced a new land tax
(which landlords passed along to their tenants), rice quality control (which
often reduced the farmers’ proceeds by disqualifying the low quality crops),
and conscription (which the wealthy always found ways to avoid)—all in
essence anti-agrarian. In this hostile environment, the poor’s discontent
sharpened and they started to take direct actions to resist and not fall prey
to the modern system.
From the very early days of the Meiji Restoration, collective protests by
tenants and small farmers abounded in the southwest. As many as three
hundred thousand impoverished farmers rose up against the landlords, the
wealthy, and the local government in Fukuoka in 1872 (the Chikuzen Takeyari
Riot). Mass protest against conscription in Okayama in 1873 was another such
grassroots shake-up. But these would look rather primitive and controllable
compared to what would come in the early twentieth century.
A major threshold of peasant radicalization was crossed with the Rice
Riots in 1918. The riots were triggered by the wives of fishermen in Toyama
Prefecture in central Japan, when rice prices soared under post–World War I
inflation. Finding market speculation in rice prices, the housewives protested
against the rice traders. The local protest soon spread nationwide, like wildfire
in a dry forest. Eventually, more than seven hundred thousand citizens in
thirty-nine prefectures were mobilized.17 Peasants and other dispossessed
people joined the collective protest against soaring rice prices and merchants’
speculative trading. In order to suppress the uprisings, which had reached an
unprecedented scale, the authorities responded in an equally unprecedented
way: they dispatched not only the police but also 110,000 soldiers. The Rice
Riots were most intense in the west and the southwest.18 The number of cit-
ies and towns to which the armed forces were deployed was the highest in
the southwest (about 41 percent of the total across the nation).19 The riots
themselves were quickly brought under control, but subsequent regional
protest movements took a major turn toward unionism and radicalism.
The economic recession after World War I and the bad harvest hit hard at
the farmers’ already near-bankrupt economy. Tenants’ pleas for rent reduc-
tion were dismissed by the landowners, and the tenants thus turned to orga-
nized actions so as to place collective pressure on the landlords. The number
of agrarian disputes initiated by peasants skyrocketed from 408 (national
total) in 1920 to 1,680 the next year. The number of peasant participants grew
accordingly, from 3,465 in 1920 to 125,750 in 1922.20 In parallel, peasant union-
ization accelerated: from 1921 to 1922, the number of tenant unions doubled
from 681 to 1,114. That number increased to 1,530 with 166,931 members in
1923, and peaked in 1927, with 4,582 unions and 365,332 members.21
In addition to its numerical growth, the peasant movement drastically
changed its nature toward ideologization and politicization. The Agricultural
Bureau of the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce observed: “[The peas-
ant activists] are increasingly willing to organize themselves, confront the
landlords with mass power, and carry through their interests.”22 In the past,
tenants would plead for temporary reduction of rents after bad harvests;
now they demanded the permanent reduction of arbitrary rents, which was
in its nature a political demand that anti-tenant practices be corrected and
tenants’ rights versus those of landlords be guaranteed.23
Peasant radicalization, as was evinced in their vocal political demand for
their rights, made its first surge in the Kinki region (Hyogo, Ehime, Osaka,
and Wakayama), but soon spread westward. By 1922, the regions of Chūgoku,
Shikoku, and Kyushu had turned into powder kegs of rural defiance, no
less volatile than the Kinki region. Interestingly, labor mobility out of the
southwestern countryside was held responsible for the rising radicalism.
That is, the more that impoverished peasants outmigrated to larger cities
for wage jobs, the less labor force that was available in the agrarian sector,
which empowered the tenants’ bargaining power vis-à-vis the landlords. The
Agricultural Bureau found this tendency in Fukuoka’s labor conditions. 24
The number of tenant-landlord disputes is a commonly employed gauge of
the scale of a peasant movement, but in the 1920s it was the “presence or
absence of revolutionary peasant unions and their influences”—as observed
by the Police and Security Bureau of the Home Ministry—that accounted
more substantially for the qualitative intensity of the peasant movement,
especially in the southwest, and state anxiety about it. 25
The peasant movement increased its leftist orientation under the aegis
of the Nihon Nōmin Kumiai (Japan Farmers Union, aka Nichinō), the first
nationwide peasant union, founded in Kyoto in 1922. Their call for tenants’
rights, socialism, and democracy, and against state authoritarianism attracted
southwestern activists. In its first year, the Nichinō sponsored the large-scale
tenant dispute at the Fujita Farm in Okayama (which lasted until 1927). The
dispossessed demanded more tenants’ rights and a revision of the tenancy
system. The union’s slogan, “Permanent Thirty-Percent Reduction of Ten-
ant Fees,” became nationally known as the “Okayama Tactic.” Other local
branches followed suit. Fukuoka was another hotspot of the Nichinō’s growth
in power. It opened 78 branches in 69 villages, boasting 6,900 members. (Ac-
cording to the union, the actual membership was larger than this, if including
those who had not paid dues.)26 Fukuoka-based Nichinō grew into the colossal
regional federation of Nihon Nōmin Kumiai Fukuoka Rengōkai, and orches-
trated a series of major disputes, catapulting militant activists from among
its 10,000–plus members against landlords and the local authorities.
In the late 1920s, when the Nichinō was split between communist sympa-
thizers and non-revolutionaries over the issue of the union’s support of the
communist-associated Labor Peasant Party, the southwestern diehards fol-
lowed the far-left cadre, who then founded the Zenkoku Nōmin Kumiai (Na-
tional Farmers Union, or Zennō, from 1928). The Saga- and Fukuoka-based
subnational representatives of the Zennō organization, the Zennō Fukusa
Rengokai, sought to reenergize itself, free from infighting with conservative
or conciliatory elements, and commit itself to a communist revolution from
the agrarian base. Concluding that the everyday issues—exorbitant rents,
loss of rented land, indebtedness, or poverty and misery at large—stemmed
from an exploitative capitalist system and political conservatism, the Zennō
attacked the landed oligarchy and its political ally, the state. Highly militant
and Marxist slogans such as “Land to Peasants,” “Total Exemption of Ten-
ant Fees,” “Abolition of Anti-Union Repressive Laws,” and “Realization of a
Communist Society Free From Exploitation” were rife in their rallies and
propaganda. Their blunt criticism of the system even extended to Japan’s
militarism, as they shouted, “We Absolutely Oppose the Imperialist Wars
of our Government.”27
The Zennō’s organizational growth and ideological capacity to elevate their
class interests to a more universal political cause enabled a broader alliance
with other social causes in the region, as will be discussed below, while at the
same time antagonizing the ruling bloc. As government repression of fifth
columnists intensified, the majority of risk-averse peasants either distanced
themselves from politics and radicalism or joined the pro-state conservative
unions. Although hemmed in by the state’s authoritarian system and losing
ground among its social base, however, the revolutionaries of the peasant
movement hardly gave up the “prospect that a revolution was imminent.”28
Workers
The southwest is, relatively speaking, a sociocultural periphery in the national
landscape, but has historically embraced uniquely important industrial and
resource bases for modern Japan. It produced coal, steel, and navy vessels
in prewar times; these goods were indispensable for the materialization of
Japan’s mantra, “Wealthy Nation, Strong Military.” Coal continued to fill the
energy demands of the resource-scarce nation until oil took its place. When
new factories and mines opened in Yahata, Kure, Chikuhō, Nagasaki, and
elsewhere under the aegis of the Meiji government in the late nineteenth
century, these military-industrial concerns allured large numbers of workers
from various parts of the nation. Employed by the state-owned enterprises
or private companies, the southwestern workers emerged as a major social
force in rights and democratic movements.
Yahata, once a sleepy town in rural Fukuoka, became one of the major indus-
trial hubs in the region with the establishment of Yahata Steel in 1901. The larg-
est state-owned steel manufacturing enterprise also embraced related industries
of coal mining, railroad, and water transportation systems in the vicinity. Ya-
hata’s seventy blast furnaces ceaselessly produced steel to be used for railroads,
modern buildings, and military battleships and ammunition. Meanwhile, Kure
City of Hiroshima Prefecture boasted a world-famous naval shipyard. In its
vast area of 45.7 acres, countless battleships were built and launched, includ-
ing the legendary Yamato and Nagato, as well as the Akagi aircraft carrier. The
Kure City naval complex consisted of seven hundred buildings—shipbuilding

facilities and ammunition factories as well as affiliated sites—and employed
twenty to thirty thousand workers in the 1910s. Its production capacity was re-
markably high, as one spokesperson once boasted: “Kure needs only two years
to complete an entire battleship, and one year for a cruiser or a submarine.”29
There were numerous similar, though less gargantuan, industrial complexes
in the southwest, such as Nippon Steel in Hiroshima, which manufactured
naval machinery, and the Sasebo Naval Shipyard and Mitsubishi Shipbuilding,
both in Nagasaki. These all supported Japan’s modernization and served as the
industrial base for its military expansionism.
Understandably, the significance of the southwest as the crucible for mod-
ern Japan’s military and industrial base made the central state hypersensitive
to the region’s stability and thus intolerant of any subversive action by the
locals. Ironically enough, despite the state’s obsession with regional security,
locally based mass movements often tested the nerve of the military in direct
confrontations. Since the turn of the 1900s, the Kure Naval Shipyard had been
ridden with large-scale strikes by steelworker unions and socialists (one of
the leading socialist organizers of the shipyard-based union was Katayama
Sen, a former student emigrant to the United States).30 Despite the state’s re-
peated intervention and repression, workers’ collective demands and protests
continued to grow and develop, culminating in the Great Kure Strike of 1912,
with all thirty thousand workers involved. The labor dispute was triggered
by workers’ everyday concerns, such as the employer’s unjust employment
policies and low wages, but its impact was terrifying. The complex’s operation
totally shut down for one week and it was anarchical inside the site. The huge
strike that lasted one week at the heart of the Japanese military system—
Hiroshima once housed the Imperial Armed Forces Headquarters—both
daunted and outraged the shipyard owner, the Japanese navy.31 Naval Minister
Saitō Makoto bluntly condemned the protesting labor, thundering that “[the
government will] categorically deny workers’ demands, even at the cost of a
temporary closing of the factory.”32 Material damage to productivity through
a labor strike was one thing, but moral decay within the very state institutions
that commanded absolute order and discipline was quite another.
Labor activism intensified in the region during the Taishō period, partly
because of looming economic uncertainty and partly encouraged by the
gradual democratization of national politics. The recession in the post–
World War I period, coupled with the worldwide disarmament trend after
the Washington Naval Treaty of 1921–22, directly affected the military-based
local economy. In Hiroshima, when the Kure Naval Shipyard announced
massive dismissal of its workers and other shipbuilders and steel mills in the
locality tried to cut workers’ wages, the unionized workers responded with
demonstrations, sabotage, and strikes. In the year 1922, union strikes at the
Kure Shipyard, Osaka Steel Co., and medium- and small-sized companies in
light industries mobilized some 12,000 sympathizers. The number of strike
participants grew to almost 58,000 in 1924 while another 13,500 gathered for
other forms of protests and labor disputes.33 Labor militancy also ignited in
Fukuoka. In February 1920, more than 20,000 workers at Yahata Steel began a
large-scale strike for wage increases and better working conditions (the Great
Strike at Yahata), under the leadership of the Nihon Rōyūkai union. When the
“fire went off at all the blast furnaces and 500 chimneys stopped smoking”
at Yahata, it endangered 60 percent of national steel production.34
Simply put, arms became hostage to defiant labor in the southwest from
the 1910s to the first half of the 1920s. Such political developments that dis-
rupted local production haunted the industrialization-obsessed state. What’s
worse, a firebrand temperament prevailed among workers in the regional
coal mining industry—a strategic resource for the nation’s military-related
heavy industries.
Coal—aka kuro daiya (black diamond), as is sung in the popular folk song
Tankō bushi—used to be the major source of energy at every level of the
national economy. Since Meiji’s Industrial Revolution, Japan expanded the
coal industry so that it could bolster other key industries. The annual pro-
duction level, which started at a meager 1.3 million tons in 1885, expanded
rapidly; it grew by ten times within 18 years. In 1919, thanks to the short-lived
World War I munitions boom, extraction reached 31.3 million tons. In the
years following, the industry managed to survive cyclical economic crises in
the pre–World War II period, and continued to produce 30–40 million tons
every year.35 But extraction of this fossil fuel, one of the few energy sources
in which resource-scarce Japan was self-sufficient, depended heavily on a
certain locality—the southwest.
Traditionally, northern Kyushu (mostly Fukuoka and some parts of Saga,
Kumamoto, and Ōita) was unrivaled as the largest supplier of coal; this had
been true since the end of the Tokugawa era, and was to remain so until the
mid-1950s. The region’s mines once claimed the lion’s share of the nation’s
total coal production, at 65 percent in the early 1910s. Among the Big Four
collieries in Fukuoka—Chikuhō, Miike, Kazuya, and Sawara—Chikuhō was
the king of kings, the nation’s largest mine complex, producing 14 million
tons of black nuggets from its 142 mines using a workforce of 150,000 (as of
1925). The second largest was Miike, with a market share of 12 percent in the
prefecture.36 At Miike, the Mitsui zaibatsu monopolized mining operations
after having bought the region’s entire coal business from the Meiji govern-
ment in 1888. The whole city was in the realm of the “Mitsui Kingdom.”
Other zaibatsu (Mitsubishi, Furukawa, and Sumitomo) and smaller compa-
nies entered the lucrative industry after the industry’s privatization in 1888.
The Japanese Navy had its own coal extraction operation at the Shinbaru
Colliery in Kazuya, the third largest in Fukuoka, since 1890. Operations of
various ownership and size mushroomed in northern Kyushu, turning the
once-backward region into an energy hot spot. Meanwhile, the prefectures of
Yamaguchi, Saga, and Nagasaki also embraced the coal industry, with market
shares of 4.9, 6.9, and 5.2 percent, respectively, as of 1919. That means that 72
percent of the national coal supply was provided by the southwest alone.37
The region’s industrial importance did not change much even when other
regions expanded their production, as in Hokkaido and Jōban in southern
Fukushima.
Coal extraction, which originally started with inmate-laborers in northern
Kyushu in the late Edo period, is one of the harshest enterprises in terms of
labor conditions. In the old days (or even now in many parts of the world)
it required miners’ back-breaking work to dig and extract while cramped on
all fours in a claustrophobic tunnel, laboring for long hours in filthy air. They
were under constant threat from explosions and moldering of the rock bed
(Kyushu’s coal mines were notoriously fragile). But the appalling working
conditions and the miners’ health and life mattered little to the employers,
whose main concerns were with production volume and profitability. Acci-
dents and casualties occurred frequently. (No complete data on the industrial
hazards is available, partly due to the employers’ shoddy record keeping in
the prewar period.) In 1927, coal-mine-related accidents, on both large and
small scale, numbered 137,598, with a death toll of 868 and more than 135,000
injuries.38 Despite the hazardous work environment, labor was not allowed
to complain. Miners’ grievances, discontent, or disobedience were strictly
controlled by the naya (shed) system—a quasi-Gulag institution with traces of
the prison-labor era—to monitor, discipline, and control the colliers around
the clock. Most fulltime miners lived in company housing.
These exploitative labor practices increased the companies’ production
level, but reduced the number of new job applicants since the industry’s poor
conditions became known among local people. To overcome the resulting
labor shortage, mining companies sought workers from outside their locali-
ties, aggressively recruiting peasants in southern Kyushu, neighboring south-
western prefectures such as Hiroshima, Ōita, Kumamoto, Saga, and western
regions.39 Also, it was not rare to see women, at times pregnant ones, and
children among the coal-darkened faces; many dekasegi workers in northern
Kyushu migrated with families. Both husbands and wives toiled, half-naked in
the hellish temperature of the pits. With more and more immigrants coming
from other regions, the once-sparsely populated and underdeveloped areas
became magnets for domestic migration. The number of coal miners, both
full-time and part-time, in Fukuoka increased from some 32,000 in the 1870s
to 95,040 in 1912 and 281,938 in 1920.
Other people who went into the pits came from different shores, such as
the Yoron Islanders.40 In parallel with the recruitment of “regular” immigrant-
workers, Mitsui Mining and other mining enterprises transported peasants
from Yoron and Okinoerabu islands (a part of Amami Ōshima Archipelago).
The company deliberately employed these “minority” workers at a lower wage
and in worse working conditions in order to divide and rule the working class.
The small islanders suffered badly from the company’s exploitation as well as
from other workers’ discrimination. Mining companies also sought a labor
force in Korea across the Genkainada Strait. The immigration of Koreans,
many of whom were landless or debt-burdened as a result of Japan’s coloniza-
tion policy, started with illegal smuggling on Mitsui Mining Company’s ship
in 1898. The human trafficking was deregulated and intensified after Japan’s
annexation of Korea in 1910.41 Thousands of Koreans were transported every
day from the Port of Busan to Shimonoseki, and directly delivered to three
major destinations—Fukuoka, Yamaguchi, and Osaka. In Fukuoka, Chikuhō
and Mitsui Collieries and Yahata Steel absorbed most of these Koreans as
the cheapest and most exploitable labor force.
Miners’ economic conditions had never been favorable, but they were
apparently worsening in the wake of the Rice Riots in 1918. Their real wage
declined to 65 percent of its 1914 level.42 While their income was elastic—
depending upon the amount of coal they extracted, not a fixed salary—and
declining, commodity prices increased at the company shops. Shopping
within the mining company’s facility was compulsory. So the inflationary
trend in the post–World War I economy affected the purchasing power of
miners directly. Angry protest against speculative merchants in the Rice Ri-
ots thus mobilized the miners quickly. Within one month after the Toyama
housewives’ uprising on July 22, ripples reached Okayama, Hiroshima, Fu-
kuoka, and all the way to Kagoshima. The frustration and resentment of the
coal miners erupted in a highly militant and violent insurgency. With the
same picks they used to dig coal, they attacked the managers’ offices and
company facilities, demanding pay raises, better welfare and working con-
ditions, and lower commodity prices at company shops. Worse still, Yoron
Islanders and the ethnic Koreans, once a docile labor force and a reserve
army the company had used to break labor unionism, joined the mutiny and
broke into the company’s office, demanding a large wage increase.
The employers and local law enforcement found themselves inept and
vulnerable in the face of the angry workers. Thus, the governor of Fukuoka,
Yasukōchi Asakichi, called upon the military to quell the riot. When the troops
of the Kokura Twelfth Division arrived at Minechi Colliery in Tagawa County,
Fukuoka, some of the armed miners threw dynamite at them, killing three
soldiers. The state-owned mines, the Navy’s Shinbaru Colliery and Yahata
Steel’s colliery, also fell victim to the miner insurgency. Miners’ revolts were
ubiquitous in the southwestern region at large, but the level of violence and
the intensity of the state-labor antagonism were most prominent in Fukuoka.
The military joined the local police force to suppress the miners’ uprisings
in at least eight places in the prefecture, deploying 6,000 troops to Moji, an-
other 4,100 to Yahata City, and 1,150 to the Shinbaru facility to extinguish the
rebellion. In order to mobilize a sufficient number of soldiers, the army had
to relocate part of the reserve army, earmarked for deployment in Siberia, to
northern Kyushu. Labor crackdowns were particularly harsh in Mitsui Miike
under the Coal Kingdom’s suzerain, Baron Dan Takuma, who was known as
a hardliner anti-labor lobbyist in Tokyo.43 When normalcy was restored to
the southwest by early September, the number indicted reached more than
580. That was the highest number of Riot-related indictments in the nation.
In Ube City (Yamaguchi Prefecture), 2,000 coal miners (some say as many
as 10,000 by including townspeople) participated in the Rice Riots. It was a
significant number, considering the total population of the city (about 35,000)
or that of the mining sector (10,000). When the miners attacked the Ube
police station on August 17, Governor Nakagawa of Yamaguchi Prefecture
dispatched forty policemen, and on the next day, called upon the Yamaguchi
42nd infantry regiment (with 220 troops) to suppress the riot. It took them
a month and cost thirteen lives (all miners) to restore order.44
Like the peasants’ rebellion in the Rice Riots, the coal miners’ insurgency
may have been premature. After that, however, the mine-based labor move-
ment arrived at a new level. Their ensuing unionization, demanding an ex-
pansion of workers’ rights and improvement of working conditions, and their
increasingly militant praxis inevitably led them to confront the political and
economic oligarchy. In particular, Kyushu-based coal miners’ unions had
been mushrooming since the 1920 Great Strike at Yahata. The communist-
affiliated Japan Council of Labor Unions (JCLU or Hyōgikai), the Nishibe
Colliers’ Union, and the Kasuya Colliers’ Union (both in Fukuoka), were
representative of these new bodies. Furthermore, infiltration of “dangerous
thoughts” (kiken shisō) from the West, particularly Marxism and anarcho-
syndicalism, into the movement increased the elites’ concern about the ad-
vance of these iconoclasts. International socialism had been wielding its
influence in Japan since the 1910s. Communism was spreading as another
revolutionary force, with the stealth foundation of the Japan Communist

Party in 1922. The central government thought that such dangerous thoughts
from abroad would contradict Japan’s traditional norms and mores, and turn
the ignorant mass in the wrong direction, seriously disturbing the social order
and internal cohesion.45 The Nishibe Colliers’ Union and the Kasuya Colliers’
Union present good examples of the focus of such concerns since they were
formed under the aegis of Hyōgikai. The autonomous development of these
social “deviants” culminated in the formation of political parties in which
the proletariat pushed for legalization of unionization and universal male
suffrage. This institutionalization of mass politics made it too hard to ignore
the growing vox populi from the very bottom of the social hierarchy.
On the law enforcement front, the deployment of troops to coal miners’
disputes and strikes had become established procedure since the Rice Riots.
As mentioned earlier, the miners’ resistance—killing imperial soldiers with
dynamite—panicked the military establishment, whose Generals’ Office com-
mented, “It is an unprecedented event that people threw explosives at the
military even though there was a case of military-civilian wrangling in the
past when the military fired at the demonstrators in the Ashio Copper Mine
incident.”46 The physical and mental damage done to the military institution
convinced it that any quarrels with miners ought to be prevented or resolved
with decisive force.
“Burakumin”
It is true that the southwest was not the only place in Japan plagued by the
social problems of peasant and labor radicalism in the early twentieth century.
Peasant organizations and disputes were almost ubiquitous in many agrar-
ian villages. The industrial sectors of steel, shipbuilding, telecommunica-
tions, and railroads in larger cities became hotbeds of militant labor. Urban
activists in Osaka, Kyoto, and Kobe arguably enjoyed more access to what
Charles Tilly calls “mobilization resources,” such as intellectual or academic
agitators and the mass media.47 That was the case for labor in or near big
cities such as Osaka, Kyoto, and Kobe, in the west. One could argue that the
politicization and radicalization of mass movements and their clash with
the dominant power bloc were nationwide developments. Yet the southwest
had been deemed a “land of perils” and the establishment felt particularly
vulnerable to that local situation. The fault line lay in the sphere of the so-
called Burakumin. A radical faction in the minority rights movement of
this disadvantaged group was advancing their revolutionary cause within
the movement and harnessing an alliance with other social dissidents in the
first half of the 1920s. Such political developments emanating from the social
matrix unique to the southwest rendered the region distinct and daunting.
The Burakumin is a socially marginalized group that has been discrimi-
nated against in even the most egalitarian periods of Japanese society. The
history of discrimination against this minority group is millenniums-long,
but its origin is obscure. No doubt the Burakumin are “authentic” Japanese
in terms of race, origin, language, and religion. The basis of the bias, while
highly mythical, was yet well-institutionalized in the feudal era.48 The stigma
of these social outcasts largely stems from their residency in ghettos and the
kinds of occupations they engage in, such as butcher, tanner, executioner,
gravedigger, and so on. Probably because of the Buddhist distaste for anything
bloody, like meat eating and corpses, the Burakumin—literally meaning
“people of the hamlet”—were abhorred and discriminated against. Tokugawa
feudalism despicably called them eta (“full of filth”) or hinin (“nonhuman”),
and put them at the very bottom of the social strata. This underclass had no
basic human rights because they were not considered to be human. And their
very existence has long been hidden away in the official history of Japan, as
something untouchable or shameful.
The Meiji government wished to emancipate the long-suppressed social
outcasts from feudal discrimination and award them with a “new commoner”
status. The Imperial Edict of the Emancipation of Burakumin in 1871 officially
affirmed the irrevocable equal rights of the former outcasts (Proclamation No.
61 of the Dajōkan or Council of State). Institutionalization of Burakumin rights
and equality manifested the emperor’s benevolence to unfetter Japanese society
from the pre-modern legacy of Tokugawa feudalism and unite the whole na-
tion under his sovereignty. A new Japan felt the archaic discrimination against
and dehumanization of Burakumin unacceptable and shameful in an era of
enlightenment. Aside from the idealism of universal human rights, particu-
laristic economic interests also played some part in the emancipation edict.
Business wanted to liberate the lucrative leather, shoe, and meat industries
from Burakumin monopoly, and the state tried to incorporate Burakumin
land, which had been tax-exempt, into the central tax structure for more rev-
enue by treating them as ordinary citizens with rights and responsibilities.49
Small in number (about 1.5 percent of the total population), the Burakumin
largely clustered in the western part of Japan, including the southwest, in
the prewar period. As of 1922, Burakumin in the region accounted for 28
percent of the national Buraku population, mainly in Okayama, Hiroshima,
Yamaguchi, Fukuoka, and Kumamoto prefectures.50
Even after the Emancipation Edict, Burakumin remained one of the lowest
income groups in the largely egalitarian Japanese economy. In the country-
side, which is the predominant landscape of the southwest, the majority of

them were tenant farmers. In 1917, 46.2 percent of the Burakumin in Hiro-
shima were farmers, another 11.3 percent were fishermen, and 25.8 percent
were day workers or odd-job laborers.51 Cultivation of meager land did not en-
able them to make ends meet; they had to obtain additional income by mak-
ing handicrafts, such as straw sandals and bamboo trays. With their isolated
and self-contained village life increasingly incorporated into the surrounding
capitalist economy of the early twentieth century, a large number of Buraku-
min started to move out of their villages, looking for wage jobs elsewhere.
Coal mines and military-related manufacturers became their “egalitarian”
employers: they did not discriminate against these social outcasts for the
lowest-paid and most-dangerous jobs. The people at the lowest of Japan’s
social strata fell down to the bottom of the coal pits. A proverb in Chikuhō
said, “Where there is a coal mine, there is a Buraku, and vice versa.”52
As the domestic migration of the rural Burakumin grew in scale and their
population rose in the southwest, there occurred an interesting convergence of
occupations and class positions among the peasantry, labor (mostly colliers),
and Burakumin. Burakumin who were formerly peasants now became miners.
Other, non-Buraku poor people from Kumamoto, Saga, and Nagasaki took
mining jobs and lived in the Buraku quarters; they then became new “Bura-
kumin.”53 Thus, the Burakumin in the mining sector assumed multiple social
identities—as a peasant, a worker, and social outcast. This complex of attributes
eventually provided a political platform for the radical faction of the Buraku
liberation movement to seek cross-class alliance of the marginalized.
The emancipation edict opened a Pandora’s box. The Burakumin’s aspira-
tions for legal and political equality and improvement of their lives took on a
new public urgency. The formerly covert stigmas and inner contradictions of
discriminatory social practices were dragged into the public domain of justice
by Buraku activism. On the grassroots level, Buraku activists launched the
kyūdan (denunciation) campaign—a thorough denunciation of any single
act or sign of discrimination or defamation in classrooms, factories, offices,
and the street. They believed that their anti-defamatory campaign would
rectify the basic consciousness of Japanese society and eventually eradicate
the tenacious culture of injustice. Since kyūdan protest took a vehement and
militant stance, the Japanese public started to handle the politicized Bura-
kumin with kid gloves.
Their participation in the 1918 Rice Riots was a critical juncture for the
Burakumin movement’s swing toward radicalism. When the wave of mass
protest reached the southwest, Burakumin had no hesitation about joining
it. The participation of these excluded and frustrated people in the riots
rendered the protests more intense and violent. By the time the 1918 uprising
was quelled by riot police, the number of arrested Burakumin had grown at a
disproportionate rate. Some were sentenced to the death penalty. There are no
definite figures for the number of Burakumin participants in the Rice Riots,
though about 10 percent of the total of 8,185 indicted on charges related to
the riots were said to be people of the hamlet. This was a disproportionately
large number, considering the small percentage of Buraku population. Some
suspected that the authorities made Burakumin into a kind of scapegoat.54
For the stigmatized, the disproportionate arrest of their fellows came as no
surprise; it just reinforced their long-held conviction that there was no justice
or equality in the rule of law for their class.
The political establishment was taken aback by the Burakumin wrath that
permeated the riots. In February 1919, a year after the riots, a charity orga-
nization for the Burakumin, Teikoku Kōdōkai held the “Compassion and
Conciliation Convention” at Tsukiji Honganji temple in Tokyo. The partici-
pants, ranging from statesmen and ministers to generals, Buddhist monks,
and moderate Buraku activists, discussed how to eradicate the social stigma
against the Burakumin and integrate them into the larger society. Improve-
ment of the Burakumin’s material conditions, including housing, health, and
education, by public support was recommended. The government shared this
view: in March 1920, the 41st Diet appropriated 50,000 yen for the Buraku
Improvement Budget (buraku kaizenhi, later renamed to chihō kaizenhi), the
first state financial aid and the beginning of the state Yūwa (Conciliation and
Incorporation) policy. The Yūwa money was distributed to seventeen prefec-
tures with large Burakumin populations. In addition, the Home Ministry, as
central administrator of the Yūwa program, ordered prefectural governments
to form and administer subnational Yūwa organizations.55
The Yūwa program was a nationalist and conciliatory policy par excel-
lence, attempting to consolidate a social base for the Burakumin’s cooptation
by satisfying their material needs. Its other, more essential objective was to
dislodge leftists from the Buraku liberation movement. And, as will be ex-
plained, the Yūwa project would later coordinate with the emigration policy
to contain radicalism among the Buraku population.
Those who suspected the Yūwa advocates’ true intentions and decided
instead to seek an autonomous path for Buraku liberation and rights founded
the National Levelers Association (Zenkoku Suiheisha), headquartered in
Kyoto, in 1922. While adamantly opposing state patronization and cooptation,
this firebrand group consisted of various and ideologically contradictory ele-
ments, the most vocal and influential of whom were the anarchists and the
Marxist-Bolsheviks. 56 A few years after the group’s founding, the Bolshevik
faction emerged as the dominant force in the association and swept the move-
ment toward the far left. The leftist ideologues projected that the persistent
feudal social value and structure against them—the emperor system and
aristocracy as the pinnacle of the social pyramid—and the exploitation by
capitalism could be overcome only by a socialist revolution and in an ensu-
ing classless and egalitarian society. The fifth national conference held in
Fukuoka in 1926 adopted socialism brought about by class struggle as their
ultimate goal. Along with this resolution, the Levelers sought an inter-class
alliance with the peasants and working classes. The alliance aimed at form-
ing a united popular front among the non-propertied classes in the belief
that “multiple classes and strata unite and fight against the common enemy
in order to realize the common goal beyond conflicts of class interests or
difference in political values and world views.”57
The Levelers’ intention to be a catalyst for inter-class coalition—beyond
the historical and extant animosity and contempt towards the Burakumin
from peasants and workers—appeared more practicable in the southwestern
context than anywhere else. One contributing factor was the “identity fusion”
among the three classes, mentioned above, as a result of the labor clustering
in the coal mines. In fact, the Levelers led the unionization of tenant-farmers
in Fukuoka and Saga (e.g., the Nichinō Fukusa Rengōkai union) as well as in
Hiroshima, Mie, and Wakayama. The kick-off meeting of the Nichinō Fukusa
Rengōkai, the Fukuoka- and Saga-based peasant union federation, in 1924
was jointly sponsored by a Kyushu representative of the Levelers together
with union executives.58 Many miners’ unions at smaller mines in the re-
gion were also the Levelers’ work. The communist-associated Labor Peasant
Party (1926) was also founded under the heavy influence of the Levelers. In
Hiroshima, labor movement and proletarian party politics went in tandem
with the Levelers as “head and tail of the same coin” through organizational
and personal affinity.59 A second factor was local activism by peasant and
workers unions. As Ōgushi Natsumi finds, the central administration of
mainstream unions (e.g., Nihon Rōdō Sōdōmei and its offspring Hyōgikai)
remained aloof or indifferent to the Burakumin issue, which they deemed as
“bourgeois-liberal business.”60 In contrast, their local branches in the south-
west sympathized with the Burakumin and joined the united class struggle
against capital. For instance, the Kyushu branch of the National Industrial
Labor Union (Zenkoku Sangyō Rōdō Kumiai) issued a resolution opposing
discrimination against the Levelers and endorsing the labor-Burakumin
coalition. At the shop floor level, the Levelers’ prefectural branches partici-
pated in or supported a large number of miners’ disputes in Chikuhō, Ube,
and Okayama.61
There was another aspect of the southwest-based Levelers’ activism that

cast it as perilous in the eyes of the state: the internationalization of the move-
ment. Japan’s expansionism brought many ethnic minorities from neighbor-
ing countries—Okinawans, Yoron Islanders, and Korean immigrant workers
among them—into the nation. The Levelers likened the suffering of those
minorities from racial and ethnic prejudice to their own misery and extended
its hand in solidarity with them.62 (In a similar vein, the “Paek Chan,” the
Korean equivalent of Burakumin in the Korean Peninsula, were also deemed
a potential ally.) The Kyushu coal mines and other industrial sites, which
were making profits by exploiting workers from these strata, provided a space
and opportunity for syndication among these minorities. When the Korean
insurrection against Japanese colonialism (the Samil Movement) broke out
in their homeland in 1919, Korean migrants, inspired by that nationalism,
unionized themselves in defense of their vulnerable position in the “enemy”
country. Korean miners at the Mitsubishi Shinnyū Colliery launched a strike
on March 8, 1919, inspired by the Samil uprising on the Korean Peninsula,
and participated in the Great Strike at Yahata in 1920. The Paek Chan Koreans
formed their own independent rights movement, the “Kohei movement,” in
1924, and at its third national convention the Levelers Association endorsed
their new “comrade.”63
Through the internationalization of cross-ethnic alliances, the Levelers
sharpened its criticism of Japan’s military aggression and ruthless colonial
policy towards other Asian countries. Such anti-colonialist dissent was, of
course, not welcomed by the state, which needed to consolidate domestic
support for Japan’s military advances in Asia. It was impermissible externally,
as well: such agitation could stimulate anti-Japanese nationalism among the
colonized. At a meeting of the conciliatory Yūwa organization, a Japanese
army officer who took part in the repression of the Korean uprising in 1919
pointed out the connection between the Korean and Burakumin cases, and
the danger of their convergence.64 A Suiheisha-nization of Korean immigrants
or other ethnic minorities and the emergence of an international alliance
that dared to denounce Japanese colonialism had to be nipped in the bud.
The synchronization of the peasant, labor, and Burakumin movements, and

signs of the coalescing of multiple class interests into a single broad coalition
of anti-system forces elevated the political temperature of the southwest. How
deeply did the Levelers penetrate into the organizations and ideologies of
other social movements? Did the proletariat arrive at true class conscious-
ness, overcoming their historical antipathy? How “real” was the class warfare
against the system, or how imminent was a revolution?
Overall, the “dangerous ideologies” of the Levelers Association did not

infiltrate into or influence the proletarian movements to the extent that the
group may have expected. The culture of contempt and bias against the Bu-
rakumin loomed large from the shop floor to the headquarters of major
unions. The kingpins of the progressive labor unions like Hyōgikai had as
narrow and contemptuous a mindset toward the Burakumin as anyone in
mainstream Japanese society. Even if sympathetic, they snubbed the issue
as a “bourgeois-liberal concern,” not their own.65 In addition, the Leveler’s
vision of a triple alliance commanded limited clout in the central political
arena, as Ōgushi concludes, particularly considering that the general rate
of unionization of the peasant, labor, or Levelers movements—including
both radical and pro-state factions—remained moderate.66 Furthermore,
the internal cohesion of these movements suffered from conflicts and splits
among the cadres over ideological questions and political strategies in the
late 1920s and early 1930s.
The material conditions of mass radicalism were one thing, the authori-
ties’ sense of crisis and insecurity over their ability to govern was another.
Any form of attack against the existing order, especially kokutai (a national
polity based on the emperor’s sovereignty) and private ownership, nettled
the ruling class. The revolutionary rhetoric advocating the toppling of the
capitalist system and the kokutai, and a halt to military expansion, frazzled
their nerves and provoked their reaction, particularly in the context of East
Asian geopolitics since the 1910s. The surge of international socialism and
its penetration into Japan’s popular movements heightened the Japanese
establishment’s fear of social dissent in general. More specifically, the over-
throw of Russian czarism by the Bolshevik Revolution had an enormous
psychological impact on the Japanese royalists. They feared that the same
fate as befell the Romanovs would confront the Japanese imperial family
unless a grassroots revolutionary force led by international communism was
undermined.67 Given Japan’s geographical proximity to Russia, the slow but
sure eastward advance of the Bolshevik army to Siberia made Japan increas-
ingly uncomfortable. The aristocrats’ fear of a revolution was heightened by
the so-called High Treason Incident (1910–11), in which Kumamoto-based
anarcho-syndicalists under Kōtoku Shūsui’s leadership attempted to assassi-
nate the Meiji emperor. These regicide plotters included two youths involved
with the Burakumin cause.68 The Burakumin’s own proven track record—the
Levelers’ adaptation of Soviet-Bolshevikism and blunt verbal attacks on the
emperor system—validated the elite’s suspicion of a Burakumin conspiracy
against the ruling system. Therefore, further advance of the defiant social
movements, which foreshadowed the political disorder in the southwest of
the first half of the1920s, had to be kept in check.
Postwar Political Turbulence

The mid-1950s to the early 1960s—the postwar heyday of Japanese emigra-
tion to Latin America—was the most turbulent period for Japanese politics
before it entered into a golden age of growth and stability. While the national
economy and industry were picking up quickly and robustly (with nearly a
double-digit percent GDP growth in 1955–56), triggered by the special pro-
curement booms since the Korean War, the country’s politics were shaken
by deep ideological divisions between the right and left, and between the
pro-Americans and what George Packard termed “new nationalists” over
the issue of Japan’s national security—more specifically, a revision of the
U.S.-Japan Security Treaty.69 Moreover, Prime Minister Kishi Nobusuke’s
mishandlings of the amendment process prompted an enormous national
outcry, both from inside the Diet and from the streets, involving angry ral-
lies and physical violence.
Contemporaneously, a crisis atmosphere loomed over the southwest, par-
ticularly northern Kyushu. This was no coincidence: the region’s resource
industry had bolstered postwar national reconstruction, and Tokyo’s decision
to dispense with coal in its new energy policy provoked labor’s anger and
resistance. Labor militancy in alliance with other local activists produced an
unprecedented scale of anti-statism and anti-Americanism over the Japan-
U.S. security issue. The Burakumin rights activists, fighting against their old
enemies (discriminatory society, exploitive capital, and the autocratic state)
and a new one (U.S. imperialism), began lining up alongside the Kyushu-
based labor. The fault line of the southwestern popular insurgency was again
centered on the coal miners and the Burakumin.
In the postwar economic reconstruction, northern Kyushu assumed major

responsibility for supplying a large amount of coal to the nation. It was the
Yoshida Shigeru administration (1946–47; 1948–54) that prioritized the pro-
duction of coal, together with steel (which also requires coal), over all other
domestic industries in order to jump-start the national recovery (“keisha
seisan hōshiki,” or the Priority Production Model). Mineral extraction was
still labor-intensive, and the Ministry of Commerce and Industry’s Coal De-
partment attempted to secure an adequate workforce by providing material
incentives and preferential treatments in food, housing, and wages under the
Emergency Labor Force Supply Law of 1946. The Supreme Commander of
the Allied Powers (SCAP), also hoping to reinforce the labor supply in this
key sector, went so far as to order the repatriation of former miners to their
old job sites in the coal pits. Emperor Hirohito himself made a courtesy visit
to the colliers in May 1949. Equipped with headlamp and miners’ gear, he
entered into the pit and saluted the hardworking colliers in Mitsui Miike’s
Mikawa Mine.70 War veterans, expatriates from the former colonies (hikia-
gesha), and many others who were uprooted by the war, had lost homes, and
were desperately searching for jobs, flocked to the mines in Fukuoka and
Kumamoto Prefectures—the unrivaled coal producing area in the nation—
as well as Yamaguchi, Saga, and Nagasaki. With or without previous work
experience in mining, these people applied because of the attractive incen-
tives. Freshmen colliers even included teachers and civil servants. While no
official statistical data is available before 1950, the number of coal miners
working at some five hundred mining sites in the Kyushu region in 1952–53
already reached a peak of 280,000 or more. The Chikuhō and Miike regions
soon became active while the prewar regional hubs, Nagasaki and Hiroshima,
remained traumatized by the nuclear bombs.
The growth of the coal mining industry and the increasing number of
coal-related workers provided political clout to industry-based unionism,
and raised the magnitude of its impact. No sooner had the Occupation Army
marched to Tokyo than labor was endowed with rights of unionization and
collective bargaining. The former authoritarian structure that had severely
restricted labor’s economic and political rights was demolished by democ-
ratization from above. The Trade Union Law of 1945 guaranteed labor’s right
to unionization, based on which SCAP actively encouraged the formation of
workers’ unions at enterprises. The news of SCAP’s sanctioning of unioniza-
tion was immediately and exuberantly greeted by Kyushu coal miners. The
first autonomous coal-miners’ union was formed at Tagomori Mining in
Akiyoshi, Fukuoka, as early as October 1945, just two months after Japan’s
surrender. Labor unions began to mushroom at mining centers, from small
to large, “one union per pit face.”71 Local unions affiliated with the larger, na-
tionwide and industry-based union, Japan Coal Miners Union (aka Tanrō) or
company-based union, the National Council of Mitsui Coal Miners Unions
(known as the Sankōren).
In the 1950s, seismic changes in the international political climate also
stimulated union activism at the mines, radicalizing their class ideology,
and fueling open confrontation with capital and the state. By the beginning
of the decade, the Soviet plan to penetrate Japanese mass movements had
become overt. With the Japanese Communist Party as an agent of indoc-
trination, the communist-influenced Sanbetsu Labor Federation (later on
Nihon Rōdō Kumiai Sōhyōgikai or “Sōhyō“) augmented its membership in
the industry through its Tanrō division, led by staunch Marxist intellectuals
who were students of Professor Sakikasa Itsurō of Kyushu University.72 The
leftist vanguard instructed shop floor activists to elevate their material-based
interests, like wages and benefits, to a higher, political goal of empowering

labor and the people against oligopolistic capital and its patron state. Premier
Yoshida’s “red scare” was neither imagined nor exaggerated.
Already troubled with a communist expansion in northeast Asia—
Kim Il-Sung’s rise to power in North Korea in 1948 and Mao’s in China in
1949—Washington could hardly ignore or tolerate labor radicalization in
Japan before its independence. The SCAP, former patron saint of labor de-
mocracy, changed its basic attitude toward Japanese labor—moving from a
moderate to a hard-line approach. Following the lead of the occupying power,
Yoshida launched his “reddo pâji” (red purge). In this Japanese version of
McCarthyism, prominent radical elements were purged from unions under
the Subversive Activities Prevention Law in 1952. In Fukuoka alone, 1,535
union activists in the steel, chemical, electronic, railroad, and publishing
industries fell victim to the purge, but a disproportionate number of those
dismissed (715 cases) were coal miners.73
The economic winds also turned against mining labor. The post–Korean
War economic contraction in Japan during 1953 and 1954 sent the coal in-
dustry into a deep decline. Coal, now in oversupply, and in competition with
cheaper foreign imports, faced depressed domestic coal prices. The coal in-
dustry’s productivity and profitability further declined when the government
decided to cut off its life support system for the industry—price subsidies
and preferential loans. Mining concerns responded to the industrial crisis
with wage cuts and the “rationalization” of production, involving massive
dismissal: during the period from 1952 to 1954, about 100,000 mining workers
were discharged (their numbers declining from 370,000 to 270,000).74 These
draconian measures, however, could hardly arrest the pace of the industry’s
own shrinkage. The “Energy Revolution” that replaced coal with petroleum
as Japan’s basic energy source was a fatal blow to the mining industries. In
1955, the state agency, Coal Mining Maintenance Corporation (Sekitan Kōgyō
Seibi Jigyōdan), under the Hatoyama Ichirō administration (1954–56) initi-
ated a five-year scheme of systematic rationalization (or gradual phase-out)
of the sunset industry by shutting down inefficient mines while intensifying
the productivity of the relatively efficient ones. This “Scrap and Build” policy
started to downsize redundant labor under the national plan to eliminate
sixty thousand jobs in the industry within five years.
Miners’ unions adamantly opposed and resisted the dismissal scheme.
Workers struck a final defense, a war of survival, against capital. Mitsui Miike
Mining in Ōmuta, Fukuoka, and Arao, Kumamoto, became the hotspots of
labor militancy. Miike was one of the surviving collieries under the ratio-
nalization plan and the domain of the long-lived “Mitsui Kingdom” of the
conservative political and economic establishment. The Sankōren, the larg-

est company-based union council, and the Tanrō-affiliated unions at Miike
(with membership of 35,000) were labor’s juggernaut. They fought a series
of major strikes against the employers’ labor-cost cutting and anti-union
practices. Among them, the 113–day-long strike in 1953 was a groundbreaking
undertaking. The union pushed the employer to reverse its massive dismissal
plan—unprecedented in Japan’s labor history—saving 1,825 jobs and garner-
ing the Miike union nationwide fame. As in the popular epithet of the time,
“113–day-struggle without a hero,” the strike’s core force was rank-and-file
members of the union, their families, and townsfolk. Miike unionism was
growing into a mass movement.
Northern Kyushu-based unionism and labor-capital confrontation reached
its high point with the outbreak of the Great Strike at Miike (1959–60), the
longest and largest strike in Japan’s labor history. On December 2 and 3, 1959,
the company unilaterally announced the “appointed dismissal” of 1,297 work-
ers, including the 400 whom the company categorized as “subversives,” in-
cluding members of the Japan Socialist Party (JSP) and the JCP. What unions
called a “retaliatory dismissal list” explicitly suggested the management’s
intentions: to dismantle the labor organization by getting rid of its radical
elements. Labor responded by launching a sit-in strike. The company locked
out the miners while calling in the Fukuoka prefectural police for protection.
This labor-capital hostility lasted until September of the following year.
The Miike strikers’ proclamation that this dispute was a “total war of labor
versus capital” (sō-rōdō tai sō-shihon) gathered broad support, some organi-
zational (from the JSP, the Sōhyō, and the Tanrō), some financial (raising 2
billion yen, including 32 million yen from international labor organizations),
and some moral (gaining 350,000 participants and sympathizers).75 As Ishii
Hirohide, labor minister, said, the Miike strikers “mobilized more people
than the total who fought in the great Satsuma Rebellion early in the Meiji
period.”76 Another great rebellion was thus resurgent on Kyushu Island a
century later as coal miners now became not only economically but also
politically “unwanted” people in the eyes of the elite.
As uncompromising and united as labor, big capital was resolute in “re-
moving the detractors of international competitiveness of Japanese corpora-
tions by mobilizing total capital,” in the statement of the Japan Federation
of Employers Association.77 Mitsui Mining deployed force, both public and
private, against the strikers; some 74,000 police were dispatched, and the
company sent in bōryokudan, or mobsters, as strikebreakers.78 Moreover,
it attempted to engineer the internal fragmentation of labor, through its
establishment of a pro-company labor union (aka the Second Union).
The ruling Liberal Democratic Party became deeply concerned about the
protracted labor dispute in Kyushu. In March 1960, when the company broke
through the strikers’ pickets and resumed operations, leading to violence, the
party’s Tokyo headquarters sent an investigative team to the conflict zone.
The investigators found that law and order in Miike were in serious danger
and that “local police alone cannot restore order and therefore a more ‘radi-
cal’ measure is needed. . . . Since labor conceives of this battle as ‘total war
of labor against capital,’ our party should solve it with might and main.”79 Of
course, the conservative LDP stood by capital. A subcommittee on the Miike
labor dispute was formed inside the party to constantly monitor develop-
ments in the dispute and craft effective solutions in consultation with related
government agencies and Mitsui Mining.
There was another ramification of the Miike conflict that troubled Tokyo:
the workers’ alignment with urban protesters against U.S. militarism in Japan.
Since the early 1950s, the Japanese public was increasingly coming to oppose
the revision of the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty (hereinafter, the Treaty). Labor
interpreted the Treaty as a revelation of how U.S. imperialism was dominating
Japan militarily and economically, as the “very source from which stem all
forms of the capitalist offensive that is now being directed against us.”80 Miike
workers identified the government’s policy bias against the coal industry as
a result of the penetration of U.S. imperialism in Japan: Washington, rep-
resenting monopolistic Big Oil, had conspired to marginalize coal through
the government of Japan’s energy policy. The union vanguard proclaimed,
“Our fight against oligopolistic Mitsui’s plot to suppress labor and dismiss
union activists is essentially a fight against the Treaty.”81 According to the
labor scholar Shimizu Shinzō, the Miike ideologues seemed unclear or even
unconcerned about the critical strategic question of how to synthesize the
labor issue with the anti-Treaty issue, which was political and highly complex,
involving Japan’s national security interests and Japan-U.S. relations.82 Miike
labor’s patrons, the Sōhyō and Tanrō, embraced their prematurely defined
political goal. 83 Now Miike established itself as the local spearhead of the
popular protest against monopolistic capital, an anti-democratic, conserva-
tive state, and its Cold War suzerain, the United States. This endogenous risk
fermenting in northern Kyushu factored into Tokyo’s overall concern about
the political equilibrium of the polity under duress.
The Burakumin issue was another social problem of the area that postwar
democratization policies failed to address and that the national and local
governments handled very poorly. In postwar Japan, three quarters of the
less than one million Burakumin remained rural, still engaged in small-scale
farming, fishing, and forestry.84 Geographically, the Burakumin population

continued to be concentrated in the western (e.g., Kyoto, Osaka, and Hyōgo)
and southwestern parts of Japan. Fukuoka, whose Buraku population was the
third largest in the nation, had some 600 Buraku quarters (or Dōwa quarters
in the official postwar term), with roughly 40,000 households and a total
population of 220,000 in 1957.85 The GHQ’s agrarian reform that was started
in 1946 to eliminate large land ownership and tenancy, liberated 75.3 percent
of the land from tenancy, and the tenancy rate declined drastically from about
45 to 12 percent within five years.86 While the emancipated peasantry was
enjoying an improvement of life overall, Burakumin farmers—small farm-
ers and tenants—kept on teetering below the subsistence level. Among the
most miserable in the Kyushu region were Burakumin tenants who rented
and cultivated rice paddies and fields in the vicinity of the Chikuhō coal
mining area. Curiously enough, coal-mining companies, like Asō (of the
former Asō zaibatsu), were their landlords; the company rented out part
of their vast estates to Burakumin farmers. The company-owned fields, lo-
cated in the mountains or among the valleys, remained exempt from the
comprehensive SCAP land reform. The SCAP’s discretion was justified by
the “crucial relationship between the (national) policy to deal with the land
owned by coal mining companies and coal production for today’s Japanese
economy in association with the establishment of independent farmers.”87
As a result, the SCAP’s original egalitarian ideal was compromised in light
of the urgent need for quick national reconstruction. The farmland avail-
able to the Burakumin was oftentimes unsuitable for modern farming since
it was too small and swampy and often contaminated with mining-related
hazardous materials. Interestingly and importantly, many Buraku farmers
earned additional income by working in the nearby collieries to make up for
their low level of self-sufficiency in agriculture.88
Meanwhile, the Japanese political leadership, both left and right, optimis-
tically and halfheartedly wished for the natural extinction of the problem in
the due course of democratization. No concrete legal and political resolution
to the social problem was made during the occupation period; as a result,
Japan missed a critical chance to eradicate the long-standing discrimination
against these outcasts. Meanwhile, the primordial mechanism for perpetuating
anti-Burakumin discrimination reemerged in the new legal system through
the practice of family census registration (koseki seido), which enabled public
officials and private entities (employers, schools, landlords, moneylenders) to
disseminate information about the Burakumin’s residence, tantamount to re-
vealing their identity. Even worse, the U.S. military displaced Buraku residents
from the newly appropriated lands for new military facilities at Itazuke in Fu-
kuoka, Nihonbara in Okayama, Etajima in Hiroshima, and other places. Many

of the dispossessed migrated to northern Kyushu and became coal miners.
The Research Institute for Buraku Issues (Buraku Mondai Kenkyūjo) roughly
estimates that about 50 percent of coal miners employed at large mining com-
panies, and 70 percent of them at smaller ones, belonged to the Buraku quar-
ters.89 In the new democratic Japan, the socioeconomic playing field for the
Burakumin was far from level. The constitutional principles of equality, basic
human rights, and democracy had little to do with their everyday reality.
Facing as much public inattention to their obstacles and political under-
representation as in the prewar period, these orphans of the democratic
society reconstituted themselves as an autonomous political movement.
On August 18, 1945, four days after Japan’s surrender, the former Suiheisha
leadership, many of whom had just been released from prison, met to form
the National Committee of Buraku Liberation (since 1960, the Burakumin
Liberation League). The national organization became the locus of the lib-
eration movement under the banner of socialist ideology. Already at its first
national assembly in Kyoto in January 1946, the NCBL unveiled a defiant
manifesto to fight zaibatsu monopoly capitalism, privileged aristocracy (de-
manding its abolition), and all other obstacles to democracy. In Fukuoka,
Iwata Jūzō and other Suiheisha veterans organized the Fukuoka Federation
of the Japan Farmers Association (Nihon Nōmin Kumiai) in a quest for life
improvement for the Burakumin in the agrarian sector. Another old-time
leader, Matsumoto Jiichirō, the Committee Chairman of the NCBL, ran for
the Lower House from the Fukuoka district in the first postwar general elec-
tion of April 1947 and won 420,000 votes, the fourth highest among all
candidates. Matsumoto’s impressive leap into the national legislature with
outstanding popularity among his constituency catapulted the Buraku issue
into the central political arena again. His presence and other NCBL activ-
ism made Fukuoka the epicenter of the Buraku liberation movement. It was
also a reminder to the political establishment of the movement’s relentless
activism and ability to mobilize society.
The Buraku liberation movement in general sought its platform in the
struggle for justice and equality outside mainstream partisan politics and
beyond Buraku villages. In northern Kyushu, its expansive solidarity with
miners against capital and the state seemed to be its destiny, given its belief
that the root cause of the persistent economic disadvantage of the Buraku-
min was state-led monopolistic capitalism, and its alignment with the class
consciousness of the most exploited working class.90
The Great Miike Strike in 1959–60 was a chance for the Buraku movement
to demonstrate its solidarity with mining labor. The number of Burakumin in
the mining unions is unknown. But the strikers’ opponents came to know the
Burakumin-union connection and used it to discredit both by distributing
derogatory fliers claiming that “the Miike unions are all Burakumin.”91 The
Buraku Liberation League contributed the largest number of sympathizers
to the strike (2,028 or 44 percent of the total non-union participants) among
civic organizations, according to Mitsui Mining’s records.92 They also urged
Burakumin job-seekers not to work for the company as strikebreakers.
Another point of convergence between the Miike miners and the Bu-
raku liberation movement was their joint opposition to U.S. militarism in
Japan. The Buraku liberation movement had its own reasons to oppose the
Treaty. They were long suspicious of, and resistant to, U.S. military domina-
tion over Japan. Throughout SCAP rule, the underprivileged became deeply
disillusioned with the U.S. democratization policy, given a series of bitter
memories of betrayal and mistreatment by the occupiers. They remembered
that Burakumin farmers had been “inadvertently” excluded from the Land
Reform, that the U.S. military had confiscated their lands, and that one of
their revered leaders, Matsumoto Jiichirō, had been defamed by Prime Min-
ister Yoshida and General MacArthur in the so-called Obeisance Incident
in 1948.93 Nine years later, Sakai Naka, a woman from a Buraku, was shot to
death by a U.S. soldier when she was collecting cartridges near the military’s
shooting range in Gunma in February 1957 (the Girard Incident). The soldier
Girard was just “playing with his gun,” which went off accidentally and killed
her.94 The NCBL accused the U.S. military of direct brutality and violation of
Burakumin rights and dignity in this incident, which convinced them that
their anti-U.S. imperialism was not a matter of abstract ideology in interna-
tional politics, but an immediate issue affecting their daily lives and safety.
Although it was little known among the general public that the victim was
a Buraku resident, this incident had an important political ramification in
that it augmented the Japanese people’s sense of national dignity and anti-
American sentiments on the eve of the Treaty crisis.95
It is worth noting the distinctiveness of the Kyushu-based dissent, whether

from coal miners or Burakumin, in the larger scope of the anti-Treaty move-
ment. As Packard observed, the anti-Treaty protest was “essentially a crisis
for Tokyo . . . the rural areas remained placid throughout.”96 Kyushu was
the exception in this respect. While Tokyo was paralyzed by a series of mass
demonstrations and strikes by unions, students, and intellectual activists
who attacked the Diet, the premier’s residence, railroad stations, the airport,
and universities—all in the capital—social uprisings that developed from
Miike miners and Buraku activists with their specific interests coalesced
with the Tokyo-based protest movement and heightened political tension.

While postwar social movements, with varying shades of activism, were
mostly a matter of urban politics, the Kyushu-based actions demonstrated
a risk of rebellious rural politics. Kyushu may present a conservative façade
in normal times, but in a time of national emergency its people rose up
against the powerful.
From the power-holders’ perspective, the Miike conflict could hardly be
ignored as a small noise from afar—a grievance of underdogs in the remote
periphery—in light of the darkening crisis atmosphere surrounding the
Treaty dispute. With high and sustainable economic growth on the horizon,
the Japanese state needed to consolidate, not weaken, its control over society
and its own legitimacy. Moreover, solid trade and international partnership
with the United States was indispensable for Japan’s development model.
Kent Calder’s observation regarding the Japanese state’s crisis perception of
the Miike militancy—that Japanese political and business leaders thus held
an “extremely low level of tolerance for political risk and uncertainty”—more
than adequately measures the state’s feeling of vulnerability to the uncontrol-
lable mass as well as of the necessity to devise means of crisis mitigation to
restore social order and its legitimacy.97 In this way, the political vectors that
created the crisis of the 1950s led to the state deployment of its emigration
policy as a decompressor, as the next chapter will explain.
6. Latin American Emigration
as Political Decompressor
If a great number of birds are confined in a small cage and fed
little food, they will soon start to fight; fights and ostracism
become routine in the cage. But once released from the cage of
old customs and captivity, the birds will joyfully fly away to a new
land of freedom and abundance—to a place free of discrimination,
exclusion, and old habits. The human condition is similar to this.1
—An address by a Colonial Ministry official on Buraku reformism.
This investigation into the social origins of the Latin American emigration
policy sheds light on the highly contentious political climate of the southwest
in the periods of national crisis in the 1920s and in the postwar period of the
1950s. The Japanese state—prewar authoritarian and postwar conservative—
resolutely cracked down on the core elements of social radicalism through
arrests, imprisonment, censorship, and other harassment. At the same time,
it began to co-opt the more conciliatory segments of its opposition by pro-
viding welfare, compensation, jobs, and other aid. As part of the spectrum
of accommodative politics seeking to emasculate the social opposition and
restore political equilibrium, the emigration policy was employed as another
instrument of political decompression. In the following sections 1 and 2 (pre-
war and postwar, respectively), I will detail the process of policy deployment
for crisis mitigation. This chapter will also explain the process through which
the emigration policy—as a strategic national policy—became localized in
the southwest, and interpret the political implications of this exclusionary
policy in the context of state paternalism. Lastly, the Okinawans’ histori-
cal emigration to Latin America will be discussed. Those islanders’ unique
relationship with Japan through the period of prewar colonialism and the
postwar U.S. occupation inevitably caused their mode of emigration to devi-
ate from that of other Japanese. Nonetheless—and not by accident as will be
seen below—the postwar Okinawan emigration policy enacted by the U.S.
occupiers assumed a similar function as a political safety valve.
Emigration as Political Decompressor 139
An Authoritarian Response
After the surge of social protests against the oligarchic regime, the balance of
power swung back from society to the state in the second half of the 1920s.
The Peace Preservation Law (Chian iji hō) was issued by the Katō Takaaki
cabinet on March 19, 1925, in order to reinforce the institutional structure
of domestic security. This law, especially Article 1, was loosely defined and
teemed with “dangerous ambiguities for any social protest movement,” in
the views of Garon and many Japanese jurists, but it unequivocally targeted
communists and anarchists. Any individual or group who attempted to radi-
cally alter kokutai (the national polity) or repeal the private property system
was now subject to severe punishment.2 The authoritarian system was further
beefed up with a rule that restricted the freedom of speech and association
(Bōryoku kōi tō shobatsu ni kansuru hōritsu) in 1926, the revision of the
Peace Preservation Law to severely punish a crime against the kokutai and
private ownership, and the establishment of the Special Higher Police that
investigated thought crimes. These juggernauts gave the police and the Justice
Ministry the capacity to crack down and intimidate whomever they felt was
subversive or dangerous.
The sweeping suppression of social activists followed. In 1928, the leaders of
the Japan Communist Party, which had been operating clandestinely, and the
party’s worker and peasant sympathizers were rounded up, in a total of more
than one thousand arrests. Other leftist organizations, including the Hyōgikai
union and the Labor Peasant Party, were dissolved. The Levelers Associa-
tion was shattered, with its core members, such as Matsumoto Jiichirō and
Kimura Kyūtarō, in prison. The loss of legal, intellectual, organizational, and
financial support neutered the revolutionary force in social movements.
Their organizations fragmented and debilitated, the dissidents themselves
managed to survive. Obdurate activists attempted to resuscitate their clan-
destine organizations and incessantly spread their revolutionary propaganda.
According to a statistical survey conducted by the Police and Security Bu-
reau, sixty peasant activists, including eleven southwesterners, who allegedly
violated the Peace Preservation Law, were arrested in 1927.3 As late as 1933,
fourteen Levelers members, all from Fukuoka, were arrested on the charge
of subversion.4 That year, at its eleventh national conference, the Levelers
Association pronounced its resolute opposition to Japan’s fascism and im-
perialist war in China.5 Regime hardliners, including the Justice Ministry,
the military, the House of Peers, and big business (represented by Baron Dan
Takuma of Mitsui Mining) thought the nation would not be safe until the
state neutralized all the foes of the kokutai and capital. Moderates, like the
Home Ministry, shared the hardliners’ concern about the revolutionaries

but looked for more nuanced means of social control than raw violence, and
began devising new and effective measures to constrain social forces within
the state’s institutional structures.
The idea of using the state emigration program to quell social ferment
became salient and prevalent in the discourse of politicians and administra-
tors during the turbulent period of the 1920s. The policy’s dual nature—to
alleviate overpopulation (the original goal of the migration policy) and to
reduce political instability—underscores the state’s realistic imagining of the
nation’s future trajectory, where overpopulation in a rural economy in transi-
tion would cause poverty and unemployment, which in turn would “deterio-
rate people’s morale and mentality,” and in which revolutionary ideologies
(sekika shisō) would permeate. Nagata Shigeshi, a Christian activist and a
founder of the Aliança Colony in Brazil, held such apprehensions behind his
migration-colonization crusade: “[If overpopulation and poverty prevail in
the rural economy], sekika shisō will inevitably emanate from inside Japan,
with or without a Russian influence. To deter such a negative development,
overseas migration is a most effective measure.”6 While traveling energetically
to the Americas and Northeast Asia searching for colonization sites, Nagata
worked closely with the Japanese government to found the Overseas Emigra-
tion Association, through which he guided the emigration of impoverished
Japanese to Brazil and later Manchuria.
When first institutionalized, the emigration policy fell under the jurisdic-
tion of the Social Affairs Department in the Bureau of Social Affairs of the
Home Ministry—the department in charge of the provision and administra-
tion of various social services for health and welfare—suggesting that the
prewar Japanese state positioned the emigration policy in the realm of social
control. The Imperial Economic Council of the Kiyoura Keigo government
(1924) settled on this bureaucratic arrangement since it felt that the emigra-
tion policy pertained more to addressing social contradictions and domestic
security matters, as expressed in its advisory: “To promote emigration is an
imminent task for the state to adequately distribute natural resources and
population, and resolve various social problems.” The Department of Co-
lonial Affairs (Takumu-bu) protested strongly, in vain, against the cabinet’s
decision, feeling that its bureaucratic territory was being transgressed.7
The more that anti-establishment animosity intensified in the mid 1920s,
and the harder the authoritarian state—especially the draconian Tanaka
Giichi administration—tried to suppress the opposition, the more explicit
the role of the emigration policy as a political decompressor became. On
April 25, 1928, in response to the resurgence of the communist party, the
Lower House passed the resolution, “On the Ideological Crisis of the Nation,”
warning that “further advance of communism and other evil ideologies can-
not be deterred by punishment alone. . . . Political safety valve institutions
should work as effectively as the penal system in preventing an insurgency.”8
The causes of social disorder seemed rooted so deep that a more subtle and
accommodative approach than raw repression was desirable. The overseas
emigration initiative, whose underpinning institutions were almost fully
formed by that time, was added to possible solutions in the policy portfolio.
In 1929, when jurisdiction over the emigration policy was transferred to the
newly established Colonial Ministry, these guiding perspectives on policy
application also followed. In the early 1930s, when post-Depression disquiet
spread in Japan, the Council on Thought Policy (Shisō taisaku kyōgi iinkai)
reported to the Saitō Makoto cabinet: “In order to improve the ideological
climate and contain dangerous thoughts, it is extremely urgent to create
diverse social policies and institutions that would alleviate people’s daily anxi-
ety.” The overseas migration initiative was one of the suggested anti-poverty,
anti-unemployment, and anti-leftist measures, together with public works,
job training centers, and social security programs.9 Politicization of Japan’s
emigration policy was observed even in the Japanese diaspora community
across the Pacific. A São Paulo-based Japanese newspaper, Nippaku Shinbun
reported: “In the past, government officials and intellectuals in Japan had
no favorable view of overseas migrants, whom they considered as trouble-
makers that caused international problems wherever they migrated. These
days, however, the government, particularly the Ministry of Home Affairs,
has become increasingly concerned about the problems of rapid population
growth, food scarcity, and the deterioration of ideology, and has come to the
conclusion that it must encourage overseas migration on a large scale.”10
Unequivocally, the Latin American emigration policy centered on the rural
population. While major leftist activity existed in urban and industrial cities,
the central government associated rural poverty with urban anarchy, since
massive numbers of the rural unemployed and destitute flooded the cities
and added fuel to labor radicalism. This spillover from the countryside had
worsened since the Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923. That year, the Japan
Emigration Association, consisting of a navy officer, high ranking officials
from the ministries of Home Affairs and Commerce, and the president of the
Tōtaku migration colonization company, submitted a policy recommendation
to Prime Minister Yamamoto Gonbei, recommending that Japan needed to
“translocate the excess agrarian population overseas while creating work for
the unemployed factory workers in the cities in order to mend the urban-
rural imbalance.”11 The government agreed with the suggestion to put heavy
emphasis on the rural agrarian sector in promoting its emigration policy.

It instructed the national emigration policy companies, Kaigai Kōgyō and
Nanbei Takushoku, to prioritize poor peasants in providing subsidies for
emigration-related expenses. Attesting to the state’s emphasis on rural peas-
antry in its emigration policy, the majority of emigrants on the ships destined
for South America registered as “commoner-farmers,” according to the pas-
senger lists of these emigration companies.12
This formula of crisis mitigation-through-emigration was examined with
particular regard to the Burakumin issue, where, ironically, the exclusion-
ary program was promoted for the emancipation of the long-discriminated-
against underclass. As early as the turn of the twentieth century (in the late
Meiji period), conservative nationalist thinkers were advocating the “eman-
cipation of the dangerous poor” by overseas migration. Tōyama Mitsuru, the
leader of a Kyushu-based ultra-nationalist group, Gen’yōsha, argued that Bu-
rakumin, both propertied and non-propertied, should emancipate themselves
by seeking their lives and career opportunities overseas.13 Sugiura Shigetaka,
an education scholar and imperial tutor of Crown Prince (later, Taishō Em-
peror) Yoshihito, echoed Tōyama, and made the condescending recommenda-
tion: “Burakumin, intellectually inferior but physically stronger than ordinary
Japanese, are better off migrating abroad, probably to the South [meaning
the South Pacific and South America], in order to overcome persistent social
discrimination at home.”14 Nanbu Roan, another Meiji thinker, inculcated
the Burakumin population through Yūwa publications with three means of
redemption to “restore their rights”: producing respectful community leader-
ship, success in many Japanese cities, and success in overseas migration. The
colonial bureaucrat, Yanase Keisuke, recommended Peru, Mexico, and Taiwan
as ideal havens for Burakumin salvation, believing that the more remote the
destination, the quicker and more perfect their redemption could be.15
The state and social advocates of the Burakumin problem put into prac-
tice the emancipation-via-emigration formula of these early conservative
ideologues. They realized that society was too conservative to eradicate this
discrimination, and began seeking a solution in the relocation of the dis-
criminated-against people. In the analysis—at the beginning of this chapter—
from a Colonial Ministry bureaucrat addressing Buraku reformists in a Yūwa
newsletter, the “bird” that should be set free from “the cage of old customs
and captivity” was the people of the hamlet.
Tellingly, a part of the overseas emigration budget for state subsidies of
travel expenses and other settlement costs was appropriated from the Yūwa
budget. Since its inception in the early 1920s, the state patronage program,
Yūwa jigyō (Project of Reconciliation and Reincorporation), under the ju-
risdiction of the Social Affairs Bureau of the Home Ministry, had openly
promoted emigration. It is recorded that the Central Yūwa Project Associa-
tion (Chūō yūwa jigyō kyōkai), the premier Yūwa organization, granted 2,750
yen in total (or 50–100 yen per family) to would-be emigrants to Brazil for
the fiscal year 1927.16 The proportion of the state’s Yūwa money designated for
emigration grew at the turn of the 1930s when the economic depression (the
Shōwa kyōkō) worsened the Burakumin’s plight. The Industrial and Economic
Research Council, a governmental study group on the Burakumin issue, ac-
cordingly released a policy recommendation in 1932: “In order to alleviate the
population pressure in Burakumin hamlets and stabilize their living situation,
the government should promote emigration to South America, Manchuria,
and Hokkaido.”17 For 1933, 46,400 yen out of the total Yūwa budget of 1.5
million yen was appropriated for the program.18 The public financial spon-
sorship of Burakumin emigration was repeatedly advertised in a series of
Yūwa initiatives, such as print media and lecture meetings held in Buraku
communities. From 1928 to 1934, the Yūwa jihō, the national newspaper of
the Yūwa association, actively promoted Brazilian-bound migration under
state sponsorship, at times devoting its entire front page to this topic. To
disseminate information about emigration culture and induce emigration
awareness and acceptance among the Buraku population, the popular press
emphasized the allure of Brazil, wooing potential emigrants with such se-
ductive words as “limitless resources of land and nature,” “Brazilian culture
of hospitality,” and “the Japanese government’s generous subsidies for travel
and settlement outlays.”19 Migration to South America manifested the basic
principle of the Yūwa project, that is, the Burakumin’s social and economic
redemption was to be sought through their own efforts at “self reliance” and
“self improvement.” South American emigration was thus a mighty stone
for killing two birds at once: “Burakumin’s emancipation from the agony of
discrimination and despisal” (in the words of the Okayama representative
of the OEA),20 and the elimination of domestic troublemakers.
The anti-establishment Levelers Association acutely suspected the true
intentions of this emancipation initiative. In the general guidelines proposed
at the ninth national Levelers Association meeting in 1930, the association
resolved to oppose “any indoctrination attempt, including kimin seisaku [a
policy that abandons people], to pull the teeth out of the Burakumin.”21
Burakumin emancipation via emigration to South America particularly
appealed to both the Yūwa administrators and a segment of the impoverished
Burakumin in the hard times of the post-Depression. Brazil continued to
attract the majority of the emigrating Burakumin until 1936, when Brazil and
other South American nations strictly limited Asian immigrants. Meanwhile,
the Sino-Japanese War broke out in 1937, and migration to Northeast Asia,
mainly Manchuria, became the first and foremost undertaking for Japan’s
colonialist strategy, and the Buraku population, together with non-Buraku
peasants (in this case from central and northeast Japan), were collectively
sent there as colonial pioneers. 22
The state prescription to mitigate popular discontent and prevent future

occurrence of similar troubles was applied towards the labor sector as well.
The application was less systemic, more sporadic, and of smaller scale, in
comparison with efforts directed toward the peasants and Burakumin, judg-
ing from available documents. One instance was the Kure Shipyard labor
strike. In the post–World War I period, when the policy of demilitariza-
tion affected the military-related industry and tens of thousands of work-
ers were laid off, shipbuilding workers in the port city of Kure, Hiroshima,
launched large-scale strikes against the employer (i.e., the Imperial Navy).
While suppressing violent strikers with strong force, the navy held talks
with less combative unemployed people about compensation; it proposed
emigration to Brazil. In collaboration with the Social Affairs Section of Hi-
roshima prefectural government, the policy company Kaigai Kōgyō, and
the Hiroshima OEA, the navy tried to recruit workers who would opt for
emigration, erecting a recruitment booth in front of the main gate of Kure
Naval Shipyard.23 Similarly, Sasebo Naval Shipyard in Nagasaki encouraged
laid-off workers and their families to emigrate to South America upon the
factory’s reorganization in 1924, and a few families took the plan. Five years
later, when the shipyard decided to shed its workers upon the Great Depres-
sion, the management began promoting the South American emigration
among the workers, holding lecture meetings and distributing pamphlets.24
Also, in Kyushu coal mines, “a fairly large number of miners” whose finances
were squeezed by the shutdown of operations were encouraged to migrate to
South America, according to Ueno Eishin, a writer, former Miike-miner, and
Kyushu-based union activist.25 In addition, a survey of the Nikkei popula-
tion in Brazil conducted in 1964 identified that there were 250 “miners and
quarrymen” (and their families) among the studied 10,501 emigrants who
were “non-farmers” and emigrated during the state-guided emigration pe-
riod.26 Identifying exactly how many ex-miners took this exit option, and
how effective the emigration-for-exclusion method was in coping with labor
disputes, are open questions, since the majority of them immigrated to Brazil
as “farmers.” For example, miners with Buraku origins may have migrated
under the Yūwa project and financing. These cases, while anecdotal, suggest
that the emigration-as-decompressor formula was also extended to rural

industrial areas. The treatment of labor in the postwar coal mining industry
lends this further support.
Before moving on to the next section, the issue of research methodology

in quantifying the policy outcome—computing the actual number of emi-
grants by class or social status (coal miners, Burakumin, etc.)—merits a
few comments. First, it is difficult to identify the true occupational status
of each immigrant. As mentioned above, a significant number of emigrants
migrated under state sponsorship as “farmers” (others were “craftsman” or
“teachers”) because the host governments were more likely to grant visas
to this occupational group. Stephen Thompson, who studied the Japanese
settlements in San Juan, Bolivia, in the 1960s, also suggests that many coal
miners who emigrated to Bolivia in the 1950s may have falsified their oc-
cupations out of a sense of shame at being miners, since “coal mining is a
low-status occupation in Japan.”27 Also, class identities per se were fluid and
intermingled among the Burakumin, peasants, and colliers (see chapter 5).28
An emigrant’s ideological disposition or political affiliation (such as “former
communist party member”) was most likely concealed in order to avoid the
host nations’ suspicion that Japan was attempting to export radicals. When
former union leaders and activists were found among southwesterner emi-
grants to Brazil, local embassy staff showed special concern and tried to keep
an eye on their actions.29
The question of the actual number of Burakumin who left Japan under
state policy is a challenge for the researcher more ethical than technical. The
Burakumin overseas emigration was motivated by a desire to be free from
ungrounded yet persistent discrimination inside Japan. Thompson was in-
formed of the existence of “three or four eta [sic; i.e., Burakumin] families
but [informants] in every case were either unable or unwilling to identify
them and if they do exist they are careful not to call attention to themselves
by butchering their own animals.”30 Their Buraku identity was masked either
by the individuals themselves or by emigration officials, and accordingly there
are no formal statistics on the Burakumin in Latin America, to the author’s
knowledge. It may be possible to count the Burakumin emigrants through
cross-reference with their home addresses, which are available on the pas-
senger lists. But the references that identify exact addresses of the Buraku
quarters in Japan, such as the Buraku chimei sōkan (Comprehensive List of
Buraku Residences), are banned in the country. Further, this very method—
to identify them by their residence and brand them as “Burakumin”—which
has been practiced by companies, public officials and private investigators,

is subject to censure in Japan.31 For this reason, the question of how many
Buraku people were sent abroad remains open in this book.
Policy Deployment by the Conservative Postwar State

The postwar Japanese state faced social ferment that developed on political
vectors rooted in the southwest—militant coal miners and Burakumin—since
the mid 1950s, as mentioned in section 4 of the previous chapter. The coal
mining industry put forth its rationalization plan despite labor’s consistent
resistance. The miners’ struggle for survival culminated in the Great Miike
Strike in 1959–60, which cast labor and its social sympathizers as antagonists
against capital and the state. The Burakumin’s liberation movement factored
into this political stalemate, further heightening the state’s perception of crisis
in the southwestern social order. Realizing that local administrators and law
enforcement were inept at that moment of crisis, the LDP-led government
decided to step in, hoping to promptly overcome the stalemate through new
political arrangements. As will be discussed below, overseas migration as
an effective crisis management instrument came under consideration in
this regard.
Observing that the Miike-based opposition force was increasingly po-
liticized, allying itself with the anti-Japan-U.S. Security Treaty movement,
Tokyo understood that the fundamental issue at stake was economic, namely
workers’ concerns about employment and social security. Coal miners, if
granted new jobs or compensation programs, would lose their appetite for
defiance. In its conviction, the government prepared safety nets for those who
would lose or had lost their jobs through either dismissal or layoff. Unlike
“ordinary” unemployment, the unemployment problem of the ex-miners
was systemic (due to the industry-wide rationalization) and geographically
concentrated in mining towns, and in large numbers (about 181,000 in 1959
alone). So their re-employment had to be handled with special care, accord-
ing to the Labor Ministry’s Department for Unemployment.32 In particular,
the re-employment of Miike workers, who had gained a political reputation
as confrontational labor but who had no special skills other than digging
coal, was not easy in the rapidly changing labor market. A systemic and
comprehensive method was needed.
When Mitsui Miike Mining was in the midst of its labor strike, discussion
took place among the ministries of Labor, Health and Welfare, International
Trade and Industry (MITI), and the Economic Planning Agency (EPA) about
a compensation program for the ex-miners. MITI, representing the business
interests of major coal mining concerns, advocated the promotion of over-

seas migration as a concrete aid for the ex-miners. A cabinet meeting in the
presence of Prime Minister Kishi on September 8, 1959, laid out the public
assistance programs for the ex-miners, including overseas emigration, tempo-
rary public works, and new housing subsidies, in addition to the companies’
compensation plans. To support the aid program, MOFA, MAFF (agriculture,
fishery, and forest ministry), and the Ministry of Construction—all field
overseers of the Latin American-bound migration scheme—joined the task
force to collectively translocate ex-miners to farming colonies overseas, based
on the Law on Temporary Measurement for Laid-off Coal Miners (tankō
rishokusha rinji shochi hō, effective on December 18, 1959).33
Prior to this, the Japanese government experimented with a similar ini-
tiative in collaboration with West Germany in 1955. The Measures for the
Rationalization of the Coal Mining Industry (Sekitan kōgyō gōrika shochi hō)
of 1955 planned for the temporary migration of 500 miners to West Germany;
436 Japanese colliers were relocated to coal mines in the Ruhr region from
1957 till 1965 on three-year-contracts.34 This international arrangement, an
odd sort of deal transferring laid-off miners between former Axis countries,
was a prelude to larger-scale emigration to Latin America.
Compared to the time-limited migration of single miners to postwar West
Germany, the Latin American option seemed more promising in many re-
spects. Brazil, in particular, which had reopened its gates to Japanese im-
migrants, had the capacity to absorb a greater number of the former miners
and their families on the basis of permanent migration. The comparatively
less developed economies, especially in the agrarian sector, of Brazil, Bolivia,
Paraguay, and the Dominican Republic seemed a good match for the less-
skilled former miners.35 Obviously, farming and mining require different
skill sets and command different work and life styles, but the Japanese ex-
colliers hurriedly put on the garb of professional farmers. Because the host
nations were strongly demanding foreign immigrants who could be agrarian
pioneers in frontier areas, and since the wage level of Brazil’s mining sector
was too low for the Japanese ex-miners, the successive Kishi and Ikeda ad-
ministrations came to the conclusion that there was “no other way to move a
significant number of ex-miners emigrants abroad but to send them to Latin
America as agrarian migrants.”36 When the local Nikkei leadership in Brazil
informed the Japanese government of the host government’s concern about
receiving “hardcore militant” workers from the world-famous Miike mines
(the Miike strike had already gained an international reputation), MOFA
and EPA decided to address this problem by “disguising” miner-emigrants
as genuine, well-trained farmers.37 Their internal justification was that “since
many coal miners originate from farming villages and are physically strong,
with the proper training and after association with experienced farmers,
they can qualify for agrarian emigration.”38 MOFA also assuaged the host
government of Brazil with similar justifications.39 Meanwhile, the farming
skills of the ex-miners were enhanced through a 520 hour-long agricultural
training program before their departure.40
MOFA instructed its subordinate offices that ex-miner emigrants should
be mixed with real farmer emigrants, and that colliers-only group migration
was to be avoided. More specifically, individual ex-miners’ families should
be employed as coffee colonos in established farming concerns; their col-
lective migration as independent agrarian developers (jiei kaitaku-nō) was
held to a minimum. Such discretion, reflected in the dispersed settlement
of the ex-colliers, stemmed partly from the government’s concern about
the sustainability of the miners’ farming efforts. It also subsumed Tokyo’s
political considerations: diluted settlement would prevent rebellion, since “a
fairly large number of leftists were among ex-miner immigrants,” and would
address the host country’s concern that Japan was manipulating emigration
to send dangerous elements abroad.41
Japan’s private sector also contributed to the miner emigration initiative.
From the beginning of the policy’s institutionalization, mining companies—
Mitsui Mining and Meiji Mining—were interested in Latin American emi-
gration as a means of organizational downsizing. The São Paulo Shinbun
reported that Mitsui executives visited Brazil and Argentina in October 1959
to research potential sites for the relocation of miners, employing them either
as farmers in the Nikkei plantations, such as Mitsubishi’s Higashiyama Farm,
or as employees of Japanese multinational corporations, such as Ishikawajima
Shipbuilding.42 The Nikkei community in Brazil also lent its support to the
initiative, mobilizing local networks in order to find host states willing to
receive Japanese immigrants.43
Inside Japan, the Unemployed Miners Aid Society, founded by the EPA, in
cooperation with the Kaikyōren (MOFA’s affiliate specializing in overseas mi-
gration) promoted the Latin American emigration program to the ex-miners.
The Aid Society set up local branches in the cities of Fukuoka and Ube (both
in the southwest) as well as in Taira, Fukushima, and Sapporo, Hokkaido,
where unemployed miners concentrated. It budgeted 200,000 yen per mi-
grating family to cover the agricultural training expense, travel expenses, and
the cost of farming tools.44 In Fukuoka, where the former-colliers problem
was particularly grave, the society opened an additional four satellite offices
so as to reinforce its efforts.45 The society’s Kyushu representative expressed
indomitable resolve in front of the would-be emigrants at the farming training
center as follows: “I believe overseas migration is the most appropriate way

to solve today’s miners’ unemployment problem, which is a serious social
problem. You [the miners] must be well-trained in mining; but you would
be nothing but inexperienced labor in other industries as long as you stay in
Japan. It is tragic that an experienced worker degenerates into an unskilled one
after decades of hard work. In order not to let this happen to you, I promote
the emigration policy so that former miners can start afresh overseas.”46
As will be mentioned in the next section, the Fukuoka administrators
enthusiastically promoted emigration of its people, providing extra financial
incentives to would-be migrants out of the prefectural budget. Such local
efforts popularized the emigration program among the miners and aug-
mented the number of applicants. The Fukuoka prefectural office happily
reported to Tokyo that Latin American emigration—which had been almost
unknown among the miners—was generating an “emigration fever” among
those people; that public subsidies for emigration were facilitating miners’
preparations for emigration; and that the proportion of miner-emigrants to
total emigrants from the prefecture amounted to three quarters. In the report,
Fukuoka declared, “We would like to intensify the emigration program within
the prefecture in greater cooperation with the big mines and Tokyo.”47
How successful was the miner relocation program—in other words,
how many miners actually took this compensation option? Ueno Eishin,
a Chikuhō-based journalist, speculated that as many as two thousand ex-
miner households, representing about twelve thousand family members,
left from the mining region to Brazil, Bolivia, and the Dominican Republic
under the program.48 As of this writing, no comprehensive official data on
the number of ex-miner emigrants is available. Some available records show
that 417 miner households in Fukuoka expressed to the Labor Ministry their
willingness to emigrate abroad as of 1959,49 and that Mitsui Mining scheduled
the relocation of 500 of its former employees and their families to São Paulo
from 1961 to 1963.50 Putting aside the exact count of emigrants from collier-
ies, overseas emigration provided the government an alternative measure
to mitigate the labor crisis and to weather the most turbulent period of its
postwar governance. The government’s employment of Latin American mi-
gration in addressing the labor problem in the southwest also extended the
longevity of the emigration policy itself.
What of the other problem groups who moved to South America and the
Caribbean in the postwar period? Regarding the Burakumin, no evidence
that the postwar government used the emigration policy to solve Buraku-
related issues was found. Most likely, this did not happen because the Dōwa
aid project (the postwar counterpart of the Yūwa project from the prewar
years) of the central government started in 1969, almost a decade after post-
war Latin American migration peaked.51 Would the policy, had it continued,
have served the Dōwa project? It is an open-ended question. Yet, it is also
reasonable to assume that the miner emigrants included a substantial number
of the Buraku people, given the large number of Burakumin who worked
in the Kyushu mining sector, as mentioned in the preceding chapter. The
above-cited study by Thompson also supports the conjecture that there were
ex-miners/Burakumin in the postwar San Juan settlement.52
Due to the similar challenges they presented to the government, the ru-
ral population at large also became a target of the emigration policy. In the
social chaos of the post-surrender period, the occupied GOJ struggled to
control internal human mobility—the rural unemployed and the penniless
drifting into big cities—as detailed in chapter 4. In particular, the returnees
from Manchuria, Siberia, and other former Japanese territories worsened
the demographic imbalance. Nagata Shigeshi, an advocate and practitio-
ner of Latin American emigration of the impoverished Japanese from the
Christian perspective of aiding the poor, held the conviction that, “If the
government does not provide adequate aid to the hikiagesha, they will soon
lose the traditional Japanese morality and inevitably turn ‘red.’ . . . Since they
are desperate for land to live on and cultivate, if the Soviet Union releases
its eastern territory to them, they would happily migrate there and follow
communism. . . . By translocating these desperate folks to Latin America,
Japan could prevent their communization [sekika].” 53
The initiative of emigration against overpopulation surfaced in this con-
text. Tokyo’s resolve to “have the outlying prefectures solve their population-
related problems by themselves,” for fear of worsening social and political
conditions in the central cities, pushed many regional governments to turn
to the policy of overseas migration, as we will see in the following section.
A statement made by the special envoy from Hiroshima Prefecture to Brazil
in 1955 embraces Tokyo’s logic in connecting domestic security and Latin
American migration: “Recently, the economic conditions in Hiroshima Pre-
fecture are going downhill towards collapse, due to the outmigration of lo-
cal youth to larger cities outside the prefecture, ideological decadence, and
overpopulation. Governor Ōhara [Hiroo] of our prefecture expects Brazil
to sponsor as many immigrants from Hiroshima as possible.” 54 The Várzea
Alegre Colony in Pará, Brazil, was one such embodiment of Japan’s intent:
the colony received hikiagesha, who turned to the emigration option for help
after they failed to settle in the state-run farming villages (“kaitaku-mura”)
of Yamaguchi Prefecture.55 A former JICA staff member also confirmed that,
“Many newcomers [i.e., the postwar emigrants] in South America were re-
turnees from the Continent [northeastern China or Siberia].”56
Localization of the National Policy

In both the prewar and postwar cases, the agents who most promoted the
emigration policy in the southwest were local authorities and organizations.
Specifically, they were regional governments (prefectural, city, or village),
quasi-statal migration concerns and associations, politicians of southwestern
origin, and other supporters. Institutional arrangements changed dramati-
cally after World War II, due to SCAP’s dissolution of the old administrative
structure; in what follows, therefore, prewar and postwar situations will be
examined separately.
In the prewar period, it was probably local governments, facing the anger
of local protestors, that most keenly felt the urgency of the endogenous cri-
ses and the necessity of relieving the resulting political pressure. Upon the
outbreak of the Rice Riots in 1918, the governors of Fukuoka and Yamaguchi
desperately called for military deployment to suppress the rampant coal
miners. The Great Strike at Yahata in 1920 also saw the Fukuoka governor
mobilize eighty military police and some six hundred policemen, suggest-
ing the level of his anxiety. When the peasants’ protest movement led by
the leftist Nichinō federation was in full swing in the mid-1920s, a mayor
in Tottori Prefecture petitioned Governor Shiraishi, who in turn consulted
with the central government and hurried to institutionalize overseas migra-
tion in his district to contain the peasant uprisings.57 It is important to note
that, in the prewar non-democratic regime, governors were not elected but
were appointed by the Home Ministry in Tokyo, to which the governors
were responsible and accountable. If Tokyo doubted a governor’s effective-
ness, he might lose his office. He had good reason to be interested in the
emigration-for-crisis mitigation formula, and promoted it in collaboration
with the central administrators.
The institutional structure for emigration advertising and recruitment,
channeling Tokyo and local prefectures, evolved over the decades of the 1920s
and 1930s, but roughly took the form shown in table 6.1.
These organizations were legally independent of one other, but the Home
Ministry or Colonial Ministry gave basic guidelines and instructions for
program management to the migration agencies, Yūwa associations, and
local governments; the ministries’ influence was substantial because of the
large amount of subsidies and capital they appropriated. Films, posters, and
other material on Latin America and the migration colonies were crafted by
the ministry in charge or the emigration companies—mainly Kaigai Kōgyō
and Nanbei Takushoku—and distributed to local governments (usually their
social affairs departments/sections) and to the OEA’s eighteen local branches.
More importantly, the quotas for migrants to be recruited from each pre-
Table 6. 1 Central and Local Organizations for Emigration Advertising and
Recruitment
Tokyo Local
Home Ministry / Colonial Ministry Prefectural government (Social Affairs Dept.)
Central Yūwa Association Prefectural government (Social Affairs Dept.);
Yūwa-related local associations
OEA OEA’s local branch (located in prefectural
Kaigai Kōgyō governments)
Nanbei Takushoku
Home Ministry (until 1928)
Colonial Ministry (since 1928)
OEA = Overseas Emigration Association
fecture were distributed from the center to local functionaries, dispropor-

tionately favoring the southwestern prefectures. First, the national quota
of migrants to be accepted by host governments was divided between the
OEA and the emigration companies. Then, these state recruiters discussed
with each local government how many emigrants each prefecture could and
should recruit. In the Latin American emigration program, the southwest-
ern prefectures of Hiroshima, Yamaguchi, Fukuoka, Kumamoto, and others
(except for Okinawa), usually were assigned relatively larger quotas, as the
internal documents of Kaigai Kōgyō and Nanbei Takushoku show.58 In one
case, these prefectures were assigned more than half of Kaigai Kōgyō’s entire
quota of 1,900 families. When other prefectures failed to meet their quo-
tas, the southwestern governments volunteered to meet the shortfall. In an
emergency situation, like the Great Kure Shipyard Strike, the Hiroshima pre-
fectural government collaborated with the navy and the OEA’s local branch
in setting up a special booth to enlist workers who might otherwise go on
strike to join the Brazil-bound migration.
Local activism was also a key to collect a larger number of Burakumin for
migration to South America. Conciliatory Yūwa organizations, such as Kyowa-
kai of Okayama and Isshin-kai of Yamaguchi, institutionalized overseas emi-
gration as an integral part of “rural/Buraku improvement” in the 1920s.59 Yūwa
Jihō newsletters, which were widely distributed to urban and rural Buraku
quarters, oftentimes printed articles on the state-sponsored South America
migration program in special editions for the Kyushu region. Personnel in
the prefectural governments’ social affairs offices and OEA branches, many of
which were in the southwest, contributed such articles, trumpeting “unlimited
wealth, opportunities, and happiness awaiting Burakumin in South America
whose climate is akin to that of your homeland,” or encouraging potential
emigrants to “go to Brazil, exert yourself, and win glory.” 60
These southwestern prefectures often used the phraseology, “dentōteki imin

ken” (a prefecture with a tradition of emigration) when trying to further the
overseas migration movement from their localities. These prefectures did,
in fact, carry a long history of overseas migration, tracing back to the early
Japanese emigration to Hawaii in the 1880s.61 Since then, the social capital
that induced, expedited, and augmented locality-to-locality emigration ac-
cumulated in the region. By the time that the state-guided Latin American
emigration policy developed, the southwest was endowed with many histori-
cal precedents and assets: local and transnational support institutions (such
as kenjin-kai, or the prefecture-based Nikkei associations), knowledge, and
experience with overseas migration. Mobilizing these robust institutions, the
southwestern prefectures were adept at recruiting and sending more people
to Latin America than other regions and championed the national emigra-
tion enterprise for a long time. This virtue had to be reinforced, in the words
of encouragement from a prewar Hiroshima-based statesman, until “Hiro-
shima’s new nation is built in South America, not only our pride but also the
predestined responsibility of the denizens of the emigration kingdom.”62 The
postwar, atomic bomb-ravaged Hiroshima Prefecture sought to resuscitate
this tradition of emigration through diplomacy (as in Governor Ōhara’s visit
to Brazil and the dispatch of his special envoy to discuss a resumption of
emigration from Hiroshima), and new institutions to promote emigration in
the area—for example, the Hiroshima Overseas Association, the appropria-
tion of funds to subsidize and finance emigration, the emigration program
in the curriculum of agriculture high schools, and so on. The prefecture’s
passion for emigration lingered on even after the domestic necessity for it
dissipated; its emigration history book recounts that, “The prefecture’s staff
asked for the cooperation of otherwise reluctant municipal administrators
to ‘discover potential emigration hopefuls’ by literally digging grassroots in
the ground” (kusano ne wo waketemo).63
Likewise, in prewar Fukuoka, Governor Matsumoto Manabu, who also
chaired the Fukuoka branch of the OEA, wrote in 1930 that, “Fukuokans are
ambitious and outward-looking people, having pride in advancing thousands
of miles away since the ancient times. It is our duty as pioneers in overseas
migration to encourage and assist others to follow our suit, by sharing our
precious experiences with them.”64 At the same time, overseas migration was
to “solve labor, agrarian, social, and ideological problems and realize the
welfare of 2.5 million Fukuokans.”65 For this purpose, various local organiza-
tions and institutions needed to diffuse the ideology of overseas migration
and expand and intensify the migration-settlement project, said Hayashi
Shunjirō, the vice chairman of the Fukuoka-based OEA and chairman of
the prefectural parliament.
In the postwar period, the Fukuoka prefectural government revived the

emigration policy toward its people, mostly laid-off coal miners and their
families, directing them to South America and the Caribbean. While Tokyo’s
involvement was direct and the recruitment process was regionally specific,
as mentioned before, with Ex-miners Aid Society’s local branches and satel-
lite recruitment offices in the core locale of the protests, Fukuoka became an
eager emigration project backer. In 1960, when the Miike workers’ strike was
at a deadlock, the prefectural government, hoping that monetary assistance
would encourage the miners to go abroad,66 started to provide ijū shitakukin
(emigration funds) of about 140,000 yen to each miner family who wanted
to emigrate overseas.67 Later on, the amount was raised by 100,000 yen per
family, coupled with a 30,000 yen farewell gift from the governor (chiji sen-
betsukin), so as to recruit more ex-miners who would emigrate. When the
prefecture’s emigration office found cities and towns that had not recruited
a single emigrant, it reinforced the advertisement and recruitment campaign
in these districts.68 The official newsletter “Chūnanbei ijūchi dayori (Letters
from Settlements in Latin America)” presented a bright picture of South
America by carrying letters from ex-miner emigrants. One such letter was
titled, “A former green hell turned into a fine farm.” Apparently in a differ-
ent tone from the title, Takahashi Yūsaku, the author of the letter and an
ex-miner who emigrated to Amazonas, Brazil, concluded his letter saying
that, “I cannot help but feel that my expectation before emigration was a
little betrayed. But I also do not feel like cursing the Heaven [either his fate
or the government]. I migrated to Brazil with my own ambition. I want to
continue to try hard, hoping that things will be better in the future.”69 In
1963, the government of Fukuoka also created a worker compensation plan
for laid-off workers at the Itazuke Base of the U.S. Army. Together with
temporary loan assistance, job training, and recruitment by the Defense
Force for re-employment, the outline recommended overseas emigration
as an option for the jobless.70 The emigration policy continued in Fukuoka
throughout the 1960s, even after the Miike crisis was over and “fewer and
fewer people were interested in overseas emigration because they could find
jobs in urban cities.”71 Like the Hiroshima case, the pro-emigration agents in
Fukuoka clung to their parochial pride in overseas migration and promoted
it even after the external necessities had dissipated.
Other prefectures that promoted emigration of the ex-miners were Saga
and Yamaguchi. In 1960, Saga prefecture’s legislature approved participa-
tion in the project of the Japan Emigration Aid Corporation (JEAC) to pur-
chase land for Japanese settlers in Guatapara, Brazil.72 Appropriating funds
for the migration bill from its chronically deficit-ridden fiscal account, the
local administration hurriedly trained miners as eligible farmer-migrants

for collective settlement. The program sent a rather meager number of 126
“miners-turned-farmers” (26 families) to the Brazilian settlement. Yamagu-
chi, also afflicted by ex-miners and other problems resulting from redundant
population, employed the “strategically specified hamlets for emigration”
system (ijū suishin mura). Its government selected specific villages whose
“socioeconomic structure lacks an endogenous dynamic to create employ-
ment” as targets for emigration.73 Targets included the residences of coal
miners and postwar expatriates (hikiagesha). It was not rare that the expatri-
ates moonlighted in nearby collieries while farming on land provided by the
government. Koike Mitsuru was one such hikiagesha-miner in Yamaguchi.
After having lost a mining job in 1956, Koike decided to migrate to Brazil. But
his family was smaller in number than required. The prefecture’s emigration
office advised the Koikes to adopt orphans to qualify. The newly expanded
Koike family of eight joined another thirty-six families in Válzea Alegre.
There were several ex-miners from Yamaguchi in this colony—seven out of
thirty-six families—as a result of Yamaguchi Prefecture’s initiative to build
Village Yamaguchi therein, based on its financial support of housing and
farming loans of 650,000 yen at favorable terms.74
To lead the national campaign of reducing excess population in rural areas

via emigration became the parochial pride of southwestern pro-emigration
traditionalists in both prewar and postwar cases. As a result, the southwest
was able to champion Japan’s emigration to Latin America. But it may be more
of a dishonor in the context of democratic norms that these local authorities
repeatedly resorted to emigration in order to cope with social problems in
the region, whether overpopulation, poverty, or leftist activism.
Political Implications of the Emigration Policy

Japan’s emigration policy towards Latin America has been criticized as a
“policy that abandons people” (kimin seisaku), under which the Japanese
state mercilessly banished its people into alien lands or wilderness without
much protection or support.75 But the policy had more subtle and multifac-
eted political implications, engaging both authoritarian-exclusionary and
paternalistic-co-optative aspects.
The Latin American emigration initiative was institutionalized in the 1920s
and again in the 1950s along with a broader set of welfare programs to cope
with economic dislocation and worsening civic decay. According to Sheldon
Garon, the rise of state welfarism in the prewar period was contemporaneous
with the ascent of the labor movement after the Russo-Japanese War.76 The in-
tensifying labor-capital clash and the infiltration of international communism
and socialism into mass movements convinced successive governments in the
Meiji and Taishō periods to assume a special “ethical mission” to intervene
in labor/management issues and shape new social relations by institutional-
izing welfare and depoliticizing social classes. Learning from the German
state philosophy that the labor crisis was not only an economic issue—labor
disputes to be solved by companies or markets—but also sozialpolitik that
concerned national interests and values, the moralist and reformist faction
within the bureaucracy, mainly the Home Ministry, grew inclined toward
interventionism in economic and social affairs. The Bureau of Social Affairs
of the Home Ministry took leadership in launching the social rehabilitation
crusade. In parallel with other social campaigns—workers’ compensation,
safety nets for the unemployed, poverty relief, public health and education,
and children’s welfare—the emigration policy assumed the public mission
of restoring the broken economic base of the poor and thereby encouraging
their material (and ultimately spiritual) autonomy.
In the same spirit of social relief and individual rehabilitation, the Social
Bureau promoted and sponsored Burakumin emigration through the Yūwa
institutions. Emigration was designed to “kill two birds with one stone: while
improving your economic conditions, emigration can emancipate you from
the agony of social discrimination and despise,” in the words of one Yūwa
official.77 Under the administration of the Colonial Ministry, the flagship of
Japanese colonialism, Latin American emigration continued to serve the Bu-
rakumin’s rehabilitation and emancipation. The Guidelines for the Economic
Reform Campaign for the Buraku (Buraku keizai kōsei undō ni kansuru yōkō)
from December 1932 specify: “In order to reduce the overpopulation and im-
prove the living standards within the Buraku quarters, the Buraku population
is encouraged to migrate to Hokkaido, Manchuria, and South America.”78
The normative pursuit of poverty relief and welfarism by the benevolent state
may thus seem to have run through the spine of the emigration policy.
Or so it seemed on the surface. In the prewar context of the authoritarian
and kokutai (national essence) polity, welfare considerations were, for the
most part, subordinate to the ultimate concerns of domestic security and
moral integrity in society. In other words, macropolitical issues mattered
more to the Japanese state than microeconomic problems of the individual;
if economic distress in villages bothered the state, political instability and
moral decay frightened it. As a reactionary young army cadet who joined
a military coup in May 1932 testified, “The destitute of farming villages are
essentially a matter of national crisis. If agrarian poverty remains unsolved,
peasant revolts are inevitable in the near future. If the peasants revolt against
the authorities, it would be as disastrous as parricide, the children massa-
cring their parents. Farmers would turn against the military, the military will
be demolished, and the imperial kokutai system destroyed.”79 In the highly
conservative mindset common among the prewar establishment, material
welfare was a means to achieve its higher ends—national unity and regime
permanency.
This statist logic dictated the postwar emigration policy as well. Indeed,
the emigration policy was a part of public assistance to the unemployed, and
provided some of them a window of opportunity. The policy administrators
may have genuinely wished the best for the emigrants in their new home-
lands. But the continuing mismanagement of the emigration program and
the maltreatment of the emigrants suggest strongly that the officials’ real
priority lay in the immediate and smooth resolution of imminent national
crisis rather than with each emigrant’s long-term success. Otherwise, how
could the flawed and inadequate policy last for so long?
As a means to avert threat to the state, the emigration was not as forceful
and unilateral as expulsion or ostracism. To be sure, those who participated
in the state’s program in the prewar and postwar periods decided to do so
based upon their own needs and expectations. We must note, though, that
the voluntary choices of these individual decision-makers were structurally
constrained by external factors. In particular, there was an asymmetric rela-
tion between the migrants and the policy administrators in terms of their
capacity to gather information regarding emigration, material conditions
of the settlements, sociocultural environments and legal settings in the host
countries, and the prospects of success. Potential migrants only had recourse
to the official explanations, vague hearsay, or unverified information in public
circulation. Previous chapters discussed how the public information on emi-
gration and settlement was inaccurate or even distorted, presenting solely a
rosy picture of the program, to the migrants’ disadvantage. Hyperbole, like
“trees bear gold nuggets in Brazil,” “a paradise in the Caribbean,” or “land
for free,” must have sounded mesmerizing in the ears of those who were on
the verge of economic collapse.
Some who felt victimized by the state’s manipulation and dishonesty took
legal action. In one case, Matsuno Taketoshi, a former miner from Fukuoka
who entered into the Juscelino Kubitschek Colony in the state of Bahia, Brazil,
in 1960 and eventually returned to Japan after the settlement’s failure,80 sued
the MOFA-affiliated Japan International Cooperation Agency (formerly the
Kaikyōren) on the charge that “the government’s mishandling of advertising
and recruitment caused their failure in the settlement” on January 16, 1968.
On April 1, 1975, the Fukuoka District Court ruled against the defendant
(i.e., JICA), admitting that the official information on land fertility and other
conditions for settlement was significantly different from reality.81 The court
ordered the JICA to pay 2.63 million yen.82 The ruling was later upheld by
the Fukuoka Higher Court.
Another, larger lawsuit was filed in Tokyo District Court in July 2000.83 A
total of 126 plaintiffs (later increased to 170)—immigrants to the Dominican
Republic, including some who later returned to Japan—filed a group action
against the GOJ (specifically, JICA, MOFA, and MAFF) on the charge that
“it fail[ed] to fulfill its obligation to realize the settlement conditions that it
promised to the immigrants upon recruitment,” and demanded compensa-
tion of about 2.5 billion yen in total.84 The court ruling came on June 7, 2006,
finding that the government had not fulfilled its duties to conduct proper
field research prior to immigration and provide accurate and sufficient in-
formation. However, the plaintiffs’ damage claims were denied because their
rights to claim redress had expired. But the case took an unexpected turn
when Prime Minister Koizumi Jun’ichiro’s office intervened and pledged
compensation to the victims. That included special lump-sum payments
(tokubetsu ichijikin) ranging from 500,000 yen to 2 million yen per plaintiff,
an official apology by the prime minister, various kinds of support for the
existing Nikkei community in the Dominican Republic, debt restructuring
(to lessen the immigrants’ burden from foreign currency fluctuations), and
the attendance of the prime minister’s special envoy at the fiftieth anniversary
observance of Japanese immigration to the Dominican Republic.85 These
reparations were made simply at Mr. Koizumi’s own discretion, following the
counsel of Otsuji Hideyuki, the former minister of welfare, and against strong
resistance from within the state. The Asahi Shinbun viewed this decision as
based on the expectation that no new similar lawsuit was likely, given the age
of the immigrants (most of the plaintiffs were in their late seventies). While
joyful over the prime minister’s sympathy, the plaintiffs had mixed feelings:
“Was the fifty year-long toil and struggle worth only 2 million yen?” (their
original claims were 10–30 million yen); “I wish to continue the lawsuit, but
my heart problem won’t let me . . .”86
What, then, was the political appeal of the emigration policy as opposed to
other means of conflict resolution—either authoritarian ones, such as arrest
and censorship, or more progressive solutions, such as democratic and legal
procedures, representation and deliberation? One possible reason behind
the policy choice was the relatively low cost of that particular option. These
costs here may be measured in social outcry and protest, a fatal decline in the
government’s popularity or in state legitimacy, or international condemnation
in the face of authoritarian policies or the foul praxis of arbitrary arrests and
imprisonment, crude oppression, ostracism, or deportation for political or
ideological reasons. Emigration may not have borne such a heavy political
cost as long as it maintained the façade of voluntary migration. Since it could
remove en masse what it perceived as an undesirable people “peacefully” and
permanently, no criticism would arise surrounding the measure. Instead, the
policy action could enjoy wider approval for having provided a second life
chance to an otherwise hopeless population.
Another virtue of the emigration policy was its capacity to raise the cost
of opposition by labor, as exemplified in the labor dispute with management
at the postwar collieries. In 1959, when the Kishi administration accelerated
its program of coal production rationalization and companies were offering
voluntary layoff packages, an increasing number of workers chose the exit
options, including Latin American emigration. In the miners’ eyes, a com-
pensation package, no matter how meager, was better than nothing, and in a
sense more rewarding than gaining abstract political rights for those on the
verge of personal bankruptcy, at least in the short run. Of course, emigration
was not the ultimate cause of labor’s defeat in the Mitsui Miike struggle. But
it did quicken the decline of unionism by increasing opportunity costs on
the workers’ side (i.e., union strikes), spreading a mood of defeatism among
workers (especially when some of the union leaders took the emigration
option), and demoralizing their movement from within. Strident unions
resisted the company’s use of the emigration tactic, and accused emigration
applicants of being traitors. In one case, Miike unions even succeeded in
stopping Mitsui Mining’s plan to send excess labor to mines in the state of
Rio Grande do Sur in Brazil as mining-labor migrants.87 These episodes sug-
gest that the unions were apprehensive of the anti-solidarity strategy woven
into the state-sponsored emigration plan.88 The state also took precautions:
a MOFA official in charge of Latin American emigration programs warned
that “[the government] must strategize how to circumvent labor resistance
when advertising the programs among the coal miners.”89
The Latin American emigration policy qua a political decompressor—

emerging from the crisis atmosphere in the southwest in both prewar and
postwar periods—ebbed with the arrival of new domestic and international
conditions. In the prewar case, the number of emigrants to Latin America
decreased sharply in the mid-1930s when the national migration-colonization
policy shifted its target to Manchuria. Also, the wartime fascist regime after
1937 established political order in society through strict persecution of the
social opponents of the regime. In the postwar years, people’s values and
interests shifted from radical politics to economics in accordance with the

mesmerizing industrialization and economic growth beginning in the 1960s.
In both these new, changed circumstances, the safety valve may have ac-
complished its original task. Even after its domestic political function ended
and emigration itself peaked, however, the political ideology and institutions
that developed under the policy continued to operate. Another function
of the emigration machinery was nation-building by way of transnational
expansion of statehood and reinforcement of a new state-”society” relation-
ship with a co-ethnic diaspora in Latin America, as will be discussed in the
following chapter.
Okinawa as an Aberration
Okinawa, the southernmost prefecture of Japan, stands out as an aberration
from the pattern that has been seen throughout this study. It is the only
southwestern prefecture that produced a large number of emigrants to Latin
America in the first wave without support from the Japanese state. In fact,
Okinawans’ emigration took place despite the state’s discouragement and
intimidation. Likewise, in the wave of postwar emigration, the Okinawans’
exodus took place not under the aegis of the Japanese government, but under
that of the U.S. occupier and its lieutenant Ryūkyū government.
Since ancient times, Okinawans have traveled or migrated through the
archipelago and beyond. The independent Kingdom of Ryūkyū (1429–1879),
developed a unique international political and trade relationship with its
neighboring states. Migration was a staple operation of this maritime nation.
When Ryūkyū was absorbed into Japan by the Meiji government (Ryūkyū
Shobun, or the “Disposal of Ryūkyū“) in 1879, the Okinawan migration pat-
tern was rerouted northward, to the wealthier mainland. Their centuries-
long migratory experience, both domestic and international, partly explains
the Okinawans’ willingness to explore their economic opportunities in the
western hemisphere.
The first recorded Okinawan migration abroad in modern times involved
twenty-seven contract workers who entered sugar plantations in Hawaii in
1899. This was fourteen years after the first organized Japanese emigration.90
Tōyama Kyūzō, a political rights activist from Okinawa in the Meiji era, ad-
vocated for Okinawans’ group migration out of his deep concern about the
suffering of his fellow islanders who were barely subsisting on their small,
overpopulated land. Overseas migration would, he believed, save many Oki-
nawans’ lives and emancipate them physically and spiritually from the sotetsu
jigoku (the “cycad hell”) of life under Japanese rule.91 After a frantic political
battle against his opponents, led by the despotic Governor Narahara Shigeru,
this “father of Okinawan emigration” organized the first Hawaiian-bound
emigration.92
Okinawa’s socioeconomic handicaps—land scarcity, overpopulation, un-
employment, and poverty—had never been addressed while the develop-
ment-obsessed state of Japan was striving to modernize its urban landscape
and strengthen its national military and industries. Aspiring for opportunities
and unafraid of going abroad, Okinawans naturally looked beyond Hawaii,
across the equator, to South America as the destination of their emigration.
Okinawans’ southward movement began, first with Mexico in 1904, followed
by 111 immigrants to Peru and 325 to Brazil in 1906 and 1908, respectively.
Subsequently, Okinawans struck out for Argentina, Brazil, Peru, and else-
where. Their migration reached its high point in the late 1910s, riding the
momentum of the liberal migration regime. From 1917 to 1919, the number
of emigrants totaled 7,168, or about 2,400 every year.93 Okinawa’s share of
the total emigrants to Brazil for 1917 was historically high: 55.1 percent (and
amounting to 37 percent in 1918).94 In due course, the largest Okinawan
community in South America emerged on the outskirts of São Paulo. All in
all, when including other Latin American destinations, such as Mexico and
Cuba, 29,794 Okinawans migrated to Latin America from 1908 to 1938.
Okinawa ardently promoted emigration to the western hemisphere and
took little time in becoming one of the major prefectures supplying pre-
war emigrants to Latin America. It has often been said that one out of ten
“Japanese” immigrants living in Latin America was in fact an Okinawan.95
Okinawa’s outstanding achievement—establishing a thirty-thousand-strong
community in the region—was, however, accomplished despite a lack of ma-
Table 6.2 Overseas Migration from Okinawa (1898–1938)

Latin America: 29,794
Brazil 14,830
Peru 11,311
Argentina 2,754
Mexico 764
Others 135
Hawaii 20,118
U.S. 813
Philippines 16,426
Singapore 2,751
Others 2,887
Total 72,789
Source: Kokusai Kyōryoku Jigyōdan, Okinawa-ken to kaigai ijū,

31–32.
terial or ideological support from the central emigration planners. In other

words, Okinawa made strenuous efforts to continue its citizens’ emigration by
circumventing Tokyo’s repeated intimidation, restriction, and prohibition.
As suggested, Tokyo did not warmly embrace the Okinawans’ advance
overseas. Instead, an exclusionary order against Okinawan migration was
struck after their first landing in Brazil in 1908. Bad behavior and unsuccessful
settlement by the first migrants were reported to Tokyo, greatly disappointing
the state regulators in charge of overseas migration. In response, the Home
Ministry ordered migration companies not to recruit Okinawans any more.
In an almost racist tone, the administration reasoned that Okinawans would
not qualify for the international program because they “have different cul-
tures and customs from the mainlanders (naichi jin)” or “cannot get along
with Japanese immigrants.”96 As a result, Okinawan migration to Brazil was
suspended from 1909 to 1913. A more extreme measure followed in 1913: Oki-
nawans’ travel to Brazil, by individuals or groups, was totally banned during
that year. Similar bans, some of which were less harsh, were issued several
times through the decade. Emigration fell to an extremely low, double-digit
level, except for 1917–18.97 The Okinawan migration of 1926, for instance,
was allowed under the conditions that an emigrant should speak “kyōtsū-go”
(common language, that is, Japanese), women should not have a tattoo on
their hands (which was their local tradition), and other ethnically discrimi-
natory requirements.98 The officials’ discriminatory treatment continued in
the overseas settlements. For instance, the MOFA categorized “Okinawans”
separately from “hōjin” (Japanese nationals) in its research on demography
and living conditions in the outskirts of São Paulo.99 Had it not been for the
Okinawans’ own strenuous efforts to petition to the Japanese Consulate and
an Okinawa kenjin-kai (prefecture-based cultural association) in Brazil, their
emigration could not have survived Japan’s institutional intimidation.100
Why did Japan exclude Okinawans from its national emigration policy?
While making a pseudo-scientific claim that the southwesterners were bet-
ter suited for the tropical weather in South America, why did it not apply
the same logic to Okinawans—for instance, by claiming that people from
the semi-tropical islands would be the best candidates for emigration to
other tropical regions? This becomes more puzzling when we realize that
Japan promoted and sponsored an Okinawan emigration program to the
neighboring Yaeyama islands and the mainland to alleviate overpopulation
and poverty. A plausible reason was cultural. As is evident in the cultural
censorship of the government regulations on Okinawan emigration men-
tioned above, Japan had long considered Okinawans as a people of lower
culture or a colonized people (like the Ainu in the north), and denied their
civil and political rights to a disproportionate degree compared to those of

the mainland Japanese. For Western-oriented Japanese, Okinawans were the
colonized ethnic minorities, or second-class citizens at best. Having such a
racist and chauvinist mentality, Japan felt ashamed to export this racially,
culturally inferior ethnic group to the Western world in Latin America. It
was afraid that the Okinawans’ indigenous culture and customs, including
language, clothing, and women’s tattoos, would be misunderstood as “Japa-
nese” and looked down on as savage.101
Postwar Okinawan emigration took a different trajectory from its Japanese

counterpart. The dire geopolitical circumstances that confronted the islands
after Japan’s surrender to the Allied Forces inevitably rendered it exceptional.
The postwar Okinawan emigration to Latin America started immediately
after the war’s end. Whereas Japanese people were prohibited from overseas
travel and migration, 1,254 Okinawans were allowed to move abroad, largely
to South America, from 1945 to 1951. The Okinawan diaspora of the region
pleaded with the host governments for the immigration of their parents,
siblings, and relatives so that they could leave their war-ravaged homeland.
Argentina, Bolivia, and Brazil were sympathetic and issued immigration per-
mits to the islanders. In this way, the Okinawan emigration to South America
resumed in the form of kinship-based immigration (yobiyose imin).
The emigration, first triggered by yobiyose, quickly grew into a large stream
in the 1950s and early 1960s: 917 emigrants per year on average from 1954
to 1962 (table 6.3). This second phase of the Okinawan outmigration was
largely guided by government policy. But the government responsible for
the migration of 8,500 Okinawans to South America was not the Govern-
ment of Japan but the United States, more specifically, the United States Civil
Administration of the Ryūkyū Islands (USCAR, active from 1950 to 1972).
While prohibiting Japanese outmigration, occupying forces took a com-
pletely opposite tack towards Okinawa: USCAR, via the controlled Ryūkyūan
Government, planned and promoted the emigration policy. With different
hands controlling it, the islanders’ emigration grew out of a different policy
environment, due to Okinawa’s unique geopolitical position during the oc-
cupation period, as discussed below. Yet it echoed Japan’s policy in terms of
its essence as political decompression .
The Okinawan islands and its people fell to Allied forces after fierce land
battles in the spring of 1945. The occupation was one of direct and single rule
by the United States, and it was military and dictatorial. Having decided to
militarize the islands as its fortress in East Asia, the United States separated
Okinawa from Japan in the occupation regime. Reflecting America’s military
Table 6.3 Postwar Okinawan Emigration
1945–51 1952–67 Total
Argentina 1,107 1,970 3,077
Bolivia 3 3,287 3,290
Brazil 43 3,219 3,262
Other Latin America 33 655 688
U.S. 68 5,090 5,158
Total 1,254 14,221 15,475
Source: JICA, Okinawa ken to Kaigai Ijū (Tokyo: JICA, 1982),

98–99.
strategy, the U.S. military governed Okinawa throughout the occupation

period (1945–72); Army commanders held the offices of secretary and deputy
secretary of USCAR.102 The American junta monopolized the executive, leg-
islative, judiciary, and administrative powers therein; Japan was given only
territorial sovereignty over the islands.
In the wake of the aggravation of East-West confrontation in East Asia in
the late 1940s, it became clear that Okinawa would be forced to become what
Chalmers Johnson called the “Cold War Island” to serve America’s military-
strategic interest in the region.103 The fortification of Okinawa Island—the
largest island in the archipelago—was further intensified. In order to expand
its military bases, camps, and related facilities to fight communism, the United
States accelerated land appropriation in Isahama (today’s Ginowan City),
Kadena, and other places on the island. The appropriation process used quasi-
forcible means, which Okinawan landholders felt were unfair and unaccept-
able. USCAR pressed its compensation plan, under which the rent contract
was at an unreasonably cheap rate and for a long term (USCAR Administrative
Orders Number 91 and 109). This forcible appropriation of privately owned
land made as many as 120,000 families landless.104 About 14 percent of the
total area of the island, or 41 percent of the arable land, turned into military
bases and camps.105 The island, which has historically suffocated from too
many people on scarce arable land, was now full of new landless farmers.
The affected Okinawans were angry with the expropriation order, but
overall endured the new hardship philosophically, as if it were the fate of
a colonized people.106 Assuming that the expropriation was temporary and
subsisting on fringe jobs near the military camps or elsewhere, they humbly
requested the eventual return of their properties as soon as possible. The
persevering people’s stoic acceptance of America’s policy turned pungent
and confrontational when they were told that the land appropriation would
be permanent. In June 1956, the Special Subcommittee of the Committee
of Military Affairs of the U.S. House of Representatives recommended a
package purchase of the appropriated land in Okinawa at a fixed price (the

Price Recommendation).107 The land confiscation order triggered island-
wide protest by the otherwise quiet Okinawans. The joint forces of the pro-
testers rallying against the Price Recommendation quickly developed into
the “shimagurumi tōsō“ (the Struggle that Takes the Whole Island). They
demanded outright “No Package Purchase,” “Appropriate Compensation
Now,” “Damage Compensation Now,” and “No New Appropriation.” The
protests involved literally and figuratively the whole island, mobilizing the
government (both prefectural and municipal) and citizens.
USCAR bluntly condemned the popular protest—which was about bread
and butter issues but fundamentally concerned Okinawans’ rights—as a
communist plot and attempted to suppress it by all means.108 Feeling it ur-
gent to stop the spread of communism in the guise of a popular protest, the
United States resorted to tyrannical reprisals. USCAR arrested members of
the People’s Party, which opposed the U.S.-crafted communist prevention law
(Bōkyō-hō).109 Once the law took effect, High Commissioner James E. Moore
suddenly dismissed the party’s Senaga Kamejirō, a popularly elected but recal-
citrant mayor of Naha City. The prefectural capital city was also punished by
economic sanctions for electing the radical mayor. “Red” Okinawan students
were denied public scholarships to study in mainland Japan. Repression only
provoked stronger anger and more activism among Okinawans against the
U.S. occupation rule and for Okinawa’s “return to Japan” (hondo fukki).
Okinawa’s rage at Senaga’s purge and the length and intensity of the land
disputes deeply concerned Washington. It began to question the effective-
ness of authoritarian containment of social dissent. According to Miyazato
Seigen, a scholar on U.S.-Japan relations, Bureau Chief Mead of the Civilian
Affairs Bureau of the Department of the Army testified before the Military
Affairs Committee of the U.S. Senate that repression from above alone could
neither eradicate the islands-wide movement to “Return to Japan” nor assure
the legitimacy of United States rule over Okinawa.110
Against the backdrop of political stalemate between the occupier and oc-
cupied, the emigration policy was crafted and deployed in order to address
and neutralize the current political tension and contain similar crises in
the future. In Washington, congressmen on the Military Affairs Committee
discussed the collective relocation of the displaced farmers outside Okinawa
Island.111 A diplomatic meeting took place between Secretary of State John F.
Dulles and Japan’s Foreign Minister Fujiyama Aiichiro on September 11–12,
1958. In the meeting, the American secretary explained that relocation of
the uprooted Okinawans to other islands, prefectures, or countries would
be necessary to “prevent a further radicalization of Okinawa’s ‘Return to
Japan’ movement and contain it to a minimum level,” and requested Japan’s

understanding and assistance, according to Miyazato.112
The American occupier may have come up with the brilliant idea to peace-
fully translocate the unwanted population overseas by study of the grassroots
movement among the Okinawan diaspora for yobiyose of their relatives from
the islands to South America, noted above.113 Another possible source of
the policy idea may have been Tokyo, given that SCAP in Tokyo knew of
Japan’s past experiments with state-run emigration to Latin America to solve
demographic problems, as is shown by the Tigner Report (see below) and
since the occupied GOJ in the person of Prime Minister Shidehara Kijūrō
solicited General MacArthur for the resumption of the emigration policy. An
examination of the process in which this policy was formulated may confirm
such possibilities.
The origin of the USCAR policy to advance the Latin American emigration
program traces back to the Tigner Report of 1952. In 1951, USCAR had asked
James L. Tigner at the Hoover Institute of Stanford University to conduct a
feasibility study on collective emigration of Okinawans to Bolivia, Brazil, and
Argentina. Tigner compiled his extensive field research into The Okinawans
in Latin America: Investigation of Okinawan Communities in Latin American
with Exploration of Settlement Possibilities, in which he planned out the col-
lective emigration of Okinawans to Colonia Uruma in the southeastern part
of Bolivia.114 The initial plan aimed at sending ten thousand Okinawans to
the colony within ten years, which was “expandable to fifty thousand” under
an arrangement with the Okinawan agricultural cooperative in the locality.115
The estimated costs of approximately $160,000 for immigrants’ travel and
settlement were to be financed by USCAR. Fundraising from Okinawan
diaspora organizations in Hawaii, the United States, and Latin America was
also suggested as a source for more immigration capital. The Tigner Report
pointed out that the Bolivian government was willing to accept Okinawans
and had offered to distribute as much as one hundred thousand acres of land
for free in Santa Cruz. The report stressed “the urgency to execute the plan
as soon as possible by sending the first group of migrants to Santa Cruz” in
order not to miss this splendid opportunity.116
The goals of the Okinawan emigration policy were twofold, according to
the Tigner Report. First, overseas migration would help alleviate the mount-
ing population pressures on the islands and make Okinawans economically
independent. In particular, the growing numbers of the young working
population was a major worry, given the limited and underdeveloped local
economy. Okinawa was still separated from mainland Japan and therefore
people’s mobility was under USCAR’s strict control. Emigration to the U.S.
mainland, which was actually demanded by some Okinawans in exchange for

land, was undesirable, according to Tigner. Instead, collective translocation of
the young workers to the undeveloped and underpopulated parts of Bolivia
in the form of voluntary migration would help the United States peacefully
and effectively solve the island’s troubles. Another policy goal was to “assure
political stability.” Tigner analyzed the potential development of political
instability in association with youth unemployment as follows: “Restiveness
and dissatisfaction will inevitably accompany the waning prospects of land
ownership and fading hopes for an adequate livelihood, particularly among
the youth of Okinawa. Since Communists appeal to the youth of a nation, and
with apparent success in many areas of the Communist-dominated world,
the youth of Okinawa represents a potentially vulnerable element of the
population. The prospects of obtaining large tracts of free land in a distant
community as afforded by an emigration program will give fresh hope to the
youth and in this way serve to cope with their discontent and susceptibility
to the Communists’ false promises of reward.”117
Apparently, the Tigner model reflects the same matrix of benefits that the
GOJ adopted for its own emigration policy in Latin America—to physically
remove the source of political instability to foreign shores and prevent future
unrest at home.118 And this prescription grabbed the attention of the USCAR
in the wake of the above-mentioned Struggle that Takes the Whole Island,
from the mid-1950s.
The institutionalization of the government-guided emigration program
was hurried. In December 1953, representatives of the Ryūkyū government
and Okinawa Emigration Association visited South America, taking as their
mission to probe into the possibility of Okinawan emigration to the region.
In Bolivia, the envoys met President Victor Pas Estenssoro and other high-
ranking officials in agriculture and foreign affairs, and discussed the Oki-
nawan emigration program with them. The mission also made an excursion
to the Colonia Uruma, a candidate site for settlement, in the eastern lowlands.
The entourage was hindered by muddy roads after torrential rains, which
forced them to swim the Rio Grande river—an ominous preface to the ensu-
ing immigration program.119 In March 1954, the Ryūkyū government issued
the “Guidelines of Recruitment of Agricultural Emigrants to Bolivia, South
America,” based on the mission’s report. The guidelines were distributed
to city, town, and village offices on Okinawa Island. The government also
founded the Financial Corporation for Migration with a capitalization of
$458,000. Equivalent to JEAC, the GOJ’s loan provision agency for migration,
this public financial institution was instrumental in providing subsidies and
loans to would-be emigrants to cover their transportation and settlement
costs. Backed by state finances, the first four hundred Okinawans moved to
Colonia Uruma in the state of Santa Cruz, Bolivia, in that year.
These first immigrants may have thought themselves the lucky ones who
were selected out of the four thousand applicants, all lured by the government
advertisements of 50 hectares of land for free. No sooner had they arrived at
the Colonia Uruma, however, than 148 of them fell victim to an unknown epi-
demic and 15 died.120 The settlers eventually gave up on the colony and moved
elsewhere. Kōchi Hiroshi, one of the survivors of the Uruma debacle and
today the owner of a 670 hectare soy farm and ranch in Colonia Okinawa—as
large as the U.S. Kadena Air Base which forced him off his land and towards
emigration—recollects: “When the disease scare spread in the Colonia Uruma,
two Japanese embassy staff came from Lima to investigate the epidemic. . . .
What disappointed the colonia most were these officials’ words: ‘We are sorry
but we cannot help you (otetsudai dekinai).’ We were disappointed because,
upon our departure from Okinawa, we were told that we would be treated and
taken care of as a Japanese over there [in the settlement], and that there was
no need to worry.”121 In fact, the Okinawans immigrated into South America
with a U.S.-issued travel visa or identification card because they were legally
residents of the occupied Ryūkyū but not Japanese nationals. Kōchi felt like,
“We hit against a huge wall of nationality here.”
The Okinawans who took the Brazilian option found no better living or
working environments in the new settlements. For those who engaged in the
harsh labor of a colono on coffee plantations, it took many years to achieve
economic independence.122 As in the Japanese emigration case, the condi-
tionalities of immigration imposed by the South American host countries
were quite daunting, “Far from what I saw in the advertising film at the
emigration recruitment fair [in Okinawa],” testified Yagi Sentarō, currently
living in Argentina, recalling his hard days in Bolivia.123
Brushing aside the inauspicious stories of the first settlers, the sending
powers reinforced the emigration program. The United States asked Japan for
“financial and technical assistance” in its plan to relocate the fifty thousand
displaced Okinawans to South America and Yaeyama (Ishigaki and Iriomote
islands) at the meeting of Dulles and Fujiyama in September 1958.124 The
GOJ, doyen of the state-led emigration program, agreed to join the Oki-
nawan enterprise by providing financial and administrative assistance to the
Ryūkyū’s Financial Corporation for Migration in advertising the program
and recruiting, transporting, and settling emigrants.125 The tripartite efforts
for promoting the emigration program to the displaced and dissatisfied Oki-
nawans worked well: during the peak period of 1954 to 1962, Okinawa sent
out 7,635 people, or about 850 people a year on average, to Latin America,
largely Bolivia (3,200 immigrants). In the case of Isahama village, most of

its dislocated farmers opted for the Brazilian emigration plan, as opposed
to the neighboring Ishigaki Island option, when they heard that they could
be large landowners there. The total amount of loan money provided to
these immigrants, who were otherwise unable to afford overseas migration,
was $1.11 million as of the end of 1962.126 The number of emigrants may be
small, compared to the total number of farmers displaced by the United
States (some 120,000), but the emigration policy and its related institutions
served the occupation authorities well, as did Japan’s emigration program for
the Japanese government, by providing an institutional alternative to curb
popular discontent and thus reinforce a platform of social control.
Emigration fever in Okinawa quickly lost steam after 1963, and the number
of emigrants there dwindled into the tens every year. The ebbing of Okinawan
emigration to South America was caused in large part by the development of
new economic and political relationships between Japan and Okinawa. By the
mid-1960s, the local Okinawan economy finally started to strengthen. After
Japanese Prime Minister Satō Eisaku’s visit to Okinawa in August 1965, the
GOJ drastically increased its aid and investment in the islands. New, non-
military industries sprouted, and the local job market started to hire more
workers accordingly. Moreover, Japan’s own economy was soaring and its de-
mand for labor was also growing. So, increasing numbers of Okinawans were
willing to drop their struggle for land and engage in the industrial or service
sectors in Okinawa and Japan.127 And, by the time Okinawa was returned to
Japan in 1972, the GOJ had dropped its Latin American emigration policy.
7. State Expansion through Emigration
The previous chapter described how Japan’s emigration policy toward Latin
America served as a political decompressor, controlling the fermentation of
the political situation in the southwest in the interest of stability and order.
This exclusionary aspect is in fact just one side of the Janus-faced policy.
The other face is inclusionary, in the way that the Japanese state treated its
co-ethnic diaspora (both the emigrants and their descendents) as members
of the kokka (nation or nation-family) and demanded their rigorous engage-
ment in its efforts at nation-building and modernization. The diaspora was
to support Japan’s development efforts worldwide, and the way in which
once-undisciplined and counterproductive domestic labor became loyal
and productive labor in foreign economies will be examined in the first sec-
tion of this chapter. In a similar way, the home state also involved itself with
the daily social life of the emigrants, in an effort to reinforce its ties to the
diaspora community, as will be shown in sections 2 and 3. Over time, these
ties by themselves came to represent something unusual in the relationship
of emigrant communities to their motherlands, as will be explained in the
last section.
Emigration for Profit

Assuring a supply of raw materials and food has been a top priority for
resource-hungry and import-dependent Japan at every stage of its economic
development, under any political regime. Since the Meiji era, the develop-
ment-minded state striving for national modernization demanded colossal
supplies of raw materials for emerging light and heavy industries, in addition
State Expansion through Emigration 171
to foreign capital and technology. On its trajectory of colonial expansion and

militarization, Japan sought to consolidate its overseas sources of basic and
strategic materials, as well as broaden its export markets. Securing its supply
of raw materials and access to international commodity markets became so
vital that, when its life-support system—in the form of access to northeast
and southeast Asian and U.S. markets—was threatened with the containment
by the United States, the army-controlled government of Japan made an
audacious and self-destructive move to go to war against the United States,
which in the end led the nation to total ruin.
Resource scarcity was also acutely felt during the post-surrender recon-
struction period. Despite generous U.S. aid and preferential treatment in
international trade markets, Japan struggled to rebuild its international re-
source supply network. Its economic recovery and further growth heavily
depended on external sources for energy and food supplies.
Latin America has what Japan lacks: ample mineral reserves as well as a
bountiful natural endowment of vast and fertile lands with diverse climates
good for producing various agricultural commodities. But what might seem
to be complementary economies were not initially a good match. The “banana
republics” served and had developed according to the interests of Euro-
pean colonial and U.S. capitalist interests. Latin America’s traditional export
goods—coffee, sugar, beef, and wheat—were not what Japan wanted. The
Japanese preferred rice to bread, green tea to coffee, and seafood to beef. In
order to fit the consumption of the home economy, Japan’s developmentalists
needed to instigate farming of new export crops on the Nikkei plantations.
On September 19, 1936, the Buenosuairesu-maru arrived at the Port of Yoko-

hama carrying a Brazilian trade mission led by Joaquim P. S. Filho, a federal
congressman, former Secretary of Labor, Commerce, and Industries, and a
renowned patron of Japanese immigration to Brazil. This mission, made up
of twenty-seven political and economic representatives from both the federal
and state levels and their spouses, was to promote Brazilian exports to Japan.1
Given that Filho came in the capacity of a minister plenipotentiary and the
mission included renowned businessmen in mining, coffee, and cotton, it was
evident that this was not just a ceremonial voyage but one that sought serious
discussion of business. During their one-month stay in Japan, the Brazilians
held numerous talks with government officials and business leaders in Tokyo
and Osaka.2 Cotton trade occupied a great deal of their discussion agenda,
and in their meeting with the Osaka Chamber of Commerce—(Osaka was the
center of the Japanese cotton textile industry) they had a direct and candid
exchange of opinions about the quality of Brazilian cotton, shipping logistics,
and a possible expansion of the cotton production base to northern Brazil. No

concrete agreement was reached, but both parties agreed that cotton would
be the driver for bilateral trade relationships in the near future.
Cotton production was not totally alien to Brazil but had been a minor
industry compared to the reigning coffee and sugar crops—Japanese im-
migrants also had been used to cultivate coffee beans. The first cotton shrub
planted by Nikkei hands was in the first Monção colony in São Paulo in 1916.
Plantations of this fluffy white fiber spread quickly in the Greater São Paulo
region. Especially after 1927, when São Paulo’s state legislature banned coffee
growers from planting new trees in an attempt to prevent coffee prices from
dropping, the algodonização (cotton-ization) of Japanese farmers accelerated.
A survey conducted by the University of Tokyo shows this trend: while only
36 households or 1.6 percent of the 2,298 immigrants newly arrived to Brazil
from 1908 to 1922 engaged in cotton farming, both the number and the pro-
portion increased to 1,482 or 10.0 percent of the total 14,765 new immigrant
families from 1923 to 1941.3 Ranging from relatively small-scale farmers to
larger estates like Brazcot, which was founded by Nippon Menka Kabushiki
Kaisha (hereafter K.K.) in 1936, and Algodeira do Sul Limitada (of Tōyō
Menka K.K.), Nikkei Paulista growers developed cotton into a major export
crop. The first shipment destined for Japan left Port Santos in 1933. Starting
with that humble shipment of 79.6 metric tons worth 61.9 thousand yen, cot-
ton exports to Japan grew dramatically to 2,487 tons (worth 3 million yen)
in two years (see table 7.1). In 1936, the exports rose incredibly by more than
sixteen times in quantity and fourteen times in value over the prior year.
Both Brazilian exporters and their Japanese customers were interested in the
diversification of their trade partners. In the case of the latter, the issue was im-
minent. With the surge of economic protectionism after World War I and the
Table 7.1 Japan’s Imports of Brazilian Cotton

From Brazil: From Brazil:
Total Amount Amount Volume
Year (thousand yen) (thousand yen) (kilograms)
1933 604,467 61.9 79,552
1934 730,936 1,269.8 1,653,654
1935 714,262 3,005.4 2,487,274
1936 850,452 42,724.1 40,686,077
1937 851,163 47,890.1 51,445,330
Source: For the data on Japan’s imports of cotton from Brazil, see Hiroshima-
shi, Kaigai ijū, 31. For the data on Japan’s imports of cotton in total, see Foreign
Affairs Association of Japan, Japan Year Book: 1936 (Tokyo: Kenkyūsha Press,
1936), 389; Japan Year Book: 1938–39 (Tokyo: Kenkyusha Press, 1938), 405.
emergence of colonialist blocs on a global scale, Japan faced an international

dilemma. Rivalries with the United States and Great Britain were intensifying
as a result of Japanese expansionism towards Asia, and the threat of anti-
Japanese economic containment by the West loomed. To break the deadlock,
Japan felt it imperative to be economically independent of Western hegemony.
One specific and immediate solution was a “diffusion of trade partners,”4 that
is, buying more cotton from Brazil and less from U.S. and British-Indian sup-
pliers. Around 1930, the Colonial Ministry was already making preparations
to bring this about. With the historical amount of cotton imported from the
United States as a guide, its technocrats estimated how much cotton needed
to be produced by Nikkei farmers in Brazil for export to Japan, in order to
replace a substantial part of North American cotton imports.5
In Peru as well, the Colonial Ministry was establishing cotton production
bases by hiring emigrant-farmers. Japanese immigrants were hired as tenants
in coastal areas outside Lima, such as Chancay and Cañete, and in mountain
areas chosen for the production sites—avoiding the capital city of Lima,
which was full of anti-Japanese feeling. Earlier, the Colonial Ministry, via
the Japanese Embassy, had ordered the local Nikkei association to research
prospective sites and crops to produce. They concluded that cotton was a
favorable commercial crop because its market was not as competitive as those
for sugar or coffee—the powerhouses of the local landed oligarchs—and it
was thus less likely to cause a conflict of interest with Peruvians. The min-
istry instructed Japanese companies to incorporate their cotton production
business locally (possibly to demonstrate their “localness”), and if needed,
the home government provided them with subsidies or investment capital.
Nikkei cotton plantations of various forms and sizes, such as Perū Menka
K.K., a subsidiary of the national policy company, Kaigai Kōgyō since 1925,
and Rettesu Nōji K.K., owned by an affluent Nikkei investor, emerged in rural
Peru for a large-scale cotton production employing Japanese immigrants.
Nakauchi Hiroshi, a Colonial Ministry official stationed in Lima, foresaw
a multiplier effect in this agricultural development, with benefits for Peru,
Japanese immigrants, and Japan: “While alleviating Peruvians’ antipathy
against Japanese, Japanese immigrants are able to prove their loyalty to the
country with their work [i.e., cotton farming]; they can also acquire land
titles and permanently settle in the locales, and Japan can achieve a genuine
kaigai hatten [overseas advance].”6
Why did Tokyo agree to the opening of its market to South American
cotton? Was there no worry that the growing cotton trade might exacerbate
Japan’s trade deficit? In fact, Japan’s entire trade account plummeted into a
huge deficit vis-à-vis Brazil, from 1935’s surplus of 1.9 million yen to a nega-
tive 38.5 million yen in 1936 as a result of the large scale of cotton imports.7
Nevertheless, Japan did not problematize or enact any protectionist mea-
sure against the Brazilian goods; instead, it granted Brazil an unconditional
most-favored nation status and continued to import more Brazilian cotton.
Though it may seem a gracious commitment to trade liberalism in a time
of overarching global protectionism, Japan’s true motives in liberalizing its
cotton market to Brazil lay elsewhere. The first motive was, as noted above,
strategic: “Do not keep all your eggs (or imports) in one basket.” The sec-
ond one was cultural. Japan felt that the trade balance was no more than an
ephemeral and superficial nation-to-nation matter, and did not feel it neces-
sary to be particular about “trifles” as long as cotton production in Brazil was
effective in the long run and “Japanese” in essence. How could transnational
economic operations maintain their nativism? Oka Minoru, a law professor,
vice-president of Tokyo Nichinichi Shinbun, and a Latin American emigration
enthusiast, explained the point in a government publication on emigration-
colonization (jointly edited by ministries of colonial and foreign affairs) in
this way: “There is no need to worry about Japan’s excessive imports in the
international trade. . . . Instead, we must make an effort to accumulate sur-
plus in (1) revenues from overseas lands, in China and the South Seas; (2)
revenues from remittances by Japanese workers abroad; and (3) revenues
from foreign investment. As long as we combine and make the most of
these three elements—land, labor, and capital overseas—and achieve kaigai
hatten, it would not be problematic for Japan to have excessive imports in
international trade worth 200 or 300 million yen, or even 500 million or 1
billion yen.”8 The essence of transnational operations—that mobile Japanese
labor and capital were driven to live and make progress on foreign soils—was
deemed critical and far more crucial than the merely “technical” problem
of international trade imbalances. In particular, a Japanese workforce and
property ownership were indispensable for making the nation’s trade and
capital operations abroad essentially Japanese. This nativist ideology explains
why Japan insisted upon the emigration-development conversion model—
that its agricultural imports from Brazil and its overseas investment there
should be based upon or come hand-in-hand with Japanese emigration. In
the 1936 trade talks in Japan, for instance, when Brazil requested more cotton
purchases, Japan made a counter-request for more Japanese immigration in
the northern part of Brazil where they could be the region’s cotton developer.
According to Takumu Jihō, the Colonial Ministry’s newsletter, emigration
and development were mutually reinforcing and inseparable from Japan’s
pursuit of international power: by way of emigration and colonial develop-
ment in the host country, Japan could eventually progress as a civilization
in the international arena.9
With utilitarian interest in transnational profit maximization, pre–World

War II Japan considered its emigration policy towards Latin America as an
integral part of its colonization enterprise, in which Nikkei capital and labor
were deployed onto foreign lands for agricultural development. This transna-
tional undertaking, which an expansionist Japan was already pursuing in its
sphere of influence in Asia, manifested itself most rigorously in Brazil in the
case of South America. Leveraging upon its organizational clout and resource
allocation capability, Japan engineered institutions that promoted the devel-
opment of a specific target industry—cotton production and exports, in this
case—on a colossal scale in a short period of time. The Colonial Ministry, as
the central directorate and coordinator of the national effort, developed two
distinct forms of ties with the Nikkei diaspora, distinguishing between the
“corporate emigrants” (kigyō imin) and those in agricultural cooperatives.
Corporate emigrants included those who came to Brazil specifically to
work on a Japanese-owned plantation (owned either by quasi-state companies
like Kaigai Kōgyō or by private companies) and emigrants who were hired
locally. This type of emigration became popular in the late 1920s after the
formation of Kaigai Ijū Kumiai Rengokai (Federation of Overseas Emigration
Associations, or FOEA, later Burataku or Bratac) in 1927 under the Kaigai
ijū kumiai hō (Law on Overseas Emigration Associations).10 The farming
corporations that emerged in the Greater São Paulo area and in the Amazon
region exhibited mesmerizing growth in terms of size, population, organi-
zational structure, and business expansion. Several star fazenda companies
emerged, such as Kaigai Kōgyō, FOEA, Companhia Industrial Amazonense
S.A., and Nanbei Takushoku K.K. These concerns offered a variety of agricul-
tural products, such as coffee, citrus, sake, and jute, for domestic and overseas
markets. Some of these companies were entirely state owned, such as FOEA,
while others were quasi-statal entities such as Iguapé Colonies, owned by the
national policy company Kaigai Kōgyō. Others, such as Mitsubishi’s Tozan
Nōjō, Nomura, and Kanegafuchi Bōseki’s Nanbei Takushoku, were privately
owned; still others had a “mixed” ownership: for instance, Kamitsuka’s Com-
panhia Industrial Amazonense, in which the Japanese government invested 1
million yen and the zaibatsu firms that participated in the company another
1 million yen. The emigrants working for these concerns shouldered the
home government’s expectation that “Japan’s advance to Brazil must con-
tinue, against any difficulty, in the entrepreneurial spirit of our capitalists
and emigrants,” as stated in the manifesto of the Japanese ambassador to
Brazil, Akiyoshi Akira.11
Japanese corporate emigrants to Brazil are noteworthy for their role as
developers of a plethora of new and exotic cash crops for both export and
local consumption. One of their achievements was the pimenta (black pep-
per) production of the Tome Açú colony in the Amazon.12 This Nikkei colony,
originally founded in the Acara River basin in the state of Pará by Nanbei
Takushoku, had long struggled due to the lack of a major commercial crop
and its Nikkei community was on the verge of financial and physical collapse.
In a last-ditch effort, the planters received aid from the Japanese government
for a project to cultivate and commercialize pimenta—somewhat exotic to
the region at the time—based on twenty seedlings brought from Singapore in
1933.13 Through trial and error, the strenuous efforts of the company and the
Nikkei workers bore fruit, both literally and figuratively: the hybrid black pep-
per was developed to suit both local growing conditions and market demand.
Production entered into sustained growth during wartime, and it became
the region’s blockbuster cash crop by the time World War II ended. Black
pepper saved the Nikkei plantation from failure and the region’s diaspora
from starvation and ruin.14 During World War II, when world pepper prices
soared as a result of Indonesia’s surrender to the Japanese military, Tome Açú
pepper brought huge profits to Brazil’s trade account. With this Cinderella
story, Japanese immigrants to Brazil earned a reputation as master engineers
of plant breeding in foreign soils, and experts in introducing them to local
markets and diversifying local agriculture.
Aside from the corporate emigrants, there were numerous Nikkei farmers
who operated family-based and small-scale independent farms. These farm-
ing families generally clustered in the greater São Paulo area, where the Nikkei
historically had a large presence. But their business operations and financial
positions were relatively weak and unstable, so the home state encouraged
and assisted the collectivization and unionization of these independent and
dispersed farming families.
The unionization of the farmer-diaspora was originally the diaspora’s own
idea. In the early 1920s, Nikkei batata (sweet potato) farmers formed a dis-
tribution cooperative in order to protect the price of their product against
unreasonable offers from non-Japanese brokers. This early attempt was
aborted, but the Nikkei family planters’ need for and interest in unioniza-
tion remained. In 1928, the Industrial Promotion Department (Kangyō-bu)
within the Japanese General Consul in São Paulo stepped in to encourage
unionization through its subsidies. The COTIA Trade Union (Kochia Sangyō
Kumiai)—the first example of state-sanctioned Nikkei unionism in Latin
America—was thus born in Pinheiros in December of that year.15
Japan’s financial backing drew more Nikkei farmers to the ethnic coop-
erative. Its initially rather small membership of 83 potato growers rapidly
expanded to 932 members within eight years, and its working capital grew
from the original 290 contos to 20,200 contos. Starting with the potato inter-
est, the COTIA also embraced tomato, egg, and other produce growers all
over Brazil. The membership had expanded to about 18,000 at its peak (it
dissolved in 1994).16 Establishing itself as the largest farming cooperative of
small-scale independent farmers, the COTIA developed into a distinguished
industrial consortium in Brazilian society. New roads and bridges, ware-
houses, communal centers and Japanese language schools, farming loans
(known as tanomoshikō or rotating credit associations)—all these are among
the immeasurable economic benefits that the Japanese diaspora received
from the ethnically based association. Their organizational caliber and state-
backed financial prowess became legendary, reminiscent of the goliath Nōkyō
(Japanese Farmers Cooperative), the nationwide farmers’ cooperative and
conservative political interest group in Japan.
The Nikkei farmers’ collectivization movement gained momentum with
the success of COTIA. By the end of 1934, about fifty more Nikkei trade
associations and cooperatives were created in the São Paulo region; several
more emerged in the states of Mato Grosso, Goiás, and Paraná.17 With the
mushrooming of cooperatives, either along industrial lines or by local work
unit, the government of Japan stepped in to sort them out. In April 1934, un-
der the Colonial Ministry’s supervision, the Nippaku Sangyō Kumiai Chūōkai
(Central Association for Japan-Brazil Trade Unions) was institutionalized; the
association was instrumental in the direct and orderly bundling of numer-
ous Nikkei unions under Japan’s authority, and in communicating its man-
dates to every corner of the diasporic community. For example, when Nikkei
farmers were stirred by “cotton fever,” the Colonial Bureau of the Colonial
Ministry became increasingly concerned about their excessive concentration
and dependence on a single crop. The local consulate then passed on to the
exuberant farmers the paternalistic admonition—known in Japan as gyōsei
shidō or “administrative guidance”—“not to focus too much on cotton, or to
seek speculative profits from agriculture.”18 Diversification into non-cotton
products was encouraged instead, to balance out the portfolio of Nikkei
farming in the region.
Post–World War II Japan has also put into effect a transnational resource
strategy conjoined with Latin American emigration, in this case for soybean
production. Soybeans, formerly used in Brazil only as animal feed, are now
the nation’s foremost export crop (21.7 percent of total agribusiness exports
for 2005).19 Stealing coffee’s throne, it has become the king of beans in Brazil.
At the turn of the twenty-first century, this crop grew into Jack’s beanstalk,
bringing colossal export revenues to Brazil. In international soybean markets,
Brazil comes in second, after the United States (Brazil and the United States
exporting 52.5 million tons and 74.8 million tons, respectively); Brazil’s market
share is 26.7 percent, as opposed to the United State’s 38 percent.20 The hub
of Brazil’s world-class soybean production is in the savannas of the Central
West region (locally known as the Cerrado), more specifically, in Cuiabá, the
capital of the state of Mato Grosso.
For its part, Japan is one of the world’s largest consumers of soybeans. The
nutritious seed—processed into soy sauce, tofu, and miso paste—provides
indispensable ingredients for traditional Japanese cuisine (another major
use is extracted oil). With a perennial shortfall in the domestic supply, most
soybean consumers in Japan must rely on external sources, with as much as
95 percent of their soy coming from abroad, mainly from the United States
(76 percent of total imports) and Brazil (16 percent).21 Few Japanese know,
however, that many of the beans they consume on a daily basis originate in
Brazil. Even less known is the fact that this soybean production was begun
by their compatriots in Cuiabá.
The first soybean was planted by the Nikkei farmers in Brazil presumably
in the late 1920s, when the Japanese immigrants were herded by the host and
sender governments to the vast yet unpopulated and uncultivated Cerrados
as frontier pioneers. Since then, soy farming continued on a meager scale by
independent Nikkei farmers, relatively unknown outside their community.
Japan itself used to depend heavily on U.S. exports of soy and had little to do
with its co-ethnic farmers. Nevertheless, in 1973, when the Nixon administra-
tion abruptly announced a suspension of U.S. soy exports for two months
due to a tight domestic supply, Japan was utterly stunned, and, though taken
aback, Japan quickly found recourse. Prime Minister Tanaka Kakuei visited
Brazil in September 1974, seeking a new resource base for Japan’s soy. Mr.
Tanaka explained to President Ernesto Geisel Japan’s interest in deepening its
economic relationship with resource-rich Brazil so that “Japan could secure a
stable resource base for the long term.”22 Tanaka’s resource diplomacy worked:
Japan started to import more soy from Brazil beginning in 1973. Its import
of the commodity from Brazil increased its share dramatically, from 0.04
percent in 1972 to 5.9 percent in 1973 (table 7.2). The momentum for growth
lost its steam in the following few years, but Japan was able to overcome the
1973 crisis and began direct investment in the Brazilian soy production.
Realizing the value of Brazilian soybeans for a stronger position in the
arena of international commodity trade, Japan began providing substantial
financial and technical support to Brazil in the form of official development
aid, administered by the Japan International Cooperation Agency (known
as JICA), the country’s foreign aid agency.23 In a multi-billion dollar joint
Table 7.2 Japan’s Imports of Soybeans
1972 1973 1974 1975
million percent million percent million percent million percent
From yen of total yen of total yen of total yen of total
U.S. 133,684 85.1 182,024 86.9 230,497 89.8 253,962 90.9
China 22,781 14.5 13,900 6.6 19,387 7.6 21,618 7.7
Brazil 630 — 12,294 5.9 6,273 2.4 2,990 1.1
Others 39 — 1,204 1.0 572 0.2 923 0.3
Total 157,134 100 209,442 100 256,729 100 279,494 100
Source: Bureau of Statistics, Cabinet Office, Japan Statistical Yearbook, 24, 25, 26, 27.
project of agricultural development in seven central western Brazilian states

(the Japan-Brazil Cooperation Program for the Development of the Cerrados,
or PRODECER, 1979–2001), Nikkei farmers played a crucial role in devel-
oping a soybean hybrid cultivable on a large commercial scale. The COTIA
cooperative, which had already started large-scale soy production under
the leadership of Ogasawara Hifumi in 1973, took charge of soy production,
storage, and sales as well as selection and training of new settler-farmers in
the state of Minas Gerais and elsewhere.24 Within the next ten years, Brazil
rapidly expanded its soybean production. Production levels rose from 5,012
thousand metric tons in 1973 to 12,513 thousand metric tons in 1977 and 18,278
thousand metric tons in 1985.25 The new cash crop soon became profitable
in international trade. The expansion of Brazilian soybean production and
exports, coupled with that of other Latin American economies, like Argen-
tina and Paraguay, eroded the U.S. share of the world market, from its peak
at 76.1 percent in 1969 to 57.5 percent in 1976. Japan’s benefits from the soy
production enterprise in Brazil were twofold: one, Japan tactfully and with
foresight diffused the anticipated risk in international trade, cleared a major
international trade impasse, and reduced its structural vulnerability vis-à-vis
the United States. Another gain was in international clout. Japan’s contribu-
tion to Brazil’s economic development in the form of the formation of soy
and related industries earned it credit in the international community. This
was compatible with the values of postwar, peace-loving Japan in convert-
ing its economic power into international status and respect and becoming
a superpower in development aid (enjo taikoku).
The outsourcing of cotton, soybean, and other commodity production
manifested Japan’s intent to amplify the effect of its emigration policy in
the international economy and reinforce the nation’s food security in Latin
America. To bolster this transnational initiative, various institutional, finan-
cial, and diplomatic arrangements were made, with Brazil the major testing
ground for Japan’s policy orientation. The Nikkei diaspora as Japan’s proxy
in agricultural development of the colonies reclaimed abandoned land, ex-

perimented with the production and commercialization of new crops, and
turned the hinterlands into major agricultural centers that would benefit the
economies of two homelands.26
Aiyori Aoku (“The Disciple Outshines His Master”)

“It is utterly impossible to expect us to have the so-called traditional, special
Japanese mentality. Nor is it necessary. People around us often speak of Ya-
mato damashī [traditional Japanese spirit], but we the Nisei [second genera-
tion Japanese] don’t understand such spirits at all!” This was a Nisei youth’s
response to his Issei (first generation) father’s grievances about his son’s “lack
of spiritual strength, irresponsibility, and indulgence.”27 This family quarrel
took place in the pre–World War II period over the issue of ethnic mores, and
underscores the discontinuities of the inter-generational cultural heritage, as
commonly experienced by many other Nikkei families, according to MOFA’s
research. Japan’s current law on nationality based on jus sanguinis holds that
blood or biological origin identifies Japanese-ness. Of no less importance to
the nationalists, however, is commonly shared culture, including language,
historical knowledge, and morality. These a posteriori identity elements could
not be taken for granted in the Nikkei population, especially of the second
or third generations, and thus needed to be raised and nurtured both indi-
vidually and collectively. For this reason, Japan’s emigration proponents, who
aspired to build a cross-border state-society relationship with their co-ethnic
diaspora in Latin America, emphasized education in Japanese orthodoxy to
arouse collective consciousness of the nation’s people.
In the prewar context, ethnic instruction, or kyōka (education and influ-
ence, in Carol Gluck’s phraseology), was a cultural module through which
nationalist ideologues attempted to connect dispersed people to their home
nation and raise their national consciousness as a kōmin (imperial subject).28
Kōmin kyōiku (education of imperial subjects)—prewar Japan’s quintessential
nativist indoctrination that canonized kokutai (the national polity) and the
emperor as the source of Japanese mores par excellence—was provided to both
the adult and juvenile Nikkei populations. Presuming that the Japanese born
or living overseas either did not know the great multi-millennial Japanese
tradition or had a tendency to “lose traditional Japanese traits and gradually
deplete their national quality,” traditionalist ideologues, such as those in the
Ministry of Education, felt it imperative to launch a “cultural enlightenment”
crusade toward what they viewed as a morally loose mass.29 Allegiance to the
Imperial Rescript on Education (kyōiku chokugo), which Emperor Meiji pro-
mulgated in 1890 as epitomizing the Japanese moral essence, was second-to-

none in the making of an authentic Japanese. Copies of the Imperial Rescript
were distributed to Nikkei Brazilian families through local embassies and
Japanese cultural associations (e.g., nihonjin-kai). Mr. Higa, an Okinawan
immigrant living in Pedro de Toledo in the interior of the state of São Paulo,
had reverently kept the printed rescript on his wall for several decades. He
recalled: “All of us [members of the ultra-nationalist diaspora group, Shindō
Renmei] strongly adhered to the Chokugo. ‘I, the Emperor, think that my
ancestors since Amaterasu Omikami founded my nation based on the moral
virtues which are established widely and profoundly. . . . The compatriots
overseas [zaigai dōhō] should help each other, refrain from egoism, endure
obstacles and privations, and maintain the virtue of the Japanese spirit.’30 Our
children can recite those sentences from memory. Even now we regularly meet
to read it together.”31 Higa’s obstinate patriotism—he continued to worship
the emperor and his Rescript even after the emperor system was abolished,
and took part in the Kachigumi-Makegumi fight (which will be explained in
the next section)—may appear extreme and exceptional in the context of the
postwar democratic Japan, but in light of the prewar authoritarian paternalism
that ruled the state-diaspora relationship, people’s unconditional allegiance
to the divine sovereign and kokutai was in fact the norm.
Nativist instruction also guided the education of children and youth. In
Brazil, moral instruction (shūshin) was given by Japanese teachers, many of
whom the Ministry of Education in Tokyo sent to local Japanese language
schools.32 To teach Nikkei pupils the essence of kyōiku chokugo in a simple,
vernacular manner was the core of the ethnic schools’ curriculum, together
with a basic curriculum and the “mother tongue” (kokugo), which, for the
Japanese educators, meant Japanese, not Portuguese. The ministry also sent
its staff to these schools in order to give imperial instruction and inspect the
content of the curriculum and the textbooks used at the ethnic schools.33
Ishii Shigemi, an “ultra-nationalist government official” from Tokyo, ordered
local teachers and parents to replace local textbooks with the officially en-
dorsed ones, which he claimed correctly explained the Japanese ethos. Some
Japanese language schools, such as the elementary school on the property of
the COTIA agricultural cooperative, adhered to ethnic education even after
President Vargas banned it: “The school stationed a few pupils as guards
at several corners of the campus; when the local police came, these guards
signaled their arrival to teachers and other pupils; then the class swiftly
switched their textbooks to the Brazilian version.”34
Ministry of Education official and agronomist, Matsui Kenkichi, visited
Kokushikan Gakkō, a school affiliated with the Amazonia Institute of Indus-
trial Research in the state of Amazonas, in the early 1930s. In his favorable
appraisal of imperial instruction at the colonialist training center, Matsui
was particularly impressed with the school policy:
This school is known for its strict rules. All the students are required to live
in the school dormitory, refrain from drinking and smoking, and keep their
hair short. The school’s rules and discipline are in some respects stricter than
those of the military. Students wake up at five o’clock in the morning, practice
martial arts for physical training, clean up every corner of the school facilities,
and then start classes at eight o’clock. . . . There is no janitor or office clerk in
this school. Both instructors and students take care of themselves as one unit.
. . . They do not even take a summer vacation. While students of other schools
relax during the two-month vacation, these students spend their summers
toiling in the fields under the scorching sun. Pioneers of Amazon development
are being trained in this Spartan environment.35
Matsui thought that the well-disciplined and well-trained Kokushikan stu-

dents were superb role models for the local community and exemplars of
hōkoku (devotion to the nation) not only because of their agricultural ex-
pertise and physical prowess but also, and more importantly, because of
their mental and spiritual strength. “No other person but he who built up
himself with this spirit—the courage to overcome any obstacle in overseas
experiences—could make substantial contributions to the nation,” as well
as to advance the grand scheme of “development of a Greater Amazonia
[dai amazonia kensetsu].”36 In this nativist mindset, knowledge, technol-
ogy, and even physical prowess, which Japanese traditionalists tended to
associate with the Western civilizations, were secondary to spiritual vir-
tues. Only each person’s mental strength and spiritual exaltation, coupled
with collective awareness of the Japanese as one entity, would empower the
farmer-colonizers to endure and conquer the wild so as to contribute to
Japan’s progress abroad.
The process of authentication of a Japanese also involved loyalty and pa-
triotism (chūkun aikoku) in feelings and actions. Contributions in money
and in kind—for imon bukuro (a consolatory package full of foodstuffs and
dairy products)—on special occasions and in emergency situations were a
tangible form of devotion to the nation.37 After the Kantō Earthquake in 1923,
the Central Japanese Association in Peru donated 180,000 yen in cash and
20,000 yen in kind to the quake victims in the Tokyo metropolitan area. Not
so significant an amount in absolute terms, but it was an impressive effort
by immigrants living in relatively poor conditions. The Nikkei community
in Latin America was able to raise money effectively, thanks to the prewar
system of compulsory membership in the quasi-statal Japanese Cultural

Associations. Upon the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese war in 1937, a total of
151,000 yen was sent from various Nikkei localities all across Latin America.
The national kokubō kenkin (“donation for national defense”) campaign,
which started in 1931 in Japan to lend support and compassion to the impe-
rial soldiers overseas, gained support among the overseas Nikkei patriots.38
Burajiru Jihō, a São Paulo-based Nikkei periodical, propagated the wartime
mores like this: “Since our nation is facing difficulty in making various kinds
of external payments for the sake of the sacred war, it is considered to be a
patriotic act for those living abroad to send back foreign currencies such as
dollars and pounds, regardless of how much, and help facilitate the nation’s
external payments.”39 Frugality and personal savings were frequently put forth
by the media and nihonjin-kai, partly for a utilitarian reason—more mate-
rial devotion to the nation—and partly out of political considerations—to
stimulate the diaspora’s unity with the nation by sharing the pain of extreme
austerity with their dōhō in Japan.
Today, the Museu Histórico da Imigração Japonesa no Brasil (or Burajiru
Nihon Imin Shiryōkan) in São Paulo, exhibits a plethora of evidence of such
diasporic contributions to the home state. The most impressive accolades in
the showcase include a government-issued receipt for donations and offer-
ings made by the local diaspora—the document was signed by the foreign
minister, Hirota Kōki—and a thank-you letter, signed by the wartime premier,
Tōjō Hideki, for the patriotic gift of a military plane to the army. To make
an offering to the imperial forces was a very popular form of patriotism.
Above all, warplanes were a prime item in the donations-for-national-defense
campaign. The Nikkei in Brazil donated a total of 28,378 yen to purchase a
warplane, to be sent to Japan via the Asahi Shinbun newspaper, which coordi-
nated the fundraising campaign.40 Peruvian-based compatriots also pledged
to the national defense campaign, which was quite an audacious act in light
of the fermenting anti-Japanese hatred in the host society. What roused such
enthusiasm in the Nikkei diaspora for cross-border patriotism?
Upon sending a donation to the victims of a big earthquake that hit Iwate
Prefecture in 1932, the Burataku cooperative in Bastos, São Paulo, explained
the motives of its donation as follows: “Like a child who became independent
after having grown up under its parents’ protection, we are keenly feeling
the benevolence of the nation only after we left the motherland. . . . Upon
this disaster [the Iwate quake], we wanted to make as much contribution as
possible and repay our obligation to the nation. . . . We have not yet made
ourselves wealthy enough to meet the nation’s needs. Yet, encouraged by the
old saying ‘A poor man’s candle may shine more brightly than a rich man’s
million candles,’ we would like to respectfully remit 150 mil réis to Japan.”41
The donors humbled themselves in stating that their gift was nothing special
or heroic but a minimal, deferential expression of their filial duty when their
compatriots were in trouble (though very few people from Iwate Prefecture
emigrated to Latin America), and entreating the Japanese government to
accept their sympathy. This may evince the successful indoctrination of the
moral principle of chūkun aikoku (loyalty and patriotism) into the Nikkei’s
collective thinking and behavior, on the one hand. On the other, the mil-
lenarian dream of returning home—the majority still wished to repatriate
but only a few were actually able to do so—increased the sense of alienation
from their homeland, and a suspicion of having been abandoned by the
home government grew. In his recollection, Handa Tomoo, an Issei coffee
worker and a historian of Japanese-Brazilian immigration, vividly described
this psychological development: “We [Japanese immigrants in Brazil] are
living from hand to mouth, with caboclo-like children running around us.
We have deviated from the direction that our 80 million dōhō [compatriots]
are gloriously heading toward. We feel that the immigrants in Brazil have
been excluded from the motherland. We had long thought that ‘kaigai hatten’
[overseas advancement] was the national mission the home government as-
signed only to us. But it was Asia [not Brazil] that our own nation genuinely
desires to develop. . . . We are after all nothing more than a handful of useless
people whom Japan abandoned to the farthest corner of the earth.”42
Handa observes that this feeling of desertion (kimin shishō) was prevalent
among the first generation in Brazil in the 1930s and 1940s. To overcome this
psychological void, some began advocating the “Return to Japan” move-
ment (kaiki undō). That is, once (or if) Japan built the Greater East Asia
Co-Prosperity Sphere, the Nikkei in Latin America “will join our dōhō there
and lead them with the pioneer spirit that we had nurtured in Brazil!”43
Handa remembers that whenever Issei adults congregated, they entertained
themselves with this surreal proto-Zionist scenario. Indeed, it was fantasy,
since the home government had no intention of retrieving all these Japanese
citizens from the Americas.
In fact, the desire for repatriation succumbed to admonitions against it as
an unpatriotic thought. In the general assembly of the Baurú branch of the
Japanese Cultural Association (Zaihaku Nihonjin-kai) of Brazil in 1936, it was
resolved that “given the growing number of returnees these days, we strongly
urge the Japanese in Brazil [zaihaku dōhō] to reflect on the disgrace.”44 They
maintained that a continuous effort to develop Japanese colonies in the
Americas was the zaihaku dōhō’s duty.45
With the developments in Asia, the Japanese government sought to re-

inforce the public understanding of the graveness of the war emergency
and to consolidate the internal cohesion of the Nikkei community.46 Social
unity in this totalitarian context was less congenial and more disciplinar-
ian. In October 1936, forty-seven local representatives of the Japanese Cul-
tural Association convened at a general meeting in São Paulo moderated by
Consul General Ichige Kōzō. The Nikkei convention discussed how to deal
with “delinquent individuals” in their communities. The Nikkei leadership
established the rule that “a delinquent individual” (furyō bunshi) should be
reprimanded by the local branch of the Cultural Association to which he or
she belongs, and the local authority (i.e., embassies and nihonjin-kai) should
monitor his or her thoughts and behavior; in case the person does not seem
repentant, related organizations will be informed of that and watch (further
developments); and the Cultural Association will sever any contact with
anyone who harms other Japanese compatriots’ interests (mura hachibu os-
tracism, commonly practiced in pre-modern Japanese villages).47 No specific
definition of “delinquent individual” or behavior was given, but the following
story of an Okinawan immigrant in Peru may suggest what sort of actions or
words were subject to sanction. When this Okinawan immigrant, who was a
member of a Japanese organization in the outskirts of Lima, disagreed with
his group’s decision on a project to construct a new Japanese-language el-
ementary school, the association brought the case to a higher authority—not
the Peruvian courts but the Japanese Consulate—for an ultimate finding. The
consulate decided that, “[The charged individual] committed various kinds
of injustice, such as unreasonable acts and lies, obstructed the association’s
operations, disturbed peace and harmony among the Japanese, disobeyed
the repeated remonstration and warning by the imperial consulate, . . . his
unreasonable and insolent words and actions caused trouble to many Japa-
nese people living in the area. . . . He not only disturbed the social order but
also hurt Japanese honor” (emphasis added).48
The Okinawan was harshly punished with “extradition” from Peru, which
resulted in the de facto confiscation of his property and separation from
his wife and children. Such an inflated penalty for the arguably frivolous
offense was probably meant to punish an act of disturbance of communal
(and ultimately national) harmony, as a lesson to the whole community, and
to prevent future defiance. Other minor offenses, such as opening a business
without the authorization of the local Nikkei associations (Seiichi Higashide49
witnessed this in his Ica district) were punished by expulsion from the as-
sociation, which was de facto ostracism from the Nikkei community.50 After
all, a harmonious and perfect kokka (nation family) had to be free from any
discord or dispute.
The ideal of a “perfect and harmonious” nation extended to the image of
a model emigrant. Overseas emigrants from the earliest period continued to
be associated with the image of “social misfits” or “loose fish,” and despised
as almost second-class citizens.51 A draft-dodger who emigrated abroad in
order to avoid conscription was subject to particular contempt as a defec-
tor or traitor, and at one time faced punishment (e.g., confiscation of their
property upon departure in exchange for forgiveness). Such negative brand-
ing was attached to Japanese emigrants in general, and to Latin American
ones in particular, since they were virtually forced out of the homeland and
lived in underdeveloped and uncivilized places like Latin America, as seen
in the above-noted recollection of Handa in Brazil. In this context, patriotic
thoughts and deeds were ways to redeem their negative image and low status
to a level more equal to that of an ordinary Japanese citizen.
The diaspora’s moral discipline was also crucial to the instruction of their
dōhō back in the homeland. Kaneda Kinji, a colonial migration scholar at
Kobe University of Commerce, explained the demonstration effect of the
diaspora’s moral excellence upon the Japanese public: their overseas advance-
ment “may yield spiritual influence upon domestic Japanese society, give
the Japanese an ethnic confidence and hope, and become an ideological
safety valve against social insecurity and instability.”52 By the same token, the
school disciplinary policy at the above-mentioned Kokushikan Gakkō was
highly praised for producing orderly, self-disciplined school trainees whose
soldier-like behavior was “touching upon the hearts of ordinary citizens.”53
Not simply comparable to their dōhō in the homeland, the Nikkei diaspora
were expected to outshine the Japanese in Japan—as the maxim goes, “Ai yori
aoku” (“Be more blue than indigo”: a disciple who outshines his master).
Long-Distance Patriotism Run Amok

The transnational normative discourse that the Nikkei diaspora should out-
shine its compatriots in Japan in patriotism was tested with the end of World
War II. Japan’s capitulation and the resultant power vacuum in the diasporic
society baffled the population on the one hand and unleashed fervent na-
tionalism on the other. Ironically, the war’s end brought not peace but more
war within the Japanese community in South America.
The Nikkei diaspora in South America, who had endured wartime hard-
ships in enemy nations, heard the news of Japan’s surrender to the Allied
Forces in August 1945 with bewilderment and confusion. The confusion was
especially grave in Brazil, where the Nikkei were systematically segregated

and persecuted. The minority community was deprived of an official and ob-
jective means for confirming the veracity of this explosive news. The Japanese
embassy and consulates had been closed, and ethnic media were banned.54
Many were dispersed in remote rural areas, where means of communication
were scarce. In their isolation, the Japanese in Brazil could not collectively
“embrace defeat,” unlike the Japanese nationals at home.55 Most of them did
not immediately believe in the breakdown of the Greater Japanese Empire
and, more humiliatingly, Japan’s voluntary surrender to the Allied Forces.
They even suspected that the war defeat was either a story spread by the un-
patriotic or a psychological trap set by the enemy in order to discourage their
patriotism and fighting spirit.56 To these doubters, it was ultimately a matter
of what they wanted to believe. As noted above, many Nikkei had endured
wartime isolation by retreating into a fantasy of eventual reunification with
the empire. To abandon this delusion and face reality amounted to losing
their raison d’etre, which most of them refused to give up. It is recorded that
as of September 1945, the number of those who did not believe in Japan’s
surrender (the kachigumi or victory group) amounted to some one hundred
thousand in Brazil alone—almost a half of the total Nikkei there.57
Confusion about the surrender was particularly serious in Brazil. Rumors
and bizarre “evidence” of various kinds substantiated the delusion. Some
started to whisper that Japan’s naval fleets—carrying the imperial army, an
imperial family member, or a representative of overseas compatriots’ associ-
ations—would arrive at Port Santos in September.58 A bogus photograph was
circulated that captured the signing ceremony of “America’s surrender to Ja-
pan” on the Missouri under the rising sun. The Brazilian authorities confiscated
a 35mm film showing the image of MacArthur kissing Hirohito’s hand.59
While an increasing number of the Nikkei in Brazil came to recognize the
war defeat as a fact (these converts were called makegumi), the kachigumi
zealots launched into political action. The loyalists formed Shindō Renmei
(League of the Way of Imperial Subjects, founded in May 1945), a coalition
of multiple ultra-nationalist organizations in Brazil. Developing out of the
clandestine political organization kōdōsha (founded in February 1944) the
league was equipped with a regimented organizational structure, including
departments of propaganda, intelligence, and education, and the ideologi-
cal spine of emperor and kokutai worship. The league’s loyalist and milita-
rist pedigree was excellent, with former army officers as its ideological and
operational leaders. These included Yoshikawa Junji (a former lieutenant
colonel), Yamagishi Hiroshi (a military police lieutenant and one of the coup
members in the May 15 incident),60 Negoro (or Negi) Ryōtarō (an official of
the Colonial Government of Taiwan), and Yamauchi Kiyoo (trained in the

same military academy as Yoshikawa). These war veterans were among those
who emigrated to South America after the Russo-Japanese War or World War
I. Using tactics to recruit its followers varying from persuasion to entice-
ment (saying, for example, that Renmei members would get the first tickets
to re-migrate to Asia) and harassment (such as arson), in a few months they
expanded to sixty branches and more than a hundred thousand members.61
They then put their other mission, to purge the disloyal, into action.
On March 7, 1946, business leader Mizobe Ikuta was shot dead in his
residence. Thereafter, Nomura Chūzaburō, former editor in chief of Nippaku
Shinbun newspaper, Furuya Shigetsuna, former ambassador to Argentina,
and Wakiyama Jinsaku, a retired army major, fell victim to a rampage of
assassinations. These victims belonged to the makegumi camp. Later, it was
discovered that the terrorism was Shindō Renmei’s doing. Violence by both
factions escalated. The Nikkei-Brazilian community fell into a virtual state
of civil war.62
Japan’s foreign minister Yoshida Shigeru sent a telegram to the zaihaku
dōhō (Japanese compatriots living in Brazil), by way of the Swedish Consul-
ate, which had represented Japan since 1941, urging: “The Japanese in Brazil
should not be deluded by an irresponsible canard, refrain yourselves, . . . live
in peace, concentrate on your occupations, and contribute to the prosperity
of your foster country, Brazil.”63 Brazil’s state governments, military attachés,
and an archbishop also tried to persuade the kachigumi hardliners to stop
their campaign, all to no avail.64
Within one year, by February 1947, 23 people had died and some 150 had
been injured. Finally, President Euricio Dutra intervened. This time, the
kachigumi members were the ones purged. The government grilled suspects
by asking a simple question upon arrest as to whether or not they believed
in the reality of Japan’s surrender. In all, about five hundred were arrested
and eighty were sentenced to banishment.65 Showing undeterred faith, the
exiles were exultant with their punishment, assuming that they could finally
return to Japan. This did not happen after all: they and hundreds of other
criminals were sent to the high security prison on Ancietta Island.66
The incident’s after-effects were grave. The collective memory of this
bloody internecine purge among the Nikkei population lingered for decades.
Many kachigumi members, like Mr. Higa, above, did not easily give up their
convictions, and physically and emotionally distanced themselves from the
Nikkei community. The community itself stopped talking about Japan’s de-
feat, let alone its internal strife. Anti-Japanese activism revived in Brazilian
politics, and Brazilian society in general stiffened its attitude against a restart
of Japanese immigration.67
The occupied government of Japan was uncomfortable with this unin-
tended consequence of long-distance nationalism, which was Japan’s own
creation but which went out of its control. The nature of the incident and its
aftermath were repeatedly brought up in Diet hearings beginning in 1947.
Ōno Katsumi, representing the premier’s office, testified before the Lower
House’s committee on foreign affairs that a significant number of Nikkei in
Brazil denied the end of World War II, that the Shindō Renmei was agitating
these denialists to join its nationalist campaign that involved violence, and
that as a result the Japanese immigrants’ reputation in Brazil was critically at
stake. The results of the Kachigumi-Makegumi fight might be serious, as feared
by a parliament member: it cost not only human lives in Brazil but probably
Japan’s international reputation as well. What’s worse, the possibility of re-
sumption of Japan’s emigration might be reduced, and its negotiations with
Brazil over emigration might be burdened with it.68 Japan did not have direct
connections with the intra-ethnic conflict itself (its international contact was
strictly limited under the occupation). With limited communication options,
the GOJ sent an official message that explained Japan’s stand via the Swedish
embassy, asking visiting Nikkei compatriots to tell their fellows the truth.69
The government also tried to dissociate its postwar emigration policy from
this ethnic debacle as well as from its colonialist past. On July 6, 1955, in the
Lower House’s Committee on Foreign Affairs, Sonoda Tadashi, representing
the cabinet, commented critically that prewar immigrants were unable or
unwilling to assimilate themselves into local cultures and society, which had
led to fervent nationalism and caused the Kachigumi-Makegumi civil war, and
that the prewar government was also responsible for interfering excessively
in diasporic affairs ([in terms of spreading nationalism).70 The implication of
Sonoda’s statement was twofold: that ethnic nationalism imbued in prewar
emigration was a grave mistake that postwar Japan should learn a lesson
from, but also that it was a thing of the past and postwar emigration would
be, and ought to be, different.
Upon returning to the international community, Japan committed itself to
becoming a pacifist and humanitarian nation and to making contributions
to world peace and prosperity. Its economic resources—technologies, and
capital, which the nation was quickly accumulating, as well as high-quality
labor—were vital tools for Japan’s international activism. And this construc-
tive image had to be projected into and substantiated by overseas migration.
The Diet Resolution on the Population Problem in 1949 pledged that emigra-
tion was “to express Japan’s thankfulness to the world and obtain a sense of
satisfaction [among the global community] toward the Japanese.”71 Foreign
Minister Shigemitsu Mamoru’s words reemphasized this point: “Japanese
emigration is based on pacifism, which symbolizes [international] contribu-
tion and peace. . . . Japanese emigration has nothing to do with imperialism,
contrary to the suspicion of some nations, but it is of economic assistance
to less developed nations. This claim must be proven by emigrants’ own en-
gagement in the Amazon development.”72 In other words, Japan would seek
emigration out of a sense of obligation, and would send diligent, capable,
and motivated emigrants as proxies of Japan’s foreign assistance diplomacy
(enjo gaikō) into Latin American hinterlands.
There was an inherent discrepancy between this highly moralistic official
claim and the needs and wants of emigrants. The latter expected that over-
seas migration would bring about an individual’s or a family’s prosperity
and happiness; for the former, a higher goal of kokusai kōken (international
contribution), or more specifically, the economic modernization of Latin
America, should come first and foremost. Seeking credibility in interna-
tional development, the government sent emigrants to the harshest envi-
ronments, expecting them to endure and overcome whatever obstacles they
encountered. In their dealings with emigrants in Brazil and elsewhere, the
state emigration coordinators repeatedly stressed diligence, perseverance,
and self-reliance. In the Dominican Republic, for instance, when a growing
number of emigrant-settlers demanded to either repatriate or re-migrate, the
locally based officials—the embassy, and the Dominican branch of Kaikyōren,
a state emigration organization—were displeased. In Kaikyōren’s view, the
emigrants’ failure in settlement stemmed from their poor personal qualities:
“[The immigrants] lack a will to work, both husbands and wives are unintel-
ligent [chisei naku] and on bad terms [direct translation], they are physically
weak, ideologically distorted and mentally ill, or tend to commit crimes.”73 It
advised that new migrants should be more self-disciplined, stronger (physi-
cally and mentally), and better motivated. Those who wished repatriation
were instructed to have more perseverance. Furthermore, when the com-
munist threat loomed over the Caribbean in the 1950s, Kaikyōren instructed
the emigrants not to withdraw but directed them towards more engagement.
Believing that participation in President Trujillo’s initiative of “foreigners’
troops” to fight communism would contribute to peace (i.e., defense of the
capitalist world), it “almost compulsorily” ordered all the Japanese male adults
in Dajabón and Neiva into “conscription.”74 This paternalistic view shifted
the blame to individuals, making them responsible for the alleged failure to
prosper in the diasporic context, which then compromised their well-being

vis-à-vis Japan’s ambition for power and status in international relations.
Conquering the “Poor” West

The emigration enterprise in Latin America under the Japanese state’s tute-
lage was an integral part of the nation’s global strategy to expand its sphere
of influence in world politics. Acquisition of land, allocation of emigrants
thereto, and control of their economic, social, and political life—all served
to substantiate Japan’s claim of sovereignty within another country. Many
ideologues and administrators in prewar Japan spoke of such expansionism in
the neutral phrase “kaigai hatten” (overseas advance). Miyawaki Chibata, an
executive of the national policy company, Kaigai Kōgyō, for instance, viewed
overseas advance for Japan as a momentous national undertaking—that is,
enhancement of Japan’s international prestige and power—and felt that this
venture involving the building of colonies in Brazil meant an expansion of
Japanese territories abroad.75
Despite the apparent ethnocentricity and imperialistic tone, the Japanese
state publicly insisted that its emigration-colonization (ishokumin) opera-
tions were “not an act of aggression but a peaceful enterprise to be conducted
with the agreement of the other [host] nation, whose formal sovereignty
Japan fully respected,” in the words of Takayama Sanpei, chief of the Colo-
nial Bureau of the Colonial Ministry.76 Japan was not as reckless as imperial
Germany, which militarily advanced to foreign countries and was as a result
involved and defeated in World War I, in the view of another colonial official,
and Japan’s kaigai hatten “categorically excludes a militaristic element and
aspires for co-existence and co-prosperity of the world of mankind from a
purely peaceful perspective.”77
The West disbelieved the pacifist and cosmopolitan arguments of Japan,
whose military thrusts in northeast Asia, which intensified in the 1930s,
cogently suggested the opposite: an intent to stealthily penetrate into the
western hemisphere. In Brazil, anti-Japanese ideologue Miguel Couto agitated
a public outcry, condemning the presence of Japanese immigrants and busi-
nesses in the Amazon as a step toward the “Manchurianization of Brazil”; the
Nikkei concessions were too expansive and “dangerous to Brazil’s national
defense or examples of loathsome Japanese imperialism.”78 Peruvians warned
the United States that Japan was scheming to create naval bases near the
Panama Canal and eventually lay siege to the West Coast of South America
so as to counter-balance the U.S. influence in the Americas and dominate
their resources. The U.S. Embassy in Lima did not validate the Peruvian
charges, but certainly raised its concern about Japan’s military penetration in
its backyard. Ambassador Fred Dealing reminded Washington that “where
there is smoke, there is fire.”79
Unable to convince the suspicious West, Japan turned to a universal cause
to engage in frontier development. Reclamation, cultivation, development,
and practical use of land and natural resources in the Amazon by Japanese
colonizers would bring about prosperity and happiness not only for Japan
but also for South America. Takayama of the Colonial Ministry asserted that
Japan’s emigration-colonization policy was based upon the basic principle of
coexistence and co-prosperity (kyōzon kyōei); that is, emigrant sender and
recipient nations would collaborate under the shared goal of the progress of
world civilization by way of Amazon development.80 Universal virtues of de-
velopment assistance and global prosperity and peace were juxtaposed with
Japan’s particular interests of overseas advance. The colonization of the Amazon
was defined as Japan’s absolute “ethnic responsibility” (minzokuteki sekimu).
Woven into this new international discourse was Japan’s sense of rivalry
with Europe and the United States. Imperial Japan—the rising regional he-
gemonic power in Asia—was a minor player when it came to Latin Amer-
ica, which had been dominated by Europeans and Anglo-Americans for
centuries. Seeking to compete with and surpass the West, Japan took on
the Amazon—the icon of South American backwardness yet the greatest
symbol of its future potential, and a place no Western civilization had fully
conquered. In the moral domain, this Japanese colonial venture did find a
way to eclipse Western imperialism. Kamitsuka Tsukasa, a Kumamoto-based
politician and the founder of the Institute Amazonia of Industrial Research,
expressed Japan’s resolve to advance into the heartland of the South American
wilderness: “In the past several centuries, the white race in Europe and the
U.S. has dispatched explorers and researchers to study and plan development
here [in the Amazon] several times, all in vain. . . . The Great Amazon gravely
despises such selfish and merciless invaders. It also repels the forceful entry
of these greedy tyrants. What the great nature of the Amazon awaits is not
such a cunning people nor lazy folks like the indigenous savages. It awaits a
race that is willing to devote itself to hard work in the sun-scorching climate
below the Equator, that is diligent and wise and that embraces die-hard spirit
and far-sighted belief and hope. The Great Amazon will open its arms to
welcome the arrival of such brave explorers.”81 Kamitsuka’s anthropomor-
phism, personifying wild nature, asserts that the hedonistic and self-serving
West was morally inferior to the Japanese, whose temperament was spiritual,
compassionate, and moralistic. The Amazon had stubbornly refused to be
conquered by Western civilization despite the latter’s excellent technolo-

gies and science, but it welcomed the Japanese, who arrived with diligence,
ingenuity, and mental prowess.82 Developed and enlightened with Japan’s
great national essence, the Amazon, and Latin America in general, were to
be liberated from Western domination. “The Great Amazon’s soil and sky
will become at long last the paradise and the center of the world civilization,”
Kamitsuka celebrated.83 This theory of liberation—with Japan assuming a
special mission to protect or emancipate non-Western societies from Western
colonialism by incorporating them into the Japanese empire—was also used
to justify Japan’s military takeover of Asia.84 While dismissing outright the
West’s concern over the “Manchurianization of Latin America” as “worth less
than a glimpse,”85 Latin American emigration strategists reached the same
conclusion as they did about Japan’s Manchurian scheme, using the identical
term, chijō no rakudo, or “paradise on earth.”
Postwar Japan disavowed its earlier imperialist rhetoric in its own Amazon
exploits. It continued to engage in regional development of the Brazilian
hinterlands, but it did so in a new guise. The government’s emigration plan-
ners told international audiences that the Japanese race—and it alone—was
capable of taking on the daunting task of taming South America’s wilderness.
That rationale placated both Latin American host nations and the U.S. occu-
pier, according to Yukiko Koshiro, and paved the way for the once-forbidden
emigration to resume.86 For some emigration activists, though, the sertão
crusade was nothing but a continuation of Japan’s struggle that had been
suspended by the war. To build a “virtuous world [dōgi sekai] was the goal
of the Greater East Asian War” and the ideal of the Japanese race, according
to Hioki Takeshi, manager of the La Colmena colony in Paraguay. Japan had
happened to lose armed warfare, he continued, but would definitely win this
new peacetime battle. The Japanese as the premier race had to make relentless
progress in this endeavor until it reached a level of perfection.87
What changed conspicuously in the Japanese discourse on Latin Ameri-
can-bound migration and colonization was its national consciousness toward
its former rivals, the United States and Europe. Emigration advocates no
longer spoke with naked antagonism against them as they once did. With
the start of postwar emigration, Japan humbly agreed to play the role of a
“surrogate for the whites” in developing Latin America.88 To develop indus-
tries and markets and stimulate the otherwise-stagnant local economies by
emigration-colonization squared well with the U.S. geopolitical interest in
reinforcing the region as a capitalist bastion against communism.
Koshiro finds that Japan’s new, postwar self-image based upon racial con-
sciousness rendered it able to invent for itself a new role in international af-
fairs. Through the experience of subjugation and humiliation during occupa-

tion, it assumed a hybrid racial identity as the “most advanced colored race,”
endowed with the intelligence of whites and the physical strength of colored
peoples.89 With this unique biophysical advantage, Japan assigned itself the
cosmopolitan task of engaging in Latin American rural development.
In contrast, little had changed in Japan’s cultural understanding of Latin
America. In the prewar period, negative images of Latin America based on
race were profuse in the discourse of emigration proponents. It was often
called “an inferior civilization,” with the “friendly but lazy Latin race,” the
hinterlands “full of native savages.”90 Even Nitobe Inazō, a renowned scholar
on overseas migration and a graduate of Johns Hopkins University, did not
hide his ethno-chauvinism and naïveté in explaining the socioeconomic
conditions of the region in his statements, such as: “Since Latin America is
extremely inferior in many respects, fewer Europeans want to migrate there
than to North America.”91 In the postwar period, such sweeping, negative
views of the region still prevailed. According to the official survey of Japanese
people’s impressions of Brazil, the overwhelming majority of the respondents
saw it as “backward” or “uncivilized,” and felt emigration thereto was unat-
tractive.92 By the early 1960s, when this survey was conducted, Japan was
already becoming an industrial economy and exalted itself as a civilized and
advanced nation, while Brazil and many other Latin American nations were
stuck in economic stagnation and political instability.
While looking down at Latin America with racial bigotry and contempt,
Japan’s emigration advocates gave equally unscientific reasons why the rural
peasantry, Burakumin, and coal miners should be considered as the best can-
didates for emigration. Sugiura Shigetaka, a prewar education scholar, stated
that Burakumin, intellectually inferior but physically stronger than ordinary
Japanese, were better off migrating abroad, probably to the “South,” given
the persistent social discrimination at home.93 The physiological suitability
of the Burakumin for the South American climate was also stressed in Yūwa
Jihō, a publication on the Buraku issue. Whether the Buraku population or
the people of the southwest in general, “those who live in the semitropical
regions would fit well in the Amazonian climate” [the southwestern climate
is relatively mild, but not semitropical].”94 These two backward elements, one
inside Japan and the other overseas, were a perfect match in the thinking of
the Japanese elite. (In contrast, the prewar Japanese government explicitly
discouraged the Burakumin from migrating to the continental United States
for the same racial reasons: a large number of outcasts emigrating to the
American civilization might reveal the secret national shame of Japan to the
Western world and damage its international reputation.)95
In a nutshell, Japan took on its Latin American project as a way to exalt its
national prestige and racial superiority in the international arena, specifically
vis-à-vis the United States and Europe. Latin American nations undeniably
belong to the Western world, with Spain and Portugal as their former rul-
ers, and whose social elites are still criollos, notwithstanding the black and
indigenous populations. If Japan developed and prevailed over this poorer
part of the Western world, it could feel triumphant. In this sense, a special
flavor was exuded in its engagement with Latin America. Similar satisfac-
tion might not be gained by mastering Asia, which belonged to the “inferior
Orient.” Ultimately, Japan’s expanded statehood was directed at the greater
West, via its weakest part, Latin America.
Conclusion
The present study on the politics of Japanese emigration to Latin America

has been driven by three major conundrums: the unorthodox pattern of
emigration from high to low economies, the insistence of the migrant-sender
state of Japan upon emigration despite numerous setbacks, and the geo-
graphical concentration in the origins of the emigrants. In this study, the
emigration-side narrative—particularly the intent and actions of the state
of Japan—has come to the fore. The Japanese state—both central and local
governments—was the main architect of the migration scheme in both the
pre– and post–World War II periods. Domestically and internationally, it
promoted, underwrote, and managed emigration by means of various insti-
tutional arrangements and in extensive collaboration with quasi-public and
private organizations and individuals. The unprecedented surge in migration
to Latin America in the 1920s and 1930s and again in the 1950s and 1960s
was the state’s creation.
While the Japanese state’s engagement in Latin American emigration re-
mained constant, the implementation of the policy and the official discourse
on colonial migration changed over time in a convoluted and elusive way.
Originally grounded in a Malthusian rationaleto solve overpopulation and
poverty via emigration—the policy increasingly focused on more immediate
and concrete social concerns and on the southwestern region, rife with such
problems. Contemporaneous with the heydays of Latin American emigration
in the prewar and postwar periods, the sociopolitical climate of the southwest
worsened with intensification of the social conflicts that developed uniquely
within the area’s political conditions. Political challenges from below—social
movements of peasant, labor, and the Burakumin in the prewar period, and
198 Conclusion
the postwar militancy of coal miners—heightened the alarm of the central

and local authorities. The government saw the radicalization of these opposi-
tion forces through the lens of security and order, and could hardly ignore
their potential danger to the polity. At the same time, it felt an urgent need
to consolidate the system of social control and its legitimacy. To placate the
distressed and dissatisfied masses with material rewards, a policy mix of
social and labor protection and compensation was fashioned during these
crisis periods. Overseas emigration was employed in this policy arrangement
as a quick and effective means to peacefully remove the economically and
politically unwanted population overseas. Local activism factored into this
accommodative politics: the prefectural officials and other emigration enthu-
siasts in the southwest fanned the emigration fever on their turf, proclaim-
ing overseas migration as the way to people’s prosperity and as a great local
tradition. In a nutshell, I believe this study has provided evidence that Latin
American emigration was a political decompressor used by the prewar and
postwar state to remove perceived sources of current or potential instability
and to restore civic order and national unity.
At the same time, other relevant questions remain unsolved. For instance,
Kōchi Prefecture sent the largest number of emigrants to Paraguay and the
Dominican Republic in the postwar period. Why did this happen, even
though the prefecture did not have a track record in the prewar organized
migration nor saw an imminent political crisis, as in Fukuoka? Furthermore,
why did large-scale overseas emigration not take place in Wakayama or in
other prefectures rife with rural Burakumin radicalism? What about Hok-
kaido, which had sent a large number of emigrants before and after World
War II and was another mining center? Did the government also apply the
emigration-qua-decompression formula to this region? Whether or not these
exceptions to the general trend are significant, these questions merit further
investigation. Equally meriting future analysis is the historical continuity of
the emancipation via emigration modelas applied to the Burakumin in the
prewar period, first in Hokkaido (starting in the late nineteenth century),
then moving to South America (as reviewed in this study), and lastly to
Manchuria (mostly from the mid-1930s onward).
A historical evaluation of the Latin American emigration policy needs care-
ful qualification. In addressing the debate on whether it was a form of state
welfare or repression, I tried to present more nuanced and multifaceted inter-
pretations, referring to historical and ideological contexts. The prewar policy
was based upon the ruling ideology of a unified and orderly nation-state
under the emperor’s moral authority. Imagining a harmonious and perfect
nation, emigration proponents viewed overseas migration as the most viable
means to cleanse the protest-ridden society while taking care of the rural
Conclusion 199
poor and socially marginalized by presenting the opportunity to go abroad.

The postwar government, desperately seeking quick national reconstruction
and growth, revisited the emigration formula to assist laid-off coalminers
and other rural poor who failed to adjust to the changing socioeconomic
environment. Throughout its history, the emigration policy was part of a
matrix of accommodative politics to emasculate the social opposition and
assure stability. In this respect, welfare considerations were subordinate to
the state’s higher goal of national consolidation and progress.
Placing the Latin American emigration policy in the larger context of
Japan’s modern nation-building, this study has explained how that policy
encapsulated the nation’s expansionist ideology in both prewar and postwar
periods. The effect of the emigration policy was reflected in economic, politi-
cal, and ideological dimensions.
Nikkei farms became overseas platforms for Japan’s global resource secu-
rity strategy. Farmers and cooperatives developed, produced, and sold new
commercial crops, to both local and Japanese markets. These agricultural
incubators fortified Japan’s commodity supply base overseas and reduced its
structural vulnerability vis-à-vis the United States and other international
exporters. And the Nikkei achievements contributed to Latin America’s re-
gional development by turning formerly unproductive lands into dynamic
farming centers.
Prewar Japan’s imperialist ambitions involved political and ideological
exchanges with its co-ethnic diaspora. To broaden its influence worldwide,
the Japanese state attempted to build a new state-society relationship, and
laid claim to the right to rule and administer diasporic affairs abroad. The
Nikkei communities in Brazil and Peru epitomized Japan’s expanded nation-
state in the western hemisphere, with well-articulated internal networks and
organizations and transnational linkages to communicate with the home
state. A perfect nation was imagined and constructed by both the state and
the diaspora.
The postwar emigration, shedding its old imperialist garb, pronounced
itself a vehicle to make substantial and tangible contributions to the economic
development of South America and the Caribbean. Emigrants were made
the agents of this state idealism, entering into undeveloped hinterlands as
frontier colonizers without sufficient material, financial, or even moral sup-
port from the Japanese administrators. The price paid by emigrants for the
state expansion enterprise was high; this book was able to touch on their
experience only briefly.
Ultimately, Japan’s claim of ethnic colonies in Latin America and its ideal-
istic pursuit of an organic nation highlighted an unorthodox statehood—Ja-
pan’s extended sovereignty that penetrated into the sovereignty of other Latin
200 Conclusion
American nations. This normative statehood assumed an ethnocentric and

paternalistic temperament vis-à-vis Latin America. Avowing that economic
development and civilization of the Amazon and other hinterlands were
Japan’s racial destiny, this ethnocentric worldview also implied a Japanese
belief in its cultural superiority to Latin America and a desire to overcome
its cultural rivals, the United States and Europe.
Okinawa stood out as an aberration from the pattern seen throughout
this study. It was the only southwestern prefecture that produced a large
number of emigrants to South America in the first, prewar wave without
support from the Japanese state. In fact, Okinawans’ emigration took place
despite the state’s discouragement and intimidation. In the postwar period,
however, while political instability loomed over Okinawa Island under the
U.S. occupation, particularly over the issue of land confiscation by the U.S.
military in the 1950s, Latin American emigration was deployed against the
politicized Okinawans. Hoping to ease tension by compensating some of the
protesters with material opportunities, the Ryūkyū government and USCAR
launched the emigration program, collectively relocating the dispossessed
to new settlements on the Bolivian and Brazilian frontiers. In a different
social context, played out by different actors from those in the Japanese
case, the “emigration qua decompressor” formula was adopted for occupied
Okinawa.
Recent Developments in Diasporic Relations

Throughout the history of Japanese emigration to Latin America, the Japa-
nese state dominated transnational relations with its co-ethnic diaspora. In
those periods, the arena of diaspora politics was located outside Japan. Of
late, however, the Nikkei diaspora has come to the fore and reconfigured
the relationship. They have “returned” to the land of their ancestors, living
or working there, and the presence and actions of these people with roots
in two worlds are posing new challenges for the government and society of
this relatively homogenous and closed country. The arena of diaspora politics
has been relocated to within Japan.
Since the 1980s, Japan has seen a massive influx of the Nikkei immigrants
from South America. The Nikkei dekasegi or “return migrants,” with their
Iberian languages, Latin cultures, and other non-Japanese attributes, have
internationalized (kokusai-ka) the society. New political and legal issues have
also emerged. How will the government and the general society cope with
the people of this new kokusai-ka phenomenon?
Conclusion 201
The “bubble economy” of the 1980s transformed Japan from an exporter into
an importer of Latin American labor migrants. About 300,000 foreigners of
Japanese ancestry (Nikkeijin) and their families have entered Japan with visas
for special permanent residence,1 a startling tide of human influx, equaling
almost the same number of Japanese migrants as in the first and second waves
of Latin American-bound migration combined. The special residence visas
were granted to the Nikkeijin so that they could stay in Japan for one to three
years, a term that is renewable.2 The majority of Nikkeijin, mostly from Brazil
and Peru, came to Japan in order to work and earn the stronger yen.
The unprecedented stock market rise, the emergence of the nouveaux
riches, and the consumption and construction boom in the 1980s together
created a great need for blue-collar labor in Japan. Since menial and low-
paid jobs at restaurants, construction sites, or factories could not attract
ambitious and choosy Japanese workers, the alternative was foreign workers,
either legal or undocumented, from China, Iran, Bangladesh, and South
American countries. Manufacturing and assembly plants in the automobile
and machinery industries employed a large number of Nikkei job seekers
as contract workers. Homogeneous suburban towns near Tokyo, such as
Ōizumi, Yamato, and Hamamatsu, were quickly “latinized” with suddenly
large populations of multicultural newcomers.3

The rapid and voluminous influx of Nikkei dekasegi workers resulted from
a change in Japan’s immigration law. With the revision of the Immigration
Control Act in 1990, Latin Americans of Japanese ethnicity were able to
stay in Japan up to three years and renew their visas relatively easily (for a
de facto unlimited number of times).4 On the other hand, the revised Im-
migration Control Act raised its barriers against illegal or undocumented
foreign entrants, and increased penalties for Japanese employers hiring illegal
workers.5 The partial deregulation of immigration control availed Japan of
a double standard to create “side doors while keeping the front door firmly
closed”—to crack down on undocumented immigrants while meeting its
industrial labor force needs.6

Japan’s predilection for Nikkeijin over other foreigners as suggested by the
revised ICA underscores various aspects of the presumed advantages of this
group. First, the selective immigration deregulation may enable Japan to dem-
onstrate its openness to the international community and thus improve its
global prestige. With the doors to immigration ajar, job opportunities beckon
to Nikkei dekasegi from developing economies, like Brazil and Peru. Surplus
earned by these migrants is transferred back home, helping to develop local
economies.7 The addition of multicultural newcomers to the monocultural
society may also serve to satisfy Japan’s desire for cosmopolitanism. Despite
202 Conclusion
its economic expansion, the society’s exclusivity has always tended to elicit
widespread criticism from the outside world; such cosmetic internationaliza-
tion could help counter its negative image.
Another conceivable benefit brought by the co-ethnic sojourners is cul-
tural. Ethnic homogeneity is a poorly grounded but deeply rooted myth in
Japan. The extant law on nationality based on jus sanguinis manifests the
nation’s regard for biological cohesion. Nativists continue to believe that
homogeneity and monoculturalism are the basis of Japan’s domestic security
even after economic internationalization. In their view, the Nikkeijin are
preferable to Bangladeshi or Chinese immigrants in this respect. Their com-
mand of the Japanese language and knowledge of Japanese history may be
incomplete, but the Nikkeijin are, after all, biologically Japanese, and other
Asians are “foreigners.” Selective acceptance of the co-ethnic immigrants thus
theoretically enables Japan to preserve a blood-based collective identity and
assures stability.
Nevertheless, to be flawlessly Japanese, biological identity is a necessary
but not sufficient ingredient, as explained in chapter 7. Not only biological but
also cultural qualifications are indispensable for making genuine Japanese.
Nikkei South Americans, especially from younger generations, may not have
had orthodox education in language, social values and norms, customs, or
proper behavior. One Nikkei Brazilian in Japan told the American anthro-
pologist Takeyuki Tsuda that, “To be considered Japanese, it is not sufficient
to have a Japanese face and eat with chopsticks. . . . You must think, act, and
speak just like the Japanese.”8 Those who do not behave or think “like the
Japanese” are subject to social stigma and discrimination.
Japan’s opportunistic treatment of the Nikkeijin—their economic inclusion
(as a supplementary work force) and their cultural exclusion (as imperfectly
Japanese)—mirrors the state’s inadequate, insufficient, and precarious treat-
ment of the co-ethnic newcomers. Defining the Nikkei’s status in Japan as
that of “quasi-permanent” residents (teijū gaikokujin), Japanese law grants
them some special freedoms and rights, such as a de facto unlimited stay and
the freedom to choose occupations. But other rights—social (e.g., education,
job, or social security) or political (e.g., to represent and to be represented in
politics, or to be considered for public employment)—are reserved for only
Japanese nationals or naturalized citizens. Without naturalization, the rights
of the Nikkeijin in Japan are greatly limited. The lack of institutional protec-
tion or assistance may cause them inconvenience or disadvantage them, but,
according to the assumptions of the Japanese authorities, their stay in Japan
is, and should be, temporary.9
Conclusion 203

Contrary to the official assumptions, though, the Nikkeijin tend to prolong
their stays by renewing visas, bringing their family members from South
America, or by creating new families during their stay. Their demographics
are also changing, with young (third or fourth generations born in Japan) and
elderly Nikkei populations on the rise. Accordingly, these quasi-permanent
residents have new needs, concerns, and difficulties of various kinds, includ-
ing their children’s bilingual education, care of the elderly and the disabled,
and social security, to name a few. These new realities are too diverse, com-
plex, and imminent to justify the central government’s hands-off policy.10
Meanwhile, without sufficient legal and administrative support, the social
adaptation, acculturation, and independence of these returnees tends to be
delayed and difficult.
How to address these issues associated with the Nikkei newcomers and
improve the existing legal and administrative systems to be more realistic
and adequate merits future in-depth research and analysis.11 Yet perhaps some
insights are to be gained from this book’s examination of the circumstances
and motivations behind the history of Japan’s Latin American advance.
Japan’s modern nation-builders had disproportionately focused on state
expansion. In the process, they stratified society into those whom it wanted
to include and others whom it wanted to exclude.12 The emigration policy
toward Latin America advanced the state’s interests; however, it also had
repercussions across time and space that have emerged in today’s Japan, as
reflected in the case of the Nikkei return migrants. These “other Japanese” are
challenging the traditional Japanese identity, and are demanding—through
their actions as well as by their simple presence—that the nation become
open and plural. Their demands raise questions of how Japan’s perception of
itself will also change. To what extent, and in what way, if at all, is Japan able
or willing to include these people socially, culturally, economically, legally,
and politically? How will their inclusion reconfigure the scope of the nation?
And what new repercussions of past policy will rise on the horizon of Japan’s
nation-building trajectory? As a consequence of Japan’s prewar and postwar
policies, exclusivity of nationality and cultural orthodoxy must give way as
this population pushes the nation toward a more open society.
Notes
Introduction
1. An unknown number of the first contingent of Japanese immigrants to Brazil settled
in the Colonia Guatapara in 1908.
2. From the contribution of Katsuhiko Arakawa to Guatapara Shinbun (No. 356). See
the website Watashitachi no Yonjūnen, http://40anos.nikkeybrasil.com.br/jp/biografia
.php?cod=682. Accessed July 6, 2006.
3. Asahi Shinbun (September 16, 2004).
4. See the official website of the prime minister’s office: http://www.kantei.go.jp/jp/
koizumiphoto/2004/09/15brazil.html.
5. Mr. Koizumi has an elder cousin who emigrated to Brazil after World War II and
runs a dental clinic in São Paulo.
6. For the neo-classical view of the supply-demand equation in the international la-
bor market, see Briggs Jr., “International Migration and Labour Mobility”; Castles and
Miller, Age of Migration; Wayne A. Cornelius, Philip L. Martin, and James F. Hollifield,
“The Ambivalent Quest for Immigration Control,” in Cornelius, Martin, and Hollifield,
Controlling Immigration; and Hatton and Williamson, Age of Mass Migration.
7. For a good summary of this micro-theory of neo-classical economics, see Massey et
al., Worlds in Motion, 19–21.
8. Ishikawa, Nihon imin no chirigakuteki kenkyū; Koshiro, Trans-Pacific Racisms; Ide
Thompson, “San Juan Yapacani.”
9. Theoretical and empirical weaknesses of the population variable in driving inter-
national migration are pointed out in different countries and periods by the following
researchers: Cohen, Cambridge Survey of World Migration; Pertierra, Remittances and
Returnees; and Myron Weiner, “The Global Migration Crisis,” in Gungwo, Global Histories
and Migrations.
10. Hatton and Williamson point out that the question of local variations in the origin of
emigrants in European migration has been overlooked (Age of Mass Migration, 15–16).
206 Notes to Pages 4–7
11. Hakkō, No. 35, 5; Yamada, Nanbei perū to hiroshima kenjin. For the theory of the
culture of migration, see Piore, Birds of Passage.
12. Massey et al., Worlds in Motion, 47.
13. Benton and Pieke, Chinese in Europe; Hatton and Williamson, Age of Mass Migration;
Cornelius, Martin, and Hollifield, “The Ambivalent Quest for Immigration Control,” in
Cornelius et al., Controlling Immigration.
14. Kwong, New Chinatown; Millman, Other American, 27–28. Both authors use the
term “ethnic enclave” for the dynamics for growth of ethnic communities.
15. Among the scholarship on social capital theory, some focus on the impact of state
emigration policy and related institutions on the evolution of international migration. Yet,
they treat the sender state’s role as supplementary to other socially embedded institutions
and networks, and its impact as intermediary. See, for example, Abella, “International
Migration and Development”; Eelens and Speckmann, “Recruitment of Labor Migrants”;
Huan-Ming Ling, “East Asian Migration to the Middle East.”
16. Massey et al., Worlds in Motion, 286.
17. Marx, Making Race and Nation, 2.
18. Polanyi, Great Transformation.
19. While presenting the historical cases that show that modern Japanese society was rife
with protests and violence, particularly in the southwestern countryside, this study also
debates the image of a conflict-free or conflict-averse, harmonious Japanese society. The
assumption of a stable Japanese polity attributable to a “culture of silence,” or a consensus-
oriented, conflict-averse society was made by the following political culturalists: Krauss
et al., Conflict in Japan; Pharr, Losing Face; Richardson, Political Culture of Japan.
20. Zolberg, “Formation of New States”; Zolberg et al., Escape from Violence; Castles
and Miller, Age of Migration.
21. Originally, Zolberg (“Formation of New States”) narrowed his application of the
“emigration qua decompressor” model to strictly political asylum-seeker emigration under
state persecution. In his later analysis, Zolberg, together with Suhrke and Aguayo, questions
the efficacy of a clear-cut dichotomy of voluntarism versus involuntarism in classifying
mass migration that occurs in hard times. They suggest that it is important to pay attention
to concrete situations in which each emigrant has to make a rational calculation of costs
of leaving against staying home. This is because each emigrant’s choice is oftentimes con-
strained by a larger matrix of political conditions beyond a single emigration policy—the
state’s various yet often deficient policies against the poor in terms of welfare, insurance, or
poverty relief, to name a few. For example, the Irish emigration in the midst of the economic
crisis in the mid nineteenth century is attributable to an “opportunistic deportation policy”
by British rulers who were reluctant to amend the existing “institutional evils” linked to
the impoverishment of the Irish subjects. Such a “quasi-forced” nature characterizes the
Japanese emigration policy in that it embodies the state’s attempt to solve (or dislocate)
domestic social problems abroad in the form of overseas emigration while narrowing the
poor’s chances and resources for survival and regeneration at home (see Zolberg, Suhrke,
and Aguayo, Escape from Violence). For the organized repatriation of the emancipated
blacks to Liberia, see O’Grada, Black ’47 and Beyond.
22. Few have examined Japan’s emigration policy from this “political decompressor”
perspective. Nobuya Tsuchida briefly cited this possibility in “The Japanese in Brazil,
Notes to Pages 7–9 207
1908–1941,” 312. Also, Kozy Amemiya points out a “parallel function” of Japanese emigra-
tion in Bolivia and the political radicalism in the coal mining regions in northern Kyushu,
where many Bolivian-bound emigrants came from (Amemiya, “Bolivian Connection”).
Amemiya’s article is included in Johnson, Blowback, 53–68.
23. Originally cited by Williams, Capitalism and Slavery, 10. I was informed of this
citation by Robin Cohen, Global Diasporas, 68.
24. Schumpeter, Imperialism and Social Classes. Based on Schumpeter’s concept of
“social imperialism,” Young examines Japan’s colonialist attempts towards Manchuria
as a part of the nation’s imperialist ambition to overcome industrial contradictions and
control internal society. See Young, Japan’s Total Empire.
25. Koshiro points out the expansionist temperament of postwar Japan’s “cosmopolitan”
discourse on its emigration policy toward Latin America (Trans-Pacific Racisms), 124.
26. Gonzalez, “Fostering Identities”; King and Melvin, “Diaspora Politics”; Shain, “Eth-
nic Diasporas and U.S. Foreign Policy.”
27. King and Melvin, “Diaspora Politics,” 110–11.
28. Armstrong, “Mobilized and Proletarian Diaspora,” 397.
29. Abella, “International Migration and Development”; Basch et al., Nation Unbound;
Gonzalez, “Fostering Identities”; Ong, Flexible Citizenship.
30. Rachel Sherman finds an inverse correlation between a national crisis and the
home state’s incorporation of its overseas diaspora, in the Mexican case from the twen-
tieth century to date (“From State Introversion to State Extension in Mexico”). Political
supports of the state of Israel by Jewish diaspora, especially via their influences on U.S.
foreign policy, are a prime example of diaspora mobilization. See, for example, Sheffer,
“Political Aspects of Jewish Fundraising for Israel.”
31. Kwon, New Chinatown; Shain, “Ethnic Diasporas and U.S. Foreign Policy.” Kwon
provides other historical cases in which the home “state (the KMT nationalist)” had
recourse on the Chinese American’s political and financial supports for Sun Yat-sen’s
republican activism at the turn of the twentieth century (92–93), the KMT’s Northern
Expedition in 1927 (46–47), and Chiang Kai-shek’s anti-communist China campaign in
the 1950s (146).
32. Wartime Japan also attempted to mobilize its co-ethnic population in Hawaii and
the American West for its state-regimented patriotic campaign. For Hawaii’s case, see
Stephan, Hawaii Under the Rising Sun, 33. For the case in the continental United States,
see Azuma, Between Two Empires, 164–70.
33. Cohen, “Diasporas and the Nation-State,” 517–18.
34. Sheffer argues that the diaspora identity varies, depending on “psychological incli-
nations, situational factors, and material instrumental considerations” (ibid., 51). Cohen
explains that the diaspora’s loyalty is no longer (in the context of globalization) stabilized
“in the points of origin” (“Diasporas and the Nation-State,” 517–18, 520). See also Sheffer,
Disapora Politics, 132.
35. Gonzalez, “Fostering Identities”; King and Melvin, “Diaspora Politics.” Territory-
based national sovereignty has been the universal norm in international law since the
Treaty of Westphalia in 1648. See Mann, “Autonomous Power of the State”; Giddens,
Nation-State and Violence. Benedict Anderson, a Marxian scholar, bases an “imagined
political community” on this territorial limit (Imagined Communities).
36. Despite the imperial nationalism from the outbreak of total war against China in
1937, the Japanese state limited its influence on the Nikkei diaspora in the American West
to education and cultural matters. Azuma, Between Two Empires, 10, 171–83.
37. Mukae, Japan’s Refugee Policy, 199–200.
Chapter 1: The First Wave of Japanese Migration to Latin America

1. Such belief was well founded. The average annual income of an immigrant in Cali-
fornia was 7.25 times as much as the income from a similar job in Japan (as of 1909). See
Suzuki, Nihonjin dekasegi imin, 97.
2. Masterson, Japanese in Latin America, 33.
3. Ibid., 103.
4. Early bilateral relations between Japan and Peru were quite thorny, partially due to
a diplomatic standstill as early as 1872. By rescuing 231 quasi-enslaved Chinese coolies
from the Peruvian ship “Maria Luz” docked in Port of Yokohama, the GOJ faced a seri-
ous diplomatic rupture with Peru. Although the legal dispute over the issues of Japan’s
sovereignty and human rights protection was settled and the bilateral tie was amended
by the Russian arbitration three years later, it is not difficult to imagine that the prewar
relationship between the two countries was far from amicable.
5. In fact, the GOJ had no research instrument in South America at the turn of the
twentieth century. There was no Japanese consulate in Peru (it was not established until
1907); Tokyo managed foreign affairs relating to Peru by way of its consulate in Mexico.
6. Suzuki, Nihonjin dekasegi imin, 104–5.
7. Ibid., 122–23.
8. Under the original contract, travel expenses for return to Japan would only be given
to those who completed the first two years of service. Unable to finance their return, many
fled Peru for the Amazon in the Bolivian territory to engage in the then-booming rubber
plantations. Fujisaki and Konno, Iminshi 1, 221.
11. Fukumoto, Hacia un Nuevo Sol, 194–95.
12. Ibid., 196–97.
13. Other major ethnic immigrant groups were: Chinese (19.0 percent), Italians (12.8
percent), and Spaniards (5.2 percent). Ibid., 197.
14. Ibid., 122–23.
15. Ibid., 127–28.
16. Fujisaki and Konno, Iminshi 1, 234.
17. Gaimu-shō, Amerika-kyoku, Shōwa jūninendo oyobi jūsannendo amerika-kyoku
daini-ka kankei shitsumu hōkoku, 71–72.
19. Suzuki, Nihonjin dekasegi imin, 128.
20. In the world system perspective, like that of Ozario Ciccarelli, it was not so much
Peruvian cotton’s provincial interest or anti-Japanese nationalism as Peru’s overall subor-
dination vis-à-vis the British. That is, Peru sought to placate the British, Japan’s rival textile
exporter in the world market, so as to secure British purchase of Peruvian agricultural
goods by shunning Japanese textile goods from the Peruvian market. See Ciccarelli, “Peru’s
Anti-Japanese Campaign.”
21. Inter-American Conference for the Maintenance of Peace (December 1–23, 1936),
http://www.indiana.edu/~league/1936.htm. Accessed January 14, 2004.
23. Fujisaki and Konno, Iminshi 1, 246–47.
24. Fukumoto, Hacia un Nuevo Sol, 236.
25. Correspondence from the Japanese consul in Lima to Foreign Minister Arita on
June 19, 1940. In Zaigai nihonjin-kai kankei zakkennai, Rima. Diplomatic Records Office,
Tokyo (DRO).
26. Fukumoto, Hacia un Nuevo Sol, 522.
27. Gardiner, Pawns in a Triangle of Hate, 19.
28. Higashide reports that the Peruvian local police were arresting the Japanese at
random, many from the blacklist compiled by the U.S. Consulate. See Higashide, Adios
to Tears, 125. Also, Hiroshima-shi, Kikaku Chōsei-kyoku Bunka Tantō, Kaigai ijūchōsa,
64.
29. The total number of deportees from Latin America amounted to 2,118. Higashide,
Adios to Tears, 177. Other books with historical details of the Japanese deportation and
internment are: Gardiner, Pawns in a Triangle of Hate; Masterson, Japanese in Latin
America.
30. The citation comes from Burns, History of Brazil, 260.
31. Ibid.
32. Suzuki, Nihonjin dekasege imin, 135–36.
33. The Japanese-Brazilian Amity and Trade Treaty was signed by both governments in
November 1895, and was ratified in February 1897. Upon adoption of the treaty, the first
Japanese legation to Brazil opened in Pedropolis, Rio de Janeiro, in September. Suzuki,
Nihonjin dekasege imin, 140.
34. In September 1894, the statesman, Nemoto, sent the GOJ his report on Latin Amer-
ica during his official mission to the region. In the report, he expressed his opinion about
Brazil as a favorable place for Japanese migration. Fujisaki and Konno, Iminshi 1, 21–22.
35. Kaneda, Shōwa jūninen ban, 136; Hiroshima-shi, Kaigai ijū, 23, 64.
36. Hiroshima-shi, Kaigai ijū, 64.
38. As early as 1911, the five families who entered the Monçon Colony became the first
Japanese immigrant landowners in Brazil. See http://www.lib.city.wakayama.wakayama
.jp/wkclib_doc/sub19.htm. Accessed August 2004.
39. Hiroshima-shi, Kaigai ijū, 64.
41. All the predicaments in new settlements faced by the immigrants together with
their life histories are hardly describable here, partly given the limited space and partly
due to the state-centric analysis of this study. Among numerous excellent books and
studies on prewar Japanese immigration to Brazil, Handa Tomoo’s writing based on his
own experience as an immigrant is highly recommended. See Handa, Imin no seikatsu
no rekishi; in Portuguese, “O imigrante japonês: História de sua vida no Brasil (Coleção
Coroa vermelha).”
42. Fujisaki and Konno, Iminshi 1, 42.
43. J. F. Normano explains that, “Since 1927 emigration is considered an ‘evil’ in that
country [Italy], as Fascism believes that man-power is one of the essential factors of
political and moral power. Mussolini’s new emigration policy, depriving Brazil of Italian
immigrants, resulted in a shock to the Brazilian labor market and stimulated even more
the open-door policy toward Japanese” (“Japanese Emigration to Brazil,” 55).
44. In Inomata and Tamai’s statistics, the total number of Japanese immigrants to Brazil
amounts to 188,615, which is 370 people less than the official statistics of the GOJ. Here, I
use Inomata and Tamai’s figures for the purpose of highlighting a contrast with the share
of European immigrants (Kūhaku no burajiru iminshi, 235).
46. Ibid., 168–69.
47. Regarding the difference in definition between immigrants and diaspora, see Sheffer,
Diaspora Politics, 8–13. As he points out, it is difficult to determine when exactly Japanese
immigrants gave up returning to Japan and thus became diaspora. Changing external
situations, such as Japan’s thrust into Northeast Asia, the emergence of the Estado Novo
in Brazil, and the deterioration of Japan-Brazil relations and the break-up of diplomatic
ties in 1942, were too quick and drastic for the immigrants to take any action to return.
48. Based on reliable data that covers the period from 1908 to 1933 (Masterson, Japanese
in Latin America, 52).
49. Osaka Asahi Shinbun, May 18, 1930. The newspaper article was documented in the
MOFA’s record, Imin jōhō zassan, burajiru koku no bu, DRO.
50. For the concept of Vargas’s Brasildade, see Ono Shūko, “Burajiru nihon imin no
‘kachigumi’ ‘makegumi’ jiken ni kansuru kōsatsu,” in Inomata and Tamai, Kūhaku no
burajiru iminshi, 215–52. Also, Anthony W. Marx discusses in depth the political process
of national identity formation under Vargas in his seminal study, Making Race and Na-
tion, 170–71.
51. Ono, “Burajiru nihon imin,” 231–32.
52. Hiroshima-shi, Kaigai ijū, 24–25.
53. Most European immigrants had already entered Brazil before the 1885–1934 time-
frame, and the number of recent European immigrants was relatively meager.
54. Skidmore, Politics in Brazil, 45.
55. Collier and Collier, Shaping the Political Arena, 355.
56. http://www.janmonline.org/inrp/english/time_brazil.htom. Accessed April 7,
2004.
57. Inomata and Tamai, Kūhaku no burajiru iminshi, 238.
58. Prior to the outbreak of the Pacific War, the Brazilian government’s retribution
started against the Japanese population when a Brazilian commercial ship was sunk by
the Axis off the coast of Belém in August 1941.
59. In July 1943, the Brazilian government ordered an evacuation of the Japanese and
their descendents from Port Santos and nearby coastal cities for national security reasons.
As a result, the Nikkei had their properties and other possessions confiscated.
Chapter 2: The Second Wave

1. Based on international law, Japan stipulates its citizens’ rights to migration abroad
in Article 22, Section 2, of the Constitution.
2. Through 1970, about 9,000 Okinawans emigrated to Latin America and another
5,100 to the United States. Since Okinawa remained under the U.S. occupation authority
even after Japan’s independence until 1972, those islanders migrated with an American
passport.
3. Permanent settlement was one of the prerequisites for application to the post–World
War II state migration program. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshima-ken ijūshi, 589; Suzuki and
Wakatsuki, Kaigai ijū seisakushiron, 110–12.
4. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshima-ken ijūshi, 590.
5. Kokusai Kyōryoku Jigyōdan, Kaigai ijū tōkei, 16–17, 52–53.
6. Ibid., 56–57.
7. The total number of those surveyed was 66,454 people. Among them, 36,545 were
either wives or dependents. Note that the period for the survey was from 1952 to 1983.
8. Wakatsuki, Hatten tojōkoku heno ijū no kenkyū, 223.
9. Takahashi, Karibukai no “rakuen,” 88–90.
10. Suzuki and Wakatsuki, Kaigai ijū seisakushiron, 116–19.
11. A statement by congressman A. Mesquita of the Social Democrat Party at the council
on constitutional amendment. Quoted in Imin Hachijūnenshi Hensan Iinkai, Burajiru
nihon imin hachijūnenshi, 178.
12. Ibid.
13. Ibid., 178–79.
14. Dominika Imin Genchi Chōsadan Jimusho, Dominika imin jittai chōsa hōkokusho,
22.
15. Ibid., 23.
16. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshima-ken ijūshi, 837–39.
17. Nippaku Ijū Kyotei (Japan-Brazil Immigration Agreement), signed in September
1960. See Mizobe, Zaihaku yamaguchi kenjin, 127–33.
18. Suzuki and Wakatsuki, Kaigai ijū seisakushiron, 833–38; Wakatsuki, Gaimu-shō ga
keshita nihonjin, 231–33.
19. Wakatsuki, Gaimu-shō ga keshita nihonjin, 217–24.
20. Ibid., 25–32.
22.
23. This figure is based on the census figures provided by Wakatsuki, Hatten tojōkoku
heno ijū no kenkyū, 223. According to a census, 3,919 Japanese entered into twelve colonias
in the Amazon and 257 families into seven colonias in Central Brazil. I aggregated the
data for the Amazon (3,919) and Central Brazil (257 multiplied by 6, assuming that each
family consisted of six members).
25. Suda Kiyoko’s story is in the audio-visual collection entitled Mokugekisha (Witnesses)
at the Japanese Overseas Migration Museum in Yokohama, Japan (JOMM).
26. Ueno and Chō, Yakusoku no rakudo, 163.
27. When Fukami Akinobu immigrated to the Iguaçu colony on the Paraguayan side
of the Amazon, he started, in vain, with cattle raising at the JICA’s direction. His next
enterprise, soybean farming, also did not go well due to constant torrential rains. Fukami
recalls that a JICA’s agricultural specialist advised him to try the “no-tilling” farming
method, and that his soybean business survived and thrived, thanks to the official’s
advice. Fukami’s story is in the audio-visual collection, Mokugekisha (Witnesses) at the
JOMM.
29. COTIA was established in 1927 and dissolved in 1994. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshima-
ken ijūshi, 590–94.
31. Suzuki and Wakatsuki, Kaigai ijū seisakushiron, 794–96.
33. Ibid.
21.
35. Takahashi, Karibukai no “rakuen,” 32–33. MOFA’s Immigration Section was promoted
to bureau status in 1955.
36. Ibid., 34–36.
38. Goodwin Jr., Global Studies, Latin America. The Penn World Table shows that the
country’s real GDP per capita was $347.73 and purchasing power parity over GDP was
0.67 (unit: US $1 in general variables) for 1955. See http://pwt.econ.upenn.edu/php_site/
pwt_index.php. Accessed December 2006.
39. The data are from the 1997 IMF country report (International Monetary Fund,
Dominican Republic Statistical Annex). As of 1955–59, the ratio was 31 percent. Mitchell,
International Historical Statistics.
40. Konno and Takahashi, Dominika imin ha kimin datta, 63.
41. Ibid., 45; Wakatsuki, Gaimu-shō ga keshita nihonjin, 172, 222–23.
42. Takahashi, Karibukai no “rakuen,” 32.
45. Wakatsuki points out that the GOJ’s rough-and-ready approach in selecting settle-
ments was common practice not only in the Dominican Republic but also in Bolivia and
other parts of South America, and that the fate (or failure) of the state-led immigration
scheme and the immigrants’ misery were therefore predestined (Gaimu-shō ga keshita
nihonjin, 160).
46. Konno and Takahashi, Dominika imin ha kimin datta, 163.
47. Ibid., 71–75, 177–78; Takahashi, Karibukai no “rakuen,” 80–137.
48. Konno and Takahashi, Dominika imin ha kimin datta, 64–66.
49. Takahashi, Karibukai no “rakuen,” 103; Tsunoda, “Imin no inochi wa karukatta,”
139–42.
50. Konno and Takahashi, Dominika imin ha kimin datta, 60–62; Wakatsuki, Hatten
tojōkoku heno ijū no kenkyū, 225–27.
91–95, 122–23.
53. Konno and Takahashi, Dominika imin ha kimin datta, 172–73.
55. Ibid., 49, 91, 101–2.
56. Asahi Shinbun (May 4, 1986).
57. Wakatsuki, Hatten tojōkoku heno ijū no kenkyū, 225; Dominika Imin Genchi
Chōsadan Jimusho, Dominika imin jittai chōsa hōkokusho, 126–27.
59. Penn World Table, http://pwt.econ.upenn.edu/php_site/pwt_index.php.
60. In Paraguay, Japan established an 8,300 hectare colony in La Colmena under the
sponsorship of the Ministry of Colonial Affairs in 1934. In 1936, the first (and presumably
the last) group of Japanese immigrants entered the colony, with twenty-seven families
coming directly from Japan and ten families transferred from Brazil. In order not to pro-
voke anti-Japanese feeling in the locality, the colony took the form of private ownership by
Miyasaka Kunito, the managing director of the Overseas Immigration Association, but its
de facto proprietor was the Colonial Ministry. Ra Korumena Nijūsshunenshi Kankōkai,
Paraguai koku saisho no nihonjin ijūchi, 205.
61. Masterson, Japanese in Latin America, 95–96; Wakatsuki, Gaimu-shō ga keshita
nihonjin, 87–88.
63. Ibid., 11–12; Wakatsuki, Gaimu-shō ga Keshita Nihonjin, 88–93. Kunimoto called
these immigrants “company immigrants” or kigyo imin. See Kunimoto, Boribia no “Ni-
honjin Mura.”
64. Wakatsuki, Gaimu-shō ga keshita nihonjin, 89.
65. Ibid., 88–89, and Hatten tojōkoku heno ijū no kenkyū, 4–8.
66. “Nihon Boribia Ijū Kyōtei [Japan-Bolivia Immigration Agreement],” dated March
3 and 18, 1955 (DRO).
68. Wakatsuki, Hatten tojōkoku heno ijū no kenkyū, 32–35.
69. Ibid., 12.
70. Ibid.
72. Boribia Nihonjin Ijū Hyakushūnen Ijūshi Hensan Iinkai, Nihonjin ijū hyakushūnenshi,
270–71.
270.
76. Prior to state-led immigration, Brazil’s COTIA led by Miyasaka Kunihito gained
the Paraguayan government’s agreement on Japanese group immigration to La Colmena
colony. The colony aimed at absorbing 120 families, though it started with a miniscule
settlement of only three families. Saga-ken Nōrin-bu Nōgyō Shinkō-ka, Saga-ken kaigai
ijū shi, 118–20.
77. Ibid., 264–65; Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshima-ken ijūshi, 611–13.
78. “Nihon boribia ijū kyōtei” (DRO).
Chapter 3: Building the Emigration Machinery

1. Ogishima, “Japanese Emigration,” 618–51.
2. The GOJ’s emigration-related budget had been frozen from 1915 to 1922 for fiscal
savings.
3. Also, the Maria Luz incident in 1872 negatively affected the state view of emigration
to the West.
4. Ichioka, Issei, 4.
5. Hazama and Komeiji, Okage Sama De, 12.
6. Discussing how the colonialist migration helped (or did not help) Japan govern the
newly acquired territories (Okinawa, Hokkaido, Taiwan, and Korea), Oguma Eiji’s seminal
work on the formation of Japan’s national identity offers thorough historical analysis with
detailed review of colossal historical documents. Oguma, “Nihon-jin” no kyōkai: okinawa,
ainu, taiwan, chōsen shokuminchi shihai kara fukki undō made.
7. During the period between 1918 and 1926, remittances from Hawaii and the United
States amounted to 50 million yen and 144 million yen, respectively. Suzuki, Nihonjin
dekasegi imin, 254.
9. Wakatsuki, Hatten tojokoku heno ijū no kenkyū, 117.
11. Quoted in Saga-ken, Saga-ken kaigai ijū shi, 16.
12. Tsunoyama, Enomoto takeaki to mekishiko shokumin ijū.
13. Masterson, Japanese in Latin America, 27–28.
14. Prior to the Enomoto plantation, a similar ishokumin enterprise was attempted by
Takahashi Korekiyo, who later became prime minister (1921–24). Takahashi privately
purchased a silver mine in Peru in 1890 and operated the mining business with Japanese
immigrant-labor.
15. Published in Shokumin Sekai 1–1 (May 7, 1908).
16. Polanyi, Great Transformation.
17. On the national level, the ratio of tenancy to total cultivated land rose from 29
percent in 1872 to 40 percent in 1887 and 47 percent in 1932. Hane, Peasants Rebels and
Outcastes, 104.
18. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshima-ken ijūshi, 17, 384–85.
19. In contrast, Hawaii- and US-bound emigration had more family heads and first
sons because many emigrants intended to return home after making their fortune.
20. “Saigai go no shinko-saku to shiteno kaigai iju wo shorei suru no iken,” at the
National Archive of Japan, Tokyo (NAJ).
21. Inoue’s first name could also be read as “Masaji.” It is unclear from the existing
sources which reading of the character was correct.
22. Kokusaku kaisha (national policy companies) is often used to refer to special purpose
companies either funded by the Japanese government or established under state guidance
in the prewar period. Many of them, such as the South Manchurian Railroad Company,
were intended to develop or control Japan’s colonies or occupied territories.
23. Inoue, “Inoue-an” (May 1924), in the government document, “Ishokumin ni kansuru
shoan” (NAJ).
24. Matsuoka Kinpei, “Nanbei-an” (1923), in “Ishokumin ni kansuru shoan.”
25. The total number of immigrants during the period of 1901–7 was approximately
42,500 (Ichioka, Issei, 51–52).
26. The executive order affected indirect immigration via insular possessions (includ-
ing Hawaii), the Canal Zone, or other nations (including Latin America). As a result, the
phenomenon of “hopping” immigration via Hawaii and Mexico, once a popular route
for Japanese laborer-immigrants to the United States, was now ended. Ronald Takaki
explains the reason for President Roosevelt’s rather roundabout decision was that the
president, who was personally a supporter of the regulation of Japanese immigration,
wanted to show some degree of respect to the GOJ out of caution at the international
military empowerment of Japan since its victory against imperial Russia. Takaki, Strangers
from a Different Shore, 201–4.
27. Matsuoka, “Nanbei-an.”
28. See note 14.
29. Gaimu-shō, Tshūshō-kyoku, Iminchi jijō 4 (1923).
30. See Kurose, Tōyō takushoku kaisha, 199.
31. The GOJ’s emigration-related budget, “Ijū kankei yosan,” was first recorded in 1907.
Ibid., 41–43.
32. Hara, “Senkanki nagasaki-ken ni okeru kaigai imin ni tsuite,” 73.
34. The colonization company Burajiru Takushoku was founded in the Registro colony
in the São Paulo outskirts in 1914, based on the international agreement on the concession
of 50,000 hectares (50,000 chō) between the state government of São Paulo and the Tokyo
Shinjikçto venture company (with Aoyagi Ikutarō as representative). The international and
public-private initiative, with the governmental endorsement of the Katsura Cabinet and
funded by the business tycoon, Shibusawa Eiichi’s capital investment, planned to settle
three thousand Japanese emigrant families within four years as colonial settlers. Prime
Minister Katsura also solicited the business world and succeeded in raising 1 million yen
for Brazil-bound emigration.
35. Kaigai Kōgyō merged five existing migration agencies: Tōyō Shokumin, Nanbei
Shokumin, Burajiru Takushoku, Nippon Shokumin, and Nittō Shokumin. The company’s
major private stockholders were Tōtaku, Nippon Yūsen, and Osaka Shōsen (the latter
two are shipping concerns). Kaigai Kōgyō had headquarters in Tokyo as well as branch
offices in Brazil and Peru, and representative offices in Mexico, the Philippines, London,
and the South Pacific.
36. “Boshū no hōhō,” in Honpō imin toriatsukainin kankei zakken: Kaigai kōgyō ka-
bushiki kaisha kaigai tokōsha meibo 7 (DRO).
37. Takumu-shō and Monbu-shō, Saikin no kaigai ijūchi, 8.
38. Normano, “Japanese Emigration to Brazil,” 42–61.
39. According to Kurose, given the less than satisfactory performance of Kaigai Kōgyō
in the migrant recruitment business, the GOJ decided to inject state funds into the op-
eration and increase the subsidies for emigrants’ travel expenses after the 1924 Imperial
Economic Conference. From then on, Tōtaku, the Kaigai Kōgyō’s parent company, shifted
its own focus to the South Pacific region, leaving the South American business in the
state’s hands. See Kurose, Tōyō takushoku kaisha, 213–28.
40. “Imin seisaku no tettei ni kansuru kengi” (NAJ).
41. Other budget items included advertising expenses, funds for management of the
emigration centers in Kobe and Nagasaki, for land purchase, and subsidies for the Kaigai
Ijū Kumiai.
42. Inoue Masaji, “Imin gyōsei ni kansuru shoken yōkō,” in Honpō imin toriatsukainin
kankei zakken, kaigai kōgyō kabushiki kaigai tokōsha meibo 3 (July 4, 1929, DRO).
43. Ibid.
44. Nippaku Shinbun (January 1, 1928).
45. The original meaning of the word, takumu, is “activities to settle and develop [land].”
And the GOJ has historically used the terms, takushoku or shokumin (migration and
colonization) to describe its colonization efforts in Hokkaido, Korea, Taiwan, Manchuria,
and Latin America. It apparently avoided the word and concept “colonialism” in order to
justify its aggression in Asia and other overseas territories. Yet the very essence of their
activities was that of colonialism. Therefore, I apply the term “colonial affairs” for the
ministry and “colonial” for Japan’s takushoku activities.
46. The Ministry of Colonial Affairs was abolished upon the establishment of the Dai
Tōa-shō (Ministry of Greater Asian Affairs) in 1943 under the total war regime. Concur-
rently, jurisdiction over Korean and Taiwanese affairs was returned to the Ministry of
Home Affairs.
47. Inoue, “Imin toriatsukainin kankei zakken” (July 4, 1929).
48. Correspondence from Taketomi of the bureau of international affairs of the ministry
of foreign affairs to the bureau chief of colonial affairs of the ministry of colonial affairs
on June 3, 1930, in Gaimu-shō, Imin jōhō zassan.
49. Ra Korumena Nijusshūnenshi Kankōkai, Paraguai koku saisho no nihonjin ijūchi.
50. Correspondence from Taketomi of the bureau of international affairs of the ministry
of foreign affairs to the bureau chief of colonial affairs of the ministry of colonial affairs
on June 3, 1930, in Gaimu-shō, Imin jōhō zassan.
51. Ibid.
52. Tokyo Shinbun (March 3, 1927). The newspaper article is included in Gaimu-shō,
Honpō imin toriatsukainin kankei zakken: Nanbei takushoku kabushiki kaisha kaigai
tokōsha meibo (1929, DRO).
53. See Nakamura, Burajiru fukuoka kenjin hatten shi.
54. Takumu-shō and Monbu-shō, Saikin no kaigai ijūchi.
55. Ibid.
56. Arisawa, Shōwa keizaishi, 53.
57. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshima-ken ijūshi, 383–84.
58. Kōdansha, Hijōji nippon, 309.
59. See, for example, Takumu-shō, Takumu-kyoku, Ishokumin kōshūkai kōen-shū, 1–3;
Naimu-shō, Shakai-kyoku, Shakai-bu, “Kokumin kosei undō gaikyō,” 1934. In the Data-
base System for the Minutes of the Imperial Diet, an online database of the National Diet
Library (NDL), Tokyo, http://www.ndl.go.jp/en/data/diet.html.
60. Tōyō Takushoku Kabushiki Kaisha was established pursuant to the 1908 Law on the
Oriental Development Company (Tōyō takushoku kabushiki kaisha hō) for the purpose
of colonial management of Korea. The major operations of the company consisted of
colonial management (real estate, farming, and financing) and migration arrangements
for Japanese emigrants. Kurose, Tōyō takushoku kaisha, 213–28
Chapter 4: Post–World War II Resurgence of State-Led

1. For a historical account of the traumatic post-surrender repatriation of Japanese
citizens and veterans from overseas, see Dower, Embracing Defeat, 48–58; Wakatsuki,
Sengo hikiage no kiroku.
2. The officially registered figure of Japanese territory was 675,406 square kilometers
in 1940 and 368,470 square kilometers in 1950. Tōyō Keizai Shimpōsha, Kanketsu.
3. Suzuki and Wakatsuki, Kaigai ijū seisakushiron, 91.
4. Wakatsuki, Sengo hikiage no kiroku, 258.
5. Dower writes that the 1945 crop failure was the worst since 1910 (Embracing Defeat,
93).
6. A total of 257 square miles of Tokyo, Nagoya, Osaka, Kobe, Kawasaki, and Yoko-
hama were destroyed in the final offense. Office of Strategic Services (OSS), Research and
Analysis Branch, Population and Migration in Japan, R & A No. 2450 (September 5, 1945)
at the National Archive, Maryland, 40–41.
7. According to the estimate of the OSS, as of September 1945, the total Japanese popu-
lation in the country amounted to 76,355,000. Ibid.
8. “Fukuinsha tō no shitsugyō taisaku ni kanshi kakusho ni taisuru yōbō jikō“ (NAJ).
9. Quote from R. Delavelle, chief of the labor and education team of SCAP, cited in
Suzuki and Wakatsuki, Kaigai ijū seisakushiron, 92.
10. Another of the GOJ’s means for control of population mobility right after the war’s
end was the registration system, under which a person who wished to move to big cities
had to obtain his local authorities’ permission. See OSS, Population and Migration in
Japan, 24.
11. In October 1948, the SCAP restriction on Japanese overseas travel was partially lifted.
Under the new rules, individual business trips were allowed under limited conditions,
such as a traveler’s specific itinerary to be submitted to the GHQ.
12. Suzuki and Wakatsuki, Kaigai ijū seisakushiron, 91. Also, a Christian Japanese advo-
cacy group for resuming Japanese emigration was censured by SCAP in 1947. See Koshiro,
Trans-Pacific Racisms, 129.
13. SCAP was also afraid that population increase after mass repatriation would turn
into an “economic and political issue in Japan.” OSS, Population and Migration in Japan,
v. 25.
14. “Fukuinsha tō no shitsugyō taisaku” (NAJ).
15. Koshiro, Trans-Pacific Racisms, 130–32; Suzuki and Wakatsuki, Kaigai ijū seisakushi-
ron, 97–98.
16. After Japan’s defeat, the Nikkei in Brazil formed the Nihon Sensai Dōhō Kyūen-kai
(Aid Group for Japanese War Victims), through which they donated about 1.1 billion yen
to the GOJ. However, because of the postwar confusion and the lack of proper oversight
by the government, the donation was lost to embezzlement. Learning from this bitter
lesson, the GOJ decided to form the Nippaku Keizai Bunka Kyōkai in order to formalize
its system for managing donations. The association was founded in 1949. See http://www
.funibec.or.jp/index.html.
17. Suzuki and Wakatsuki, Kaigai Ijū seisakushiron, 102.
18. At a cabinet meeting held in April 1955. Ibid.
19. Kakugi ryōkai (Cabinet Approval), May 9, 1953, Kaigai (Overseas) No. 275, in Hon-
nen nanbei muke imin no sōshutsu ni tsuite (NAJ).
21. Usually, Local Associations for Overseas Migration were situated in the section in
charge of migration at each prefectural government office.
22. The opinion of Tanigaki Sen’ichi, cabinet secretary, at the Committee on Agricul-
ture, Forestry, and Fisheries at the Lower House on October, 19, 1955. From the Database
System for the Minutes of the Diet, NDL.
23. Wakatsuki points out the entrenched political connections of the former bureaucrats
as a source of the misconduct and mismanagement at the Kaikyōren. See Wakatsuki,
Gaimu-shō ga keshita nihonjin, 208–17.
24. About inter-ministerial competition for the overseas migration budget, see ibid.,
208–17.
25. In the section on “Inculcation and Promotion (keimō senden) of the Emigration
Administration Guidelines.” Quoted from Tsunoda, “Imin to iu nano kimin,” 66.
26. The questions were raised by Tsuji Masayoshi (independent) at the Budget Meeting
of the House of Councilors on March 20, 1961. From the Database System for the Minutes
of the Diet, NDL.
27. Quoted from Aida, Kōro, 283.
28. Sixteen vessels were newly built for postwar migration to Latin America.
30. Ibid., 596.
31. In the minutes of the meeting of the Budget Committee of the Lower House, No.
16 (May 18, 1955). From the Database System for the Minutes of the Diet, NDL.
32. Konno and Takahashi, Dominika imin ha kimin data, 103–10.
33. Suzuki and Wakatsuki, Kaigai ijū seisakushiron, 111.
34. Nakano Yoshio, “Nihon ha mohaya sengo dewa nai,” in Bungei Shunjū (February
1956). The Economic Planning Agency used Nakano’s phrase for the title of its 1957 White
Paper, but with a more realistic, if not optimistic, implication (that is, the postwar rapid
economic growth supported by the United States and international assistance had ended
and the nation was facing new challenges).
35. Data source: Sōmu-chō, Tōkei-kyoku, Rōdōryoku chōsa nempō (Tokyo: Sōmu-chō,
2003). The employment index for the year 1953 remained at 100.4 points, with the 1950
index at 100 points. Ōhara Shakai Mondai Kenkyūjo, Nihon rōdō nenkan 4.
36. The Sanshu no jingi are the Sacred Treasures of the Imperial House—the mirror, the
sword, and beads. They had been inherited only between emperors and thus symbolized
the legitimacy of the imperial line.
37. The GOJ was compelled to purchase all the land on which its owner did not reside,
as well as land acreage resided on by its owners but exceeding area limits. Hashimoto,
Nihon nōsei no sengo shi.
38. OSS, Population and Migration in Japan, 23–25.
39. The postwar national census started in 1950. Tōyō Keizai Shimpōsha, Kanketsu,
36.
40. The then-chairman of the association also pointed out that the 1962 Dominican
tragedy prompted fears about overseas migration among the populace, which discouraged
further migration. See Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshimaken ijūshi, 586.
41. Saga-ken, Saga-ken kaigai ijū shi.
42. In the Transportation Committee of the House of Councilors, August 20, 1954.
From the Database System for the Minutes of the Diet, NDL.
43. In the plenary session of the House of Representatives on May 12, 1949 (Minutes
No. 27). From the Database System for the Minutes of the Diet, NDL.
Chapter 5: Social Origins of Japanese Emigration Policy

1. Tōyō Keizai Shimpōsha, Kanketsu, 6.
2. The aggregate population of the seventeen southwestern prefectures was 16,767 and
24,029 in 1920 and 1950, respectively. Ibid., 34–36.
3. Ishikawa Tomonori in Nihon imin no chirigakuteki kenkyū or Hiroshima Prefecture’s
chronology on international migration, Hiroshimaken ijūshi, take such a traditionalist
view.
4. I mean the “invention of tradition” in terms of the seminal work by Eric Hobsbaum
and Terence Ranger (eds.) on political engineering of social institutions by elites and
popular acceptance of them as a tradition. See Hobsbaum and Ranger, The Invention of
Tradition.
23. For details, see chapter 2.
6. For Instance, Masterson points out that rural poverty and disasters are among push
factors for pre –World War II Japanese emigration to Latin America. He also identifies
overpopulation as the main force for Okinawans’ emigration to the region in the post-
war period. Masterson, Japanese in Latin America, 54 (for the prewar case) and 182 (for
Okinawa). Stephen Thompson, while identifying that a significant number of postwar
emigrants to San Juan, Bolivia, were dislocated coal miners from Kyushu (“San Juan Ya-
pacani,” 48–49), generalizes the root cause of their emigration as overpopulation (ibid.,
184). Likewise, Koshiro correctly sees the post-surrender demographic crisis as the origin
of Japan’s emigration policy in the postwar period, but does not extend her analysis to the
policy’s essential “twist” from the Malthusian claim to the political (i.e., decompressor)
goal. Koshiro, Trans-Pacific Racisms, 124–27.
7. Fukushima Prefecture is exceptional in sending a substantial number of emigrants
to Hawaii in the early twentieth century.
8. Young, Japan’s Total Empire, 325–32.
9. Generally speaking, in the prewar Japan, a “large landowner” owned more than 5
chō (or 12.25 acres); a “small farmer” owned land less than 5 chō; and a “tenant farmer”
rented and tilled small plots of land of an acre or so.
10. Some scholars identify the oligarchic land ownership in the northeast as an under-
lying factor of the Manchurian migration. See, for example, Young, Japan’s Total Empire,
330–32.
11. Ibid., 316.
12. The second largest debtor prefecture was Akita (northeast). In comparison, the
average family debt in metropolitan cities was clearly less serious, at 32 yen and 53 yen in
Tokyo and Osaka, respectively.
13. Young, Japan’s Total Empire, 331.
14. To name the most famous, there were Yamagata Aritomo (army general and prime
minister in 1898–91 and 1898–1900; Yamaguchi Prefecture), Kido Takayoshi (advisor to
the prime minister’s office; Yamaguchi), Ōkuma Shigenobu (Saga), Ōkubo Toshimichi (the
first minister of home affairs; Saga), and Saigō Takamori (army general; Kagoshima).
15. Shimura, Chikuzen takeyari ikki, 39.
16. Aoki, Nihon nōmin undō shi, 592.
17. Hane, Peasants Rebels and Outcastes, 160–61.
18. In the west (prefectures of Mie, Kyoto, Osaka, Hyogo, and Wakayama), 99 villages/
cities were attacked by the rioters, and in the southwest (prefectures of Okayama, Hiro-
shima, Yamaguchi, and Fukuoka), the number reached 80 villages/cities. The total across
the nation was 310. Takeda, Teikoku shugi to minpon shugi, 110.
19. Twenty-nine cities/towns in the southwest saw military deployment out of the total
of seventy across the nation. The number of military deployments represents the number
of cities or towns to which the armed forces were sent. In many places, the military was
sent more than once. Ibid.
20. Ōshima et al., Nihon nōmin undō shi, 48.
21. Ibid., 50.
22. Ibid., 9.
23. The civil law of the Meiji Constitution guaranteed a landlord’s right to unilaterally
decide rent fees as well as whether or not to rent their farm land.
24. “Pay raises in coal mines and steel and other factories caused outmigration [from
the farming sector]. The tenants are leveraging this labor shortage situation [in farming]
against the landlords in negotiation.” The Agricultural Bureau’s report, in Ōshima, Nihon
nōmin undō shi, 127.
25. In response to the increase in tenant-related disputes in the northeast in 1929.
Naimu-shō, Keiho-kyoku, Shakai undō no jōkyō, 719.
27. Quoted from Nishi Nihon Bunka Kyōkai, Fukuokakenshi, 506–7.
28. Ōshima, Nihon nōmin undō shi, 78–79.
29. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshimakenshi, Kindai 2, Tsūshi 4, 168.
30. Other centers of labor unrest were Ishikawajima Shipyards in Tokyo, Yokosuka
Naval Factory in Kanagawa, and the Mitsubishi Nagasaki Shipyard in Nagasaki. The
unionization of shipyard workers under socialist influence in 1899 was the genesis of
labor militancy in state-owned arms manufacturing bases.
31. After the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–95, the military significance and symbolism of
Hiroshima began to grow. In 1894, Prime Minister Itō Hirofumi made a surprising decision
to transfer the Imperial Headquarters or Daihon’ei to Kure, Hiroshima. On September 8
of that year, the Meiji Emperor entered Kure, and accordingly, the nation’s communica-
tion, transportation, and diplomatic centers were also moved to Hiroshima. The Seventh
Extraordinary Session of the Diet was also held there.
32. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshimaken ijūshi, 1073. The strike lasted for eight months but
ended in labor’s total defeat in the face of state repression.
33. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshimakenshi, Kindai 2, Tsūshi 4, 447–64.
34. Ibid.
35. Nishi Nihon Bunka Kyōkai, Fukuokakenshi, 366–71.
36. As of 1925. Ibid., 371.
37. Ibid., 367
38. Tōyō Keizai Shinpōsha, Kanketsu, 312.
39. As early as 1887, 180 peasants were recruited from the prefecture to extract coal
in Chikuhō for the first time. Since then, Hiroshimans became the mine’s favorites.
Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshimakenshi, Kindai 2, Tsūshi 4, 429. Later on, immigrants came
from other western prefectures. According to the census on coal miners in Chikuhō,
Fukuoka, conducted by the Fukuoka Employment Office in 1928, the ratio of miners by
origin were as follows: Fukuoka (45 percent), Ōita (9 percent), Kumamoto (9 percent),
Hiroshima (7 percent), Saga (5 percent), Ehime (5 percent), and Korea (9 percent). The
census explains that the relatively low ratios of Saga and Nagasaki (2 percent) despite
their geographical proximity to Fukuoka were because these prefectures themselves
had coal mines. Fukuoka Chihō Shokugyō Shōkai Jimukyoku, “Chikuhō tankō rōdōsha
shusshinchi chōsa,” 3–5.
40. For the Yoron Islanders’ emigration and settlement in Miike and their unionization,
see Yosu Okutsuki-kai, Miike ijū gojūnen no ayumi.
41. Shindō, Buraku kaihō undō no shiteki tenkai, 305.
42. Kozuma, Miike tankō shi.
43. Later, in 1929, Dan Takuma, at the time the president of Mitsui Mining and the
chairman of the Japan Industrial Club, organized a nationwide campaign by owners
against a bill to legalize workers’ unionization, under the Hamaguchi Sachio government.
See Garon, State and Labor in Modern Japan, 167.
44. Ube Shishi Hensan Iinkai, Ube shi shi, tsūshi, gekan, 247–48.
45. Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths.
46. Quoted from Nishi Nihon Bunka Kyōkai, Fukuokakenshi, 313.
47. Tilly, From Mobilization to Revolution.
48. De Vos and Wagatsuma, Japan’s Invisible Race, xx.
49. Totten and Wagatsuma, “Emancipation.”
50. Watanabe, Mikaihō burakushi no kenkyū, 702–3.
51. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshimakenshi, Kindai 2 Tsūshi 4, 520.
52. Fukuoka Buraku-shi Kenkyūkai, Fukuokaken hisabetsu burakushi no shosō, 361–62.
There is no official data on the actual number of “Buraku” coal miners. An anonymous
interviewee, who specializes in the prewar Kyushu coal mines, said that “there were only
a few Burakumin worked in the mines”; Sumita Ichirō of the Liberty Osaka and Kansai
University disagrees with such a minimalist view, estimating the “fairly large number or
majority of the miners were Burakumin.”
53. Ibid., 356.
54. See Neary, Political Protest and Social Control, 52. Also see Harada, Hisabetsu buraku
no rekishi; Totten and Wagatsuma, “Emancipation.”
55. The Yūwa budget continued to grow significantly after 1920: 210,000 yen each for
1921 and 1922, 491,000 yen for 1923, 522,000 yen for 1924, 522,500 yen for 1925, 554,000
yen for 1926, and 585,500 yen for 1925. Watanabe, Mikaihō burakushi no kenkyū, 732.
56. Regarding the internal power struggle between the Bolsheviks and the anarchists
within the Suiheisha, see Neary, Political Protest and Social Control, 126–27.
59. Yamaki, Hiroshimaken shakai undō shi, 416.
60. Ōgushi, Kindai hisabetsu burakushi kenkyū, 200.
61. Ibid., 209–10.
63. Fujitani and Nakanishi, Buraku no rekishi, 142–43.
64. Totten and Wagatsuma, “Emancipation,” 42.
65. Ōgushi, Kindai hisabetsu burakushi kenkyū, 198–200. By the same token, the
Hyōgikai federation failed to pay serious consideration to the issues of women and Ko-
rean minority workers even at its most radical. See Itō, Nihon rōdō kumiai hyōgikai no
kenkyū, 251–317.
66. Labor unionization did not exceed more than 8 percent at its peak. Ōgushi, Kindai
hisabetsu burakushi kenkyū, 211. The rate of peasant unionization in the 1920s is estimated
to have been about 6 percent (365,000 unionized tenants among the estimated 6 million
peasant population). Ōshima, Nihon nōmin undō shi, 127.
67. James W. Morley observes that, “To the Japanese, revolution in European Russia was
one thing; a revolution in Asiatic Russia, another” (Japanese Thrust into Siberia, 36.).
68. Ōishi Seinosuke and Takagi Noriaki, both from Wakayama Prefecture, are said
to have been involved with the Burakumin movement in parallel with Kōtoku Shūsui’s
anarchism. After Kōtoku’s attempt to assassinate the Meiji Emperor failed after a police
crackdown, Ōishi and Takagi were tried and sentenced to death, together with Kōtoku
and twenty-one others. Ōishi was executed and Takagi died in prison. Okayamakenshi
Hensan Iinkai, Okayamakenshi, 440.
69. Packard conceptualizes a newly emerging national aspiration for Japan’s political,
economic, and ideological neutralism in face of the growing East-West confrontation in
East Asia in the 1950s as a “new nationalism . . . built partly on pride in economic achieve-
ment, partly on reaction to foreign influences (and bases), and partly on ambition for
power” (Protest in Tokyo, 334).
70. Yomiuri Shinbun Seibu Honsha, Fukuoka hyakunen, 294–95.
71. Shindō, Akai botayama no hi, 248.
72. Inoki, Keizai seichō no kajitsu, 55.
73. Kawazoe et al., Fukuoka-ken no rekishi, 310. Also, Itazuke Kichi Iten Sokushin
Kyōgikai provides a list of dismissed workers at the U.S. military base in Itazuke Kichi Iten
Sokushin Kyōgikai, Itazuke kichi mondai shiryōshū, 327–41. It suggests that these workers
were punished (i.e., dismissal) after their participation in union strikes in Itazuke.
74. Since the unsustainability of the coal mining industry was undeniable as early as
March 1952, the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, through the local subcom-
mittee of the Industrial Rationalization Advisory Committee, announced a three-year
program for rationalization of the industry. The plan itself was scrapped by the lobbying
power of the coal businesses, who tried to avoid the deterioration of their financial situ-
ation through that program.
75. Mitsui Kōzan Kabushiki Kaisha, Shiryō, miike sōgi, 880.
76. Quoted in Calder, Crisis and Compensation, 92.
77. Tsukamoto, Miike tōsō, 116.
78. On March 29, 1960, one union member was stabbed to death by a company-dis-
patched gangster in front of the entrance to the company’s property. As early as 1924, it
is recorded that Mitsui Mining also often deployed illegitimate security forces against
company workers in the prewar period.
79. Mitsui Kōzan, Shiryō, Miike Sōgi, 886.
80. Comment by Horii Etsurō, quoted in Packard, Protest in Tokyo, 90.
81. Shimizu, “Mitsui miike sōgi,” 480.
82. Ibid., 483.
83. In the second general meeting of the Sōhyō, the anti-Treaty, peace-seeking principles
proposed by the left-wing camp won the majority, and the vote formed the ideological
base for Miike’s involvement with pacifism. The Sōhyō’s four principles for peace consisted
of: (1) refusal of Japan’s rearmament, (2) ratification of a peace treaty with all the Allied
Forces (i.e., including communist nations), (3) neutrality in international politics, and
(4) refusal of military base expansion.
84. Harada, Hisabetsu buraku no rekishi, 372.
86. The American occupiers gave the following directives to Japan: the Law on Special
Treatment for Establishing Independent Farmers (Jisakunō setsuritu tokubetsu shochi
hō) and the Plan to Reform the Law on Adjustment of Agrarian Land (Nōchi chōsei hō
kaisei an). Under the reforms, the GHQ confiscated farming lands whose owner did not
reside therein and limited the size of landownership to less than one cho-ho even if the
landlord lived on and used it; the rest was purchased by the GOJ and sold to the tenants
at a subsidized price. For the percentage of “liberated” land, see Shindō, Buraku kaiho
undō no shiteki tenkai, 238; for the tenancy rate, see Kawazoe, Fukuoka-ken no rekishi,
307–8.
87. Shindō, Buraku kaiho undo no shiteki tenkai, 241–42.
88. Shindō estimates that 99 percent of the Burakumin in the 66 un-liberated Buraku
in Kaho County, Fukuoka, were tenant farmers, who also worked part-time at collieries.
Ibid., 239.
89. As of 1966, there were more than 300 Dōwa quarters in the Chikuhō region. Tagawa
County alone had more than 130 quarters. Buraku Mondai Kenkyūjo, Buraku no rekishi
to kaihō undō, 428.
90. Hiroshi Wagatsuma, “Postwar Political Militancy,” in De Vos and Wagatsuma,
Japan’s Invisible Race, 72.
91. Buraku Mondai Kenkyūjo, Buraku no rekishi to kaihō undō, 428–29. In mainstream
labor history, the Buraku liberation movement’s role in the Miike strike is scarcely men-
tioned. The author used documents and analyses made by researchers on the Dōwa
issue.
92. Mitsui Kōzan, Shiryō, Miike sōgi, 879.
93. Matsumoto Jiichirō, a socialist, made a public demonstration of his pro-democracy
beliefs in front of Emperor Hirohito in the Imperial Palace in 1948. Rejecting the conven-
tion for all public officials to walk horizontally like a crab when approaching the emperor
(so as not to directly face him), Matsumoto walked up right in front of him. His “disloyal”
act deeply outraged royalist politicians, such as Prime Minister Yoshida. Yoshida attempted
Matsumoto’s purge from public positions, with the help of the SCAP’s Government Sec-
tion. Matsumoto’s purge was eventually revoked due to public sympathy and support for
Matsumoto.
94. Yomiuri Shinbun (February 5, 1957).
95. For example, Michael Schaller cited the Girard incident as a prelude to the treaty
crisis, but failed to identify the Burakumin issue imbued in the affair (Altered States,
127–29). A Yomiuri Shinbun article, “Oi, kempo-kun, 6, dokoka ga kurutteiru” (November
11, 1958), mentions that since Ms. Sakai was from a Buraku, the local village authorities
did not bother to protest or take any action against the American soldier.
96. Packard, Protest in Tokyo, 252.
97. Calder, Crisis and Compensation, 72.
Chapter 6: Latin American Emigration as Political Decompressor

1. Yūwa Jihō (August 1, 1932).
2. Garon, State and Labor in Modern Japan, 130.
3. Shakai-kyoku, Showa ninen rōdō undō nenpō, 1241–42.
4. Watanabe, Mikaihō burakushi no kenkyū, 799.
5. Neary, Political Protest and Social Control, 159.
6. Nagata, Shinano kaigai ijūshi, 49.
7. The quote comes from the study of the Advisory Committee on the “Policy on
Protection and Promotion of Emigrants” in 1924. After the strong “territorial” claim by
the Colonial Affairs Department, the Advisory Group on Emigration came to be jointly
administered by both departments within the Social Bureau. The quotation is cited in
Kurose, Tōyō takushoku kaisha, 218–19.
8. The Resolution of the Lower House of the Diet, “Shisō teki kokunan ni kansuru
ketsugi,” on April 25, 1928 (NAJ).
9. In the report to the cabinet, “Shakai seisaku ni kansuru gutaiteki hosakuan” (October
6, 1933). Japan’s National Diet Library’s website, http://www.ndl.go.jp/horei_jp/kakugi/
txt/txt00095.htm.
10. Nippaku Shinbun (January 1, 1928).
11. “Saigai go no shinkō saku tosite kaigai ijū wo shōreisuru no iken.” Presented by the
Nihon Imin Kyōkai to the prime minister in October 1923 (NAJ).
12. It is also likely that these emigration companies had already recorded the immi-
grants’ occupation as “farmers,” as if no other occupational group was anticipated. “Honpō
imin toriatsukainin kankei zakken, kaigai kōgyō kabushiki kaisha, kaigai tokōsha meibo”
and “Honpō imin toriatsukainin kankei zakken, nanbei takushoku kabushiki kaisha,
kaigai tokōsha meibo” (NAJ).
13. Narisawa, “Yūwa undō to seisaku.”
14. In his initiative for overseas migration by Burakumin, Sugiura dismissed the pros-
pect of migration to the United States, Canada, Africa, or Asia due to sociological or
environmental conditions. Instead, he suggested migration to the “South Ocean,” a defi-
nition that included Latin America. Sugiura Shigetaka (year unknown): “Hankai yume
monogatari,” in Yanase, Shakaigai no shakai.
15. The Yanase recommendation was published in 1901, with Prince Konoe Atsumaro’s
royal introduction. Ibid.
16. “Ijū no shidō, shōrei ni kansuru jikō,” in “Yūwa jigyō ni kansuru sangyō keizai
shisetsu yōkō,” in Buraku Kaihō Kenkyūjo, Yūwa jigyō nenkan. Also, Taiwan Nichinichi
Shinpō reported that the Japanese government provided 258 Burakumin households who
decided to emigrate to Taiwan with state subsidies totaling 70,000 yen (Yūwa Jihō: April
27, 1934).
17. Osaka Jinken Rekishi Shiryōkan, Manshū imin to hisabetsu buraku,47.
18. Buraku Kaihō Kenkyūjo, Yūwa Jigyō Nenkan, 47.
19. Yūwa Jihō (September 1931; August 1, 1933, Kyushu regional edition).
20. Yūwa Jihō (No. 86, January 1, 1934). Even after the Burakumin’s relocation overseas,
the Japanese people’s discrimination against them never ceased. In the new world, they
tended to be ostracized from the Nikkei community, or voluntarily isolated themselves
from others to escape discrimination. The Burakumin issue at times lingered among the
Nisei (second generation); a marriage between Burakumin and non-Burakumin descen-
dents was opposed by their parents or community. See Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshima-ken
ijūshi, 637.
21. Watanabe, Mikaihō burakushi no kenkyū, 1077.
22. The Burakumin’s domestic migration to Hokkaido, the northernmost island of Ja-
pan, had taken place prior to the Latin America- and Manchurian-bound migration. The
migration was welcomed by the Japanese government and social ideologues involved with
the Burakumin problem, who viewed Hokkaido as “barbarian frontiers.” One politician
suggested that Burakumin could be compatible with the land of Hokkaido, where indig-
enous people (the Ainu) are “carnivorous and barbaric like Burakumin.” The statement
by Hoashi Tatsukichi is included in Yanase, Shakaigai no shakai, 2–3. Meanwhile, this
migration did not grow to a significant scale, partly because of the institutional constraint
on the Burakumin’s collective migration. The internal rule of Hokkaido’s prefectural office
prohibited any group migration that included more than seven families of Burakumin.
Some Yūwa advocates attempted to remove the regulation, appealing to the national
Diet in the 1920s in vain. Watanabe, Mikaihō burakushi no kenkyū, 729. According to
Hiroshima-ken ijūshi, the Yūwa project emphasized Brazil as much as Manchuria for Bu-
rakumin emigration in the mid-1930s, but began focusing exclusively on Manchuria after
the outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War in 1937. Hiroshima-ken ijūshi, 510–11.
23. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshimakenshi, Kindai 2, Tsūshi 6, 643.
24. Hara, “Senkanki nagasaki-ken ni okeru kaigai imin ni tsuite,” 75.
25. Ueno, Shutsu nippon-ki, 20.
26. Burajiru Nikkeijin Jittai Chōsa Iinkai, Burajiru no nihon imin, 378–81.
27. Thompson, “San Juan Yapacani,” 48–49.
28. Furthermore, to the best of the author’s knowledge, there are no official prewar
documents or records that compiled statistics on private or occupational profiles of each
immigrant. Only the migration companies’ passenger lists or kenjin-kai (prefecture-based
cultural associations) booklets may provide information on an immigrant’s name, age,
address, birthday, and a few other mundane items of information.
29. Minutes written by Yamakawa, the Chief of Emigration Section, on the meeting
“Rishokusha taisaku kaigi” on September 16, 1959 (DRO).
30. Thompson, “San Juan Yapacani,” 81.
31. While how many Burakumin emigrated to Latin America under the state policy
remains an open-ended question, this book asserts that not a few Burakumin did emi-
grate, based on evidence such as the position papers of the Yūwa policy, the Yūwa budget,
hands-on information like Thompson’s, and letter-articles sent by “former” Burakumin
from Brazil to the Yūwa journals.
32. Rōdō-shō, Shitsugyō Taisaku-bu, Waga kuni shitsugyō taisaku no genjō to mondaiten,
269.
33. Cabinet Resolution “Honpō tankō rishokusha no nanbei ijū kankei,” dated August
21, 1959; and “Miike kankei rishokusha tou no shushoku taisaku ni tsuite,” dated September
16, 1959 (DRO).
34. While the first round of the emigration program to West Germany in 1957 sent the
largest number of emigrants (some 300 people), the second round in 1961 was relatively
small scale, with no more than 70 emigrants. Out of the total of 436 emigrants who
migrated to the country, the majority (399) were repatriated to Japan after the three-
year contract. The program itself was terminated in 1965. See Rōdō-shō Shokuan-kyoku
Shitsugyō Taisaku-bu, Tankō rishokusha taisaku jūnen-shi, 137–43, 280–81.
35. In contrast, among the ex-miners who were re-employed in Japan, those who entered
the farming sector were almost nil. The agriculture sector had already acquired a sufficient
labor force after the SCAP reform, and also because of mechanization of agricultural
work. Ibid., 322–23.
36. An internal memo of the Emigration Section of the MOFA, “Tankō rishokusha
taisaku kaigai ijū assen taisaku yōkō (Draft),” dated September 7, 1959. Aside from agrar-
ian emigration, the GOJ attempted rishokusha emigration, on a much smaller scale, to
coal mines in the state of Rio Grande do Sur in Brazil and the state of Santa Cruz in
Argentina.
37. Ueno, and Konzai, Yakusoku no rakudo,8.
38. A letter from Consul General Suzuki in São Paulo to Foreign Minister Fujiyama
Aiichirō, October 7, 1959 (DRO).
39. Consul General Suzuki’s letter to Brazil’s INIC president on September 12, 1961
(DRO).
40. “Tankō rishokusha taisaku kaigi no ken,” September 22, 1960 (DRO).
41. A letter from Consul General Suzuki in São Paulo to Foreign Minister Fujiyama
Aiichirō, October 7, 1959.
42. A copy of the newspaper article appears in Ueno and Chō, Yakusoku no rakudo, 8.
43. Rōdō-shō, Tankō rishokusha taisaku jūnenshi, 322–23.
44. “Rishokusha engo kyoōkai ni tsuite,” August 4, 1959, in Honpō tankō rishokusha no
nanbei ijū kankei (DRO). It does not indicate the Aid Society’s entire budget for overseas
migration.
45. In the southwestern region, the Rishokusha Aid Society’s Fukuoka- and Ube-based
offices recruited rishokusha living in the neighboring prefectures of Kumamoto, Saga, and
Nagasaki. “Rishokusha engo kyōkai ni tsuite,” August 4, 1959 (DRO).
46. Quoted in Ueno, Shutsu nipponki, 33–34.
47. From a Gaimu-shō (MOFA) report “Showa sanjūgo nendo no mitōshi ni tsuite,”
presented by Fukuoka Prefecture to the MOFA in 1959 (DRO).
48. Ueno, Shutsu nipponki, 33–34. In the Labor Ministry’s report in 1961, the “emigra-
tion fund,” amounting to 776 million yen, was paid to 12,215 migration applicants. But
this number is likely to include “internal migration” to other mines or cities. Rōdō-shō,
Waga kuni shitsugyō taisaku, 278. As of this writing, the author could not find data on
the actual number of rishokusha emigrants to Latin America.
49. “Rishokusha engo kyoōkai ni tsuite,” in Honpō tankō rishokusha no nanbei ijū
kankei.
50. A letter from the Consul General General in São Paulo to Foreign Minister Fuji-
yama, October 7, 1959, in Honpō tankō rishokusha no nanbei ijū kankei.
51. During the occupation period, the SCAP abolished the prewar Yūwa programs and
prohibited any Buraku-related policy or measurement equivalent to them. Regarding why
the SCAP took no action to cope with the Buraku issue, opinions vary among scholars
or Buraku activists. Watanabe Toshio asserts that the occupier was at least aware of the
existence and seriousness of the problem, and that the GOJ followed the SCAP’s non-
action stance (Gendaishi no nakano buraku mondai, 6–16).
52. Thompson, “San Juan Yapacani,” 81.
53. Nagata, Shinano kaigai ijūshi, 316.
55. According to Ueno’s field research, the members of the Várzea Alegre colony were
those who repatriated to Japan upon the war’s end and entered into the GOJ-sponsored
colonial villages for farming (kaitaku mura)—another institution to solve overpopula-
tion—in Yamaguchi Prefecture. After the collapse of the villages, they worked in coal
mines in Yamaguchi or Fukuoka, and ended up in the Brazilian colony. Ueno, Shutsu
nipponki, 161.
56. The author’s interview with a volunteer staff member of the Japan Overseas Migra-
tion Museum, Yokohama, who went to South America as JICA staff, on July 13, 2006.
Stephen Thompson reports that 95 out of total 237 families who settled in San Juan Ya-
pacani colony in eastern Bolivia in the 1950s had previously emigrated to either Japan’s
colonies, such as Taiwan, Korea, and Manchuria, or to regions under Japanese influence,
such as the Philippines and China. Thompson, San Juan Yapacani, 52.
57. Governor Shiraishi consulted with Nagata Shigeshi of Nihon Rikkōkai, a Christian
organization, to found an OEA Tottori office and begin collective migration of Tottori
farmers to Nagata’s fazenda in Alianca, Brazil. Nagata, Shinano kaigai ijūshi, 95.
58. “Honpō imin toriatsukainin kankei zakken, kaigai kōgyō kabushiki kaisha, kaigai
tokōsha meibo,” Exhibit No. 6, “Kazoku imin boshū yoteisū oyobi chihōbetsu boshū haitō-
hyō (Showa 5–6), April 1930 –March 1931; “Honpō imin toriatsukainin kankei zakken,
nanbei takushoku kabushiki kaisha, kaigai tokōsha meibo,” January 1934 (DRO).
59. Okayamakenshi Hensan Iinkai, Okayamakenshi, 453.
60. Yūwa Jihō’s Kyushu Kakuchi-ban (special editions for the Kyushu region), on Janu-
ary 1 and June 1, 1933.
61. In the 1880s, when the imperial military undertook the grand construction project
of the Port of Ujishina in Hiroshima City (then Nihojima village), local fishing sites had
to be totally destroyed. The dispossessed fishermen-farmers, who were already destitute,
protested the project and were joined by protesters against the construction-related tax
policies. They brought their grievances first to the prefectural governor, and then to the
Minister of Home Affairs, Prince Yamagata Aritomo (a southwestern hardliner oligarch)
in Tokyo, but to no avail. The Meiji state ruled out the popular appeals on the one hand
but felt it necessary to find a “peaceful” solution, considering the security-sensitiveness
of the dispute, on the other hand. The state solution was to relocate the displaced poor to
Hawaii. The political incident ended with the collective relocation of the victims of the
national development project to Hawaii, which inadvertently became the origin of the later
emigration flows. Kobayashi Masanori, “Burajiru—Peru no Nikkeijin,” in Hiroshima-shi,
Kaigai ijū, 60–75.
62. The quotes of Arakawa Goro, a prewar Hiroshima-based statesman at the Lower
House, come from the preface to Yamada, Nanbei peru to hiroshima-kenjin, 1–5.
63. Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshima-ken ijūshi, 578–84, 638–39.
64. Hakkō, No. 42 (January 20, 1930), 3.
65. Hayashida Shunjiro, chairman of Fukuoka prefectural parliament and the vice
chairman of Fukuoka Overseas Emigration Association. Hakkō, No. 42, 4–5. In the same
issue, the mayor of Moji City suggested that Fukuoka build a new emigration center to
train and send all emigrants from the Kyushu region. In the prewar period, there were
only two emigration centers, one in Kobe and another in Yokohama. See ibid., 13–14.
66. Fukuoka-ken Sōmu-bu, Shōgai Ijū-ka, and Fukuoka-ken Kaigai Kyōkai, Shōwa
sanjūyonendo kaigai ijū no gaikyō, 29.
67. The amount of financial assistance for emigration varied among emigrants, de-
pending on an emigrant’s age and the number of family members. A total of 140,000
yen was provided for a thirty-four-year-old emigrant with a spouse and four dependents.
Chūnanbei kaigai ijūchi dayori (March 1960), 73.
68. For instance, sixty-four cities, towns, and villages were identified as not having sent
any emigrant in the recent past. The Fukuoka prefecture saw this as a “serious problem
for a future development of emigration” and created new incentives. See Fukuoka-ken,
Showa sanjūyonendo kaigai ijū no gaikyo, 22–27.
69. Chūnanbei kaigai ijūchi dayori (March 1964), 24–25.
70. See Itazuke Kichi Iten Sokushin Kyōgikai, Itazuke kichi mondai shiryōshū, 175–77.
71. In the preface of Fukuoka-ken, Shōwa sanjūyonendo kaigai ijū no gaikyō.
72. Saga-ken, Saga-ken kaigai ijūshi.
73. Mizobe, Zaihaku yamaguchi kenjin, utsuri kite gojūnen, 605.
74. Ueno, Shutsu nipponki, 161–63.
75. See, for example, Konno and Takahashi, Dominika imin ha kimin data; Tsunoda,
“Imin to iu nano kimin”; Wakatsuki, Gaimu-shō ga keshita nihonjin; and Ueno, Shutsu
nipponki.
76. Garon, State and Labor in Modern Japan, 76–78.
77. Yūwa Jihō (January 1, 1934).
78. Osaka Jinken Rekishi Shiryokan, Manshū imin to hisabetsu buraku, 46–47.
79. Testimony of Shinohara Ichinosuke, an army cadet who joined a military coup that
killed the prime minister, Inukai Tsuyoshi, on May 15, 1932 (the May 15 Incident), at his
court martial. From Kōdansha, Hijōji Nippon, 309.
80. The troubled Matsuno asked the JICA to aid his and his family’s repatriation.
When the discussion became conflictual, Matsuno was said to have taken out a stick of
dynamite to threaten the JICA staff. After the incident, the Matsunos were “deported”
back to Japan. Ueno, Shutsu nipponki, 441–69.
81. Uchiyama, Sōbō no kyūjūninen: burajiru imin no kiroku.
82. Ueno, Shutsu nipponki, 469.
83. Immediately after the 1962 repatriation, some returnees filed a collective lawsuit
against the state for damage compensation involved with the migration to the Dominican
Republic. MOFA and Kaikyōren made a counteraction by offering informal compensation
fees to a part of the individual families. Most of the original plaintiffs accepted the state’s
offer and dropped their claims. But the above-mentioned 126 people continue the legal
fight, represented by the Japan Bar Association.
84. Asahi Shinbun (July 19, 2000).
85. Asahi Shinbun, “Dominika imin soshō, kuni no taiō ‘ihō’” (June 7, 2006); “Ijūsha ni
rōku, hansei” (July 21, 2006); “Gojūnen-go no seiji ketsudan” (July 22, 2006); “Hanseiki
okure no shazai” (July 22, 2006); Yomiuri Shinbun, “Dominika nihonjin imin soshō“
(June 7, 2006); Mainichi Shinbun, “Dominika imin soshō, genkoku haiso, kuni sekinin
mitomeru mo,” (June 7, 2006).
86. Asahi Shinbun, “Gojūnen-go no seiji ketsudan” (July 22, 2006).
87. In a letter to the Japanese ambassador to Brazil (August 7, 1959) from the Depart-
ment of General Affairs of Mitsui Mining. The letter is microfilmed at the DRO.
88. By the same token, the leadership of the prewar Burakumin movement was aware
of the hidden agenda of Latin American emigration policy when the state launched it
as part of the Yūwa program in the 1920s. Suiheisha, the archrival of the Yūwa project
in the Burakumin issue, keenly sensed the “abandoning-people” (kimin-teki) element of
the new Yūwa measure and accused the policy of being an “expulsive emigration policy.”
They pointed out the state’s intention to blur the discrimination issue and retard the
whole liberation movement.
89. Internal memo submitted by Yamakawa, the chief of Emigration Section, to Suzuki,
the head of Europe and Americas Department, “Rishokusha taisaku shian to mondaiten,”
August 21, 1959, in Honpō tankō rishokusha no nanbei ijū kankei (DRO).
90. Tamashiro, Aruzenchin ni ikiru, 14.
91. Sotetsu is a Japanese sago palm that grows widely in the semitropical climate of
Kyushu and Okinawa. The term sotetsu jigoku means the abject poverty and famine that
once tormented Okinawans. The people were so poor that they at times ate sotetsu, which
may poison a person if uncooked.
92. Torigoe, Okinawa hawai imin issei no kiroku.
93. JICA, Okinawa ken to kaigai ijū (Tokyo: JICA, 1982), 31–32.
94. Ishikawa, Nihon imin no chirigakuteki kenkyū, 549.
95. Ibid., 330.
96. Ibid., 549–50.
97. JICA, Okinawa ken to kaigai ijū, 31–32.
98. Ishikawa, Nihon imin no chirigakuteki kenkyū, 551.
99. See Gaimu-shō, Tshūshō-kyoku, Iminchi jijō 4.
100. In prewar Okinawan Latin American emigration, the path-dependence theory
may well stand instead. The emigration path from Okinawa to the Western hemisphere
was consolidated by such factors as Okinawans’ strong sense of solidarity, mutual help
institutions, a substantial amount of remittances to finance future emigrations, and other
cross-border networks between early settlers in the Americas and newcomers. In par-
ticular, the path factor was influential in guaranteeing continuous flows of Okinawans
when the host countries started to restrict Asian immigrations in the 1930s and 1940s. The
diasporic Okinawans helped their families, spouses, and relatives by family reunions and
marriage, which many Latin American nations continued to authorize for humanitarian
reasons. Through the yobiyose institution, Okinawa was able to keep on sending its people
to countries such as Argentina.
101. In the host countries, Okinawans continued to be discriminated against by the
other Nikkei diaspora because of their ethnic difference. Fujisaki and Konno, Iminshi,
66; Hiroshima-ken, Hiroshima-ken ijūshi, 637; Kimura, Issei, 66–79.
102. From 1945 to June 1946, the U.S. Navy took charge of Okinawa; in July 1946 the
authority was transferred to the army. The position of the deputy secretary of USCAR
was renamed the High Commissioner in 1957.
103. Johnson, Okinawa: Cold War Islands.
104. As of January 1955. Matsuda, Sengo okinawa shakai keizai shi kenkyū.
105. Oguma, “Nihonjin” no kyōkai, 503.
106. Despite USCAR suspicions, the land-related disputes by the Okinawans in early
years were never dictated by communist or revolutionary ideologies. Ibid., 509.
107. The Special Subcommittee of the Committee of Military Affairs of the U.S. House
of Representatives was led by Charles Melvin Price (Democrat). Therefore, the subcom-
mittee’s report on this new policy was named after Representative Price.
108. Ōta, Okinawa no teiō: kōtō benmukan.
109. In 1954, USCAR repressed the People’s Party, which opposed the USCAR proposal
for a resolution of the land appropriation issue, by arresting high-ranking party members
with various irrelevant charges against them.
110. Miyazato, Amerika no okinawa seisaku, 146.
111. Ibid., 140.
112. This account is based on the information provided by Miyazato (ibid., 146). Nev-
ertheless, I could not confirm this (i.e., the discussion on Okinawan emigration to Latin
America in the Dulles-Fujiyama meeting in Washington) in my own research at the
Library of Congress.
113. Amemiya, “Importance of Being Japanese in Bolivia.”
114. Colonia Uruma was originally founded by the Uruma Agricultural Cooperative
Association after it purchased 2,500 hectares of land from the Bolivian government in
1950. Wakatsuki, Hatten tojōkoku heno ijū no kenkyū, 9.
115. Ryūkyū Seifu, Tigunâ hōkokusho, kōhen, 55. Its original in English can be found
in the memorandum by Paul H. Skuse and Tigner, on September 20, 1952, in Tigner,
Okinawans in Latin America.
116. Ryūkyū Seifu, Tigunâ hōkokusho, kōhen, 56.
117. Ibid., 58–59. Or in Tigner, Okinawans in Latin America, 522.
118. Chalmers Johnson also asserts that the organized Okinawan emigration was a U.S.
conspiracy to prevent the islands’ further radicalization (Blowback, 52–53).
240.
120. Amemiya, Bolivian Connection.
121. Kōchi Hiroshi’s story is in the audio-visual library entitled Mokugekisha (Witnesses)
at JOMM.
122. Ishida, Beigun ni tochiwo ubawareta uchinanchū, 22–23.
123. Yagi Sentarō left Okinawa for Bolivia at the age of eighteen in 1960; he and his
family trans-migrated to Argentina, like many other aspiring emigrants, four years later.
Yagi’s story in the audio-visual library entitled Mokugekisha (Witnesses) at JOMM.
124. Miyazato, Amerika no okinawa seisaku, 146. The relocation of the displaced Oki-
nawans to Yaeyama was once attempted by the GOJ during the prewar period. Because
of the poor quality of land and insufficient water, the collective migration scheme to the
islands was quickly aborted.
125. Ishida, Beigun ni tochiwo ubawareta uchinanchū, 22–23. The administrative affairs
were managed by the Emigration Section of the Ryūkyū government and Okinawa Kaigai
Kyōkai, the Okinawa Branch of Chiho Kaigai Kyōkai (Local Associations for Overseas
Migration), which are prefectural offices of Kaikyōren.
126. Miyazato, Amerika no okinawa seisaku, 144.
127. Another, less direct factor in the dwindling of Okinawan emigration may have to
do with the decline of the “Struggle that Takes the Whole Island” by the mid-1960s. After
its apex (1952–62), the rock-hard solidarity among Okinawans fighting against Goliath
(i.e., USCAR) ruptured internally: while Okinawa’s millenarian dream of a return to
Japan (Hondo Fukki) increasingly assumed reality, the looming issues of when, how, or
whether Okinawa should return to Japan divided the movement. Some activists, once
united under the single banner of anti-Americanism, even antagonized each other over
these ideological and strategic differences. The movement’s fragmentation inevitably
weakened its pressure on the United States and the latter’s need for the political safety
valve. See Oguma, “Nihon-jin” no kyōkai, 555.
Chapter 7: State Expansion through Emigration

1. One year before the Brazilians’ visit to Japan, Tokyo sent an informal trade mission to
Brazil. The special envoys, representing textile, trading, and shipping businesses, delivered
the imperial wish to deepen the mutual trade and cultural relationships. Soon after their
return, the quasi-official Nippaku Keizai Kyōkai (Japan-Brazil Economic Association)
was established for the purpose of promoting bilateral economic cooperation, especially
trade and investment.
2. Kaneda, Saikin ni okeru burajiru oyobi nippaku kankei no ugoki, 57–65.
3. Burajiru Nikkeijin Jittai Chōsa Iinkai, Burajiru no nihon imin, 406.
4. Kaneda, Saikin ni okeru burajiru oyobi nippaku kankei no ugoki, 136.
5. Takumu-shō, Takumu-kyoku, Menka ni kansuru chōsa.
6. Takumu-shō, Takumu-kyoku, Perū koku, 47.
7. Nichigai Asoshiçtsu, Nihon keizai tōkei shū, 44–45.
9. Takumu Jihō (January-July 1935: 8), 2–3.
10. Nobuya Tsuchida provides an extensive analysis of the Burataku (aka Bratac in
Brazil), in his doctoral dissertation. See Tsuchida, “Japanese in Brazil,” 251–69.
11. Quoted from Normano, “Japanese Emigration to Brazil,” 54.
12. The hybrid jute developed by Kamitsuka’s Companhia Industrial Amazonense in
the state of Pará made a similar contribution. The research institute spent eight years in
finding a commercial crop suitable for the local environment—they tried rubber, Brazil
nuts, rice, and cassava—and in engineering the hybrid of jute at their laboratory in the
state of Pará. After the Companhia’s experiment, jute planting developed beyond the
institute and became the state’s major industry.
13. Kanebō Kabushiki Kaisha, Kanebō hyakunenshi, 195–96.
14. According to Burajiru fukuoka kenjin hattenshi, as many as 70 percent of the im-
migrants left the Tome Açu colony for Belem or the southern regions in the late 1930s,
unable to bear their poverty, misery, and malaria. After the success with pimenta, the
hemorrhage of outmigration from the region stopped. Nakamura, Burajiru fukuoka kenjin
hattenshi, 42.
15. The COTIA survived the wartime persecution by the Brazilian government and
continued to operate and expand its business activities, which were diversified to exports,
cotton spinning, hospital management, and regional management. In the postwar period,
the organization hosted the GOJ’s plan to settle Japanese youth in the COTIA members’
farms in 1955. Due to internal financial troubles as well as Brazil’s macroeconomic instabil-
ity in the 1980s, the COTIA voluntarily dissolved itself in 1994. As of this writing, part of
the COTIA’s old operations—agricultural school and hospital management—continue.
For more information on COTIA, see Masterson, Japanese in Latin America, 245–46.
16. Nakamura, Burajiru fukuoka kenjin hattenshi, 110.
18. Ibid., 37.
19. For 2005, Brazil’s exports of soybeans amounted to $9.5 billion. Economist Intel-
ligence Unit, Country Profile 2006: Brazil, 31.
20. The data are for 2002. The source is Norin Suisan-shō, Shokuryō jukyū mitōshi,
2003. Website: www.kanbou.maff.go.jp/www/jk/index.hml.
21. Ibid.
22. Aoki, Burajiru daizu kōbōshi, 35.
23. JICA’s engagement in Brazil’s soybean industry culminated in the Japan-Brazil
Cooperation Program for the Development of the Cerrados (1980–2000). The program
also financed research in the development of high-quality soybean varieties and best
management technology.
24. Aoki, Burajiru daizu kōbōshi, 23–58.
25. FAO, http://www.fao.org/es/ess/historical. Accessed November 1, 2005.
26. Deborah A. Hubbard, “Japan and Latin America’s Resources,” Far Eastern Survey
9.10 (May 8, 1940), 109–15.
28. Gluck construes the concept kyōka in terms of the Meiji government’s moral in-
struction programs inside Japan. I find that the Latin American emigration proponents
in the post-Meiji governments took a similar approach to indoctrinate their co-ethnic
diaspora in Latin America. Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths, 102–56.
30. The original rescript does not include the sentence beginning, “The compatriots
overseas . . .” It was probably inserted into the original text by someone else.
31. Based on Fujisaki’s interview with Mr. Higa in 1973. Fujisaki, Heika ha ikiteorareta,
61.
32. COTIA was a pioneering organization that started an ethnic elementary school in
Brazil, and was regarded for its excellent education system, both agricultural and basic.
Even after the organization’s dissolution, the public recognition of its achievement in the
Brazilian educational system survived the school itself. In the 1980s, when labor demand
for Brazilian dekasegi workers skyrocketed in Japan, the COTIA school provided language
training courses for would-be immigrants to Japan.
34. In Fujisaki, Heika ha ikiteorareta, 85.
35. Matsui Kenkichi’s quotation comes from “Kokushikankō dayori,” and appears in
Matsui’s essay “Ishokumin kyōiku,” in Takumu-shō and Monbu-shō, Saikin no kaigai
ijūchi, 5.
36. Ibid., 6.
37. As early as the Meiji period, the government admonished departing migrants to
“donate” their own money to the state. The authorities felt that departing emigrants, many
of whom were motivated to emigrate in order to avoid conscription (the 1895 revision of
the Conscription Law exempted emigrants from military service), should show devotion
to the nation by means of monetary contributions. See Tsunoyama, Enomoto takeaki to
mekishiko shokumin ijū.
38. The kokubō kenkin campaign, originally initiated by individual citizen patriots,
was directed by the military since the Manchurian Incident in 1931. Gaimu-shō Amer-
ika-kyoku, Shōwa jūninendo oyobi jūsannendo amerika-kyoku daini-ka kankei shitsumu
hōkoku, 18–19.
39. Quotes from Burajiru Jihō (June 29, 1939), cited in Fujisaki and Konno, Iminshi 1,
95–96.
40. Gaimu-shō, Shōwa jūninendo oyobi jūsannendo amerika-kyoku daini-ka kankei
shitsumu hōkoku.
41. The quotation comes from a letter written by Miyasaka Kunihito, the representa-
tive of the Burataku cooperative in Bastos, São Paulo, in May 1932. The title of the letter
is “Contribution of Aid to the Victims of the Iwate Earthquake by the Bastos Settlement
in Brazil.” In Takumu Jihō, vol. 28 (July 1933), 43
42. Handa, Imin no seikatsu no rekishi, 489–90.
43. Ibid., 493.
44. Correspondence from the Japanese Consulate in Baurú, Brazil (Haraguchi Shichirō,
deputy consul, to the foreign minister, Arita Hachirō, July 6, 1936. Zaigai nihonjinkai
kankei zakken 3 (DRO).
45. Upon the outbreak of World War II, there were about fifty Nisei Brazilians studying
in Japan. Among them, fifteen male Nisei were drafted into the Japanese Imperial Army,
since they held dual citizenship. Six of them died in the war (two were of Okinawan
origin). See Uchiyama, Sōbō no kyūjūninen, 98–114.
46. For instance, Consul General Ichige Kōzō in São Paulo requested that foreign min-
ister Hirota Kōki appropriate money necessary for the support of the Japanese Cultural
Association of Brazil “in the time of emergency after the Japanese-Sino Incident.” In
correspondence from Ichige Kozo, consul general of São Paulo, to Hirota Kōki, foreign
minister, dated October 15, 1937. In Zaigai nihonjin-kai kankei zakken 2 (DRO).
47. Ibid.
48. Gaimu-shō, Shōwa jūninendo oyobi jūsannendo amerika-kyoku daini-ka kankei
shitsumu hōkoku, 76.
49. Higashide, who was assigned the position of president of Ica Japanese Association,
explained that if a newcomer wanted to open a new business in a Nikkei locality, he/she
needed authorization from the Nihonjin-kai, as was stipulated by a “ponderously worded
ordinance” (a communal bylaw). Higashide, Adios to Tears, 97–98. In the postwar con-
text, Thompson observed a similar disciplinary action by government officials towards
emigrants to San Juan, Bolivia. When members of the Buddhist Sōka Gakkai group at-
tempted to erect their own religion-based school for children in the settlement, the JICA
which developed from Kaikyōren and was the most influential political authority in the
Japanese colonydenied a Sōka Gakkai teacher “access to classroom space or textbooks.”
Thompson, “San Juan Yapacani,” 160–63.
50. Among various valuable sources of information on the cultural, social, and po-
litical functions of Japanese cultural associations, including prefecture-based kenjin-kai,
see, for example, Higashide, Adios to Tears; Imin Hachijūnenshi Hensan Iinkai, Burajiru
nihon imin hachijūnenshi; and Tsuchida’s “Japanese in Brazil,” for the prewar case, and
Thompson’s “San Juan Yapacani” for the postwar period.
51. For instance, Matsui Kenkichi, an education official, negatively characterized the
Japanese emigrants in the past: “Overseas migrants in the past were those who could no
longer live in Japan due to troubles, such as a crime, or social misfits. They tended to be
alcoholic, violent, and troublesome.” Matsui, “Ishokumin Kyōiku,” in Takumu-shō and
Monbu-shō, Saikin no kaigai ijūchi, 40.
53. Ibid., 7.
54. Japan’s overseas broadcasting in the Japanese language was banned from September
11, 1945, until 1952. In Brazil and Peru, where the Japanese language media were prohibited,
this was particularly difficult for the Issei population, many of whom did not understand
Portuguese or Spanish. In contrast, Japanese language newspapers in Argentina remained
active. Sugai Hideyo, president of the Akoku Nippo daily, used to transcribe the news
broadcasts by JOAK (today’s NHK) and printed them in his newspaper throughout the
war. This, he recalled, enabled the Nikkei in Argentina to not fall victim to an internal
fight like the Kachigumi-Makegumi incident. Sugai’s account is recorded in the video
library Mokugekisha (Witnesses) at the JOMM.
55. How the Japanese public confronted and eventually “embraced” Japan’s capitulation
is well documented by John Dower in his Embracing Defeat.
56. Ibid., 8; Inomata and Tamai, Kūhaku no burajiru iminshi.
57. Imin Hachijūnenshi Hensan Iinkai, Burajiru nihon imin hachijūnenshi, 191.
58. Ibid., 158–59.
59. Handa, Imin no seikatsu no rekishi, 669–70.
60. On May 15, 1932, young navy officers dissatisfied with the civilian government of the
time swarmed into the premier’s residence and killed Prime Minister Inukai Tsuyoshi.
62. One of the most extensive investigations of the Kachigumi-Makegumi incident in
Brazil is Imin Hachijūnenshi Hensan Iinkai, Burajiru nihon imin hachijūnenshi, 152–224.
For English-language documents on the subject, Kozy Amemiya provides an excerpt of
the Burajiru nihon imin hachijūnenshi in her “Importance of Being Japanese in Bolivia”;
see also Masterson, Japanese in Latin America, 130–40.
64. Similar phenomena of internal rupture over Japan’s defeat and political actions by
ultra-nationalists appeared in Mexico and Peru, but were far less rampant and faster to
be extinguished. Masterson, Japanese in Latin America, 129; Imin Hachijūnenshi Hensan
Iinkai, Burajiru nihon imin hachijūnenshi, 223–24.
65. The Brazilian government’s treatment of those involved with the Kachigumi-Makeg-
umi incident raised questions and criticism. In the arrests and trials, due process was
suspended under Dutra’s presidential decree, eschewing proper legal procedures. As a
result, charges were never clarified, and a significant number of Nikkei had their civil and
political rights as either foreign residents or Brazilian citizens severely restricted. Some
of them were extradited to Japan.
22.
68. Statement by Ōno Katsumi, a representative of the premier’s office (seifu iin) at
the meeting of the Lower House’s committee on foreign affairs, on September 22, 1947.
Concerns about the incident’s ramification upon Japan’s emigration were raised by, for
example, Taga Yasurō of the People’s Cooperation Party (Kokumin Kyōdō-to), at this
meeting as well. From the Database System for the Minutes of the Diet, NDL.
69. Statement by Wajima Eiji, a representative of the premier’s office (seifu iin) at the
Upper House’s cabinet committee, on April 10, 1950. From the Database System for the
Minutes of the Diet, NDL.
70. Stated by Sonoda Tadashi, a representative of the premier’s office (seifu iin), at the
Lower House’s committee on foreign affairs, on July 6, 1955. From the Database System
for the Minutes of the Diet, NDL.
102.
72. At the Upper House’s cabinet committee on June 29, 1955. From the Database System
for the Minutes of the Diet, NDL.
73. Based on the testimony of one of the returnees. Takahashi, Karibukai no “rakuen,”
118.
74. According to an interview with Shōichi Kanno, a legal advisor to the Japanese im-
migrants to the Dominican Republic who sued the GOJ on December 11, 2006, in Tokyo,
the Kaikyōren branch encouraged the formation of a “self-defense” team and had the
Japanese emigrants participate in bimonthly military training under Dominican tutelage.
In the Diet hearings (the Upper House Committee on Foreign Affairs on August 1, 1960),
Takagi Koichi, the head of the emigration bureau of the MOFA verified the fact, but denied
the direct involvement of his office. Takahashi, Karibukai no “rakuen,” 144–48.
75. Miyawaki was president of the Brazil branch of Kaigai Kōgyō. Influenced by ultra-
nationalism, he propagated his belief that Latin American emigrants must engage in
Japan’s national interests among the Nikkei youths in Brazil via Nikkei media, such as
Nanbei Shūhō. See Fujisaki, Heika ha ikiteorareta, 81.
76. Takayama Sanpei, “Waga kuni no ishokumin mondai ni tsuite,” in Takmu-shō,
Takumu-kyoku, Takumu Jihō (January-June 1935: 8), 5.
77. Sugita Yoshio, “Ishokumin oyobi kaigai takushoku jigyō ni taisuru seifu no shisetsu,”
in Takumu-shō and Monbu-shō, Saikin no kaigai ijūchi, 29.
79. Ciccarelli, “Peru’s Anti-Japanese Campaign in the 1930s,” 118–19.
80. Takayama, “Waga kuni no ishokumin mondai ni tsuite,” 6.
81. Kamitsuka Tsukasa, “Amazonia jijō,” in Takumu-shō and Monbu-shō, Saikin no
kaigai ijūchi, 271.
82. In addition to their mental advantage, the physical strength of the Japanese was
argued to better suit the conquest of the Amazon. The law scholar, Oka Minoru, stated
that, “Only Japanese are naturally endowed with the superior characteristics, far better
than those of the Anglo or Latin races, to be accustomed to any climate and society in
the world and pursue developmental undertakings.” Oka Minoru, “Wagakuni no genjō
to kaigai hatten,” in Takumu-shō and Monbu-shō, Saikin no kaigai ijūchi, 31. In his study
of Nikkei trans-nationalism on the U.S. West Coast before World War II, Eiichiro Azuma
finds a similarly pseudo-scientific claim of Japanese biological fitness for developing the
frontier made by some Nikkei ideologues (Between Two Empires, 92).
83. Kamitsuka, “Amazonia jijō,” in Takumu-shō and Monbu-shō, Saikin no kaigai ijūchi,
271.
84. This phraseology, hakkō ichiu (“multiple races coexist under one roof ”), is explained,
for example, in Stephan’s Hawaii Under the Rising Sun, 155–58.
85. Furthermore, foreign minister Matsuoka Yōsuke of the Konoe government (1939–41)
offered a more bullish justification of the “sovereign right of small and overpopulated
nations to expand their overseas territories to larger and less-populated countries” in
his Rome speech directed against Dr. Couto’s xenophobic accusations. Yamada Hiroko,
“Shōwa zenki burajiru imin no shomondai,” in Hiroshima-shi, Kaigai ijū, 32
86. Koshiro, Trans-Pacific Racisms, 124.
87. Ra Korumena Nijusshūnenshi Kankōkai, Paraguai koku saisho no nihonjin ijūchi,
93.
88. Koshiro, Trans-Pacific Racisms, 124.
89. Ibid., 149. Although Koshiro calls it a “new” or “invented” Japanese dual identity,
stemming from a sense of racial inferiority to the West, Japan’s inferiority complex can be
traced back to the late Tokugawa period, as many historians and scholars understand.
90. The first two quotes come from: Takumu-shō, Perū koku zairyū hōjin no nōgyō
hōmen ni okeru hatten jōkyō, 16. The last statement was made by Oka in Takumu-shō and
Monbu-shō, Saikin no kaigai ijūchi, 65.
91. Quoted from Wakatsuki, Hatten tojōkoku heno ijū no kenkyū, 195.
92. The Prime Minister’s Office conducted a questionnaire on Japanese overseas emi-
gration in January 1960. In Koshiro, Trans-Pacific Racisms, 155.
93. Sugiura, “Hankai yume monogatari,” in Yanase, Shakai gai no shakai, 15.
94. Yūwa Jihō (September 1, 1931: 58), 535.
95. Hiroshi Itō, “Japan’s Outcaste in the U.S.,” in De Vos and Wagatsuma, Japan’s Invis-
ible Race, 205.
Notes to Page 194 237
Conclusion
1. Hōmu-sho, Nyūkoku Kanri-kyoku, Heisei Jūyonenmatsu ni okeru gaikokujin
tōrokusha tōkei ni tsuite, http://www.moj.go.jp/PRESS/030530–1/030530–1–6.html. Ac-
cessed December 5, 2005.
2. Although a visa for special permanent residence (tokutei biza) is not a work permit,
it authorizes a Nikkeijin to engage in any occupation so as to secure a financial basis for
living in Japan.
3. In 2004, the number of Nikkei immigrant-workers amounted to 57,301 or 35.8 percent
of total foreign workers. Kōsei Rōdō-shō, Gaikokujin Koyō Jōkyo Hōkoku. http://www
.mhlw.go.jp/houdou/2004/12/h1228–1.html. Accessed December 5, 2005.
4. Under the old immigration control rules, while second-generation Japanese were
automatically allowed to reside in Japan as “children of Japanese nationals,” the third and
later generations had to apply for “special status of residence” by providing documentation
of their Japanese ancestry. The new rule facilitated this process for the younger genera-
tions and removed restrictions on their activities in Japan.
5. Japan does not allow in any foreign unskilled workers. The only exception is for
“trainees” (work-study students) who have been authorized to engage in unskilled jobs
under the Technical Training Program (Ginō jisshū seido) since 1993.
6. Mori, “Migrant Workers and Labor Market Segmentation.”
7. The work-study program, applied mostly to Chinese and other Asian students, is
another significant form of Japan’s international cooperation in technology transfer. Nev-
ertheless, most Asian students who come to Japan under the program engage in the least
technical or technological jobs, such as sharecropping, machine parts assembly, and
dishwashing.
8. Tsuda, “No Place to Call Home,” 54. Ayumi Takenaka finds a similar sense of alien-
ation held by Nikkei Peruvians living in Japan. Takenaka, “Transnational Community
and Its Ethnic Consequences,” 1466.
9. In a similar assumption, the Japanese government has treated the Zainichi Koreans
living in Japan as temporary residents, yet today’s Zainichi community has third and
fourth generations.
10. The GOJ tends to count on the efforts of local governments to solve problems related
to alien residents, including the costs of education and welfare.
11. For example, see NIRA Shichizunshippu Kenkyūkai, Tabunka shakai no sentaku.
12. For the history of the politics and institutions of exclusion of ethnic minorities in
Japan’s modern nation-state making, I was much informed by Oguma Eiji’s “Nihonjin”
no kyōkai.
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Index
accommodative politics, 6, 7, 138, 141, anarchist, 125, 139, 222n55

198–99 anarcho-syndicalism, 121, 128
activism: anti-Japanese (in Brazil), 188; anti-Americanism, 129, 231n127
Buraku, 124, 127, 135; labor, 117, 126, 130; anti-Japanese movement: by the Chinese
leftist, 155; local, 152, 198; Okinawan, Americans, 9; in Asia, 127; in Brazil,
165; peasant, 126; republican (Chinese 30–31, 34, 84, 188, 191; in Latin Ameri-
diaspora’s), 207n31; social, 137; state, 37, ca, 9–10, 19, 24, 59; in Paraguay, 213n60;
64, 67, 189 in Peru, 22–25, 34, 173, 183, 208–9n20;
agrarian dispute, 114 in the United States, 28, 66–67
agricultural cooperative, 13, 175–77, 199; anti-Treaty protest, 133, 136, 223n83
in Bolivia, 52; in Brazil, 45, 91, 179, Aomori (prefecture), 109–11
181, 183, 233n41; Okinawan, 166, 183, Argentina, 19, 29, 37, 51–52, 148, 188,
230n114 234n54. See also Okinawan emigration
Agricultural Development Fund, 94 Asahi Shinbun, 158, 183
aid: for development of Latin America, Asian immigrants in Latin America, 18,
178–79; in the Dōwa program, 149; to 27, 30, 143, 230n100
Japanese immigrants, 176, 228n80; to Asō (former zaibatsu), 134
Okinawa, 169; to the poor, 13, 150; U.S., Association for Japanese and Brazilian
88, 171. See also relief Economic and Cultural Affairs, 84
Ainu, 60, 162, 225n22 atomic bomb, 153
air raid, 80–82, 102 Augusto, Jose, 40
Akita, 109, 111, 220n12 Australia, 7, 36, 67, 83
Akiyoshi, Akira, 175 authenticity, 202
Alianza Popular Revolucionaria Ameri- authoritarianism: in Brazil, 32; in Japan,
cana (APRA), 23–25 77, 115–16, 139–40, 155–59, 165, 181
allegiance, 9, 13, 180–81. See also loyalty Axis, 34, 36, 147, 210n58
Allied Forces, 13, 25, 34, 80, 82, 163, 187
Amami Ōshima Archipelago, 120 Bacon, Francis, 7
Amazonas, 41, 154, 182 Bangladesh, 8, 201–2
254 Index
bank, 75, 88 Buraku: liberation movement, 125,
Bautista Alberdi, Juan, 64 223n91; population, 123–25, 134, 143–44,
Bianna, Melo, 41 156, 194; tokushu, vii. See also Buraku-
Big Oil, 133 min
birth control, 83, 86 Buraku chimei sōran, 145
black market, 80 Burakumin: defined, vii, 12, 122–23; ac-
Bolivia: anti-Japanese campaign by, 24; tivism, 124–29, 135–36; emancipation
economy of, 51, 147; Japanese deporta- via emigration for, 142–43, 156, 198;
tion from, 26, 51; Japanese migration the government’s policy toward (see
to, 35–40, 51–54, 102, 207n22, 208n8, Yūwa); living conditions of, 123–34
219n23, 227n56; Japanese settlement in, (prewar), 133–34 (postwar); the SCAP
145, 212n45; Japan’s migration policy policy toward, 134–35
toward, 91–94, 234n49; land owner- Burataku, 91, 175, 183, 233n41
ship in, 53; Okinawan migration to, 52, bureaucratic arrangement, 140
163–64, 166–69, 200, 230n114, 231n123; bureaucratic attitude, 85
territorial border of, 21 bureaucratic interest, 90, 140
Bolsheviks, 125, 128, 221–22n55 bureaucrats, 61, 68, 78, 87, 90–91, 113, 142,
bōryokudan, 132 218n23
Brasildade (Brazilness), 32 Bureau of Social Affairs, 140, 143, 156;
Brazcot, 172 department of, 151–52; section of, 144
Brazil: fazenda (plantation) in, 27–29, 32,
44, 46, 175, 227n57; federal legislature Calder, Kent, 123
of, 30, 40, 84; immigration policy of, California, 66
27–33 (prewar), 40–42 (postwar); Japa- Canada: Burakumin’s migration to,
nese migrants’ life in, 29, 94; Japanese 224n14; Japanese migration to, 17–19, 36
persecution in, 34; joining the Allied capitalist development, 7, 11, 95
Forces, 34; land ownership in, 28, 44; Caribbean, 46–47, 88, 157, 190
mode of Japanese migration to, 34, 42; Castro, Fidel, 50
northeast of, 42; number of Japanese Central Association for Japan-Brazil
migration to, 19, 30–31, 43; regional Trade Unions, 177
development of, 75, 182, 192–94; trans- Central Yūwa Project Association, 143,
migration from, 18, 200–203 152
Brazilian Amazon, 31, 42, 44 Cerrado, 178–79, 232n23
Brazilian Constitution, 32, 40–42, 84 Chihō Kaigai Kyōkai (Local Overseas
Brazilian cultural policy toward Asian Migration Associations), 47, 87
immigrants, 33 Chikuhō, 116, 118, 120, 124, 126, 130, 134,
Brazilian economy, 41, 45, 210n43 149, 221n39, 223n89
Brazilian racial view, 27 Chinese immigrants, 202
British: immigration policy, 7, 8, 206n21; Chūgoku, 114
Peruvian competition with, 208n20; civil engineering, 91
textile, 173 civil servant, 60, 130
bubble economy, 201 class, 126, 145, 156; alliance, 32, 124; con-
Buddhist, 123, 125, 234n49 sciousness, 127, 135; enemy, 12; identity,
Buenosuairesu-maru, 33 145; ideology, 130; interest, 116, 126–27;
Burajiru Jihō, 88, 183 position, 124; relations, 12; struggle,
Burajiru Takushoku Kaisha, 69, 215nn34– 126. See also social class
35 climate: in the Amazon, 45, 75, 192;
Index 255
anti-Japanese, 19; in Brazil, 2; and the communal network. See social network
Burakumin, 194; ideological, 141; for communism, 77, 95, 121, 141, 150, 164–65,
Japanese immigration, 92; and the Jap- 190, 193; international, 128, 156
anese, 236; in Latin America, 152, 171; Companhia Industrial Amazoneuse S.A.,
in Okinawa, 229n91; in Peru, 21; social, 175, 231–32n12
10, 48, 68; sociopolitical, 51, 130, 138, Compassion and Conciliation Conven-
197; in the southwest and northwest of tion, 125
Japan, 109 compatriots. See dōhō
coal: in Brazil, 226n36; and Burakumin compensation: demanded by former
workers, 124, 126, 221n52; and foreign migrants, 158, 229n83; demanded by
workers, 127; industry, 116, 118–20, 133, the GOJ, 23; in the form of emigration,
221n39; mines, 131, 134, 144, 155, 159, 144–49, 165, 198, 200; for laid-off work-
220n24, 223n88; rationalization of, 131, ers, 154, 156; for Okinawans, 164–65,
146–47, 159, 222n74; in West Germany, 200; as a part of state welfarism, 138;
147 terms of land transfer, 53
coalition: anti-system, 127; inter-class, conflict resolution, 7, 158. See also crisis
126; of Japanese ultranationalists in mitigation; social control
Brazil, 187 conscription, 62, 113, 186, 190, 233n37
Coal Mining Maintenance Corporation, consensus-building, 85, 206n19
131 conservatism, 6, 12, 23, 115
Co-existence and co-prosperity (kyōzon Consulate: of Japan, 23–25, 44, 162, 177,
kyōei), 191. See also Greater East Asia 185, 187, 208n5; of the United States, 26,
Co-prosperity Sphere 209n28
coffee: -growing state, 28, 32; industry, contract migrant: in Brazil, 28; in Peru,
27–28; by the Issei workers, 184 (see 20–22, 61
also colono); market, 32; plantation, 63, corporate immigrant (kigyō imin), 22, 71
75, 168; product, 48, 171–73, 175; prices, cosmopolitanism, 191, 194, 201, 207n25
172; share of, 177 “cost of exit” (by A. Hirshman), 39
Cold War, 50, 95; and Okinawa, 164; and COTIA Trade Union, 45, 91, 176–79, 181,
the United States, 133 213n76, 232n15, 233n32
collective placement (shūdan shūshoku), cotton: production by the Nikkei-
96, 166–68, 230n114 Brazilians, 172–75, 177, 179; production
collier. See coal; Japan Coal Miners in Brazil, 27, 171; production in Peru,
Union; miners; National Council of 75, 208n20; trade between Brazil and
Mitsui Coal Miners Unions Japan, 171–72; trade dispute between
colonialism: Japanese, 45, 63, 76, 85, 127, Japan and Peru over, 24
138, 156, 216n45; Western, 193 Council on Thought Policy, 141
Colonia Uruma, 52 Coute, Miguel Filho, 40, 191, 236n85
colonization, 6, 140, 175; of the Amazon, crisis mitigation, 12–13, 137–38, 142, 146,
42, 44; of Hokkaido, 60; scheme in 151
Bolivia, 53 “Crisis of 99 votes versus 99 votes,” 41
colonial management, 13, 78, 216–17n60 Cuba, 19, 50, 102, 161
colono (indentured laborer), 71; in Brazil, cultural exclusion, 202
29, 44–46; ex-miners as, 148; Oki-
nawan, 168; in Peru, 2 Dan, Takuma, 121, 221n43
Committee on Foreign Affairs: of the dangerous thoughts (“kiken shisō”),
Lower House, 189 121–22, 141
256 Index
Dealing, Fred, 192 economic recovery of postwar Japan, 90,
debt: held by Koreans, 120; held by mi- 95, 129, 171
grants, 18, 29, 94; held by the rural education: at COTIA, 233n32; in Japanese
poor in Japan, 109–15, 220n12; repay- orthodoxy, 180–81, 202–3; level of emi-
ment, 94; restructuring, 158 grants, 37–38; of the Nikkei children,
dekasegi (profit-seeking sojourners), 33; as public policy, 156; as a purpose of
18–19, 20, 60, 63, 76, 97, 119. See also travel abroad, 208
Nikkei: dekasegi El Salvador, 8, 26
democracy, 112, 115, 135, 223n93 Emancipation Edict, 123–34
democratization, 117, 133–34, 136 embassy: Japan, 6, 48–50, 145, 168, 173,
demographic chaos, 4, 11, 64, 81–82, 97– 187, 190; Sweden, 189; the United States,
98, 101. See also demographic problem; 192
overpopulation Emergency Labor Force Supply Law, 129
demographic problem, 77, 86, 91, 109, 166. Emigration Council, 68
See also demographic chaos; overpopu- Emigration Section of MOFA, 87
lation emperor: Meiji, 112–13, 123, 180, 220n31,
deportation, 7, 26, 48, 159, 206n21, 222n68; Hirohito, 129–30, 223–24n93;
209n29 and Sacred Treasures, 218n36; as the
devotion to the nation (hōkoku), 182–83. source of Japanese mores, 180, 198;
See also patriotism system, 126, 128, 181; Taishō, 142; wor-
diaspora: association, 6, 85; Nikkei, ship of, 9, 181, 187
6, 8–9, 13, 84–85, 175, 179, 183, 186, energy: policy, 129, 133; revolution, 131
208n36, 230n101; politics of, 8–9, 13, Enomoto, Takeaki, 62–63, 77, 214n14
200; resources, 8. See also Nikkeijin epidemics, 109, 168
Diet, 84, 86, 129, 136, 189 Estado Novo, 32–33
Disposal of Ryūkyū, 160 ethnic community, 5–6, 8, 34, 42, 45
dōhō (compatriot), 2, 5, 9, 42, 46, 80, 111, ethnic identity, 9
178, 181, 183–89, 232n30 ethnic in-fight. See Kachigumi-
Dominican Republic: attack on Japanese Makegumi Incident
settlements in, 50; conflict between im- ethnic infrastructure, 42
migrants and the Japanese government ethnic minority, 23, 127, 163
in, 190; “foreigners’ troops” in, 190; ethnic sovereignty, 9
Haitian border with, 47, 49; Haitian ethno-centricity, 191, 200
smugglers to, 48; Japanese migration ethno-chauvinism, 10, 194
to, 46–51, 92, 198; land ownership in, Europe, 17, 30, 60, 192–95, 200, 205–6n10,
46, 49; Nikkei community in, 158; set- 210n44; attempt to recruit Japanese
tlement conditions in, 94, 108; socio- migrants, 60; governments of, 42; im-
economic conditions of, 47, 147 migrants from, 23, 27, 30–31, 194
dōwa quarter, 134, 149–50, 223n89 ex-miners, 144–50, 154–55, 226n35
Dulles, John F., 165, 168, 230n112 exports: by COTIA, 232n15; from Brazil
Dutra, Euricio, 188, 235n65 to Japan, 171–72; of Brazil, 177–79; of
Japan, 62, 76, 95
East Asia, 61, 95, 163–64 expulsion, 7, 26, 157, 185, 229n88. See also
East-West conflict, 95, 164, 222n69 ostracism
Economic Planning Agency (EPA), 146, extra-governmental organization (gai-
218n34 kaku dantai), 87
Index 257
extraterritorial statehood. See transna- General Headquarters (GHQ), 83, 134,
tional expansion of statehood 217n11, 223n86
Gentlemen’s Agreement, 66
family: -based migration, 37, 45, 71, 94; Gen’yōsha, 142
census registration, 134; reunion (yobi- geopolitical interest, 95, 128, 193
yose), 35, 40, 230n100 geopolitical risk, 47–78, 163
famine, 109, 229 Germany, 61, 93, 191; immigrants from,
farmer migrant, 28, 37, 72, 148 27, 30–31; the state philosophy of, 156;
fascism, 32, 34, 41, 139, 141, 210n43 West, 147, 226n34
Federation of Overseas Emigration As- Girard Incident, 136, 224n95
sociations (FOEA), 6, 175 Gotō, Shinpei, 75
Federation of Overseas Societies Great Depression, 23–24, 32, 74, 76, 111,
(Kaikyōren), 43–49, 53–54, 87–93, 141, 143–44
148, 157, 190, 218n23, 229n83, 234n49, Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere,
235n74; Emigration Administration 184, 191–92
Guidelines of, 92 Great Kantō Earthquake, 59, 65, 71, 141,
feudalism, 60, 123 182
Filho, Joaquim P. S., 171 Great Kure Strike, 117, 144, 152
financial support for migration, 50, 53, Great Strike at Yahata, 118, 127, 151, 171
68, 88, 93, 144, 148, 155, 176, 217n60. See Guidelines of Overseas Migration Re-
also loan cruitment, 43–49, 87–88
food: security, 13; supply base, 13, 171
foreign assistance diplomacy (enjo gaikō), hacienda, 20–23
190 Handa, Tomoo, 184, 186
foreign exchange, 8, 94 Hara, Takashi, 112
foreign worker, 27–28, 201, 237n3 Hatoyama, Ichirō, 131
frontier: expedition, 42, 192; pioneer, 54, Hawaii, 17–21, 60–61, 108, 153, 207, 214n19;
178, 199 the executive order regarding, 215n26;
Fujimori, Alberto, 2, 20 Okinawan migration to, 160–61, 166;
Fujita Farm strike, 115 political safety valve and migration to,
Fujiyama, Aiichirō, 165, 168 228n61; remittances from, 214n7
Fukoku kyōhei (Wealthy Nation, Strong Higashide, Seiichi, 26, 185, 209n28
Military), 116 Higashiyama Farm, 148
Fukumoto, Mary, 22, 106 High Treason Incident, 128
Fukuoka (prefecture): coalminers’ emi- hikiagesha (returnees), 80, 82–83, 150, 155
gration from, 148–54, 157–58; emigrants Hiroshima (prefecture), 41; climate of,
from, 106–9, 111; emigration program 109; immigration from, 61, 76, 102,
employed in, 72–73; industries in, 102; 106–7; Imperial Army Headquarters in,
population growth in, 97; postwar coal 117; local government of, 41, 73, 94, 150,
industry in, 130–35; social instability in, 153; Overseas Emigration Association
113, 115–26, 139, 220n18 in, 72, 144; remittances to, 61
Fukuoka District Court, 158 Hiroshima Kaigai Tokō Kaisha, 29
Fukushima, 97, 106–9, 111, 119, 148, 219n7 Hirota, Kōki, 183, 233n46
Furukawa (former zaibatsu), 119 Hitotsumatsu, Masaji, 98
Hokkaido: coal mines in, 119; develop-
Geisel, Ernesto, 178 ment and colonization of, 60, 64,
258 Index
214n6, 216n45; emigrants from, 106–7, migration, 4, 97, 143; provided by the
110–11; homogeneity, 201–2; internal state officials, 93, 158
migration to, 8, 83, 143, 148, 156, 198, Inoue, Masaji, 66, 71, 75
225n22; Overseas Migration Associa- insurgency, 120–21, 129, 141
tion (OMA)’s office in, 72 Inter-American Peace Conference, 24
Hoshi Seiyaku, 75 international contribution (Japan’s), 41,
House of Commons of the Imperial Par- 182–83, 180–90, 199
liament, 70 internationalization: of the Japanese
House of Peers, 139 economy, 202; of the Japanese society,
human trafficking, 109, 120 200, 202; of mass movements, 127
hygiene, 72–73 internment, 26, 34, 51
Hyōgikai (Japan Council of Labor “invisible hand of the market,” 5
Unions), 121–22, 126, 128, 139 Irish migrants, 7, 206n21
Isahama (Ginowan City), 164, 169
Ichige, Kōzō, 185, 233n46 Ishikawajima Shipbuilding, 148, 220n30
ideology, 5–6, 141, 198; class, 12, 130; ex- ishokumin. See migration-colonization
pansionist, 199; nativist, 174; political, Issei (first-generation Japanese): in Brazil,
160; socialist, 135 27, 180, 184
Ikeda, Hayato, 147 Isshin-kai, 152
imin shisō (national imperative of emigra- Italian government, 28, 30
tion), 54, 87 Italian immigrants: in Brazil, 31; to the
Immigration Control Act, 201 United States, 101
imperial army, 62, 121, 127, 183, 187–88 Iwata, Jūzō, 135
Imperial Economic Conference, 68 Iwate (prefecture), 72, 109, 111, 183–84
Imperial Economic Council, 140
imperialism: Japanese, 13, 24–25, 36, Japan-Bolivia Migration Agreement,
73–74, 80–83, 190–91; U.S., 129, 133, 136; 52–53
Western, 61, 192 Japan-Brazil Agreement on Emigration,
imperial navy, 116–9, 121, 141, 144, 152 43
Imperial ordinance on migration, 29, Japan Coal Miners Union (Tanrō), 130,
71–72 132
Imperial Rescript on Education, 180–81, Japan Communist Party (JCP), 86, 98,
232n30 130, 132, 140, 145
income, 61, 82, 95, 108, 120, 123–24, 134; Japan Council of Labor Unions
differentials, 3, 96; minimum, 46 (Hyōgikai), 121–22, 126, 128, 139, 222n65
independence of Japan, 35, 63, 211n2 Japan Emigration Aid Co., Ltd. (JEAC),
Indonesia, 176 53–54, 88, 93–94, 154, 167
Industrial and Economic Research Coun- Japan Emigration Association, 65
cil, 143 Japanese-Brazilian Amity and Trade
industrialization, 37, 64, 83, 95, 97, 102, Treaty, 27
160 Japanese Exclusion Act, 33
Industrial Promotion Department, 176 Japanese migrant: age structure, 37; geo-
inflation, 80, 94, 98, 114, 120 graphical concentration of the origin,
information: about Burakumin’s privacy, 12, 101–8; occupation category, 37–38;
134, 225n28; communal network of, 33, sex ratio, 37; savings by, 20–21, 25, 39,
70; -gathering activity, 21, 157; about 183
Index 259
Japan Farmers Union (Nichinō), 115 kimin shisō (feeling of desertion), 184
Japan Federation of Employers Associa- Kimura, Kyūtarō, 139
tion, 132 Kinki region, 114–45
Japan International Cooperation Associa- kinship, 4, 42, 163. See also family
tion (JICA), 37–38, 150, 158, 178, 212n27, Kishi, Nobusuke, 129, 147, 159
227n56, 228n80 Kiyoura, Keigo, 66, 68, 140
Japan-Paraguay Immigration Agreement, Kōhei Movement, 127
54 Koizumi, Jun’ichirō, 1–2, 158, 205n5
Japan Socialist Party (JSP), 94, 132 Kokura Twelfth Division, 121
Jewish lobbyism: for Israel, 9 kokusaku (strategic national policy), 2–3,
Jiei kaitaku-nō (independent agrarian 5, 10–11, 59, 66, 101, 138
developer), 44–45 kokusaku imin (state-guided migrants), 2.
Jōban, 119 See also state-guided (-led) migration
job creation, 83, 86 kokusaku kaisha (national policy com-
Johnson, Chalmers, 164, 230n118 pany), 66–69, 173, 175, 191, 214n22
Juscelino Kubitschek Colony, 157 Kokushikan Gakkō, 181–82, 186
jus sanguinis, 202 kokutai (national polity), 128, 139, 156–57,
jute, 41, 45, 175, 231–32n12 180–81, 187
kōmin (imperial subjects), 25, 180, 187
Kachigumi-Makegumi Incident, 13, 40, Kōmin Shokumin Kaisha, 28
84, 181, 187–89, 234n54 Komura, Jutarō, 62
Kadena, Kinji, 186 Koran Paek Chan, 127
Kagoshima (prefecture), 72, 102, 106–11, Korea: and Tōtaku, 78, 216n60; Japanese
113, 120 migration to, 8, 18, 61–62, 70, 216nn45–
kaigai hatten (overseas advancement), 6, 46; Japan’s annexation of, 120
73–74, 77, 173, 184, 186, 191–92 Korean farmers, 78
Kaigai Ijū Kumiai, 72, 175 Korean immigrants, 120, 127
Kaigai Ijū Kyōkai, 71 Korean War, 95, 129
Kaigai Kōgyō Kabushiki Kaisha, 66–72, Koshiro, Yukiko, 193, 207n25, 219n6,
75, 142, 151–52, 173, 175, 215n35, 215n39 236n89
kaitaku-mura (colonial-farming village), Kōtoku, Shūsui, 128, 222n67
150, 227n55 Kumamoto (prefecture): Burakumin
Kamitsuka, Tsukasa, 84, 175, 192–93, population in, 123–24; climate of, 109;
221–22n12 coal production in, 102, 106–7, 118–19,
Kanegafuchi Bōseki, 74–75, 175 130–31; local government of, 73; Over-
Kasato-maru, 28 seas Emigration Association in, 72;
Katayama, Sen, 117 politicians from, 84, 113, 128, 192
Katō, Takaaki, 139 Kumamoto Emigration Company, 29, 63
Katsura, Tarō, 67, 215n34 Kure Naval Shipyard, 116–18
kenjin-kai (Japanese prefecture-based kyōka (education and influence), 180–81,
association), 6, 153, 162 232n28
kigyō imin (corporate immigrant-farm- kyūdan (denunciation), 124
ers), 71–72 Kyushu: Burakumin population in, 150–
Kim Il-Sung, 131 52; coal production in, 106–7, 118–19;
kimin (abandoning people), 2, 143, 155, internal migration in, 119–20; and so-
184, 229n88 cial radicalism, 115, 120–21, 126–37, 144
260 Index
labor: demand, 83, 233n32; dispute, malnutrition, 49, 109
117–18, 133, 159; market, 3, 18, 21, 205n6; Malthusian explanation, 4, 98, 197, 219n6
market in Japan, 64, 76, 95–96, 146; Manchuria: Burakumin migration to,
militancy, 118, 129, 131; recruitment, 143–44, 156, 198, 225n22; hikiagesha
119–20; redundancy, 96–97; shortage in from, 83, 150; human shields in, 48;
Brazil, 27, 30, 210n43 Japanese migration to, 61–62, 106–9,
Labor Peasant Party, 115, 126, 139 140, 216n45, 219n10, 227n56; strategic
La Colmena (Paraguay), 73–74, 193, national policy toward, 65–66, 74–75,
213n60, 213n76 78, 111, 159; youth brigades in, 45
land: commercialization of, 64–65, 113, Manchurianization, 191, 193
180; concentration, 111; distribution, 65, Manchurian Railroad Company, 75,
71; reform, 96, 124 214n22
landed class, 110, 113, 116, 173 Mao Zedong, 131
land ownership: in Bolivia, 53; in Brazil, Marcha al este initiative, 52
28, 44; in the Dominican Republic, 46, Marx, Anthony, 6
49; in Japan, 96, 110, 134, 167, 219n10; in Marxism, 116, 121, 125, 130
Paraguay, 73 Massey, Douglas, 4–5
latinization, 201 mass movement, 117, 122, 130, 132, 156. See
lawsuit, 2, 158, 229n83 also social movement
Legía, Augusto B., 23 Masterson, Daniel, 21, 31, 48
Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), 133, 146 Mato Grosso, 41, 177, 178
Liberal Party, 98 Matsubara, Yasutarō, 41, 43, 84
Liberdade (Brazil), 1 Matsui, Kenkichi, 181–82, 234n51
Libertad (Peru), 22 Matsumoto, Jiichirō, 135–36, 223–24n93
Lima, 21–23, 25, 72, 168, 173, 185, 192; Co- Matsumoto, Manabu, 153
lonial Ministry’s office in, 72 Matsuoka, Kinpei, 66–67
loan: agency, 167; to ex-coalminers, Matsuoka, Komakichi, 84
154–55; farming, 177; to hikiagesha, 83; Matsuoka, Yōsuke, 236n84
to migrants, 7, 43, 50, 53–54, 88, 93–94; McCarthysim, 131
to mining companies, 131; to policy media: Japanese, 50, 53, 122, 143; Nikkei,
companies, 72 183, 187; Peruvian, 25
local (prefectural) government: and for- Meiji era, 17, 64, 142, 160, 170; and em-
eign migrants in Japan, 237n10; OEA peror, 112–23, 128, 180, 220n31, 222n68;
and, 152; toward overpopulation, 90; and government, 60, 113, 116, 119, 123,
toward political crisis, 112–13; role in 160, 232n28
migration, 6, 73, 154; Yūwa program for Meiji Mining, 148
emigration and, 125, 151 Meiji Restoration, 112–13
local activism for emigration, 12, 126, 152, mercantilism, 61–62
198 Mexico: Colonial Ministry’s office in, 72;
Local Associations for Overseas Migra- Enomoto Colony in, 63; Japanese con-
tion, 87, 152, 218n21, 231n125 sul to, 21; Japanese migration to, 17–19,
loyalist, 40, 187 36, 61, 215n26; Japanese ultranational-
loyalty, 9, 173, 182, 184, 207. See also al- ists in, 235n64; Okinawan migration
legiance to, 161; southwesterners in, 102; Tōtaku
office in, 215n35; Yanase Keisuke on, 142
MacArthur, Douglas, 84, 136, 166, 187 migration-colonization (ishokumin): in
Maizuru, 82 Brazil, 84,140; concern, 69, 78; enter-
Index 261
prise, 67, 73, 108; and international co- Ministry of Colonial Affairs (Takumu-
operation, 193; operations, 6, 191; plan, shō), 6, 70, 72, 87, 140, 213n60, 216n45
63, 73–74; policy, 159, 192; strategy, 8, 11 Ministry of Commerce and Industry, 129
migration company, 3,5, 28–29, 69, 71, Ministry of Construction, 6, 85, 90–91,
142, 151–52, 162, 224n12 147
“migration fever,” 43, 47, 68, 70, 149, 169, Ministry of Education, 180–81
198 Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MOFA), 5;
migration policy (of Japan): budget for, and Bolivia-bound migration, 51–53;
59, 69, 73, 88, 142; changes (shift) in, and Brazil-bound migration, 42; field
31, 74, 159; ethos of, 7, 11, 81; goal of, 5, research for settlement, 73, 83, 93; lead-
90, 140, 167; jurisdiction of, 6, 90–91, ership in the migration policy, 90; and
140–41; official rationale for, 4, 10, migration company, 20; and migration
109, 157; politicization of, 141; public to the Dominican Republic, 48; and
discourse on, 10–11, 14, 60–66, 77, Okinawan diaspora, 162; promoting
140, 186, 192–97; in selecting destina- coalminers’ migration, 147–48, 157–59;
tion, 39–40; temperament of, 190–95; soliciting host governments, 37, 68, 85
toward Okinawans, 160–63. See also Ministry of Home Affairs (Naimu-shō),
kokusaku 67, 70–72, 125, 140, 143, 151–52, 156
Miike: and the anti-Treaty movement, Ministry of International Trade and In-
136; Buraku activists and, 135–37; Great dustry (MITI), 42–43, 146
Strike at, 135; mines, 147; strikes, 131–33, Ministry of Labor, Health and Welfare,
147. See also Mitsui Mining 146, 149
militarism: of Japan, 116; of the U.S., 133, Mitsubishi, 75, 119
136 Mitsubishi Shipbuilding, 117, 220n30
Military Affairs Committee of the U.S. Mitsui Mining, 74, 120–21, 130–33, 136,
Senate, 164–65 146–49, 159
military expansionism: in Europe, 30; of Miyakoshi, Chibata, 191
Japan, 117, 128 Miyasaka, Kunihito, 73, 213n60
Minas Gerais, 28, 30, 68, 179 Miyazato, Seigen, 165–66
Minechi Colliery, 121 mobilization resources (by C. Tilly), 122
miners, 130, 135, 145, 119–20; and the Bu- modernization: of the Amazon, 9, 43; of
rakumin, 129, 221n52; dismissed, 147– Japan, 7, 64–65, 112–13, 117, 170; of Latin
48; and the emigration policy, 147–48, America, 190
154–55, 159, 194, 199, 219n6; and Emper- Moji, 121
or Hirohito, 129–30; migrating to West mode of migration, 3, 5, 10, 12, 17, 31, 34,
Germany, 147; number/percentage of, 38, 68
120, 130, 135, 221n39; protest, 120–22, moral instruction (shūshin), 181, 232n28
129, 136, 198; and the Red Purge, 131; Morioka Shōkai, 20–21, 29
and the Rice Riot, 119–21; and the state, Movimiento Nacional Revolucionario
132, 141, 146; unionization of, 120–21, (MNR), 52–53
130; working conditions of, 119–20. See Murota, Yoshifumi (Consul to Mexico),
also Miike: strikes 21
Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce, Museu Histórico da imigração Japonesa
114 no Brazil, 183
Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry, and
Fisheries (MAFF), 6, 42–43, 45, 90, Nagano, 72, 106, 110–11
147, 158 Nagasaki (prefecture): coalminers emi-
262 Index
gration from, 124, 130; coal production kumin, 199; in the Dominican Repub-
in, 102, 106–9, 119; emigration center lic, 158, 199
in, 216n41; industries in, 116–17; labor Nikkeijin: in Brazil, 1–2, 31–33, 42; in
activism in, 220n30; shipyard workers’ Japan, 201–203; persecution by Vargas,
emigration from, 144 34; in Peru, 20. See also diaspora
Nagata, Shigeshi, 140, 150 Nippaku Shinbun, 33, 71, 141
Nakamura, Tokio, 94 Nippon Menka K.K., 172
Nakano, Yoshio, 95, 218n34 Nippon Steel, 117
Nakauchi, Hiroshi, 173 Nisei (second-generation Japanese), 26,
Nanbei Emigration Company, 29 180, 225n20, 233n45
Nanbei Takushoku K.K., 142, 152, 175–76 Nishikawa, Toshimichi, 51–52
Nanbu, Roan, 142 Nitobe, Inazō, 194
Narahara, Shigeru, 161 Nomura (former zaibatsu), 175
National Committee of Buraku Libera- Nixon, Richard, 46
tion (also Buraku Liberation League), Nomura, Diego, 27
135–36 Nomura, Tokushichi, 74
National Council of Mitsui Coal Miners Noriega, Hamilton, 40–41
Unions (Sankōren), 130, 132 North America: Japanese migrants to, 10,
National Farmers Union (Zennō), 115–16 19, 37, 64, 107, 173, 194
National Federation of Agricultural De- Northeast (Japan), 83, 96, 109–11, 144
velopment Associations, 90 Northeast Asia, 62, 78, 131, 140, 144, 191.
National Industrial Labor Union, 126 See also East Asia
nationalism: diaspora, 13, 33, 73, 189, Nōkyō (Agricultural Cooperative Asso-
235n75, 236n82; in Japan, 208n36; ciation), 90, 177
Korean, 127; long-distance (by B. An-
derson), 13, 189; “new” (by G. Packard), Obeisance Incident, 136
222n69 occupation: army, 12, 83, 130, 211n2; of
National Levelers Association Japan, 80–84, 90, 97, 134, 138, 227n51;
(Suiheisha), 125–28, 135, 139, 143 of Okinawa, 107, 163–65, 169. See also
national security, 47, 62, 129, 133, 210n59 Supreme Commander of the Allied
national unity, 9, 157, 198 Powers (SCAP)
nation-state building, 2, 7–9, 60, 64 official development aid (ODA), 178
nativism: Japanese, 13. See also orthodoxy Office of Development (of Hokkaido), 60
neo-classical economics, 3, 205n6 Ōgushi, Natsumi, 126, 128
Nichinō Fukusa Rengōkai, 126 Ōhara, Hiroo, 150, 153
nihonjin-kai (Japanese cultural associa- Ōita (prefecture), 106, 109, 118, 119
tion), 6, 26, 181–85, 234n49 Oka, Minoru, 174, 236n82
Nikkei: agriculture, 27, 44–46, 91, 148, Okinawa: economy in, 169; protest move-
171–73, 176–79, 199; association, 153, ment in, 164–65; relationship with
173, 177, 185 (see also nihonjin-kai); Japan, 12; U.S. land confiscation in, 12,
business in Peru, 22, 25; capital, 175; 163–64
collective thinking, 184; concessions, Okinawan colony in Bolivia, 52
191; dekasegi, 200–201, 208–10; family, Okinawan diaspora, 163, 166
45, 176, 181; leadership, 147; population, Okinawan emigration: internal migra-
22, 24, 144, 180, 188, 203; press, 33, 183 tion from, 127; to Latin America, 35, 52,
Nikkei community, 2, 13, 182; in Brazil, 102–6, 138, 160–67; policy, 162, 138
40–44, 84, 148, 176, 185, 188; and Bura- Okinoerabu, 120
Index 263
Ōkuma, Shigenobu, 63, 77, 220n14 People’s Party, 230n109
Ōmuta, 131 Pernambuco, 41, 45
Ōno, Katsumi, 189 Peru: bilateral relationship with Japan,
orthodoxy (Japanese), 9, 13, 180, 202, 203 208n4, 208n20; the Congress of, 23;
Osaka Chamber of Commerce, 171 cotton production of, 75, 173; immigra-
ostracism, 7, 138, 157, 159, 185. See also tion law of, 22–23; Japanese associa-
expulsion tions in, 182–83; Japanese deportation
Otsuji, Hideyuki, 158 from, 25–26; Japanese navy’s visit
overpopulation: in Okinawa,160–62; in to, 67; Japanese ultranationalists in,
postwar Japan, 82–86; in prewar Japan, 235n64; joining the Allied Forces, 25;
64, 66; in the public discourse, 63, 77, land ownership in, 28, 72; migrants
97–98, 156; as the rationale for emigra- to, 61; mode of Japanese migration to,
tion, 109, 140, 150, 197. See also demo- 17, 73–75, 102, 106, 108; Nikkei deka-
graphic chaos; demographic problem segi from, 201; Okinawan migration
Overseas Emigration Association (OEA), to, 161–62, 185; percentage of Japanese
6, 71–74, 143–44, 151–53, 175 migrants to, 19; postwar Japanese mi-
gration to, 36; restriction of Japanese
Pacific Coast, 17, 21 immigration in, 28; socioeconomic
Pacific War. See World War II condition of, 23; sugar plantations in,
Packard, George, 129, 136 20–21; suspicion of Japan’s imperial ad-
Panama, 24, 26 vance toward, 191–92; transmigration
Panama Canal, 191 from, 18; Yanase Keisuke on, 142
Pará, 35, 41, 44, 73, 75, 150, 176, 231n12 Perū Menka K.K., 75, 173
Paraguay: Japanese migration to, 35–40, Philippines, 8, 83, 161
48, 51, 87, 91–94, 107–8, 198; Japanese picture bride (shashin hanayome), 22
settlements in, 73–74, 193, 212n27; mi- pimenta (black pepper), 27, 45, 75, 176,
gration agreement between Japan and, 232n14
54; soybean production in, 179 Police and Security Bureau, 115, 139
Paraná, 31, 41, 46, 54, 75, 177 political decompressor, 11–12, 138–70, 198,
paternalism (Japanese state’s), 9–10, 138, 206n22
155, 177, 181, 190, 200 political instability, 140, 156, 167, 194, 198
paternalistic pan-statism (by R. Mukae), political liberalization, 112
9 political mobilization, 9
path dependency theory, 108, 229n100 political rights, 130, 159, 160, 163, 235n65
patriotism, 9. See also devotion to the political safety valve, 7, 138, 141. See also
nation; nationalism: diaspora political decompressor
Paz Estenssoro, Victor, 53 population growth, 71, 82–83, 97
Peace Preservation Law, 139 Port Callao, 21
Pearl Harbor, 33 Port Kobe, 28, 33, 41, 43
peasant, 3, 12, 112; and Burakumin, Port Santos, 28, 34
124–28, 145; communist influence on, Portugal, 30–31, 195
115–16; conditions of, 113–14; dekasegi Port Yokohama, 21
to coal mines, 119–20, 221n39; emanci- poverty, 4, 11, 77; in Japanese settlements
pation of, 126; and emigration policy, in the Dominican Republic, 49; migra-
142–44, 194, 197; radicalism, 114–16, tion as a solution for, 74, 140–41, 155–
126, 151, 157; state repression of, 139; 56, 197, 206n21; in Okinawa, 161–62;
unions, 114–15, 122, 126 in postwar Japan, 98; in prewar rural
264 Index
Japan, 64–67, 96–97, 101, 109–10, 115; as relief: 4, 59, 82, 156, 206n21. See also aid
a result of modernization, 113 remittance, 4, 21
prefectural government. See local (prefec- repatriation: cost of, 39; desire for, 32–33,
tural) government 50–51, 184, 190; at the end of World
Price Recommendation, 165 War II, 102; of free blacks to Liberia,
primogeniture, 65, 96 206n21; of Italian immigrants, 28; of
Priority Production model, 129 Japanese immigrants, 21; order by the
private ownership, 128, 139, 213n60 SCAP, 129
PRODECER, 179 repression, 12, 116–17, 127, 141, 165, 198
profitability: in the migration business, Rettesu Nōji K.K., 173
20–21, 73; in the mining sector, 119, 131; “return to Japan” movement, 165
of soybean production, 179 revolution: Bolshevik, 128; communist,
proletariat, 96, 122, 126–28 115–16
property: confiscation of, 186; private revolutionary ideologies (sekika shisō),
property, 65, 139; rights, 60 140, 150
protectionism, 172, 174 Riberalta, 51
protest: anti-Treaty, 136–37; Burakumin, rice, 48, 65, 76, 94, 109, 113–14, 134, 171
124–25; by the GOJ, 30; by immigrants, Rice Riots, 120–21, 124–25, 151
20, 44, 49; mass, 113; Okinawan, 165; Romanov, 128
peasant, 113, 227n61; social, 114, 139, Roosevelt, Theodore, 66, 215n26
120, 151, 158, 198, 200, 206n19; urban, rulers, 116, 128, 198
133; workers’, 117–18, 154. See also radi- Russia, 30, 60–61, 128, 140
calism Russo-Japan War, 62, 156, 188
public discourse on migration, 11, 60, Ryūkyū: disposal of, 160; government
66, 77 under the U.S. occupation, 163, 167,
public works, 65, 141, 147 200; kingdom of, 160
Puerto Rico, 18
Saga (prefecture): Buraku activism in,
racism against the Japanese: in Canada, 124–26; coalminers’ emigration from,
67; in Latin America, 67; in Peru, 25–26 154; coal production in, 102, 106, 109,
radicalism: Burakumin, 124–25, 198; la- 118–19, 130; local government of, 73;
bor, 115, 122, 131, 141; mass, 128; peasant, Overseas Emigration Association in,
114, 116; social, 11, 138; workers’, 207. See 72; peasant radicalism in, 115
also protest Sakhalin, 70
Rebello, Henrique J., 27 Samil Movement, 127
recruitment of Japanese migrants: at the Sanbetsu Labor Federation, 130
local level, 6, 12, 144, 151–54; during the Sánchez, Guzman, 46
postwar period, 53–54, 86–93, 157–58; Sánchez Cerro, Luis, 24
during the prewar period, 20, 69–74, 78 San Juan Colony, 51–54, 145, 150, 219n6,
recruitment of Okinawan migrants, 162, 227n56
168 Santosu-maru, 35
recruitment of ultranational diaspora, 188 Saõ Paulo: city of, 42; cotton production
red purge, 131 in, 172; ex-miners’ migration to, 149;
rehabilitation: of Burakumin, 156; social, interior of, 31–32; Japanese Cultural As-
156 sociation in, 185; Japanese immigrants
Reis Bill, 30 in, 33, 42, 46, 175–77; Japan soliciting
Index 265
to, 68–69; Japan’s migration-coloni- social network, 4–5
zation scheme toward, 73, 75, 90–91; social order, 82, 122, 137, 146, 185
Koizumi Jun’ichirō’s visit to, 1; Nikkei Sonoda, Tadashi, 189
patriotism in, 183; Nikkei press in, 72, Southeast Asia, 32, 62, 76, 80, 171
141, 148, 183; Nikkeijin in, 42; OEA of- South Pacific, 18, 142
fice in, 72; Okinawans in, 161–62, 181; southwest (Japan): Burakumin in, 134,
state government of, 28 220n18; geography of, 102, 106–11;
Sasebo, 82, 117, 144 migration activism in, 151–55; military
Satō, Eisaku, 169 deployment to, 220n19; politics of, 111–
Schumpeter, Joseph, 8, 207n24 29, 134, 138, 206n19; pseudo-scientific
Scrap and Build policy, 131 claim about, 162, 194
seclusion (sakoku), 17 southwest (Japan) and migration, 101–2,
seinen imin (youth immigrant), 45–46, 106–7, 138, 155, 159, 197–98; postwar,
91, 232n15 146–49; prewar, 61, 72, 139, 145
Senaga, Kamejirō, 165 sovereignty: of emperor, 112, 123, 128; ex-
seringuero, 51 tra-territorial, 8, 191, 199; of Japan, 7–8,
sertao (also hinterlands), 3, 10, 42–43, 193 35, 41, 81, 208n4; and Japanese migra-
serva, 3, 52–53, tion, 14, 60; of Latin American nations,
Sheldon, Garon, 155 9, 13, 25, 73, 199; over Okinawa, 164
Shibusawa, Eiichi, 74–75, 215n34 soybean, 27, 177–79, 212n27, 232n19, 232n23
Shidehara, Kijūrō, 68, 83–84, 98, 166 Spain, 30–31, 39, 195
Shigemitsu, Mamoru, 52, 190 Special Higher Police, 139
Shikoku, 115 Special Subcommittee of the Committee
Shimizu, Shinzō, 133 of Military Affairs of the U.S. House of
Shinbaru Colliery, 119, 121 Representatives, 164–65
Shindō Renmei, 40, 181, 187–89 sphere of influence, 8, 62, 78, 90, 175
Showa Depression, 76 state (Japan): crisis perception held by,
Siberia, 121, 128, 150 137; definition of, 5–6; developmental-
silk, 76, 109 ist, 8, 53, 171; legitimacy of, 7, 137, 158,
Singapore, 75, 161, 176 198; sense of vulnerability felt by, 12,
Sino-Japanese War, 78, 144, 183, 220n31 121–22, 137, 179, 199
Social Affairs Bureau (Ministry of Home state-centric paradigm, 5–6
Affairs), 140, 143, 156 state-diaspora (-immigrant) relations, 13,
Social Affairs Department (Ministry of 19, 31, 181, 160, 170, 180–81, 199–200;
Home Affairs), 140, 151–52 recent developments of, 200–203
social capital, 5, 108, 153; theory, 4, 206n15 state-guided (-led) migration, 2, 5, 111, 153,
social class, 112, 156 212n45; failure of, 212n45; Japan as an
social control, 7–8, 140, 169, 198. See also example of, 168; period of, 19, 31, 144;
conflict resolution; crisis mitigation during the postwar period, 51, 80–83,
social Darwinism, 27 97; during the prewar period, 22, 73; in
social imperialism (by J. Schumpeter), 8, the public discourse, 66
207n24 state paternalism, 9–10, 138, 155, 177, 181,
social infrastructure, 43, 46, 48 190, 200
socialism, 115, 121, 126, 128, 156 steel, 95, 116–18, 120–22, 129, 131
social movement, 7, 112, 127, 137, 139. See structural conditions, 11–12, 47, 64, 66, 77,
also mass movement 81, 97, 111
266 Index
structuralism, 5 transnational expansion of statehood,
student migrant, 17, 60, 117 7–9, 11, 13–14. See also Greater East
Subversive Activities Prevention Law, 131 Asia Co-prosperity Sphere
Sugiura, Shigetaka, 142, 194, 224n14, transportation, 7, 29, 54, 75, 86–87
236n93 triple alliance, 28, 128
Sumitomo (former zaibatsu), 119 Trujillo, Rafael, 46–47, 50
Sunama, Ichirō, 98 Tsuda, Takeyuki, 202
Supreme Commander of the Allied Pow- Tsuji, Kōtarō, 41, 43–44
ers (SCAP), 81–96, 131, 151, 166, 217n11; Tsuji, Masanobu, 93
and the Buraku issue, 136, 227n51; Tsukiji Honganji, 125
about the coal industry, 129–30, 134
surrender of Japan, 13, 34, 40, 80–82, 95, Ube, 121, 148
102, 130, 135, 163, 186–88 Ueno, Eishin, 144, 149
Unemployed Miners Aid Society, 148
Taiwan: Japanese migration to, 8, 18, 61– unemployment: in the Dominican Re-
62, 70, 216n45; Yanase Keisuke on, 142 public, 47; in Okinawa, 167; in Peru,
Takahashi, Korekiyo, 27, 214n14 24; in postwar Japan, 82, 85, 98, 146,
Takumu Jihō, 174 149–50; in prewar Japan, 76–77, 140–41,
Tanaka, Giichi, 74–75, 140 144
Tanaka, Kakuei, 178 unionism, 114, 120, 130, 132, 159, 176. See
Tanaka, Sadakichi (or Teikichi), 20–21 also activism; protest; radicalism
teijū gaikokujin (quasi-permanent resi- United States: in the Allied Forces, 51;
dent), 202–3 Japanese migration to, 17–19, 21, 60–61,
Teikoku Kōdōkai, 125 108, 117, 215n26; Japan’s relationship
Terauchi, Tsuyoshi, 69 with, 24, 60, 133, 137, 178; Japan’s rivalry
textile, 24, 95, 171, 208–9, 231n1 with, 171, 173, 191–95, 199–200; occu-
Thompson, Stephen, 145, 150, 219n6, pation of Japan by (see Okinawa; oc-
226n31, 227n56, 223n49 cupation; Supreme Commander of the
Tigner Report, 166–67 Allied Powers [SCAP]); profitability of
Tilly, Charles, 122 migration business with, 21; soy pro-
Tōjō, Hideki, 183 duction in, 178
Tokugawa era, 65, 118, 236n93 United States Civil Administration of the
Tokugawa shogunate, 17, 123 Ryūkyū Islands (USCAR), 163–67, 200,
Tokyo District Court, 158 230n106, 230n109
Tokyo Nichinichi Shinbun, 174 U.S.-Japan Security, 129, 133, 136–37, 146,
Tome Açu, 45, 75, 176, 232n14 223n83, 224n95
tondenhei, 60 utilitarian explanation international mi-
Tottori (prefecture), 72, 106, 151, 227n57 gration, 3
Tōyama, Kyūzō, 160
Tōyama, Mitsuru, 142, 160 Vargas, Getulio, 32–33, 41, 47, 84, 181
Tōyō Emigration Company, 29 Venezuela, 26
Tōyō Takushoku K.K. (Tōtaku), 69, 78, Vianna, Oliveira, 32
141, 215n35, 215n39, 216–17n60 visa for special permanent residence, 201
trade dispute (Japan and Peru), 24
Trade Union Law, 130 Wakatsuki, Yasuo, 39, 54, 92, 218n23
tradition of emigration, 108, 153 war veteran, 80, 102, 130, 188
Index 267
Washington Naval Treaty, 117 Yasukōchi, Asakichi, 121
“we-go-as-you-wish principle”, 39 Yoron Island, 120, 127
welfare, 73, 93, 120, 138, 153–58, 198–99, Yoshida, Shigeru, 129, 131, 136, 188,
206n21, 237n10 223–24n93
World War II, 26, 30, 41, 51, 110, 176 Young, Louise, 8, 207n24
Youth Brigade for Industrial Develop-
Yaeyama islands, 162, 168, 231n124 ment, 45, 91
Yahata Steel, 116, 118, 120 Yūwa (Conciliation and Incorporation):
Yamaguchi (prefecture): Burakumin emi- budget, 142–43, 221n55; official, 156;
gration from, 152; coal production in, organization, 152; program, 125, 27, 144,
102, 106, 119–21, 130; Japanese migrants 149, 156; publication, 142. See also Cen-
from, 150–55; Overseas Emigration tral Yūwa Project
Association in, 72; politicians from, 113; Yūwa Jihō, 143, 194
remittances from, 61
Yamamoto, Gonbei, 59, 141 Zaibatsu, 74–75, 84, 98, 118–19, 134–35, 175
Yanase, Keisuke, 142 Zolberg, Aristide, 7, 206n21
toake endoh is an associate professor of political science
at Hawaii Tokai International College. Her areas of interest
include political economy and state development policies
in East Asia and Latin America, as well as Asia diaspora,
immigration, and citizenship.
The University of Illinois Press
is a founding member of the
Association of American University Presses.
____________________________________
Composed in 10.5/13 Adobe Minion Pro

by Jim Proefrock
at the University of Illinois Press
Manufactured by Sheridan Books, Inc.
University of Illinois Press

1325 South Oak Street
Champaign, IL 61820-6903
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Notes on the Translation and Usage of

Part I. Origins, Historical Development,

Part II. Latin American Emigration

Part III. State Expansion through

The Prime Minister’s Tears

hearted welcome by the Guatapara compatriots the previous day. “Everyone

began to beset the migration-settlement projects, some settlers deserted, and

Looking for an Alternative Analytical Approach

Emigration may benefit a nation with “a double commodity, in the avoidance

via a migration-colonization strategy. In this progressive (in the imperialist

international relations. Their political channels to the host governments or

tional reciprocity gave way to superpower mentality and ethno-chauvinism.

Outline of This Study

in both its prewar authoritarian and postwar conservative incarnations—

In the history of Japan—an island nation surrounded by oceans on all sides—

Source: Kokusai Kyōryoku Jigyōdan, Kaigai ijū tōkei.

The proportions of Japanese influx to North and South America reversed

Japanese migration to Latin America followed an unorthodox trajectory in

The international zeitgeist against Japanese imperialism was quickly

In the wake of World War I, a sea change in the immigration market in

Table 1.2 The Number of Immigrants to Brazil (1884–1944)

support of Japanese immigration. With this development, how did Japanese

Source: Kokusai Kyōryoku Jigyōdan, Kaigai ijū tōkei, 98–101.

Agriculture 45,534 6,344 1,605 1,323 1,051 55,936

Source: Kokusai Kyōryoku Jigyōdan, Kaigai ijū tōkei, 40–41.

10.2 percent, while immigrants with a higher educational background were

Table 2.3 Mode of Immigration to Latin America (1952–74)

Source: Kokusai Kyōryoku Jigyōdan, Kaigai ijū tōkei, 16–17.

physical environments of the settlements themselves were burdensome. Ill-

migration policy in sending eighty thousand people overseas, as we will see

Sweeping aside the remaining domestic opposition, a presidential decision

riculture, Forestry, and Fisheries (MAFF), and the Ministry of International

Tragedy in a Caribbean “Paradise”

(the Yomiuri Giants’ baseball field)—an unimaginable offer to the ordinary

Haitian smugglers and squatters with a human shield of other immigrants,

succeeded in developing a crop harvestable three times a year.48 With this

legal obligations, the Dominican government dismissed the complaints of

first and last Japanese immigration program to the Dominican Republic

Bolivia and Paraguay

the Andean mountain area to the eastern lowlands.68 Land ownership of

Wakatsuki Yasuo, a Japanese migration scholar and former Kaikyōren staff

In sum, postwar Japanese emigration to Latin America was a product of

Japanese officialdom. The counterintuitive evolution of the second wave of

Early Public Discourse

would later be deployed in Taiwan, Korea, and Manchuria. Furthermore, as

and Korea), was preferred by mainstream proponents of migration in those

In the long run, these politicians’ endorsement of Latin American emigra-

A Demographic Crisis and the Rise of the

tion of land in the hands of a small number of large landowners accelerated.

urban manufacturing sector should be taken care of domestically, whereas

States. The anti-Japanese movement culminated in the 1924 Immigration Act,

Institution Building for Latin American-bound Migration

Andean nation. The extravagant voyage to South America was meant to

The Imperial Ordinance on the Overseas Emigration Association of 1927

hereafter) was created based on the Imperial Ordinance on the Overseas

migration-colonization enterprise in the states of São Paulo and Pará in Brazil,

actually protected the immigrants in the colonies is a separate issue (and

Private Capital Joins the State Enterprise

Responding to Tanaka’s eagerness, the business community pledged their

discuss in detail in chapter 7, the agribusiness interests in the region coexisted