UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Los Angeles Between Two Worlds: A

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

Los Angeles

Between Two Worlds: A Social History of Okinawan Musical Drama

A dissertation submitted in partial satisfaction of the

requirements for the degree Doctor of Philosophy

in Ethnomusicology

James Rhys Edwards

2015

James Rhys Edwards

January 2015

Revised July 2015

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ABSTRACT OF THE DISSERTATION

Between Two Worlds: A Social History of Okinawan Musical Drama

James Rhys Edwards

Doctor of Philosophy in Ethnomusicology

University of California, Los Angeles, 2015

Professor Roger Savage, Chair

In 1879, Japan annexed the Ryūkyū Islands, dissolving the nominally independent

Ryūkyū Kingdom and establishing Okinawa Prefecture. This helped inaugurate Imperial Japan’s

expansion beyond the historical naichi or “inner lands.” It also set in motion a structural

transformation of Okinawan society, marked by the end of tribute trade with China, the abolition

of a centuries-old status system, and the gradual modernization of the economy. This process

was painful, pitting the interests of the traditional Okinawan elite against those of Japanese

administrators, with Okinawan peasants and laborers caught in the middle. The epicenter of this

process was the prefectural capital of Naha – and for many Okinawans, particularly working

class women, the soul of Naha was its commercial theater.

This dissertation approaches prewar Okinawan commercial theater both as an institution

and as a space of experience and expression. Its main focus is vernacular musical drama or

kageki, which was created by classical performing artists disenfranchised by the dissolution of

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the court. Musical dramas such as A Peony of the Deep Mountains (Okuyama no botan) and

Iejima Romance (Iejima Handō-gwa) draw selectively on both courtly and popular traditions,

fusing the poetic sophistication of kumiodori dance-drama with the mass appeal of folk song and

dance. After introducing early modern courtly and popular performing arts, I trace the

emergence of commercial theater as an effect of contradictory social forces set in motion by

annexation. Cross-reading actors’ memoirs and newspaper reviews with writings by period

scholars such as Okinawan cultural historian Iha Fuyū and Japanese critical theorist Tosaka Jun,

I situate commercial performance in its socioeconomic and ideological context. I then turn from

a social scientific to a hermeneutic mode of critique, offering close readings of four influential

musical dramas. Unlike coeval Okinawan elite literature, these dramas do not explicitly

challenge the dominant order. I will argue, however, that by representing low-status female

protagonists as self-constant and morally competent agents, they invite working class female

spectators to reimagine the horizons of their social experience.

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The dissertation of James Rhys Edwards is approved.

Helen Rees

Carol Sorgenfrei

Timothy Taylor

Roger Savage, Committee Chair

University of California, Los Angeles

2015

For my mother and father

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgment ix

Vita x

Introduction 1

The political ontology of art and aesthetic experience 5

Performance and the politics of recognition 9

Dissertation structure and chapter summaries 26

Chapter 1: History, historiography, and theory

Okinawa and the historiography of development in Japan 35

The emergence of “the Okinawan” in prewar discourse 41

Postwar reconstructions of Okinawan identity 50

Method I: The normative Japanese research model 56

Method II: The normative Western research model 60

Theory I: Aesthetic conciliation and sociologistic positivism 65

Theory II: From sociologism to critical hermeneutics 74

Chapter 2. Performing arts in the Ryūkyū Kingdom

The origin and political trajectory of the Ryūkyū Kingdom 90

Social structure in the Ryūkyū Kingdom 94

Popular performing arts in early modern Ryūkyū 97

Ryūkyūan cultural policy and the birth of kumiodori 104

Courtly performing arts as Confucian political practice 110

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Dialectics of obligation and desire in kumiodori 114

Aesthetics, ideology, and the early modern Ryūkyūan state 128

Chapter 3. Annexation and the emergence of commercial performing arts

Nineteenth century crisis and decline 137

Abolishing a kingdom and establishing a prefecture 144

Social mobility and the commodification of artistic competence 149

From narrative dance to comic musical drama 158

The genesis of tragic musical drama: Uyanma (The Kept Woman) 164

Dynamics of representation during the Preservation of Old Customs period 173

Chapter 4. The Meiji theater as a space of social practice

Uneven development and the “agrarian problem” 179

Commercial theater as a social and economic institution 186

The expansion of the repertory and formation of genres 195

The birth of long-form tragic musical drama: Tomari Aka (Aka of Tomari) 205

Theater as an institution, a commodity, and an art 213

Chapter 5. Commercial performance as an object of discourse and policy

Indigenous capitalism and the formation of class consciousness 226

The consolidation of taste categories 230

Popular custom as a threat and a promise 235

Moral panic and state intervention 242

From repression to reform 248

Reformism and the contradictions of Okinawan modernity 259

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Chapter 6. The politics of recognition in Taishō period musical drama

Developing dependency and crisis 269

Tragic historical consciousness and the premonition of violence 273

Crushed by history: Okuyama no botan (A Peony of the Deep Mountains) 276

Premonitions of doing violence: Iejima Handō-gwa (Iejima Romance) 287

Conclusion: Toward a phenomenology of the capable woman 290

Appendix I: Maps

I. (1). The Ryūkyū Islands in an East Asian context 309

I. (2). Okinawa Island 310

I. (3). The Naha/Shuri area 311

I. (4). Iejima and its surroundings 312

Appendix II: Musical materials

II. (1). Okinawan cipher notation: "Hama chijuyā bushi" 313

II. (2). Western notation: "Hama chijuyā bushi" 316

Appendix III: Temizu no en (The Bond of Water in Hands) 317

Appendix IV: Uyanma (The Kept Woman) 331

Appendix V: Tomari Aka (Aka of Tomari) 336

Appendix VI: Okuyama no botan (A Peony of the Deep Mountains) 349

Appendix VII: Iejima Handō-gwa (Iejima Romance) 366

Endnotes 382

Works cited 398

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Acknowledgments

I would like to extend my gratitude to my advisor, Roger Savage, and to the members of

my committee: Helen Rees, Carol Sorgenfrei, and Timothy Taylor. Their advice and critique

have enriched this project tremendously. I would also like to deeply thank Professor Herman

Ooms for critiquing my drafts and sitting on my defense committee, and Professors Mitchell

Morris, Susan McClary, and William Marotti for contributing immeasurably to my development

as a scholar while at UCLA. Equally important has been the support I have received over the

years from the Department of Ethnomusicology faculty and staff, in particular Chi Li, Sandra

McKerroll, Donna Armstrong, and Kathleen Hood. The faculty and staff at the Terasaki Center

for Japanese Studies, the UCLA International Institute, and the UCLA Center for Southeast

Asian Studies have also provided me with invaluable support. In Japan, my sincerest thanks go

out to Higa Yasuharu, Higa Kazue, Karimata Keiichi, Suzuki Kōta, the Inter-University Center

for Japanese Language Studies, the National Theatre Okinawa, Shinjō Eitoku, Steven

Chodoriwsky, and my dear friend and mentor Nakazato Masao. I would also like to thank Joko

Bibit Santoso and Komunitas Tanggul Budaya of Surakarta. To my family, friends, and

colleagues – especially Emi Foulk, Paul Chaikin, and Tomoko Akiyama – thank you for seeing

me through this curious journey. Finally, I would like to pay special regards to my advisors at

Grinnell College, Johanna Meehan and Roger Vetter, and to the late John Mohan.

This dissertation would not have been possible without generous assistance from the

Terasaki Center for Japanese Studies, the UCLA Asia Institute, the UCLA International Institute,

the UCLA Graduate Division, the Department of Music at Okinawa Prefectural University of

Arts, and the Herb Alpert School of Music.

Vita

2003 Bachelor of Arts, Philosophy

Grinnell College

Grinnell, IA.

2008 Master of Arts, Ethnomusicology

University of California, Los Angeles

Los Angeles, CA.

2008–2009 Foreign Language and Area Studies Grant

UCLA Asia Institute

Sasakawa Fellowship

Terasaki Center for Japanese Studies

2009 Certificate, Advanced Japanese

Inter-University Center for Japanese Language Studies

Yokohama, Japan.

2010 Martin Hatch Award

Society for Asian Music

2010–2011 Fulbright-Hays Group Project Grant

Consortium for the Teaching of Indonesian

Lemelson Fellowship on Indonesia

UCLA Center for Southeast Asian Studies

2011 Certificate, Advanced Indonesian

Universitas Kristen Satya Wacana

Salatiga, Indonesia.

2011–2012 Aratani Field Experience Fellowship

Terasaki Center for Japanese Studies

2012 Notehelfer Prize

UCLA Asia Institute

2012–2014 Aratani Research Grant

Terasaki Center for Japanese Studies

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Publications

2013 “Impossible Properties: Language and Legitimacy in Ong Keng Sen and Kishida

Rio’s Lear.” International Journal of Asia-Pacific Studies 10(2): 13-34.

2012 “Theory ‘Between Inside and Outside’: A Response to Zachary Wallmark’s

‘Sacred Abjection in Zen Shakuhachi.’” Ethnomusicology Review 17:

http://ethnomusicologyreview.ucla.edu/journal/volume/17/piece/584

2011 “Silence by my Noise: An Ecocritical Aesthetic of Noise in Japanese Traditional

Sound Culture and the Noise Music of Akita Masami.” Green Letters: Studies in

Ecocriticism 15: 89-102.

Introduction

This dissertation has two interlocking aims. The first is to provide a historical

overview of the performing arts in prewar Okinawa. From the late nineteenth century

until the rise of cinema in the mid twentieth century, commercial theater, music, and

dance were the leading forms of popular entertainment in Japan’s southernmost territories,

the Okinawa, Miyako, and Yaeyama island groups. The first works staged commercially

during the years following the Ryūkyū archipelago’s 1879 annexation by Japan were

adapted from the early modern repertoires of courtly dance-drama, courtly dance, and

folk theater and song. During the 1890s, performing artists began to draw on these and

other styles to create new theatrical forms. Innovation quickened throughout the 1900s-

1910s. The arts scene during this period was remarkably diverse, featuring classical

genres, new indigenous genres, mainland Japanese genres, Western-style realism, and

even hybrid multimedia spectacles such as electrically illuminated dance. By the 1920s,

Okinawan performing artists had perfected the two now-canonical styles of modern

Okinawan theater (Okinawa shibai 沖縄芝居). These are spoken historical drama or

shigeki (史劇) and musical drama or kageki (歌劇). This dissertation will focus primarily

on musical drama, which was tremendously successful, especially among working-class

women in the prefectural capital of Naha. I will pay particular attention to the

prototypical tragic musical drama Uyanma (The Kept Woman, approx. 1890) and the so-

called “big three” tragic musical dramas: Ganeko Yaei’s Tomari Aka (Aka of Tomari,

1911), Iraha Inkichi’s Okuyama no botan (A Peony of the Deep Mountains, 1914), and

Majikina Yūkō’s Iejima Handō-gwa (Iejima Romance, 1924).

These intricately crafted

yet thematically accessible dramas have maintained their unique affective hold over

Okinawans into the present day.

My second aim is to explore the relationship between politics and aesthetics,

particulary as it pertains to ethnomusicology and performance studies. This topic has

been with us a long time: as Terry Eagleton observes, classical rhetoric was essentially “a

mode of what we would now call ‘discourse theory,’ devoted to analyzing the material

effects of particular uses of language in particular social conjunctures” (1981, 101).

Already in classical debates over the nature and use of rhetoric, we find contemporary

problems such as the “quarrel between ‘form’ and ‘content’” and between “the cognitive

and the affective” (104). In the West, throughout the classical and medieval periods,

aesthetic thought retained its affiliation with rhetoric, and with it, the political. During

early modernity, however, “a rigorous division … was gradually instituted between

thought and speech, theory and persuasion, language and discourse, science and poetry”

(105; cf. Gadamer 1984, 314). Mainstream modern political theory took shape under the

auspices of social science, while aesthetics assumed an idealist cast, first in theories of

the affections and then in formalism and romantic aestheticism.

Theorists throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries have sought to work

past this rupture. In a sense, however, mainstream consensus on the relationship between

art and politics remains a kind of “uneasy alliance” between variations on the sociology

of art (“sociologistic positivism”) and variations on formalism and romanticism (Eagleton

1981, 83). In popular and also much academic discourse, we tend to address questions of

representational content and the mode of artistic production in sociologistic terms, and

questions of composition in formalist terms. We also tend to limit our discussions of the

politics of art to the level of representational content and presumed social function,

identifying “political” artworks as those which more or less explicitly represent or aim to

influence “the practice of power or the embodiment of collective wills and interests and

the enactment of collective ideas” (Rancière 2010, 152). In ethnomusicology and

performance studies, particular attention is often paid to “the relationship between

musical practice and the symbolization or construction of [political, national, ethnic,

gender, religious, etc.] identity” (Rice 2010, 319-324).

This modern ‘strong concept’ of the relationship between politics and art took

root in Japan and Okinawa in the immediate wake of the Meiji Restoration, through the

efforts of authors and translators affiliated with the Freedom and People’s Rights

Movement (Ueda 2005, 76). Notably, this concept was not the sole provenance of the so-

called “pure literature” (junbungaku 純文学) and literary criticism promulgated in elite

journals. Meiji and Taishō period popular literature and theater are also often political in

the ‘strong’ sense of the word, grappling explicitly with “the traumatic discontinuities of

the Meiji period: the replacement of the Tokugawa [feudal] order with a nation-state

wedded to industrial capitalism, the destruction of an established status system and the

arrival of uncontrolled social mobility, [and] the disturbance of gender roles by new

discourses and beliefs” (Ito 2008, 3). Politically attuned studies of prewar Japanese

literature and art often focus on works that either celebrate or challenge the Imperial state

and official formulations of Japanese ethnic-national identity.

The “affirmation or resistance” paradigm is well suited to the study of certain

domains of Okinawan cultural production (Tanji 2012, 112). On the “affirmation” end of

the scale, for example, we find the majority of the courtly dance-dramas of the Ryūkyū

Kingdom, which serve openly to transmit Confucian ideals. On the “resistance” end, we

find many of the best-known works of post-annexation Okinawan pure literature

(Bhowmik 2012). Ikemiyagi Sekihō’s short story “Officer Ukuma” (1922), Kushi

Fusako’s short story “Memoirs of a Declining Ryūkyūan Woman” (1932), and

Yamanokuchi Baku’s poem “A Conversation” (1935), for example, all take up themes of

national identity and colonial discrimination (cf. Bhowmik 2012).

This being said, the strong concept of politics in art and the “affirmation or

resistance” paradigm are both ill suited to the interpretation of prewar Okinawan

commercial performing arts, which tend to focus on the intimate sphere and often lack

immediately visible ideological commitments. This is particularly the case with the

tremendously popular genre of commercial musical drama or kageki. The most well-

known and loved works of kageki are “domestic plays” (sewamono 世話物) that focus on

the romantic and familial travails of low-status female protagonists. Their main selling

point is their moving articulation of subjective emotions or ninjō (人情), a familiar topic

in Tokugawa period Japanese popular theater. Another key term is nasake (情け), a

word etymologically related to ninjō which can signify a range of sympathetic affects,

including compassion, pity, romantic love, and sexual desire (Kokuritsu Gekijō Okinawa

Unei Zaidan 2012, 4; Kordzinska-Nawrocka 2011, 47). Protagonists are generally

described as people with nasake, while antagonists are decried as insensitive to nasake.

In many plays, the unfolding of nasake crystallizes in a poeticized exchange of vows

(chigiri 契り) which inextricably bind the female and male protagonists’ lives to a single

fate (en 縁). This entanglement, which extends from this world to the next (ano yo あの

世), often leads to a tragic end.

Until recently, there has been a tendency in Japanese literary studies to dismiss

works that focus on the intimate sphere as apolitical or even anti-political. Atsuko Ueda,

for example, asserts “[that] the establishment of ninjō as the main theme of modern

fiction is inextricably linked to the establishment of political language – and its respective

discursive realm – as a thing to be effaced” (2005, 64). Over the past few years, however,

scholars have begun to re-evaluate the potential political significance of “voices and

practices that did not [previously] seem consciously and conspicuously political” (Hirano

2014, 17-18). This project is crucial where prewar Okinawa is concerned because the

majority of “consciously and conspicuously political” texts were produced by Japanese-

educated male elites in Shuri and Naha, who comprised a self-selected group active in

prefectural and national politics. As Tomiyama Ichirō observes, well-rounded studies of

Okinawan social history should not focus entirely on records produced by elites, but

should also seek out traces of the modes of cultural production through which non-elites

consolidated their own sociopolitical consciousness (1995, 20).

The political ontology of art and aesthetic experience

Broadening our scope of inquiry to include non-elite arts requires us to set aside

the question of explicitly political representational content and inquire into the “political

ontology” of the work of art itself (cf. Marchart 2007). Our common-sense conception of

politics as collective will-formation and action rests upon an Aristotelian conception of

the human being is a political being, capable of living in a shared world and pursuing a

common good (Politics I.1-3, III.3-4). Two contemporary thinkers who have pursued

this intuition to interesting ends are Paul Ricoeur and Jacques Rancière. As Ricoeur

observes, living together requires exercising the shared capacities for perception,

judgment, speech, and action (2005a, 90). These capacities frame our shared environing

world, grounding the very possibility of human plurality. Rancière makes a similar

argument, reminding us that the concept of collective action presumes “a distribution of

the sensible that combines – according to different forms of proportionality – the sharing

of a common capacity and the distribution of alternative capacities” (2009, 4). He

suggests that what “really deserves the name of politics is the cluster of perceptions and

practices that shape this common world” (2010, 152). Seen from this perspective, the

“politics of aesthetics” is irreducible to particular artworks’ “representation of [so-called]

‘political’ events.” Rather, it inheres in “the way in which the aesthetic experience – as a

refiguration of the forms of visibility and intelligibility of artistic practice and reception –

intervenes in the distribution of the sensible” (2009, 5).

Of course, other genres of cultural production, such as editorial and reportage,

also intervene in the distribution of the sensible. Following Ricoeur and Rancière, I will

argue that what distinguishes art is a certain productive “noncongruence with actuality”

(Ricoeur 1986, 2). As early modern Japanese playwright Chikamatsu Monzaemon puts

it, “art is something which lies in the slender margin between the real and the unreal” (De

Bary 2013, 337). Art asks us to wholly or partially suspend the standards of actuality,

possibility, and probability that frame our everyday lifeworld. This aesthetic bracketing

can manifest as a text, a canvas, or a space-time of performance – what matters is that it

opens a space of imagination in which alternative distributions of the sensible can be

proposed and explored. The unique political significance of art inheres in this bracketing

or epoché, which “implies in principle a recourse against any given reality and thereby

the possibility of a critique of the real” (2007, 300). Rancière identifies this recourse

against reality as “the staging of dissensus – of a conflict between two sensory worlds”

(2009, 11; 2004; 226).

In this dissertation, I will argue that prewar Okinawan commercial theater stages a

kind of dissensus by challenging audiences’ conceptions of human competency and

expectations of social recognition. My argument is founded on the observation that

dominant social groups help obviate the need for coercion in part by institutionalizing a

“recognitional infrastructure,” a set of norms that govern who in society is recognized as

capable of what (Anderson and Honneth 2004, 144). Weber calls this the “distribution of

powers and competencies” (1968, 312). In both the Ryūkyū Kingdom and Tokugawa

Japan, the distribution of powers and competencies was structured along hereditary status

lines, and legitimized through Confucian and Neo-Confucian interpretations of status

order as the social manifestation of a natural order structured by cosmic rational

principles (li 理) (cf. Smits 1999; Ames 2011). The Meiji Restoration of 1868, however,

qualitatively transformed Japan’s recognitional infrastructure, discrediting the purported

naturalness of the status order and introducing radical concepts such as equality under the

law and inter-status ethnic-national solidarity. The 1879 dissolution of the Ryūkyū

Kingdom and formation of Okinawa Prefecture promised to restructure the recognitional

regimes that structured Okinawans’ everyday lives. This being said, substantive reform

was haphazard and delayed. Due to a confluence of political, economic, and cultural

factors, Okinawans were systematically denied full legal equality, economic integration,

and recognition as valued members of the national community. This resulted in the

formation of a widespread and acute awareness of malrecognition, or “consciousness of

discrimination” (sabetsu ishiki 差別意識), among Okinawans (Ōta 1996).

Excellent scholarly work has been done on Okinawan elites’ articulations of

malrecognition and pursuit of “parity of esteem” (cf. Hennessey and Wilson 1997).

Comparatively less attention has been paid to the discourses and practices by which non-

elites grappled with malrecognition. This is in part because such discourses unfolded on

an “infrapolitical” rather than a macropolitical level – taking account of them requires a

“[consideration] of strategy at the level of villages, families, and individuals confronted

with opaque economic realities and indecipherable hierarchical relations viewed from

below” (Scott 1990, 138-139). This dissertation proposes that Okinawan commercial

theater constituted one such infrapolitical discourse. By portraying low-status women as

not only morally capable but morally exemplary protagonists, popular dramas of the

Meiji and Taishō periods such as Uyanma, Okuyama no Botan, and Iejima Handō-gwa

called the normative distribution of powers and competencies in Okinawan society into

question. By demanding that low-status female protagonists’ judgments and claims be

honored and that justice be done to them, even if only on a sublimated and symbolic

plane, these dramas invited subaltern audiences to recognize themselves as potential

subjects rather than mere objects of social action – in Rancière’s words, as

“[unaccounted-for] political subjects that disclose a wrong and demand a redistribution of

the sensible order” (2013, 92).

Performance and the politics of recognition

As Clifford Geertz observes, “[the] drama analogy for social life has of course

been around in a casual sort of way … for a very long time” (1983, 26). This is because

drama exemplifies key characteristics of human being-in-the-world: its outward-

orientation, its other-dependence, and its teleological pretensions, among others. The

enactment of theater gives sensual shape to a public sphere in which “the living flux of

acting and speaking” can unfold and bear fruit (Arendt 1958a, 187-188). It also calls

forth our capacity to weigh the consequences of speech and action and to pass judgment,

interpellating the spectator as a socially competent subject (Halpern 2011, 562). Finally,

in addition to disclosing and reproducing the spaces and faculties of social being, drama

bears the potential to produce new social modalities. It does so by inviting audiences to

co-interpret their own lived narrative with the mimetic world of the work.

This work of

co-interpretation or appropriation “can take on a multitude of forms, from the pitfall of

servile imitation … to all the stages of fascination, to suspicion, to rejection, to the search

for a just distance with regard to such models of identification and their power of

seduction” (Ricoeur 2005a, 101). I will argue that such appropriations are socially and

politically significant because they subtly transform our horizons of self-recognition and

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social recognition, opening up “an enormous experimental field for the endless work of

identification that we carry out on ourselves” (1999, 54).

Since the 1990s in particular, a number of theorists have stressed the role of

recognition in the constitution of both psychological subjectivity and political

subjecthood (Honneth 1992; Taylor 1994; Fraser 1995; Ricoeur 2005a). We can trace

contemporary critical discourse on this topic largely to Hegel, who grounds his politics

and ethics on three interrelated modes of mutual recognition (1979). The first form,

which arises in the intimate or domestic sphere, is mutual recognition between sentient

beings that need one another in order to survive and flourish physically and emotionally.

The second, which arises in civil society, is mutual recognition between self-interested

economic actors as co-participants in a division of labor and distribution of property

structured through contractual exchange. For Hegel, these “natural” forms of mutual

recognition act dialectically as thesis and antithesis to generate a third form: the shared

consciousness of membership in a political community bound by laws and customs (Sitte)

that transcend the empirical interests of its constitutive subjects (1979, 102-103; 143;

235; 1991, 288-289; 329). This “intellectual intuition” synthesizes and sublates the

affective character of mutual recognition as it arises in the intimate sphere with the

purposive-rational character of mutual recognition as it arises in civil society. At this

stage, the subject recognizes itself within the universal and the universal within itself,

thus realizing the promise of the dialectic of Spirit (1991, 371). Hegel hypothesizes that

such a political community would take the form of a constitutional state or Rechtsstaat, in

which equal recognition under the law “purges the state of caprice and makes possible

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such modern freedoms as contract and property, career choice, religion, and speech”

(Smith 1989, 112; cf. Hegel 1991, 282; 290).

While very much a product of its time, Hegel’s theory of recognition is valuable

to this project for several reasons. On a historically concrete level, the post-Hegelian

Rechtsstaat theory of scholars such as Lorenz von Stein, Johann Kaspar Bluntschli, and

Hermann Roesler strongly influenced the architects of the prewar Japanese state (cf.

Siemes 1968; Muramatsu and Naschold 1996; Grimmer-Solem 2005). On a more

theoretical level, Hegel compellingly identifies a meta-category of experience that runs

through and binds together our personal, civil, and political relations: “the logic of each

cannot be adequately explained without appeal to the same mechanism of reciprocal

recognition” (Honneth 1996, 108). A number of contemporary theorists have followed

this insight in fruitful directions. In Recognition or Redistribution? A Political-

Philosophical Exchange, Fraser and Honneth interface contemporary discourses on

recognition with classical political economic discourses on production and distribution

(2003, 1-2). Fraser does so through a “perspectival dualism,” in which “[economic]

maldistribution is entwined with misrecognition but cannot be reduced to [it],” while

Honneth proposes a “normative monism,” in which maldistribution is identified as a

particularly injurious effect of asymmetrical “recognition orders” (2-3; 141). Both Fraser

and Honneth argue for the need to think past current disciplinary divides, in order to

overcome the prejudices of culturalism on the one hand and economic determinism on

the other (4). This makes their work relevant to this dissertation’s aim of developing a

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non-isomorphic model of the connection between political economic transformations and

coterminous transformations of cultural practice.

In The Course of Recognition, Ricoeur provides a phenomenological complement

to Fraser and Honneth, connecting the Hegelian model of recognition to his own richly

interdisciplinary work. At the heart of Ricoeur’s philosophy is a “hermeneutics of the

capable human being” (2005a, 95). For Ricoeur, being recognized as a fully human

person entails being recognized as capable of speech, action, narration, and moral-ethical

imputation (105). The capacities for speech and action are comparatively self-evident, as

they have been central to Western theories of agency since well before Aristotle. The

capacities for narration and imputation are bound up with Ricoeur’s own idiosyncratic

conception of the two dimensions of personhood: idem-identity and selfhood or “ipseity.”

We determine idem-identity by identifying a thing’s distinguishing attributes and

differentiating it from other things (1992, 116). This kind of identification is a relatively

simple predicative operation, which we apply to ourselves, to other persons, and to

objects in much the same manner. Selfhood or ipseity, on the other hand, abides in “self-

constancy,” or the ability to recognize and keep faith with oneself even though one’s

attributes may change over time (123). I believe that Ricoeur’s identity-selfhood

distinction offers a needed perspectival balance to the identity-driven postcolonial theory

that underpins much recent Euro-American work on Okinawa.

Like Hegel, Ricoeur also provides a crucial theoretical bridge between the spheres

of aesthetics, ethics, and politics. Its anchorage is his theory of narrative. For Ricoeur,

self-constancy is irrevocably connected to the capacity to narrate oneself, i.e., to recount

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the sequence of one’s actions and sufferings in the world (140; 146-147). On an aesthetic

plane, the capacity to narrate opens our imaginations to the myriad of potential shapes

that a human life can assume in time (2005a, 104). On an ethical plane, it synthesizes the

capacities for ascription, by which we take ownership over our actions, and imputation,

by which we acknowledge responsibility for our actions’ consequences (105). Ricoeur

regards the failure or unwillingness to recognize these capacities, as well as the denial of

such recognition by others, as pathological; for him, as for Hegel, an ethical society is

one in which “mutual recognition brings self-recognition to fruition” (2006, 22).

Likewise, a just political order is one that “embodies the power that provides for the full

expression of the multiplicity of human capabilities … [and] gives stability and durability

to them and what they achieve” (Dauenhauer 1998, 155).

Hegel’s meditations on recognition and Ricoeur’s hermeneutics of the capable

human being are pertinent to the historical period in question, which saw a qualitative

transformation of Japanese and Okinawan regimes of recognition and conceptions of

human sociopolitical and moral capacity. As previously mentioned, in the early modern

Ryūkyū Kingdom, as in Tokugawa Japan, both the division of labor and the “distribution

of powers and competencies” were structured by a system of four hereditary estates:

warrior/administrators, farmers, craftsmen, and merchants (shi nō kō shō 士農工商)

(Ooms 1996, 168-169; Smits 1996, 461; cf. Weber 1968, 1255). This included “powers

and competencies” that would fall under the modern categories of rights (such as the right

to choose one’s occupation, travel, sell land, move house, wear certain kinds of clothing,

etc.) and obligations (such as the obligation to pay taxes, provide corvée labor, participate

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in ceremonies, etc.). It also included more abstract expectations of speech and

comportment, and even of thought and feeling, all of which contributed to what Weber

calls “the inculcation of ethos based on status honor” (1105).

The four-occupation system provided state-oriented thinkers throughout early

modern East Asia with a framework through which Confucian role ethics could be

transposed onto large-scale social structures (cf. Ames 2011). During the Tokugawa

period, Confucian thinkers such as the Ryūkyū Kingdom’s Sai On and mainland Japan’s

Yamazaki Ansai legitimized the status system by evoking “symbolic categories such as

nature, descent, purity, and pollution, which are presented as direct readings of reality but

are in fact nothing but political values or social norms” (Ooms 1996, 310). Ideologues

ascribed the ostensibly natural capacities for “moral conduct, self-discipline, and self-

reliance” to the governing samurai estate, while denying them to the laboring estates

(Hirano 2014, 34; cf. Najita and Scheiner 1978, 40). As Hirano observes, this “official

rhetoric of commoners’ lack of moral competence and of their troubling propensity

toward corporeal pleasure … allowed [authorities] to claim the mandate to impose

stringent regulations on the [low-status] body and to make it serve the social whole as a

productive instrument” (35).

Over the course of the Tokugawa period, this mandate gradually lost its

credibility. The transfer of wealth and influence from the ruling warrior class to the

urban merchant class opened up an irreconcilable gap between elites’ claims to inborn

authority and rightful monopoly over the institutions of governance and non-elites’

willingness to accept the legitimacy of such claims. By the nineteenth century, both

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rulers and ruled had begun to perceive the ideological foundation of the “feudal” status

system as decrepit (199).

Natural disasters, economic crises, and the appearance of the

Western imperial powers on the scene in the 1850s brought these already-brewing

tensions to a head, driving a cadre of young, mostly mid-ranking samurai to instigate the

Meiji Restoration in 1868. These “men of high purpose” proposed that strengthening

Japan economically and militarily required both top-down and bottom-up action. On the

one hand, they sought to centralize and streamline power under the aegis of the Imperial

institution. On the other hand, they sought to shape a new kind of economically,

politically, and militarily competent Imperial subject. This involved nothing less than the

inculcation of a new universal ideal of personhood: competitive individualism. The Meiji

elites “firmly believed that a competitive ethos of self-motivated individuals was the key

to the Western nations’ dominance in wealth, military strength, and technology” (201). It

stood to reason that in order to stand its ground in the new geopolitical order, Japan

would have to foster such an ethos at home.

The leaders of the Restoration articulated their top-down and bottom-up aims in

the Charter Oath of 1868, and immediately began working to implement them.

In 1869,

the state formally returned the registries of land and people to the Emperor (hanseki

hōkan 版籍奉還). In 1871, it abolished the domains and established prefectures (haihan

chiken 廃藩置県). This established the groundwork for a strong central state. The same

year saw the abolition of the hereditary occupational system. In 1872, legislation was

introduced that gave a precedent for the right to free labor, and in 1873, traditional

records of land tenure were replaced with salable deeds of ownership (Frank 2005, 254).

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In the same year, the tax burden was shifted from the corporate village body or kyōdōtai

(共同体) to the individual (Vanoverbeke 2004, 36). These reforms broadened the tax

base and promoted flexibility and competition in labor markets. Releasing peasants from

their land and permitting freedom of movement also enabled the formation of the mobile

relative surplus population (“industrial reserve army”) necessary for more intensive

urbanization and industrialization (cf. Harvey 1978). Over the two decades following the

Restoration, the Meiji state introduced universal education and conscription, worked to

standardize the Japanese language, and invested heavily in the importation of technology

and the development of a modern transportation and communications infrastructure. In

doing so, it enabled steady growth in domestic and international commerce and

established the foundations for industrial capitalist production.

These social policies also transformed the “infrapolitics” of recognition that

circumscribed the contours of common peoples’ everyday lives (cf. Scott 1990). In the

early modern Ryūkyū Kingdom and Tokugawa Japan, as in status-based societies in

general, “what we would now call identity was largely fixed by one’s social position …

and whatever roles or activities attached to this position” (Taylor 1994, 31). Persons

were seen to “[contribute] to the realization of societal goals” primarily through their

fulfillment of status-based expectations, rather than in their raw individual capacity as

potential value-producers as such (Honneth 1996, 123; Weber 1968, 938). The architects

of the Meiji state realized that the valuation of status honor over productive capacity

obstructed the maturation of a society-wide competitive ethos (Itō 1906, 41). At least in

theory, the elimination of hereditary status groups shifted the principle subject of social

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evaluation from the status group to the individual, and the primary criterion for esteem

from heredity to achievement (42). We can understand this as a radical expansion of the

horizons of potential self-recognition – an implicit invitation for all Japanese (or at least

all male Japanese citizens) to reimagine themselves as legally equal “private persons,”

i.e., rational egoists enabled to pursue their own self-interest in markets governed by

transparent regulations rather than arbitrary traditional sanctions (Habermas 1991, 56).

The implementation of the Meiji Civil Code in 1898 formalized and elaborated this

economistic and comparatively egalitarian recognitional infrastructure, establishing “a

system of norms … [that secured] a private sphere in the strict sense, a sphere in which

private people pursued their affairs with one another free from impositions by estate and

state, at least in tendency” (75).

Meiji elites correctly predicted that the elimination of traditional barriers to social

mobility would help “unleash energies that could propel the country toward economic

and military might” (Hirano 2014, 201). This being said, many were also wary of the

potentially disintegrative effects of competitive individualism on traditional institutions

and industries (Sugiyama 1968, 326-333). Much as European conservatives had done

earlier in the nineteenth century, the Meiji oligarchs sought a counterbalance in

communitarian ideologies of statehood and nationhood. Hegel’s Elements of the

Philosophy of Right exemplifies the perceived need to circumscribe the newly expanded

horizon of rational egostic self-recognition by reconstructing the “laws and customs”

(Sitten) that govern social recognition (1991, 436). Hegel acknowledges the previously

unequaled power of free markets to incentivize production and generate novel solutions

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to human needs, but warns against the “mechanistic” reduction of society to a web of

contracts between atomized, self-interested individuals (xxv; cf. Smith 1986). For Hegel,

“ethical life” (Sittlichkeit) can only flourish within an organic community imbued with a

positive essence that transcends the sum of its constituent parts. This unifying principle

is manifest in the idea of the sovereign State: “the idealism which constitutes sovereignty

is the same determination as that according to which the so-called parts of an animal

organism are not parts, but members or organic moments” (315).

Hegel’s portrayal of the sovereign State as an immanent ideal points toward a

particularly controversial aspect of his theory of recognition: his assertion that properly

political relations of mutual recognition do not arise directly and multilaterally between

autonomous subjects, but rather through subjects’ shared, unilateral self-recognition as

heteronomous instances of the universal State. As Honneth observes, this idea comes to

the fore in Hegel’s distinction between the subject as a bearer of property rights and the

subject as a politically engaged citizen:

In the first role, one has ‘the individual as one’s end’ and follows one’s private

interests within the legally regulated framework of market exchange. In the

second, by contrast, one has ‘the universal as such as one’s end’, and participates

actively in the concerns of political will-formation. Whereas Hegel deduces the

status of the bourgeois (the purposively rational subject capable of forming

contracts) directly from intersubjective relations of legal recognition, he sees the

status of citizen as defined solely in relation to the superordinate universal of the

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State … Ethical life has become, in short, a form of monologically self-

developing Spirit (1996, 61).

In Hegel’s defense, when he writes of “ethical life” or Sittlichkeit he is not doing so in a

transcendental sense of the word (i.e., as the “moral self-legislation” of the autonomous

subject) (Wood 1990, 31; cf. Kant 1914, 381-382). Rather, Hegelian Sittlichkeit refers to

the worldly “customary morality” actually prevalent in a community (1991, 404; this

stands him in contrast to Kant, who writes disparagingly of “manners [Sitten] without

virtue [and] politeness without goodwill” [1914, 55]). Nevertheless, to Honneth, Hegel’s

monistic logic blocks him from realizing the political promise of his theory of mutual

recognition (1996, 61-63).

During Hegel’s time, however, it was precisely this monistic logic that served the

expeditious function of buttressing constitutional monarchism against its liberal critics

(1991, 308). In theory at least, the monarch, as an exemplary public person, differs from

private persons insofar as his will is “self-originating” without being empirically self-

interested (317). The institution of monarchy thus hedges the atomizing effects of

market-driven civil society by embodying the superordinate agency of the State, itself a

self-willed sublation of the hopelessly abstract volonté générale: “[If a nation/people] is

envisaged as an internally developed and truly organic totality, its sovereignty will

consist in the personality of the whole, which will in turn consist in the reality appropriate

to its concept, i.e. the person of the monarch” (318-319). Post-Hegelian scholars such as

Lorenz von Stein and Hermann Roesler, who closely advised the architects of the Meiji

Japanese state, developed this theory into a range of pragmatic defenses of the social

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utility of the monarch as a formally disinterested balancing mechanism capable of

mediating factional conflicts – in particular, class conflicts, which Roesler predicted

would intensify alongside the rise of liberalism and industrial capitalism (Pittau 1965,

282; Siemes 1968, 33; 48-50).

The Meiji Constitution, promulgated in 1889 and put into force in 1890, erects the

framework for a unique type of state and society, inspired in equal parts by post-Hegelian

constitutional monarchism, Confucian and Neo-Confucian role ethics, and nativist myth

(Itō 1906, 6). On the one hand, it acknowledges universal basic civil rights and limited

political rights, particularly those deemed necessary for economic growth (i.e., it

guarantees “the legal status of the person … corresponding to the fundamental parity

among owners of commodities in the market” [Habermas 1991, 75]). On the other hand,

it rejects the liberal notion that “laws are contracts between the governing and the

governed, and that in their enactment, the Sovereign and the people have equal share”

(10; cf. Hane 1969). Rather, it locates sovereignty solely within the perennial mystic

body of the Emperor, who “holds in His hands … all the ramifying threads of the

political life of the country, just as the brain, in the human body, is the primitive source of

all mental activity manifested through the four limbs and the different parts of the body”

(7-8; cf. Siemes 1968, 41). Both this monist conception of sovereignty and its vitalist

rhetorical trappings are strongly reminiscent of Hegel and Roesler.

It would be a mistake, however, to assume that Meiji Japan was built on

borrowed ideas. One key differentiating concept is kokutai (国体), a classical Chinese-

derived character compound that literally means “state body,” and has been translated in

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a prewar Japanese context as “national polity,” “body politic,” or “national essence”

(among other variants). The kokutai concept emerged in its modern sense in the work of

Aizawa Seishisai (1781-1863), a scholar engaged by the Mito branch of the Tokugawa

clan to contribute to the massive, multigenerational project of compiling a comprehensive

“Great History of Japan” (Dai Nihon shi 大日本史). Perhaps inspired by his engagement

with the textual traces of archaic Japanese civilization, Aizawa proposes in his New

Theses (Shinron 新論) that the Japanese kokutai is itself a kind of immanent divine entity

manifest in the Imperial personage. The Imperial personage in turn is a manifestation of

a perennial succession literally descended from the deity Amaterasu-ōmikami. Aizawa

goes on to argue that “the Way that Amaterasu used in antiquity to administer the realm,

to achieve spiritual unity among the people, and to endear them inseparably to their rulers,

can [still] be used today” (Wakabayashi 1986, 171).

In the wake of the Meiji Restoration, various factions repurposed Aizawa’s

kokutai concept to fit into their own ideological frameworks (Gluck 1985, 15).

Progressives such as Fukuzawa Yukichi portrayed kokutai in revisionist terms as a

historically formed, malleable political ethos (much as Hegel had described Volksgeist)

(144; cf. Avineri 1962, 474). More conservative nationalists such as Yamaji Aizan and

Shiga Shigetaka, on the other hand, portrayed kokutai as a unitary and immutable

national essence, inexorably linked to the perennial Imperial institution and the concept

of national purity (kokusui 国粋) (112). By the late 1880s, the latter interpretation of

kokutai had become dominant.

This is evident in the government’s official commentary

on the Meiji Constitution, which identifies its sovereign principle in assertively nativist

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terms as “the splendor of the Sacred Throne transmitted through an unbroken line of one

and the same dynasty,” and cites an array of ancient sources – ranging from the Taihō

Code and the Kojiki to poetry by Ama-no-Inukai-no-Sukune-Okamaro – as legitimizing

precendents (Itō 1906, 2-5; 38; cf. Cranston 1993, 377).

The kokutai concept also takes center stage in key subsequent official documents

such as the 1890 Imperial Rescript on Education, which established the basic guidelines

for “moral education” throughout Japan and its colonies during the prewar period. The

ultimate aim of moral education was kōminka (皇民化), “making Imperial subjects” who

were “willing without hesitation to identify their destinies with that of the country”

(Hirano 2014, 200). To this end, the Rescript exalts the Confucian values of loyalty (chū

忠) and filial piety (kō 孝) as “the glory of the fundamental character of Our Empire

(kokutai no seika) … infallible for all ages and true in all places” (Gluck 1985, 121).

Inoue Tetsujirō’s semi-official commentary on the Rescript leans even further to the right,

identifying Japan as a “family-state” (kazoku-kokka 家族国家) and arguing that filial

piety and loyalty to the Emperor-as-patriarch are identical (Davis 1976, 21; Nolte and

Onishi 1983, 285). In 1903, the Ministry of Education introduced textbooks upholding

the family-state concept (Jansen 2000, 492). Imperial rescripts issued during the Taishō

and Shōwa periods followed suit, upping the emotional voltage of state-subject relations

by stressing that “personal feeling between you [subjects] and Us [the Emperor] is the

same as that between father and son; therefore there is no other national polity that can be

compared to Ours” (Morioka 1977, 187). We can understand this kind of rhetoric as an

attempt to use sentiment to directly interface the state with the intimate sphere,

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effectively cutting civil society out of the loop. As in authoritarian societies in general,

“assessing appropriate sentiments and … fashioning techniques of affective control” was

not an afterthought, but rather, a core aim of the prewar Japanese state’s project of

making Imperial subjects (Stoler 2008, 5).

In Habermasian fashion, the legal insulation of the private sphere and its

subsequent collision with state regulatory mechanisms such as compulsory moral

education prompted an expansion and metamorphosis (if not structural transformation) of

the public sphere, which functioned as a space of mediation between groups of private

persons and the state. As Hirano and others have observes, a vibrant public sphere had

already taken shape in Japanese cities during the Tokugawa period. The Meiji

Restoration brought freedom of movement and association, improved infrastructure,

relatively relaxed censorship policies, and linguistic standardization, all of which

contributed to an expansion and enrichment of this endogenous public sphere. The

Mainichi Shimbun was founded (as the Tokyo Nichi Nichi Shimbun) in 1872, the Yomiuri

in 1874, and the Asahi in 1879; by 1889, over 645 periodicals were in print (Garon 2003,

46). The same period witnessed the expansion of civic institutions such as libraries and

universities, as well as of private associations such discussion societies, professional

groups, chambers of commerce, and agricultural societies (49-50). Meanwhile, education

continued to improve; by 1905, school attendance rates had reached around 95 percent

(48). While in 1899 literacy rates still varied widely from region to region, by 1909 rates

had leveled out at around 90 percent nearly nationwide (Rubinger 2000, 184). Mass

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literacy enabled a large number of Japanese outside the metropolitan elite to consume

media and participate in public discourse.

This metamorphosis of the private and public spheres finally returns us to the

topics of aesthetics and performance. As I have argued, the Meiji period witnessed a

qualitative transformation of the recognitional infrastructure of Japanese society. We can

imagine this infrastructure as consisting of a vertical plane of personal merit determined

by achievement in the private sphere, crossed by a horizontal plane of sociopolitical

solidarity inculcated through common participation in the public sphere on the one hand,

and quasi-familial identification with the Emperor-as-kokutai on the other. The vertical

plane is characterized by the centrifugal forces of capitalism and competitive

individualism, as exemplified by the concept of “rising up in the world” or risshin shusse

(立身出世) (cf. Maeda 1977). The horizontal plane is characterized by the centripetal

forces of legalism, as exemplified by the Constitution, and communitarianism, as

exemplified by the Rescript on Education (cf. Inoue 1912, 212-213; cited in Morioka

1977, 192). Various sectors of civil society trafficked between these planes in variegated

and often contesting ways. The result was an amplification and diversification of public

cultural production, particularly in literature and the arts (Gluck 1985, 17-18).

Later in this dissertation, I will go into detail on the fact that the Meiji state’s

social reforms did not always bear out as advertised or intended. In many cases, reforms

had little impact on common peoples’ everyday lives; in others, they had a negative

impact. This was particularly true in Okinawa, where numerous factors worked to

frustrate and pervert the development process. Nevertheless, it remains significant that

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under the new regime, even a child of former outcastes was hypothetically capable of

“rising up in the world” (risshin shusse) and winning personal esteem and public honor

by succeeding in business, the civil service, or the military. It was equally significant that

elites and non-elites were impelled to imagine themselves as members of a spiritually

consubstantial community bound by a single “civil morality” (Gluck 1985, 102). A

number of recent studies of late Tokugawa and early Meiji popular culture have

suggested that this clearing of previously foreclosed horizons of human capacity had a

tremendous impact on mainland Japanese and Okinawan popular cultural production (cf.

Zwicker 2006; Ito 2008; Poulton 2010; Takiguchi 2011; Bhowmik 2012; Hirano 2014).

A more challenging case to argue is that popular culture had a proportionate

reciprocal impact upon the public sphere, and through it, the sociopolitical framework as

a whole. Anthony Giddens lays a foundation for this case, suggesting that “any and

every change in a social system logically implicates the totality and thus implies

structural modification, however minor or trivial this may be” (1979, 114). Richard

Sennett concurs, asserting that public culture “affected the new forces of secularism and

capitalism as much as they were at work on it” (1977, 19). Sennett goes on to argue

“[that] in a society with a strong public life there should be an affinity between the

domains of stage and street” (37). This is because both drama and modern mass society

present us with a strangeness inherently disruptive to pregiven standards of recognition:

in both domains, “the problem is one of audience – specifically, how to arouse belief in

one’s appearance among a milieu of strangers” (38). The theater, both as a literal place

of encounter and a metaphorical space of creation, gives shape to a material and imagined

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“public geography” that conditions us “to believe in the reality both of unknown people

and of imaginary characters as in a single realm” (40). Giddens and Sennett’s arguments

interface well with Ricouer’s realization that artistic mimesis is in and of itself productive

and Rancière’s conception of artistic practice as a staging of dissensus.

Over the course of the following chapters, I will develop the argument that

commercial drama is a particularly effective catalyst for dissensus and imaginative

remapping because commercial performers are incentivized to eschew pregiven aesthetic

criteria and continually adapt their practice to the shifting tastes of “the masses,” which

are never entirely predictable. Drama in its commodity form thus generates new

narrative possibilities in the same way evolution generates new species – through trial

and error. Because mimesis discredits the claim that the extant world is the only possible

world, even narratives that do not challenge the established social order on a surface level

still bear transformative potential on a deep structural level. In Brecht’s words, such

narratives remind us how “people’s activity must simultaneously be so and be capable of

being different” (1964, 71).

Dissertation structure and chapter summaries

This dissertation is for the most part arranged in chronological order. Chapter

One reviews the pertinent Japanese and Euro-American scholarly literature and further

develops the project’s theoretical and methodological framework. Chapter Two deals

with pre-commercial (folk and classical) performance aesthetics, Confucian role ethics,

and state ideology in the Ryūkyū Kingdom during the long early modern period (1619–

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1879). Chapter Three covers the institutional and stylistic evolution of commercial

performing arts between Japan’s annexation of the Ryūkyū Kingdom and the First Sino-

Japanese War (1879–1895). Chapter Four addresses the maturation of commercial

theater as a distinct economic sector during the late Meiji period (1895–1912). Chapter

Five synthesizes the foregoing topics by cross-reading elite discourses on popular

customs and manners, social reform, and popular performing arts over the course of the

Meiji and Taishō periods. Finally, Chapter Six explores the thematic and structural

configuration of major works of commercial musical theater during the Taishō period,

and situates these works within their intellectual historical context (1912–1926).

In Chapter One, I will establish the historical, historiographical, and theoretical

background necessary to carry out this project. I will argue that Okinawan commercial

theater took shape in the context of combined and uneven development, which is “the

fusion of dissimilar social structures (or modes of production) within a single formation”

(Allinson and Anievas 2010, 473). As a result of ambivalent development policies,

prewar Okinawa Prefecture took shape as a domestic periphery dependent on sugar

monoculture. Internally as well as in relation to the mainland, Okinawa came to

exemplify prewar Japan’s “dual economy,” combining capitalist practices in a

comparatively vibrant metropolis with an agricultural periphery in which “feudal

remnants” such as debt bondage remained widespread. This set the conditions for the

construction of “the Okinawan” in Japanese discourse as an underdeveloped

anachronism, undeserving of equal political, social, or cultural recognition. The

historiography of Okinawa has been dominated on the one hand by its image as

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underdeveloped and therefore sociopolitically immature, and on the other hand by

reactions against this image and its concrete repercussions. The first half of Chapter One

is dedicated largely to tracing this conflict of representations through prewar mainland

Japanese and Okinawan discourse, followed by postwar American, postwar Japanese, and

contemporary Japanese and Western discourses.

The second half of Chapter One is dedicated to developing an interpretive

framework suited to the study of prewar Okinawan commercial performing arts. I will

begin by pointing out trends in Japanese-language and English-language studies of

Okinawan performing arts. Much Japanese research is oriented toward cultural

preservation, while much Western research is oriented toward the theorization of cultural

identity. After critiquing the latter research model, I will introduce two normative modes

of interpreting ostensibly apolitical mass arts: a “bourgeois moralist” mode and a

Marxian (or “social scientific”) mode. The former, exemplified in the West by I.A.

Richards and in Japan by Shimamura Hōgetsu, advocates the utilization of art as a form

of aesthetic conciliation and moral education. The latter, exemplified in the West by

György Lukács and in Japan by Tosaka Jun, condemns aesthetic conciliation as a form of

mass deception. I will argue that while “social scientific” ideology critique is crucial to

the sociological study of art and literature, it fails to address their distinguishing aesthetic

appeal. Tosaka Jun takes up this problem in his 1936 deconstruction of “popular customs

and manners” or fūzoku (風俗) (cf. Hirano 2014). Anticipating trends in contemporary

scholarship, Tosaka points toward a rapprochement between Marxian critical theory and

the humanist tradition of hermeneutics. Drawing on Tosaka as well as Ricoeur and

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Rancière, I will argue that Okinawan performing arts are best viewed through the lens of

a critical hermeneutics that is attentive to both the socioeconomic conditions of artistic

production and the aesthetic configuration of particular works.

In Chapter Two, I will shift focus to the performing arts themselves. We can

trace the stylistic and thematic roots of Okinawan commercial performing arts to early

modern folk arts and kumiodori, the courtly dance-drama of the Ryūkyū Kingdom. I will

situate these traditions in their social and intellectual historical contexts. As previously

mentioned, in the Ryūkyū Kingdom, as in Tokugawa Japan, the “distribution of powers

and competencies” was structured by a hereditary vocational status system, intersected by

a conception of gender as vocation (cf. Weber 1968; Sekiguchi 2011). Both elite and

folk performing arts functioned primarily to impart sensory form to this reigning social

order. They did so on an ideational level by “encouraging good and chastising evil”

(kanzen chōaku 勧善懲悪), and on a corporeal level by training performers how to speak

and comport themselves in a manner befitting status-contingent role expectations

(Makishi 2002, 82-83).

This is particularly clear in the case of kumiodori, which was

created and performed by and for male aristocrats, and consciously regarded as a

“national drama” (kokugeki 国劇) (Iha 1974, 153). By performing kumiodori and other

courtly arts, young male aristocrats quite literally embodied a particular moral grammar,

thus reproducing and imparting material reality to the normative distribution of powers

and competencies.

This being said, the best kumiodori do not simply rehash the Confucian doxa

promoted by court ideologues. The second half of Chapter Two will concentrate on two

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famous plays that demonstrate this: Tamagusuku Chōkun’s Shūshin kane’iri (Possessed

by Love, Thwarted by the Bell) and Heshikiya Chōbin’s Temizu no en (The Bond of

Water in Hands). While written from very different ideological positions, both plays

work on the level of poetic configuration to deconstruct specific doctrines, namely the

binary opposition between “masculine rationality” (otoko no ronri 男の論理) and “the

[feminine] sympathetic affections in nature” (shizen no nasake 自然の情け) (cf.

Sueyoshi 1974; Yonaha 2012).

In Chapter Three, I will shift focus to this dissertation’s primary topic of post-

annexation commercial theater. I will begin by explicating two historical processes that

helped bring the nineteenth century Ryūkyū Kingdom to the verge of socioeconomic

collapse: the decay the of rural corporate village and the disenfranchisement of the lower

warrior class. Interestingly, these processes are woven into the thematic fabric of perhaps

the most well known nineteenth century kumiodori, entitled Hanauri no en (The Fate of

the Flower-seller), which I will analyze. I will then explore how these processes

established the conditions of possibility for the growth of commercial theater in the

prefectural capital of Naha. As previously mentioned, on a formal level, annexation

brought Okinawans under the rule of Japanese law. However, the need to placate the

former Ryūkyūan ruling class constrained Japanese administrators’ ability to enact

substantive social reforms. As a result, rural impoverishment continued unabated,

resulting in a steady stream of migrant workers to Naha. During the 1880s, former

courtly performers, who had been stripped of their stipends by the new Japanese

administration, set up roughshod cabarets in which they could perform for these new

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migrants for a minimal fee. By the 1890s, enterprising performers and managers had

begun to establish permanent theater venues and develop new performance styles in

response to their primarily working-class audiences’ tastes. This included narrative

dance, farce, and short musical dramas, all of which I will situate historically and

describe structurally and stylistically. I will conclude the chapter with an analysis of one

of the earliest extant tragic musical dramas, Uyanma (The Kept Woman, approx. 1890),

which casts harsh light on the contradiction between Okinawan commoners’ formal

liberation through annexation and the continuing reality of status and gender-based

exploitation under the Preservation of Old Customs policy.

In Chapter Four, I will continue to explore the changing social conditions that

enabled Okinawan commercial theater to emerge as a distinct economic sector and

partition of the public sphere. Japan’s 1895 victory in the First Sino-Japanese War

alleviated the domestic and international pressures that had necessitated the Preservation

of Old Customs policy. Between 1896 and the early 1900s, the Meiji government

instituted widespread reforms designed to increase Okinawa’s material productivity and

strengthen its political and cultural bonds with the mainland. As in other rural regions of

Japan, however, the state’s development agenda yielded mixed results. Naha, the

prefecture’s commercial hub, grew rapidly, gradually accruing many of the material

cultural trappings of modernity. Commercial performing arts companies did excellent

business in this environment. In the countryside, on the other hand, early modern social

problems such as underproduction, over-taxation, debt, and land foreclosure continued

unabated. Drawing primarily on actor memoirs and newspaper articles and

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advertisements, I will trace the development of the Naha theater scene as a space of

public practice in which Okinawans of various regional and status backgrounds created a

shared world of communicable experiences and expectations. This scene was remarkably

diverse: on any given evening in 1910, for example, one could see classical kumiodori,

nostalgic musical melodrama, and Loie Fuller-esque “electric dances” on the same stage.

After analyzing the theater sector’s unique institutional culture and exploring a number of

new performance styles, I will focus in on the tremendously popular genre of long-form

tragic musical drama, exemplified by Ganeko Yaei’s Tomari Aka (Aka of Tomari, 1911).

Drawing on prewar Japanese social theorist Tosaka Jun and Okinawan intellectuals such

as Ōta Chōfu and Iha Fuyū, I will argue that we can read the unique stylistic profile of

late Meiji period Okinawan commercial theater as a symptom of the contradictions

inherent in prewar Japan’s dual economy.

In Chapter Five, I will bring together the various paths of inquiry opened in the

previous chapters by stepping back and exploring Okinawan elites’ own ambivalent

reactions to the development of commercial theater. Here, Tosaka Jun’s analysis of

fūzoku, or popular customs and manners, will come back into play. As previously

suggested, the objective of social policy in prewar Japan was to balance the centrifugal

force of competitive individualism, as exemplified by the ideal of “rising up in the world,”

with the centripetal force of communitarian nationalism, as exemplified by the ideals of

“national morality” and “making Imperial subjects.” To this end, Japanese elites

advocated a number of loosely linked fūzoku kairyō undō, which can be translated as

“lifestyle reform movements” or “efforts to reform popular customs and culture” (among

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other alternatives) (cf. Gluck 1985; Christy 1993; Hirano 2014). The aim of such efforts

was to eradicate customs and manners that hindered the projects of capitalist and

nationalist interpellation, and promote customs and manners that meshed with those

projects. In both mainland Japan and Okinawa, fūzoku kairyō efforts interlocked with

discourses on the social value of popular theater and the possibility of “theater reform”

(engeki kairyō 演劇改良). After tracing the development of lifestyle reform and theater

reform movements in Okinawa, I will argue that these movements closely track the

consolidation of national, ethnic, and class consciousness in the prefecture over the

course of the Meiji and Taishō periods.

In Chapter Six, I will turn from a historical materialist to a critical hermeneutic

mode of critique. I will begin by outlining the major events of the Taishō period, which

started on an optimistic note with calls for Okinawan self-governance, but which was

marred by consistent quasi-colonial discrimination and economic fragility. During the

first half of 1920, global sugar prices rose and the Japanese state extended voting rights to

Okinawans, offering a glimpse of new economic and political horizons. In August,

however, sugar prices crashed, sending the prefectural economy into a decade-long

recession. The boom and bust character of the Taishō period had a profound effect on

Okinawan intellectuals, in particular Iha Fuyū, who developed an increasingly pessimistic

vision of Okinawan history as a history of consecutive tragedies.

As previously stressed, relatively few works of Okinawan commercial theater

explicitly represent these political and economic events. I will suggest, however, that the

dominant ethos of Okinawan commercial theater during the Taishō period developed

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along the same downward vector as Iha’s historical and historiographical writings, and

that these vectors converge in a distinctly melodramatic sense of historical consciousness.

This is readily visible in two of the most popular works of prewar musical drama, Iraha

Inkichi’s Okuyama no botan (A Peony of the Deep Mountains, 1914) and Majikina

Yūkō’s Iejima Handō-gwa (Iejima Romance, 1924). Both works center on low-status

female protagonists who exchange vows of love with high-status men who go on to reject

them. In Okuyama no botan, written during a time of relative optimism, the heroine

Chirā sacrifices herself entirely for her illegitimate son’s worldly success, eventually

committing suicide to ensure that his heritage is never made public. In Iejima Handō-

gwa, written in the midst of economic crisis, the heroine Handō-gwa flouts social

convention and follows her adulterous lover to his home island, only to be viciously

rebuked by him, his family, and his community. Like Chirā, Handō-gwa commits

suicide; however, when her former lover’s father refuses to light incense in her memory,

her vengeful spirit returns to exact karmic retribution. Following Tomiyama Ichirō’s

analysis of Iha Fuyū, I will suggest that these musical dramas evoke the “premonition of

doing violence” latent in personal and political relationships alike, particularly in colonial

contexts such as prewar Okinawa (1998, 166). In both plays, the breaking of a vow sets

off a chain of events that culminates in fatal violence: in Okuyama no botan, the heroine

sublimates this violence through self-sacrifice, while in Iejima Handōgwa, she channels it

into righteous vengeance.

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Chapter 1: History, historiography, and theory

Okinawa and the historiography of development in Japan

In order to approach the question of Okinawan identity historically, we must

situate it within the broader question of the development of the modern Japanese nation-

state. This requires a brief critique of the concepts of development and modernization.

Since European early modernity, we have tended to think of social development as

unilinear, teleological progress through successive stages of social organization toward a

penultimate “modern” stage. We see prototypes of this “meta-récit of modernity” in the

work of Adam Ferguson and Adam Smith, both of whom suggest that all societies pass

through four consecutive homogenous stages (“hunting, pasturage, agriculture, and

commerce”) (Apel 1998; 161; Meek 1976, 9-10). Hegel offers a more mature schema in

his Philosophy of History, describing world political history as a progression through four

consecutive forms of state organization (“Oriental,” Greek, Roman, and modern

European) (2001, 358). Stage theories of history such as these underpinned a number of

trends in nineteenth-century Euro-American social science, including classical political

economy, classical Marxism, and sociobiological and cultural evolutionism. While the

notion of discrete civilizational stages has since fallen out of fashion, unilinear models of

development continue to shape mainstream discourse on the subjects of modernization

and modernity (Harootunian 2010, 371).

As Eric Wolf observes, thinking of human history in unilinear terms introduces a

pervasive moralistic bias by which sociocultural difference is re-coded as civilizational

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inadequacy and temporal backwardness (1997, 5). Johannes Fabian identifies this bias as

“allochronism,” or “the denial of coevalness” (2002, 32). The allochronic bias identifies

deviations from ostensibly “modern” norms as vestiges of prior stages of development.

In the allochronic imagination, then, human difference is experienced as the coexistence

of multiple temporalities. Fabian’s critique of allochronism has proven influential in

academia, and has interfaced productively with both postcolonial cultural theory and

various strains of radical political economy (world-systems theory, etc.). While these

perspectives are often represented as conflicting, they share the realization that unilinear

models of development are prescriptive rather than descriptive (Ahmad 1987, 12; Dirlik

1994, 334). On a local level, allochronic rhetoric suppresses non-normative histories and

denies coeval presence and historical agency to the subaltern (Spivak 1988; Chakrabarty

2000). On a global level, it occludes the fact that subalternity is itself a structural effect

of the uneven and combined development of the capitalist world economy (to pirate

contemporary tech slang, it’s not a bug – it’s a feature) (cf. Frank 1966; Harvey 1975;

Chase-Dunn 1981; Van der Linden 2007; etc.). This legitimizes extant global divisions

of labor, while at the same time facetiously promising to “[offer] societies not yet in the

(capitalist) present the prospect of catching up without incurring the dislocations of a

wrenching, revolutionary transformation” (Harootunian 2010, 22). As we shall see,

allochronic rhetoric served all of these functions in prewar Okinawa.

Of course, development ideologies also serve the crucial social function of

articulating “an imagined future toward which institutions and individuals strive”

(Edelman and Haugerud 2008, 86; cf. Mannheim 1954). In a sense, the case of Japanese

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modernization exemplifies the utopian aspect of development ideology. As described in

the Introduction, the architects of the Meiji Japanese state quite consciously set forth an

“imagined future” of Japan as a modern constitutional monarchy with formidable military

and industrial capacities and a strong sense of national identity, and then implemented a

wide range of policies designed to realize this vision. These modernization efforts

enabled the Empire of Japan to not only survive the dual threats of endogenous

socioeconomic crisis and Western imperialism, but also successfully establish itself as an

imperial power. Dramatic geopolitical coups such as the Sino-Japanese and Russo-

Japanese wars led many Western commentators of the time to identify Japan as an

exemplary “late modernizer” (cf. Veblen 1915).

This being said, on a local level, Meiji development policy bore out complex and

often troubling results, eventually leading to a “schism between small-scale production in

traditional (agricultural, handicrafts, and consumer) sectors of the economy and large-

scale, capital-intensive industries … based on heavy concentrations of financial capital

encouraged by the state” (Hoston 1984, 48). The ambivalent effects of the 1873 Land

Tax Reform Law (chiso kaisei hō 地租改正法) demonstrate this (Vanoverbeke 2004,

36). On a formal level, this law emancipated peasants from serfdom. Its on-the-ground

effects, however, were mixed. Requiring tax payment in cash rather than kind made

landowners dependent upon the rice market, which fluctuated frequently; a dip in rice

prices could easily leave small producers unable to meet their tax burden (37). The late

Meiji policy of fiat deflation exacerbated this risk, leading to frequent debt and

foreclosure (Rath 2007, 484). Tenant farmers, who paid exorbitant rents in rice under

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threat of eviction, were largely excluded from the market. As tenancy increased and

market-driven incentive decreased, agricultural production hovered around zero growth

(Hoston 1986, 9). By the end of Taishō period, the agricultural sector had clearly reached

a “deadlock” (yukizumari 行き詰まり) (45). Tellingly, over the same period, production

across nonagricultural sectors nearly doubled (Ohkawa and Rosovsky 1974, 284).

The prewar Japanese economy, then, epitomized the Marxian concept of uneven

and combined development, which entails “the fusion of dissimilar social structures (or

modes of production) within a single formation” (Allinson and Anievas 2010, 473).

Prewar Japanese intellectuals – historical materialists in particular – were acutely aware

of the tensions inherent in Japan’s “dual economy” (Hoston 1984, 48). Thinkers such as

Yamada Moritarō, Noro Eitarō, and Hirano Yoshitarō were quick to point out that the

everyday experience of many Meiji period smallholders and tenant farmers differed little

from that of peasants under a coercive-agrarian mode of production. The Meiji Civil

Code of 1898, for example, offered tenants few protections against expropriation of rice

yields or eviction; indeed, in some ways it privileged landlords even more heavily than

Tokugawa period customary law (Vanoverbeke 2004, 44-46). Moreover, the Meiji state

furnished landlords with an improved police apparatus capable of better enforcing their

dictates and suppressing dissent. Because tenant farmers were subject to significant

extra-economic coercion rather than market forces alone, it is impossible to view them in

strictly capitalistic terms as free laborers (Hoston 1986, 240). The Japanese Communist

Party denounced these conditions as “‘Asiatically backward’ and ‘semi-feudal’” (172).

To JCP-affiliated intellectuals, the persistence of such “feudal survivals” within an

39!

otherwise industrial capitalist economy constituted one of the fundamental contradictions

of prewar Japanese modernity (211).

The case of Okinawa Prefecture epitomizes this contradiction. After annexing the

Ryūkyū Kingdom in 1879, the Meiji state quickly monopolized power in the prefectural

capital of Naha. It established centralized institutions of governance, modernized the

infrastructure, encouraged commercial and industrial development, and established

mainland Japanese-style schools geared to increase fluency in standard Japanese and

inculcate the ethnic-national “civil morality” outlined in decrees such as the Rescript on

Education. Outside Naha, however, the state took a reticent and haphazard stance toward

development. Under the so-called “Preservation of Old Customs” (kyūkan onzon 旧慣温

存) policy, it prolonged the existence of various practices and institutions inherited from

the former Ryūkyū Kingdom, most notably aspects of the status and tax systems. This

exacerbated the already significant gap in material culture between Okinawa Prefecture

and the rest of Japan. Largely as a result, throughout the Meiji, Taishō, and early Shōwa

periods, agriculture accounted for 70-75 percent of the Okinawan economy, as compared

to around 50 percent in mainland Japan. If we exclude the Naha area, agriculture’s share

of the Okinawan economy leaps to 90 percent (Aniya 1977, 153).

It is possible to understand the “Preservation of Old Customs” system as a mode

of indirect colonial domination in which the mainland-Japanese-appointed prefectural

administration delegated proxy authority to extant post-feudal elites, who in return kept

surplus sugar production flowing upward. After winning the Sino-Japanese and Russo-

Japanese wars, the Japanese state felt confident to disenfranchise these proxies and take a

40!

more hands-on approach to governance. Rather than implementing the prefectural

governance system in place throughout mainland Japan, it implemented a so-called

“Special Prefectural Governance System” or tokubetsu fukensei (特別府県制). While

the tokubetsu fukensei system was less arbitrary and draconian than the patchwork of

vestigial extractive structures that held sway under the Preservation of Old Customs

policy, it was still exclusionary and exploitative. Central authority was concentrated in

the hands of the governor and high-ranking bureaucrats, all of which were appointed.

Due to a mixture of cronyism and prejudice, it was notoriously difficult for native

Okinawans to receive appointments in the upper echelons of government, education,

agricultural management, law enforcement, or other bureaucratic departments. In 1909, a

prefectural assembly was finally instated, but it lacked any substantive legislative

authority (Kinjō et al. 1991, 197). National Diet representation and limited male suffrage

were finally extended to Okinawa Island in 1912 and to the Miyako and Yaeyama island

groups in 1920. This marked a formal normalization of governance in Okinawa.

Despite the Japanese state’s gradual acknowledgment of Okinawans as rights-

bearing Imperial citizens, it is possible to argue that throughout the prewar period

Okinawa was treated more as a colony than as an integral part of the national polity.

Even after the extension of suffrage to Okinawans, mainland Japanese continued to

dominate the prefectural administration. Much of the prefecture’s wealth lay in the hands

of mainland Japanese merchants; anti-Okinawan discrimination in education and the

private sector were rampant; and indigenous languages and customs were generally

regarded with disdain. The central government’s approach to modernization in Okinawa

41!

remained half-hearted; local administrators and private parties made some attempts at

economic diversification, but for the most part, those in power seemed content to let

Okinawa remain a sugar-producing domestic periphery. Moreover, in the wake of the

Sino-Japanese War, central planners shifted their attentions to the Taiwanese sugar

industry, more or less leaving Okinawans to fend for themselves. The average size of

peasant holdings in Okinawa during the Meiji and Taishō periods was 60% that of

holdings in mainland Japan; nearly half of all independent farmers could be classified as

“extremely small producers” (kashōnō 過小農) (Aniya 1977, 154-155).

Despite

Okinawa’s relative poverty, the central government consistently levied disproportionately

high taxes on the prefecture. This exacerbated pressure on small producers, driving many

into debt, foreclosure, and tenancy. As if this were not enough, Japanese administrators

tended to pressure Okinawan farmers to cultivate sugar for sale rather than subsistence

crops, and to use their cash income to buy mainland Japanese rice (Kinjō et al. 1991,

200). As a result, despite its agricultural economy, Okinawa was not food self-sufficient.

All in all, these “discriminatory policies” (sabetsu seisaku 差別政策) delayed Okinawa’s

integration into the national polity for over 40 years after annexation, and irrevocably

stunted its economic development. This had damaging short-term and devastating long-

term effects (Kinjō and Nishizato 1972, 95).

The emergence of “the Okinawan” in prewar discourse

These discriminatory policies established the conditions for the emergence of “the

Okinawan” into the modern Japanese historical imagination as a discrete category of

42!

social being. Since the Tokugawa period, the dominant model for conceiving the

relationship between the Ryūkyūs and Japan had been Shō Shōken and Arai Hakuseki’s

“theory of shared Ryūkyūan and Japanese ancestry” (Nichi-Ryū dōso-ron 日琉同祖論).

Due to lack of contact, however, the Ryūkyūs did not take up much space in the early

modern Japanese worldview. Japanese administrators and journalists who visited the

newly-annexed islands for the first time during the late nineteenth and early twentieth

centuries were often taken aback by its material poverty and cultural “backwardness” in

comparison with even the most remote areas of mainland Japan (Ōta 1996, 267). In

keeping with Euro-American historiographical trends at the time, they tended to portray

Okinawan difference in allochronic terms as the paradoxically coeval coexistence of

different stages in the historic process.

It is important to remember here that during the Meiji and Taishō periods, the

concept of Japanese identity was itself still emergent and heavily contested. Two

concepts crucial to the analysis of modern Japanese identity politics are minzoku (民族),

the ethnic group or ethnic nation, and minzokusei (民族性), ethnic or national character.

Weber defines ethnic groups as social units bound by a shared belief in common descent,

which tend toward “monopolistic closure” (1968, 388-389). The belief that the Japanese

constitute a unique and closed filial community arose quite early in the Tokugawa period

(Yoshino 1992, 46). Like the concept of “national polity” or kokutai, we can trace this

belief in part to the “Great History of Japan” project, which inspired fresh interest in the

ancient chronicles (Kojiki 古事記 and Nihon shoki 日本書紀) and poetic anthologies

(Man'yōshū 万葉集 and Kokin Wakashū 古今和歌集). A vibrant nativist intellectual

43!

movement (“National Learning” or kokugaku 国学) took shape around the idea that such

ancient texts preserve traces of the “archaic simplicity and purity of people in Japan prior

to the importation of foreign learning” (47; cf. Burns 2003). During the Meiji period,

endogenous nativism hybridized with fashionable Western social scientific discourses on

ethnicity and race, imbuing the old concept of the community of common descent with a

new sheen of sociobiological legitimacy (Doak 1996, 78-81). As it had in Europe, the

idea of a shared ethnic national identity and character – or minzokusei – quickly gained

ideological traction as a means of inculcating social solidarity across both vestigial status

boundaries and emergent class boundaries.

Following the 1871 “abolition of domains and establishment of prefectures” or

haihan chiken in mainland Japan, the questions arose of whether the Ryūkyū Kingdom

fell within the boundaries of the Japanese national polity and of whether Ryūkyūans

belonged to the Japanese national community. Stressing the Kingdom’s condition of

“dual subordination” to Satsuma and China, the Ministry of the Left argued that it should

not be subject to haihan chiken because “the Ryūkyū state and the Ryūkyū people are not

the same as the people in the inside [naichi 内地]” (Matsumura 2007, 69). Deputy

Finance Minister Inoue Kaoru counter-argued that since language and customs in the

Ryūkyūs were more similar to those in Japan than in China, the Ryūkyūan king should be

invited (or coerced) to “return the land and people to the Emperor” (hanseki hōkan) as the

daimyōs had done (72). The latter argument won out, and in 1872 Ryūkyū was

unilaterally informed that it had been incorporated into the Japanese polity and ordered to

sever tribute relations with China. Despite protests by the Ryūkyūan government, China,

44!

and some Western nations, Japan stuck to its claim that the archipelago was an integral

part of Japan and that Ryūkyūans were natural Japanese subjects, finally annexing the

kingdom under threat of military force in 1879.

Substantiating these claims required overcoming a range of obstacles. One

obstacle was the Ryūkyūan ruling class’ determined resistance to incorporation into the

Japanese polity. Another was the raw fact of Ryūkyūan historical, cultural, linguistic,

and physiological difference, which by nineteenth century social scientific standards

would seem to qualify them as a distinct ethnic group (minzoku) or even race (jinshu 人

種) (Uyehara 1933, 397). This problematized the Japanese state’s claim that annexation

constituted an act of “ethnic unification” (minzoku tōitsu 民族統一). Japanese social

scientists charged with studying the Empire’s newest subjects addressed the issue of

Ryūkyūan difference by invoking updated versions of the early modern “theory of shared

Ryūkyūan and Japanese ancestry.” Ethnologists such as Tashiro Antei and Torii Ryūzō,

for example, who were familiar with Euro-American academic trends such as

sociocultural evolutionism, drew selectively on archaeological and linguistic evidence in

order to identify the inhabitants of the former Ryūkyū Kingdom as a historically stagnant

‘branch family’ of the Japanese minzoku (cf. Tomiyama 1995). This not only legitimized

the “ethnic unification” narrative, but also helped justify the imposition of repressive

institutions on the ostensibly underdeveloped and therefore politically immature

Okinawans. Notably, it also presaged state-affiliated ethnologists’ later use of unilinear

models of development to justify the project of building a multiethnic empire in Asia

(Yonetani 2000; Doak 2001).

45!

Around the same time ethnologists such as Tashiro Antei and Torii Ryūzō were

laying foundations for the state’s official discourse on Okinawan identity, the Japanese

public sphere began generating parallel unofficial discourses. During the Tokugawa

period, the popularization of domestic tourism and the mass printing of travelogues and

travel poetry had helped expand many Japanese commoners’ spatial consciousness

beyond their own regions. Satsuma’s strict travel restrictions excluded Ryūkyū from this

discursive expansion.

This changed early in the Meiji period. In 1871, a ship from the

Miyako island group ran aground in Taiwan and a number of Ryūkyūans were killed in

altercations with indigenous Taiwanese. The Japanese government seized upon this as an

opportunity to demand Chinese recognition of its sovereignty over the Ryūkyūs, and

requested reparations for the deaths of “Japanese subjects.” China refused. In 1874,

Japan took initiative and sent an expeditionary force to Taiwan, killing a number of

indigenous Taiwanese and driving China to pay an indemnity. This was a major public

relations victory for the state, and superb fodder for the mushrooming press. Subsequent

negotiations between Japan, China, and Ryūkyūan elites over the islands’ political status

also made mainland Japanese newspapers. These incidents effectively tore Ryūkyū from

the periphery of Japanese public consciousness and thrust it into the center of vigorous

popular debates on the issues of sovereignty and foreign policy.

Journalistic treatment of Ryūkyū was initially quite favorable. Some newspapers

expressed sympathy for the threatened Ryūkyūan aristocrats, even publishing their

““petitions to save the Ryūkyūan state” (Ryūkyū kyū-koku seigansho 琉球救国請願書)

(Nishizato 2011, 15-16). Others, including the Freedom and People’s Rights Movement

46!

organ Kinji hyōron, urged the Meiji government to respect the autonomy of the

Ryūkyūan people (Matsumura 2007, 87). The state reacted by pushing a counter-

narrative that stressed the Ryūkyū Kingdom’s poverty and backwardness, blamed them

on “oppressive” feudal institutions, and claimed a duty to modernize the islands (90).

This “white man’s burden”-esque narrative stoked the public’s pride in their newly

empowered state and fed its regional power aspirations. It also played into a widespread

pop-ethnological fascination with premodern customs and manners or fūzoku. After

annexation, mainland writers quickly learned to trade upon this fascination by

proliferating newspaper articles, travelogues, and tracts on the subject of “Ryūkyūan

fūzoku.” Journalists and politicians proliferated exploitative accounts of tattooed,

barefoot “aboriginals” (dojin 土人) living in thatched huts and eking out a living on pork

and yams proliferated (Ōta 1995, 264-279). As a result, mainland readers quickly came

to associate Okinawa with bizarre archaisms such as pigsty toilets, hand tattoos,

incomprehensible dialects, shamanism, walking barefoot, erotically-charged spring

festivals, the Tsuji red light district, and inverted gender roles (“lazy men and working

women,” danitsu jorō 男逸女労) (269). Sympathy and solidarity gave way to prurient

interest and paternalistic condescension.

Over the course of the Meiji period, the convergence of discriminatory official

and unofficial discourses shaped an archetypically imperialist conception of “the

Ryūkyūan” or “the Okinawan” as almost Japanese, “but not quite” (cf. Bhabha 1984,

126). Representing Okinawans as historically immature Japanese helped authorize the

state’s discriminatory policies, which were intertwined with the project of sociocultural

47!

assimilation or dōka (同化), literally “making the same.” This project can be understood

as an extension of the more general project of kōminka or “making imperial subjects,”

and was euphemized as a noble effort to bring Okinawans up-to-date by making them

into modern Japanese. On the level of everyday experience, dōka constituted a near-

ubiquitous but malleable pressure, which varied in immediacy and intensity depending on

time and context. At certain points, the Japanese administration took active

assimilationist measures such as outlawing the practice of shamanism and forcing

children who spoke Ryūkyūan languages at school to wear “dialect tags” (comparable to

a dunce cap). At other times, assimilationism could appear as more of a diffuse

constellation of expectations than a set of discrete directives. For an Okinawan, proving

oneself as an Imperial Japanese subject meant suppressing any practices that might

identify one as a “Ryūkyū-jin” (pejoratively pronounced rikijin by mainlanders).

Japanese educator Nitta Yoshitaka exemplifies this imperative in the title of an 1896-97

series of articles: “Okinawa is Okinawa, not Ryūkyū” (Okinawa ha Okinawa nari Ryūkyū

ni arazu 沖縄は沖縄なり琉球にあらず) (Meyer 2007, 157).

Okinawan political and business elites were sharply aware that their perceived

difference from mainland Japanese was a political, social, and economic liability. This

imbued them with a pervasive consciousness of discrimination (Ōta 1996, 96). Under the

slogan of fūzoku kairyō – which can be translated as “reforming popular customs” –

conservative nationalist elites encouraged the populace to learn the mainland Japanese

language, refrain from speaking Ryūkyūan languages in public, and eliminate

“backward” fūzoku such as walking barefoot, playing sanshin and singing, shamanism,

48!

tattooing, wearing traditional clothing and hairstyles, consulting shamans and traditional

healers, and performing certain traditional religious rites (Tomiyama 1995, 5). Ōta

Chōfu, founder of the Ryūkyū Shimpō newspaper and perhaps the most influential

Okinawan public figure at the time, went so far as to encourage Okinawans to “sneeze

like the Japanese” (semi-humorously referred to as “Ōta’s sneeze theory” or kushame-ron

クシャメ論) (Hiyane 1996, 116).

This being said, Okinawan elites were not afraid to defend the intrinsic value of

some aspects of early modern Ryūkyūan culture, in particular its classical literature and

arts, which they believed could help enrich and invigorate the Japanese national spirit

(here Hiyane uses an appropriate idiom for invigoration: “drumming and dancing” [kobu

sakkō 鼓舞作興]) (112). Ōta Chōfu’s Ryūkyū Shimpō (henceforth RS) frequently ran

articles defending Okinawa’s “unique history as an independent [political and cultural]

entity” (115).

The Shimpō was also quick to criticize mainland journalists who

misrepresented Okinawa, and occasionally even took a critical stance toward the state.

Ōta, for example, impugned the tokubetsu fukensei system as an “illegal and immoral …

policy that bamboozles the people” (cited in Hiyane 1996, 112). In 1932, he went so far

as to indict Japanese policy toward Okinawa as “colonial,” a bold move given the

political climate at the time (15).

As Hiyane puts it, “while Ōta strongly advocated

‘modernization’ on an external or formal level, he never intended to abandon or sell short

Okinawa’s spiritual uniqueness and historical culture” (1996, 117). Significantly, Ōta

also rejected Torii Ryūzō’s cultural evolutionist theory of Okinawan difference, arguing

that if the Ryūkyū Kingdom had participated in the Meiji Restoration alongside the

49!

Japanese domains and been subject to the same structural reforms on the same timeline,

social conditions in the archipelago would not differ from the mainland (Ōta 1996, 378).

Ōta and the Ryūkyū Shimpō faction of Okinawan elites hoped that by mastering mainland

Japanese cultural codes and proving their civilizational maturity, Okinawans could make

up for this missed opportunity and convince the state to “elevate [Okinawa] to its proper

position within the Empire” (OKINAWA MAINICHI SHIMBUN May 15, 1910).

Japanese nativist ethnography and young Okinawan elites’ integrationist

aspirations both influenced the development of Okinawan studies as a self-aware

academic field. Driven by a desire to better understand their own roots, Japanese-

educated Okinawan scholars such as Iha Fuyū, Higashionna Kanjun, Shimabukuro

Zenpatsu, Majikina Anko, and Nakahara Zenchū took on the tremendous labor of

collecting and analyzing chronicles, family records, oral histories, collections of songs

and plays, and a vast range of other materials. The most influential figure in prewar

Okinawan studies was Iha Fuyū, a Tokyo Imperial University-trained linguist who acted

as the founding director of the Okinawa Prefectural Library. Iha once served as an

interpreter for the Japanese ethnographer Torii Ryūzō and admired Torii’s work, but felt

a need to reinvestigate the “theory of shared Ryūkyūan and Japanese ancestry” from an

Okinawan perspective. As previously mentioned, Torii’s version of this theory holds that

at some point in the distant past, the Ryūkyūan branch family split off and stagnated,

while the Japanese root family continued to develop. In his 1911 breakthrough work Old

Ryūkyū (Ko-Ryūkyū 古琉球), Iha counter-proposes that both the Ryūkyūans and the

Yamato Japanese developed semi-autonomously as branch families of a single proto-

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Japonic root group (1974a). This anti-primordialist counter-narrative is significant

because it repudiates the Yamato Japanese claim to a special normative authority based

upon historical priority and authenticity. Iha’s scholarship appealed to mainland

Japanese romantic culturalists such as Yanagita Kunio, Orikuchi Shinobu, and Yanagi

Sōetsu, who crafted compelling images of Okinawa as a “living museum of Japan’s past”

(Siddle 1998, 127). Ironically, while these scholars gave Iha due credit and assisted him

in propagating his ideas in Japan, the popularity of their work often displaced Iha’s own

more politically challenging writing.

Postwar reconstructions of Okinawan identity

Needless to say, the Battle of Okinawa (April 1–June 22, 1945) profoundly

disrupted both Okinawan history and the historiographical project (the destruction of

primary records alone was a major setback; if Iha and his contemporaries had not

compiled such a vast amount of information, our understanding of life in early modern

Ryūkyū and prewar Okinawa would be shallow indeed). In the aftermath of the Battle,

American administrators stepped in to displace prewar Japanese historiographies with

narratives that could support their own policy goals. Unfortunately, their representations

of Okinawa and Okinawans are often as one-sided as prewar Japanese accounts. Here,

Johannes Fabian’s critique of allochronism intersects productively with Edward Said’s

critique of Western Orientalism. As Fabian reminds us, the allochronic imagination in its

Orientalist mode conflates sociocultural, geographic, and historical difference: “that

which is past is remote, and which is remote is past” (2002, 127).

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The core American narrative of Okinawan identity had its genesis in reports

prepared by the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) and the Navy Civil Affairs Team

(NCAT [“Operation Iceberg”]) immediately prior to the invasion. In 1944, the OSS

published The Okinawans: A Japanese Minority Group and The Okinawans: Their

Distinguishing Characteristics, based largely on fieldwork conducted among Okinawan

diasporic communities. These tracts describe the Ryūkyū Kingdom as a “nation,” citing

“customs, arts, crafts, and ancient drama” as manifestations of Okinawan cultural

difference from Japan and portraying the islands’ annexation as a resented act of

Japanese colonial aggression (Obermiller 2006, 64). Its conclusion – that Okinawa bore

a “dubious and equivocal relationship to Japan and one which [sic] was never

unanimously accepted by the southern islanders” – had obvious propagandistic

significance (69). In the same year, the NCAT, led by Yale anthropologist George P.

Murdock, produced the Civil Affairs Handbook: Ryukyu (Loochoo) Islands OPNAV 13-

31. Based mostly on Japanese academic sources, the Handbook regurgitates Japanese

colonial ethnographic portrayals of Okinawans as historically backward, describing them

as “an inferior people that required structured and disciplined American guidance” (79-

85). Though different in tone, both the OSS report and the NCAT Handbook concluded

that “the Ryūkyūs were not a natural extension of Japan,” an assertion which became the

“mantra” of U.S. occupational government ideology (91-92).

The most significant scholarly work to take up the OSS thesis of Ryūkyūan ethnic

nationhood is former NCAT team member George H. Kerr’s Okinawa: History of an

Island People (1958). While Kerr’s study remains a landmark, his tendency to

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emphasize Okinawan/Japanese difference provoked a backlash in the Japanese-language

academy.

Understandably, the vector of Japanese-language Okinawan studies during

the 1950s-60s was heavily swayed by debates over sovereignty: should the islands remain

under American rule, attempt to transition toward independent statehood, or reunify with

Japan? Immediately after the war, anti-Japanese sentiment was strong among many

Okinawans, for whom memories of forced labor, coerced group suicides, and other

atrocities were fresh. Several major political parties advocated Ryūkyūan ethnic

nationalism and supported political independence.

This changed as the reality of

American colonial violence began to eclipse the memory of Japanese colonial violence.

The suspicion set in that “independence” would lead to the establishment of a puppet

regime, and would entail a perpetual American military presence (Tanji 2003, 104). As

Okinawa’s leftist and centrist parties gravitated toward reunification with Japan as the

most feasible path toward release from military occupation, the concept of common

Okinawan-Japanese ethnic identity made a strong resurgence (106). This allowed for the

rhetoric of ethnic self-determination, recently deployed by the Americans to legitimize

Ryūkyūan nationalism, to be re-appropriated as an argument for reunification with Japan

(107). “Reversion nationalism” eventually eclipsed Ryūkyūan nationalism as the

dominant voicing of Okinawan identity politics (136).

These political developments sparked an intense scholarly debate over the old

question of whether the annexation of the Ryūkyū Kingdom should be interpreted as an

act of colonial aggression or a merely an expedient means of “ethnic unification”

(minzoku tōitsu 民族統一). While couched in historiographical terms, this debate was

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symptomatic of a more general ideological conflict between liberal-democratic and

historical materialist theories of modernization and development in the Japanese academy

during the 1950s-60s. The leading advocate of the liberal-democratic modernization

theory perspective was Shimomura Fujio (下村冨士) of Tokyo University, who edited

the records of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs under the Hayashi and Konoe cabinets.

Shimomura argues that at the time of the Ryūkyū Kingdom’s annexation, it had already

been a de facto fiefdom of the Satsuma domain for centuries; that the Ryūkyūan king

held no real sovereignty; and that the kingdom’s relationship with China was “formal and

ceremonial” rather than political (Kinjō 1972, 500). He goes on to accurately point out

that the European powers had set a normative precedent for “coerced unification” during

the movements for the unification of Italy and Germany; therefore, Japan’s annexation of

Ryūkyū was legitimate by the international legal standards at the time. Finally, he makes

the controversial argument that annexation was undertaken “in accordance with the flow

of history toward modernization and progress,” that it served to “realize the long-term

desires of Ryūkyūans,” and that it should be praised as an act of resistance against the

Western powers (501).

The historical materialist counterargument was exemplified by historian Inoue

Kiyoshi (井上清) of Kyoto University. Inoue argues that the Ryūkyū Kingdom’s long

history of political and economic autonomy justifies its classification as an independent

political entity. He goes on to argue that the Meiji government’s Ryūkyū disposition was

a violation of Ryūkyūan sovereignty, and that the annexation would not have been

accepted as legitimate if not for the threat of overwhelming military force. He concludes

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that “if asked whether annexation comprised an ethnic unification or an invasion, we

must say at least that it was an ‘invasion-esque’ unification (侵略的統一)” (1955, 30).

further argues that while the eventual merger of Japan and Ryūkyū was historically

probable, it was by no means inevitable, and should have been allowed to occur gradually

and “naturally” as a result of deepening economic ties and bilateral political action (Kinjō

1972, 500). As it stands, Inoue concludes, “the Meiji government’s annexation of

Ryūkyū must be called an invasion.” Inoue restates this argument in his widely-read

History of Early Modern Japan (Nihon kindai-shi 日本近代史) (1962).

Inoue’s argument has proven influential among leftist Okinawan intellectuals, and

has catalyzed compelling debates on the legality of the Ryūkyū shobun and the question

of whether or not prewar Japanese rule in Okinawa can be classified as “domestic

colonialism.” In the years since Okinawa’s 1972 reversion to Japanese authority, it is fair

to say that the “domestic colonialism” paradigm, which is essentially rooted in Inoue’s

critique, has become mainstream. Historians such as Araki Moriaki, Nishizato Kikō,

Yamazaki Kaoru, Ōta Masahide, and Hiyane Teruo have developed this paradigm in

unique and insightful directions. Araki, for example, describes the period of “domestic

colonialism” as a preparatory stage in the planned integration of Okinawa into the

nation’s economic core, while Nishizato argues that it foreshadowed Okinawa's planned

permanent marginalization as an economic periphery (Tomiyama 1995, 6).

This is not to say that Okinawan scholars have accepted Inoue’s critique and the

“domestic colonialism” paradigm without qualification. A number of historians have

questioned whether the Shimomura/Inoue debate adequately represents the complexity of

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on-the-ground social relations in the late Ryūkyū Kingdom and post-annexation

Okinawa. Writing in 1972, Kinjō Seitoku observes that both Shimomura and Inoue base

their arguments on strong empirical foundations, and assesses the impasse between them

as purely a clash of ideologies (503). In another article published the same year, Kinjō

and Nishizato, critique both Inoue and Shimomura for premising their arguments on three

problematic assumptions: that inter-ethnic conflicts are more significant than intra-ethnic

conflicts, that ethnicity is an a priori category, and that the legitimacy of a political entity

can be determined solely by the criteria of ethnic integration and ethnic self-

determination (1972, 99). Contemporary scholars associated with the Okinawan

Historical Research Society (including Kinjō and Nishizato) have helped offset these

assumptions by contributing analyses of prewar Okinawan society from the viewpoints of

formerly neglected social groups such as Yaeyama and Miyako islanders (Nishizato),

migrant workers (Aniya), and labor activists (Taminato), among others.

This being said, because political tensions in Okinawa remain high, the topic of

Okinawan/Japanese difference and the “domestic colonialism” paradigm frequently

resurface in both scholarly and popular discourse. This is particularly evident in non-

specialist literature by scholars such as Ōta, Hiyane, Nomura Kōya, and Takahashi

Tetsuya. Noteworthy examples are Hiyane’s portrayal of Okinawa as an “internal

colony” (1996), Nomura’s concept of “unconscious colonialism” (2002), and Takahashi’s

description of postwar Japan as a “sacrifice system,” in which the benefits of

modernization are concentrated in the metropolis while the costs are outsourced to

peripheral regions (2012). Because the “domestic colonialism” paradigm interfaces well

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with Western postcolonial theory, it has also acted as a key theoretical bridge between

Japanese and non-Japanese scholars. Okinawan and Japanese scholars such as Kinjō and

Nishizato, Yamazaki, and Tomiyama all draw upon first generation postcolonial theorists

such as Frantz Fanon, Rodolfo Stavenhagen, Michael Hechter, and Andre Gunder

Frank.

Western scholars of Okinawa such as Alan Christy, Richard Siddle, Julia

Yonetani, and Miyume Tanji have all drawn upon these Okinawan and Japanese scholars

in turn, contributing further insights from more recent postcolonial theorists (such as

Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, Homi Bhabha, and Tani Barlow) and poststructuralist

scholars of Japan (such as Harry Harootunian, Kojin Karatani, and Naoki Sakai).

Method I: The normative Japanese research model

Richard Siddle observes that Western scholarly discourse on Okinawan cultural

production still tends to crystallize around the “contrasting paradigms” (inherited from

Inoue and Shimomura) of colonialism and modernization (1998, 117). Recent English-

language studies of Okinawan performing arts confirm this observation (cf. Nelson 2008;

Roberson 2009; Barske 2009; Bhowmik 2012). By contrast, Japanese language specialist

literature on Okinawan performance arts is often less focused on the question of their

political significance than on pragmatic issues such as preservation, cultural policy, and

the consolidation of primary source materials. It is possible, then, to point out two

distinct approaches to the study of prewar Okinawan performing arts. The Okinawan-

Japanese research model prioritizes immediate, pragmatic concerns such as

authentication and preservation, while the Euro-American research model prioritizes

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interpretation and critique. The discrepancies between these research models testify to

the ways in which different institutional norms and long-term interests can influence

research design, critical analysis, and historical representation (cf. Gadamer 2004, 285).

The Okinawan-Japanese research model speaks directly to tradition-bearers’

desire to canonize Okinawan performing arts as an article of intangible cultural heritage

worthy of public esteem and investment.

In 1972, the Japanese Ministry of Education,

Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology commemorated Okinawa’s reversion to

Japanese authority by nominating kumiodori and several other classical Ryūkyūan arts as

an Important Intangible Cultural Properties. This helped secure recognition and funding

for tradition-bearers and historians, who subsequently organized the Traditional

Kumiodori Preservation Society (Dentō kumiodori hozon-kai 伝統組踊保存会). The

Preservation Society has played an instrumental role in laying the institutional framework

for a self-sustaining Okinawan traditional performing arts scene. Another crucial player

is the Okinawa Prefectural University of Arts (Okinawa kenritsu geijutsu daigaku), which

was founded in 1986 and offers comprehensive undergraduate and graduate-level courses

of study in musical and dance performance, art history, performance studies, and

ethnomusicology, among other areas.

The Preservation Society and Okinawa Geidai have played an instrumental role in

rebuilding the war-ravaged Okinawan performing arts scene as a self-sustaining

community. This community’s most impressive accomplishment to date has been the

planning, construction, and promotion of the National Theatre Okinawa (国立劇場おき

なわ). The National Theatre was conceived in the mid-1990s, officially announced in

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1998, and completed in 2004.

Located in the Old Ryūkyūan capital of Urasoe, it is the

premier venue for traditional performing arts in Okinawa, normally featuring several

performances per week of Okinawan music, dance, theater, and storytelling, guest

performances by mainland Japanese and other Asian traditional artists, and occasional

lectures and conferences. Performances are often well attended, and when popular

kumiodori or musical dramas are staged, tickets sell out quickly. Among the National

Theatre’s stated aims are “providing an opportunity where Okinawa’s traditional

performing arts can be widely appreciated by the general public,” “nurturing successors

as performers and musicians,” “research and study, document gathering, performance

record making and future development and public showings,” and “exchange with the

Asia-Pacific region” through symposiums and performance exchanges (http://www.nt-

okinawa.or.jp/en/index.html). In the eight years since it opened, the National Theatre has

succeeded admirably in furthering these goals, especially the cultivation of a new

generation of performers.

The community of artists and scholars centered on the Preservation Society has

also worked tirelessly to promote awareness of Okinawan traditional performing arts

outside the prefecture. This has had tangible material consequences: in the 2008 fiscal

year, for example, the National Theatre Okinawa and Traditional Kumiodori Preservation

Society spent 10.4 million yen on performer training and 32.7 million yen on promotional

performances, about 85% of which was provided by the Japanese federal government

(Okinawa-ken kyōikuchō bunkaka 2008, 14; cited in Gillan 2012). In 2010, with the

support of the Ministry of Education, the Preservation Society nominated kumiodori for

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inscription on the UNESCO Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of

Humanity, an achievement aimed to “allow groups of transmitters, the people of

Okinawa, and each and every Japanese person to re-acknowledge the diversity of

Japanese culture, and the human creativity from which this culture originates” (UNESCO

2010, 7). This has helped cement kumiodori’s status as a cultural resource deserving of

public investment, thereby freeing it from dependence on the whims of the market.

These pragmatic concerns have played a crucial role in shaping the dominant Japanese-

language approach to performing arts research.

Unsurprisingly, the grander project of securing material support for the

reconstruction of the Okinawan performing arts community has helped determine the

course of Okinawan performing arts research. The need to prepare nominations that

convincingly portray kumiodori and its affiliated arts as valuable parts of a broader

Japanese (and global) cultural heritage has incentivized legitimizing projects focused on

the consolidation and authentication of historical sources, the classification of styles and

lineages of transmission, the comparative study of Okinawan and other East Asian

performing arts, and the exploration of issues surrounding historically accurate

performance (reconstructing period pronunciation, staging, props, costuming,

instrumentation, etc.). In general, the Japanese-language literature on early modern and

prewar Okinawan performing arts is strongly historicist if not positivist in method, driven

by preservationist and pedagogical concerns, and inextricably interwoven with state

cultural policy on the regional and national levels.

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Method II: The normative Western research model

Western scholars of Okinawan cultural production, on the other hand, tend to

focus less on practical matters such as preservation and more on the politics of Okinawan

identity, in particular the concept of “colonial modernity” (Barlow 1977). This tendency

is visible in recent work by James Roberson (music), Valerie Barske (dance), Davinder

Bhowmik (literature), and Christopher Nelson (performing arts), all of whom seem less

influenced by the specialist literature on Okinawan performing arts than by the more

critical general historical work of scholars such as Inoue Kiyoshi, Ōta Masahide, and

Hiyane Teruo. Roberson, for example, identifies Okinawan folk songs as “sites of

memories of Okinawans’ unequal encounters with assimilation policies” which “reveal

the conflicted position of Okinawans and necessitate readings that recognize not only

Okinawans’ complicit participation in Japanese imperialism but also their implicit

resistance to it” (2009, 691). Barske seeks to determine “how Okinawans employ

performance and other bodily actions as historical strategy … in the creation of a Pan-

Okinawan sense of ethnic identity, constructed through and against trans-imperial

contestations for power in Okinawa” (2009, 13). Bhowmik orients her study of prewar

Okinawan literature toward “the question of subaltern identity and the theoretical bind

Gayatri Spivak introduces when she questions whether subaltern speech is possible”

(2012, 96). Interrogating various texts as to whether they “affirm Okinawa’s position

within the [Imperial Japanese] nation or … contest that same nation,” Bhowmik

concludes that Okinawan fiction constitutes a “conspicuous body of social protest” (180).

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While these scholars are all attentive to the particularities of the texts and

practices they study, they also imply that these texts can be read as “local expressions of

a metatext” of colonial domination and anticolonial resistance (Ahmad 1987, 23).

Nelson’s study of Okinawan storytelling and eisā performance exemplifies both the

strengths and the potential weaknesses of this approach. Nelson argues that by

emphasizing the resourceful ways Okinawans have dealt with privation during and after

the war, storytellers and performing artists Teruya Rinsuke and Fujiki Hayato “reclaim a

powerful sense of [Okinawan] subjectivity” in the face of domination (2008, 23-24).

Similarly, he situates eisā dance as a set of “memorative rituals” through which

performers and audiences evoke “alternative images of the past,” augmenting their sense

of empowered subjectivity with “the experience of a creative, dynamic samurai” (182).

While acknowledging that such performances have nativist overtones, Nelson stresses

that their final aim is “not to drag the indeterminate past into the present,” but rather, to

separate performers and audiences from “the spatiotemporality of the nation and the

demands of labor … [by] linking the remembered and repeated forms of the past with an

interruption of the present, the whole assemblage figuring the possibility of

transformation toward the future” (18). By privileging local memories, these

performances interrupt the Japanese state’s official narratives of war responsibility,

which often imply that Okinawans and mainland Japanese suffered equally and that the

mass death of Okinawan civilians can be construed as a self-determined sacrifice for the

nation (jiketsu 自決). Nelson concludes that Okinawan storytelling, eisā, and other

locally situated practices successfully recapture a sense of local agency by rejecting

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mainland-centric ethnocentrism and interrupting the ahistorical nationalist narrative of

shared victimhood (7-9).

Nelson’s rejection of the myth of Japanese ethnic homogeneity conforms to the

broader poststructuralist project of deconstructing essentialist models of individual and

collective identity. In theory, this project should also entail a rejection of minoritarian

essentialism – i.e., as Stuart Hall puts it in his discussion of black British cinema, “the

strategy of a simple set of reversals, putting in the place of the bad old essential white

[superordinate] subject, the new essentially good black [subordinate] subject” (1996, 444).

In practice, however, postcolonial theory often slips into a romantic, quasi-essentialist

“nostalgia for [the] lost origin” of subaltern identity (Spivak 1988, 287). For example, in

his analysis of Okinawan poet Takara Ben’s 1985 verse “Yādui,” Nelson depicts the early

modern Ryūkyūan yadui or déclassé samurai village in an almost prelapsarian light:

Time passes in predictable cycles: crops planted and harvested, fishing boats

launched, and festivals planned by the phases of the moon. Children are born,

mature to adulthood, marry and give birth, die and join their ancestral spirits. The

recognition of these cycles and the practices that produce and are reproduced by

them anchor the community to the temporality of the Ryūkyū kingdom, and to

that of China beyond [Mabuchi 1980, Ota 1987]. Those that live in the

communities are creative, not only bringing forth a life from the soil and the sea,

but also producing works of art – music, dance, and ceramics (131-132).

Nelson goes on to vividly depict an experiential rupture between the premodern

Ryūkyūan village and the modern Japanese prefecture of Okinawa:

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[Yādui] signify the decline of the Ryūkyūan monarchy, no longer able to support

nobles with court stipends, and the fragmentation of the Ryūkyūan social order

under the pressures of Japanese colonial intervention … The evenness of

Okinawan space is fragmented; the continuity of time is broken … The Yādui is a

stunning synecdoche for life in contemporary Okinawa – it is representative of the

experiences of all Okinawans who were thrown from their native villages into the

crumbling, postindustrial, relentlessly reconstructed world of modern Japan (132-

136).

The implied historiographical narrative here is one in which the “organic spontaneity” of

the precolonial ethnic community is disrupted through "technical manipulation" by

colonial or neocolonial institutions (Cheah 2003, 226). This kind of critique rests upon

the well-worn Romantic fiction that prior to colonization and/or modernization, subject

and society were organically integrated, and that modernization somehow opened a rift

between the two (Gadamer 2004, 276). Eisā and other traditional performing arts are

portrayed as a means of suturing this rift. Performers bring “the world of the work into

themselves … [feeling] the authority of [ancestral] voices in their own song, the power of

the dances in their own bodies”; this “renews the bond between the living, the ancestral

spirits, and those yet to be born” (191). Performing eisā overcomes the alienation of the

colonized, modernized subject and restores the organic ontological unity of the

precolonial collective.

Nelson’s analysis of eisā links up with the recent trend of interpreting artistic

performance in colonial and postcolonial locales as a kind of (conscious or subconscious)

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political practice concerned with “recovering suppressed or lost histories, recognizing the

authority in myths and other oral transmissions of the past, valorizing unofficial versions

of history as well as official documents, and remapping imperial settlements of space and

land” (Tompkins 2007, 71). This interpretive paradigm is well suited to many cases,

including instances of eisā performance such as the one Nelson describes in his final

chapter. However, this paradigm also risks recuperating the longstanding Western

conception of aesthetic experience as a type of secular apotheosis that “promises to re-

unite those poles of subject and object, value and fact, reason and nature, which

bourgeois social practice has riven apart” (Eagleton 1988, 332). This kind of romantic

antimodernism abounds in Japanese history writing as a whole. Nelson’s portrayal of the

early modern Ryūkyūan yādui resurrects the nostalgic image of the premodern Japanese

village as “a ‘natural community’ typified by ‘village-level’ tribute extraction,

‘consensual’ decision making, and ‘autonomous’ self-governance” (Ooms 1996, 72).

More specifically, it resembles Higa Shunchō’s depiction of the Ryūkyūan corporate

village as a “peaceful microcosm” where “self-sufficiency, leisure, and pastoral calm

reigned” (Kinjō and Nishizato 1972, 104).

Reviewing the local histories of early modern Ryūkyūan villages shows this

depiction to be highly misleading. As in Tokugawa Japan, relations in many villages

were neither peaceful nor determined through consensus. During the second half of the

seventeenth century, for example, farmers on Tarama-jima resisted taxes for periods of

months on end, eventually expelling exploitative local officials from the island (Kinjō

and Nishizato 1972, 103). On several occasions during the eighteenth century, peasants

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in Yonaguni and Hateruma-jima are reported to have committed mass suicide in protest

of tax burdens that had driven them to the brink of starvation. In nineteenth century

Miyako, peasants repeatedly petitioned against the onerous per-capita tax, sometimes

clashing violently with local officials. Throughout the entire Ryūkyū Kingdom period

and after annexation, indebted families regularly indentured their sons and daughters as

manual laborers or prostitutes; infanticide was also not unheard of. Such incidents testify

to vast inequities and perpetual struggles for empowerment (104-105). Nelson’s

unintentional suppression of this history of intraethnic conflict belies the romantic idealist

ghost in the machine of “postcolonial reason” (Spivak 1999, 200).

Theory I: Aesthetic conciliation and sociologistic positivism

The aim of the foregoing critique is not to dismiss postcolonial theory as

irrelevant to the subject at hand, but rather, to demonstrate how prioritizing a pregiven

metanarrative over local histories can lead to troubling misrepresentations and exclusions.

This point is relevant because many of the most popular works of prewar Okinawan

commercial theater do not cleanly fit within the postcolonial-theoretical metanarrative of

“affirmation of and resistance to incorporation within Japanese nationhood” (Tanji 2012,

112). Of course, there are instances of works that explicitly treat topics such as

colonialism, modernity, and the nation: in the wake of the Sino-Japanese and Russo-

Japanese Wars, for example, theater advertisements bristled with nationalistic and

imperialistic titles. The most well-known and enduring works, however, are comedies

and romantic melodramas set in the indeterminate feudal past. In this, prewar Okinawan

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commercial theater contrasts sharply with contemporaneous mainland Japanese

commercial theater, which often delt frankly with contemporary political issues (leading

David Goodman to assert that politically committed theater has traditionally been “the

status quo” in Japan [1971, 165]). It also contrasts with many of the better-known works

of prewar Okinawan “pure literature,” which openly deal with themes of regional and

national identity and colonial discrimination (Bhowmik 2012).

This contrast returns us to the theoretical question, raised in the Introduction, of

how to interpret the “political being” of seemingly apolitical or even anti-political art (cf.

Ueda 2005). One common approach is to interpret such art in functionalist terms as a

form of aesthetic conciliation, intended to “[eliminate] as far as possible any subversive

struggle between antagonistic impulses” (Eagleton 1981, 36-37). Around the same time

Okinawan musical drama emerged as a genre, Japanese literati were exploring the

potential social utility of theater as means of aesthetic conciliation. In a 1907 essay

entitled “Second and Third Class Theater,” for example, Shimamura Hōgetsu (1871-

1918), a critic affiliated with the prestigious Waseda bungaku literary journal, advocates

for the creation of a middlebrow theater that could “console and entertain” the lower

classes, while still furthering conservative didactic aims:

Since the overall purpose of art includes the consolation and entertainment of

society’s “other half,” it is absolutely necessary to develop a gradation of types of

art in response to the intellectual capacities of target audiences. Works of high

literary value, for example, cannot provide the same type of spiritual palliation as

stories based on transcriptions of folk tales. Moreover, the devotees of low-grade

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literature are not merely an accident of this era, but rather, form a majority in

society. Those who wish to make literature their spiritual vocation must not

forget this reality … Even if we cannot offer [the lower classes] the end of a

thread that leads up the path to self-improvement, we should try at least to provide

material that sustains their taste for things of the heart and spirit, in order to keep

social conditions from degrading more than they have at present (Waseda

bungaku, December 1907; cited in Kimura 2009, 39-40).

While Shimamura has not garnered the same kind of legacy as his contemporaries

Tsubouichi Shōyō and Shimazaki Tōson, his ideas maintained currency throughout the

late Meiji and Taishō periods, influencing younger critics such as Honma Hisao and

inviting critique from Ōsugi Sakae (Kimura 2009, 44). Notably, the well respected

Okinawan journalist and politician Nakayoshi Ryōkō promoted Shimamura’s ideas on

theater in a series of articles for the leading Okinawan newspaper Ryūkyū Shimpō

(August 16, 1909). This kind of conceptual framework, then, was available in Okinawa

during the period in question (Chapters Five and Six will revisit Shimamura Hōgetsu, the

Waseda bungaku circle of critics, and Nakayoshi Ryōkō in greater detail).

Many works of popular Okinawan commercial theater have a strong conciliatory

aspect. The wildly popular 1910 musical drama Tomari Aka, for example, is a

melodramatic variation on the well-worn Japanese genre of double suicide plays (shinjū-

mono), which typically exploit the opposition between emotion (ninjō) and obligation

(giri) to tragic effect. In Tomari Aka, two young aristocrats named Aka and Umichiru

secretly fall in love, but are separated by filial obligations, and both die of heartbreak.

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Throughout the play, upper class and lower class characters interact harmoniously, with

the latter serving in supporting roles and as comic relief.

Authority is depicted

benignly: when the male protagonist Aka’s father sends him to work on a distant island,

he thinks he is doing so for Aka’s own good. In the play’s final scene, both fathers meet

at the young lovers’ grave and bless their “marriage through death,” declaring their

certainty that the young couple will “live together honorably as husband and wife in the

next world, passing the days in peace on a bed of flowers” (Nakahodo 1994, 48). This

dissolves the tension between ninjō and giri, symbolically reconciling the subject with

the social order.

We cannot know whether the creators of Tomari Aka kept abreast of critics like

Shimamura and Nakayoshi. Given its unprecedented long run, however, we can

confidently state that the play serendipitously fulfilled the Waseda bungaku critics’ ideal

of providing “refreshment for [viewers’] exhausted bodies and spirits” (Kimura 2009,

42). It crucial to recall here that when Tomari Aka was performed in 1910, the target

audience for commercial musical drama in Naha consisted largely of lower class female

migrant laborers, alienated from their rural families, socially disdained, often subject to

sexual harassment, and living in grinding poverty. The gap between the elegiac world of

the work and audiences’ lived experiences would have been vast. In Freudian terms,

Tomari Aka combines a few simple psychological operations – displacement (the sole

antagonist is fate), catharsis (tearful, empathic death), and wish fulfillment (parental

blessing and happy reunion in the next world) – in order to temporarily salve its viewers’

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abject misery. It thus arguably defers confrontation with the actual cause of this misery,

which was, of course, structuralized inequity. This is clearly problematic.

Bearing the social conditions of its production in mind – devastating inequality

under the twin afflictions of quasi-colonial domination and the dual economic structure –

we could easily dismiss Okinawan commercial musical drama as a “retreat into a world

of fiction where existing conditions are changed and overcome only in the realm of the

imagination” (Marcuse 1978, 1). In order to pursue this course of analysis further, we

must make a brief detour through political economy and the historical materialist roots of

contemporary critical theory. For a given social order to remain viable, it must be

capable of reproducing the regimes of property distribution and divisions of labor that

structure and sustain production, i.e., the relations of production. In any given society,

some of these relations will be straightforwardly antagonistic: in an ideal-typical feudal

society, for example, the ruling class obtains the means to reproduce itself by

expropriating surplus from direct producers. Other relations will be complex and

contradictory: as feudalism developed in Japan, for example, it became increasingly

difficult for the ruling class to sustain itself through expropriation alone; many samurai

took out loans from merchants, thus becoming debtors to their own social subordinates.

From the perspective of the dominant class, the primary social function of cultural

production is to dissemble or euphemize such antagonisms and contradictions, thereby

mitigating resistance to the reproduction of extant relations of production.

It is easy to see how conciliatory art and literature exemplify this function.

Accordingly, from a historical materialist perspective, conciliatory art and literature are

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generally condemned as “ideological” in either the strong sense of the word as intentional

mass deception, or the weak sense of the word as products of false consciousness. Engels

concisely describes the reciprocal relationship between ideology and false consciousness

in an 1893 letter to Franz Mehring: “ideology is a process accomplished by the so-called

thinker consciously, indeed, but with a false consciousness” (cited in Merton 1973, 29).

Interestingly, Hegel had already come to a similar realization, describing Sittlichkeit or

“ethical life” as a mode of being in which “the habit of the ethical appears as second

nature which takes the place of the original and purely natural will,” becoming a kind of

“customary will” (1991, 194; 335). The difference, of course, is that Hegel considered

this socially beneficial whereas Engels considered it socially harmful. While few

contemporary scholars would endorse the classical false consciousness paradigm without

qualification, it more or less maintains currency as a go-to means of rationalizing the

apparent political “quiescence” of much non-elite cultural production (Scott 1990, 70).

Influential later Marxist developments of the false consciousness paradigm include

Gramsci’s concept of hegemony and Raymond Williams’ concept of embodied structures

of feeling. Influential post-Marxist adaptations include Foucault’s work on discipline and

Bourdieu’s analysis of habituated predispositions as a form of “embodied history,

internalized as a second nature and so forgotten as history” (Bourdieu 1984, 56; cf.

Martin, Gutman, and Hutton 1988).

György Lukács’ Realism in the Balance exemplifies the false consciousness

paradigm as employed in aesthetic criticism.

Lukács distinguishes sharply between

“openly anti-realist or pseudo-realist” literature, which seeks to “provide an apologia for,

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and a defense of, the existing system,” and “true realist” literature, which seeks to

“penetrate the laws governing objective reality and to uncover the deeper, hidden,

mediated, not immediately perceptible network of relationships that go to make up

society” (29; 37). A work that fails to explicitly “relate [subjective] experiences to the

hidden social forces that produce them” fails both politically and aesthetically (36-37).

Brecht offers a comparably influential definition, arguing that “Realist means: laying bare

society’s causal network / showing up the dominant viewpoint as the viewpoint of the

dominators / writing from the standpoint of the class which has prepared the broadest

solutions for the most pressing problems afflicting human society” (1977, 109). Lukács

and Brecht would almost certainly have condemned bourgeois literary critics such as

Shimamura Hōgetsu and Nakayoshi Ryōkō as “openly anti-realist,” and dismiss naïve

works like Tomari Aka as “pseudo-realist” spectacles that reproduce the illusion of an

autonomous intimate sphere of human emotions or ninjō, thereby dissembling the

intimate sphere’s historical origin in shifting relations of production.

Lukács exemplifies the so-called “sociologistic positivist” strain of Marxist

aesthetics, which interprets art and literature as epiphenomenal effects of the social

conditions of their production and reception (i.e., society’s “material base”) (Eagleton

1981, 83). The sociologistic approach is theoretically and methodologically problematic

for a number of reasons. For one, it tends to reduce the value of art to the truth-value of

its representational content: as Brecht puts it, “[the sociologist’s] scale of judgment runs

not from ‘good’ to ‘bad’ but from ‘correct’ to ‘false’” (1964, 21). In order to succeed by

these criteria, a work of art should act as “a seismograph of society” (Bloch 1985, 243;

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cited in Leppert 2005, 122). This reduction of art to reportage collapses the dimension of

noncongruence with actuality that gives art its transformative potential. As Marcuse

laments, this “has had devastating consequences for aesthetics … a devaluation of the

entire realm of subjectivity takes place, a devaluation not only of the subject as ego

cogito … but also of inwardness, emotions, and imagination” (1978, 3).

Perhaps more disturbingly, sociologistic positivism transforms critical theory

from an open-ended interpretive method into a purportedly authoritative science that

claims to uncover “an internal bond between the object and a proper (theoretical or

aesthetic) knowledge of it” (Eagleton 1981, 85; cf. Ricoeur 2007, 269). The idea of false

consciousness in particular presumes an ability to look past “the naïve description of

what men in fact thought, felt and wanted at any moment in history and from any given

point in the class structure,” and “infer the thoughts and feelings which men would have

in a particular situation if they were able to assess both it and the interests arising from it

in their impact on immediate action and on the whole structure of society,” i.e., “the

thoughts and feelings appropriate to their objective situation” (Lukács 1967, 51). As

Kofi Agawu observes, this arrogates tremendous representational authority for the

theorist (2010, 327). This is particularly the case when postcolonialism hybridizes with

psychoanalysis, which presumes to theorize the Other not as a social actor, but as a kind

of transconscious effect of the negotiations between the socialized ego and the imputed

“other within” in its various articulations as “‘pure’ desire,” the materiality of the body,

revolutionary consciousness, etc. (Derrida 1994, 177; Spivak 1988, 272). Under the

cover of respect for the “absolute other,” this stance risks turning cultural studies into a

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kind of political inquisition that does epistemic violence to its object: “Acknowledging

the otherness of the other … [by] making him the object of objective knowledge,

involves the fundamental suspension of his claim to truth” (Gadamer 2004, 303).

We can glimpse shades of the false consciousness paradigm in some Western

scholarly work on Okinawan performing arts. Barske, for example, argues at one point

that first-generation commercial performer Tokashiki Shuryō's work “helped to define a

new era of performing arts through which Okinawans on stage and in the audience

actively grappled with the pressures of colonial modernity” (2009, 223). On the one hand,

the pressures of colonial modernity certainly helped shape Okinawan social experience as

a whole, and left an imprint on all forms of cultural production. On the other hand, the

Tokashiki brothers’ own memoirs and recorded works do not explicitly take up the topic

of colonial modernity (cf. Tokashiki Shuryō Kinenshi Henshū Iinkai 2005). This is

relevant because colonialism and modernization were certainly subjects of discourse in

Okinawa at the time; we cannot simply discount the fact that the Tokashikis did not

choose to focus on these subjects. When we write prewar performing arts into a

postcolonial-theoretical metanarrative without giving historically specific qualifications,

we risk slipping into a kind of subaltern-studies variation on the Lukácsian false

consciousness paradigm, in which anticolonial consciousness takes the place of class

consciousness as the “appropriate and rational reaction ‘imputed’ to a particular typical

position in the process of production” (1967, 51). Eliding interpretation with imputation

in this way threatens to displace what remain of performers’ and audiences’ own voices.

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Theory II: From sociologism to critical hermeneutics

In order to avoid these pitfalls, we must seek an alternate framework for

interpreting and evaluating works of art that do not conform to any universalistic political

metanarrative. Here, revisiting the intellectual milieu of prewar Japan can be of help. By

the early Shōwa period, Japanese intellectuals had begun to join their Western

contemporaries in applying social scientific methods to the study of art and literature

(Harootunian 2011b). Kyoto School philosopher Tosaka Jun exemplifies this critical

theoretical direction in prewar Japanese thought. In a collection of essays entitled

Ideology and Custom (Shisō to fūzoku 思想と風俗), Tosaka sets forth a nuanced model

of the relationship between political, economic, and cultural formations in prewar

Japanese modernity. Its central theme is the aforementioned character compound fūzoku

(風俗), which can be translated as popular culture, customs and manners, or lifestyle

(etc.). Like the various forms of mainland Japanese cultural production that Tosaka

critiques, Okinawan commercial theater took shape alongside new fūzoku in the crucible

of an emergent “mass culture” (taishū bunka 大衆文化) (Tosaka 2001, 27). Tosaka’s

inquiry into the complex relationship between social structure, fūzoku, and popular

literature and art opens up new perspectives on the interpretation and political relevance

of commercial theater and other mass arts.

Tosaka’s presentation of the term fūzoku is intentionally ambivalent. He

compares fūzoku to Hegel’s Sitten, which he renders as “feelings and customs” (ninjō

fūzoku 人情風俗) (42). For Hegel, Sittlichkeit or “ethical life in accordance with custom”

refers “simultaneously to a system of social institutions … and to the moral attitude of the

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individual who identifies with and lives them” (1991, 404). For Tosaka, it is precisely

this duality that makes concepts like Sitten and fūzoku compelling:

From the standpoint of social structural analysis, it is difficult to locate fūzoku

within a conventional model of base and superstructure … [On the one hand,]

fūzoku as it appears in the form of patterns of labor practice is a kind of structural

institution. In this view, it adjoins society’s material base. On the other hand,

from the perspective of the consciousness of people born and educated within a

given society, fūzoku also entails the feeling or apperception of being acculturated

into its structural institutions. In this view, we must call it part of that society’s

ideological superstructure (2001, 16-17).

One crucial insight here is that social structures are understood and experienced

differently based on one’s perspective. From the theorist’s standpoint, matters of custom

and style are “nothing more than immaterial phenomena abstracted from the [material]

substance of society.” In the course of everyday life, however, we experience such

phenomena as “preeminently concrete and embodied … in the same way as someone in

love perceives the physical body of their lover.” In a way, fūzoku is “abstract if we call it

abstract, and concrete if we call it concrete” – it is catalytic and processual, a mobile

point of transit at which ideation becomes material life and vice versa (26).

Tosaka goes on to observe that his contemporaries among the prewar Japanese

intelligentsia tend to make a sharp distinction between “heavy fūzoku” (jū-fūzoku 重風

俗) – political incidents and manifestos, religious belief systems, etc. – and “light fūzoku”

(kei-fūzoku 軽風俗) – the practices and objects that fill common peoples’ everyday lives

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(54-55). He criticizes the literary establishment for focusing too narrowly on works that

thematize “heavy fūzoku,” reminding us that “the February 26 Incident and the

Declaration of Martial Law are not the only kind of ‘current social affairs’ – the lyrics of

popular songs and trends in women’s makeup count too” (53-54).

Indeed, on an

everyday level, “light fūzoku” such as clothing, hairstyles, advertising jingles, and vocal

accents play a more proximate and tangible role in shaping the texture of subjective

experience and intersubjective relations. Such phenomena “have no exclusive connection

to the economic, the political, or other discrete levels [analytic categories] of society’s

material structure, but rather, disregard these distinctions and run through them all” (16).

Tosaka argues that because of this, it is everyday or “light” fūzoku that provide the most

insight into the cohesion of emergent sociopolitical formations such as “the masses”

(taishū 大衆) and the “national polity” (kokutai 国体) (43). Accordingly, he encourages

social scientists to pay particular attention to under-researched areas of everyday life, and

prods literary critics to take account of “lowbrow” genres typically despised by the

intelligentsia – for example, romance novels, the popular appeal of which lies precisely in

their portrayal of the everyday world of fūzoku (28).

Tosaka’s conception of “light fūzoku” resonates with the recent turn in cultural

theory toward embodied social practice and the concept of “the everyday” (Hirano 2014,

22-23; cf. Harootunian 2004). It is easy for theorists to neglect everyday life because we

are not used to regarding it as an object of detached observation: as Dilthey observes,

“the reality of lived experience is there for me because I have a reflexive awareness of it,

because I possess it immediately as belonging to me in some sense” (1985, 223). We

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internalize the practices of everyday life through a gradual, semi-conscious “process of

training the senses” (Tosaka 2001, 29; cf. Chakrabarty 1998). Our initial approach to

internalized customs and manners is not to take account of them through cognition, but

simply to live through and within them as “social structures given the appearance of

naturalness by history” (15). Tosaka’s phrasing here recalls Hegel’s description of

Sittlichkeit or “ethical life in accordance with custom” as a mode of being in which “the

habit of the ethical appears as second nature which takes the place of the original and

purely natural will,” becoming a kind of “customary will” (1991, 194; 335). It also

anticipates Bourdieu’s description of habitus as “a system of dispositions … [that]

designates a way of being, a habitual state (especially of the body), and, in particular, a

predisposition, tendency, propensity or inclination” (1984, 2).

Here, we should take care to distinguish the concept of habituated predisposition

from the stronger concept of predetermination. Again anticipating Bourdieu, Tosaka

suggests that neither social structures nor cultural formations strictly determine how we

interpret our environing world or how we exercise our capacities for speech and action

(1979, 289-290). Rather, they help shape our interests and guide our anticipation of

probable outcomes of action, thus generating metrics of possibility, desirability, and

reasonableness. This is what Bourdieu means when he argues that habituated

dispositions circumscribe a “sense of limits, commonly called the sense of reality, i.e. the

correspondence between the objective classes and the internalized classes, social

structures and mental structures” (1977, 164). This “sense of limits” is not static but

contextually adaptive – while an agent cannot reshape her sense of limits at will, she can

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catalyze its transformation by reimagining, changing, and re-evaluating her worldly

situation. Habituated dispositions or fūzoku can thus be imagined as structuring a

dynamic field of possibilities and probabilities, on which we play out “the dialectic of the

objective chances and the agents' aspirations.”

Our habituation to fūzoku also imparts us with normative expectations by which

we reflexively judge the people and things we encounter in the world. Tosaka classifies

this evaluative faculty as “the concept of morality as determined by worldly common

sense” (seken no tsūzoku jōshiki ni yoru dōtoku gainen 世間の通俗常識による道徳概

念) (2001, 29). Given Tosaka’s Neo-Kantian background, it is feasible to render

“worldly common sense” here as sensus communis aestheticus or “taste.”

While

Tosaka does not restate all of the intricacies of Kant’s Critique of Judgment, he does echo

the crucial distinction between judgments of the understanding, which are determinant,

and judgments of taste, which are reflective (2001, 21-22). Determinant judgments

determine the attributes of sensory objects by subsuming them under general categories

of the understanding; an example is the proposition “roses are red” (Kant 1914, 18).

Reflective judgments, on the other hand, “refer the object immediately to [the subject’s]

feelings of pleasure and pain;” an example is the proposition “I find this rose pleasing”

(61). Determinant judgments are objective and universal, while reflective judgments are

subjective and singular. This being said, some judgments of taste still seem to make a

claim to universality in the form of exemplarity. Whereas the claim to objective validity

lies in the deduction that any subject must agree with a given proposition, the claim to

exemplary validity lies in the feeling that any subject ought to agree. Through a cognitive

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misdirection that neither Kant nor Tosaka adequately explains, the subject takes account

of this feeling “just as if it were a predicate bound up with the cognition of the Object”

(33). Despite their subjectivity and singularity, then, judgments of taste can “claim

universal assent (as if [they] were objective)” (95).

Here we should note that Tosaka’s “worldly common sense” bears less

resemblance to Kant’s universalistic model of sensus communis aestheticus than to Hans-

Georg Gadamer’s more contemporary social constructivist model. Kant describes the

sense that guides judgments of taste as a special relation between universal mental

faculties. Looking back to Giambattista Vico, Gadamer argues against Kant that this

sense is not universal, but rather, is “acquired through living in [a particular] community

and is determined by its structures and aims” (2004, 20; cf. Vico 1984). Nothing makes

these models of taste incompatible: some criteria may well be a priori (as the relatively

new field of neuroaesthetics seeks to demonstrate [cf. Skov and Vartanian 2009; Frigg

and Hunter 2010; Wallmark 2014, 192-195]), while others take shape through the

subject’s interaction with her environing world. The interplay between relatively

inflexible inborn tastes and relatively malleable acquired tastes gives rise to a dynamic

sense of “fore-understanding” or “anticipation of meaning,” which “proceeds from the

commonality that binds us to [a particular cultural] tradition,” yet which is also

“constantly being formed in our relation to tradition” (293).

The idea of sensus communis is useful to this project because it offers perspective

on the complex relationship between sensation, judgment, and the nature of agency. We

are used to thinking of sensation as passive and judgment as active. Reflective judgment,

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however, affects us spontaneously, “as if it were a sensation, and precisely one of taste,

the discriminatory, choosing sense” (Arendt 1989, 70-72). Gadamer calls this kind of

non-deliberative discriminatory impulse Vorurteil, “pre-judgment” or “prejudice” (2004,

273). The feeling of naturalness and spontaneity that accompanies pre-judgment or

prejudice imparts it with a unique regulatory power. It is our prejudices, for example,

which allow us to predispose ourselves toward a stranger without deliberation, merely by

looking at her clothing and hairstyle or hearing her accent (Tosaka 2001, 42-43; 45).

Through a sort of cognitive misdirection that neither Kant nor Tosaka adequately explain,

it is easy to misapprehend the spontaneity of taste as a “feeling of the purposiveness of

the object in relation to the subject,” which gives rise to a sense of “being ‘at home’ [in

the world]” (Kant 1914, xx; Tosaka 2001, 15). This seemingly autonomic sense of being

“at home” contributes a kind of low-level but continuous force to the inertial tendency of

any established order, which is to “produce the naturalization of its own arbitrariness”

(Bourdieu 1977, 164; 1984, 56-62).

Tosaka’s quasi-Kantian idea of taste is central to his analysis of the appeal or

omoshirosa (面白さ) of prewar Japanese popular culture. He argues that the omoshirosa

of genres such as romance novels, light music, and commercial film does not attach to

their ideational content or their form as such, but to a their quality of “special truthfulness

to fūzoku” – i.e., their fit with habituated taste (2001, 28). An artwork’s “special

truthfulness to fūzoku” does not depend so much upon whether it accurately represents

“actual reality” (genjitsu riaritī 現実リアリティー) (22). Rather, it springs from the

way it discloses an affecting “artistic reality” (geijutsuteki riaritī 芸術的リアリティー)

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(37). In Kantian terms, this “special truthfulness” falls under the category of exemplary

rather than objective validity. Another point of comparison is Heideggerean aletheia –

truth-as-disclosure or unconcealment – which “does not mean that something is correctly

portrayed and reproduced but rather that that which is, as a whole, is brought into

unconcealment and held there” (Heidegger 2002, 32; emphasis mine). We experience

truth-as-disclosure aesthetically, as a “shock of recognition … in which the beholder

experiences a fulfilled apprehension of meaning that surpasses all conscious expectation”

(Gadamer 2004, 288). By presenting us with an exemplary vision of the lived depths of

feeling and experience that “saturate the things-at-hand and our words and gestures to the

most delicate degree,” the work of art invites us to recognize the truth of our own being-

in-the-world (Tosaka 2001, 15-16). For Tosaka, this quality of “special truthfulness” is

what distinguishes popular art and literature from non-artistic modes of mass cultural

production such as essays and manifestos (28).

Tosaka’s deconstruction of fūzoku and “special truthfulness to fūzoku” offers new

perspective on our foregoing discussion of politics and aesthetics. One important aspect

of judgments of taste is that regardless of whether the subject judges the object positively

or negatively, the procedure of judgment itself is to an extent pleasurable merely insofar

as it imparts a sense of “being ‘at home’” in the world, a “love of the materiality of the

world and a delight in the movement of things” (15; 41). Because of this, judgments of

taste “not only help confirm the social fact that ‘everybody does things like this,’ but also

endow this fact with compelling force and moral authority, and generate satisfaction that

accompanies the acknowledgement of authority” (21). This satisfaction can easily be

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grafted onto particular ideologized representations of reality, which Tosaka calls “culture

ideas” (bunka idē 文化イデー) (1979, 288-290). He offers Tokugawa period theater as

an example, observing how popular melodramas generate satisfaction by fulfilling the

habituated expectation that “good will be rewarded and evil punished” (kanzen chōaku).

By serving up kanzen chōaku narratives as occasions for aesthetic pleasure, popular

melodramas reproduce the Confucian concept of a natural and inviolable moral order.

Tosaka forthrightly denounces such celebratory, moralistic dramaturgy as a “weapon for

mass indoctrination” (minzoku kyōka no buki 民衆教化の武器). He is no less sparing in

his evaluation of “bourgeois moralist” critics and theorists who defend the idea that art

should palliate the masses by reinforcing normative moral ideas (2001, 22; 31). For

Tosaka, a key function of politically engaged critical theory is to dispel such “self-

exclupatory” moralism, thereby clearing a path for “scientific” (i.e., historical materialist)

inquiry into the causes of human suffering (24; 29; 31).

This being said, Tosaka rejects the idea that aesthetic criticism should limit itself

to social scientific methods, suggesting that fictional and nonfictional representation

operate under different conceptions of truth and value (1979, 290; 2001, 30-32). The

scientific aim of gauging empirical truth is well suited to the study of modes of cultural

production that purport to represent “actual reality” (genjitsu riaritī), such as editorials

and manifestos. It is inadequate, however, to the study of modes of cultural production

that disclose “artistic realities” (geijutsuteki riaritī) (28). While social scientific methods

can tell us a great deal about the social conditions of an artwork’s production and the

veracity of its representational content, they can tell us very little about its distinguishing

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omoshirosa or interest-value and aesthetic appeal (what Ricoeur calls “the literariness of

the work of literature” [1990 vol. 1, 53]). As previously argued, this is because art’s

appeal does not inhere in its capacity to more or less accurately represent discrete objects,

but in its capacity to disclose, through feeling or aesthesis, the “independent ontological

value of the Gestalt” (Gadamer 2004, 474).

Tosaka suggests that in order to grasp this properly aesthetic dimension of art, we

must supplement “scientific” (i.e., Marxist) critical theory with less sociologistic, more

humanistic paradigms such as a “theory of literary composition” and even a “theory of

[the representation of] romantic love” (2001, 33). What he seems to be calling for is a

rapprochement between historical materialism and the humanist tradition of hermeneutics.

The term hermeneutics as I employ it does not designate a particular method so much as

the regulative idea of historically mediated understanding, which is distinct from the

social scientific regulative idea of objective validity. As mentioned in the prior section,

the aim of “Marxist aesthetics” as it is traditionally conceived has been to determine the

truth-content of the work of art with respect to the social conditions of its production and

reception (Eagleton 1981, 82). The assumption is that doing this will render visible an

“internal bond between the object and a proper (theoretical or aesthetic) knowledge of it”

– i.e., knowledge of whether the work is “correct” or “false” (85; cf. Brecht 1964, 21).

Tosaka anticipates Hans-Georg Gadamer’s hermeneutic riposte to this assumption, which

is that there can be no such “proper knowledge” of human phenomena such as literature

and art – only interpretation. This is because the work of art does not stand apart from

the subject “like something other,” in the manner of an object of scientific inquiry

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(Gadamer 2004, 283). Rather, it addresses the subject on behalf of a tradition that she

has already internalized to some extent in the form of habituated fore-understandings or

prejudices (298). While prejudices do not determine our understanding and

interpretation, they do irremediably color it to some extent. This leads Gadamer to argue

that for the theorist as well as the uncritical spectator, interpreting a work of art “[should]

be thought of less as a subjective act than as participating in an event of tradition, a

process of transmission in which past and present are constantly mediated” (291).

From a critical theory perspective, it is easy to think of hermeneutics as practiced

by Heidegger and Gadamer as a reactionary defense of social quiescence and prejudice in

the common-use sense of the word. One of Gadamer’s stated aims, after all, is “the

rehabilitation of authority and tradition” (2004, 278). As Paul Ricoeur observes, “the

critique of critique contains a thesis that will appear very suspect to ‘critical’ eyes:

namely, that a consensus already exists [in the form of tradition], which founds the

possibility of aesthetic, historical, and lingual relations” (2007, 284). Under this

assumption of pregiven consensus, “the critical instance can be developed only as a

moment subordinated to the consciousness of finitude and of the figures of

preunderstanding which always precede and envelop it” (289). Gadamer’s endgame,

however, is not a nostalgic return to “precritical” thought (275). At no point does he

renounce the need for critique. Rather, he seeks to deconstruct what he sees as a false

antinomy between the idealistic vocation of critical reason and the real, immediate, and

life-enriching affective claims of tradition (2004, 279). In doing so, he hopes to reaffirm

the historicity and finitude of human understanding as a check against the potential

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excesses of instrumentalized rationality, which (as twentieth century history has proven)

can be used to expedite and legitimize violence as surely as can tradition.

Ricoeur argues that embracing hermeneutics as “metacritique” can in fact

contribute to our critical practice, particularly where art and literature are concerned

(2007, 284). It does so by transforming our concept of critical distanciation. We

commonly imagine critical consciousness as a kind of tool brought to bear upon an object

(in this case the work of art) from a distance, like an optical device, a measuring

instrument, or a scalpel. Lukács and Ernst Bloch’s aforementioned comparison of critical

realist literature to a social seismograph epitomizes this paradigm.

Our detour through

hermeneutics shows us that this kind of distanciation is neither possible nor desirable. It

is impossible because the observer, whether a critic or an everyday spectator, can never

entirely escape her own prejudices, which not only guide her evaluations, but also

predispose her to ask some questions and leave others unasked. It is undesirable because

even if the critic could interrogate the work thoroughly from a standpoint outside all

prejudice, this interrogation would reveal very little about the way the work speaks to an

addressee who stands within its tradition. This is to say in Tosaka Jun’s terminology that

it would fail to disclose the work of art’s “special truthfulness to fūzoku,” which lies at

the root of its aesthetic appeal – and consequently, its social efficacy.

Against the positivist model of distanciation, Ricoeur proposes what he calls a

critical hermeneutical model. This model is grounded on the autonomy of the materially

fixed text with respect to the intentions of its creator, the conditions of its production, and

the understanding of its addressees (298). The idea that the work of art “decontextualizes

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itself … and is able to recontextualize itself differently in the act of reading” allows a

break with the psychologism typical of Romantic hermeneutics:

“[What] is sought is no longer an intention hidden behind the text but a world

unfolded in front of it. The power of the text to open a dimension of reality

implies in principle a recourse against any given reality and thereby the possibility

of a critique of the real … [The] mode of being of the world opened up by the text

is the mode of the possible, or better, of the power-to-be: therein resides the

subversive force of the imaginary (300).

Ricoeur’s “threefold autonomy” also enables us to reconceive distanciation as a relational

phenomenon rather than an objectivizing methodological operation undertaken by the

subject (297). For Ricoeur, establishing critical consciousness is not a matter of

attempting to step outside everyday consciousness into a hypothetical standpoint from

which the relations between texts (“artistic realities”) and the world (“actual realities”)

can be objectively tracked and assessed. Rather, it is a matter of allowing oneself to be

addressed by the text and “[receiving] a self enlarged by the appropriation of the

proposed worlds that interpretation unfolds” (301). Ricoeur’s critical hermeneutics does

not claim either the distanced objectivity promised by sociologistic positivism or the

appropriative consensus promised by traditional hermeneutics. Instead, it offers to

mediate between these extremes: “if distanciation from oneself is not a fault to be

combated but rather the condition of possibility of understanding oneself in front of the

text, then appropriation is the dialectical counterpart of distanciation.”

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The idea of critical hermeneutics also broadens the vocation of critical

consciousness. In addition to analyzing the work from the point of view of reality, we

awaken to our ability to reinterpret reality from the point of view of the work. Gadamer

observes that whenever we take stock of our situation from an unfamiliar point of view,

the predispositions and prejudices that shape our everyday realities “are properly brought

into play by being put at risk” (2004, 299). Ricoeur develops this observation into a

bridge between hermeneutics and the Marxian critical theory tradition: “Distanciation

from oneself demands that the appropriation of the proposed worlds offered by the text

passes through the disappropriation of the self. The critique of false consciousness can

thus become an integral part of hermeneutics, conferring upon the critique of ideology

that meta-hermeneutical dimension that Habermas assigns to it” (2007, 301). Here, the

Marxian idea of false consciousness assumes a new vibrancy. In place of the old

false/correct binary, critical hermeneutics asks us to imagine a vast multitude of

“different possible relations between the objective economic totality, the imputed class

consciousness and the real, psychological thoughts of men about their lives” (Lukács

1967, 51-52). Rather than disdaining “the naïve description of what men in fact thought,

felt and wanted at any moment in history,” critical hermeneutics seeks to understand how

it is possible for social actors to have thought, felt and wanted what they did. If the final

aim of sociologistic critique is to impute “appropriate and rational reactions” to given

positions in the relations of production, the final aim of critical hermeneutics is to inquire

how it is that a person in a given position in the relations of production might come to

feel as if her everyday practices are themselves appropriate and rational.

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Finally, critical hermeneutics helps advance our foregoing discussion of politics

and aesthetics, beyond the question of art’s representational content and toward the

question of the “political ontology” of art. It does so by asking us to reconsider how

artistic representation or mimesis works. As Ricoeur observes, we are used to thinking of

“re-presentation” as exactly that – an imitative redoubling of objects of sense in the

theater of the imagination (1991, 138). In this view, the work of art or literature is easily

taken for a copy of a copy, a reproduction of an already degraded image of “actual

reality” (cf. Tosaka 2001). Ricoeur turns this model on its head, arguing that mimesis is

itself productive rather than merely reproductive. In the narrative arts, we can see the

productive dimension of mimesis at work in emplotment (muthos), the activity of

configuring representations of actions, incidents, and characters into a coherent world

(1990 vol. 1, 33). Non-narrative arts manifest a comparable productive power through

“poetic transposition” – the symbolic evocation and imaginative reconfiguration of ideas

and affective states (1977, 154; cited in Savage 2006, 128). Poetic transposition

necessarily involves “holding two moments in equilibrium: suspending the reference of

ordinary language and releasing a second-order reference, which is another name for

what we have designated above as the world opened up by the work” (2007, 300).

As mentioned in the Introduction, we are accustomed to thinking of matters of

artistic form and composition as “loftily remote from the ‘public sphere’” and the

vulgarities of politics (Eagleton 1981, 107). Ricoeur’s image of realities in equilibrium

and Rancière’s similar concept of “dissensus” as the coexistence of conflicting sensory

worlds provoke a rethinking (Rancière 2009, 11; 2004; 226). Both emplotment and

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poetic transposition are remarkable insofar as they necessitate an imaginative step away

from the pre-given conditions of our very being. They thus enable a bracketing of the

habituated customs and expectations that enframe our everyday experience. The

intersection between the uniquely configured world of the work and the lifeworld of the

spectator serves as an invitation to sense, think, and feel differently, opening an

“experimental field” in which we can envision new configurations of persons and things,

explore new potential horizons of experience, indulge proscribed desires, and voice

repressed anxieties (Ricoeur 1991, 149; 1999, 54). Through this intersection, “modes of

narration or new forms of visibility established by artistic practices enter into politics’

own field of aesthetic [i.e., sensory] possibilities” (Rancière 2013, 60).

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Chapter 2. Performing arts in the Ryūkyū Kingdom

The origin and political trajectory of the Ryūkyū Kingdom

Spanning over 1,000 kilometers between Kyūshū and Taiwan, the Ryūkyū

archipelago consists of five island groups: from north to south, the Ōsumi (大隈), Tokara

(吐噶喇), Amami (奄美), Okinawa (沖縄), and Sakishima (先島) groups.

Ryūkyūans are

generally regarded as one of three Japanese ethnic-cultural groups (the others being the

Yamato and Ainu), and the Ryūkyūan languages comprise one of the two extant Japonic

language families. Archeological evidence points to five phases in Old Ryūkyūan

history: a Paleolithic period beginning as early as 30,150 BCE; a hunter-gatherer period

beginning around 5,000 BCE; the adoption of rice, barley, and wheat cultivation in the

eighth to tenth centuries CE; the formation of fortified villages around the eleventh

century; and the formation of hierarchical centralized polities beginning in the thirteenth

century (Kreiner 2001, 1; Pearson 2001, 245). By the early fourteenth century, polities

on Okinawa Island had consolidated into three competing kingdoms: Chūzan (中山),

Nanzan (南山) and Hokuzan (北山) (Pearson 2001, 246-250). In 1429, King Shō Hashi

(尚巴志, r. 1422-1439) of Chūzan subjugated Nanzan and Hokuzan, thus establishing the

Ryūkyū Kingdom (Ryūkyū Ōkoku 琉球王国). After uniting Okinawa Island, the first and

second Shō dynasties worked to extend Shuri’s authority to the Sakishima (Miyako and

Yaeyama island groups), a task they completed by around 1500.

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Aside from unification, the defining political event in early Ryūkyūan history was

the establishment of tribute relations with imperial China. In 1374, Chūzan congratulated

the newly ascendant Ming Dynasty on its victory over the Yuan by sending a tribute

mission; Hokuzan and Nanzan followed suit in 1380 and 1383 (Steben 1998, 40). The

political purpose of these missions was to legitimize local rulers by gaining the

recognition of the Chinese emperor. Every time a new king took the throne, Chinese

envoys were summoned to confirm his legitimacy through an investiture ceremony

(ukwanshin 御冠船). The ukwanshin tradition helped drive the Confucianization of

Ryūkyūan culture, a process that would continue for centuries. The Ryūkyū Kingdom’s

tribute relationship with China also provided access to Chinese ports and the ports of

other tributaries throughout East and Southeast Asia, thereby invigorating the Ryūkyūan

economy (Pearson 2001, 250-263).

According to leading Okinawan performing arts scholar Yano Teruo, tribute trade

helped shape the era’s performing arts as well (2003, 11). Chinese processional music

(rujigaku 路次楽) and courtly ceremonial music (uzagaku 御座楽) were introduced to

enhance the dignity of royal rites, and Chinese guqin and flute became popular among

Confucian literati in the Kumemura district (Kishibe et al., Grove Music Online). Other

aristocrats practiced nō chant, which flourished under the Japanese Ashikaga shogunate

(33). The poetic form of “Japanese songs” (waka 和歌) also became popular, inspiring

the development of “Ryūkyūan songs” (ryūka 琉歌), which are similar in style but

rhythmically adapted to the Ryūkyūan languages. Finally, it is possible that merchants

and other travelers introduced musical and dance styles from Southeast Asia, as musical

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instruments are listed among the cargo of some returning ships (Kerr 2000, 96; Sakamaki

1964, 387).

The decline of the Chinese Ming dynasty and the rise of the “great unifiers” in

Japan precipitated a change in political fortunes for the Ryūkyū Kingdom. In 1602,

Tokugawa Ieyasu wrote to King Shō Nei demanding tribute. Shō Nei and his advisors

ignored Ieyasu’s demand, perhaps believing that the Chinese would intervene as they had

during Hideyoshi’s invasion of Korea (Kreiner 2009, 9). In 1609, the Shimazu clan of

Satsuma domain requested and received Ieyasu’s permission to launch a punitive

invasion of the islands. Satsuma easily overcame the Ryūkyūan defenders, looted the

palace, and removed the king to Kagoshima, where he was held hostage for two years (cf.

Turnbull 2009). Before being allowed to return to Shuri, Shō Nei was forced to sign an

oath of fealty, which declared that Ryūkyū had been a Satsuma vassal since ancient times

and apologized for lapsing in its feudatory duties.

In addition to forcing the Kingdom

to rewrite its past, Satsuma dispatched a resident magistrate to Shuri, imposed fifteen

statutory injunctions and a yearly tribute, and mandated frequent tributary missions to

Kagoshima and periodic missions to Edo (Edo nobori 江戸上り). Initially, Satsuma also

instituted an assimilationist cultural policy, decreeing that the “customs and practices of

Ryūkyū are not to differ from those of Japan” (Smits 1999, 18).

Fortuitously for the global cultural heritage, this assimilationist policy did not last

long. In 1615, China closed its ports to Japanese ships. Satsuma quickly realized that

overtly Japanizing the Ryūkyū Kingdom might drive the Chinese to cut off its tribute

trade privileges. Maintaining the “garb of a sovereign kingdom” (ōkoku no kazari 王国

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の飾), on the other hand, would establish tribute trade as a loophole through which

Satsuma could access Chinese goods (Araki 1980, 179). In 1616, Satsuma reversed its

assimilationist decree and prohibited Ryūkyūans from adopting Japanese customs.

Among the practices specifically banned were Buddhist evangelizing, travel by non-

Satsuma Japanese to Ryūkyū, the speaking of Japanese by Ryūkyūans while traveling in

Japan, the wearing of Japanese-style clothing or hairstyles, the incorporation of Japanese

elements into Ryūkyūan courtly ritual, and even the singing of Japanese songs (Smits

1999, 28; 45). Seeking to strengthen the kingdom’s ties with China, Satsuma encouraged

the court to Sinicize its ceremonial practices. It also provided incentives for Ryūkyūans

to master the Chinese language and customs, mandating that only those with experience

on the continent could engage in trade (around 70,000 Ryūkyūans studied in China over

the entire Tokugawa period) (Kreiner 2001, 20; see also Matsuda 1966). Ironically, as a

result, “Ryukyu’s most intense period of Sinicization took place when the kingdom was

under Japanese political domination” (Smits 2000, 117).

Balancing the desires and expectations of two suzerains required carefully

choreographed cultural and political performances. On the one hand, familiarity with the

Japanese language and culture was undoubtedly expected and appreciated by Satsuma

officials. Moreover, the association of Japanese pursuits such as waka and nō with the

islands’ new de facto overlords likely increased their appeal to some Okinawan literati.

On the other hand, both Satsuma and the royal government insisted that Ryūkyū maintain

a front of Chinese cultural and political affiliation. It is interesting to note that for

Satsuma, Sinicizing the Ryūkyū Kingdom not only helped ensure its continuing viability

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as a trade loophole, but also enabled the Shimizu family to claim the unique honor of

having a “foreign” kingdom as a vassal. This increased Satsuma’s prestige in the eyes of

the shogunate and the other domains. On two occasions, the Shimizu even leveraged

their suzerainty over Ryūkyū to gain promotions in court rank (Smits 1999, 27). To this

end, during diplomatic missions to Edo, Satsuma “took every opportunity to emphasize

the foreignness of the Ryūkyūans,” compelling them to dress in Ming-style robes,

perform indigenous and Chinese ceremonial music and dances, and “feign ignorance of

Japanese language and customs” (28). Of course, it was almost certainly courtiers who

had garnered favor by mastering Japanese standards of propriety and demonstrating pro-

Satsuma political affinities who were chosen to participate in these cultural performances.

This contradiction-riddled condition of “dual subordination to Japan and China” (nisshi

ryōzoku 日支両属) lasted from 1609 until the Japanese shogunate’s redefinition of the

Ryūkyū Kingdom as a domain (han) in 1872.

Social structure in the Ryūkyū Kingdom

During the period of dual subordination, the Ryūkyūan state implemented a range

of policies designed to realize the Confucian ideal of a rationally structured hierarchical

society. Prompted by Satsuma, the royal government issued family records (kafu 家譜)

to aristocratic families, which clarified their position within the social hierarchy. The

hereditary warrior class (shizoku 士族 or samurai 侍) was divided into three segments:

royal branch families (ōji 王子) and the descendants of regional lords or anji (anjibu 按

司部), upper class samurai (jōkyū-shizoku 上級士族), and common samurai (ippan-

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shizoku 一般士族 or heishi 平士). Upper ranking samurai were subdivided into two

ranks: uēkata (親方), who were enfeoffed with either a district (administrative title of

sōjitō 総地頭) or a village (administrative position of waki-jitō 脇地頭), and pēkumī (親

雲上), who could be enfeoffed with a village (administrative position of waki-jitō), at

which point the pronunciation of their courtly rank would change to pēchin. Common

samurai were divided into a middle rank (satōnushi 里之子) and a lower rank (chikutōn

筑登之). Both could be enfeoffed with villages, thereby attaining the titles satōnushi

pēchin (里之子親雲上) or chikutōn pēchin (筑登之親雲上).

The importance accorded to the rectification of names and titles in early modern

Ryūkyū illustrates Ricoeur’s observation that “the conventional rules that govern the

distribution of first and family names, as well as the pronouns in any given culture,

constitutes a veritable founding of a speaking subject” (2005a, 96). In Ryūkyū, the

distribution of ranks and names not only determined social position, but also helped

structure the distribution of surplus production. The royal family, royal branch families,

anji, and upper ranking samurai received stipends based on their fief holdings (chigyō 知

行) and/or their positions at court (yakuhō 役俸) (Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2,

149).

Enfeoffed lower ranking samurai received income from their holdings, while

non-enfeoffed lower samurai depended upon employment in the court bureaucracy (those

who could not find court jobs were eventually permitted to leave the city and establish

farming communities). In 1689, the royal government formally institutionalized the

status and occupational system by establishing an Office of Family Records (keizuza 系

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図座) and required all samurai families to submit their lineage papers (kafu 家譜). Those

self-identified aristocratic families that could not provide kafu were reduced to commoner

status (Meyer 2007, 79).

The broad status group of commoners was divided into three occupational groups:

merchants and craftspeople who lived in the Shuri/Naha area (machi-hyakushō 町百姓),

rural officials (chihō-yakunin 地方役人), and peasants (inaka-hyakushō 田舎百姓). The

core social unit in peasant life was the tax-paying corporate village body or kyōdōtai

(nengu chōtatsu no kyōdōtai kumishiki 年貢調達の共同体組敷). The highest

administrative rank available to commoners was that of headman – literally,

“representative of the fief-holder” (jitōdai 地頭代). Each village generally employed

several assistant administrators (bujitō 夫地頭). Literate commoners could also be

appointed to a number of magisterial positions (sabakuri 捌理) and minor clerical

positions (tikugu 文子). Generally speaking, local elites sought to maximize their own

class advantage vis-à-vis the peasantry while simultaneously satisfying the Shuri

government's economic and sociocultural demands (Uehara 1977, 20). This mirrors the

role of village-level elites in early modern Japan as "the backbone of [the Tokugawa

shogunate's] local structure of domination” (Ooms 1996, 75).

Because samurai, townspeople, and rural officials were not taxed, the peasant

kyōdōtai had to shoulder the kingdom’s financial burdens. Taxes were based on assessed

production of the land held in tenure by the members of each kyōdōtai; taxes were

generally collected in rice, sugar, woven goods, and other species in kind. On Okinawa

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Island, villages were taxed at an average rate of 40% (Sakihara 1971, 75).

Conditions

were worse in the outer islands of the Miyako and Yaeyama groups. In 1636, a per-

capita tax (nintōzei 人頭税, sometimes translated as “poll tax”) was placed on every

commoner from age 15 to 50, averaging about 42% of assessed productive capacity in

Miyako and 52% in Yaeyama (91). In addition to land taxes, peasants were levied with

special products taxes and corvée requirements, compelled to provide goods to local

officials at fixed prices well below market value, and required to use goods-to-rice

conversion rates that heavily favored the state.

Because it was imperative to maintain

stable tax-paying demographics, the state tightly restricted both social and physical

mobility. Generally, peasants were not permitted to leave the lands allotted to their

corporate village body: as Ooms puts it, the fief-holder or jitō “‘owned’ the land, which

‘owned’ the people on it” (1996, 16).

Like the Tokugawa shogunate, the Ryūkyūan

royal government relied upon local elites to enforce these dictates.

Popular performing arts in early modern Ryūkyū

Due to both geographical and political restrains, early modern Ryūkyūan society

was highly regionalized, and boasted a diverse range of regional performing arts

traditions. These traditions are often grouped under the broad categories of “village

theater” (mura-shibai 村芝居) and “village dance” (mura-odori 村踊り). Historical

records pertaining to the lifestyles of commoners during the Ryūkyū Kingdom period are

scarce; this is due in part to relatively low literacy rates among commoners prior to the

introduction of Japanese-style education, and in part to the destruction of records and the

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decimation of communities during the Battle of Okinawa (Ōno 2003, 78). Accordingly,

much of what we know about both rural life and non-elite performing arts traditions is

based on extrapolation from postwar ethnographic work.

Two terms that appear frequently in accounts of regional performing arts are

ashibī (遊び), “enjoyment/play,” and ugwan (御願), “request/prayer/vow” (Ikemiya

1980, 277). As these terms suggest, village performing arts serve both a celebratory and

a ceremonial function. While ritual calendars vary from region to region, many villages

hold festivals in early January (shōgatsu 正月), the third lunar month (hamaori 浜下り),

and the seventh lunar month (tanabata 七夕 and bon 盆).

The proximate object of most

festivals has traditionally been to ensure a prosperous crop and convey gratitude and

respect to local and visiting deities (kami 神).

Of course, festivals also serve the

general functions of punctuating the annual labor-cycle and reconfirming shared beliefs

and established patterns of practice, thereby reinforcing solidarity among the members of

the community (Durkheim 2004, 86).

According to Ikemiya, many regional festival performances can be broken down

into a basic structural pattern. First, there is a procession or michijunē (道ジュネー) to a

temporary stage constructed adjacent the village’s utaki (御嶽) or sacred grove,

accompanied by rujigaku (路次楽), processional music derived from Ming Chinese

models (1980, 278). Second, the stage is purified with a performance called gujinfū (御

前風), which often consists of kagiyadefū bushi (かぎやで風節), a fan dance performed

by a venerable old man (okina 翁). Third, a lion dance, shishimai (獅子舞), is

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performed. This is followed by the group dance chōja-nu-ufushu (長者の大主), in which

a white-haired and white-bearded old man offers thanks to the gods and spirits, then

summons young men and children to dance with him. After this, a number of dances,

songs, kumiodori, and/or kyōgen are performed as entertainments (i.e., without any

singular, explicit ritual function).

During the Ryūkyū Kingdom period, itinerant

commercial performing artists called chondarā (京太郎) and ninbucha (念仏者) were

also sometimes commissioned to provide entertainment at festivals.

In order to grasp the social function of festival performance arts, it is imperative

to know something of the infrapolitical structure of the corporate village body or

kyōdōtai. The primary social institution in rural villages is the munchuu (門中), an

extended patrilineal group organized around a “stem family” (mutu-ya 元家; mutudukuru

元所; ufu-ya 大家) (Baksheev 2008, 328). Each village kyōdōtai is comprised of several

munchuu lineage groups, one of which is typically ascribed special dignity as the family

of the founder of the village, the “root family” (nii/niiya 根家) or “origin of the

country/community” (kunimutu 国元). Traditionally, villages were endogamous, with

heavy social sanctions levied against women who sought to marry outside the community

(Lebra 1966, 130-131). Endogamy served both the bottom-up function of insulating

established hierarchies within the community and the top-down function of ensuring the

continuing viability of the community as a revenue-generating unit.

The kyōdōtai concept is based on an ideal of autonomy and self-sufficiency. This

ideal is exemplified by the practice of referring to villages and village communities as

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“islands” (shima 島). As Tanaka observes, the village-as-shima is imagined as an

enduring genealogical and spiritual community:

There are an uncounted and uncountable number of persons who have died but

still belong to the village (collectively called uya-faafuji, which literally means

“parents and grandparents”) … And there are others who are yet to be born

(kwaa-maaga or “offspring”; literally, “children and grandchildren”). All these

persons belong to the universe called “the village” (shima), which would not be

complete if it lacked any one of these three categories. The forebears and

offspring, as well as the living members of the community, are therefore all

“villagers” (shimanchu) who have legitimate interest in the continuity and welfare

of the village … The village as an ideological unit is thus conceived as a perpetual

entity, the continuity of which is seen in the patrilineal (shiji) relationship

binding the fore-bear, the living member, and the offspring. Superficial

demographic movement hardly affects this ideological structure (1977, 33).

It is key to bear in mind that Tanaka’s description represents an idealized and ideologized

conception rather than an empirical reality. As previously mentioned, historical records

of severe intra-village status and class conflict abound (Kinjō and Nishizato 1972, 103-

105). As Ooms has observed of Tokugawa Japanese farming villages, the Ryūkūan

kyōdōtai’s “semblance (tatamae) of internal harmony” often worked to dissemble the

consolidation of land and arbitrary exercise of power by local elites, as well as expediting

indirect domination by metropolitan elites (in this case, the Shuri court) (1996, 241).

This leads Nishizato to identify the Ryūkyūan kyōdōtai as a particular type of “legal

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fiction” (gisei 擬制) (1977, 195).

This “legal fiction” served both a representative and a

disciplinary function. On the one hand, it enabled the articulation of subordinate group

interests to the royal state; on the other hand, it dissembled intra-group conflict and

legitimized extant regimes of distribution and recognition within the group. This being

said, the idealized conception of the kyōdōtai as an organic community played – and

continues to play – an important part in the social and spiritual lives of many rural

Okinawans (Lebra 1966, 151-152).

In his writing on ritual in Chinese patrilineal groups (hu 戸), which are

structurally similar to Ryūkyūan munchuu (門中), Wang Tangjia describes how ancestor-

oriented performance rituals underwrite the historical continuity of the group by

publically confirming “the collective identity of individuals with [the clan as] a value-

community” (2012, 100). Okinawan village performing arts can be understood similarly

as a means of reinforcing communal solidarity and promising historical continuity. In

Lefebvre’s terms, the processional sequence of performances (michijunē, gujinfū,

shishimai, and chōja-nu-ufushu) traces out a “representation of space” which is also a

“representational space,” in which the village’s diachronic continuity can be articulated

synchronically (1991, 33). The chōja-nu-ufushu dance in particular can be interpreted as

a symbolic reaffirmation of the agnatic bonds that circumscribe the village as a social unit

in both space and time. Participating in the dance can be understood, at least from a

normative perspective, as a way of symbolically reproducing the spatial and temporal

relations that define the village-as-island. Reconfiguring social bonds in transcendental

terms, ritual performances such as chōja-nu-ufushu set in motion a “dialectic of

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substitution and visibility” which simultaneously renders power legible and binds it to a

myth of origin (Ricoeur 1990, 510).

It is tempting to portray village performing arts in a utopian light as expressions

of organic communality (see my critique of Nelson in Chapter One). Here, James C.

Scott’s concept of subordinate infrapolitics can be of help (1990; 2012). Much like the

infrastructure that enables a city to function, subordinate infrapolitics undergird the

macropolitical structures on which Western social science has traditionally focused.

Infrapolitical networks often predate macropolitical structures – especially in colonial

societies – and are generally dominated by local elites who regulate the division of labor,

resources, and esteem within semi-autonomous fields of power (1990, 184). The royal

state guaranteed the semi-autonomy of these local fields of power by means of the “legal

fiction” (gisei) of the parasubjective corporate village body (Nishizato 1977).

Infrapolitical power differentials are woven into the stylistic and structural fabric of

village performing arts. As Wang Tangjia observes of Chinese ritual, ceremonial

performance practices such as chōja-nu-ufushu symbolically incorporate stratification

based on age, gender, and other determinants, thus naturalizing the manifest asymmetry

of social bonds (2012, 102). We should not read this asymmetry as immanently

antagonistic – hierarchy does not always imply injustice. This being said, we should also

not assume that just because intra-village tensions were not portrayed, they did not exist.

As Scott puts it, “the effective display of compliance may achieve a kind of dramatization

of power relations that is not to be confused with ideological hegemony in the sense of

active consent” (66-67).

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Interestingly, in the wake of the Satsuma invasion, the Ryūkyūan royal state made

some attempts to standardize popular ceremonial and spiritual practices (Araki 1980;

Tasato 1990). In 1726, for example, shamans were forbidden from practicing in cities;

ten years later, shamanism was banned outright (Lebra 1966, 119). In 1735, the state

issued administrative handbooks (kujichō 公事帳) for at least some rural districts, which

prohibited certain local ceremonial practices and prescribed a standardized ceremonial

calendar based on the courtly ceremonial calendar (Tasato 1990, 87; Lebra 1966, 143-

150). There are instances in which the state’s prohibitions extended to popular

performing arts traditions – particularly those associated with female spiritualists, who

the state saw as a threat. The renowned eighteenth-century female poet Onna Nabī

famously attests to this in a verse lamenting the prohibition of a tradition called shinugu

ashibi. In a well known 1926 essay, Iha Fuyū speculates that shinugu-ashibi was banned

because it involved female nudity, which the Shuri government found to be “damaging to

popular customs” (fūzoku wo ran suru mono 風俗を乱するもの) (cited in Araki 1980,

77). Iha goes on to explore a case in which the Shuri government banned a Yaeyaman

festival performance tradition called uchihare-asobi, ostensibly for the same reason.

In his re-evaluation of Iha’s research on the subject, Araki Moriaki identifies

similar instances in which ceremonial practices conducted by women, or by women and

men together, were declared immoral and prohibited (1980, 76-86). In 1703, for

example, a Kumejima festival called shuku-matsuri was banned (79). Similarly, in 1767,

the Yaeyaman uyagan-matsuri, which was traditionally conducted by noro priestesses,

was banned (80). In 1848, further prohibitions were issued in Kumejima against a local

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variant on the hamaori festival, the kamuri festival (in which a cow was sacrificially

slaughtered) and the osutaiku dance (in which “young men and women mixed late at

night, which is certainly a disruption of the rites” [79]). In addition to prohibiting some

local ceremonial practices, the royal government’s administrative handbooks prescribed

new, standardized practices based on the courtly ceremonial calendar, which reduced the

role of noro priestesses and actively involved local magistrates (Tasato 1990, 87).

Certain reformed ritual practices also involved directing prayers toward Shuri Castle,

regional political centers (Nakijin and Tamagusuku Castles), or state-affiliated religious

centers (Kudaka Island and Sefa Utaki). Some such rituals were still practiced in as of

Lebra’s study of 1966 (168).

Ryūkyūan cultural policy and the birth of kumiodori

During the Ryūkyū Kingdom’s period of dual subordination, high-level domestic

affairs were dominated by the “Council of Three” (sanshikan 三司官), a consulate of

ministers established by Satsuma as a check on royal power. Acting on behalf of

relatively weak kings, a succession of visionary ministers introduced wide-ranging

reforms designed to shore up the regime’s finances and reinforce its damaged legitimacy.

Looking to Satsuma as a model, Shō Shōken (向象賢, 1617-1675 [Haneji Ōji Chōshu 羽

地王子朝秀]), reorganized the court bureaucracy, cut back on ceremonial expenses, and

restructured the rural land tenure system (Smits 1999, 53-55). His successor Sai On (蔡

温, 1682-1761 [Gushichan-uekata Bunjaku 具志頭親方文若]) pursued an even more

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ambitious program, ordering a comprehensive survey and restructuring of land use and

administration protocols.

The Satsuma invasion was clearly problematic for Ryūkyūan elites because it

demonstrated that the Ryūkyūan state did not enjoy a final monopoly on the use of force

in the islands. Shō Shōken and Sai On attempted to compensate for the Ryūkyūan state’s

lack of political parity with its more powerful neighbors by establishing the royal court as

a visible site of authority based on ritual propriety. By seizing ahold of complex

ceremonial displays of fealty such as the investiture (ukwanshin) and the tribute parade to

Edo (Edo-nobori) as opportunities to demonstrate exemplary ritual propriety, the

Ryūkyūan court reappropriated its position of semi-colonial dependence as a platform

from which to establish “moral parity” with China, Satsuma, and the shogunate (Smits

1999, 8). At the same time, court ideologues worked to align everyday social practice in

the islands more closely with Sinocentric Confucian norms. This necessitated the

disenfranchisement of “intra-Ryūkyūan Others” such as noro priestesses, Buddhist priests,

and shamans. It also required the implementation of a proactive cultural policy. Under

Shō Shōken and Sai On, the court drafted royal chronicles, rectified ranks and lineages,

standardized and Sinicized ritual and aesthetic practices, and even commissioned the

creation of new artistic traditions.

Post-invasion cultural policy had a profound effect on the development of the

cultural forms we now associate with the Ryūkyū Kingdom. Perhaps its most enduring

legacy is kumiodori dance-drama. The first kumiodori plays were created for the 1719

investiture ceremony of crown prince Shō Tai (which was overseen by Sai On). Matters

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of courtly performance in the Ryūkyū Kingdom were administered by the royal Ministry

of Dance (odoribugyō 踊奉行), which at the time was headed by the outstandingly

talented Tamagusuku Chōkun (玉城朝薫, 1684-1734).

Chōkun created two plays,

entitled Shūshin kane’iri (執心鏡入, “The Possession of the Temple Bell”) and Nidō

tekiuchi (ニ童敵討, “Two Brothers’ Revenge”). These plays were performed to acclaim

before an audience of Ryūkyūan aristocrats and Chinese envoys at the feast of the

Chrysanthemum Festival (chōyō-utage 重陽宴), a high point of the sprawling investiture

ceremony. Over the course of a successful career at court, Chōkun created three more

plays: Mekarushi (銘苅子), Onna monogurui (

女

物狂), and Kōkō no maki (孝行の巻).

Due in no small part to the excellence of Chōkun’s plays, kumiodori became a standard

entertainment at courtly gatherings and a literary diversion for the aristocracy (Foley and

Ochner 2005, 6).

Stylistically, kumiodori is comprised of the three elements of lyrics, song, and

dance. Rather than analyzing these elements independently in a formalist manner, I will

regard them as historically co-evolved and structurally intertwined “eminent languages”

or modes of communicative action (Ricoeur 2007, 285). The kumiodori tradition

synthesizes elements of three prior courtly traditions: Ryūkyūan poetry (ryūka 琉歌),

classical song accompanied by sanshin (uta-sanshin 歌三線), and classical dance

(Ryūkyū koten buyō 琉球古典舞踊). It also draws heavily on early modern mainland

Japanese classical and commercial performing arts.

Like Japanese nō, kumiodori is a

narrative form in which music and stylized motion serve to convey a sense of character

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and carry forward a plot. Many kumiodori plots were modeled on nō dramas, which is

not surprising given the normalcy of plot borrowing in the Japanese tradition and the

popularity of nō among early modern Ryūkyūan aristocrats (Yano 2003, 89).

Nearly

all kumiodori begin with a monologue in which the main character or characters

introduce themselves. A dialogue between the main characters follows, then a traveling

scene or scenes (michiyuki 道行き), during which secondary characters enter and exit

and plot complications emerge. The third scene is a climactic reunion or confrontation,

followed by a celebratory final dance. It is possible to analyze this structural pattern as a

variation on the “introduction – break – rapid crisis” (jo-ha-kyū 序破急) template

employed in mainland Japanese performing arts, and/or as a variation on the

“introduction – development – turning point – resolution” (kishō-tenketsu 起承転結)

template employed in Chinese and Japanese poetry and rhetoric. These concepts were

salient in aesthetic thought and practice throughout the Sinocentric world, and Chōkun

would have been aware of them.

Certain specific structural elements were also likely borrowed from Japanese and

possibly Chinese models. The use of traveling scenes (michiyuki 道行き) to advance the

plot, for example, is a mainstay in kabuki and jōruri, while kumiodori’s use of a male

chorus and occasional inclusion of comic interludes in otherwise serious narratives were

likely inspired by nō and ai-kyōgen. Chinese musicologist Wang Yaohua asserts that the

movement patterns of female characters in kumiodori may have been influenced by

Fujian opera (Mǐn jù 閩劇), and also notes that in both kumiodori and some types of

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Chinese musical drama, certain melodies are understood to exemplify given emotional

states and are used by convention in scenes that portray those states (1998, 302-303).

Kumiodori’s three fundamental elements are speech, movement, and music. Its

mostly fixed metrical structure – 8.8.8.6 mora, with occasional switches into other meters

to obtain an effect of urgency – is derived from that of ryūka, the court’s primary

indigenous literary medium. Like Japanese waka, ryūka are richly intertextual,

frequently making use of allusive devices such as fixed word-associations (engo 縁語),

allusive plays on words (kakekotoba 掛詞), and seasonal words (kigo 季語) (Sueyoshi

1974, 370). Understanding ryūka requires an intimate knowledge of local places, local

history and customs, the special qualities of the different seasons, and the repertoire of

expressions used by past poets to describe these things. Because of this, ryūka cannot be

understood as self-contained works; to fully grasp a given poem, one should be familiar

with the poetic canon and the tradition in general, specifically any prior poems it has

borrowed from or alluded to (Hokama 1976, 114). This is true for kumiodori as well.

Much of the aesthetic impetus behind ryūka and kumiodori lies in the author’s ability to

recombine and re-contextualize allusive expressions in tasteful yet imaginative ways,

simultaneously paying homage to the literary tradition and allowing it to be seen from a

new perspective.

Kumiodori effectively weaves the ryūka lyric form into a narrative framework.

Actors chant in several fixed patterns that differ in pitch and rhythmic configuration,

tessitura, and tempo. Like Tokugawa period Japanese nō and kabuki, Ryūkyūan courtly

arts were performed exclusively by men; this necessitated the development of physical

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and vocal techniques for conveying gender. Along with costume and movement, chant

patterns help mark a character as an older man, a young man, a woman or child, or a

clown (maruman 間の者). The style of chanting is clearly articulated and highly

controlled. Movements are also clearly articulated and restrained, and facial expressions

are subtle, centered on the eyes.

Like speech patterns, movement patterns (kata 型) are

matched to gender and character type, and are largely drawn from the major classical

dance genres: old men’s dances (rōjin odori 老人踊り), young men’s dances (nisai odori

二才踊り and wakashū odori 若衆踊り), and women’s dances (onna odori 女踊り). In

addition to marking the character types, particular kata are key to conveying the

particular mood (jōmi 情味) of a scene (Iha 1974b, 382).

While kumiodori chant is in and of itself musical, plays also make use of songs

drawn from the classical repertory (koten ongaku 古典音楽). Sung by a male chorus,

these songs consist of short verses in ryūka form set to stately, melismatic melodies.

They are accompanied on sanshin, koto, and large and small drums (ōdaiko and kodaiko),

and sometimes also on kokyū (three-stringed spike fiddle) and hansō (transverse flute)

(See Appendix II for a representative transcription). These choral interludes are often

sung from the character’s point of view during dances; their primary function is to offer a

glimpse past the façade of stylized speech and movement (tatemae 建前) into the

dramatis personae’s thoughts, intentions, emotions, and inner character (honne 本音):

The three strings of the sanshin give voice to the complex reverberations

of the human spirit and the sounds of the heart. All of this is accomplished with

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only three strings. The slender strings give flowing voice to the palpitations in

one’s breast, the sound of one’s pulse; they can mimic the sound of a brook

flowing through a shaded grove; a waterfall sparkling like a comet’s tail; the

peaceful surface of a hidden pool, the rippling ebb and flow of the tide; rolling

fields dotted with fences; or the vast and dusky ocean. Shifting quickly and

effortlessly from treble to bass, the sanshin can symbolize the emotions and

clinging affections of mankind (Ryūkyū Shimpō, February 1, 1910).

In addition to chant and choral song, kumiodori sometimes feature non-diegetic

instrumental music (entrance music, for example), drum sounds used for dramatic effect,

diegetic percussive sounds produced by the dancers on stage, and occasional diegetic

instrumental music (36). The music is heterophonic, with some spontaneous variation

between parts (Ohtani 1981, 146-79). Finally, as in other Japanese performing arts,

exclamations (hayashikotoba 囃子詞) are often inserted between verses for rhythmic

variation and to punctuate important actions and moments of intense emotion.

Courtly performing arts as Confucian political practice

Over the course of the period, kumiodori became established as a “national

drama” (国劇) (Iha 1974, 163). Chōkun’s five plays (Chōkun goban 朝薫五番), which

are still regarded as the core of the repertory, served as models for other early modern

Ryūkyūan literati such as Tasato Chōchoku (田里朝直, 1704-1773), author of Manzai

tekiuchi (万歳敵討) and Gijin monogatari (義臣物語), Heshikiya Chōbin (平敷屋朝敏,

1700-1743), attributed author of Temizu no en (手水の縁), and Takamiyagusuku-pēchin

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Chōjō (高宮城親雲上朝常, 1703-73), author of Hanauri no en (花売りの縁). By the

mid nineteenth century, over 40 kumiodori had been written, and the tradition had

disseminated throughout Okinawa and among local elites in the Miyako and Yaeyama

island groups. Significantly, all but one of the canonical classical kumiodori focus on the

strongly Confucian theme of filial piety or kō (孝) (Wang 1998, 294). Variations on this

theme include the obligations of subjects to their lord (Shūshin kaneiri, Gijin monogatari,

etc.), the obligations of children to their parents (Nidō tekiuchi, Kōkō no maki, Manzai

tekiuchi, etc.), and the reciprocal obligations of parents and lords toward their children

and subjects (Onna monogurui, Mekarushi, Hanauri no en, etc.).

In Visions of Ryūkyū, Smits points out the ideological resonance of kumiodori

narratives with Ryūkyūan state’s Neo-Confucian political agenda, arguing that that “from

the first days of kumiodori as a recognizable dramatic form, the royal government co-

opted it to serve the state’s ends” (1999, 123). While Smits’ argument is sound, his

phrasing falls back upon a very modern conceptual opposition between artistic form and

political function. The modern reader is tempted to infer that kumiodori’s original

quality of being was somehow altered – perhaps even corrupted – through its “co-option”

by politics. This does not appear to have been the case. Rather, in the Ryūkyū Kingdom,

as in other Confucian societies, performing arts were inherently regarded as a mode of

ethico-political practice. As Chinese musicologist Wang Yaohua observes, Confucian

thinkers have long classified the performing arts “alongside ritual, form, and governance

as means of strengthening state control” (Wang 1998, 282). Book 7 of the Analects

(“Transmission”), for example, praises music alongside ritual and calligraphy as a means

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of ethical self-cultivation that must be practiced by the governing class.

Both Mengzi

(372-289 BCE) and Xunzi (312-230 BCE) follow the Analects in describing music in

quasi-Aristotelian terms as a means of aestheticizing the common good, thereby

reinforcing social harmony (280; 291).

The most comprehensive source of Confucian thought on music, the “Record of

Music” (Yue ji 楽記), also identifies music and ritual as complementary means of

maintaining social harmony:

To unite (he 合) the emotions and to polish external appearances – these are the

affairs of Ritual and Music. If the deportment of Ritual is established, then the

noble and the plebeian are separated into classes. When the patterns of Music are

uniform, then those in high position and those in low position get along in

harmony … Humanity (ren 仁) is used in loving them (the people) and propriety

(yi 義) is used in rectifying them – if it is like this, then the governance of the

people will be implemented (Cook 1995, 42).

Notably, the Confucian perception of art as a means of internalizing and transmitting

moral norms and ethical dispositions was not limited to music, but extended to other

modes of performance as well. In Book 3 of the Analects (“Eight Rows of Dancers”

「八佾篇」), Confucius confirms the role of dance in demarcating and legitimizing

social stratification. This conception remained remarkably stable over time: in his “Notes

on Dance” (「人舞譜」), for example, Ming dynasty music theorist and choreographer

Zhu Zaiyu (朱載堉, 1536-1611) identifies specific dance movements as means of

symbolizing the three bonds and five virtues (Wang 1998, 292-293).

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During the Tokugawa period, Confucian learning experienced a renaissance that

helped shape aesthetic discourse and artistic practice in both mainland Japan and the

Ryūkyū Kingdom. One influential strain of Japanese Neo-Confucianism, epitomized by

Yamazaki Ansai (1619-1682), adopted the Chinese Cheng-Zhu school’s emphasis on the

absolute priority of rational principles (li 理) and normative standards (jing 經) over non-

standardized “expedient means” (quan 權). Ansai took an extremely critical view of art:

in his 1660 tract “Japanese Lesser Learning” (Yamato shōgaku 大和小学), for example,

he condemns literary masterworks such as The Tales of Ise and The Tale of Genji as

licentious distractions that threaten to lure the cultured class into “trifling with trivial

things and forgetting intentions” (ganbutsu sōshi 玩物喪志) (Flueckiger 2010, 34).

Several of Ansai’s contemporaries, however, took a stance more in line with the classical

view of art as a potential means of self-cultivation. Nakae Tōju (1608-1648) and Andō

Tameakira (1659-1716), for example, defended Chinese and Japanese poetry as expedient

techniques for “transmitting the Way” (saidō 載道) and/or “encouraging good and

chastising evil” (kanzen chōaku 勧善懲悪) (cf. Shirane 2002).

Sai On, the most influential Ryūkyūan thinker at the time, appears to have more

or less adopted Nakae Tōju’s perspective (Smits 1996, 460-463). In his “Conversations

with a Rustic Old Man” (Suoweng pianyan 蓑翁片言), for example, Sai On urges

Ryūkyūans to adhere to universal rational principles while simultaneously developing

“expedient” skills befitting their assigned status groups).

For the governing class, this

included artistic skills such as calligraphy and music. Under Sai On, the royal

government encouraged artistic education and proactively incorporated performing arts

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into state functions. Music was included on the Ryūkyūan civil service entrance exam,

and for young aristocrats, demonstrating performance ability was one route to success at

court (Wang 1998, 288-289).

Mastering classical Ryūkyūan performing arts required years of training (Foley

and Ochner 2005, 13). Contemporary master Kin Ryōshō gives the following anecdote

as an example of the seriousness with which early modern performers regarded their art:

While Tawata pechin was playing the lord of Tanora in Uka tichiuchi, his house

went up in flames. Although he heard the report of the fire from the comments of

the audience, he did not halt since performance for the king came first ... to this

extent you must be serious (14).

This degree of dedication was considered appropriate because, as Iha notes, “actors were

a kind of civil servant” (kokka no yakuin 国家の役員) (1974a, 155). The Kyūyō (球陽),

a chronicle compiled at the behest of the royal government in 1745 by Tei Heitetsu (鄭秉

哲, 1695-1760 [Isagawa-uekata Yūjitsu [伊佐川親方佑実]), makes this clear,

differentiating kumiodori performance from the casual performance of Chinese and

Japanese arts and identifying kumiodori as a national art intended to glorify the kingdom

and its history (Yano 2003, 40).

Dialectics of obligation and desire in kumiodori

As mentioned in the Introduction, any review of the scholarly literature on early

modern Japanese theater will eventually lead to the linked concepts of giri (義理) and

ninjō (人情), often translated as social obligation and human emotion. In popular

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discourse on Japanese theater, the relationship between ninjō and giri is often portrayed

as a conflict “between ‘desire’ and ‘reason,’ between our natural, ‘animal-like’ instincts

and our rational, ‘civilized’ mind with its rules, morals, and responsibilities inculcated by

society” (Gerstle 2010, 27). This being said, like the best works in the Japanese theatrical

repertory, the most compelling kumiodori portray the giri/ninjō relationship as complex

and multi-layered. Tamagusuku Chōkun’s Shūshin kane’iri (執心鏡入), for example, is

compelling because it paradoxically invokes sympathy for both the male protagonist,

driven by obligation, and the female antagonist, driven by emotion. Similarly, we

sympathize with the protagonists of Heshikiya Chōbin’s Temizu no en (「手水の縁」)

precisely because they are painfully aware of the conflict between their emotions and

their obligations. In both plays, human affect and desire are represented as

manifestations of natural law that give force to the laws of society, yet also sometimes

chafe against them.

Tamagusuku Chōkun’s Shūshin kane’iri is often identified as an exemplar of the

courtly kumiodori tradition. In the first scene, a young aristocrat named Nakagusuku

Wakamatsi introduces himself and announces that he is on his way to serve at the royal

court in Shuri. He states that it is late and he is tired, and approaches a nearby house to

ask leave to stay for the night. A young woman answers the door and tells Wakamatsi

that her parents are away and she is not free to let him in. She refuses him twice, but he

asks again a third time, and she finally relents. She then tries to engage Wakamatsi in

conversation. When he refuses, she becomes increasingly infatuated with him and

attempts to seduce him: “For our sleeves to touch by chance like this must mean that we

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are bound by fate … A man who does not know love has not drunk deeply of the cup of

life.” Wakamatsi, however, rejects her: “I do not know of such things! … Even one born

a woman must know reason, lest the world descend into hell.” He leaves, and the

spurned woman chases him as the chorus gives voice to her thoughts: “We are bound in

ill-fated love. If we must part, rather than be abandoned, I would have us die together.”

In Scene Two, Wakamatsi arrives at a Buddhist monastery, where the head priest warns

him about the danger of female passion and hides him in the temple bell. After a comic

interlude featuring three irreverent junior priests, the woman arrives at the temple. Her

unfulfilled emotion transforms her into a demon, which dances around the bell furiously.

In the climactic final dance, the head priest drives the demon-woman from the bell with

prayers (Foley and Ochner 2005, 15-27).

Shūshin kane’iri is often compared to the nō play Dōjōji, which tells basically the

same story in the form of a recollection. In Dōjōji, the demon-woman enters the temple

grounds disguised as a shirabyōshi dancer during a service for the bell’s purification,

hoping to atone for her sin (Klein 1991, 294). Overcome with resentment, however, she

leaps into the bell and must be exorcized. Dōjōji is extremely well known as one of three

canonical “demoness” plays.

As an aficionado of Japanese arts, Tamagusuku Chōkun

was almost certainly aware of it. Rather than assuming that Shūshin kane’iri was based

on Dōjōji, however, it is more accurate to identify both plays as adaptations of medieval

didactic tales (setsuwa 説話) designed to warn readers about the dangers of female

passion. The most famous bell possession setsuwa appear in the anthologies Dai

Nihonkoku hokekyōkenki and the Konjaku monogatari (296). In both tales, a widow

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attempts to seduce a handsome young monk while he is on a pilgrimage with his master.

The young monk deceives the widow and escapes, and when she realizes the deception,

she chases him to Dōjōji temple, transforms into a demon, and wraps herself around the

bell in which he is hiding, incinerating him with the heat of her lust and indignation.

Later, the monk appears to the head priest of Dōjōji in the form of a serpent, explaining

that he has been reborn as her serpent-husband and begging the priest to copy the Lotus

Sutra so that both of them might attain salvation. After the priest does so, both the young

monk and the woman appear and thank him for allowing them to be reborn in separate

heavens (297).

In his supplement to Iha Fuyū’s Ryūkyū gikyokushū (琉球戯曲集), Higashionna

Kanjun notes that Dōjōji takes the second half of the bell possession setsuwa as its point

of departure: “using the legend as a background, [Dōjōji] appropriates the temple bell as

a symbol of the eventual realization of Buddhahood through the practice of austerities –

which is to say, the law of [karmic] cause and effect that binds the three worlds of past,

present, and future” (1974, 387-390). This is in keeping with nō drama’s Buddhist

soteriological ethos and its frequent use of recollection as a narrative device.

Higashionna argues that because Dōjōji implies that the demon-woman will eventually be

saved through the monks’ practice of copying the Lotus Sutra, it represents a “triumph of

Buddhist virtue” (buttoku no shōri 仏徳の勝利) (390).

The kumiodori Shūshin kane’iri, on the other hand, focuses on the first half of the

setsuwa, the worldly encounter between the male protagonist and the female antagonist.

As Higashionna observes, it substitutes a Confucian sense of sociopolitical responsibility

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for Buddhist vows of chastity as the male protagonist’s rationale for refusing to be

seduced. Higashionna identifies the “clash between Confucian ethics and human instinct”

as the point of origin of the play’s dramatic crisis (391). He further suggests that the

female protagonist’s misfortune (akuen 悪縁) does not result from the karmic law of

cause and effect (inga 因果), but rather, from her own desperate decision to “charge

headlong into the contradiction” between “burning eros” (atsuki koi 熱き恋) and “frigid

righteousness” (hiyaki gi 冷き義) (391-392). Higashionna argues that the male

protagonist Wakamatsi's refusal to yield to passion and willingness to risk his life rather

than compromising his political duty represents a “triumph of [Confucian] social

obligation” (giri no shōri 義理の勝利) (391).

As Susan Blakely Klein makes clear, the various bell possession tales are all

explicitly gendered, presenting “a dramatically compelling vision of stark conflict: the

masculine forces of noble and pure spirituality … battling the feminine forces of profane

and bestial sexuality” (1991, 291). This reflects a gender bias that pervaded elite male

discourse in early modern East Asia. Neo-Confucian thinker Kaibara Ekken, for example,

summarizes the female character as follows:

The five worst infirmities that afflict women are indocility, discontent, slander,

jealousy, and silliness. Without any doubt, these five infirmities are found in

seven or eight of every ten women, and it is they that cause women to be inferior

to men … A woman’s nature is passive (yin). The yin nature comes from the

darkness of night. Hence, as viewed from the standard of a man’s nature, a

woman’s foolishness [means that she] fails to understand the duties that lie before

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her very eyes, does not recognize the actions that will bring blame on her head,

and does not comprehend even those things that will bring calamity to her

husband and children (De Bary 2013, 266-267).

As the author of the popular tract Method for Teaching Women (Joshi wo oshiyuru 女子

を教ゆる方), Ekken was regarded as somewhat of an authority on the matter of gender

and domestic issues. In Method for Teaching Women, Ekken portrays the female gender

as equivalent to a vocation (shokubun 婦人) (Sekiguchi 2010, 96). Ekken likely

influence Sai On's thoughts on gender; in fact, Sai On’s essay Precepts for the Household

(Kadōkun 家道訓) is a close paraphrase of Ekken’s essay of the same name (Smits 1999,

79; cf. Tucker 1989). It should not come as a surprise, then, that Shūshin kane’iri, which

was commissioned by Sai On, portrays its female lead as indocile, discontented, jealous,

and incapable of comprehending “the duties that lie before her very eyes.”

This being said, a closer reading of Shūshin kane’iri reveals ambiguities that

potentially complicate its interpretation as a clear-cut, dualistic allegory for gender

domination. Part of this ambiguity lies in the character of Wakamatsi. In the bell

possession setsuwa, the handsome young monk does not solicit the young widow himself.

His aged master, who we can assume would prevent any improprieties from occurring,

asks for leave for both of them to stay at her manor. In Shushin kane’iri, however,

Wakamatsi, who is traveling alone, repeatedly invites himself into the young woman’s

house despite her protests that her parents are away. Moreover, he uses erotically

charged poetic language that is inappropriate to the situation: “In this floating world, even

the dew borrows its lodging from the flowers – out of mercy, show me compassion and

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allow me to stay.” An eighteenth century audience would have immediately grasped the

“floating world” as a euphemism for the space of erotic encounter and the image of dew

on flowers as an allegory for transient love. As Sueyoshi Ankyō observes, whether

intentionally or not, Wakamatsi sounds like a would-be seducer (1974, 369).

One could

argue that Wakamatsi, not the woman, is the agent of the “ill-fated bond” (akuen 悪縁)

that very nearly leads to both of their deaths.

In a recent analysis, Yonaha Shōko argues that Chōkun’s portrayal of the female

antagonist is equally ambiguous (2012, 11-12). On the one hand, her dehumanizing

degeneration into murderous hysteria reproduces the well-worn stereotype that “women

are psychologically and biologically determined to a weakness of will that keeps them

from being able to control their passions,” and are thus “an inevitable obstacle to men’s

spiritual progress” (Klein 1991, 299). The head monk says as much in his admonition to

Wakamatsi: “Do not take an infatuated woman’s heart lightly – it may claim your life.”

On the other hand, up until the woman’s final transformation, she is extremely cogent and

sympathetic. Far from being crudely lustful, she expresses her desire in a poetically

refined manner as an extension of the natural order: “Just as cuckoos in the deep

mountains suck the nectar from spring flowers, [romantic love] is the way of the world.”

Later, she rhetorically asks the temple monks: “How far do the woven fences of

prohibition extend? Can one prohibit a butterfly from landing on a flower?”

Yonaha further notes that six of Shūshin kane’iri’s choral interludes are sung from

the woman’s perspective (2012, 11-12).

This is important, as the specific purpose of

choral interludes in kumiodori is to arouse the audience’s sympathy for a character’s

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emotional and psychological state. Yonaha concludes that Shūshin kane’iri presents two

concepts of “reason” (ri 理), one grounded on “masculine rationality” (otoko no ronri 男

の論理) and the other grounded on “the sympathetic affections in nature” (shizen no

nasake 自然の情け). In her assessment, Shūshin kane’iri does not aim to portray one

concept of reason as morally sound and the other as unsound. Rather, it suggests that

each concept of reason carries the seed of its own destruction within it, and warns against

pursuing either to its extreme. To Yonaha, this gives Shūshin kane’iri the effect of “the

waves of eros and thanatos breaking against each other” (12).

The concept of human affection as a manifestation of natural law is taken up and

developed in the kumiodori Temizu no en (「手水の縁」), a Romeo and Juliet-esque

story most likely modeled after Japanese double suicide plays. Temizu no en is

traditionally attributed to Heshikiya Chōbin (平敷屋朝敏, 1700-1734), a distinguished

but politically disadvantaged Ryūkyūan courtier. Chōbin is known for his Japanese verse

and the romantic prose-poems Tale of Young Grass (Wakakusa monogatari 「若草物

語」), Beneath the Moss (Koke no shita 「苔の下」), and Manzai (「万歳」) (Smits

1999, 120; cf. Ikemiya 1982b). These stories influenced several later works of early

modern Ryūkyūan literature in turn, most notably the nineteenth-century romances Tales

of Rainy Nights (Amayo monogatari 「雨夜物語」) and Tales of the Path of Love ( Koiji

no fumi 「恋路之文」) (cf. Ikemiya 1973). While Chōbin’s authorship of Temizu no en

has been questioned, the play stands alongside Chōbin’s prose as a foundational work of

early modern Ryūkyūan literature (cf. Ikemiya 1996). Chōbin is also known for his

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involvement in an alleged plot against the Ryūkyūan state, for which he was executed;

unfortunately, we lack detailed records of this affair.

In Temizu no en’s opening scene, a young man named Yamatū (山戸) enters and

introduces himself. It is the third day of the third lunar month, a traditional festival day

on which “high and low come together in celebration.” Yamatū is walking to Mount

Shinaga to view the flowers. A beautiful young woman named Tamatsi (玉律) then

enters and introduces herself to the audience. She has come to the mountain to celebrate

as well, and wash her hair in Fanja River. Yamatū spies Tamatsi and asks her to give him

a drink of river water from a ladle she holds in her hands. She refuses twice, and twice

he threatens to kill himself. She finally gives in, and eventually agrees to meet him

again. In Scene Two, Yamatū goes to Tamatsi’s home to meet her, but is discovered by a

watchman. In Scene Three, we learn that Tamatsi’s father has heard rumors of the affair

and sentenced her to die. Her father’s subordinates, Shicha-nu-ufuyaku (志喜屋の大屋

子) and Yamaguchi-nu-nyishinchi (山口の西掟), take her to the beach at Chinen to

execute her. She resigns herself to death, and informs Shicha to convey her final

testament to Yamatū. Shicha and Yamaguchi attempt to gather the will to execute

Tamatsi, but since they have helped raise her since she was a child, they hesitate.

Yamatū rushes to the scene and begs for her life. Shicha and Yamaguchi take pity on the

lovers, telling them to escape and conspiring to tell Tamatsi’s father that she has been

executed (Geinōshi Kenkyūkai 1975 vol. 11, 54-64).

Along with Chōbin’s double suicide stories, Temizu no en clearly demonstrates

the influence of early modern Japanese bourgeois culture (chōnin bunka 町人文化),

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specifically the literary and theatrical aesthetics of Chikamatsu Monzaemon. Rather than

opposing giri and ninjō, Chikamatsu tends to portray them as intertwined. In the preface

to Naniwa miyage (1738), for example, Hozumi Ikan records a conversation in which

Chikamatsu describes giri and pathos as dialectically related:

There are some who, thinking that pathos is essential to jōruri, make frequent use

of such expressions as “it was touching” in their writing, or who when chanting

do so in voices thick with tears … This is foreign to my style. I take pathos to be

entirely a matter of restraint [giri]. Since it is moving when all parts of the art are

controlled by restraint, the stronger and firmer the melody and words are, the

sadder will be the impression created. For this reason, when one says of

something which is sad that it is sad, one loses the implication, and in the end,

even the impression of sadness is slight. It is essential that one not say of a thing

that “it is sad,” but that it be sad of itself. For example, when one praises a place

renowned for its scenery such as Matsushima, by saying, “Ah! what a fine view!”

one has said in one phrase all that can be said about the sight, but without effect.

If one wishes to praise the view, and says numerous things indirectly about its

appearance, the quality of the view may be known of itself (De Bary 2013, 336-

337).

Here it is important to note the ability of terms such as ninjō and giri to bear different

connotations in different contexts. Donald Keene, for example, notes that giri can mean

obligation “to one’s class, or to society at large, or refer to something closer to the

abstract concept of honor” (1961, 33).

Chikamatsu argues that just like describing a

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beautiful landscape is more effective than merely telling someone to experience the

sensation of beauty, describing how an honorable character can be torn between

contradictory desires and demands is more effective than merely imploring an audience

to empathize with the character. He seems be suggesting that for drama to be compelling,

it must appeal to the core of pathos within rationality and the latent promise of rationality

within pathos.

A close reading of Temizu no en reveals a complex giri-ninjō dynamic

reminiscent of Chikamatsu. This is evident in the play’s use of the polyvalent term

nasake (情け). In Temizu no en’s pivotal meeting scene, Yamatū asks Tamatsi to

“compassionately” or “affectionately” give him a drink of river water from a ladle she

holds in her hands. This playfully alludes to the ambiguous opening scene of Shūshin

kane’iri, in which Wakamatsi asks for lodging in the woman’s “compassionate house”

(onasaki no yado 御情の宿). Significantly, the term temizu (手水) refers to the water

used to purify one’s hands at a shrine. When Tamatsi is confused by Yamatū’s use of the

term, he explains: “In the old days, a drink of water from someone’s hand flowed from

nasake.” This explanation elides the soteriological sense of nasake as a bestowal of

compassion with its secular sense as a bestowal of romantic love.

We can interpret Yamatū’s elision of the two senses of nasake in a Buddhist

framework as a reference to the Amidist notion that compassion can transcend the

requirements of giri. Alternately, we could interpret it in Confucian terms as an attempt

to refigure the bestowal of romantic love as a virtuous act under the heading of

benevolence or humanity (ren 仁). As the Yue ji and other Confucian classics make

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clear, the virtue of benevolence or humanity is a necessary correlate to the virtue of

propriety (yi 義), which underpins the concept of giri (Cook 1995, 42). Yamatū takes

full advantage of the polysemic slippage between the religious-moral and erotic

connotations of nasake in order to anchor his appeal in an established moral grammar.

By threatening to kill himself if Tamatsi does not reciprocate, he ensures that her

bestowal of nasake can be grasped as an act of compassion and benevolence.

After giving Yamatū a drink of water, Tamatsi tries again to halt his advances,

comparing herself to “a flower-bud encircled sevenfold by rough-hewn fences,” but

Yamatū insists that not even her filial obligation can close off “the path of love.” Of

course, at this point in the narrative we cannot be sure whether Yamatū’s words are

sincere or merely a sophistic attempt at seduction. The chorus helps convince us of his

sincerity by reinforcing his appeal’s soteriological overtones: “If we are bound by fate,

then even when we separate—can flowers pierced by a thread and strung together be cut

apart?” Reappropriating Tamatsi’s flower imagery, this verse portrays the lovers as

having been pierced and bound together by an affection that transcends the power of

death. Both Yamatū’s image of the “path of love” and the chorus’ commentary are

reminiscent of Chikamatsu, who draws on such imagery to express popularized Buddhist

concepts of the transience of this world, the circuitous routes of fate, and the deferral of

romantic fulfillment to the world beyond (Heine 1994). Tamatsi confirms the

soteriological quality of her love by promising that she will “wait for [Yamatū] on the

mountain-road of death,” and Yamatū confirms his sincerity by interrupting Tamatsi’s

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execution and admitting that he “owes a deep debt to the house of Murikuya,” implicitly

affirming his willingness to die with her.

The key difference between Chikamatsu’s double suicide plays and Temizu no en,

of course, is that in the final instance, Tamatsi and Yamatū are spared from death. It is

noteworthy that the reasoning behind their salvation is worldly and social rather than

soteriological. The discussion between Yamatū and the retainers Shicha and Yamaguchi

can be interpreted as a sort of discourse on the nature of ethical and political judgment.

Yamatū forthrightly asks Shicha and Yamaguchi to go against their lord’s command to

kill Tamatsi. He acknowledges that this is technically a violation of giri; however, he

goes on to argue that there are historical and literary precedents for pursuing forbidden

love and forgiving romantic transgressions. Weighing Yamatū’s reasoning, Shicha and

Yamaguchi determine that their lord’s command to kill Tamatsi is fundamentally

irrational: “The gossip of the world is a short-lived thing. If we surrender Tamatsi’s life

to Yamatū’s care and tell the lord that we have killed her, after some time passes, his

feelings will change and she can come into the world again.” They justify their violation

of giri as a morally sound capitulation to the higher natural law of fate: “Let us allow

their love to blossom; let us bind their fates like a string of jewels.” Yamatū instantly

recognizes Shicha and Yamaguchi’s decision as not only merciful but also “honorable,”

and responds by declaring his “indebtedness and heartfelt gratitude.” The etymology of

this phrase stresses the dialectical bond between obligation and sympathetic emotion,

affirming that both are necessary components of moral judgment.

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In addition to complicating the relationship between giri and ninjō, Temizu no en

calls into question conventional links between gender and moral capacity (cf. Sekiguchi

2010). Interestingly, several other kumiodori also feature strong female characters: these

include Kōkō no maki (The Scroll of Filial Piety), in which a loyal daughter offers to

sacrifice herself to a serpent-demon to save her mother and brother from poverty,

Hanauri no en (The Fate of the Flower-seller), in which a loyal wife travels the country

in search of her husband, and Ōkawa tekiuchi (Ōkawa Vengeance), in which the

protagonist’s wife helps him revenge his fallen lord. It could be argued, however, that in

each of these narratives the female protagonist merely executes her prescribed obligations

in an exemplary manner. In Temizu no en, on the other hand, Tamatsi exercises the

critical capacity to refuse some obligations while upholding others. Despite Tamatsi’s

decision to pursue a romantic relationship without the approval of her father, she is not

portrayed as a fallen woman. On the contrary, she maintains a strong awareness of

ethical and political obligations, telling Shicha to remind Yamatū “[that] he was born as a

man in order to distinguish the world by serving his king both day and night.” She goes

on to affirm that she will wait for Yamatū in the next life, but admonishes him against

refusing his political obligations: “If for some reason he goes against my final testament

… I will not cast even one glance toward him.” The implication here is that Tamatsi is

warning Yamatū not to shirk his duties by committing lovers' suicide. Sueyoshi Ankyō

reads this as an endorsement of the Confucian concept of public duty (1974, 368-369).

Like many of Chikamatsu’s characters, Tamatsi seems to distinguish between private and

public obligations, upholding “the right to a private sphere as long as it does not

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transgress public law” (Gerstle 1997, 333). Resigning herself to die and yet forbidding

Yamatū from joining her in death, she underscores the asymmetrical obligations placed

upon aristocratic men and women.

Aesthetics, ideology, and the early modern Ryūkyūan state

Herman Ooms observes that the core function of ideology in Tokugawa period

Japan was to elide “the ‘ought’ of the law” with “the ‘is’ of an imaginary order,” thereby

“[transforming] originally political, economic, and legal objectives into the ‘natural’

order of things” (1996, 310). As in Japan, the social order in the early modern Ryūkyū

Kingdom was based on a rigid status system, concretized by legal decree in the wake of

the Satsuma invasion. This status order structured the division of labor, the distribution

of resources, and “the distribution of powers and competencies” (Weber 1968, 1255).

The role of ideology in early modern Ryūkyū was to legitimize this hierarchical social

order by portraying it as the earthly manifestation of a cosmic order based on eternal

rational principles (li 理) (cf. Smits 1999; Ames 2011). As we have seen, the Ryūkyūan

state took a multilayered approach to ideological production: under ministers such as Shō

Shōken and Sai On, it rectified lineages, commissioned historical chronicles, worked to

subsume or displace extrapolitical allegiences and autonomous centers of power,

standardized courtly ritual and artistic practices, and intermittently attempted to

standardize village ritual practices as well.

Tosaka Jun argues that ideology is most effective when it is habituated at the level

of everyday customs and manners or fūzoku (風俗) (2001). The Ryūkyūan state made

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conscious efforts to discipline subjects’ everyday customs and manners by habituating

them to a prescribed image of reality. This is evident in disciplinary discourses such as

the complex sumptuary codes enacted by Shō Shōken (Steben 1998, 48). Under these

codes, men of ōji and anji rank wore hachimaki caps with special woven patterns. Men

of uēkata rank could wear a purple hachimaki, while men of pēkumī rank could wear a

yellow hachimaki. Men of satōnushi and chikutōn status could wear a red hachimaki.

The descendants of satōnushi and chikutōn families could wear blue hachimaki.

Significantly, during their tenure, village headmen enjoyed the right to use the title

pēchin and wear a yellow hachimaki despite their common birth. As Weber observes,

daily exposure to sensual differentiating practices such as these contributes to status

awareness and “the inculcation of ethos based on status honor” (Weber 1968, 1105).

Weber argues that while a degree of status honor generally attaches to heredity alone, a

greater degree often attaches to the mastery of status-contingent customs and manners or

“styles of life” (932). Tosaka concurs, suggesting that it is different modes of dress (and

other manifestations of fūzoku) that prevent solidarities from developing across status

boundaries or “between free men and slaves” (43). For Tosaka, “the secret significance

of clothing, which manifests class [and status] difference, lies in this” (2001, 43).

On a social functional level, we can analyze early modern Ryūkyūan performing

arts as an embodied analogue to sumptuary codes. Sociologist Paul Connerton provides a

useful theoretical model. In How Societies Remember, Connerton identifies two modes

of social memory: “inscribing practices,” which employ speech and writing to store or

pass on information, and “incorporating practices,” which “keep the past” by habituating

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normative gestural vocabularies, codes of etiquette, modes of speech and dress, and other

embodied competencies (1989, 72; 79). Incorporating practices play a key role in

structuring social life: through them, we internalize “rules for defining 'proper' behavior

… [which] will appear, depending on our vantage point, either as a structure of feeling or

as a pattern of institutional control” (83; cf. Williams 1977). Connerton emphasizes the

importance of incorporating practices in status-based societies, noting how “the social

control which is the prerogative of court society and the self-control which is the

attainment of a 'civilised' person are mutually defining.” The habituated body is the

“point of linkage” between these public and private registers (84).

Performing arts such as kumiodori and Ryūkyūan courtly dance, which

incorporate both texts and embodied competencies, represent a synthesis of inscribing

and incorporating practices. This allows them to functioned ideologically on both a

textual level and a corporeal level. Their narratives transmit Confucian moral concepts

(such as “promote good and chastise evil” [kanzen chōaku]), while their gestural and

musical repertories showcase the qualities of grace (hin 品), intuition (kan 勘), and

bearing (konashi 熟し) idealized by and expected of Ryūkyūan aristocracy. Sketching

out normative character types and narratives in sharply defined lines, didactic plays such

as Shūshin kane’iri reproduced the “dramaturgy of domination” in an eminently legible

microcosmic form (cf. Scott 1990). From the standpoint of practice, these plays worked

to habituate young men to a normative model of aristocratic fūzoku, interlacing cognition

with muscle memory and libidinal processes, naturalizing social distinction by making its

signs available as structures of feeling and aesthetic cues (cf. Honneth 1996). From the

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standpoint of reception, these plays had the additional benefit of simultaneously

showcasing performers’ status honor and reconfirming their privileged capacity to

“occupy [their] time not economically but ceremonially” (Connerton 1989, 87).

As we have seen, Confucian aesthetic and political theory provided intellectual

historical context for the Ryūkyūan court’s embrace of kumiodori as a “national drama”

(kokugeki) (Iha 1974a, 153). This is compelling from a meta-theoretical standpoint

because certain Confucian texts resonate surprisingly well with the modern concept of

ideological interpellation. While Confucian aesthetic theory and contemporary ideology

critique are based on very different epistemological premises, they both establish art and

literature as “practical metaphors” that mediate between social structures and embodied

structures of feeling (cf. Williams 1977; Bourdieu 1984). In the Yue ji, for example, we

find the passage: “when the patterns of Music are uniform, then those in high position

and those in low position get along in harmony” (Cook 1995, 42). This could be a

paraphrase of John Blacking’s assertion that music “can bridge the gulf between the true

state of human being and the predicament of particular human beings in a given society

… especially the alienation that springs from the class struggle” (1978, 22). According to

Chinese musicologist Wang Yaohua, early modern Ryūkyūan writings on performing arts

take a comparable standpoint. For example, the “Book of Strings and Voice,” written in

1789 under King Shō Boku, states that when music and ritual are performed properly,

“lords will be lords, vassals will be vassals, fathers will be fathers, children will be

children, the four classes will take pleasure in their occupations, the people will be

prosperous, and civic order will be maintained” (cited in Wang 1998, 285).

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Courtly Ryūkyūan performing arts were created by and for an aristocratic

audience; to paraphrase Geertz, they were quite literally “the dramas of the theatre-state,

mimetic of themselves” (1980, 136). Likewise, village performing arts appear to have

been performed largely on a village level. This begs the question of to what extent, if

any, did the two worlds meet. In Visions of Ryūkyū: Identity and Ideology in Early

Modern Thought and Practice, Gregory Smits interprets the Ryūkyūan state’s

intermittent attempts to regulate popular performing arts as part of a larger project “to

conflate culture and polity and to incorporate all Ryūkyūans into the resulting political

community” (1999, 6). It is certainly true that these sanctions constituted a conscious

attempt to standardize the ritual calendar and integrate appointed officials, national

religious sites, and other proxies of state power into the ritual lives of commoners (Araki

1980). Moreover, for royal ministers to decry traditions associated with noro priestesses

(and women in general) as “damaging to fūzoku” was certainly in line with their

patriarchal Confucian ideology. Finally, the state’s suppression of shamanism and forced

restructuring of the noro priestesshood demonstrates that it had no compunctions about

coercively suppressing cultural practices that did not align with official ideals.

This being said, interpreting Ryūkyūan cultural policy as an attempt at proto-

culturalist nation building along Gellnerian or Andersonian lines seems hasty. As Araki

makes clear, the royal state’s various attempts to regulate peasants’ performance

activities were above all else intended to eliminate wasteful expenditures of time, labor,

and resources (1980, 81). Following Araki, we can deduce that as in early modern Japan,

“the regime regarded cultural practices [such as performing arts] that channeled life

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energies (ki 気) into something other than the requirement of material production as

dangerous excesses” (Hirano 2014, 169). Which is to say, the main point of state

sanctions on popular culture was not to improve the peasants, but to improve production.

In cases where peasants passively resisted these sanctions by slackening the pace of

agricultural production, local officials often simply repealed them (Araki 1980, 83). The

fact that peasants’ material productivity took precedence over their ideological propriety

suggests that state planners regarded them as a resource to be exploited, not as co-

participants in a shared community of values. As long as corporate villages served their

productive function, elites appear to have been content to permit them a degree of

cultural autonomy.

Given the recent priority of meta-theoretical exchanges in the discipline of

ethnomusicology, our exploration of the ideological function of performing arts in early

modern Ryūkyū begs a return to the broader question of the relationship between

aesthetics and politics in general (cf. Rice 2010). In the wake of the deconstruction of

formalism, it is generally accepted that aesthetic experience and artistic practice bear

some kind of inherent sociopolitical potential. Following up this intuition with cogent

theory, however, is notoriously difficult. As Rancière observes, “matters would be easy

if we could merely say – naïvely – that the beauties of art must be subtracted from any

politicization, or – knowingly – that the alleged autonomy of art disguises its dependence

upon domination” (116). Unfortunately for the theorist (but fortunately for humanity),

neither of these formulations is adequate.

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As argued in the Introduction, I tend to agree with Gadamer, Ricoeur, Rancière,

and others that the special political character of art is rooted in its noncongruence with

actuality. Gadamer and Ricoeur make a strong case for the interpretation of works of art

as hermeneutically autonomous parallel realities. I believe that the concept of

hermeneutic autonomy is equally applicable to texts and non-linguistic art forms, which

are also “materially fixed” and boast their own unique syntactic and semantic structures

(Ricoeur 2007, 298). Moreover, I would argue that the concept of materially fixed

discourse does not apply only to discourses fixed through inscribing practices, but also

those fixed through incorporating practices (cf. Connerton 1989). Musical structuration

in accordance with an orally transmitted tradition, for example, establishes a bracketed

world of sounds as surely as linguistic structuration establishes a bracketed world of

representations. We can say the same for dance. The special vehemence of multimedia

performing arts like kumiodori lies in their capacity to shape a fully immersive sensory

environment, disclosing “a transformed reality [which] brings before us intensified

possibilities never seen before” (Gadamer 1986, 64).

Before going further with this analysis, we must wrangle with the question of

“theoretical imperialism” (Sorgenfrei 2007). The idea of aesthetics as a bracketing of

reality is most commonly applied to Western art of the Romantic and modern periods,

during which theorists entertained the possibility that art and aesthetic experience

comprised a sovereign metaphysical domain removed from worldly interests and

concerns. Rancière takes care to contrast this “aesthetic regime of art” with the “regime

of representation” exemplified by classical and neoclassical theater, in which “the stage,

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the audience and the world are taken in one and the same continuum” (2008, 5).

Ryūkyūan courtly performing arts falls definitively under the regime of representation:

“the performance of the bodies on the stage was a display of signs of thoughts and

emotions that could be read unequivocally because they had a grammar which was held

as the language of nature itself” (6). This being the case, we should ask whether applying

theoretical paradigms developed in and for the modern West to early modern Ryūkyū is

helpful or even ethically permissible. The notion that art is metaphysically autonomous,

for example, flatly contradicts the aforementioned Confucian view of artistic practice as

political practice. Attempting to fit this concept to an art like kumiodori would only

perpetuate misunderstanding.

The idea of hermeneutic autonomy is significantly more flexible. This is because

it does not impute a qualitative separation between art and the world. Rather, it

designates the capacity of art to speak differently to different spectators. Wang Yaohua’s

description of the construction of Ryūkyūan classical songs out of pre-given melodic and

textual patterns shows interesting parallels to the concept of hermeneutic autonomy:

In the practice of music, emotions born of reality are expressed from the artistic

standpoint of “emptiness.” This principle of “separation from reality and

receiving emptiness” (「離実得虚」) grounds the formal aspect of musical

composition – which is manifest in the phrase ‘one melody, many changing uses’

(「一曲多変運用」) – and enables the restructuring of melodies and rhythms as

generic types through a principle of aesthetic formalism” (1998, 299).

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Wang describes this procedure of restructuring as a “generative dialectic linking human

emotions to the environing world, which itself gives rise to music” (「情生於景、景生

於情、情景相生、自成音律」) (298). If done skillfully, the creative recombination of

familiar tropes brings about a sensation of “the synthesis of subject and object” (「物

我」). From the hermeneutic perspective, is this limitless generative capacity – not some

imputed metaphysical essence – that gives art its world-transformational potential.

As I argue in Chapter One, the capacity of art to make and unmake worlds infuses

it with both an intensified ideological potential and an intensified counter-ideological

potential. Aesthetic bracketing allows coercive normative discourses to be mimetically

reconfigured on the plane of fiction, euphemized, and experienced pleasurably.

However, aesthetic bracketing simultaneously frees the work of art from the social

conditions of its production. The Ryūkyūan kumiodori Temizu no en exemplifies this in

two senses. On the one hand, Temizu no en appropriates the kumiodori form, created by

Tamagusuku Chōkun as a vehicle for royal ideology, and utilizes it to convey subversive

sentiments. On the other hand, Temizu no en effectively transposes the thematics of giri

and ninjō, which developed in the context of Japanese urban bourgeois society, into the

very different context of the staidly feudal Ryūkyūan court. We can regard productive

reappropriations such as these as a preview of the flurry of creative activity that followed

annexation and the dissolution of the status system.

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Chapter 3. Annexation and the emergence of commercial performing arts

Nineteenth century crisis and decline

Economic and social reforms introduced by the Ryūkyūan royal government

during the early eighteenth century brought the kingdom to a high point of “post-invasion

prosperity” (Smits 1999, 133). Unfortunately, this partial economic recovery was short

lived. As in many mainland Japanese domains, the nineteenth century was a time of

severe economic malaise for the Ryūkyū Kingdom. The proximate cause was instability

in the sugar market. In 1646, the royal government established a monopoly on non-staple

foods, directing certain villages to grow turmeric and sugar rather than rice, expropriating

them at exchange rates significantly below market value, and then selling them at a high

profit to Osaka merchants via the Ryūkyūan legation in Kagoshima (Sakihara 1971, 114).

During the eighteenth century, the kingdom became increasingly dependent on sugar

revenue to fund its trade with China and diplomatic missions to Edo. In 1745, however,

Satsuma established a similar monopoly in Amami-Ōshima and began selling sugar in

direct competition with Ryūkyū (Matsui 1975, 150). As supply gradually increased,

prices dropped. This situation grew exponentially worse when the Tokugawa

government began encouraging other domains to engage in sugar cultivation in order to

reduce its dependence on imports (Sakihara 1971, 228). By 1818, prices had become so

volatile that the shogunate reversed its stance and prohibited further sugar cultivation;

unfortunately, this prohibition was essentially unenforceable, and did little to keep cash-

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strapped daimyō from entering the market (229). Meanwhile, embezzlement and graft by

Ryūkyūan and Satsuma officials had become a serious problem: in 1822, for example,

only half of the kingdom’s sugar revenue actually made its way to the treasury (127). By

the mid 1800s, the kingdom’s income was barely sufficient to cover its day-to-day

affairs, much less the exorbitant expense of courtly ceremonies and diplomatic missions

to China and Japan.

It is important to remember that Shuri’s economic crisis was a local symptom of

broader systematic contradictions that had been gradually developing for centuries

throughout Tokugawa Japan. This becomes apparent when we look at the “crisis of

feudalism” as it unfolded in Satsuma (cf. Sanderson 1994). The Tokugawa maintained

their 260-year hegemony in part by keeping the major daimyō in a state of perpetual

financial distress through enforced alternate-year attendance in Edo (sankin kōtai 参勤交

代), periodic levies, and other measures. The Shimazu clan was made to maintain several

Edo residences, which consumed upward of 50% of Satsuma’s revenue (Matsui 1975,

109). As an “outside daimyō” (tozama daimyō 外様大名) and former Tokugawa rival,

they were also subject to frequent levies (such as the 1754 Kiso river project and the 1788

Nijō castle project, which cost 18,000 and 12,000 kan of silver, respectively) (112).

These impositions drove them to borrow heavily from Osaka merchants, often at

exorbitant interest rates: between 1616 and 1801, Satsuma debt spiraled from 1,000 kan

of silver to 72,600 kan (92).

By 1808, Satsuma’s yearly revenue was insufficient to pay

even the interest on these debts (250). Daimyō Shimazu Shigehide (1745-1833) saw

some success increasing revenue by coercing interest-free loans from retainers,

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mandating that peasants grow cash crops rather than rice, and cutting back on his own

expenditures; however, the 1806 destruction of three Satsuma residences by fire and the

1816 imposition of a levy for highway improvement forced him to take out additional

loans at interest rates of 10-12% (249-250). According to Ebihara Kiyohiro, assistant to

steward Zusho Shōzaemon, the domain’s financial situation was so dire during the 1820s

that officials had to wait up to thirteen months for their stipends, and several residences

were allowed to fall into disrepair (253).

By 1827, Satsuma was a staggering 320,000 kan of silver in debt (92). Tasked by

Shigehide with rescuing the domain’s finances, the aforementioned Zusho Shōzaemon

instituted the Tenpō financial reform of 1830, which included strong-arming the Osaka

merchants into forgiving the domain’s debt, then effectively assuming control of the

Ryūkyū Kingdom’s sugar monopoly, demanding 750,000 kin of sugar per annum in lieu

of tribute rice.

In 1865, this mandate was increased to 970,000 kin (Sakihara 1971,

130).

Zusho’s reforms revived Satsuma’s economy, but their effect upon the already

struggling Ryūkyū Kingdom, which depended on sugar sales to fund its ceremonial

expenses, was devastating. In 1828, Shō On’s successor Shō Kō (r. 1804-1828)

abdicated the throne due to stress; his eldest son Shō Iku (r. 1829-1848) “skimped on his

investiture ceremony and distributed the surplus funds to the districts for economic relief”

(Smits 1999, 141).

Predictably, the ill effects of this economic crisis trickled down the social

hierarchy, accumulating at the bottom (Uehara 1977). The central government

intensified its unsustainable policy of extracting ‘contributions’ (hōshaku 奉借) from

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local officials and wealthy peasants (who sometimes received elevation to samurai status

in return) (8). Local officials, in turn, ramped up demands on the peasantry, who were

increasingly forced into debt. As the state had monopolized the sale of cash crops, and as

many peasants were already living at a subsistence level, options at this juncture were

limited: an indebted peasant could parcel out and pawn his tenured land (chiwari

shichiire 地割質入れ), become a tenant farmer or wage laborer, sell himself or a family

member into bond servitude or prostitution (miuri 身売り), or illegally leave his land to

find work.

According to chronicles from Haneji magire (present-day Nago City),

officials dispatched from Shuri in 1805 found extensive cases of mortgage, indenture, and

land abandonment (17).

The effects of this economic crisis were especially disastrous in the already

impoverished and overexploited Sakishima. Because indentured and wage laborers were

not counted as members of the tax-paying corporate village body (kyōdōtai), each peasant

who forfeited his land effectively increased the percentage of the tax burden falling on

the remaining land-holding members. This increased the probability that they too would

fall into debt and be forced to forfeit their land in turn (20). This vicious cycle brought

villages to the brink of starvation, rendering them extremely vulnerable to natural

disasters: strong winds and poor harvests, for example, led to 3,358 deaths by famine and

disease in 1825, and another 3,928 deaths in 1827 and 1832 (16-17). While Shuri and

Satsuma occasionally provided relief, they failed to enact substantive reforms; Uehara

Kenzen speculates that even if reforms had been enacted at this point, because a

significant amount of land had fallen into disuse and a critical mass of peasants had

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exhausted their reserves and were subsisting on a hand-to-mouth basis, many villages had

already reached a point where recovery were not feasible (19).

Because the ostensibly natural bond between the peasant, the corporate village

body, and its allotted land undergirded the entire feudal polity, these trends disturbed the

royal government, which circulated a letter proscribing land mortgage throughout the

districts. For a number of reasons, however, mortgage and indenture continued to

increase (18-19). First, as previously mentioned, peasants living at a subsistence level

simply had no other means of alleviating their debts. Second, because it was often the

local officials themselves that were acting as the usurers, their class interest dictated

against enforcing the central government’s prohibitions (20). Uehara describes these

local elites as a self-conscious economic class that exploited the gradual decay of the

feudal tenure system in order to accumulate foreclosed land and turn former smallholders

into tenant farmers (20).

This process gradually but irrevocably altered the texture of life in rural Okinawa

and the Sakishima. The de-coupling of land and labor destabilized the villages, resulting

in noticeable population outflows in many districts. Inequality within the peasant strata

increased dramatically, and upward mobility into the samurai strata became a possibility

for rich commoners willing to make sufficient contributions to the royal government.

The emergence of class alongside status as a social determinant undermined the cohesion

of the corporate village body. Insofar as the village was not only an administrative unit,

but also the primary locus of religious and other communal practice, these

transformations eroded long-standing social bonds. Cases of embezzlement, seizure of

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property, and other abuses by local officials increased in frequency and severity.

Peasants responded with petition movements and passive resistance in the form of land

abandonment, work stoppages, mass suicide, and infanticide (Nishizato 1977, 194).

Occasionally, peasants approached the point of violent insurrection, forcing the royal

government’s hand in dealing with abusive local officials. In one case, the official in

question was reputedly executed along with his entire family (196-197).

Finally, it should be mentioned that the Ryūkyū Kingdom’s nineteenth-century

financial crisis had a pronounced effect on lower-ranking samurai as well as on peasants.

By the early nineteenth century, there were between 7,000–8,000 registered samurai

families in the Ryūkyū Kingdom. Non-fief holding common samurai (ippan shizoku 一

般士族) did not receive tax income directly; rather, they were employed by the court in

various bureaucratic and ceremonial positions. From the perspective of political culture,

these bureaucrats and courtiers performed vital symbolic and ceremonial labor. From a

material perspective, however, their labor was “non-productive” (Naha Shishi Henshū

Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 169). As production languished and expenses rose, the royal

government was forced to terminate an increasing number of common samurai’s

positions. Simply put, the Ryūkyū Kingdom’s inefficient agrarian-coercive economic

base could not support its complex political superstructure. As previously mentioned,

under Sai On, the state attempted to alleviate this problem by permitting unemployed

samurai to move to the country and establish farming communities called yadui (屋取).

Later, the state permitted samurai to take up other trades and encouraged women and

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children from urban samurai families to take up commerce. These stopgap measures,

however, could only slow the pace of samurai underemployment, not halt it (170).

Interestingly, the Ryūkyū Kingdom’s gradual economic decline provides the

background for one of the most well known nineteenth century kumiodori dance-dramas,

Takamiya-gusuku pēchin’s Hanauri no en (「花売の縁」), first performed at the 1808

investiture ceremony of King Shō Kō (尚灝, r. 1804–1834). In Hanauri no en, an

impoverished low-level samurai named Morikawa-no-shi (森川の子) is forced to leave

his wife Otodaru (乙樽) and their son Tsurumatsu (鶴松) and travel the country looking

for work. Several years later, after achieving financial security, Otodaru and Tsurumatsu

go searching for him. After some time on the road they meet a woodcutter who has met

Morikawa-no-shi. He directs them to the town of Taminato, where they finally find

Morikawa-no-shi dressed in rags, selling flowers and singing songs for travelers. He

recognizes Otodaru and tries to conceal himself in shame, but Otodaru recognizes him

and rebukes him for scorning her affection and difficult journey. She and Tsurumatsu

finally persuade him to accompany them back to Shuri.

Hanauri no en alludes clearly to the plight of déclassé samurai and their families.

Throughout the play, Takamiya-gusuku emphasizes the persistence of status distinction

despite changing economic conditions. The woodcutter takes care to inform Otodaru and

Tsurumatsu that Morikawa-no-shi maintained the proper bearing of a samurai throughout

his ordeals. When Morikawa-no-shi enters, he laments the arbitrariness of fate,

comparing the fortunes and misfortunes of men in the world to the changing seasons. He

goes on, however, to state that since his birth and fate were determined by heaven, he will

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put them out of his thoughts and diligently go about his work. After discovering

Morikawa-no-shi, Otodaru emphasizes the fact that both fate and her own dedication

brought them together again. Morikawa-no-shi then laments the fact that his innocent

son had the misfortuneate to be born to an unlucky parent. We can only assume that

Hanauri no en struck a chord with courtiers who suddenly felt themselves under threat of

losing their livelihoods. Its grimly persevering tone and implausible happy ending can be

interpreted on an ideological level as a plea to these courtiers to “keep calm and carry on”

despite the effects of worsening structural instability on their personal fortunes.

Abolishing a kingdom and establishing a prefecture

Both the 1868 Meiji Restoration and the 1879 annexation of Ryūkyū are

popularly portrayed as decisive events that marked the end of feudalism and the onset of

modernity. In fact, the Meiji Restoration was a decades-long process marked by internal

contestations between factions with contrasting interests, ideological commitments, and

visions of the future. The same is true of the Meiji government’s “disposition of

Ryūkyū” (Ryūkyū shobun 琉球処分). Two of the key issues of the Meiji period played

out dramatically during the Ryūkyū shobun and in its wake: the clash between East Asian

and Western conceptions of territoriality and sovereignty, and the on-the-ground

difficulty of “returning the land and people to the Emperor” (hanseki hōkan 版籍奉還)

and “abolishing domains and establishing prefectures” (haihan chiken 廃藩置県). While

these political dramas unfolded far away from the entertainment districts of Naha, they

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had a formative impact on commercial theater and the other forms of cultural production

that emerged in the wake of annexation.

Under the Imperial Chinese tribute system, formal sovereignty established a

symbolic relation of dominance, but did not necessarily imply actual territorial rule. It

was therefore possible to conceive of a polity as being “subject” (zokkoku 属国) to two

suzerains at once, and yet under the actual rule of neither. After signing the Ansei

Treaties of 1858, the Japanese realized that failing to clearly articulate their territorial

claims in Western legalistic terms put them at risk.

In 1872, Japan declared the creation

of “Ryūkyū domain,” with the Ryūkyūan monarch Shō Tai as “domain king” (Han-ō 藩

王). The Ryūkyūan government expressed its displeasure, but did not take substantive

action. Between 1874 and 1876, Japan made its intentions clearer by prohibiting further

tribute missions to China and establishing a military garrison in Naha. This provoked the

Ryūkyūan government to dispatch secret envoys to China to request intervention, as well

as to send letters of protest to representatives of the Western powers (120). Despite

Chinese and Western objections, Japan proceeded to annex the kingdom in 1879, sending

Secretary of the Ministry of Internal Affairs Matsuda Michiyuki to Shuri along with 160

military police and 400 soldiers. While no blood was spilled, Matsuda’s dissolution of

the Ryūkyū Kingdom (or domain) and establishment of Okinawa Prefecture was

decidedly non-consensual, and took place under the threat of overwhelming military

force.

The former Ryūkyūan ruling class almost unilaterally rejected the concept of

merger with Japan, referring to Matsuda and his transitional bureaucracy as foreigners

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(“Yamato people,” Yamatojin 大和人) and decrying annexation as “the ruination of the

state” (bōkoku 亡国) (Nishizato 2011, 15-16). News travelled swiftly between

Ryūkyūans living in Okinawa, Tokyo, Fujian, and Beijing, and “petitions to save the

Ryūkyūan state” (Ryūkyū kyū-koku seigansho 琉球救国請願書) were drafted.

Aristocrats in Shuri and local officials in rural areas circulated “blood oaths” (keppan

seiyaku 血判誓約) pledging to resist Japanese rule even unto death, assist the wives and

children of those who died in resistance, and punish collaborators. Most Ryūkyūan

“patriotic gentlemen” (aikoku no shishi 愛国の志士) never acted on their oaths, but some

did. In July 1879, for example, an official in Miyako was lynched for accepting a

position as an interpreter for the new Japanese police dispatch (Nishizato 1981, 13-14).

Incidents of resistance such as this led the newly appointed prefectural magistrate

Nabeshima Naoyoshi to crack down, conducting mass arrests, pardoning those who

cooperated, and extracting confessions through torture from those who remained

obstinate. A faction of hard-liners (gankotō 頑固党 or kurotō 黒党) continued to resist,

fleeing to Fuzhou and Beijing. Under the leadership of influential former ministers such

as Shō Tokukō (向徳宏 [Kōchi-uekata Chōjō 幸地親方朝常]) and Rin Seikō (林世功

[Nashi Shunbo 名城春傍]), these dasshinnin (脱清人 “refugees to Qing China”) agitated

for Chinese military aid to reestablish the Ryūkyū Kingdom (Nishizato 2011, 10-20).

While the dasshinnin were materially powerless, their close association with influential

Chinese statesmen such as Li Hongzhang (李鴻章, 1823-1901) lent some credibility to

their threats. Diplomatic records show that Japan was not willing to risk war with China

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over the Ryūkyū Islands, and was even prepared to cede sovereignty over the Sakishima

for economic concessions (Kublin 1949, 226-229).

Negotiations over the division of

the islands (buntō 分島) were first attempted in 1880, and continued off and on until

1883 (Nishizato 2011). Unfortunately, due to China and Japan’s shifting geopolitical

priorities and Ryūkyūan obstructionism, no progress was made (Matsumura 2007, 104).

Meanwhile, in Shuri and Naha, disposition officer Matsuda and prefectural

magistrate Nabeshima adopted a cautious approach to implementing Japanese rule,

leaving many Ryūkyūan institutions intact. This became known as the policy of

“Preserving Old Customs” (kyūkan onzon). Nabeshima’s first priority was to introduce

Meiji-style education. His rationale was supremely pragmatic: as long as the majority of

Okinawans could not speak or read Japanese, the administration had no choice but to rely

upon the hostile local ruling class as intermediaries. In 1881, Uesugi Mochinori

succeeded Nabeshima as prefectural magistrate. Upon arriving in Okinawa, Uesugi

toured the countryside and was dismayed by what he saw. Because Satsuma’s 1830

reforms forced Shuri to collect taxes largely in sugar, a number of villages had dedicated

much of the land previously reserved for staple crops to sugarcane. Food insecurity, debt,

mortgage, and indenture were widespread. In hopes of alleviating these burdens,

peasants tried to cultivate sugar secretly in their vegetable and sweet potato plots as well.

This further decreased food self-sufficiency and made the already unstable villages more

vulnerable to natural disasters. Realizing that these conditions were the result of a tax

and tenure system that failed to incentivize the producers themselves, Uesugi proposed

dismantling the feudal bureaucracy and implementing Meiji-style land and tax reforms.

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The next year, however, the Home Ministry replaced Uesugi with the conservative

Iwamura Michitoshi, who decreed that administrative matters in the villages would be

left to local officials. Iwamura further promised that high-ranking aristocrats would

retain their privileges and continue to receive stipends, and that rural local officials would

retain their positions. The next three prefectural magistrates and subsequent first

appointed governor maintained Iwamura’s conservative policies.

Nishizato Kikō describes the “Preservation of Old Customs” policy accurately as

the incorporation of a precapitalist “stratified structure of discrimination” (累層的な差別

の構造) into a modern capitalist and statist framework (1977, 210; cf. Frank 1966). With

the exception of implementing education reform, the Meiji government’s approach to

Okinawa during this period was simply to insert itself in Satsuma’s place at the top of the

chain of resource extraction, leaving existing feudal institutions and practices intact while

meanwhile assessing the prospects for development. Following Giles Deleuze and Félix

Guattari, Wendy Matsumura identifies these institutions of indirect rule as “archaisms

with a current function” – which is to say that while their structure and effects on the

ground remained much the same, their function vis-à-vis their political economic

systemic context had changed (2007, 137; cf. Deleuze and Gauttari 1983).

This

function was fairly straightforward: to help offset local expenditures by keeping sugar

revenue flowing while Japan gradually obviated the domestic and geopolitical conditions

that gave the former Ryūkyūan ruling class its leverage.

As planned, the Preservation of Old Customs policy successfully placated many

high-ranking Ryūkyūan elites. Socially and economically, however, it was a disaster. As

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we have seen, by the time of annexation, the contradictions inherent in the traditional

economy had already strained the corporate village system to its functional limit (Uehara

1977, 20). The Preservation of Old Customs policy not only allowed local officials to

continue to exploit the peasantry, but also introduced new municipal fees (Nishizato 1977,

203-210). This sparked uprisings in Aguni in 1881, Nago in 1883, Nakijin and Goeku in

1886, and Chinen in 1889, as well as a well-organized peasants’ movement in Miyako

between 1892 and 1895 (Meyer 2007, 142).

It also aggravated rural out-migration.

This was not a new problem; the royal government recognized rural out-migration as a

potential threat to the integrity of the corporate village system as early as the seventeenth

century, but devised various regulations to prevent peasants from moving or restrict the

amount of time they spent in the city. After annexation, however, these regulations fell

out of force. Between 1880 and 1903, nearly 20,000 former peasants fled the

impoverished countryside to seek work in the growing Naha-Shuri area.

Social mobility and the commodification of artistic competence

The annexation of Okinawa precipitated a qualitative transformation of the

performing arts scene, which can be understood as a shift in the artistic mode of

production (cf. Qureshi 2000, 29). The primary agents of this transformation were male

courtly performers from low and mid-level samurai families (Ikemiya 1980, 285). When

the court was dissolved in 1879, many bureaucrats and courtiers lost their employment.

They also lost their venue, audience, and primary sociopolitical motivation for practicing

courtly performing arts. Some entered professions unrelated to the arts, and continued

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practicing courtly performing arts as a hobby. Others sought to make a living through

commercial performance and/or teaching (Ikemiya 1982a, 415). This eventually required

them to adapt their performance aesthetic to suit changing popular tastes, catalyzing the

formation of new genres. It also entailed establishing new social spaces – commercial

theaters – as well as a new kind of social bond – the transactional relationship between

the commercial performer and his audience (cf. Lefebvre 1991; Sennett 1977).

Before delving further into the history of the commodification of performance

skills and the capitalization of relations of artistic production, we must clarify what it is

we mean when we talk of commodities and capital. In common sense terms, a

commodity is a thing that is available for exchange, i.e., that is imputed with exchange

value in excess of its use value. A thing’s use value often lies in its ability to directly

satisfy a need; its exchange value, on the other hand, is contingent upon the social

relations that structure its production and circulation. Things, then, are not commodities

in and of themselves, despite having use values. Rather, things become commodities

when they are placed into a relation of exchangeability with other things, i.e., when their

exchange value displaces and defers their use value. Money is that particular object

imputed with exchange value but no use value – i.e., the “socially recognized general

equivalent” (Uno 1964, 9). Capital is “value in a state of motion” between the

commodity form and the general equivalent – what Marx calls “metamorphosis” (14).

Capitalism is a mode of production in which goods are produced primarily for exchange

rather than immediate use, i.e., as commodities. This mode of production is unique

insofar as the circulation of goods remains fluid, it hypothetically generates value above

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and beyond use value in perpetuity. Accordingly, John R. Bell identifies capital as “the

self-augmenting motion of value” (2009, 38).

This self-augmenting quality distinguishes capitalism from coercive modes of

production, in which goods are produced for their use-value and then expropriated rather

than exchanged, thus stymying the generation of surplus value. One key moment in the

development of capitalism as a social system is the commodification of labor, i.e., the

reconception of labor power as a thing that a laborer owns and can exchange for other

things or refuse to do so. This concept of “free labor” also hypothetically distinguishes

capitalism from coercive modes of production, in which labor can be expropriated as

readily as material goods. The right to free labor was first established in Japan by the

1872 Emancipation Order for Prostitutes (Geishōgi no kaihōrei 芸娼妓の解放令, Edict

#295), which prohibited the sale or indenture of humans (Frank 2005, 254). The Meiji

Constitution retrenched this right, declaring in Chapter Two, Article 27 that “the right of

property of every Japanese subject shall remain inviolate” (Marutschke 2005, 209).

Hypothetically at least, the emancipation of labor shielded direct producers from

the old practice of coercive expropriation in very clear terms. It also deprived much of

the old rentier class of their stipends-in-kind (chitsuroku 秩禄) – which is to say, their

means of sustenance. This radically disrupted Okinawan society. As previously

mentioned, low and mid-level samurai were perpetually underemployed in the latter days

of the Ryūkyū Kingdom. The Meiji state’s sudden dissolution of the royal government

worsened this problem exponentially. Out of over 2,000 samurai employed in the courtly

bureaucracy, only 378 lords and former retainers were classified by the Meiji government

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as “with stipend” (Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 150).

These high-ranking

aristocrats received cash stipends from the central government until 1909–1910, at which

point they received interest-bearing bonds. The remaining middle- and low-ranking

samurai, whether they had formerly received a stipend or not, were classified as “without

stipend." Some of these samurai received severance grants or loans to help them

establish a trade, while others received nothing.

As many of these samurai families had

been teetering on the brink of poverty for decades, the effect on their financial and

psychological wellbeing was crushing. Some were offered jobs with the Japanese

administration or with companies founded by high-ranking former aristocrats. Most,

however, were forced to find an entirely new way of earning their livelihood.

Fortunately, late nineteenth-century Naha was developing into a receptive

commercial environment. According to Chinese envoys’ records, Naha already had a

flourishing market for manufactured goods during Shō Kei’s reign (178). Around the

time of Shō Boku’s reign, rice and other foodstuffs appeared for sale at the Naha market.

During the late Ryūkyū Kingdom period, the Naha market (called ufumachi 大町) was

dominated by the wives of fishermen, the wives of samurai employed in the royal

bureaucracy who received their stipends in rice, and the wives of local peasants, who sold

piglets, tofu, rice, vegetables, and home-produced woven goods (179). In the wake of the

annexation, merchants from Kagoshima and Osaka flooded into Naha, taking advantage

of sudden deregulation to set up manufactories and trading houses (172-177).

Around

the same time, the Shō and Takamine families started the first large-scale Okinawan-

owned commercial enterprises, using their government stipends as backing capital. For

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peasants who had lost their land through foreclosure, finding work in shipping or

commerce in Naha may have seemed preferable to becoming a tenant farmer (a vocation

with no future prospects whatsoever). Judging from newspaper reviews and other early

sources, this “mass” (taishū 大衆) of atomized migrants articulated a demand for new

social spaces and forms of cultural production, which disenfranchised courtly tradition-

bearers answered.

Actor memoirs provide valuable insight into the earliest phase in the development

of Okinawan commercial performing arts. According to the recollections of actor

Tokashiki Shuryō, former courtiers established Naha's first commercial performance

spaces in the early 1880s in the area around Shianbashi (思案橋) (Ikemiya 1980, 286).

These temporary outdoor stages were reportedly encircled by straw bags or kamasu (叺),

pronounced kamajī in the Naha dialect; accordingly, the first phase in the development of

commercial theater has come to be known as “kamajī theater” (カマジー芝居). Actors

Majikina Yūkō and Shimabukuro Kōyū recall that these venues accommodated very

small audiences and charged an entrance fee of one or two sen per person (1987, 350).

Because performances were often conducted without the permission of authorities, they

were subject to interruption and censure by residents, and were sometimes dispersed by

patrolmen. Around the same time period, other former courtiers established unlicensed

pubs that featured performances of classical dance (351).

During the mid to late 1880s, the focal point of commercial performance in Naha

shifted to the area around Kume Kōshibyō (久米孔子廟), then to Nakamō (仲毛) and

Tsuji (辻) (Ikemiya 1980, 286). Accordingly, the second phase of the development of the

154!

tradition is sometimes called “Nakamō theater” (Nakamō shibai 仲毛芝居). The first

permanent venue was the Nakamō Enjiba (Jp. Nakamō engeijō 仲毛演芸場), which is

mentioned in Matsuyama Denjūrō's 1889 publication Ryūkyū jōruri, and was thus

probably constructed by 1887 or 1888 (287). According to Ikemiya, the Nakamō Enjiba

was around 300 tsubo in size and could accomodate upwards of a thousand people (345).

It was followed by several other theaters. In 1890, the Hon-enjiba (Jp. hon-engeijō 本演

芸場), also called Shicha-nu-shibai (Jp. shita-no-shibai 下の芝居) was built in Tsuji

Hatamichi (辻端道). In 1892, the Shin-enjiba (Jp. shin-engeijō 新演芸場), also called

the Uī-nu-shibai (Jp. ue-no-shibai 上の芝居) was built, also in Tsuji Hatamichi. Around

the same time, the Shuri Enjiba (or sungā-shibai 寒川芝居) was founded near Kannon-

dō temple and Shuri castle (Ikemiya 1982a, 424). These four vnues formed the core of

the commercial performing arts scene for the next decade or so. Other venues were

opened in the late Meiji and Taishō periods: in January 1910, Meiji-za (明治座); in July

of the same year, Naka-za (中座); in March 1914, the movie theater Teikokukan (帝国館

), which was also sometimes used for theater; in June 1915, Taishō Gekijō (大正劇場); in

April 1922, the Naha Gekijō (那覇劇場); and in the early 1930s, Asahi Gekijō (旭劇場)

(431-432; 436; 441; 446).

Notable members of the second and third generations of commercial performers

received their training in these theaters. These generations included luminaries such as

Tamagusuku Seijū (玉城盛重, 1868–1945), Tamagusuku Seigi (玉城盛義, 1889–1971),

Majikina Yūso (真境名由祚, 1876–1946), Arakaki Shōgan (新垣松含, 1880–1937),

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Tokashiki Shuryō (渡嘉敷守良, 1880–1953), Tokashiki Shurei (渡嘉敷守礼, 1883–

1922), Ganeko Yaei (我如古弥栄, 1881–1943), Takara Chōsei (多嘉良朝成, 1844–

1944), Iraha Inkichi (伊良波尹吉, 1886–1951), Majikina Yūkō (真境名由康, 1888–

1982), and Uema Seihin (上間正品, dates unknown). Many of these actors began their

careers as children after being fostered or apprenticed by their parents to relatives or

associates who were actors. Tokashiki Shuryō, for example, first appeared onstage at the

Nakamō theater in 1886 at age seven (Ikemiya 1982a, 423). Similarly, Majikina Yūkō

was adopted by his uncle Majikina Yūso in 1893 at age five, and first performed at age

seven (Majikina 1987, 494-495).

Matsuyama and Tokashiki’s descriptions suggest that early performances were

relatively subdued affairs which took place during the afternoon and early evening, in

part due to regulations and in part due to the problem of lighting (Ikemiya 1980, 288).

Initially, commercial theater programs consisted mainly of courtly arts. Majikina, for

example, recalls that afternoon and evening programs at Okinawa-za began with drum

and sanshin performances, moved on to classical dance (wakashū odori, onna odori, and

nisai odori) and kyōgen, and concluded with kumiodori (1987, 462-463). By the end of

the 1880s, however, courtly performing arts appear to have begun to lose their novelty

value to Okinawan commoners, who gradually began to desire to see representations of

themselves and their own lifestyles on stage (Ikemiya 1980, 298). The first generation of

commercial performers, who had been trained in a courtly context and maintained pride

in the purity and propriety of their traditions, do not appear to have been well suited to

respond to this desire (288). On the other hand, younger performers who had learned

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their arts in a commercial context proved ready to innovate and play to the crowd. The

second and third generations of commercial performers combined technical polish with

restless creative drive.

Innovations and new compositions emerged quickly from the fertile intersection

of transformative social forces and individual creative genius. As early as 1889, the

Nakamō theater began arranging kumiodori in a more contemporary style under the

management of a man from Shuri named Okushima (Ryūkyū Shinpō, January 11-13,

1913). Another traditional genre amenable to adaptation was uchikumiodori (打組踊), a

type of theatrical dance. In uchikumiodori, a chorus of sanshin players sing a classical or

folk song while two or more dancers enact a stylized tableaux of its narrative or main

themes. The Nakamō theater also staged dances from outlying regions of Okinawa and

the outer islands; these were categorized alongside newly composed dances under the

broad heading of “miscellaneous dances" or zō-odori (雑踊り). Zō-odori can be

distinguished from classical performing arts by their use of everyday clothing rather than

elaborate bingata; folk songs rather than (or in addition to) classical songs; faster tempos;

and livelier, less restrained movements and facial expressions. One major difference

between uchikumiodori and zō-odori is that in the former, only the sanshin players sing,

whereas in the latter, the dancers themselves contribute interjections between verses

(hayashikotoba 囃子詞) (Ōno 2003, 27-28).

In the hands of gifted and inventive young performers, uchikumiodori and zō-

odori proved effective media in which to theatricalize the pleasures, difficulties, and

frivolities of the everyday lives of average Okinawans (minkan 民間) (Ikemiya 1980,

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282). Ōno cites the dances Guikū bushi (「越来節」) and Tanchamē bushi (「谷茶前

節」) as representative of the two genres (2003, 26-28). Guikū bushi is a flirtatious

dialogue between an administrative official and a local girl in whom he takes an interest:

This is a thing that happened in Guikū district, a thing the official Fusato did.

Yuyasa! A thing he did.

He made the rounds of the late-night teahouses, with three pretty girls on his arm.

Yuyasa! Three girls on his arm.

He called out to the one he liked, Hey, hey, pretty baby – let’s go have some fun!

Yuyasa! Let’s go have some fun!

I want to go out too, but – my parents have my evening clothes! What can I do?

Yuyasa! My parents have my evening clothes (cited in Ōno 2003, 26-27).

The uchikumiodori dance itself follows the song closely, in accordance with the ideal of

“dancing the lyrics” (kashi wo mau 歌詞を舞う) (Ikemiya 1982a, 304). Tomisato

dances alone during the first two verses, after which the girl enters and the two dance

together. The fact that the characters themselves do not sing is really the only thing

distinguishing the dance Guikū bushi from a short musical drama (Ōno 2003, 27). Like

uchikumiodori, zō-odori usually depict scenes drawn from the everyday lives of

commoners, though they are sometimes more impressionistic than narrative. Take

Tanchamē bushi, for example:

Chorus: I hear a school of silver-stripe herring have come to Tanchamē bay

Dancers: Hei!

Chorus: Have come to Tanchamē bay

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Dancers: Hei! Nancha-mashi-mashi! Deiangwa-soi-soi!

Chorus: A bamboo-grass hat is a beautiful thing, atop the head of a beautiful girl

Dancers: Ah! Light crimson in color (cited in Ōno 2003, 28).

Tanchamē bushi is quite upbeat, and Ōno speculates that to late nineteenth century

audiences, who were not used to seeing dancers sing, it would have seemed quite novel

and refreshing (29). Perhaps more importantly, this subtle shift in the division of artistic

labor between chorus and dancers marked a transitional stage between the “weak

theatricality” of narrative dance and the “strong theatricality” of genres such as spoken

historical drama (shigeki) and musical drama (kageki), in which the characters on stage

sing or speak most of the lines (Ikemiya 1980, 342). As Ōno puts it, giving the dancers a

voice “transforms them from mere personages on stage into fellow human beings,

thereby diminishing the audience’s sense of distance from the stage and bringing on a

greater feeling of sympathy” (2003, 28).

From narrative dance to comic musical drama

As zō-odori gained in popularity, artists began to expand the creative possibilities

of other genres such as uchikumiodori and folk kyōgen, weaving together various stylistic

elements to create new compositions and eventually new genres. In Tamagusuku Seijū’s

narrative dance Ayagu (「アヤグ」) for example, the dancers sing the final two lines of

the song. Ōno identifies this as a step beyond zō-odori, in which the dancers generally

only utter interjections (hayashikotoba 囃子詞). It is important to mention at this point

that clear genre distinctions do not appear in written records until the 1900s. During the

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1880s-90s, a number of styles of performing arts were referred to simply as kyōgen

and/or dance (odori 踊り). Performance programs that included kumiodori, classical

dance, comic sketches, and semi-theatrical zō-odori, for example, were advertised simply

as odori. According to Tokashiki Shuryō, the terms theater (shibai 芝居) and theater

venue/company (za 座) did not enter Okinawan everyday speech until the late 1890s,

when modern mainland Japanese theater started to become popular (Ikemiya 1980, 342).

In a 1932 Ryūkyū Shinpō interview, Tamagusuku claimed the dance Ayagu as the

first work of modern Okinawan theater (Okinawa shibai 沖縄芝居). Most contemporary

scholars, however, reserve the term Okinawa shibai for pieces in which the performers on

stage carry most of the dialogue. Adopting this criterion, Ikemiya identifies the

anonymous Futari mekura (「二人盲」), Futari daimyō (「二人大名」), and Sakana

azuke (魚預け) as among the earliest modern Okinawan spoken dramas (hōgen serifu-

geki 方言セリフ劇) (1980, 292-295). All three are short comic sketches, around 10-20

minutes in length or less, and have been recorded in the form of plot outlines rather than

scripts.

Ōno Michio likewise identifies Tamagusuku Seisei’s Abagwa-hei (「あば小へ

い」) and Rincha-abāchī (「りんちゃあばあちい」) and Tokashiki Shurei’s Cha-uyā-

yā (「茶売やあ」) and Suntōji (「主ん妻」) as among the first short musical dramas

(2003, 30). These are all also short, light-hearted sketches, but the lines are sung to folk

melodies with sanshin accompaniment rather than spoken. Because the prosody is

partially determined by the contour of the melody, the musical format is less immediately

conducive to improvisation. A skilled performer, however, will find space for

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improvised asides. As Ikemiya and Ōno make clear, early spoken and musical drama can

both be understood as organically synthesizing the traditions with which most performers

would have been familiar: courtly and folk music and dance, indigenous and Japanese

kyōgen, the comic maruman episodes in kumiodori, and possibly the early modern

chondarā tradition.

Okinawan comic sketches are generally farcical, populated by stock kyōgen

characters such as “fun-loving husbands, tyrannical wives, slow-witted masters, shrewd

servants, cowardly warriors, and greedy monks” (Ueda 1965, 20). As they were almost

invariably improvised from templates in kuchidate (口立て) style, the texts we have

should be regarded as documented performances rather than authoritative scripts. Several

pieces, such as Futari daimyō, are more or less Okinawan translations of well-known

Japanese kyōgen, while others, like Futari mekura, Sakana azuke, and Cha-uyā-yā, adapt

common kyōgen conceits to an Okinawan context. All but one of the comic sketches

described by Ōno and Ikemiya adhere to Jessica Milner Davis’ broad definition of farce:

“Essentially, the comic spirit of farce is one which delights in taboo violation, but which

avoids implied moral comment or social criticism, and which tends to debar empathy for

its victims” (the one exception is Abagwa-hei, which is basically an elaboration of the

flirtatious uchikumiodori Guikū bushi mentioned above; even this could be grasped as a

sort of watered-down equilibrium farce) (2003, 141).

Like Japanese kyōgen, Okinawan short comic musical dramas can be broken

down into the four categories of humiliation or deception farce, reversal farce,

equilibrium or quarrel farce, and snowball or escalation farce (6-8).

Futari mekura, for

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example, is a basic humiliation farce: two blind men (zatō) go for a picnic in the country

and fall asleep under a tree; two young country bumpkins come upon them, steal their

food, and replace it with rocks; the blind men bite the rocks, cry out in pain, become

angry, and flail about; the country bumpkins proceed to trip them up and play other nasty

tricks on them (Ikemiya 1980, 292). This scenario was likely derived from the Japanese

kyōgen Tsukimi zatō (月見座頭), part of an entire category of zatō kyōgen which exploit

blindness as a physical failing that justifies low-level victimization (on Tsukimi zatō, see

Golay 1973, 142-144).

Futari daimyō and Sakana azuke provide examples of the

slightly more layered genre of reversal farce (which is often less objectionable to

contemporary viewers than simple humiliation farce). In Futari daimyō, two traveling

samurai encounter two peasants on a country road and force them to carry their luggage,

gradually piling more and more on the peasants’ backs, including jars of wine and finally

even their swords. As the samurai stride forward fanning themselves, the peasants,

overburdened and sweating, stop and drink some of the wine. Outraged, the samurai

move to strike the peasants with their fans, at which point the peasants draw the hapless

warriors’ own swords and chase them around the stage (Ikemiya 1980, 293). In Sakana

azuke, a samurai entrusts a dead fish on the verge of spoiling to a confused peasant and

says he’ll return for it in a couple of days. When he returns, nothing is left but a skeleton.

He explodes in anger, telling the peasant that the fish in question was a magical fish that

laid golden eggs, and demanding recompense. The peasant seeks out his clever uncle,

who confronts the samurai, asking him: “how many children have your honorable

departed ancestors given birth to recently?” The samurai replies mockingly that dead

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ancestors can’t bear children, to which the uncle replies: “yet a rotting fish can give birth

to golden eggs?” The peasants then laugh the would-be huckster off the stage (293-294).

There is a long tradition of interpreting theatrical farce as a means of subverting

social hierarchies on a symbolic level.

Perhaps the most well known theoretical model

of farce-as-resistance is Mikhail Bahktin’s concept of the carnivalesque (see Rabelais

and his World, 1941). A quasi-Bahktinian interpretation was first applied to kyōgen by

Zhou Zuoren (周作人, 1885-1966), a Chinese scholar who produced pioneering

translations of kyōgen and other forms of Japanese literature. Zhou frames kyōgen as a

form of proto-socialist “proletarian theater,” arguing that it “shows contempt for and

resistance toward the authority of the rulers and is the mainstream of a comic literature of

the masses” (cited in Lafleur 1986, 136). William Lafleur identifies two common

features of traditional Japanese comedy that problematize Zhou's interpretation: first, the

tendency to mock the marginalized and downtrodden, and second, the fact that comic

performances were not only permitted but often patronized by the ruling class (1986,

136-137). As Futari mekura demonstrates, Okinawan comic sketches also exhibit a

tendency to mock the powerless; while early Okinawan commercial theater did not enjoy

the patronage of the state, it was certainly not perceived as enough of a threat to warrant

being banned or even rigorously policed. All indications are that the regulations imposed

on performing arts during the late 1800s and early 1900s focused less on seditious

content than on issues of public morality and safety, such as vulgarity, connections to

prostitution, potential fire hazards, and problems with overcrowding and cleanliness (this

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would change during the 1930s, when Okinawan cultural difference from Japanese norms

began to be perceived as a threat) (Ikemiya 1980, 288; Ōno 2003, 93).

This being said, Lafleur also cautions against dismissing traditional comic theater

as simple escapism, as this would reduce its productive social function to a mere form of

“psychological release for the players and their audiences” (137). Following Satake

Akihiro, Lafleur links kyōgen to the politically ambivalent concept of “the below

overcoming the above” or gekokujō (下克上), a phrase which writers of the Muromachi

period frequently used to explain “sudden and drastic social change, such as the quick

demise of a strong clan or the sudden rise in fortune and prestige on the part of a

previously lowly person or group” (138; cf. Satake 1967). Lafleur continues:

Whereas in nō change is envisioned as altered status in the cosmic taxonomy

(rokudō), which is achieved through eventual rebirth and as the culmination of

much religious practice, in kyōgen change occurs in the much more empirical

world of ordinary society. The difference in pace between nō and kyōgen is

therefore not merely a matter of footwork and bodily movement on stage; it

extends to the world view of each art form (139).

Lafleur argues that kyōgen’s embrace of materialism and self-interest “represents the

provision not just of lighthearted playfulness but of an alternate vision of life and society

… [which is] antihierarchical and ‘modern’” (144). According to Lafleur, “this matter

goes to the heart of the way in which theater in late medieval Japan played a significant

role in the cognitive and social [re-]ordering of the world” (143). Kyōgen’s

“antihierarchical and ‘modern’” vision appealed to the late medieval/early modern

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Japanese warrior elite and urban commoners alike because both groups had benefitted

from new opportunities for upward mobility – the former through their displacement of

the courtly aristocracy, and the latter through their canny manipulation of expanding

markets, tax loopholes, and an evolving financial system. For post-annexation

Okinawans, who had until recently been bound by status-based regulations governing

nearly every aspect of life, simple meritocratic reversal farces such as Futari daimyō and

Sakana azuke may have been similarly compelling.

The genesis of tragic musical drama: Uyanma (「親阿母」)

Wells and Davis echo an informal consensus when they assert matter-of-factly

that farce is “the lowest” comic form (2006, 128). If any theatrical genre has garnered as

much critical disdain as farce, it is undoubtedly melodrama. Popular audiences

throughout history and around the world, on the other hand, have embraced both farce

and melodrama without reserve. Okinawan audiences are no exception. From the early

1900s until well after the war, tragic musical dramas (hi-kageki 悲歌劇) with intensely

melodramatic elements were arguably the most popular performance genre in Okinawa.

As Zwicker and Ito note in their recent studies of Edo and Meiji period Japanese

sentimental novels, the loan word “melodrama” (メロドラマ) did not index a self-

conscious genre or analytical category in prewar Japanese or Okinawan literary discourse

(2006; 2008). Since the eighteenth century, however, a strongly melodramatic

undercurrent has run through Japanese literary and theatrical production. As

demonstrated in the previous chapter, a central theme in both early modern Japanese

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sentimental literature and theater and Ryūkyūan kumiodori is the tension between social

obligation (giri) and personal emotion and desire (ninjō). As we have seen, giri/ninjō

tensions also run through Ryūkyūan kumiodori and the sentimental literature of

Heshikiya Chōbin and his admirers. Both kumiodori and Japanese and Ryūkyūan

sentimental literature strongly influenced the evolution of modern Okinawa tragic

musical drama, which developed its own historically situated strategies for resolving

giri/ninjō tensions.

The first non-comic works performed on the modern Okinawan commercial stage

were traditional kumiodori. From the late 1880s onward, however, audience demand

drove fairly rapid stylistic innovation, resulting in the development of new popular genres

such as modernized uchikumiodori, zō-odori, and comic spoken and musical dramas.

This being said, courtly kumiodori never entirely lost its appeal, especially among the

former hereditary elite and the emerging economic and educational elite, who embraced

it as an indigenous “high culture” tradition comparable to Japanese nō and Western opera

(this was held up as evidence of civilizational parity; see Ryūkyū Shinpō, June 13, 1910).

In 1892, a company called Sanjū Shinbun-sha published the first mass-printed

compilation of kumiodori under the title Ryūkyū odori kyōgen (「琉球踊狂言」)

(Okinawa Geinō Nenpyō Sakusei Kenkyūkai 2010, 116). The availability of printed

scripts helped facilitate commercial performance: throughout the 1890s and 1900s,

classical kumiodori by Tamagusuku Chōkun, Tasato Chōchoku, and others often shared

the stage with newly-composed uchikumiodori, zō-odori, and comic sketches.

Unsurprisingly, Heshikiya Chōbin’s kumiodori Temizu no en proved enduringly popular,

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with performances recorded in 1893, 1900, 1907, 1911, 1915, and 1918 (this is almost

certainly not an exhaustive list, as many performances went unrecorded, especially prior

to the 1900s) (Kokuritsu Gekijō Okinawa Chōsa Yōseika 2004, 3-7).

Prior to 1898, primary sources regarding popular musical drama are scarce;

however, it is safe to speculate with Ikemiya that most early experiments utilized stylistic

and structural elements borrowed from kumiodori to extend and elaborate the kind of

everyday narratives which had proved popular in uchikumiodori and zō-odori (Ikemiya

1980, 295-296). Folk music and elements of festival performing arts also found their

way into early musical dramas.

The short musical drama Uyanma (The Kept Woman)

exemplifies this syncretic stylistic model. We do not know exactly when and where it

was first performed, although Basil Hall Chamberlain’s 1895 Essay in Aid of a Grammar

and Dictionary of the Luchuan Language utilizes examples drawn from its text. Like the

comic musical sketches described in the previous section, Uyanma was almost invariably

collectively composed in semi-improvised style (kuchidate).

It is set during the Ryūkyū

Kingdom period. The male protagonist is a resident administrative official (zaiban 在番)

sent by the royal court to govern an island in the distant Yaeyama group. Recalled

suddenly to Shuri, he must bid farewell to his local maidservant and consort (Uyanma 親

阿母), with whom he has fallen in love and fathered a son. By 1904, Uyanma had

become a standard in the developing popular musical theater repertory, appearing in a

Ryūkyū Shinpō review as a benchmark against which newer works were judged (January

1, 1904).

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Although Uyanma takes place in one act, it is significantly longer than previous

comic musical dramas (around 30 minutes). It is also structurally and musically more

complex, involving six characters and featuring five songs (“Yonaguni shonganē bushi,”

“Hatōma bushi,” “Tōbarumā bushi,” “Kohama bushi,” and “Danju-kariyushi”). The play

opens with the Yaeyaman song “Yonaguni shonganē bushi,” sung by a chorus of male

sanshin players in kumiodori fashion. A ship’s captain enters dancing via the hanamichi,

announces that he has come to take the Resident back to Okinawa island, and dances as

the chorus sings “Hatōma bushi” (with lyrics from the captain’s perspective). The

Resident enters, and the Captain informs him that they must set sail that day, then tells a

peasant to fetch the Resident’s consort and their son, Sanrā-gwa (三良小). These two

enter as the chorus sings “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” (this time the lyrics adopt the

Consort’s perspective). The Resident, the Consort, and Sanrā-gwa proceed to have an

anguished conversation about their parting. Eventually, the Captain announces that they

must sail immediately to take advantage of the wind, and the Resident reluctantly boards

the ship and leaves. The dialogue is punctuated throughout with songs: five more verses

of “Yonaguni shonganē bushi,” “Tōbarā bushi,” another verse of “Yonaguni shonganē

bushi,” and “Kohama bushi.” The lyrics adopt the perspective of the Consort, then the

Resident, and finally the Consort again, as the rest of the characters leave the stage. The

play closes with “Danju-kariyushi,” sung by the chorus from the perspective of the

Consort, who laments her fate while praying for the Resident’s safe journey.

On a stylistic and musical level, Uyanma clearly recalls classical kumiodori.

Movement, dialogue, and song are slow, stylized, and restrained, and extravagant

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displays of emotion are avoided. The suriashi style of graceful sliding walk is used, as

are allusive gestures borrowed from kumiodori and classical dance (cf. Yano 2003, 41-

43). As in kumiodori, these techniques must be understood as comprising a type of

symbolic grammar with which to construct character-types with generically imputable

virtues and vices. Also as in kumiodori, choral interludes are used to express the

characters’ inner states; however, unlike in kumiodori, folk songs as well as songs from

the Shuri courtly tradition are used. This being said, the main melody employed

(“Yonaguni shonganē bushi”) belongs to the fushiuta genre of Yaeyaman song, which

shares many stylistic characteristics with the Shuri courtly tradition and was associated

with the local elite (Gillan 2012, 31). Like classical courtly song, Yaeyaman fushiuta

melodies can be fitted to the ryūka poetic form (8-8-8-6 mora). This likely expedited the

style’s incorporation into a kumiodori-derived structure. As in kumiodori – and in

distinction to zō-odori commercial dance – most of the dialogue is assigned to the

characters on stage. The lines are not chanted to kumiodori’s fixed patterns, but neither

are they recited to folk song ostinati as in later musical dramas. Instead, the play’s adult

male characters use a restrained, slightly stylized natural speech pattern, while the

Consort and the child Sanrā-gwa speak in a strident semi-chant reminiscent of the

kumiodori female chant pattern. These stylistic features lead Ikemiya to argue that

Uyanma represents an intermediary stage between courtly kumiodori and mature

Okinawan popular musical drama, and that it precedes popular theater’s division into the

distinct genres of musical drama (kageki) and spoken drama (hōgen serifu-geki) (1980,

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298). Ikemiya further suggests that this was probably typical of commercial theater of

the Meiji 20s (298-299).

While stylistically conservative, Uyanma represents a clear thematic break from

the courtly kumiodori tradition exemplified by Tamagusuku Chōkun and Tasato

Chōchoku’s celebratory, didactic works. Like Wakamatsi – the archetypal protagonist of

Tamagusuku Chōkun’s Shūshin kane’iri – the Resident in Uyanma is a young aristocratic

male required to choose between his obligation to the royal court and his personal desires

and emotional attachments. In the end, obligation wins out, but it is a Pyrrhic victory.

The Resident displays little of the self-control that underpins Wakamatsi’s aristocratic

masculine virtue. Wakamatsi aspires to his bureaucratic duties; the Resident, on the other

hand, has his duties thrust upon him. He tries in vain to delay the departure (“Surely,

[Captain] Higa, it can’t hurt / To wait two days, or three?”). When the Consort and their

son Sanrā-gwa enter, the Resident is “paralyzed with sorrow” and cannot meet her gaze.

He tries to win their sympathy with promises of gifts. Only after repeated prodding by

the Captain does he resign himself to boarding the ship. As they depart, he laments his

fate via the medium of the chorus (“I cannot leave / Although of course I cannot stay / To

be bereft of one’s own child / How bitter!”). While the Resident is portrayed in a

sympathetic light, he is perilously close to lacking the critical virtue of principled self-

mastery which Ryūkyūan Confucian ideologues promoted as distinguishing the

governing class from the governed. This appears even more striking in contrast to the

Consort, who maintains enough composure to bracket self-interest and express her hope

for the Resident’s well being (“Every night I served your dinner, and every morning your

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breakfast / Now an ocean lies between us / I know not how I’ll manage / But I pray for

your safe journey”). Not only does Uyanma elevate a low-status woman to the role of

primary protagonist, it portrays her as meeting her despair with greater dignity than her

aristocratic male partner.

Who was this groundbreaking protagonist historically? According to the Shuri-

Naha Dialect Dictionary, the word uya-anmā (Jp. oya-abo, "mother") refers to

concubines of resident officials who had borne them children (Okinawa Center of

Language Study 2003). Under the Ryūkyū Kingdom, resident officials were dispatched

from the royal capital of Shuri to outlying islands in order to oversee local administrators

and represent the royal state. During these officials' tenure, local women were expected

to provide for their material needs. Anecdotal evidence suggests that this often included

sex. Ikemiya clarifies that uyanma was an "honorary title" – other, less elegant names for

these women include "local wives" (genchitsuma), "temporary wives" (karitsuma), and

"kept women" (makanai onna) (1980, 346; cf. Nishizato 1977). Like all low-status outer

islanders, "kept women" were subject to expropriation: in this case, the expropriation of

domestic and sexual labor. They were most likely also subject to a range of more specific

social and psychological pressures.

On the one hand, becoming a resident official’s consort could bring material

benefits, as the character Saburō hints at in the play (“He’s sure to send you lovely gifts

with every mail boat!”). More importantly, the local children of resident officials were

sometimes extended their fathers’ aristocratic status. This potential for intergenerational

advancement is also hinted at in the play via the Resident’s promise to send his son “ink

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and brushes” and “a fine kimono” – shorthand for literacy and presentable cultural capital,

ergo the potential for social mobility. On the other hand, consorts lacked the rights of

Okinawan wives, and had no opportunity for sustainable upward mobility. In keeping

with the Ryūkyūan state’s systematic discrimination against Sakishima islanders, resident

officials were forbidden from bringing their “local wives” or children back to Okinawa

island (Meyer 2007, 240). Moreover, it is not as if most women became genchi-tsuma by

choice. As if being subject to coerced labor and sexual exploitation were not enough, the

stigma of having been indentured would have inevitably jeopardized a woman’s future

standing in her endogamous community. At the very least, it would have limited her

prospects for legitimate marriage. As Ikemiya notes, the title of Uyanma must be

understood as “a refraction of the legitimate title of ‘wife’; it is a sign of the very status

limitations [the Consort] wishes to overcome” (1980, 297).

Echoing Tamae Seiryō’s analysis of Heshikiya Chōbin, Ikemiya suggests that

Uyanma’s idealized portrayal of cross-status romance can be read as anti-feudal, arguing

that its tragedy inheres in “the fact that although the couple’s eventual separation is non-

negotiable, they seek to transcend social boundaries and suffer the universally human

pain of bereavement … If kumiodori, which takes filial piety as its main theme, can be

interpreted as protecting and supplementing the feudal order, then kageki can be

interpreted as the tragedy of the spirit which sought to tear the feudal order to pieces”

(297). Ikemiya’s content analysis resonates strongly with Hegel’s observation in his

Lectures on Aesthetics that love and honor are the pathea most commonly encountered in

romantic art, and that their collision is often the inception of romantic drama.

Even

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accepting it as a given that the Resident must return to Okinawa, there is no material

reason why he could not try to bring the Consort and their son with him, aside from the

damage it would do to the concept of honor imputed to his social standing. This conceit

was a mainstay of romantic tragic drama in Europe as well: “from a certain point of

view,” he notes, “it would be contrary to the honor of a man in a higher class to love a

girl of a lower class” (Hegel 1975, 565). In Weberian terms, Uyanma challenges this

concept of “ethos based on status honor,” which, “consolidated by caprice alone into

legal provision, presumes to set insuperable barriers to the inherently justified freedom of

the spirit” (Weber 1968, 1105; Hegel 1975, 210).

We can get a sense of the perceived intractability of this capricious provision by

tracing the use of nature imagery in Uyanma. The metonymic figures of the wind (kaji

風) and the auspicious wind (junpū 順風) are particularly important. The wind is

introduced in the opening song, “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” (“The wind is blowing from

the south / It is a favorable wind”), then immediately linked to the Resident’s inevitable

departure in the play’s first spoken stanza (“The wind today is marvelously favorable – I

believe I’ll fetch his lordship and suggest we take our leave”). The Captain invokes the

wind in his mildly coercive discussion with the Resident (“a wind like this – we can’t

afford to miss it”), to which the Resident reacts with characteristic resignation (“A wind

like this… Of course… I understand”). The Consort goes on to impugn the wind as the

agent of her suffering (“I do not hate the captain / It’s the wind that fills the sails / That I

hate with all my heart”), after which the Captain signals the end of the parting ritual by

deferring agency to the wind (“Ah! It’s this wind now!”). The Consort laments the

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wind’s cruelty once more (“When the wind fills out the headsail / It whips a tear from my

eye”), and the chorus develops the theme of deferred agency as the Captain and the

Resident board the ship and exit stage (“In port, we depend on the anchor / At sea, we

depend on the wind alone”).

Of course, the cause behind the Consort’s suffering is not the wind, nor fate, but

the Resident’s social status and the entire institutional apparatus behind it. It carries the

full force of “social institutions granted the appearance of naturalness by history, which at

the same time work within the mass consciousness structured by these institutions to

create a sense of comfort and pleasure” (Tosaka 2001, 15). Interestingly, the term fūzoku,

on which Tosaka focuses his analysis, incorporates the Chinese character for wind. This

character appears in compounds that designate local tradition (kofū 古風) and local

climate (fūdo 風土). It is also used in a common idiomatic term for criticism or

oppression (kazeatari 風当たり). Throughout Uyanma, the southern wind symbolizes

the power of reified social custom to dictate an individual’s fate. But might this fixation

on the ineluctability of fate and tradition in fact suggest that these epistemic constants

were becoming de-naturalized, and that new concepts of interpersonal and historical

agency were taking shape?

Dynamics of representation during the Preservation of Old Customs period

While it would be anachronistic to interpret Uyanma as politically committed

literature in the contemporary sense of the term, its creator clearly had a finger on the

pulse of late nineteenth century Japan. In his 1875 Outline of a Theory of Civilization,

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liberal intellectual Fukuzawa Yukichi also evokes the wind as a historical-temporal

symbol, writing that “the movement of [a country’s] knowledge and virtue resembles that

of a strong wind, or the current of a river,” and suggesting that from a proper vantage

point, scholars and statesmen can “judge its degree of advancement or backwardness”

(2010 [1875], 60). Fukuzawa’s use of nature imagery to depict the movement of an

individual or a society through time was hardly novel.

He goes on, however, to propose

that we can not only observe such flows, but also use our observations to determine ways

to channel them. Fukuzawa’s proposal embodies the modernizing imperative to subject

the pre-given world, whether natural or social, to critical reason. In Uyanma, we can

glimpse a flash of this imperative. While status-based contingencies are still represented

as natural, their emergence from a subtextual to a textual level – i.e., their mutation from

presuppositions into objects of discourse – prefigures their transformation into objects of

social action.

As we have seen, the transformative vision laid out by the Meiji state was

ambitious to say the least. It required not only a total overhaul of the institutions of

governance, but also “the reorganization of heterogeneous social groups, which possessed

neither a shared consciousness of ‘national’ belonging nor a conception of the modern

nation-state, into individual subjects willing without hesitation to identify their destinies

with that of the country” (Hirano 2014, 200). This shift in the conception of Japanese

subjecthood drove individuals to question the nature of power relations (Gluck 1985, 18).

As Carol Gluck observes, Meiji Japanese political discourse evinces a fascination with

emergent social actors and their correlative spaces of social action: citizens (kokumin)

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and the state (kokka), the people (jinmin) and society (shakai), the ethnic nation

(minzoku) and the national polity (kokutai) (25). Significantly, this kind of discourse was

not restricted to the metropolis. Records suggest that by the 1880s, “people throughout

Japan, in rural and urban areas alike, had come to view political participation and

representation as a matter of right rather than custom” (Steele 1989, 748). This is not to

say that Japanese peasants prior to the Meiji period were absent from the public sphere –

the tradition of political petitioning has deep roots in Japanese history. Nevertheless, we

cannot understate the significance of this shift in political consciousness from an

episteme of feudal benevolence to an episteme of legally guaranteed rights.

During the 1890s, the idea that every citizen could speak and act publically to

bring about political change took root in Okinawa as well. This shows most clearly in the

1892-1895 Miyako peasants’ movement to abolish status privilege and the per-capita tax

(nintōzei haishi undō 人頭税廃止運動) (Shimajiri 1977, 65-70). In 1892, with

assistance from Okinawan administrator Gusukuma Seian and mainland Japanese

entrepreneur Nakamura Jissaku, a coalition of Miyako peasants submitted petitions to

Yoshimura Kidahiro, the Japanese head of the island office, and Narahara Shigeru, the

newly-appointed governor. The petition requests the reform of the feudal land and tax

system, the abolition of officials’ right to keep indentured servants and "kept women"

(yadohiki-onna), the abolition of the expropriative custom of "gratitude rice," and the

abolition of corvée labor.

According to Shimajiri, upon hearing the peasants’

complaints, the Japanese island office director Yoshimura “investigated the matter, and

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reported outrageous abuses; based on this report, the governor resolved to ban these

practices” (1977, 70).

The peasants’ petition decision to go over the heads of local officials and directly

address the Japanese-appointed administration outraged Miyako elites, who declared a

general administrative strike. The administration capitulated and gave up on enforcing

the ban. The peasants responded boldly by sending a delegation to petition the National

Diet in Tokyo. With Nakamura’s aid, the Miyako delegation succeeded in securing both

media attention and the patronage of high profile politicians, most notably Takada Sanae

and Hamana Shimpei of the Lower House and Soga Sukenori of the House of Peers, who

pressed the issue during the National Diet session of January 1895. This sparked a debate

over policy toward Okinawa in general, which had the ironic effect of overshadowing the

Miyako movement’s specific demands (Matsumura 2007, 161-165). Nevertheless, the

peasants’ strategy of circumventing intransigent local authorities and bringing their

interests and legal claims directly to the National Diet demonstrates a surprising degree

of fluency with Japan’s “new political vocabulary” of constitutionalism and state

nationalism, which included “expectations that local issues could and should be

addressed at the center” (Steele 1989, 731).

While there is no evidence of a concrete connection between the political unrest

of the 1880s–90s and the development of commercial performing arts in Naha, I believe

they can be meaningfully co-interpreted on a structural level. As previously argued,

commercial theater took shape at the interstice of two transformational processes: the

degradation of the corporate village system and labor migration to Naha established a

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demand for new forms of cultural production, while the pauperization of former courtly

performing artists created a supply. The legal precondition for both of these processes

was the elimination of status privilege and the establishment of the equal right of citizens

to own property, most crucially his or her own labor. Under the Constitution of 1890, the

central government assumed the responsibility of protecting this and other civil rights.

The Miyako peasants’ movement argued quite forcefully that the Preservation of

Old Customs policy, which maintained aspects of status privilege such as the

aristocracy’s exemption from taxes and local officials’ right to keep indentured servants,

contradicted both the aims laid out in the Meiji Charter Oath and the rights established in

the Meiji Constitution.

While few works of Okinawan commercial theater explicitly

address this contradiction, many address popular frustration with its ill effects. Musical

farces based on the principle of gekokujō (“the below overcoming the above”), which

humorously uphold the common-sense claims of peasants against the arrogant and

irrational presumptions of samurai, can be understood as a bitterly ironic commentary on

the arbitrary retention of status privilege under the Preservation of Old Customs policy.

On a darker note, the musical drama Uyanma suggests that status inequality and the

institution of unfree labor can only be upheld at a terrible human cost.

I find it particularly significant that both the Miyako peasants’ petition and the

play Uyanma bring up the issue of sexual indenture. Caught at the intersection of status-

and gender-based structures of domination, “kept women” were doubly displaced. They

were not just subordinate, but subaltern in the strong sense of the word – the Okinawan

equivalent of Spivak’s figurative “poorest woman of the South” (1999, 6). We can

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interpret the character of the kept woman as a synecdoche for the position of low-status

Okinawans vis-à-vis the traditional aristocracy, as well as for the position of Yaeyama

and Miyako vis-à-vis Okinawa. By dignifying such a woman as a bearer of moral

capacities and a claimant to obligations, Uyanma denaturalizes one of the constitutive

exclusions of Old Ryūkyūan society. While we cannot know whether the creators of

Uyanma were aware of the Emancipation Order for Prostitutes or the Miyako peasants’

petition, both the play and the peasants’ petition invoke sexual indenture to exemplify the

social and human costs of regional and status discrimination.

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Chapter 4. The Meiji theater as a space of social practice

Uneven development and the “agrarian problem”

Historian Nishizato Kikō breaks down prewar Okinawan modernity into a

“primary Okinawan modern period” (kindai zenki 近代前期), marked by the Preservation

of Old Customs policy, and a “secondary modern period” (kindai kōki 近代後期),

marked by the introduction of modern institutions and the formation of ethnic and class

identities and fractures. A particular convergence of geopolitical events leading up to the

First Sino-Japanese War made Nishizato’s “secondary modernization” possible. In the

wake of the 1882 Imo Incident, the focus of Japan-China tensions shifted from the

Ryūkyū archipelago to Korea, bringing negotiations on dividing the islands to a halt.

Japan’s victory in the Sino-Japanese War closed the lingering possibility that China

might threaten Japan’s sovereignty over any of the islands. This diminished the

conservative former aristocracy’s political leverage, allowing the state to transition from

a model of indirect rule to a model of centralized direct governance, the “special

prefectural governance system” (tokubetsu fukensei 特別府県制) (Naha Shishi Henshū

Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 251). In 1896, the prefectural office instituted Orders #13 and 19

(Okinawa ken gunsei kitei and Okinawa ken kusei), which restructured the county and

ward system, and Orders #56 and 352 (Okinawa ken magiri to riin kitei and Okinawa ken

magiri kitei), which reorganized administrative zoning in the outer islands (Matsumura

2007, 211). The following year, the mainland Japanese legal system was imported to

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Okinawa, and in 1898 a department was established to administer land reform (193).

Between 1899 and 1903, land values were re-assessed and the Preservation of Old

Customs system of taxation-in-kind was replaced by a monetized land and consumption

tax system (Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 250).

On an ideological level, these reforms can be understood as an attempt to

integrate Okinawa into the ostensibly homogenous national polity (kokutai 国体) (Naha

Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 250). On a pragmatic level, they can be understood as

an attempt to increase the prefecture’s ability to bear its share of the fiscal burden of local

infrastructural development, military expenditures, and the other inherent expenses of

modern nationhood (251). This required the state to modernize the land and tax system

and foster the growth of a property-owning class capable of assuming the tax burden

(251-252). This was no mean undertaking, as it involved dismantling and replacing the

patchwork of semi-autonomous extractive institutions that had been allowed to stay in

force under the Preservation of Old Customs policy. The reform process was begun in

the Naha/Shuri area and gradually extended outward to rural areas of Okinawa Island and

the outer islands, and was culminated in 1903 (252). Initially, the new tax system

consisted of a five percent tax on assessed land values and five percent consumption

taxes on alcohol and sugar. In the wake of the Russo-Japanese War, however, taxes on

land, alcohol, and sugar were increased dramatically to 20%, and additional consumption

taxes were levied on textiles, salt, and other goods (253).

These reforms provided the impetus for an expansion of Okinawa’s consumer

economy. As mentioned in the previous chapter, Naha already had a flourishing market

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for foodstuffs and woven goods during the early modern period. The introduction of new

commodities by mainland Japanese merchants, the monetization of the tax burden, and

simple economic necessity provided new impetus for a greatly increased number of

Okinawans to participate in this burgeoning commodity market. Most of the mainland

Japanese merchants operating in Naha were from Kyūshū (primarily Kagoshima and

Miyazaki) or Kansai, though some came from as far away as Tōkyō and Fukuoka. The

Kagoshima merchants traded mostly in rice and other foodstuffs, while the Kansai

merchants traded mostly in sugar. Both contingents also imported everyday goods such

as kitchenware, lamps, cotton, flannel, tea, books and newspapers, and kitchenware. In

1892, Kagoshima-based merchants built the prefecture’s first Western-style building in

Naha, staging a grand opening featuring eisā and dance performances (194). Around the

same time, an increasing number of merchants also began importing luxury goods such as

Japanese sake, beer, and timepieces (229). Census records indicate that by 1905, there

were around 126 large purchasers, 62 goods brokers, and 1,916 petty merchants in the

Naha area (179).

As Naha emerged as a commerce hub, it began to take on the demographic,

infrastructural, and material cultural features of a modern city (362). Between 1880 and

1903, Naha’s population surged from 23,664 to 42,842, a rate of growth almost equal to

that of Tokyo (Dana 1998, 25; cf. Hayami 2002). This consistent population inflow

allowed Naha to develop as a regional industrial center, albeit on a relatively petty scale

(Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 361-362). In 1890, Naha had only two large

manufactories – the Okinawa Weaving Factory (Okinawa orikōjō 沖縄織工場, 製紙所),

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which produced textiles, and the Okinawa Industrial Corporation (Okinawa sangō kaisha

沖縄産業会社), which produced shōyū and indigo dye. By 1903, there were ten

factories registered in the Naha area: seven in Naha-ku, one in Shuri-ku (Okinawa

shōkōjō), and one in Mawashi-magire (a meat-packing plant, Okinawa chozō shokuhin

kabushiki-gaisha 沖縄貯蔵食品株式会社). The largest were the Okinawa Weaving

Factory, which employed 133 people, and a lacquer-ware factory (Yoneda shikki seizōshō

米田漆器製造所), which employed 40 people. The only other large factory in the

prefecture at the time was a tobacco plant in Itoman (Itoman tabako seizō gōmei-gaisha

糸満煙草製造合名会社). By 1913, there were 19 factories and over 20 hat-weaving

facilities in the Naha area.

On the levels of infrastructure and material culture as well, Naha gradually began

to acquire the visage of modernity. The prefecture’s first Western-style medical facility,

for example, was a military clinic established in 1876 in the Nakamō area of Naha; in

1878–1879, this clinic was relocated to the Nishimura area and renamed the Okinawa

Prefectural Clinic (188). Apparently the effectiveness of the clinic’s Western medical

practices impressed Naha residents (227). Between 1883 and 1885, health director

Naichi Noriteru (仲地紀照) expanded the prefecture’s medical facilities and spearheaded

the establishment of a medical school and a maternity ward at the Okinawa Prefectural

Clinic. The 1880s also saw the establishment of a Red Cross office, pharmacies, dentists’

practices, hygiene-oriented public services such as sewage maintenance and street

cleaning, and health regulations regarding the sale of food and drinking water (190-192).

Japanese postal service was extended to Naha in 1884 (190). Between 1883 and 1884,

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the Ministry of the Interior employed around 7,900 skilled stone workers and over 30,000

laborers to construct new roads in the Naha/Shuri area, which enabled rickshaws and

carriages to travel longer distances; by 1893, there were over 900 rickshaws in operation

in the area (192). In 1890, the Ministry of the Interior established a weather monitoring

station employing modern equipment, while in 1897 a telegraph machine was installed in

the Naha city post office (191-193). An Osaka-based electrical company started laying

groundwork for a power plant in Naha in 1908; in 1910, it went online under the name

Okinawa Denki. The next year, Okinawa Denki founded a railway company and

received permission to lay track. The first stretch of electric railway, between Daemon-

mae and Shuri, opened in 1914.

Despite these outward signs of modernization and even petty industrialization,

historians generally assert that prewar Okinawa failed to develop an “urban industrial

proletariat” in the classical sense of the term (368). According to prefectural office

statistics, the number of factory laborers in prewar Okinawa never exceeded around 2,000

out of 38,274 wage laborers and 278,683 total working persons (Taminato 1977, 169-

171).

These figures, however, do not include miners or tertiary sector workers

(transportation, communications, utilities and public services, etc.). Inclusive of these

workers, Taminato estimates the total number of “modern laborers” (kindai rōdōsha 近代

労働者) in Okinawa during the Taishō and Shōwa periods as between 10,000 and 25,000

(171). Because clerks, low-level education workers, and other low-level white-collar

workers also worked for wages and lived a “proletarian lifestyle,” Taminato argues that

they should be included in the category of “modern laborers” as well. He concludes that

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while Okinawa as a whole remained solidly agrarian, prewar Naha did indeed see the

formation of a wage-earning proletariat.

He further asserts that because many agricultural

laborers were transient and worked on a temporary basis for wages, they should not be

categorized as farmers, but rather as a kind of agricultural proletariat (171-172). The

inchoate “proletarian class” was thus “intimately connected to the peasantry” (Naha

Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 362).

All of this innovation and growth was made possible, of course, by the consistent

inflow of both migrants and tax revenues from the impoverished countryside. While land

and tax reform signaled the end of the Preservation of Old Customs period and the

inception of properly capitalist relations of production, it did not lead to significant

economic growth. This is in part because development policy in Okinawa remained

myopically focused on sugar production (Kaneshiro 1977, 115). This was in accordance

with the early Meiji macroeconomic model of import substitution.

During the 1880s, in

an effort to increase Okinawan sugar output, the central government dispatched

agriculturalists to instruct peasants in modern cultivation and production techniques and

provided loans to rural black sugar cultivators.

Between 1888 and 1899, the amount of

land planted with sugarcane increased from 2,000 chō to 6,850 chō (Naha Shishi Henshū

Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 253). Despite these efforts, however, the increase in percentage of

land planted with sugarcane failed to produce a proportional increase in actual output

(Aniya 1977, 153). To make matters worse, the state maintained contradictory and

inefficient tax protocols that disproportionately impacted small producers, thereby de-

incentivizing production (Kaneshiro 1977, 119). According to agriculturalist and

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peoples’ rights advocate Gusukuma Seian, profit margins in Miyako were so low that

peasants sometimes simply dumped their surplus sugarcane rather than processing it for

sale (Matsumura 2007, 152). Some historians argue that these economic policies were

calculated to reproduce Okinawa’s position as a domestic periphery (Tomiyama 1995, 6).

Japan’s 1895 acquisition of Taiwan allowed the state to sidestep these impasses

by shifting from domestic import substitution to a colonial mode of production (cf. Banaji

1972). Sugar producers in Taiwan took full advantage of coerced labor to manufacture

refined sugar on a large scale, reaching profit margins unattainable through the use of

wage labor. In 1900, the state established the Taiwan Sugar Manufacture Company with

1,000,000 yen in capital. By 1906, it had constructed a number of large refineries

(Matsumura 2007, 175; 271).

This rendered the Okinawan black sugar industry more

or less superfluous to the national interest. In 1901, 1902, and 1904, the Okinawan

prefectural office submitted petitions for further development assistance, but these

petitions were routinely ignored (Kaneshiro 1977, 120).

To make matters worse, the

central government consistently levied a disproportionately high tax rate on the

prefecture: in 1914, for example, Okinawa paid 4,849,994 yen in taxes, compared to

2,264,791 yen for Miyazaki and 1,989,569 for Tottori, which were similar in area and

population (Aniya 1977, 154). Needless to say, commensurate social services were not

extended to Okinawans. In short, the government’s economic policy toward Okinawa

was both predatory and myopic; if this wasn’t bad enough, the bureaucracy charged with

implementing it was plagued by cronyism, poor morale, and sheer incompetence. This

had predictably deleterious results. In 1890, for example, Okinawa’s per capita

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manufacturing output actually exceeded that of rural mainland prefectures such as

Kagoshima, Kumamoto, and Aomori; by 1909, it was the lowest in the nation by a

noticeable margin (Bassino 2010, 32).

Commercial theater as a social and economic institution

At the same time the prefectural office, Japanese merchants, and aspiring

Okinawan industrialists were seeking to modernize the Naha economy, the commercial

popular theater was quickly taking shape as an informal sector of that economy. Period

records portray the late Meiji period vividly as a time of “heated competition between

theaters” (Ryūkyū Shimpō, April 21, 1898). As previously mentioned, the major venues

of the Meiji and Taishō periods (the Nakamō Enjiba; the Hon-enjiba or Shicha-nu-shibai;

the Shin-enjiba or Uī-nu-shibai, and the Shuri Enjiba or Sungā shibai) were established in

the Meiji 20s (Ikemiya 1982a, 424). According to actor Shimaburuko Kōyū, these

theaters featured stages modeled on the nō stage and two classes of seating (booths

enclosed with bamboo screens and tatami mats on the floor) (Majikina and Shimabukuro

1987, 351). Theaters were often packed, especially in the early years (Ryūkyū Shimpō,

April 9, 1898; April 10, 1898; May 3, 1898; February 2, 1899; February 4, 1899;

December 5, 1899; etc.). According to the Ryūkyū Shimpō, in 1898, the standard

admittance fee was three sen (April 9, 1898). Majikina Yūkō recollects his troupe

charging three sen for afternoon shows and two sen for evening shows (1987, 462). Fees

were raised to four sen in 1900 and seven sen in 1906 (RS, February 5, 1900; January 21,

1906). This allowed theaters to make a tidy profit, pulling in as much as 20 yen daily in

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1898 (RS, April 23, 1898). For comparative purposes, the annual per capita GDP in

Okinawa was around 15 yen in 1890 (compared to around 17 yen in Kagoshima and 65

yen in Tokyo) and around 60 yen in 1909 (compared to around 55 yen in Kagoshima and

175 yen in Tokyo) (Bassino 2010, 45-46). This indicates that by the late Meiji period,

the theater had progressed past a subsistence level and established itself as a lucrative and

competitive economic sector.

During the Meiji 30s, branded theater companies began to "raise their banners"

(hataage 旗揚げ), ushering in a “period of high competition” (katō kyōsō 過当競争)

(Ikemiya 1980, 345). Economic flux and interpersonal rivalry kept Okinawan theater

companies in a state of constant evolution. In 1903–1904, a group called Kōgekikai (好

劇会) featuring Uema Seihin began performing at the Shin-enjiba (Ikemiya 1982a, 427).

In March 1905, Tokashiki Shuryō formed the company Kyūyō-za (球陽座), taking up

residence at the Uī-nu-shibai (428). In August of the same year, Uema formed the

company Okinawa-za (沖縄座), taking up residence at the Shicha-nu-shibai. Uema left

Okinawa-za in 1907, forming Kasuga-za (春日座) in Shuri; Majikina Yūso took over as

Okinawa-za's company chief (zachō 座長) (429). At this time, Okinawa-za featured

Majikina Yūso, Majikina Yūkō, and Ganeko Yaei; Kyūyō-za featured Tokashiki Shuryō

and Shurei, Iraha Inkichi, Arakaki Shōgan, and Takara Chōsei, among others (429). In

January 1910, Tokashiki Shuryō took charge of a new venue called Meiji-za (明治座).

Shortly later the same year, Iraha Inkichi and Arakaki Shōgan left Kyūyō-za to form the

group Kyōwa-dan (協和団), soon opening a new venue called Naka-za (中座) (431). In

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August 1911, Tokashiki Shuryō, who had been touring, formed yet another new group

called Asahi-za (朝日座) (433). The next month, Okinawa-za split up and Ganeko Yaei

formed Kasumi-za (香霞座), which took up residence in the Meiji-za venue. In 1912,

Asahi-za merged with the remainder of Okinawa-za (434). In December 1913, Kasumi-

za broke up; some actors went over to Naka-za, while others joined up with the Tokashiki

brothers to resurrect the Kyūyō brand (Kyūyō-gekidan 球陽劇団) (435). The reformed

Kyūyō-za took up residence in the Meiji-za/Kasumi-za venue. In June 1916, Kyūyō-za

split up; some former members went on tour with Tokashiki Shuryō, while others kept

performing at the Meiji-za venue under the name Shio-kai (潮会). This pattern continued

over the years, with various companies emerging and disappearing: in 1916, Itomine-dan

(伊渡嶺団); in 1918, Miyako-za (都座); in 1928, Matsukage-kai (松蔭会); in 1934,

Sango-za (珊瑚座) (438; 440; 443; 447). Some of these left a lasting impact, while

others faded into obscurity.

Unfortunately, records on theater management practices are spotty, but Majikina

and Makishi shed some light on the subject. Early on, several theaters appear to have

been owned or managed by stipended former aristocrats (which would make sense, as

they were nearly the only Okinawans with capital at the time). The Nakamō theater, for

example, was initially managed by a former aristocrat named Oroku Asahiro (小禄朝宏)

(Majikina and Shimabukuro 1987, 351). Similarly, the Shicha-nu-shibai theater was

initially managed by a former samurai from Shuri named Okuhama (奥浜) (Majikina

1987, 461). At some point, a group of actors established collective management over the

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Shicha-nu-shibai; in 1894, however, it fell into the possession of a former aristocrat from

Kumemura named Gushikawa (久米村の具志川御殿). As mentioned above, in 1903–

1904, the Kōgekikai group began using the Shicha-nu-shibai (469). Eventually, tensions

within Kōgekikai led to about half of the actors splitting off and relocating to the Uī-nu-

shibai (470). According to Majikina, the group that remained at Shicha-nu-shibai

eventually ceased to be profitable. Rather than see the theater fail, Uema Seihin and

Majikina Yūso negotiated with Gushikawa to take it over. At this point, their newly

formed company Okinawa-za took up residence (472). Shortly later, the remainder of

Kōgekikai left the Uī-nu-shibai and merged with Okinawa-za at the Shicha-nu-shibai.

The vacant Uī-nu-shibai theater was leased to the Tokashiki brothers, who formed the

Kyūyō-za company and took up residence there (473).

Over the course of its development, the Okinawan commercial theater sector

evolved a unique “institutional culture” (cf. Jesty 2010). This process was not without

tension. In his memoirs, for example, Majikina Yūkō recalls how younger and older

actors clashed over the issue of promotional techniques:

On the day it arrived, the sōshi theater group [visiting from Japan] promoted their

opening show by parading through town in a number of rickshaws and making

announcements. Inspired by this, the younger members of the local theater

companies proposed doing the same thing. Most of the members of our company

agreed, but some older members wouldn’t get onboard. Iha no Medama-tārī was

particularly obstinate – he refused to work, saying “as actors, we somehow bring

ourselves to perform on stage, even though it pushes the boundaries of the

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traditions of warrior families – but to expose one’s face to society making the

rounds of the city in the middle of the day? As a person who knows shame, I

can’t do it.” The young actors exhausted their words, explaining that making the

rounds of the city was the most effective kind of promotion, and that if doing so

increased our popularity, the company would surely flourish. We said that if our

company didn’t do it, other companies certainly would, and that it would be more

profitable to start the trend rather than following it. Eventually Mr. Iha was

persuaded and couldn’t sustain his objections (1987, 464).

As Majikina describes, within each company, non-market-based values such as status-

group customs and traditional artistic standards intersected with the economic imperative

to maximize popularity and profit. This dialectical process gradually generated new

normative standards of social and artistic practice, which were transmitted to and

reproduced by younger performers.

The memoirs of third-generation actor Makishi Kōchū shed light on the practices

by which new actors were incorporated into theater groups, acculturated to their social

and aesthetic norms, and taught the repertory. In 1932, at the age of 9, Makishi’s parents

(who were too poor to care for him) hired him out to Majikina Yūkō's theater group as an

assistant (2002, 25). For some time, he was used as an errand boy, doing odd jobs such

as reporting on competing theater companies’ performances and delivering actors’ love

letters to geishas in the red light district (28). He was then promoted to the position of

curtain-puller (maku-gamī 幕頭). While this was regarded as the lowest position in the

company hierarchy, it also served as an invaluable form of practical training:

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In society at large, being dismissed as a “theater curtain-puller” was akin to being

called a little idiot; however, it wasn’t actually an easy job. This is because the

theater curtain was not merely a “thing” that separated the audience from the

stage – the curtain in and of itself was in fact intimately connected to the quality

of the production, and the capability of the troupe. For example, if the curtain is

opened violently and loudly during a scene that requires it to be opened slowly

and suggestively, or if the curtain is opened sluggishly during a scene that

requires it to be opened in a flash, the performance itself will be dampened and

become uninteresting. Because of this, the opening and closing of the curtain was

always of great concern. In fact, you could say that the opening and closing of the

curtain was itself a type of art (gei); it took quite a bit of time to master the tricks

(kotsu) of curtain-pulling and become a fully competent maku-gamī (29-30)

Serving as a curtain-puller, then, instilled in a young theater practitioner the basic

aesthetic sensibility necessary to undertake other tasks. After mastering the art of

opening and closing the curtain, Makishi was promoted to the position of taiko drummer

(tēku-gamī 太鼓頭); after mastering drumming, he was entrusted with playing the

wooden clapper (hyōshigi 拍子木). Because the wooden clapper signals each important

transition in the performance, being promoted to wooden clapper-player (ban-gamī 拍子

木頭) indicated that one had earned the trust of the performers (32). According to

Makishi, progressing from maku-gamī to ban-gamī could take an apprentice as long as

seven or eight years. During this time, the apprentice “studied the plots and content of

each night’s plays, the techniques of performance, the proper way to intone lyrics, the

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various cues used in the theater, and so on, committing them securely to memory with

both his mind and body” (32).

Management realized that training and promoting an actor was a kind of financial

investment, and strove to maintain stability within companies (61). This being said,

conflicts between management and actors were common, and sometimes resulted in the

expulsion of actors, changes in management, or the restructuring of the company.

Makishi, for example, describes a conflict that arose between the manager of a teahouse-

turned-theater and a group of kumiodori performers:

Mr. Bō, who funded the performance, took all of the money from the opening

night show and refused to distribute any of it to the cast. Since the performance

could not be continued [due to having turned out unpopular], as the financial

backer, perhaps he saw no option other than to reconnoiter the profit from the

opening night, lest the entire production go into the red and turn out a financial

loss. The performers, on the other hand, saw no connection between their salary

and how many people came to the show, and asserted their right to be paid. It

turned into a horrible argument. People are very thin-skinned in this kind of

situation, and it’s difficult for negotiations to proceed. Particularly as an artist, a

failed performance wraps you up in difficult emotions. When you make your own

body and artistic ability into commodities and they fail to sell, it will inevitably

lead to a war of words (73).

As Makishi describes, financial concerns and pride both played into this kind of conflict.

If management refused to negotiate, actors would sometimes go so far as to call

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impromptu strikes, to which management would respond by hiring actors from the

countryside as “scabs” (65). Conflicts between actors themselves were equally common,

and often led to companies breaking up or actors being headhunted (RS, April 23, 1898;

May 17, 1898; January 15, 1900; March 17, 1905; August 15, 1905; etc.).

One solution to tension between actors or between a company and the theater

management was to organize a tour, then return once tensions had cleared (RS, April 23,

1898; August 1, 1906; etc.). Most tours were intra-Okinawan affairs, but on occasion

groups went to Kyushu and even Tokyo (RS, August 1, 1906; November 23, 1910;

December 25, 1910). These tours naturally inspired imitation, and during the Taishō and

Shōwa periods, a number of regional troupes (yushi-shibai ゆし芝居) sprung up in

addition to the main Naha-based troupes (moto-shibai 本芝居) (Makishi 2002, 53).

Actors from Naha who ran into trouble with their own companies or with management

would sometimes travel to the countryside and join regional troupes. Makishi, for

example, spent some time performing with a troupe in Yaeyama (59-62). These regional

troupes borrowed from the Naha troupes’ repertories, and also performed plays in their

own regional dialects; according to Makishi, by the Shōwa period, they had become the

main source of “mass entertainment” in the countryside (76).

As previously described, on a material basis, all of this activity was made possible

by the gradual growth of the Naha economy and a corresponding change in audience

demographics. Many of the migrant laborers who flooded into Naha came from islands

and villages with mutually incomprehensible dialects and diverse cultural traditions. As

the textile and hat-weaving industries grew, an increasing number of migrants were

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young women without families. These migrants exemplify Masao Maruyama’s concept

of structurally atomized and culturally alienated labor, marked by an “actual or imagined

sense of uprootedness and the loss of norms of conduct (anomie)” (1965, cited in Nimura

1997, 44). We can hypothesize that for these migrants, commercial theater assumed

some of the socializing functions formerly borne by ceremonial performing arts in rural

villages.

By 1899, commercial performing arts had become sufficiently popular among

women in Naha for the Ryūkyū Shimpō to mention it as a curiosity (December 5, 1899).

By the end of the Meiji period, women often outnumbered men in theater audiences

(Ōshiro 2000, 67). Both actor memoirs and newspaper reviews indicate that the demands

of these spectators determined the stylistic vector of theater in Naha at any given moment.

If a show or style proved unpopular, it would not continue to be performed; if an actor

proved unpopular, he would not find work.

Interestingly, the transformation of socioeconomic relations in Naha carried over

into the theater world itself as well. As previously mentioned, within individual theater

companies, non-market-based standards of value such as seniority, ancestry, and artistic

lineage maintained their gravity (Makishi 2002, 64). On a broader socioeconomic level,

however, all performers fell into the homogenous category of free labor, and were

compensated largely according to “meritocratic” standards, i.e., their ability to produce a

marketable commodity – in this case, a compelling performance (15-16). Makishi’s

remark on the affective risk involved in “making your own body and artistic ability into

commodities” shows that actors themselves were very much aware of this dynamic.

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This marketization of artistic charisma drove the emergence of a star system and a

variable pay scale. Majikina Yūkō, for example, was paid only one sen per day for his

first performances (this being said, he went on to become a star performer) (1987, 462).

Around the same time, Uema Seihin, who was in his prime, was financially secure

enough to dress in imported Western-style frock coats and top hats, live in a large house,

visit the red light district often, and marry a mainland Japanese geisha (Majikina and

Shimabukuro 1987, 353-354). Individual stars sometimes eclipsed their companies as the

focus of audience and media attention, and were often headhunted. In 1916, a survey

ranked Takara Chōsei as the prefecture's most popular actor, followed by Tokashiki

Shuryō, Majikina Yūkō, and Iraha Inkichi (Ikemiya 1982a, 437). While most prewar

Okinawan performers and playwrights remain relatively unknown outside the prefecture,

the best of them were comparable in talent and creative ability to famous mainland

Japanese theater reformers like Ichikawa Danjurō IX, Morita Kan’ya XII, Izumi Kyōka,

and Kawakami Otojirō and Sadayakko (in fact, Uema Seihin was known as Okinawa’s

Kawakami Otojirō [416]).

The expansion of the repertory and formation of genres

These various social and material developments lead Ikemiya Masaharu to argue

that from the late Meiji period onward, it becomes viable to think of the Okinawan

performing arts scene as a distinct sector in a modern capitalist economy (1980, 295).

Ikemiya’s implied assessment of the Meiji period Okinawan economy as fully

“capitalist” is not entirely historically accurate; as previously mentioned in my discussion

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of the Preservation of Old Customs policy, certain structural features inherited from

feudalism remained intact well into the Shōwa period. This being said, the

commercialization of the performing arts did closely mirror the introduction of capitalist

relations of production and the expansion of the consumer economy as a whole,

particularly in Naha (Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 230). On an aesthetic level,

the commercialization of the performing arts sector prompted rapid stylistic expansion,

followed by a consolidation of new genres and taste categories. This process began early

in the music world, with newspaper advertisements for mainland Japanese shamisen and

Western harmonicas and organs appearing in 1899 (Ryūkyū Shimpō, January 1, 1899;

November 7, 1899). The same year, the Nakamō theater played gramophone recordings

of mainland Japanese shamisen, to popular acclaim – the Ryūkyū Shimpō observed that

young people came into the city from rural areas to see the gramophone performances,

and that both afternoon and evening shows were almost always full (January 11, 1899; cf.

Ikemiya 1982a, 425). Interest in non-indigenous music is also evident in advertisements

for voluntary associations such as the Okinawan Music Association, which promoted a

variety of music, including, “1. Organ, 2. Choral music, 3. Violin, 4. Koto, 5. Okinawan

shamisen, 6. Satsuma biwa, 7. Nō flute, and others” (RS, February 27, 1900). Mainland

Japanese shamisen was particularly popular, with shamisen societies cropping up not

only in Shuri and Naha, but also in smaller cities like Itoman (RS, October 7, 1900).

Beginning in the early 1900s, the Okinawan commercial theater scene also began

to develop in a more syncretic direction. The arrival of traveling theater companies from

Japan helped spur this development. In 1904, for example, a group from Kyushu

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performed sōshi-shibai at the Nakamō theater, staging martial spectacles with titles such

as “Pistol Robbery” (pisutoru gōtō 「ピストル強盗」) and “The Sōma Incident” (Sōma

jiken 「相馬事件」) (Majikina 1987, 463).

Because the majority of Okinawans

couldn’t speak mainland Japanese at this time, the group’s tour failed. The next year, a

mainland Japanese company that had been touring Kyushu crossed over to Okinawa and

took up residence at the Uī-nu-shibai. This company won some local acclaim, but was

forced to cut its engagement short when its popular lead onnagata was drafted into the

military (472). According to Majikina Yūkō, these performances made a powerful

impression on local actors, who started taking up the sōshi style of white facial makeup

and swaggering movement. Majikina’s company Okinawa-za adopted “Pistol Robbery”

into their repertoire; according to Majikina, first-time audiences watched it “as earnestly

as if they were watching the real thing – they were caught in a dream, and applauded

wildly” (464). Around the same time, both Okinawa-za and Kyūyō-za also started

staging Sino-Japanese and Russo-Japanese War dramas, Chinese historical dramas

(shina-geki 支那劇), sword and pike dances, and acrobatics routines such as tightrope

walking (356; 465; 471).

Shortly after the sōshi-shibai boom, a few pioneering Okinawan actors started

making study trips to Japan, bringing back a range of Japanese styles, including kyūha

(kabuki-influenced drama), shinpa (modern syncretic musical drama), and shingeki

(Western-style realism) (Ikemiya 1980, 291). According to Majikina Yūkō and

Shimabukuro Kōyū, the actor and playwright Uema Seihin, who had studied kabuki in

Taiwan and mainland Japan, played a major role in the introduction of these styles.

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Shimabukuro recalls that when Uema first debuted kabuki-style forms and gestures on

the Okinawan stage, audiences laughed; however, he was not dissuaded and strove to

perfect his technique (1987, 353). According to Majikina, Uema also helped introduce a

style of vocal delivery that approximated natural speech, in contrast to the fixed patterns

utilized in classical kumiodori (473). While less ideologically invested, this corresponds

roughly with the genbun ichi movement in the mainland Japanese theater world (Poulton

2010, 16).

Around the time of the Russo-Japanese War, Uema collaborated with Majikina

Yūso’s Okinawa-za (Kōgekikai) to stage a series of influential productions in the shinpa

style. Majikina recalls Uema’s shinpa-style production of Tokutomi Roka’s Hototogisu

as setting a new standard for rigor and effectiveness in Okinawan theatrical practice:

After each night’s show, the members of the company would all gather on the

stage and study the details of [the novel’s] content; after this, one by one, each of

us would run through all of the dialogue and actions alone, until we understood it

completely. Only then did we choose which actor would play which role …

Without a doubt, this performance of Hototogisu was most effective at raising the

level of Okinawan theater … After rehearsing the script, we were all moved to

tears (473; 353).

Majikina further recalls that the members of Okinawa-za first cut their hair in the

Western zangiri style in order to perform Hototogisu (353; cf. O’Brien 2008). Following

the success of Hototogisu, Okinawa-za staged several other mainstays of the mainland

Japanese shinpa repertory, such as Ozaki Kōyō’s Konjiki Yasha and Kikuchi Yūhō’s

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Chikyōdai (473). Notably, contemporary commentators depicted the popularity of

mainland Japanese theater positively as the result of a wartime upswing in nationalist

sentiment (RS, March 17, 1905).

The mainland Japanese vogue for Shakespeare was also exported to Okinawa,

leading to a brief Shakespeare boom in which the various companies attempted to one-up

one another. In the winter of 1906, for example, Kyūyō-za staged Othello under the

direction of Tokashiki Ippa (Ryūkyū Shimpō, January 23, 1906). Tokashiki’s production

was inspired by Kawakami Otojirō’s famous 1903 shinpa adaptation (which was based

on a Japanese translation by Tozawa Koya). Shortly after, Okinawa-za performed

Hamlet and The Merchant of Venice (RS, February 9, 1906; Majikina 1987, 473). In

April of the same year, both Kyūyō-za and Okinawa-za performed Romeo and Juliet (RS,

April 21, 1906). The next year, Kyūyō-za staged a production called New Hamlet (Shin-

Hamuretto



「新はハムレット」) (RS, February 13, 1907). Majikina recalls that

Okinawa-za competed by staging a Japanized version of Hamlet in which Claudius was

re-imagined as a treacherous merchant named Hamura (1987, 353).

This influx of new influences helped shape the development of new indigenous

theater forms.

In the early 1900s, a number of new genre terms started appearing in

newspaper articles and advertisements in addition to the familiar catchall terms kyōgen

and odori (dance, broadly conceived). These include the terms shin-kyōgen (new

kyōgen); kigeki (comic drama); kigeki odori (comic theatrical dance); shigeki (historical

drama); Ryūkyū koji 故事 (traditional histories); Ryūkyū koji 古事 (ancient events);

Ryūkyū densetsu (legends); and kageki (musical drama). When reading primary sources,

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it is key to remember that prior to around the beginning of the Taishō period these

designators were flexible. One 1906 production (Okinawa-za’s 「不如婦」), for

example, was advertised first as shin-kyōgen, then as shinpa-seigeki (RS, January 6 and

19, 1906). Similarly, Meiji-za’s March 1910 production of the story of the courtesan

Yoshiya (Yoshiya – ransei no tsuyu 「ヨシヤア 嵐世の露」) is referred to in different

sources as shigeki (historical drama) and odori (dance) (Ikemiya 1980, 304-308; RS,

March 19, 1910).

A survey of the vast array of advertisements published in the Ryūkyū Shimpō

(henceforth RS) and the Okinawa Mainichi Shimbun (henceforth OMS) provides a

snapshot of the diverse composition of the prewar Okinawan theater scene. Ikemiya, for

example, lists a total of 67 works staged in 1910 (twenty-nine by Okinawa-za, twenty-

one by Meiji-za, and seventeen by Kyōwa-dan/Naka-za) (1980, 304-308). Ikemiya’s list,

however, is limited to the various genres of historical and mythic spoken drama.

Broadening the search to include kumiodori, mainland Japanese theatrical forms, and the

broad categories of kyōgen and dance yields a significant increase in results.

Advertisements published during the six-month period between January and July of 1910,

for example, mention 86 distinct works: five kumiodori, fourteen shigeki, five koji 故事,

five koji 古事, one densetsu, two yurai, four kigeki, twelve odori, twelve kyōgen, one

shinpa, seven seigeki, one shingeki, and thirteen without genre labels. These plays range

from extremely well known works, such as the classical kumiodori Mekarushi and the

story of Yoshiya, to works of which we know next to nothing aside from the title. A

glance at the full list of performances gives a striking impression of the vibrancy of the

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Okinawan theater scene near the end of the Meiji period. On nearly any given night,

audiences could see a wide range of styles, from classical kumiodori to Western-style

realist spoken drama (which was still considered somewhat avant-garde at the time, even

in mainland Japan). The January 7 to 14 playbill at Meiji-za, for example, included

kumiodori, comic musical drama, dance, and realist spoken drama, while the April 9 to

May 6 playbill at Okinawa-za included kumiodori, historical drama, mythic drama, and

kyōgen. This suggests a degree of artistic versatility on the part of performers and

aesthetic broadmindedness on the part of audiences that is remarkable even by

contemporary standards.

Alongside star power and artistic versatility, novelty came at a premium during

the “period of high competition” – according to Majikina, at this time, “anything new to

the eyes would surely succeed” (1987, 466). Because of this, performers constantly

borrowed from one another, piecing together new works through variation and

improvisation on well-known narratives and themes. Managers and companies

contributed to the thirst for novelty by cultivating an aesthetic of spectacle through the

use of “contrivances” (shikake 仕掛け). Majikina recalls that around the time of the

Russo-Japanese War, the Shicha-nu-shibai and Uī-nu-shibai theaters actively competed to

stun audiences with increasingly spectacular productions and promotional techniques. In

1904, for example, the Shicha-nu-shibai staged a historical drama with “outlandish

contrivances [and] brand-new costumes and props,” which it promoted by sending thirty

actors through the streets of Naha simultaneously on rickshaws (469). The Uī-nu-shibai

responded by staging an even more elaborate Chinese-style war drama, which utilized

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Ming period ceremonial robes purchased from former courtiers and Chinese studies

scholars in Kumemura (471). The younger actors in the Shicha-nu-shibai, who were

determined not to be outdone, planned a lavish production of Chūshingura for the next

year, but met with resistance from the older actors, who balked at the expense of the

costumes and props. Eventually, the younger contingent won out, and the production was

staged, to great acclaim (470).

New media technologies were sometimes given equal billing as new titles and star

performers. In the late 1890s, for example, a string of advertisements appear for magic

lantern shows (RS, December 1, 1899; etc.). Moving pictures were introduced in the

early 1900s, though they did not become commonplace until near the end of the Meiji

period (RS, March 23, 1902). In live theater, special effects enjoyed spells of popularity.

Inspired by touring Japanese groups, for example, Okinawa-za incorporated stage blood

into its crime drama “Pistol Robbery,” to shocking effect:

Naturally, at the moment in which the robber was about to be arrested, he held the

pistol to his own chest and fired, and you could clearly see the red blood trickling

down. Watching this type of cruel and pitiful scene for the first time, the

audiences merely stared in mute, wide-eyed amazement. In this way, sōshi shibai

inspired Okinawan theater, which up to that point had remained unchanged, to

incorporate new techniques, scenery, staging, and various improvements – one

could say that this was an initial step in the direction of the reform of Okinawan

theater (Majikina 1987, 464).

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Okinawan theater companies’ early experiments with special effects were not without

mishaps. According to Majikina Yūkō’s memoirs, in 1905, an on-stage accident

involving mistimed fireworks severely injured actors Nakaima Shin and Majikina

Yoshifumi (Yūkō’s younger brother) (475). This did not deter the further use of

potentially dangerous special effects. In July 1907, for example, advertisements for

performances at Okinawa-za make special mention of chemical smoke effects (RS, July

7, 1907; December 28, 1907; etc.).

The 1910 opening of the Okinawa Electric Company expanded the range of

available special effects, plunging Okinawan theater audiences into “a dreamy infatuation

with electric light” (Okinawa Mainichi Shimbun, July 2, 1911). Interestingly, among the

promotional gimmicks employed by the company was a “Ground-Breaking Ceremony for

an Electrically Illuminated Society” (dentō shakai no jichinsai 電灯社会の地鎮祭)

featuring actors from Okinawa-za (OMS, August 7, 1910). Later the same year, an

advertisement appeared for a comedy oddly entitled “Telephone Psyche” (denwa no

shinsei 「電話の神精」) (OMS, April 23, 1910). In 1911, advertisements started to crop

up for “electric dances” (denki-odori 電気踊り). The first of these appear to have been

performed on April 25, 1911 by the Fūgetsurō Geisha Theater (Fūgetsurō no geigi shibai

風月楼の芸妓芝居) at the Meiji-za venue (Ikemiya 1980, 374-375; 1982a, 433). The

Ryūkyū Shimpō reviewed these productions:

[The performer] danced a “Butterfly Dance,” which was bathed in electric lights

as bright as a thousand candles. Wearing long white sleeves, he extended his arms

like a butterfly’s wings and gestured softly. A variety of colored electric lights

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were showered down upon the scene, conveying a transformation into the colors

of a butterfly’s wings, and the timbre of organ music imparted these dancer’s

movements with a unique tone. After this, there was an electric “Flower Umbrella

Dance,” during which the dancers had their entire bodies illuminated by yellow,

red, blue, purple, and other various colors of electric light, which continually

flashed on and off intermittently. Regarding the dance as a whole, it was certainly

resplendent to the eyes, and when today’s final curtain fell, the tremendous

applause and ovation were conspicuous (April 27, 1911).

In May of 1911, Naka-za picked up on the electricity trend, staging an illuminated

production called Spirit of Botan (Odori botan no sei 「踊りぼたんの精」) (Ikemiya

1980, 375). Okinawa-za jumped on the bandwagon in June, staging an electric dance

(Okinawa denki bushi「沖縄電気節」) and then a mythical-historical drama in which

electric lights appear to have been used to simulate witchcraft (Majutsu「魔術」) (376).

The success of this production set off a mini-boom of electrically illuminated

productions on mythical and magical subjects (377). Electric dance is a fascinating index

of Okinawans’ ambivalent relationship to normative (industrial) modernity. Sawai

Manami identifies it as a symptom of the “modernization of the body” (shintai no

kindaika 身体の近代化) (2008). This description brings to mind the extraordinary

popularity of Loie Fuller’s illuminated dances in fin de siècle Europe. Presciently,

Stéphane Mallarmé described Fuller’s illumination as a metonym for the transfixed and

transfixing “absolute gaze” of the consumer (Crayonné au théâtre, cited in McCarren

1995, 758). This “absolute gaze” seemed to project the hopes and anxieties of a

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generation facing a world-historical juncture, which we can identify in hindsight as the

point of no return in the global rise of industrial capitalism. In the West, technologically

mediated entertainments grew ever more complex. In Okinawa, on the other hand, the

electric dance boom was short-lived. Within a few short months, the gaze of the electric

bulb appears to have lost its hypnotic power; by the end of the year, ads mentioning

electric illumination had all but disappeared. Ikemiya suggests that while the electric

dance phenomenon left no lasting impact on Okinawan culture, it can be understood as an

index of Okinawan theater audiences’ thirst for novelty, and of the way commercial

performers tailored their practices in order to capitalize on this (1980, 378).

The birth of long-form tragic musical drama: Tomari Aka (「泊阿嘉」)

Around the time of the electric dance boom, another vogue arose for “long-form

tragic musical drama” (chōhen hikageki 長編悲歌劇). This genre was to prove

significantly more enduring than sōshi shibai or electric dance. The term kageki first

appeared in 1911 advertisements for an Okinawa-za production entitled Jinsei no haru, a

Naka-za production entitled Kobutorin-go, and a Kōka-za production entitled Ume to

uguisu (Ōshiro 2000, 90). All of these productions were based on extant works that had

previously been referred to as kyōgen or odori. As indicated in the previous chapter,

long-form tragic musical drama evolved from short tragic musical drama (exemplified by

the one-act play Uyanma), which is stylistically rooted in classical kumiodori, theatrical

dance, and musical farce. Like kumiodori, long-form tragic musical drama uses song

interludes sung by a chorus of sanshin players in order to elucidate characters’ affective

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states at key points in the narrative. Rather than chanting their lines to fixed patterns, the

actors sing the majority of their lines in quasi-recitative fashion over sanshin ostinati

based on folk melodies. During the Taishō period, some kageki started incorporating

spoken dialogue as well. This interweaving of recitative, speech, and song makes

Okinawan kageki musically unique among Japanese performing arts.

As mentioned in Chapter One, the most well known musical drama of the late

Meiji period is the Romeo and Juliet-type fantasy Tomari Aka (Aka of Tomari). The

basic storyline was adapted from the early modern prose work Koiji no fumi. Between

1906 and 1907, several different theater groups staged variations of the Aka narrative in

spoken drama form.

The musical version was first staged by Okinawa-za in April 1910

under the title Hama chijuyā (Jp. Hama chidori「浜千鳥」). It is attributed to Ganeko

Yaei. This being said, the rest of the company surely also had a hand in its creation. This

production was hugely popular, and inspired the other companies to create their own

musical versions of the Aka narrative; competing productions ran repeatedly for months

on end for the remainder of the year and during 1911 (Ikemiya 1982a, 432-4340; cf. RS,

April 9, 1910; April 10, 1910; April 23, 1910; May 15, 1910; June 18, 1910; etc.).

Tomari Aka opens on the third day of the third lunar month, a traditional festival

day. In Act One, the male protagonist Aka Tarugani (阿嘉樽金) catches a glimpse of the

female protagonist Umichiru (思鶴) at the hamaori festival at Akazu harbor and

immediately falls in love with her. In an attempt to meet her, he pretends to cast a fishing

line toward the sea and snags the hook in her hair. Her protective nursemaid, however,

rebukes him and sends him on his way. That evening, he visits Takahashi Bridge, near

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her house, and learns from a passing ship captain that she is the daughter of the extremely

protective Lord Isa. Act Two opens with Aka standing on Takahashi Bridge. He has

been visiting the bridge for the past ninety-nine consecutive nights, deep in sorrow. Out

of desperation, he finally decides to give Umichiru’s nursemaid a love letter to take to

her. The nursemaid gives Umichiru the letter, and she pretends to throw it in the fire but

secretly pockets it. In the next scene, Umichiru and Aka meet outside her house. In Act

Three, Aka’s father speculates in a monologue that something is wrong with his son, then

calls Aka and orders him to travel to Iheya Island to manage the family business interests.

In Act Four, Umichiru dies of lovesickness, leaving a final testament with her nursemaid.

In the final act, Aka returns from Iheya and runs across the nursemaid, who is weeping.

She gives Aka the final testament. Aka reads the letter aloud and runs to Umichiru’s

grave, dying there in agony. The play ends with Aka’s father and Umichiru’s father

expressing their shared grief and giving the couple their posthumous blessings.

On both a thematic and a stylistic level, we can regard Tomari Aka as a

prototypical long-form tragic musical drama. Its source text, Koiji no fumi, is clearly

rooted in the early modern Ryūkyūan romanticism of Heshikiya Chōbin. Like Chōbin's

prose works, we can read it as a variation on the model of double suicide (shinjū), in

which “marriage through death” mediates the contradictory forces of giri and ninjō

(Nakahodo 1994, 48). Both Koiji no fumi and Tomari Aka utilize the well-established

technique of allusive variation to evoke affectively loaded concepts such as love and

compassion (nasake), fated and ill-fated human relations (en and akuen), and the

transience of the “floating world” (ukiyo). In his exhaustive content analysis, Nakahodo

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Masanori identifies a number of allusive keywords that bind Tomari Aka to prior works,

including the corpus of Old Ryūkyūan mythology and the Ryūkyūan and Japanese

literary canons (27-57). These include stock motifs such as the transient morning dew, as

well as a number of less frequently utilized motifs.

Two particularly important motifs are Aka’s fishing line and Umichiru’s long

black hair. In the second scene of Tomari Aka, Aka snags his fishing line in Umichiru’s

hair as an excuse to talk to her. As Nakahodo observes, this can be read as an allusion to

the kumiodori Mekarushi, a variation on the Hagoromo story (33). In the opening scene

of Mekarushi, a farmer spies a beautiful maiden washing her hair, then ensnares her by

stealing her feathered robe (likewise, the nursemaid accuses Aka of trying to use his

fishing line to ensnare a girl). Aka and Mekarushi both describe the objects of their

erotic fixation as maidens that have descended from heaven, whom they intend to pull

down to earth. Moreover, the village of Tomari was the supposed site of a spring called

the “descending from heaven well” (天降井), reputed to mark the place where the farmer

Mekarushi first spied his celestial maiden (34). Alternately, Aka’s fixation on

Umichiru’s hair could be read as a reference to Temizu no en, in which Yamatū and

Tamatsi meet because she has visited Fanja River in order to wash her hair.

Nakahodo goes on to trace the images of Umichiru’s hair and Aka’s fishing line

genealogically to themes in Old Ryūkyūan mythology. He cites Ōshiro Tatsuhiro, for

example, on the role of hair imagery in the legend of Madanbashi:

In ancient times, Madanbashi was a wooden bridge, and during floods it was

often swept away. For this reason, King Shō Shin ordered that a stone bridge

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should be built. However, the level of stonecraft in Ryūkyū at that time was not

sufficient to build a stone bridge over a large river, so the work proved difficult.

In addition, consistent bad weather stalled the bridge’s construction. At that

time, a certain priestess gave an oracle that a girl whose hair was bound with a

seven-color cord must be sacrificed and laid as a “human pillar” in the

foundation of the bridge. A suitable girl could not be found, however, so the

priestess herself was buried alive in the foundation of the bridge (Ōshiro et al.

1976, cited in Nakahodo 1994, 45-46).

According to Nakahodo, this legend, which is interpreted as a type of admonition against

the practice of giving oracles, exemplifies the use of hair imagery in the Old Ryūkyūan

myth to symbolize a woman’s life and destiny (46).

The image of Aka’s fishing line also links up with a body of Old Ryūkyūan myths

involving the akamatā, a serpent deity that disguises itself in the form of a handsome

young man and attempts to seduce beautiful young women at night. In some akamatā

stories, the young woman becomes pregnant and decides to determine her suitor’s

identity by attaching a needle and thread to his clothing and following the thread when he

leaves her home. When the thread leads the young woman to the cave of the akamatā,

she realizes that she must terminate her pregnancy. Significantly, one of the purposes of

the hamaori ceremony that Umichiru and her nursemaid attend in Tomari Aka’s first

scene was for young women to cleanse themselves of the potential influence of the

akamatā (41-42). While Tomari Aka does not refer explicitly to the akamatā myth,

Umichiru’s nursemaid does warn her that if they stay at the beach too long, sea snakes

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might creep up on them. Of course, there are no records directly indicating that Ganeko

Yaei was inspired by the Madanbashi story or akamatā myths. Nevertheless, it is

conceivable that a period audience would have been aware of these myths and intuited a

connection. This lends Tomari Aka a rather sinister undercurrent of archaism that later

musical dramas such as Iejima Handō-gwa would pick up on and develop.

It is possible to trace Tomari Aka’s hair and thread imagery through early modern

Ryūkyūan literature to the classical Japanese literary tradition. Both images appear

throughout the poetic canon as emblems of the bond between lovers (Cranston 1977, 76-

80). In poem 3822 of the Man’yōshū, for example, the image of a former lover’s hair

signifies female sexuality and male desire, as well as arousing a bittersweet sense of loss:

She whose hair hung loose

When I led her to the longhouse

And slept with her there

At the Temple of the Orange Tree –

Has she now bound up her locks? (trans. Cranston 1977, 79).

As this poem suggests, the states of a woman’s hair are also used to index the stages of

her life and the events and moods associated with those stages. Uncombed hair – as worn

by unmarried girls – is used as a symbol of nostalgia or fidelity, whereas white hair is

used as a symbol of enduring faithfulness (79). On the other hand, tangled hair

(midaregami 乱れ髪) appears as a symbol of the emotional and physical unrest which

love can cause. A verse by Heian period poet Izumi Shikibu exemplifies this:

I fling myself down

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Heedless of the wild disorder

Of my long black hair

And soon I’m yearning once again

For him who used to stroke it smooth (trans. Cranston 1977, 81).

We find an even more ominous evocation of long black hair in a well-known poem by

Kakinomoto no Hitomaro (662-710) on the suicide of a young girl:

The girl from Izumo,

Land of ever-streaming clouds,

Her long black tresses

Eddy in the current far

From Yoshino River’s shore (trans. Cranston 1977, 80).

In both Izumi Shikibu’s love poem and Hitomaro’s lament, hair imagery implies a

singular bond between two subjects, whether real or imagined (81). It also physicalizes

the sensation of loss that one feels when that bond is weakened or broken.

At the play’s moving conclusion, Ganeko makes use of an even more ominous

poetic trope, the “mountain road of death” (shide ga yamaji or shide ga yamamichi 死出

が山路). After reading Umichiru’s last testament aloud, Aka cries out, “Who is it you

took your leave to before departing this earth? Please wait a moment and depart with me

by your side on this mountain road of death.” This is a direct reference to Tamatsi’s final

testament in Temizu no en, in which she reassures Yamatū that she will wait for him on

the mountain road of death. Since the days of the Man’yōshū, the figure of the unknown

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mountain road (shiranu yamaji 知らぬ山路) has been used in poems that mourn the

departure or death of a lover. Take for example the following poem by Hitomaro:

In the autumn hills

The trees are dense with yellow leaves –

She has lost her way,

And I must go and search for her,

But do not know the mountain path (trans. Cranston 1977, 66)

As an inheritor of the Ryūkyūan aristocratic literary tradition, Ganeko Yaei would have

certainly been aware of stock image such as tangled hair, threads binding lovers, and the

unknown mountain road/mountain road of death. Significantly, the latter two tropes

appear together in Tomari Aka’s final line, a posthumous blessing recited by Umichiru’s

father: “Because the thread of love binds your fates from this world to the next – please

go with peace of mind on the mountain road of death.”

Scholars of Okinawan performing arts regard Tomari Aka as an important

milestone in the stylistic and institutional development of Okinawan commercial theater.

Ganeko Yaei and Okinawa-za’s 1910 production, which ran for an unheard-of sixteen

weeks, marks the point at which musical drama began to pull ahead of spoken drama in

popularity (Ikemiya 1980, 360; Ōno 2003, 78). It also stands as the high water mark for

the late Meiji period trend of fetishizing novelty and technical gimmicks. As Majikina

Yūkō recalls, during the years leading up to the Taishō era, theater practitioners began to

realize that a company’s long-term competitiveness depended on the compositional

quality of the works it produced (1987, 476). A single long run could bring in more

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profit than a series of short runs – and cost less to produce at that. Successful works

could also easily be toured to smaller cities and even to the outer islands. Moreover, once

established in the public consciousness, a successful work could be re-staged without

degrading its appeal and profitability. These realizations arguably slowed the pace of

innovation in Okinawan commercial performing arts, but also arguably helped raise the

standards of both performers and audiences.

Theater as an institution, a commodity, and an art

Harry Harootunian notes that scholars of Japanese modernity tend to view their

objects of study through economistic optics, “emphasizing the primacy of structures,

institutions, and movements over thought and experience, as if they were lived separately”

(2000, xv). Research into popular cultural production can help balance out this tendency.

Unfortunately, in Okinawa, primary sources that attest to the “thought and experience” of

period audiences are scarce. In the Introduction and Chapter One, I argue that working

around this problem requires a two-pronged approach, informed by both historical

materialism and hermeneutics. On the historical materialist track, we must set aside

matters of interpretation and ask: what are the empirical conditions of possibility for a

given “distribution of the sensible?” On the hermeneutic track, we must bracket these

conditions of possibility and focus on the given “distribution of the sensible” itself,

approaching it as an autonomous structure of meaning configured in accordance with a

particular tradition. Once we have done this, we can ask how a spectator, standing within

this structure of meaning, might look back out upon her own world differently.

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In Chapter Three, I introduce the basic historical conditions for the emergence of

Okinawan commercial theater as an institution: rural-to-urban labor migration and the

disenfranchisement of courtly performers. Of course, these two phenomena alone cannot

account for the specific characteristics of the further development of commercial theater

between the 1890s and 1910s. These characteristics include:

Rapid growth, high competition, and high potential for profit

The consolidation of stable theater companies

The construction of new, more sophisticated venues

The formation of normative practices and a unique institutional culture

The emergence of inter-company and intra-company conflicts of interest

The emergence of a star system

The spread of commercial theater to smaller cities

The influx of mainland Japanese and Western influences

The popularization of elaborate spectacles and special effects

The expansion and diversification of the repertory (etc.)

These trends are interwoven both directly and through mutual correlation to underlying

patterns of structural change. Some of these correlations are readily apparent. This is

particularly true of correlations between trends within the theater world itself. The

formation of stable theater companies, for example, enabled the formation of a singular

institutional culture marked by hierarchical structures, unique modes of pedagogy, etc.

The formation of stable venues and companies also enabled the capital accumulation

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necessary to build new facilities and invest in props, costumes, elaborate staging, and

eventually special effects such as fireworks and electrical lighting, etc.

Immediate correlations between developments in theater and developments in

society at large are harder to speak to with certainty, but still within the realm of

reasonable conjecture. We can guess, for example, that both fierce competition within

the Okinawan theater world and exposure to mainland Japan’s longstanding culture of

celebrity contributed to the birth of the Okinawan star system. Similarly, we can guess

that both general fascination with the material cultural traces of “modernity” and the

influx of new performance styles helped generate the thirst for novelty that seems to have

gripped theater audiences from around 1904–1911. We can even speculate that exposure

to novel sights and sounds helped generated desire for yet more novel sights and sounds:

as Ikemiya puts it, “driven by the expectations and anxieties of a new era, the people

hungrily demanded new things” (1980, 345).

Other, less direct correlations are harder to pin down. I am particularly interested

in exploring the highly mediated relationship between artistic production and political

economy. Katsuya Hirano’s The Politics of Dialogic Imagination provides a nuanced

and rigorous example of this kind of inquiry. One of Hirano’s theses is that early modern

Japanese aesthetic trends symptomatize the gradual shift from a restricted rice economy

based on the principles of maximum production and minimum expenditure to an

expansive monetary economy based on the principle of “the self-augmenting motion of

value” (Bell 2009, 38). Hirano argues that the proliferation of parody and grotesquerie in

late Edo popular culture “speaks to a zone of unstable or indeterminate signification – be

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it word or image – wherein a professed unity of meaning authorized by given categories

for classification and structured thought that underlies the categories is proven to be

untenable … [this] showed that the dominant mode(s) of representation, which supplied

the rationale for status distinctions and the division of labor, was incapable of

accommodating rapidly diversifying social realities or restructuring the disintegrated

social life” (2014, 150). The check that keeps Hirano from veering into determinism is

his observation that the crisis of the Tokugawa political economy “did not automatically

guarantee cultural conflict or struggles in the symbolic arena” – rather, it established the

material conditions of possibility for new ways of perceiving, judging, and representing

the world (92; 103).

Like late Edo period Japan, late Meiji period Okinawa seemed to be approaching

the tipping point of a political economic transformation. Hypothetically at least, the

monetization of the tax burden rendered every Okinawan a participant in the monetized

commodity economy (in actuality, as in Japan, many farmers actually continued to pay

rent in kind). Meanwhile, the Naha consumer goods market greatly expanded in scale

and scope. Certain commodities began to accrue symbolic value in addition to their use

value; for example, city employees, policemen, and bankers embraced imported pocket

watches as both a convenience and a status symbol (Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol.

2, 230). Similarly, in the early 1900s, barbershops became quite profitable as men began

to adopt Western hairstyles as a mark of the “ethos of civilization.” As well as emerging

as an index of class, commodities began to enter everyday intimate and public life in

unpredictable ways. Around 1902–1903, for example, bicycles made their debut and

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bicycle rentals became faddish (230). Several years later, a printer named Mori opened a

musical instrument shop in which he set up a recording studio; apparently, crowds would

gather in the evening outside Mori’s shop to hear the phonograph machine, which was

admired as an emblem of modernity (229).

Because contemporary spectators often unconsciously file prewar Okinawan

spoken and musical drama under the heading of “traditional performing arts” rather than

under the heading of commercial entertainment, it is easy to forget the dynamic

socioeconomic climate in which these genres took shape. Almost by definition,

commercial popular entertainment depends on mass participation in commerce – i.e.,

commodity exchange. It is crucial to remember that in Meiji period Okinawa, this

precondition was not a given. In 1880, the majority of Okinawans had limited contact

with the market; by the early 1900s, the monetization of the tax burden and the growth of

the consumer economy had changed this. Tracking the development of commercial

theater alongside the development of the economy as a whole, some developments seem

predictable: high competition, improved facilities, a diversified repertory, the emergence

of wealth and prestige hierarchies among actors, etc. We can find comparable instances

of correlative artistic and political-economic development in a range of locales, including

England (Guest 2006; cf. Habermas 1991), France (Charnow 2006), Germany (Marx

2006), India (Dharwadker 2011), Indonesia (Peacock 1967), and Korea (Killick 2003;

Jang 2004; Cho 2006; Hwang 2012). Certain stylistic developments also match up with

global trends: for example, the use of technical gimmicks such as smoke, chemical

explosions, fake blood, and electric lights when they became available.

218!

Other developments seem particular to Okinawa, and cannot as catalogued as

readily as generalizable and predictable market-effects. One example is the fluctuation

and eventual stabilization of taste preferences that occurred between 1910 and 1912.

Ganeko Yaei’s musical version of Tomari Aka opened in 1910 to an unprecedented long

run, inspiring a flood of imitations. Within the next few years, long-form tragic musical

drama had become a staple of the Okinawan stage. The next year, Fūgetsurō Geisha

Theater performed what appears to be the prefecture’s first electrically illuminated dance

to “conspicuous acclaim” (RS, April 27, 1911; cited in Ikemiya 1980, 375). The next few

months saw a steady flow of newspaper advertisements for long-form tragic musical

dramas, alongside a proliferation of ads for electrically illuminated dances and plays. By

the end of 1911, however, interest in “electric dance” had died down. Interest in musical

drama, on the other hand, remained strong.

Economistic thinking reaches its limit point here, at the question of how and why

some works and genres “seized the hearts of the public” and others did not (Ikemiya 1980,

358-359). In Shisō to fūzoku, Tosaka Jun draws the same conclusion. In contrast to

Lukács, for example, Tosaka argues that criticism that focuses solely on literature’s

conditions of production or ideological content is inadequate (2001, 33). This is because

it disregards the quality or qualities which differentiate art from reportage and didactics

and make it compelling (omoshiroi 面白い) (28). One such quality is “special

truthfulness to fūzoku.” For Tosaka, the most compelling art draws its material from

fūzoku, both in its everyday meaning as “customs and manners” and in its philosophical

meaning as “the concept of morality as determined by common sense.” He advocates

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paying special attention to works that disclose neglected or disdained areas of everyday

life such as “customs related to affect and emotions” (ninjō-fūzoku 人情風俗) and

“customs related to sex and gender” (sei-fūzoku 性風俗) (33).

What is key to remember about Tosaka’s concept of “special truthfulness to

fūzoku” is that it does not necessarily equate to the objective representation of customs

and manners in “actual reality” (genjitsu riaritī) (22). Rather, it hinges upon whether a

work resonates with our “worldly common sense” – i.e., our habituated tastes and

predispositions. For a work to be “true to fūzoku,” it must disclose an “artistic reality”

(geijutsuteki riaritī) that the spectator finds aesthetically compelling. Tosaka further

specifies that we do not make aesthetic evaluations in the same way we make determinant

evaluations: “The logical research of the property of a thing and the pronouncement of

whether it is pleasing or displeasing are entirely different things.” Determinant judgment

is a matter of cognition; aesthetic judgment is a matter of sensation. In determinant

judgment, a particular sensory object is subsumed under a correlative category of the

understanding. In aesthetic judgment, a particular object is held up to our apperceptive

faculty as a whole, arousing a second-order sensation (aesthesis) of pleasure or

displeasure. This pleasure or displeasure itself constitutes the judgment.

Tosaka’s deconstruction of fūzoku, which is inspired in equal parts by Kant and

Marx, makes an excellent bridge from the social scientific analysis of the conditions of

artistic production to the hermeneutic analysis of aspects of composition such as

emplotment and poetic transposition. Tosaka suggests, for example, that the sense of

“special truthfulness to fūzoku” in popular film hinges less upon its thematic content than

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upon aspects of composition such as the director’s choice of camera angle (38). By

altering the conditions of perception, film bears the potential to augment the affective

texture of everyday life. In a sense, the mode of representation achieves a degree of

autonomy: a film can suit our tastes stylistically regardless of whether we find the object

of representation itself pleasing or displeasing. Indeed, skillfull manipulation of the

mode of representation can reorient our perceptual practices in ways that bring to light

previously concealed dimensions of experience. Pleasure in the mode of representation

can thus surpass pleasure in represented objects themselves. This is why “we see many

things in our everyday lives, but we first realize our joy in them when they appear on

screen” (41). For Tosaka, this very joy is the “special truthfulness” that distinguishes art

from other modes of cultural production (27-28).

Needless to say, Tosaka’s work is relevant to the study of Okinawan commercial

performing arts, which are compelling precisely because of their appeal to ninjō-fūzoku

and sei-fūzoku (cf. Kokuritsu Gekijō Okinawa Unei Zaidan 2012). Interpreting a work

like Tomari Aka from the perspective of “special truth to fūzoku” involves gauging the

ways it might have resonated with prewar Okinawans’ habituated tastes and

predispositions. What comes to mind most immediately is its frequent, albeit relatively

subtle reference to figures in Okinawan myth. As previously mentioned, geographical

and political economic factors gave rise to extreme regionalization in the Ryūkyū islands.

Nevertheless, most Ryūkyūan cultures share a substratum of common myths (many of

which appear throughout mainland Japan as well). For example, regardless of their

regional origin, audiences would likely have been familiar with the hamaori festival held

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on the third day of the third lunar month (though they may have known it under a

different name). Similarly, the figure of the akamatā sits within a broad category of

“serpent bridegroom myths” (hebi-mukoiri setsuwa 蛇婿入説話), which is part of an

even broader category of “supernatural seduction myths” (iruikon setsuwa 異類婚説話).

Variations on these myths are found throughout the Ryūkyū archipelago. It is safe to

assume that despite having come to Naha from a wide range of villages with diverse

dialects and cultures, most of Tomari Aka’s intended spectators would have been familiar

with some variation on the akamatā myth.

Another way Tomari Aka engages habituated tastes and predispositions is through

its heavy use of pan-Japonic poetic devices such as fixed keywords and poetic borrowing.

Earlier, we looked at the poetic tropes of tangled hair and the “mountain road of death.”

A third poetic trope that Tomari Aka effectively employs is that of a thread that binds

lovers. We have already seen this trope in Temizu no en, when the chorus affirms the

sincerity of Yamatū’s love by likening the lovers to flowers pierced and strung together

on a thread. Later, Shicha and Yamaguchi declare their intention to “bind [the lovers’]

fates like a string of jewels.” The author of Temizu no en almost certainly borrowed this

phrase from classical Japanese verses such as poem 2365 of the Man’yōshū:

For another’s wife

Met on the highroad leading

To the sun-bright capital,

Like a string of jewels

My cord of life is tangled

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With desire and sleepless nights (trans. Cranston 1977, 77).

As Cranston observes, the phrase “string of jewels” (tama no o 玉の緒) is homologous

with the phrase “thread of the soul” (tama no o 魂の緒) (77). These images are highly

ambivalent: like long black hair, thread can easily become tangled, causing “either a

lapse into uncontrolled emotion, or death.” The chorus in Temizu no en hints at this by

rhetorically asking whether flowers strung together on a thread can be cut apart and

scattered. Tomari Aka combines the ambivalent images of thread and hair in the device

of Aka’s tangled fishing line. This device initially appears comic; however, it takes on a

darker tone in retrospect as we learn that Aka and Umichiru can only realize their fated

bond through death. Given the potency of tangled hair and thread imagery in the

Japanese and Ryūkyūan poetic traditions, one wonders whether a period audience might

have seen the device of the fishing line as foreboding.

Finally, it is impossible to discuss the “special truth to fūzoku” of Tomari Aka and

Okinawan musical drama in general without mentioning the music itself. Around the

same time commercial musical drama was peaking in popularity, indigenous music was

undergoing something of a renaissance in Okinawa. Iha Fuyū contributed to this, writing

in his breakout work Old Ryūkyū on the aesthetic value and historical significance of

classical Ryūkyūan music (albeit in characteristically self-depricating fashion):

It is said that music is a universal human language; however, I find it quite

doubtful that Ryūkyūan music would move the heart of a person who did not

understand the Ryūkyūan language and people. Ryūkyūan music may seem

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tedious, but if you really listen, it seems to tell the history of countless hundreds

of years of suffering … Ryūkyūan music is our peoples’ pride (1974a, 156).

Editorialists for the regional newspapers echoed Iha’s sentiments. A February 1910

Ryūkyū Shimpō article, for example, states that “the emotions of the pure Ryūkyūan

people and the ‘scent’ of Okinawa appear splendidly in the reverberations that flow from

the sanshin – this unique type of sentiment cannot be produced by Western instruments

… in order to express a pure Ryūkyūan kind of charm and the [emotional] hue of the

Okinawan people, nothing other than a sanshin will do” (February 1, 1910). A March

article reiterates this enthusiasm: “without a doubt, when performed by an expert, the

indigenous music of Okinawa can sway peoples’ emotions to no small degree, in the

same manner as the music performed in other civilized countries” (RS, March 23, 1910).

Ikemiya argues that the lyric quality of traditional Okinawan music and Tomari

Aka’s melancholic narrative are particularly well suited to one another (1980, 358).

Tomari Aka is entirely through-composed, as are most modern Okinawan musical drams.

Fourteen melodies are used, a substantial increase from Uyanma’s five melodies (this

trend would continue; the 1924 musical Iejima Handō-gwa, for example, uses twenty

melodies). The songs sung by the chorus tend to feature highly melismatic classical

melodies, while the actors’ lines are set to quicker-paced folk melodies. As in kumiodori,

choral interludes mark the play’s climactic moments.

In each pivotal scene, the chorus’

choice of melodies adds an interpretive dimension to the narrative. The interludes that

frame the lovers’ tryst and Aka’s response to Umichiru’s final testament, for example,

both use the classical romantic lament “Shukkē bushi” (「述懐節」). This establishes

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an anguished parallelism between the inception and culmination of the tragedy. It also

alludes powerfully to the kumiodori Temizu no en, in which the chorus sings “Shukkē

bushi” at the moment the lovers are discovers. Similarly, the impact of the final lines,

which Umichiru’s father recites at her grave, is heightened by the bitterly ironic use of

the sentimental melody "Kwamuchā bushi" (Jp. Komochi bushi 「子持節」) –

"parenthood song" or, literally, “child-holding song.”

This is the same melody used in

Temizu no en during the scene preceding Tamatsi’s near-execution, in which the chorus

proclaims that she must embark alone on the “mountain road of death.” In both Temizu

no en and Tomari Aka, the music’s bittersweet tone shades the lyrics in a way that seems

to portend the lovers’ trials and tribulations, while simultaneously affirming that they are

bound “like a string of jewels … from this world to the next.”

Ganeko Yaei’s use of poetic allusions and highly recognizable melodies as

affective cues establishes a powerful link to the kumiodori tradition, distinguishing the

musical version of Tomari Aka from its spoken drama predecessors. This testifies to a

poetic turn in Okinawan commercial theatrical aesthetics. As Majikina implies, the

play’s attraction hinges less on the narrative or mise-en-scène, and more on skillful poetic

transposition in accordance with established conventions (1987, 476). In a sense, we can

interpret Tomari Aka as a culturally conservative backlash to the late Meiji period

fetishization of novelty. What spectators appear to have desired was precisely the inverse

of the “modernized body” spotlighted in electric dance (cf. Sawai 2008). Tomari Aka

vicariously restores the possibility of human relationships based in the intimate sphere of

sympathetic feeling (nasake) rather than the “modernized” private sphere of contractually

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mediated exchange. This could even be seen as an abstract repudiation of the principle of

commodity fetishism, which interfaces the capitalist mode of production with its various

cultural superstructural formations. In any case, Ganeko’s attention to artful construction

and classical literary devices set a standard that other Okinawan playwrights consciously

sought to equal and surpass (Nakahodo 1994, 70).

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Chapter 5. Commercial performance as an object of discourse and policy

Indigenous capitalism and the formation of class consciousness

As previously described, the early modern Ryūkyū Kingdom was the site of

perpetual and often aggravated class conflict. Annexation did not change this. Former

Ryūkyūan aristocrats were quite conscious of their class interests and identity, and often

prioritized them over the interests of Okinawans in general. One early example of this

was local officials’ resistance to the Miyako Peasants’ Movement, addressed in Chapter

Three. Another was the protracted conflict between conservatives and progressives over

land reform, taxation, and the terms of Okinawan self-governance. In 1898, for example,

the question arose in the course of land reform of whether Okinawans who met tax

qualifications should be allowed to vote in nationwide elections. Despite the Ryūkyū

Shimpō’s frequent cries for increased Okinawan self-governance (jichi), the former

nobility lobbied against suffrage at this point, arguing that extant land tenure systems

would make assessing individual tax qualifications problematic. As liberal critics noted

at the time, the former nobility’s sole actual motivation was fear of disenfranchisement:

their prior tax-exempt status, prolonged under the Preservation of Old Customs policy,

would have rendered them ineligible to vote (Matsumura 2007, 202). We can deduce

from this that when Okinawan elites spoke of jichi, they did not mean self-governance in

the contemporary liberal-democratic sense of the term. Rather, they meant the

maintenance of a semi-autonomous infrapolitical field within the structure of the Imperial

state, in which they could continue to monopolize power and resources.

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This exemplifies a persistent contradiction between Okinawan elites’ political

desire to be incorporated as equals into a homogenous national community and their class

interest in maintaining the separate customs and institutions that sustained their privilege.

Elites such as Ōta Chōfu and the Shō family realized that they would not receive stipends

in perpetuity, and that maintaining their local hegemony would require leveraging status

power into economic power. Accordingly, they consolidated their stipends and used

them as starting capital in various business ventures (Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974

vol. 2, 250).

In 1885, for example, a group of former samurai petitioned Governor

Nishimura for a ten-year interest-free loan of 13,778 yen in order to found the Okinawa

Weaving Factory in Shuri (170). Similarly, in 1887, backed with capital by the Shō

family, the former samurai who had managed the Ryūkyū Kingdom’s shipping concerns

founded a joint stock shipping company (Okinawa kōun kabushiki-gaisha 沖縄港運株式

会社) (185). Around the same time, the Shō family began mining operations near

Haneji-mura and founded the first major Okinawan trading house in Naha, named

Maruichi-shōten (丸一商店) (182). The Shō family’s businesses almost exclusively

hired former royal retainers, and reportedly used semi-coercive methods to obtain goods

and labor from commoners at below market prices. Despite such “feudalistic business

practices,” these ventures provided economic and psychological stimulus, inspiring the

formation of a number of Okinawan-owned trading houses in both Okinawa and

mainland Japan during the following decades (182-183).

In 1899, the Shō family and other stipended former aristocrats moved to further

increase their economic presence by founding the Okinawa Agricultural Bank and the

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Bank of Okinawa. Their professed aim was to offer loans to would-be Okinawan

capitalists at lower rates than mainland banks, thereby bolstering competitiveness.

Wendy Matsumura describes the Bank of Okinawa clique’s ideology as a type of

“economic nationalism … that would enable the most benevolent type of exploitation –

that of Okinawans by other Okinawans” (2007, 274). With the Ryūkyū Shimpō as their

mouthpiece, elites advocated insulating the local economy against mainland Japanese

incursions by establishing capitalistic relations of production between Okinawans. In a

1901 article, for example, Ōta Chōfu laments the fact that “there is no clear division

between capital owner and worker, and tomorrow’s worker is today’s capital owner, and

vice versa” (Matsumura 2007, 249). He goes on to suggest that by seizing the share of

the market held by petty craftsmen and peddlers and turning them into wage laborers,

Okinawan industrialists could accumulate the capital necessary to expand their operations

and increase their competitiveness (274).

One example of an organization that sought to realize this vision was the Ryūkyū

Woven Cloth Dealers’ Association, founded in the late 1890s by would-be textile

industrialists with the aim of eliminating domestic workshops and shifting to a factory-

based system of production. The Dealers’ Association described its goal in modern

political-economic terms as the separation of capital from labor (230). The Dealers’

Association did not hesitate to adopt monopolistic practices in pursuit of this goal,

posting notices in shops and mainland Japanese newspapers urging consumers not to buy

uncertified products (232). Of course, craftsmen did not always acquiesce to aspiring

capitalists’ attempts to transform them into wage laborers. Independent female weavers

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in Naha continually brought grievances against both the Dealers’ Association and the

Naha Chamber of Commerce (234-236). The Association’s failure to accommodate

workers’ and peddlers’ interests crippled their attempts to build an industry: by 1900, for

example, Naha’s main textile factory employed 20 male and 150 female workers, yet

produced only around 10 tan of fabric per day (237). While management blamed this on

a lack of work ethic, a more likely culprit was the factory’s sexist pay scale, which de-

incentivized skilled female weavers from self-proletarianizing (236).

Collective social actions such as the Miyako Peasant’s Movement and the petty

weavers’ demonstrations testify to the gradual formation of “class consciousness” among

Okinawan non-elites (Taminato 1977, 177). In the late 1890s, popular dissatisfaction

with the status quo catalyzed the organization of a Freedom and People’s Rights

Movement under former bureaucrat and populist hero Jahana Noboru (Ōsato 1971). It

also gave rise to sporadic organized labor activities.

As socioeconomic conditions

worsened in the wake of World War I, populist politics and pro-labor activity intensified.

Over the course of 1917-1918, twenty-four Okinawans were arrested for violation of

Article 17 of the Public Peace and Police Law (Chian keisatsu-hō 治安警察法)

(Taminato 1977, 173). In 1921, a socialist group called the Shōmin-kai (庶民会) was

founded, and influential mainland Japanese socialist Iwasa Sakutarō visited Okinawa.

The following year saw intermittent disturbances involving at least 312 workers. Notably,

female textile workers, who are often mistakenly portrayed as passive by contemporary

labor historians, played a visible role in the Okinawan labor movement (174).

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The consolidation of taste categories

As Bourdieu would predict, the separation of capital and labor into self-conscious

classes resulted in the circumscription and constriction of taste categories associated with

each class (1984, 226). Okinawan elites often took pains to lay claim upon Ryūkyūan

courtly arts as a legitimate high culture tradition – in Bourdieu’s words, “a symbol of

moral excellence and a measure of the capacity for sublimation which defines the truly

human man” (1984, 7). One factor that contributed to this was the desire to legitimize

Okinawan historical identity by constructing a heritage comparable to the mainland

Japanese and Western classical traditions. Newspaper features on classical Ryūkyūan

performing arts took pains to place them on equal footing with Japanese and Western arts.

Advertisements for mixed concerts of Ryūkyūan, Japanese, and Western classical music

stressed that all three were products of high culture worthy of being performed together

in a formal concert setting (RS, February 1, 1910; OMS, February 21, 1910; RS, May 23,

1910; etc.). Likewise, articles on kumiodori often compared it favorably to Japanese nō

and Western opera (RS, April 21, 1910; June 13, 1910; OMS, November 23, 1910; etc.).

Advocates of classical Ryūkyūan music, dance, and drama often praised them on

an ethical as well as an aesthetic level. This recalls the classical Confucian concept of

artistic practice as a means of “encouraging good and chastising evil” (see Chapter Two).

In 1900, for example, a group of educators formed the Okinawa Music Association, the

stated aim of which was to “raise interest in refined music, promote the advantages of

fellowship … [and] contribute to the development of public-spirited men of virtue” (RS,

February 7, 1900). In the same year, shamisen societies cropped up in Naha and Itoman

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(RS, October 7, 1900). Christian congregations provided another venue for epistolary

performances, including musical concerts and magic lantern shows (RS, December 1,

1899). Around 1904, women of the Okinawa Housewives’ Association demonstrated

that performing arts could be harnessed to the national interest by organizing musical

benefits for soldiers who had served in the Russo-Japanese War (RS, February 22, 1904).

Encouraged by this kind of activity, the Ryūkyū Shimpō ran articles throughout the Meiji,

Taishō, and early Shōwa periods suggesting that reviving kumiodori and other classical

Ryūkyūan performing arts could help improve the cultural level of the prefecture and

publicize its value to the nation as a whole (July 7, 1909; October 15, 1909; March 23,

1910; etc.). Some journalists went as far as to encourage traditional music education for

women as well as men (RS, August 23, 1908).

Unsurprisingly, Okinawan journalists and literati tended to evaluate commercial

performing arts using aesthetic criteria derived from the courtly tradition. A detailed

1898 review of a Nakamō-shibai dance and theater program, for example, praises the

young men’s dance (wakashū-odori) for its stylistic conservatism (“charming in its

childlike, innocent spirit”), while harshly critiquing the onnagata (female-role specialists)

for breaking tradition by raising their heads and meeting eyes with the audiences, which

conveyed an “unfeminine” impression and “proved that sufficient art had not been put

into the women’s dance” (RS, October 21, 1898). The reviewer goes on to assess newly-

written works as inferior to classical works, and suggests that dancers and actors should

hone both their own skills and audiences’ aesthetic standards by sticking to the classics.

Similarly, a 1904 review suggests that aspiring playwrights base their prosody on

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kumiodori and older musical dramas such as Uyanma (analyzed in the previous chapter)

(RS, January 27, 1904).

As previously mentioned, relatively few historical sources testify to Okinawan

working class lived experience, including audiences’ reception of commercial theater.

Conversely, we have a wealth of materials representing the judgments of Okinawan men

of letters. Denunciatory attitudes toward commercial theater crystallized early: a satirical

1899 introduction to the Naha performing arts scene, for example, observes that “in

theaters which we thought had failed just yesterday, ham actors flock together, mixed up

indistinguishably, with faces like monkeys and skill inferior to that of an automatic doll –

and for some incomprehensible reason, they draw the favor of the crowd” (RS, May 29,

1899). A 1904 review in the same vein mercilessly lambasts the weakness of the lyrics in

newly written kyōgen (RS, January 27, 1904). Journalists blamed the poor quality of

popular theater on audiences’ lack of education and subsequent lack of decorum. They

also decried audiences’ fickle tastes and seemingly unquenchable thirst for novelty: “In

these times,” one journalist writes, “people strive assiduously to drink a new wine with

every meal” (RS, August 15, 1909).

Okinawan elites’ attitudes toward commercial actors themselves were even more

acerbic. In a 1912 review of a Naka-za production, for example, Iha Fuyū reprimands the

actors for failing to do adequate research in preparation for staging historical dramas

(1993, 244). Iha also gives an ambivalent review of Iraha Inkichi’s acting, more or less

suggesting that he had a tendency to ham it up. Similar pronouncements appeared

frequently in the Ryūkyū Shimbun and the Okinawa Mainichi Shimbun. A 1909 review

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column, for example, excoriates actors for their lack of familiarity with classical

Ryūkyūan history, material culture, and linguistic protocol:

If the white powdered makeup, the stage decorations, the scenery, and every other

element are not pure Ryūkyūan in style, it will not do. For instance, this is a small

matter, but calling the Ryūkyūan king wagimi-sama (我君さま) is completely

uneducated and indeed can be called laughable. We must improve the quality of

the actors in our prefecture’s theater. Currently, they are entirely uneducated, a

mob of degraded people driven into the profession by the hardships of the world

(OMS, September 5, 1909).

The column goes on to dismiss commercial performers as “sham actors [without] even a

trace of art.” In addition to lambasting performers’ own lack of education and refinement,

journalists accused performers of cynically exploiting audiences' naiveté: “It appears as if

there are plenty of idiots in the world who will come watch a show without being

concerned about whether they are spoken of as uneducated by [actors and] narrators and

the like” (RS, March 10, 1909).

Such evaluations of commercial performers and audiences were intrinsically

linked to broader, class- and status-contingent conceptions of social propriety. The

following 1902 Ryūkyū Shimpō article exemplifies the elite perception of the commercial

theater as a nexus of physical and spiritual improprieties:

The lack of public morals in theater halls and the like is truly egregious. In the

private boxes, there are people who behave so outrageously you would think they

were alone in the world. There are those who sneak in liquor in earthenware pots,

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get drunk and laugh and shout like clods. There are those whose wedge their

oafish bodies in front of others. There are those who befoul the toilets. There are

those who munch sugarcane and toss the husks into mountainous piles on the

floor, then stagger home, pushing children and the elderly off the street. If we

reach the point of people stripping naked and exposing their degraded bodies to

the morning mist, we will no longer be at liberty to treat the disorder and decline

of public decency in the theater halls as if it were a matter of discussion rather

than action … Gentlemen in the audiences! For the sake of this prefecture’s

public image – nay, for the sake of the quality of the citizens of this empire –

please do us the decency of minding your manners! (July 9, 1902).

While this article is somewhat extreme, a survey of newspaper articles shows that

similarly hyperbolic perceptions persisted throughout the Meiji and Taishō periods.

Keywords used by journalists to describe popular theaters, performers and audiences

include “incompetent” (funō 不能), “indifferent” (reitan 冷澹), “illiterate or uneducated”

(mugaku 無学), “depraved” (daraku 堕落), “disruptive” (bōgai 妨害), “disgraceful”

(hazukashii 恥ずかしい), “filthy” (kitanarashii 汚らしい), “pitiful” (ki no doku 気の毒),

“inferior” (rettō 劣等), “lowbrow” (shumi no hikui 趣味の低い), “whorish” (jōgi-kurai

娼妓位), and “damaging to customs” (fūzoku wo kairan 風俗を壊乱).

In a letter to the

Ryūkyū Shimpō, one irate citizen goes so far as to complain that “in the midst of this

buffoonery, the morally degrading use of the buttocks to get cheap laughs is an ugly

spectacle and must be stopped!" (May 9, 1900).

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Popular custom as a threat and a promise

Throughout the Meiji and Taishō periods, Okinawan elite commentary on the

performing arts frequently intersected with broader-based debates on fūzoku or popular

custom. The concept of fūzoku played a complex role in prewar Japanese discourse.

During the early Meiji period, fūzoku took on a somewhat pejorative connotation,

signifying “the backward social practices of the rural past,” such as “nakedness, wild

dances at the mid-summer o-bon festival, fox worship, topknots, and horse races” (Gluck

1985, 183). As part of the push to inculcate all Japanese with an ostensibly universal

“ethos of civilization,” the state and various non-state agencies advocated various kinds

of “efforts to reform popular customs and culture” or “lifestyle reform movements”

(fūzoku kairyō undo 風俗改良運動). In 1868, for example, the government issued an

order banning the sale of erotic prints; in 1870, it issued another order instructing kabuki

actors, storytellers, and puppeteers to restrict their repertories to works that adhere to the

old imperative to “promote good and chastise evil” (kanzen chōaku). On several

occasions during the 1870s and 1890s, the government attempted to eliminate the

scattered open-air cabarets or yoseba (寄せ場) that had cropped up during the late

Tokugawa period. In 1891, it went so far as to invoke the Ordinance on Security as

justification for rounding up entertainers throughout the city (Hirano 2014, 213).

In a sense, such maneuvers betrayed the state’s conception of fūzoku as an

inherently political phenomenon with the potential to upset the delicate balancing act of

nation building. Over the course of the Meiji period, fūzoku took on a more nuanced

meaning. As in modernizing societies throughout history, a significant faction of

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Japanese elites worried that the decay of traditional social bonds and sanctions would

bring about “a social formation (‘society’ may no longer be the term) basically atomized

into individuals, thinly and weakly related, each acting out of egocentric cost-benefit

calculations … [wherein] the only binding normative culture left would be individualized

cost-benefit analysis” (i.e., a Gesellschaft rather than a Gemeinschaft) (Galtung 1996,

383; cf. Weber 1968). To borrow terminology from Maruyama Masao, their concern was

that the centrifugal force of the marketplace would overcome the centripetal force of the

sited historical community. For many old guard elites, the ideal remedy was a selective

restoration of certain fūzoku of the idealized past – namely the “beautiful customs” (bifū

美風) of village corporatism.

As Gluck observes in Myths of Modern Japan, a contradiction appears between

the progressive and conservative visages of fūzoku kairyō: “at the same time that

ideologues insisted that the ‘simple and beautiful customs of the village [bifū] be

preserved in the face of industrialization,’ they berated the people for persisting in the

backward social practices of the rural past” (1985, 183). This contradictory or even self-

negating impulse in fūzoku kairyō begs a more rigorous interrogation of the concept of

fūzoku itself. Here, Tosaka Jun can reenter the conversation. Tosaka begins Shisō to

fūzoku by rhetorically asking why so few philosophers have written about clothing as a

social phenomenon; perhaps alluding to the explosion of Western fashions onto the early

Meiji Japanese social scene, he speculates that “a revolution in clothing could be called a

truly significant sign of revolution” (2001, 14-15). This is because clothing

emblematizes the ambiguous phenomenon we call popular custom or fūzoku: “Just as no

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civilized person would walk around outside while naked, there is nobody in the world

whose lifestyle is not determined in part by fūzoku … [fūzoku] always accompany the

various articulations of society’s [material] essence (honshitsu 本質), like clothing

draped around them” (14-17). Tosaka’s implication here is that true social change would

require not only institutional overhaul, but also a restructuring of the “[semi-conscious]

practices, customs, manners, and habits (fūzoku) that have saturated the ‘things at hand’

and our words and gestures to the most detailed degree,” which have been “granted the

appearance of naturalness by history” (15).

Writing under the shadow of the Japanese ultranationalist leviathan that would

eventually claim his life, Tosaka took such questions of social change quite seriously. He

argues that rigorously theorizing fūzoku is crucial to understanding the emergent

phenomena of “the masses” (taishū 大衆), and by extension, modern society as a whole.

Because of the seeming naturalness and ubiquity of customs and manners, it would be

easy to assimilate the fūzoku concept to a statist-nationalist vision of “Japanese culture as

an organic unity … whose outside and inside can be clearly delineated” (Harootunian and

Sakai 1999, 635). Tosaka is aware of this, and harshly critiques the notion that popular

customs and culture “express” some socio-moral or psycho-spiritual essence – for

example, ethnic-national character or peoplehood (minzokusei 民族性) (2001, 25).

Following The German Ideology, Tosaka argues that this quasi-Hegelian concept of

“expression” is unscientific. He proposes instead that the ruling classes construct

justificatory “culture ideas” around pre-existing fūzoku as a means of “self-exculpation” –

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i.e., legitimization – and that over time, these ideas are internalized and woven into the

fabric of fūzoku (29-30; cf. 1979, 288).

Within this analytic framework, we can understand fūzoku as a constellation of

imperatives that have been internalized and familiarized to the extent that their

instrumentality is obscured – in Herman Ooms’ terms, “prescriptions in the guise of

descriptions” (1996, 310). Over time, this process of internalization and familiarization

infuses “the social fact that ‘everyone does things like this’ … with compelling, legalistic

force and moral and ethical authority, and generates a sense of pleasure accompanying

the acknowledgement of that authority” (2001, 21). As argued in Chapter One, this

description of fūzoku resonates with Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of habitus, which he

defines as “a system of dispositions … [that] designates a way of being, a habitual state

(especially of the body), and, in particular, a predisposition, tendency, propensity or

inclination” (1984, 2). Following Tosaka and Bourdieu, we can argue that lifestyle

reform movements or fūzoku kairyō undō were not simplistic attempts to suppress the

customs and practices inherited from the past and replace them with new, modern or

rational practices. Rather, they were attempts to strategically excise moral authority and

pleasure from some structures of thought and feeling and graft them onto others, thereby

influencing subjects’ action and judgment on the subterranean level of “propensity or

inclination.”

Much as in mainland Japan, Okinawan fūzoku kairyō movements first aimed to

suppress the “visible signs of backwardness” (Christy 1993, 613). Because the very

condition of being Okinawan had already been coded as backward, this required even

239!

more radical efforts. Elites such as Ōta Chōfu urged the populace to learn the mainland

Japanese (Yamato) language and discontinue practices such as walking barefoot, hand

tattooing, dressing in Ryūkyūan-style clothing, wearing traditional hairstyles, and singing

and playing sanshin in public (Tomiyama 1995, 5; Naha-shi Sōmubu Joseishitsu 1998,

328-340).

The imperative to ‘modernize’ through assimilation to mainland Japanese

norms extended to even the most mundane and seemingly innocuous everyday practices.

In 1900, for example, Ōta famously instructed Ryūkyū Shimpō readers to “sneeze like the

Japanese” (semi-humorously referred to as Ōta’s “sneeze theory” or kushame-ron クシャ

メ論). In a sense, this progressive-nationalist strain of Okinawan fūzoku kairyō can be

conceived as attempts to exorcise the embodied specter of the “Ryūkyūan” – i.e., the

intransigent “pre-Japanese.” Educator Nitta Yoshitaka makes this quite clear in an 1896-

97 series of articles entitled “Okinawa is Okinawa, not Ryūkyū” (Okinawa ha Okinawa

nari Ryūkyū ni arazu 沖縄は沖縄なり琉球にあらず) (Meyer 2007, 157).

A more conservative strain of lifestyle reform raised its head in Okinawa as well.

When rural-to-urban migrants left their villages, they also escaped the jurisdiction of

traditional social sanctions, which were woven into the authoritarian structure of the

corporate village system (Matsumura 2007, 215). This was disturbing to rural elites,

whose authority and privilege depended in part upon the relative closure and autonomy of

the corporate village body as a field of power. Throughout the Meiji, Taishō, and early

Shōwa period, conservative factions in Okinawan society attempted to recuperate bifū by

incorporating reactionary sanctions into their discourses on fūzoku kairyō. This often

entailed prohibitions against interactions between men and women, fines for women who

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spoke to men from villages other than their own, prohibitions against non-sanctioned

social gatherings, and so on (Matsumura 2007, 219-220).

100

It is not difficult to see the overlap between these elite discourses on the reform of

popular customs and concurrent elite discourse on theater. As Gluck and Matsumura

have observed, lifestyle reform movements in both early Meiji period Japan and late

Meiji period Okinawa militated against “barbaric customs” on the one hand and “the ills

of civilization” on the other. To many Okinawan men of letters, the commercial theater

exemplified the absolute worst of both of these worlds. Despite its length, the following

Ryūkyū Shimpō article is worth citing extensively:

Recently several writers from the three newspapers got together, and floated the

idea of performing a piece of literary theater. Everyone agreed it was an

interesting idea, but there was some confusion as to what to perform, who should

play what role, etc. … [We decided that] before anything else, we should go take

in some Okinawan theater … When we reached the door, we were thrust into a

roiling mob of people that utterly exceeded our expectations, and quickly all but

ripped any desire to watch the play out of our heads. In any case, there was no

room left in the gallery, so after standing in the doorway and watching until our

legs became numb, we decided to drag our heavy feet noisily upstairs to the

second floor. Here, too, there was no place to sit. Despite the distasteful

conditions, the space in front of us was full to capacity; we perceived that it would

be pointless grumbling to ask anyone to make way, and so remained standing

there swatting away the bugs as the curtains opened. It was a comedy, and the

241!

players were dressed absurdly. A wooden clapper cracked away at a confusing

tempo. At this point, the audience should have stilled their ruckus, but instead

kept chattering at each other about the spectacle on stage. I wanted to run away

and cut my losses despite having paid ten sen to be subjected to this so-called

theater, but decided that the audiences’ faces themselves were a spectacle worth

gawking at for a while. Women with hair was done up and hardened with oil like

the shell of a snail and men with topknots were wolfing down sake and snacks,

looking like Edo period dolls … With the exception of twenty or so reserved seats

to the sides of the main floor, the discomfort was unbearable … As for the

sanction against wearing geta [sandals] on the second floor, in our opinion it was

useless. This is because as a rule, this prefecture’s people aren’t the kind to wear

sandals on their feet. Why, the majority of them are happy going barefoot all the

time! Because a thing like theater tends to draw country bumpkins, at least half of

the people one sees are barefoot. This being the case, the rule against geta is

somewhat counterproductive – indeed, someone wearing geta would be a

thousand times less offensive. Feel free to wear geta! … It is worth noting that

we spotted seven officials from the prefectural office watching the show from the

back of the upper balcony, crammed knee-to-knee. As expected, I’ve had my fill

of watching theater! (RS, April 11, 1910).

This article clearly situates normative elite opinions on commercial theater within the

broader discourse of lifestyle reform.

101

The author runs through a laundry list of the

specific customs and practices commonly targeted by Okinawan lifestyle reform

242!

movements: prostitution, crowded spaces, lack of decorum, impoliteness, poor hygiene,

alcohol consumption, gluttonous eating, outmoded “feudal” hairstyles and fashions,

going barefoot, and the mixing of the classes. He even reprimands theater proprietors for

failing to realize the capitalist imperative to circulate capital: “It would be advisable to

post a shoe-collector by the door and charge a fee of one or two sen to check one’s shoes

– this would serve as a way of re-circulating money back into society.”

Moral panic and state intervention

The aforementioned article also shows interesting parallels with earlier theater

reform discourse in mainland Japan. Suematsu Kenchō’s 1886 Society for the

Improvement of Theater prospectus, for example, also derides contemporary theaters for

targeting a lower class audience, as well as complaining about infrastructural issues such

as overcrowding and congestion, poor seating arrangements, and shoddy staging (Fuhara

1965, 26-27). Discourses such as these testify to deep moralistic anxieties over the

socially disruptive potential of class mixing and lower class pleasure. As Hirano

observes, the early Meiji state “inherited its predecessor’s conviction that successful

governance must rest on the effective containment of the [lower class] body” (2014, 213).

This conviction was fed by Confucian ideologues’ dualistic conception of the mind-body

relationship, in which the body appears as a “bag of desires” that lacks the capacity to

regulate itself and thus must be disciplined in perpetuity (210). For Tokugawa elites,

metaphorically constructing commoners as the unruly body and themselves as the

regulating mind “worked as a way to condemn either different forms of excessive desire

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– for example, sexual or consumptive – or new ways of life that exalted expenditure and

exorbitance over austerity and material production to valorize the pleasures of the body,”

providing the state with “powerful ideological language for formulating high and low

hierarchies and dominating ordinary people” (48; 210)

In the Ryūkyū Kingdom, as in Tokugawa Japan, anxieties over lower-class

pleasure were particularly pronounced where matters of sexuality and gender were

concerned. As previously mentioned, the Ryūkyūan royal government made several

attempts to ban rural leisure practices that it considered disruptive or lewd, particularly

festivals during which men and women danced together or associated with one another

(Araki 1980, 79-85). After annexation, Meiji authorities and Okinawan elites often

targeted the same kinds of practices (sometimes referred to generically as mōashibi [毛遊

び]). A 1902 Ryūkyū Shimpō article, for example, reports that during a March mōashibi

in Yonabaru, crowds of men and women “plucked the sanshin and banged on drums,

fooling around and making an imbecilic racket, shattering the pleasant springtime dreams

of the townspeople” (March 7, 1902). The article goes on to demand that such festivals

be banned. Another Ryūkyū Shimpō article makes similar complaints about March

celebrations held in Nakamō Theater, during which prostitutes and their clients sang

“vulgar and indecent popular songs” (March 21, 1902).

Here it should be mentioned that Okinawan prostitutes were a perpetual object of

sexual fascination and fantastical invention for both Okinawan and mainland Japanese

men. This trend can be traced at least as far back as the legend of early modern ryūka

poet and juri (geisha) Yoshiya Chirū, who reputedly inspired Heshikiya Chōbin’s double

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suicide story “Under the Moss” (Koke no shita 「苔の下」) (Nakahodo 1994, 88-107).

Tsuji, the licensed quarter in Naha, was the focal point of the Okinawan male gaze, which

was both desiring and incriminating. One sensationalistic Okinawa Mainichi Shimbun

article, for example, indicts prostitution and mixed-sex mōashibi festivities held in Tsuji

venues as “barbaric customs” (yabanteki fūshū 野蛮的風習) that threaten the “imminent

decimation” of the polis (June 24, 1909). Records suggest that some theater impresarios

attempted to capitalize on the appeal of juri by featuring them as performers (RS, May 19,

1902). These shows, while apparently popular, were mocked and denounced in the press,

and the larger ventures were pressured to shut them down (RS, June 5, 1902; June 5,

1903; October 23, 1903; etc.). Despite this, to the dismay of social reformers, both illicit

entertainments and mixed-sex festivities continued to flourish in Tsuji.

Male visitors from mainland Japan were also drawn to Naha’s licensed quarters,

which seemed to confirm their preconception of Okinawan female sexuality as something

at once intriguingly exotic and potentially corruptive. Journalists capitalized on this

preconception in order to sell the public sensational stories that had little or no basis in

fact. A reporter for the Kansai newspaper Doyō Shimbun (「土陽新聞」), for example,

suggests in an article that before an Okinawan wedding, the groom is expected to spend

three nights in the pleasure quarters, and that this is not seen as immoral but rather as a

means of preventing adultery. He further reports that wives who did not send their

husbands to the licensed district several times a month “were not admitted among the

number of women” (Ōta 2003, 274). Needless to say, this account, written under a

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mocking pen name, was entirely spurious. Reprinted in the Ryūkyū Shimpō, the article

provoked a number of heated replies from Okinawan readers.

Given the sensitivity of Okinawan female sexuality as a topic of discourse, elites

were troubled by the thought that it might overflow the borders of Tsuji. As commercial

theater often occupied a spatial and conceptual midpoint between the licensed quarters

and the commercial and residential areas of Naha, it drew frequent criticism. Journalists

portrayed commercial theaters as liminal spaces in which women could be “brought low”

by libertine actors (OMS, September 5, 1909). They correlated the economic success of

commercial theaters with nonproductive gendered consumption: “housewives and shop-

girls around the ages of 12-13, although they’ve managed to save very little, are satisfied

purchasing nothing else as long as they can see theater performances, which they flock to”

(RS, December 5, 1899). The excesses of the star system and the phenomenon of theater

companies poaching each others’ actors were also attributed to female audiences’

polymorphous erotic obsession with handsome male leads and beautiful female role

specialists (RS, April 21, 1898; April 23, 1898; etc.).

102

Unsurprisingly, the same journalists generally portrayed male actors and theater

enthusiasts as licentious degenerates who threatened to “lead young women and virgins

astray and upset social customs” (RS, October 21, 1899). Occasionally, minor moral

panics broke out in response to actors’ alleged improprieties. In 1909, for example, the

Ryūkū Shimpō ran a series of articles accusing “beggar actors” of “disruptive, odious

public behavior” (July 8, 1909; December 5-10, 1909; etc.). The massive success of

musical drama and electric dance in April 1910 precipitated a series of particularly

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venomous articles focusing on actors’ allegedly scandalous personal lives, including their

penchant for “dallying with housewives” (RS, July 28, 1910; July 31, 1910; August 1,

1910; etc.). In a July 27 guest column, mainland Japanese critic Yokoyama Kendō called

for commercial theater to be banned outright (RS, July 27, 1910). The next day, the issue

of actors’ moral laxity garnered a front-page headline (RS, July 28, 1910). This furor

died down in 1911, but flared up again in 1913 when the Ryūkyū Shimpō published

another series of scandal-mongering articles (Ōshiro 2000, 91; Ōno 2003, 95).

Both Japanese administrators and the Okinawan elite upheld the regulatory power

of the state as a first line of defense against these ostensible social ills. As previously

mentioned, the prefectural office in Naha first implemented regulations on performing

arts in 1882, and further tightened these regulations in 1892 (Ōno 2003, 93).

103

Notably,

the first arts-related news item to appear in the Ryūkyū Shimpō was an announcement that

a theater proprietor had been levied with a fine of fifty sen for an unspecified violation of

regulations (April 9, 1898). Individual towns and districts sometimes implemented their

own regulations as well: in 1899 and 1900, for example, commercial performing arts

were either banned or heavily restricted in Nago City and Yonabaru City, as well as on

Miyako Island (RS, October 21, 1899; December 5, 1899; July 21, 1900). Around the

same time, content censorship emerged as an issue. In 1898, the prefectural office

charged the Hon-enjiba and Shin-enjiba theaters with altering the content of plays after

submitting false titles and descriptions for review (RS, July 11, 1898). Repeated

incidents of this type drove the Ryūkyū Shimpō to publish an article in 1900 defending the

prefectural administration’s regulatory practices; the article states that “with intent toward

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protecting the people and preserving a positive atmosphere within theaters, we believe

that licenses to operate should not be given out arbitrarily” (April 7, 1900).

This being said, the Ryūkyū Shimpō editorialists did not hesitate to speak out

against impositions that they judged as unwarranted. In 1901, for example, a military-

themed morality play entitled Gunjin meiyo (「軍人名誉」) was performed at Shuri

Enjiba. Some conservatives took offense at the idea of actors portraying the Imperial

Army on stage in front of an audience of uneducated commoners, and called for a

crackdown.

In a short editorial, Ōta Chōfu dismissed this as an overreaction:

Recently a play that was performed which apparently made light of soldiers.

The police filed a complaint, which raised a tremendous to-do. Finally, the

production was put to a stop, the theater was ordered to pause its activities, and, in

the end, those in charge of the box office were replaced ... Nearly all of the works

submitted by the regional council were also banned, perhaps on account of these

matters. However, because the offensive portions [of the proposed program]

had already been identified, this action was groundless (RS, March 27, 1901).

Here we see a telling conflict of interests involving the Japanese administration and

different factions of Okinawan elites. Judging from the plot summary provided in an

April 6 review, the play itself was in no way derogatory to the Imperial Army. On the

contrary, it adhered to concurrent nationalist ideology precisely; if anything, it was

fawning to the point of insipidness.

104

We can reasonably assume that the administrators

who took offense at Gunjin meiyo were less concerned by what was being said than by

who was saying it. Ōta Chōfu quite rightly perceived their crackdown as an attempt,

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conducted under the cover of patriotic zeal, to establish an arbitrary fiat over Okinawan

public speech. Similar conflicts within the nationalist ranks would recur in debates on

Okinawan language and culture during the years leading up to the Pacific War.

105

From repression to reform

Elite dissatisfaction with the general state of artistic culture in Okinawa

eventually led to calls for proactive theater reform (engeki kairyō). Like the concept of

“reforming popular customs,” the concept of theater reform originated in mainland Japan.

The Japanese theater reform movement was quite diverse both aesthetically and

ideologically. Politician and author Suematsu Kenchō, for example, sought to discard

nearly all of the traditional trappings of kabuki, including aesthetic features such as the

hanamichi walkway and socioeconomic features such as the connection between theaters

and teahouses (Fuhara 1965, 29). Educator and poet Masakazu Toyama took a less

radically reformist view, praising some kabuki staging conventions (such as the

hanamichi and the revolving stage) while declaiming others (such as the appearance of

musicians on stage and the tradition of female impersonation) (30). Meanwhile,

prominent authors Tsubouchi Shōyō and Mori Ōgai argued that attempts to reform the

theater by Westernizing its physical infrastructure and staging conventions missed the

point, and that what the Japanese theater scene really needed were higher-quality plays

and more psychologically attuned acting (31).

Like the mainland Japanese theater reform movement, the Okinawan movement

encompassed a wide range of aesthetic and ideological stances. Some critics violently

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opposed the concept of hybridizing Okinawan and mainland Japanese or Western styles.

One 1904 review of newly written kyōgen, for example, lambasts the weakness of their

lyrics, complaining specifically about the trend of mixing Okinawan with mainland

Japanese (RS, January 27, 1904). Several later articles echo this attitude, complaining

that Okinawan theater has become a mediocre imitation of mainland Japanese theater, or

a transposition of Japanese stories into an Okinawan setting. A 1909 Okinawa Mainichi

Shimbun editorial written under the penname “T,” for example, admonishes Naha’s

theaters for staging Japanese rather than Okinawan works:

As “pure Ryūkyūan drama” declines, an ambiguous, somewhat laughable kind of

Japanese-type drama has entered the prefecture. The lyrics are in the Okinawan

language, but one can hear unknown words of Yamato Japanese mixed in – this

is truly nauseating. This type of play has been performed consistently for six

or seven years, leading pure Ryūkyūan drama to very nearly die out. Recently,

however, our major theaters appear to have had an awakening, and have begun

dramatizing ancient events (under the moniker “Ryūkyūan historical drama”) and

staging them with increasing frequency. This is an excellent thing, because

originally, our country’s theater existed for the sake of its people. Being that our

theater audiences are 70% Okinawan, one must admit that it is egregiously foolish

for our theaters to endlessly perform trivial mainland Japanese dramas …

Surprisingly, although they are the same sort of love story, [native dramas such

as] Komurajō (腓城) and Tomari Aka resonate more strongly in the breasts of

Okinawans than [Japanese dramas such as] Hototogisu and Konjiki yasha.

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Today’s children are completely enamored by Japanese novels, but for youth such

as us who have already been educated, Komurajō’s heroine Himegimi moves our

hearts more acutely than Hototogisu’s heroine Nami or Konjiki Yasha’s heroine

Miya. Moreover, this impression is deep. Although we are still young, that is

the case. This is only natural for Okinawans, who do not understand Meiji period

romances. Do we actually sympathize with these defective dramas’ attempts to

arouse a tragedy that is somehow more tragic than Hamlet? One shouldn’t copy

foreign dramatic traditions that don’t suit one’s character (Sept. 5, 1909).

This author’s appeal to the value of “pure Ryūkyūan theater” (junsui no Ryūkyū-geki 純

粋の琉球劇) runs parallel to the classicism espoused by Iha Fuyū and the Ryūkyū

Shimpō editorialists, but evinces a more dynamic understanding of theater as a living

tradition. Of course, the author's enthusiasm for classical Ryūkyūan performing arts was

far from universal, as evidenced by a 1909 article announcing that the island of

Kumejima had banned sanshin playing as a regressive “old custom” (OMS, April 25,

1909). Moreover, not all critics were suspicious of mainland Japanese influences. Some

even demanded that performances in the prefecture adhere more closely to the Yamato

Japanese tradition (RS, May 9, 1900).

Other commentators looked to the West for inspiration. Another 1909 article, for

example, suggests that Okinawan theater could be improved though “operafication”

(opera-ka オペラ化):

Even now, Okinawa-za and Kyūyō-za are dedicatedly pursuing theater reform,

and these companies’ actors have begun engaging in research and taking their art

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more seriously. This is quite pleasing. What are most necessary for a

business to succeed are earnestness and patience. It is precisely a serious

atmosphere that awakens the spirit to engage in passionate self-improvement –

and I believe that given enough patience, even the inferior will eventually become

skilled, and even the clumsy will in the end become skillful and agile … What I

would like to see next is for spoken drama to incorporate songs, in order to

become something more like an uncomplicated form of [Western] opera … Of

course, I am not certain whether [Western-style] opera is suited to Okinawa – or

for that matter, whether comic opera is suited to Okinawa – but attempting to

stage either would be interesting. For example, by creating longer songs in a so-

called “Okinawan style” (but not simply by extended the vowels in the classical

manner, but rather by composing many pages of different notes, as in Western

music), and then arranging them for a chorus; and then staging a solo aria after the

chorus cuts out; or, perhaps, by making the audience laugh by bringing fools on

stage, in the manner of maruman comic interludes in kumiodori; or alternately,

by using recitative …Because Okinawan music is unusually beautiful, if it were

improved upon, I believe a splendid Okinawan style opera or comic opera could

be created … Consider, for example, reforming Okinawan music by making it

more dynamic – at one point grand and elegant and at the next point precipitous –

or by creating more complicated compositions. Surely we could create a

legitimate Okinawan opera (RS, September 5, 1909).

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While this particular critic’s grasp of the technical aspects of operatic composition seems

dubious, he takes a remarkably open-minded stance toward the prospect of incorporating

Okinawa’s “unusually beautiful” music into a syncretic new form. It is also noteworthy

that he briefly mentions having seen performances of Western opera. In an article on

classical Ryūkyūan music the following year, another Okinawa Mainichi Shimbun critic

expresses his “dream of a first-rate genius, a Ryūkyūan Wagner who can plot out the

improvement and renewal of our music, adding the scent of Japanese music and perhaps

the flavor of Western music” (Feb. 1, 1910). These critics’ apparent familiarity with

Western opera is intriguing, given the fact that the first major opera venue in Japan (the

Imperial Theatre in Tokyo) did not open until 1911. Asides such as this suggest that

despite their “peripheral” distance from the metropolis, Okinawan intellectuals were quite

aware of global trends in culture and the arts, and were as capable as their mainland

Japanese counterparts of theorizing aesthetic syncretism.

Despite Okinawan theater reformers’ remarkably diverse viewpoints, they were

united in their belief that improving Okinawan commoners’ aesthetic tastes and artistic

practices could somehow contribute to the broader effort to improve social and economic

conditions in the prefecture. A series of 1909 Ryūkyū Shimpō articles by well-respected

journalist and Okinawan politician Nakayoshi Ryōkō (仲吉良光) exemplifies this belief.

Nakayoshi begins by observing that material culture in Okinawa has been progressing

admirably: “an Assembly has been instated, and commercial construction is progressing

busily … as our harbor gradually opens up to trade, rows of fine houses and flashy shops

will likely be built – and we must say, this is a joyous thing” (RS, August 15, 1909).

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Nakayoshi goes on, however, to argue that equal attention should be paid to “the customs

and spirit of our prefectural citizens,” and that “the art that has the most direct impact on

society, and which resonates most immediately and powerfully – whether you consider it

lofty or vulgar – is theater.” Nakayoshi advocates a gradual approach to sociocultural

reform, proposing that “given the unique present condition of Okinawan society, it is not

particularly necessary for us to establish a first-rate theater … I humbly submit that

middle-grade or even low-grade theaters are what is necessary.”

Nakayoshi derives his proposal from mainland Japanese literary critic Shimamura

Hōgetsu’s concept of “second- and third-class theater.” As previously mentioned,

Shimamura’s position at the journal Waseda bungaku made him an influential voice in

literature and poetry, criticism and translation, and theater; he has been called “the most

definitive critic and theoretician of the [Japanese] naturalist movement” (Nolte 1987, 71).

Influenced by Turgenev and Tolstoy, Shimamura sought in his own work to move past

mundane social realism toward “a literature of mystic vision, in which ‘the surface of

extreme realism is lined with a sharply removed substance of absolute inexplicability’”

(73-74). This being said, he was sharply aware of the social function of theater and

literature in general, and perceived himself alongside Tanaka Ōdō and Ishikawa

Takuboku as “allies in the transformation of an irrational socio-political order” (88).

Early on, Shimamura came out strongly against censorship, but after the Kōtoku trial he

joined the Bungaku Iinkai, a state-sponsored institution that urged “self-regulation;” his

essays from this time “recall the Japanese tragic hero – loyal and sincere but unable to act

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decisively in a world of manipulative corruption, acquiescing passively in his inevitable

destruction” (76-78).

If Shimamura’s personal relationship to politics was marked by indecisiveness

and resignation, his work on the political value of theater is quite assertive. As

mentioned in Chapter One, Shimamura argues, “[that] the emergence of low-grade arts,

which are invested in popular customs and tastes, is an almost necessary force. Seen

from the point of view of social management as well, popular arts must be acknowledged

as a necessary thing … it is absolutely necessary to develop a gradation of types of art in

response to the apperceptive capacities of all target audiences” (Waseda bungaku,

December 1907; cited in Kimura 2009, 40). Shimamura’s argument is based in part on

the supremely utilitarian rationale that laborers require entertainment in order to “restore

[their] energy to face the next working day.” Nakayoshi Ryōkō seizes upon this

rationale, writing that “An office worker or laborer who is exhausted from a day’s work,

having eaten dinner and wishing to restore his energy to face the next working day, will

occasionally invite his wife and friends to pass an evening in enjoyment without cares –

if this wish is not fulfilled, he is likely to fall into a lowly condition, drink and gamble –

and this does not often lead to a happy conclusion” (RS, August 15, 1909).

Nakayoshi sees this as having already happened in Okinawa, in part due to the

proliferation of unedifying or actively corrosive entertainments:

Up until now, for many years, day after day, the Kyūyō-za and Okinawa-za

theaters have thrived and entertained hundreds of customers without needing to

put any particular effort into it. Up until now we have abided with theaters such

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as this, but there is no guarantee that the thriving conditions they have enjoyed up

until now will last much longer. Moreover, together with this problem, unless

both of these theaters are brought to the point of crisis, the customs of Okinawans

will continue to degrade. Yet rather than acting to put a stop to this, both theaters

consent to repeatedly perform petty things like love plays and erotic festival

scenes, plays about geishas, farces, and folk dances all day and all night, and

what’s worse, both theaters indulge male and female students’ interest in stories

about love affairs between noble or even common men and women. Until now

the theaters have catered to the interests of this type of person – but will they

continue to thrive when this type of person dies out? (RS, August 15, 1909).

Following Shimamura closely, Nakayoshi Ryōkō argues that the only way for Okinawans

to escape this downward spiral is to actively foster the creation of new plays “that are not

empty of content and lead one to think about things, that makes us take our own lives

seriously and realize that in these days we cannot fulfill the desires of the spirit with the

common and vulgar.” Accordingly, he argues passionately that elites must “dedicate

endless efforts to the end [of promoting] this ‘second type’ of [cultural] education” (nishū

no kyōiku 二種の教育)” (RS, August 16, 1909).

Theater reform discourse peaked with the 1916 formation of the Okinawa Theater

Association (Okinawa engeki kyōkai 沖縄演劇協会), which included Iha Fuyū, Majikina

Ankō, a number of Okinawan educators, and various artists from the Kyūyō-za and

Naka-za troupes (RS, March 13, 1916; cf. Ikemiya 1982a, 437). The Association’s first

chairman was Tōma Jūshin, co-founder of Okinawa Mainichi Shimbun and an influential

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public figure at the time. Much like its mainland Japanese predecessors (the Society for

the Improvement of Theater and its successor, the Japanese Association for the

Performing Arts, etc.), the Okinawa Theater Association was formed for the dual purpose

of preserving classical Ryūkyūan performing arts and directing research into new theater

trends in Japan and the West. According to the Association’s inaugural announcement, it

sought to organize “respectable performances” and use the proceeds (along with club

dues and donations) to broaden the scope of its activities, improve the physical condition

of theaters, and print high-quality scripts. The Association also encouraged the various

theater companies to refrain from staging productions that were “damaging to popular

customs” (fūzoku wo kairan 風俗を壊礼).

Police censors also stepped up pressure on theaters. Around this time, censors

reportedly denied permission to nearly 40% of scripts submitted for approval (Ōno 2003,

93-94). In May 1915, Naka-za and Kyūyō-za were charged with performing unapproved

scripts and forced to briefly pause operations (Ikemiya 1982a, 436). In June of the same

year, Naka-za was posed to take up residence at the newly-constructed Taishō Gekijō, but

the Ryūkyū Shimpō protested and the theater management backed away from the

arrangement, causing Iraha to lose face. In 1917, the major theaters agreed to implement

a "voluntary moratorium" (jishuteki haishi 自主的廃止) on musical drama. The Ryūkyū

Shimpō happily proclaimed: "the theaters have resolved to abolish musical drama

entirely ... [we hope that] this evil genre can be eradicated with one clean sweep" (April

11, 1917). This moratorium even extended to the kumiodori Temizu no en, which upset

some elite critics (Sakihara 2004, 23). Unfortunately for the Ryūkyū Shimpō faction, the

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moratorium proved short-lived. In 1919, a fire swept through Tsuji, destroying Naka-za,

Uī-nu-shibai, and Shicha-nu-shibai. This devastated the theater community and drove

practitioners to re-adopt a “profits-first” mentality (Majikina 1987, 117). It is unclear

exactly when the theaters gave up their "self-imposed moratorium," but by late 1919,

musical dramas were being written and staged again (Ōno 2003, 94-95).

Of course, much as in mainland Japan, the Okinawan theater reform movement

had both doubters and critics. One 1910 Okinawa Mainichi Shimbun editorial expresses

skepticism as to whether such a thing as theater reform is even possible:

People have cried out for something called “theater renewal” any number of times

and have meant many things by it, but the theater world cannot seem to escape the

status quo … [This is because] from a business angle, it is beneficial to base

your repertory on the kind of plays the average customer prefers to see. Sadly,

the preferences of the average customer follow extraordinarily arbitrary and

ambivalent tendencies. Getting a clear sense of audiences’ inclinations is difficult

in any case, but the confusion that afflicts the current theater scene is quite

unheard of (May 24, 1910).

As the editorial itself implies, this “quite unheard of” confusion and frustration can be

traced in part to the fact that would-be theater reformers’ unifying visions simply could

not compete with the lure of profit and the fragmenting force of mercurial popular

demands. Despite their wide range of aesthetic and ideological stances, both theater

reformers and their critics often blamed the commercialization of Okinawan performing

arts for their degradation. In the critics’ view, the amoral law of the market incentivized

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performers to aim for the lowest common denominator, turning them into “a mob of

degraded people driven into the profession by the hardships of the world … without a

talent for anything beside seducing low-class women” (RS, August 15, 1909).

Perhaps unsurprisingly, critics’ strident and often hypocritical denunciations of

both theater reform and the theater itself inspired counter-denunciations in turn. One

Okinawa Mainichi Shimbun editorial, for example, begins boldly by writing, “in Okinawa

today, there is not a single truthful theater critic who will raise their voice as if in a barren

field.” The editorial goes on to eviscerate both actors and critics:

The purpose of staging theater must be to attract people and immediately convey

social and moral instructions – which is a different thing than just standing there

and preaching one’s own ideas. Actors nowadays, however, lack the power to

think over the substance of theater; when they adopt the established forms and go

through the motions, performing with total indifference, can one really even say

they are doing theater? [Similarly,] there is a certain kind of critic who does not

pay any regard to the plot or characters, but instead just denounces. Among

today’s critics, this type is all too common. There is nothing wrong with critique,

but from an actor’s perspective, are critics who take an unreasonable and

impudent attitude doing any good? Or are they only impeding the progress of the

theater? (OMS, October 8, 1909).

Published right on the heels of a cluster of articles on theater reform, this editorial implies

that actors who are content to provide a thoughtless and soulless spectacle and critics who

intentionally alienate actors and audiences are in fact quite comparable. It expresses

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particular frustration at the fact that critics of Okinawan commercial theater are quick to

point out its deficiencies, yet seem unable or unwilling to make concrete suggestions for

meaningful improvement. Even the more inspired and practically minded advocates of

reform, such as Nakayoshi, do not adequately think through the problems of

implementing their designs. Specifically, they fail to confront the possibility that the

“common people,” who they hope to uplift through simple yet well-crafted and

wholesome spectacles, might prove indifferent or hostile to their gracious overtures. The

editorial concludes that critics’ and actors’ reciprocal failures to communicate have

produced a discourse that is “muddled and chaotic – as if clean fresh water had become

mixed with seawater” (OMS, October 8, 1909).

Reformism and the contradictions of Okinawan modernity

As Katsuya Hirano observes, we frequently assume that the primary motive

behind Japanese cultural reformism was the desire to rise above “the critical gaze of

Western visitors and imperialists who often commented on the practices of ordinary

people … in Meiji Japan as backward and barbarous” (2014, 214; cf. Fuhara 1965).

Similarly, we tend to interpret Okinawan elites’ social reformism as an expression of the

assimilationist imperative to “become Japanese.” Some voices in Okinawan theater

reform discourse certainly echo this imperative. One Ryūkyū Shimpō columnist, for

example, suggests that Okinawan theater companies should decorate their backdrops with

the pine tree that graces the Japanese nō stage (May 9, 1900). It is impossible, however,

to read this kind of sentiment into all – or even most – of the essays and articles cited in

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this chapter. Many advocates of lifestyle and theater reform stood on significantly more

complex ideological ground. Some even explicitly denounced the Japanization of

Okinawan performing arts (OMS, Sept. 5, 1909). This prompts me to ask what factors

other than assimilationism might have been in play.

In Politics of the Dialogic Imagination, Hirano calls into question the “received

theory” that the discriminatory Western gaze was the prime mover of Japanese social

reform (2014, 215). It is crucial to remember here that the stimulus which drove the

Meiji Restoration and Japan’s subsequent modernization efforts was not the simple desire

to “Westernize,” but the desire to ensure the survival of the body politic in a Western-

dominated capitalist and imperialist world system. Meiji elites considered establishing

capitalist relations of production to be essential to the project of “enriching the country

and strengthening the military” (fukoku kyōhei). Noting this, Hirano takes a Marxian

approach to the analysis of Meiji cultural politics, identifying cultural reform movements

as part of a broader effort to “produce a national subject whose thought and behavior

were consistent with the requirements of a capitalist mode of production” (215). He

argues that unlike their Tokugawa predecessors, the Meiji oligarchs were not satisfied

with merely containing and/or repressing lower class customs and manners (213). This is

because they believed that realizing the nation’s full productive potential would require

the participation, at every level of society, of self-willed individuals voluntarily

committed to realizing their own full productive potential (207; 222). They also

understood that this kind of commitment could not be mandated in the same manner as

corvée labor. Rather, it must be cultivated to the degree that it becomes a habitual

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preference and source of pride. The core function of both lifestyle reform and theater

reform was to habituate this so-called “ethos of civilization” on the level of

predisposition or fūzoku. Their final aim was to transmute the self-willed individual into

a motor for value-augmentation and a kind of synecdoche for the “national character”

(kokufū 国風), (Hirano 2014, 214; cf. Spivak 2005, 480).

I would argue that both the reactive desire to appease the Japanese gaze and the

proactive desire to instill economic discipline helped drive Okinawan reformism.

Moreover, these desires were intertwined from the start. On the one hand, Okinawan

elites were certainly aware that mainland Japanese had come to perceive the very

condition of being Okinawan as a deficit. An 1899 Ryūkyū Shimpō article about a group

of Okinawan performers touring in Japan distills Okinawan elites’ shame when

confronted with the critical Japanese gaze:

They hung up their eight-lettered banner like a country bumpkin’s dirty loincloth

from two pathetic poles of little more substance than bamboo-grass, and set up a

tiny stage … they gave public performances; apparently, a fair number of people

came to see their spectacle both morning and night. The staging and the costumes

were painful to behold, as was the language. This is the most gut-wrenching thing

for people from our home prefecture can endure. The rumor is that the company

is barely taking in enough money to support itself, and that the actors are merely

waiting for the next Ryūkyū-bound ship so that they can return; this strikes me

as exceedingly pitiful (January 29, 1899).

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This being said, Okinawan consciousness of discrimination cannot fully explain the

ideological diversity of the Okinawan theater reform movement. Take, for example,

Nakayoshi Ryōkō’s articles for the Ryūkyū Shimpō. Nakayoshi builds his argument on

Shimomura Hōgetsu’s idea that laborers need entertainment in order to “restore [their]

energy to face the next working day” (RS, August 15, 1909). This aligns less with the

reactive “discriminatory gaze” model than with Hirano’s analysis of fūzoku kairyō as a

means of reshaping subjects’ habituated customs and preferences in order to augment

their capacity for commodifiable labor – i.e., their personal “capital” (zaihon 財本)

(Hirano 2014, 201; cf. Tomiyama 1995).

Hirano’s thesis links up with classic modernization studies by Sidney Pollard and

E.P. Thompson, among others. Pollard, for example, describes reform movements in

industrializing Britain as driven primarily by the need to inculcate “factory discipline”:

The worker who left the background of his domestic workshop or peasant holding

for the factory entered a new culture as well as a new sense of direction. It was

not only that “the new economic order needed ... part-humans: soulless,

depersonalised, disembodied, who could become members, or little wheels rather,

of a complex mechanism.” It was also that men who were non-accumulative,

non-acquisitive, accustomed to work for subsistence, not for maximization of

income, had to be made obedient to the cash stimulus, and obedient in such a way

as to react precisely to the stimuli provided (1963, 254).

Pollard’s characterization of the precapitalist commoner as “non-acquisitive” may be

romantic, but his distinction between the form and experience of subsistence labor and

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that of wage labor is vital. He goes on to observe that reformers frequently saw old

popular customs as incompatible with the capitalist labor regime, and sought to wipe

them out. Two examples stand out to Pollard: “the campaign against leisure on Saturdays

and Sundays” and “the prohibition of bad language” – a category that sometimes

extended to loud talk, whistling, and singing (267-268). Pollard notes how at first glance,

a worker’s choice of Sunday leisure activities and fondness for whistling while he works

might seem to have little to do with his performance on the factory floor. In fact, efforts

to reform workers’ habits and preferences, rather than merely their behaviors, were

pivotal to the reform movement. In the view of elites at least, the implementation of

factory discipline required the worker’s habituation to “the bourgeois values which he

lacked … with the one addition of obedience” (268). The true aim of reform was not the

alteration of workers’ behaviors but the reconditioning of their preferences and desires:

“unless the workmen wished to become ‘respectable’ in the current sense, none of the

other incentives would bite” (269).

The Waseda bungaku critics’ aim in advocating a palliative popular theater was

precisely to habituate the lower classes with normative social mores on the level of

fūzoku or embodied custom and preference. In keeping with trends in Western political

and economic theory at the time, Shimamura Hōgetsu and his disciples represent labor

and leisure in vitalist terms as complementary phases of a metabolic cycle through which

workers reproduce their existence from day to day. If the leisure phase of this cycle is

disrupted or corrupted, then the labor phase will inevitably be thrown off balance as well.

It follows that at the very least society must ensure that workers have access to “art that is

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neither idealistic nor vulgar,” lest they fall victim to either daydreaming or vice and lose

their ability to regulate their own labor cycles (RS, August 15, 1909). A more ambitious

strategy would be to harness the leisure phase to the interests of society by “taking

measures to gradually improve the level of [workers’] taste by offering them things

adapted to them” (Waseda bungaku, December 1907; cited in Kimura 2009, 40).

Eventually, art could be introduced that “improves the body and spirit,” thereby

augmenting workers’ “personal capital” (Waseda bungaku, August 1916; cited in Kimura

2009, 42). This would enhance their capacity to contribute to economic and sociocultural

development, thereby driving a virtuous circle of individual and social betterment.

The presupposition here, of course, is that a society composed of rational egoists

competing in a meritocratic labor market will spontaneously optimize both its powers of

production and its emancipatory potential. Tomiyama Ichirō argues that this premise is

deceptive, because mainland Japanese policymakers never intended for Okinawans or

Okinawa to either freely pursue their rational self-interests or optimize their powers of

production. Following Wallerstein and Andre Gunder Frank, Tomiyama argues that

elites inevitably strive to reproduce their privilege by rigging the market’s trial-by-

meritocracy (1995, 14-15). The simplest means of doing this is by passing down capital

to one’s descendants. A related, more complex means is the “ethnicization of the work

force,” i.e., the recoding of physiognomic or cultural differences as commodifiable

capacities and incapacities, and vice versa (33). These discursive maneuvers act as

loopholes through which capital can introduce discriminatory disciplinary practices that

limit the freedom of the labor market without technically violating the universalistic

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rhetoric of commodification and meritocracy. A textbook example is the racist discourse

used to legitimize the dehumanization of African-Americans and their ongoing use as

slave labor in the otherwise capitalist United States during the nineteenth century (13).

Tomiyama offers prewar Okinawa as another example of how the ethnicization of

the workforce enables capital to undercut the supposedly meritocratic labor market. The

disciplinary discourses aimed at Okinawans were not as extreme as those employed

against African-Americans in nineteenth century America, but served a similar function.

Okinawans were not excluded entirely from political and civil society, much less

enslaved. Rather, they were confined to the “probationary status … [of] ‘becoming

Japanese’” (17). This allowed the state to limit Okinawans’ rights and encouraged capital

to regulate their access to the labor market based on arbitrary and irrelevant

physiognomic and behavioral differences (130-132). On a political level, this situated

Okinawans between the categories of citizen and colonial subject. On an economic level,

it situated them between the categories of free and unfree labor (132). This scenario

exemplifies the theoretical contradiction between the idea of ethnic nationalism and the

practice of imperialism, as well as one of the core internal contradictions of “colonial

modernity” (Arendt 1958b, 153; Barlow 1993, vi).

Marking Okinawans as “probationary Japanese” also acted as a kind of spurious

promissory note – a carrot to the stick. Okinawan intellectuals were bitterly aware of

these contradictions and their injurious effect on the prefecture. Newspaper articles on

the subject of mainland Japanese perceptions of Okinawa are often tinged with a blend of

obeisance and ressentiment, to the point of being almost painful to read. On the occasion

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of a 1910 visit to Naha by a group of mainland businessmen, for example, Okinawa

Mainichi Shinbun columnist Sasagi Shōjurō (佐々木笑受郎) wrote an article imploring

them to look beyond the surface and see a place and a people worth investing in and

developing for the greater benefit of Japan (Ōta 1996, 276). Ironically, in the same year,

Osaka newspapers took delight in portraying a group of traveling Okinawan businessmen

as bumpkins poking at streetcars with their umbrellas and yelping at the sight of

automobiles (276-277). This tragicomic crossing of wires – almost certainly crushing to

Okinawans and perhaps barely noticeable to mainland Japanese – distills the exhaustion

of a community that had been denied the right to speak and act meaningfully for 20 years.

As we have seen, different factions within the elite adopted different strategies to

mitigate these frustrations and anxieties. The prefectural office attempted to suppress or

contain working class fūzoku through regulations (Ōshiro 2000, 91; Ōno 2003, 93; 95;

122). Theater reformers instead proposed ways to reshape fūzoku and harness it to the

national economy. A third strain of discourse – mere denigration – seems motivated by

the desire to displace the critical Japanese gaze onto the most marginalized members of

Okinawan society: women, the poor, and traditional outcastes such as theater practioners

themselves. We can see this denigrative impulse in the Ryūkyū Shimpō’s frequent attacks

on commercial performers: a 1916 review, for example, laments that “in the past, men

from illustrious families were chosen to perform the Ryūkyūan investiture ceremony

dances, but since theater has gradually been commercialized, performers have degraded

to the point where they almost all resemble beggars” (RS, March 11, 1916). Reading

such appraisals, we should bear in mind that many commercial performers had once been

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courtiers, or were one or two generations removed from the court. It is remarkable how a

fracture of material interests could divide the former ruling class so definitively within

the span of a few generations.

It is hard to miss the contradiction embodied by Okinawan elites’ strident

reactions to the commercialization of performing arts. On the one hand, we find a

progressive interest in emancipating workers from custom, only to better subject their

everyday lives to the “economic law specific to the commodity economy” (Uno 1964, 75;

cited in Matsumura 2007, 13). On the other hand, we find reactionary frustration at the

gradual transformation of customary forms of cultural production. Of course, this

transformation was itself a direct result of the emancipation of the performing arts from

customary sanctions and their subjugation to the dictates of popular taste, through the

mediation of the commodity form. This contradiction, which recalls Gluck’s description

of fūzoku kairyō as a kind of “social flagellation,” betrays the ideological incoherence at

the heart of Japanese and Okinawan bourgeois reformism (1985, 183).

This being said, nothing about the nature of power suggests that elites’ “efforts to

remake the whole [working] man” must necessarily aim to remake him coherently

(Pollard 1963, 267). When we approach “progressive” and “reactionary” manifestations

of fūzoku kairyō on a purely pragmatic level as bundles of disciplinary imperatives

without any expectation of logical coherence, they show a complementary function.

Some imperatives work to suppress old cultural forms that might impede a given desired

redistribution of people and things. Other imperatives work to reshape or displace

whatever new cultural forms might take shape during this process of redistribution. As

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the Okinawan case demonstrates, formal contradictions between the discourses employed

to legitimize these imperatives do not prevent their actual coeval deployment. In a sense,

this suggests that the semantic content of disciplinary imperatives is less important than

the tension between concrete speaking positions that they reveal.

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Chapter 6. The politics of recognition in Taishō period musical drama

Developing dependency and crisis

Okinawa’s development during the Taishō period was bound to that of the global

sugar market. From around 1910 until 1920, the Okinawan sugar industry grew at a

steady pace. Assisted by government dispensations, the Tainan Seito, Okitai Seito, and

Okitai Takushoku sugar corporations established large facilities in the Nakagami area of

Okinawa Island (Kaneshiro 1977, 122). This led to increased commercial activity and

consequent development in Naha, the prefecture’s commercial hub. In and around Naha,

industrialization progressed in other sectors as well (albeit on a relatively small scale).

As previously mentioned, the Osaka-owned Okinawa Electric Company began

constructing facilities in 1908, and began providing power to Naha and Shuri in 1910. In

1911, Okinawa Electric founded the Okinawa Electric Railway Company and received

permission to begin railroad construction. The prefecture’s first electric streetcar began

running in 1914. Around the same time, the textile and hat weaving industries reached

their peaks (Ōno 2003, 69). Centered in Naha, these industries employed mostly former

peasants displaced by rural pauperization, particularly unmarried women who worked in

order to support their families (cf. Aniya 1977).

While the Japanese-owned sugar corporations never really managed to expand

beyond the Nakagami area, industrialization still had a tangible impact on the prefecture

as a whole.

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In 1917, the three major corporations merged, consolidating their

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dominance of the industry. Large-scale production drove down prices, incentivizing

peasants to either become raw cane suppliers or sell home-produced brown sugar at

“below subsistence prices” (Matsumura 2007, 302). Large firms used their position to

establish “elaborate systems of cash advance for daily expenses, loans for fertilizer, and

so on that appeared benevolent, but were actually designed to lure peasants into a form of

debt bondage, binding them to the corporations as raw material suppliers” (287). In this

way, the expansion of the refined sugar industry transformed the land and time-use

patterns of even those Okinawan peasants who had not come into personal contact with

the physical traces of industrialization. These developments worried Okinawan elites

such as Ōta Chōfu, who warned that mainland Japanese capitalists would try to transform

Okinawa into a land of “46,000–47,000 isolated producers.”

In 1914, the newly appointed governor Ōmi Kyūgorō (大味久五郎) essentially

confirmed Ōta’s fears by proposing regulations requiring any developer who wished to

establish machine-based production to receive special permission. Local industrialists

correctly perceived that these regulations could be used to restrict their own activities and

expedite crony capitalism by mainland Japanese firms with connections to officials. As

Matsumura observes, Okinawan elites were particularly troubled by the similarity

between Ōmi’s proposed regulations and measures that had been implemented in colonial

Taiwan to prevent the formation of joint stock companies by natives, “under the rationale

that ‘the Chinese are incapable of running a company by themselves’” (292). From the

Sino-Japanese war on, Okinawans continually sought to differentiate their prefecture

from colonial governor-generalships (sōtokufu) like Taiwan.

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This distinction, however, was continually threatened. In the infamous 1903

“House of Peoples” incident, for example, Okinawans were included alongside

Taiwanese aboriginals and Ainu in an exhibition of peoples subjugated by Imperial

Japan. In 1908, a proposal to incorporate Okinawa into the Taiwan sōtokufu was

submitted to the National Diet. Even if Okinawa were to remain a prefecture, Governor

Ōmi’s obvious anti-Okinawan prejudice made it conceivable that he would attempt to run

it like a colony anyway. In response to these threats, Okinawan elites intensified their

protests, combining pro-Imperial rhetoric with calls for regional self-governance (chihō

jichi 地方自治). A 1915 Ryūkyū Shimpō article, for example, declaims Ōmi for treating

Okinawans “as a type of machine” rather than as citizens (January 9, 1915). Similarly, in

a 1917 petition, Okinawan industrialist Inaka Akira protested that Ōmi’s stance “may be

acceptable in colonial areas, but should absolutely not be permitted within a prefecture of

the empire” (Matsumura 2007, 292).

The Meiji state finally responded in 1920, abolishing the tokubetsu fukensei and

extending suffrage to the outer islands of Miyako and Yaeyama. On an economic level,

however, Okinawa remained determinately peripheral. Throughout the Taishō and early

Shōwa periods, agriculture accounted for 70-75% of the Okinawan GDP (90% if Naha

and Shuri are excluded) (Aniya 1977, 153). To make matters worse, administrators

encouraged peasants to give up subsistence farming and cottage manufacture and instead

use their sugar income to purchase imported rice and goods – which is to say, to enter the

center/periphery market circuit (Kinjō et al. 1991, 200). As a result, despite its

agricultural economy, Okinawa failed to maintain food self-sufficiency (Aniya 1977,

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155). Okinawan farmers’ dependence on monoculture made them extremely vulnerable

to fluctuations in commodity markets, which by the 1900s had become thoroughly

globalized (cf. Mintz 1986). Immediately after World War I, for example, the decimation

of Europe’s beet sugar industry led to a price spike. Between 1918 and 1920, the price of

sugar in Okinawa rose from around 9 yen 20 sen per kin to over 22 yen. Ōta Chōfu

observes in his notes on the period that during this short market boom, ordinary farmers

and workmen suddenly had enough income to dabble in small-scale trade and even

commodity speculation (Matsumura 2007, 305).

This temporarily invigorated the prefecture, but also set the stage for a dramatic

collapse. The proximate cause of this collapse was instability in the sugar market.

During the market boom, irresponsible speculation prompted overproduction in colonial

and semi-colonial locales like Cuba, Java, and Taiwan, where plantation overseers could

take full advantage of coerced labor and state support to keep outputs high and expenses

low. Global overproduction brought on a crash in prices. In Japan, the sugar bubble

burst in August 1920. Over the course of a year, prices dropped to half of their peak,

remaining dismally low until the early 1930s. This was crushing to Okinawan

agriculturalists, the majority of whom cultivated sugarcane as their main crop. In the

wake of the crash, families overburdened by debt turned to the old practice of indenturing

their children as laborers or prostitutes; this was particularly common in Miyako and

Yaeyama, where children would be indentured on contract from as young as age three

until age eighteen, for as little as twenty yen.

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Tragic historical consciousness and the premonition of violence

Ironically, then, Okinawa’s full integration into the Japanese polity – an event

which had been anticipated as the beginning of a bright new era – led immediately into

the events that drove the prefecture to “the peak of its ‘history of abject misery’” (Naha

Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 263). The economic crash reinforced Japanese

stereotypes of Okinawa Prefecture as a hopeless backwater incapable of managing its

own affairs. It also had a deep impact on Okinawans’ own perceptions of their history,

ethnic character, and place within the Japanese nation and the imperialistic world order.

This is evident in the work of Iha Fuyū, the “father of Okinawan studies.” As mentioned

in Chapter One, much of Iha’s early work was cautiously optimistic. After the post-WWI

economic crisis, Iha’s work took on a darker tone, painting a bleak picture of the

Okinawan “ethnic character” (minzokusei 民族性) as irrevocably marked by “the anguish

of an isolated island” (kotō-ku 孤島苦).

Throughout his work, Iha maintains a tight focus on the question of Okinawan

agency (1974a, 486-488). His aforementioned 1914 tract “Liberation of the Ryūkyūans”

exemplifies this. In it, Iha argues that the quasi-colonial relationship between Satsuma

and the Ryūkyū Kingdom had driven Okinawans to suppress their capacity for self-

determination. He goes on to celebrate the demise of the “feudalistic” Ryūkyū Kingdom

as a chance for Okinawans to cast off their institutional and psychological bonds and

rediscover themselves as subjects of the Japanese empire: “If Ryūkyūans could adopt a

third person perspective and consider their own position, they would realize that they

should restore authority to the Emperor and submit to His just governance in accordance

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with the abolition of domains and establishment of prefectures as the other prefectures

have done, and take heartfelt joy in the fact that for the first time in 300 years, their

individual liberty, the safety of their lives and their right to own property have been

guaranteed” (1974a, 493).

While “Liberation of the Ryūkyūans” is Iha’s most well known political work, it

does not reflect the full range of his interests, nor the broadly dialectical quality of his

thought. A section of Old Ryūkyū entitled “The Abolition of Domains and Establishment

of Prefectures in Okinawa from an Evolutionist Perspective” exemplifies these qualities.

Iha, who was fascinated by trends in Western scientific thought such as evolutionism,

compares Okinawa to a mollusk forced to adapt by changing circumstances:

Released from political pressures by the abolition of domains and establishment

of prefectures, the Ryūkyūan people find themselves troubled, like barnacles

stuck to a rock that the waves no longer hit. Passing through the last thirty years,

we have developed legs and our eyes have opened – but it is natural that we

still feel a lack of freedom. For a people grown used to political pressure over the

course of three hundred years, nothing is more vital than an education of purpose

and intentions. Perhaps one could call this an education of the will.

Iha further speculates that social change would eventually alter Okinawans’ physical

evolution: it “will naturally result in intermarriage, [through which] natural selection will

occur; gradually, more children with ideal physical characteristics will be born …

because the abolition of the old system has eliminated pressures, the shriveled Okinawan

people will once again begin to grow.” Although Old Ryūkyū is usually described as a

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historical work, every section contains similar ruminations on the future. Significantly,

throughout his writing, Iha mentions classical Ryūkyūan performing arts as an example

of how something uniquely Okinawan in origin could enrich Japanese culture as a whole

(1974a, 153-155; 156-160; etc.).

While Iha continued to advocate for Okinawan culture until his death, the post-

WWI crisis shook his confidence. Iha’s later work is saturated with ambivalence and

anxiety, sometimes even verging on ressentiment. His 1924 “Psychoanalysis of the

Southern Islanders,” for example, inverts the celebratory tone of “Liberation of the

Ryūkyūans.” Drawing on Freud, Iha paints a bleak picture of the Okinawan “ethnic

character” (minzokusei) as irrevocably stained by repeated instances of domination. Iha

speculates that perhaps Okinawans have a “tragic history,” and that perhaps it is the

prefecture’s fate to suffer “the anguish of an isolated island” (kotō-ku). Tomiyama Ichirō

argues that around this time, Iha capitulated to the pejorative image of “the Ryūkyūan”

prevalent in Japanese discourse (1998, 174; cf. Bhabha 1984, 126).

Iha’s apparent accession to Okinawa’s “tragic history” coincides with the entrance

of a new character into his worldview: the “Southern Islander” or Nantōjin (南島人), a

liminal figure that complicates the distinction between the “racially Japanese” Okinawan

and “racial others” such as Malays and indigenous Taiwanese. For Iha, marginal

Okinawan social groups such as rural Yaeyamans embodied this liminal figure, radiating

an alterity that at once enticed Japanized Okinawans and threatened to drag them back

into the world of “peoples without history” (Tomiyama 1998, 175). The idea of the

Nantōjin concerned Iha, for the assimilation of Okinawans to this category would provide

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a rationale for their excommunication from the fellowship of civilized Japanese.

Tomiyama argues that Iha hedged off this threat by stressing his Japanese-ness over and

against unreformed Yaeyaman women, Taiwanses "savages" (seiban 西播), and other

“primitives.” He thus sublimates the fear of being subject to violence into a “premonition

of doing violence” (175; emphasis mine). This is evident in his chilling rhetorical

question, “One wonders what would happen if the Okinawan people were given a sword

instead of a folding fan” (1974a, 69).

Crushed by history: Okuyama no botan (1914)

The epigraph of Iha's “Psychoanalysis of the South Sea Islanders” is a quote from

poet Remy de Gourmont: “We are suppressed and crushed by history” (1993, 295).

107

We can qualify this seemingly fatalistic pronouncement by recognizing that lived history

is in fact an accretion of “social institutions granted the appearance of naturalness”

(Tosaka 2001, 15). In Chapter Three, I argued that the short musical drama Uyanma

drags the naturalized institution of status-based discrimination from the background of

the social imaginary into the foreground, transforming it from a presupposition into an

object of discourse. Similarly, the musical drama Tomari Aka questions the naturalness

of patriarchal authority over sexual agency. Both plays, however, end with a sense of

resignation and surrender of agency. The first hit musical drama of the Taishō period,

Okuyama no botan, shatters this paradigm. Like the protagonists of Tomari Aka, its

protagonist Chirā commits suicide; however, she does so for pragmatic rather than

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symbolic reasons. By freeing her son from the weight of history, Chirā reclaims her own

historical agency, albeit at a terrible price.

Okuyama no botan was created by Iraha Inkichi and staged by the Naka-za

company in February–March 1914. Like Tomari Aka, it is set in the early modern period

and takes place in and around Shuri. Structurally, it is more complex, comprising eight

scenes and requiring set changes, special effects, and a large cast. Scene One is set in

Aniya village, an outcaste community near Shuri. A group of villagers are gathered at

the home of the headman to pray for his daughter Chirā, who is giving birth. The

headman disperses the noisy crowd and exits. Chirā enters holding a child. Her lover

Sandē (三良) then enters stealthily and rebukes her for keeping him at a distance. Chirā

tells Sandē that she has been isolating herself because she was pregnant with his child.

He is surprised. Chirā then reveals her outcaste status. Sandē is shocked, and reveals his

own samurai status. He asks Chirā to promise not to disclose their affair. Chirā is hurt,

but agrees: “Though I am woven through with suffering like fine thread, I would never do

anything to bring trouble upon my beloved.”

Scene Two opens with Sandē and his mother talking in a small hut. We learn that

Sandē’s father has taken a courtesan, who has convinced him to expel Sandē’s mother.

Chirā, who is (inexplicably) hiding near the hut, hears this. The courtesan then bursts in,

accompanied by a thug. She orders him to bind Sandē and his mother, take them to the

seashore, and kill them. The curtain drops. Scene Three opens at the shore. Sandē and

his mother are bound and helpless. The thug draws his sword, but Chirā runs onstage

with a knife and attacks him. He overpowers her and throws her in the ocean. He turns

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back to his captives, but just as he is about to kill them, thunder crashes and a celestial

maiden descends from the heavens to drive him away. Chirā enters with the child, who

she leaves on the shore in front of Sandē. The curtain drops. Scene Four takes place at

house of Sandē’s father, where he and his conniving mistress are feasting. She is shown

conspiring with a treacherous retainer to poison Sandē’s father. Before they can do so,

they are interrupted by a troupe of chondarā performers. The lead chondarā is Chirā in

disguise. While performing, Chirā divulges all of the courtesan’s misdeeds, then

performs a martial dance with a spear, which she concludes by stabbing the courtesan to

death. She then begs Sandē’s father to take Sandē back. Chastened, Sandē's father

apologizes to his wife and child, who forgive him.

Scene Five takes place several years later. Sandē and Chirā’s son, Yamatū, has

just passed the royal examination, and his family is celebrating. A young woman named

Madamachi and her father are also present. We learn that Sandē has promised Yamatū to

reveal his mother’s identity if he passed the examination. Yamatū demands that Sandē

keep his promise, and Sandē confesses everything. Yamatū rebukes his father and states

that he will not accept an official position unless he is allowed to search for his mother

first. Sandē reluctantly agrees and tells Yamatū the vow that Chirā made, so that he

might recognize her: “Though I am woven through with suffering like fine thread, I

would never do anything to bring trouble upon my beloved.” Scene Six follows

immediately after. While Yamatū is preparing for his journey, Madamachi and her

nursemaid enter. The nursemaid tells Yamatū that Madamachi is in love with him, and

they pledge to marry after his return. Yamatū then sets off. When Scene Seven opens, he

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has already travelled long and far, to no avail. He comes upon a tiny mountain hut and

asks the woman living there – Chirā – if he can stay the night. When Yamatū

offhandedly sings the verse that Sandē taught him, Chirā recognizes him as her son.

They both cry and commiserate. Yamatū tells Chirā about his worldly success, and asks

her to come to Shuri to live with him. Chirā refuses, warning Yamatū that if his mixed-

status heritage was discovered his career and marriage would be destroyed. Yamatū tells

Chirā that she is more important to him than his marriage or career. Chirā tells Yamatū

that she will go with him, and tells him to wait while she goes to pack some things.

However, rather than returning to the house, she silently apologies and throws herself

into a ravine.

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Eventually Yamatū realizes what Chirā has done, and breaks down at the

edge of the ravine in tears.

Okuyama no botan was extremely well-received. Its first run lasted around three

weeks, and was quickly followed by a second run in the summer of 1914. On February

11, 1914, the Okinawa Mainichi Shimbun ran a review that praised the first-run

production's singing and dancing. On March 6, the OMS ran another positive review

with a plot outline, from which we can deduce several possible differences between the

first-run version and the version performed today. Most significantly, the review does

not mention Chirā’s suicide; rather, it states that the play ended with a wedding scene

(Ōno 2003, 81). A Ryūkyū Shimpō review of the same production confirms this (March 7,

1914).

109

On the other hand, reviews of the second-run production do mention Chirā's

suicide. Similarly, while a February 11, 1914 review does not mention whether Chirā

kills the concubine with a spear during the chondarā dance, a July 7, 1914 review does

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mention this scene. Ikemiya deduces from this that the second-run version was similar to

the version performed today (1980, 383).

Iraha’s contemporaries have left us tantalizing hints regarding his inspiration for

Okuyama no botan. According to Taira Yoshiyasu, prewar theaters took a three-week

“spring break” each June. During this break, actors would tour the countryside with

costumes and props borrowed from theater management. Taira recalls that while

performing near Kadena during one of these tours, Iraha invited him to visit the famous

pond Yara-maruchi (屋良漏池). Iraha saw a strikingly beautiful young girl there, and

this planted the seed of Okuyama no botan in his mind (392). Tokashiki Shuryō’s son

Shushō tells a different origin story. According to Tokashiki, Iraha was returning home

from the theater one night when he saw a young outcaste couple embracing; he imagined

how tragic it would be if the man and woman were of different social classes, and kept

mulling over this idea until it germinated into the plot of Okuyama no botan. Ikemiya

notes that Taira’s account recalls literary romanticism, while Tokashiki’s account recalls

literary naturalism. To Ikemiya, this this is appropriate because Okinawan musical drama

has one foot planted in each of these idioms (393).

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Unlike Ganeko Yaei and Majikina Yūkō, Iraha Inkichi was not formally educated

and is said to have been illiterate (390). Nevertheless, his familiarity with the classical

Ryūkyūan performing arts tradition enabled him to craft a richly allusive narrative. As in

Tomari Aka, references to kumiodori abound in Okuyama no botan. It borrows many of

its poetic devices from kumiodori, including formulaic motifs such as blossoming flowers,

as well as more specific images such as blossoms pierced and bound together by thread,

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which appears in Temizu no en. Several of its plot elements also refer back to various

kumiodori. For example, the attempted seaside execution of Sandē and his mother is

reminiscent of the attempted seaside execution of Tamatsi in Temizu no en. Likewise,

Chirā’s attempt to rescue Sandē and his mother recalls Yamatū’s attempt to interrupt

Tamatsi’s execution. As Nakahodo Masanori observes, the goddess Kannon’s

subsequent intervention could be seen as a reference to the kumiodori Kōkō no maki, in

which a young girl offers to sacrifice herself to a serpent in exchange for assistance for

her family, but is saved at the last moment by the goddess (1994, 63).

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The following

scene, Chirā’s murder of the evil concubine under the pretext of a chondarā performance,

clearly refers to the final scenes in Nidō tekiuchi and Manzai tekiuchi. In both plays, two

brothers revenge themselves upon their father’s killer by disguising themselves as

itinerant performing artists.

Nakahodo suggests that one reason Iraha was intent on crafting such a tightly

woven and densely allusive narrative was his desire to surpass Ganeko Yaei’s Tomari

Aka both commercially and artistically (70). As previously mentioned, at the time

Okuyama no botan was written, Naka-za and Okinawa-za were locked in intense

competition. Moreover, Iraha’s previous musical drama Yakushi-dō, while successful,

could be interpreted unsympathetically as a “rehash” of Tomari Aka (69). Okuyama no

botan strives to differentiate itself from Tomari Aka by inverting its key narrative devices.

Tomari Aka, for example, begins with the hamaori ceremony, the purpose of which was

for women to wash out the seed of the serpent-seducer akamatā – i.e., to induce

miscarriage. Conversely, Okuyama no botan begins with Yamatū’s birth. Nakahodo

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argues that this inversion is both aesthetically and ideologically significant (70).

Ganeko’s tacit reference to the akamatā legend in Tomari Aka points toward the

uncomfortable fact that Aka’s attempt to seduce Umichiru could expose her to structural

violence (as Temizu no en demonstrates, the potential consequences of sexual impropriety

were dramatically different for men and women). In the final instance, however, Ganeko

fails to deal with the ethical question he has raised. Instead, he legitimizes Aka and

Umichiru’s affair through double suicide – as Nakahodo puts it, “marriage through death”

(48). To Nakahodo, Iraha’s decision to begin with an illegitimate birth constitutes a

“refusal” of this deus ex machina resolution (70).

This refusal allows Okuyama no botan to raise two interrelated topics that Tomari

Aka fails to adequately address: filial relations and status relations. It does so through a

series of allusions to Hanauri no en, which deals with the same topics (as mentioned in

Chapter Three). In Scene Six, Yamatū disguises himself as a flower-seller in order to

search for his mother – a clever recombination of Hanauri no en’s main motifs. The

chorus opens this scene with “Sensuru bushi,” the same melody used to accompany

Morikawa-no-shi’s entrance in the final scene of Hanauri no en. Echoing Morikawa-no-

shi, Yamatū rhetorically asks “whether there is anyone in this floating world as pitiful as

me.” Like Morikawa-no-shi’s wife and son, Yamatū is then described as traveling long

miles down an unknown mountain road. In both plays, the protagonists' difficult

journeys are rewarded with unexpected family reunions, which are described as the result

of filial dedication combined with providence. Both plays close by proclaiming that the

filial bond cannot be severed or concealed.

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This being said, both plays are tonally bittersweet. Morikawa-no-shi and Chirā

both describe the experience of meeting their estranged children as more illusory than a

dream; moreover, although Hanauri no en ends with a happy reunion, the chorus’ final

verse is quite ambiguous: “The joy of this day on which parent and child are reunited / Is

like the chance meeting of budding flowers and the morning dew.” The image of flowers

suggests hope, but the image of the morning dew evokes the ultimate transience of life.

Dew often appears as a keyword in death poems (jisei 辞世), such as the death poem

attributed to Toyotomi Hideyoshi: “Appearing and disappearing with the dew / This, my

life / And all that was done in Naniwa / A dream within a dream.”

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In Temizu no en

and Tomari Aka, Tamatsi and Umichiru both use dew imagery to express their

willingness to die.

Chirā uses a variation on Tamatsi's phrasing in order to announce her

suicide: “I will extinguish this reproachful life.”

What sets Chirā apart is the rationale behind her renunciation. Iraha makes it

clear that Chirā’s status is the root cause of her suffering: “to be born into a low status is

a hateful thing.” She tells Yamatū that if his mixed status were to become known, it

would void any chance for social mobility: “if the people of the world knew that you

were carried in the womb of a person of deplorable status, it would mean the end of your

career … Please look into my heart and see that my only desire is to go on living in this

distant mountain glen, praying to the gods and buddhas for your success in the world.”

However, Yamatū is too naïve or too willful to accept this. Chirā comes to see her own

tainted corporeal existence as the weight of history bearing down on her son. Only by

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negating it can she free him of this weight. Chirā’s status thus proves the precondition

for moral apotheosis through self-sacrifice.

Premonitions of doing violence: Iejima Handō-gwa (1924)

If Okuyama no botan discloses a premonition of violence, Majikina Yūkō’s

musical drama Iejima Handō-gwa documents its wrenching realization. Iejima Handō-

gwa was first performed in 1924 at Taishō Gekijō under the title Hentona Handō-gwa, to

immediate popular acclaim. It remains the single most famous prewar Okinawan musical

drama. While Iejima Handō-gwa is nearly as long as Okuyama botan, its plot is less

sprawling: with the exception of the final scene, it takes place over the course of two days.

In a sense we can understand Iejima Handō-gwa as a compression and amplification of

the desires and anxieties manifest in the plays we have analyzed so far.

Iejima Handō-gwa opens in the Hentona district of Okinawa Island with a

confrontation between Kana (加那), who is traveling on business from Iejima Island, and

his wife, who has come to find him. His wife accuses him of having an affair with a local

girl – Handō-gwa (ハンドー小) – and demands that he return to Iejima with her

immediately. Kana asks permission to bid farewell to Handō-gwa, but his wife refuses.

They exit, and the setting shifts to Handō-gwa’s family home. Handō-gwa’s cousin

Machī-gwa (マチー小) enters and tells her that Kana has returned to Iejima. Handō-gwa

refuses to believe this. When Machī-gwa points out Kana’s ship in the distance, she falls

into a deep depression. The next scene takes place early the next morning. While

Handō-gwa languishes in bed, a ship’s captain from Iejima enters and announces that he

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will sail for home at daybreak. Machī-gwa begs him to take Handō-gwa to Iejima to find

Kana, and he agrees. In the following scene, the setting shifts to Iejima. While

wandering alone, Handō-gwa is crudely solicited by two young men. She refuses their

advances, so they call a group of islanders together to bully her. Eventually, a village

official steps in and disperses the crowd. Handō-gwa asks the official to summon Kana,

which he does. Handō-gwa begs Kana to take her back, but he tells her that his vows of

love were empty and that she was merely a distraction from the loneliness of travel.

Kana’s father then enters and demeans Handō-gwa by calling her a prostitute (sangwanā

娼婦). They exit, leaving her on the ground in tears.

At this point, Handō-gwa resolves to kill herself. The Captain enters and tells her

that Machī-gwa has come to take her back home. Handō-gwa tells the Captain that she

needs to take a walk in the mountains to clear her head. He is suspicious, but lets her go.

The setting shifts to a barren mountaintop. Handō-gwa enters and reaffirms her wish to

die. After asking her parents for forgiveness and wishing divine punishment upon Kana,

she strangles herself with her own hair. The Captain and Machī-gwa come rushing to the

scene, but they are too late. Some time passes before the final scene, which takes place at

Kana’s home. Kana has mysteriously fallen ill, and claims to hear Handō-gwa’s voice

echoing in the mountains. His father dismisses this as absurd. The Captain and Machī-

gwa then enter. Machī-gwa asks Kana’s father to burn incense for Handō-gwa, lest Kana

continue to suffer her vengeance. Kana’s father mockingly refuses. The Captain warns

him not to tempt fate, but he drives them away. After they leave, Kana stands in a daze

and claims to hear Handō-gwa’s voice. Handō-gwa’s ghost appears on stage, and Kana’s

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father panics and draws his sword. He tries to strike the ghost, but cuts down his own

daughter and daughter-in-law by mistake. Meanwhile, the ghost crosses the stage and

assails Kana. In the wake of the carnage, the Captain and Machī-gwa return to find

Kana’s father in tears. The play ends with a snappy I-told-you-so delivered by the

Captain and a moralistic verse sung by the chorus.

As Nakahodo observes, Majikina’s version of the Iejima story was not the first;

however, this does not diminish its artistic value in the least (1994, 15).

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Like Tomari

Aka and Okuyama no botan, it is richly allusive. The most obvious frame of reference for

the Iejima narrative is the kumiodori Shūshin kane’iri (22).

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In both narratives, “an

audacious and passionate woman … goes mad to the point of being unable to see

anything other than love, and follows her man’s footsteps in pursuit of him” (OMS,

March 24-25, 1911). Much as Umichiru recalls Temizu no en's pure-hearted Tamatsi and

Chirā recalls Hanauri no en's filial Otodaru, Handō-gwa recalls the single-mindedly

passionate female antagonist of Shūshin kane’iri. By employing this character-type,

Majikina rounds off a series of references to classical female character-types in modern

tragic musical dramas.

The central motif in both Iejima Handō-gwa and Shūshin kane’iri is the tension

between fated and ill-fated love, or en (縁) and akuen (悪縁). As Yonaha observes, the

words en and akuen appear nine times in Shūshin kane’iri and eleven times in Iejima

Handō-gwa (2012, 12). Handō-gwa's first major monologue outlines the concept of en:

You don’t understand the feelings between us! We are bound by a vow, two birds

flying wing to wing. Our vow will bind us even in the afterlife. Like the devotion

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that binds a pair of mandarin ducks, the thread of fate binds us together. You

couldn’t possibly understand! If I were to die, he would die too – if he were to

die, I would die at the same moment (Geinōshi Kenkyūkai 1975 vol. 11, 393).

This passage also expresses Handō-gwa’s two defining characteristics: her rather naïve

faith in the dream of predestined love and her single-minded drive to force that dream

into reality (actors playing Handō-gwa have expressed the balance of these traits in

diverse ways; see Kokuritsu Gekijō Okinawa Unei Zaidan 2012, 5). It also acts as

foreshadowing – the line “if I were to die, he would die too” predicts the eventual

consequence of Kana’s unfaithfulness.

The same passage exemplifies the compositional technique of allusive variation,

which Majikina inherits from prior Okinawan musical dramas and elevates to an almost

baroque degree of complexity. The figure of “two birds flying wing to wing," for

example, points toward a knot of interwoven allusions. The first chapter of the Tale of

Genji uses this phrase to describe the emperor’s love for Genji’s deceased mother: “‘In

the sky, as birds that share a wing. On earth, as trees that share a branch’ – it had been

their vow, and the shortness of her life had made it an empty dream.” This in turn alludes

to the poem “Song of Everlasting Regret” (「長恨歌」)!by Bai Juyi (772-846):

In the heavens, we vow to be as two birds flying wingtip to wingtip

On earth, we vow to be as two intertwined branches of a tree

Even the heavens and the earth have their ending times,

The regret of our parting will last forever and never end.

115

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Majikina’s phrase “like a pair of mandarin ducks [oshidori 鴛鴦]” elaborates this

referential chain by alluding to the same legend from which Bai Juyi borrowed the image

of a tree with enjoined branches (連理枝).

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This legend appears in the Sōushénjì (「搜

神記」), a third century CE compilation of stories pertaining to the supernatural. In the

legend, the tyrannical King Kang of Song (宋康王) exiles his retainer Han Ping (韓憑) in

order to steal his beautiful wife. Han Ping commits suicide in protest, and when his wife

hears of this, she throws herself from the castle wall in front of the king’s eyes. She

leaves the king a letter begging to be buried with her husband, but the king spitefully

buries them across from each other instead. Eventually, a tree with enjoined roots and

branches grows from the two graves, and two mandarin ducks nest in the tree. Moved by

the ducks’ sad song, the locals conclude that they are the spirits of Han Ping and his wife,

bound together in death. Notably, King Kang’s tyrannical and warlike ways eventually

resulted in his being overthrown and killed by a coalition of neighboring states.

Majikina’s use of overlapping intertextual references in this passage demonstrates

a masterful knowledge of the broader East Asian poetic tradition, as well as a sharp sense

of irony. His allusion to The Tale of Genji also foreshadows the play’s coup de grâce:

Handō-gwa’s ghostly revenge. Genji contains several episodes of possession and murder

by the spirits of vengeful women (mono no ke 物の怪). The most famous of these

episodes is the haunting of Genji’s wife, Lady Aoi. A former lover of Genji’s, Lady

Rokujō, is so distraught by Genji’s rejection that her spirit breaks free from her body and

attacks Lady Aoi, leading to her death. When Rokujō comes to her senses, she is

mortified by the thought that her crime might bind her karma even more tightly to the

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world of human suffering, thus “shackling [her] conduct with the weight of historical

baggage” (Brown 2001, 51). Like Rokujō, Handō-gwa is “overwhelmed by urami

[resent] … unable to bring her ‘troubled thoughts’ under control, since she is neither able

to overcome her attachments nor appease her restless spirit” (53).

The episode of Lady Rokujō and other classical spirit-possession stories also

paved the way for a proliferation of vengeful ghosts in Edo period literature and theater.

Shimazaki Satoko observes that female ghosts are “ubiquitous” in the gōkan and yomihon

genres of popular fiction, which often centered on “themes of prophecy, women’s

revenge, and karmic retribution (inga ōhō 因果応報)” (2011, 236). Ghosts appeared on

the kabuki stage as well, most famously in eighteenth century Kasane tales and in the

plays of Nanboku, whose ghosts “remained engaged with the world, carrying out a social

mission even in death” (232). In Nanboku’s Tōkaidō Yotsuya kaidan, for example, the

anti-heroine Oiwa’s husband Iemon poisons and abandons her in a ploy to remarry into

status and money; she dies, and returns as a ghost to take unrelenting and gruesome

revenge. In one famous scene from Yotsuya, the poisoned Oiwa’s long black hair begins

to fall out. Grasping bloody clumps of hair in her hands, Oiwa cries out: “How can I rest

until I’ve carried out my will?” (238). Claiming a direct relation of influence between

Oiwa’s hair-tearing and Handō-gwa’s suicide-by-hair would be pure conjecture.

Nevertheless, it is interesting that both plays prominently feature the image of long black

hair, which is a well-established poetic emblem of female sexuality. In both plays, the

poetics of eros are twisted into a poetics of thanatos.

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In The Course of Recognition, Ricoeur suggests that our experiences of promising

and remembering are inevitably inflected by “the threat of something negative that is

constitutive of their meaningfulness: forgetting for memory, betrayal for promises”

(2005a, 110). Iejima Handō-gwa stages the primeval moral drama of betrayal in

exemplary form. Kana betrays Handō-gwa three times: he makes a vow to her in bad

faith; he leaves her without a word; and he refuses to acknowledge her when she seeks

him out. To borrow Nakahodo’s figure, Kana acts faithlessly at the junctures of coming

together, promising, and parting (1994). The most bitter of these betrayals is Kana’s

failure to grant Handō-gwa so much as the dignity of a farewell. What seals both of their

fates is Kana’s failure to intervene when his father degrades her. Kōki Ryōshū, artistic

director for the National Theatre Okinawa, hints at this in the program of a June 2012

production: “What structures this tragedy is the theme: ‘speaking is like using money’ –

Kana’s father kills Handō-gwa with words” (Kokuritsu Gekijō Okinawa Unei Zaidan

2012, 4).

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The deaths of Kana’s family, which his father could have prevented merely

by lighting incense and reciting a short prayer, attest to the grave responsibility that

accompanies our preeminent human capacity to utter or withhold words.

Conclusion: Toward a phenomenology of the capable woman

At the center of gravity of each of four musical dramas we have read, we find a

vow (chigiri 契り). In Uyanma, we do not witness an act of vowing, but the Resident’s

behavior demonstrates that he is conscious of a certain faithlessness. The emotional

climax of Tomari Aka is Umichiru’s final testimony, which is driven by a vow: “The

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words you breathed – ‘even into the next world’ – I took them deep into my breast.” This

vow binds Aka and Umichiru to “marriage through death.” In Okuyama no botan,

Chirā’s vow to Sandē and Yamatū drives her to self-renunciation, murder, and finally

suicide. Yamatū’s exchange of vows with Madamachi establishes a counterpoint to

Chirā’s suicide, opening a path to new life and validating her sacrifice. In a sense,

Okuyama no botan proposes that the capacity to promise is essential to the continuation

of life. By contrast, Iejima Handō-gwa seems to propose the moral preeminence of the

vow over life itself. When Kana spuriously promises to be faithful to Handō-gwa unto

death, he unwittingly seals his own fate.

The concepts of promising and faithfulness have long occupied a place of

privilege in both Eastern and Western social thought. This certainly holds for the

Confucian tradition that underpins both early modern Ryūkyūan ideology and the “civil

morality” of the Imperial Japanese state. As Cecilia Wee observes, the Chinese character

for faith or trust, xin (Jp. shin 信), is comprised of the “person” radical (Jp. ninben 亻)

linked to the character for speech, yan (Jp. koto 言) (2011, 517). In Analects 7.25, we

find the saying: “The master instructs under four [headings]: culture, moral conduct,

doing one’s best and being trustworthy in what one says (文、行、忠、信).” The

capacity to keep faith lies at the heart of each of the Confucian Five Relationships.

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Following the Analects, Wee concludes that “a person who lacks xin [Jp. shin 信;

faithfulness] is, for Confucius, like a cart from whom a crucial pin is missing, so that it

cannot be driven and is wholly useless in society … Xin thus plays an important social

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role insofar as it is the starting point, or sine qua non, for any fruitful relationship with

other persons” (527).

The concept of trust also concerns several of the theorists that I have drawn upon

in this dissertation. In The Just, for example, Ricoeur suggests that promising is “the

model for every speech act” (2003, 22). This is not only sociopolitically significant, but

also impacts our understanding of the phenomenon of personhood. As mentioned in the

Introduction, Ricoeur breaks down personhood into two complementary facets, idem-

identity and selfhood or “ipseity.” On a linguistic level, idem-identity is declarative and

descriptive: we identify a person or thing by determining its attributes. What matters in

an identity statement is the propositional content that attaches to an object. Selfhood, on

the other hand, is established through speech acts, in which propositional content is

imparted with “illocutionary force” (2005a, 129). Unlike declarative statements, speech

acts necessitate a movement of the will; thus, they impute an agent. Promising is an

exemplary speech act because the utterance itself gives voice to a movement of the will,

thereby executing an action: in saying “I promise,” I promise.

Speech acts and promises bridge the domains of ontology and ethics. The

illocutionary force of speech acts in general attests to selfhood, while the illocutionary

force of the promise in particular attests to a “will to self-constancy”:

Whence does the maker of a promise draw the force to so commit himself? From

a more fundamental promise, that of keeping one’s word in all circumstances.

We can speak here of “the promise that precedes any promise making.” It is what

gives every promise its aspect of commitment, commitment toward and

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commitment to. And it is to this commitment that the character of ipseity of the

promise attaches to … [This ipseity] consists in a will to self-constancy, to

remaining true to form, which seals the story of a life confronted with changes in

circumstances and changes of heart. It is an identity that is preserved … in spite

of everything that might incline one to break one’s word (131).

For Ricoeur, self-constancy synthesizes our fundamental human capacities to speak, act,

narrate, and impute. Promising literally gives voice to this synthesis. In acknowledging

our capacity for self-constancy, we establish the parameters for self-narration; in attesting

to actions, we authorize others to impute us with consequences. When we do this, we

also implicitly recognize our interlocutors’ status as speaking, acting, and judging

persons. The weight of these ideas cannot be overrated. The concept of ethical relations

between subjects presumes the capacity for self-constancy; this is equally the case in

Aristotelian virtue ethics and Confucian relational ethics. Even rational egoism would

founder without a baseline expectation of self-constancy – the maximization of self-

interest over time, after all, implies durative interests grounded in a durable self. I do not

think that it is an exaggeration to say that this baseline expectation prevents human being-

together from degenerating into a condition of perpetual mutual suspicion. To

paraphrase Cynthia Wee, it is the capacity for self-constancy that is the sine qua non for

any credible ethics or politics (2011, 527; cf. Arendt 1958a).

Ricoeur utilizes the conceptual pair “attestation- recognition” as a bridge from his

phenomenology of selfhood to Hegel’s theory of recognition – which, as we have seen,

helped shape Imperial Japanese conceptions of subjecthood and personhood. As

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previously argued, the Meiji state “renounced the Tokugawa theory of innate [status-

contingent] difference and adopted a view that human interiorities possessed the same

universal qualities” (Hirano 2014, 208). In his commentary on the Meiji Constitution, for

example, Itō Hirobumi condemns the Tokugawa state for failing to recognize the rights

and capacities of “the people,” and affirms the Meiji state’s commitment to doing so:

Under the military regime of the middle ages, warriors and the common people

were placed in different classes. The former monopolized the exercise of every

public right, while the latter were not only excluded from the enjoyment of these,

but were also curtailed in the full enjoyment of their civil rights. The expression

“public treasure” thus lost its meaning … Since the Restoration, the privileges of

the military class have been abolished by successive Rescripts, and all Japanese

subjects, without discrimination among them, can now enjoy their rights and

discharge their duties (39-40).

The Meiji state sought to sublimate the status-bound distribution of competencies under

an ethnic-national “ethos of civilization,” which combined a centrifugal imperative to

maximize economic self-interest with a centripetal imperative to identify viscerally with

the imagined community of the nation-state (Hirano 2014, 214). Weber describes this

gambit as the transmutation of status honor into ethnic honor (1968, 390). Like status

honor, ethic honor presumes “the conviction of the excellence of one's own customs and

the inferiority of alien ones” (391). Both concepts rest upon “a distribution of the

sensible that combines – according to different forms of proportionality – the sharing of a

common capacity and the distribution of alternative capacities” (Rancière 2009, 4).

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The reason I return to the Meiji Constitution here is because the contradiction

between the de jure assignation of human capacities to Okinawans and the de facto denial

of these capacities under the Preservation of Old Customs and Special Prefectural

Governance systems inflicted a particular trauma upon the Okinawan psyche. This

trauma is the background against which Okinawan commercial musical drama must be

read. As previously mentioned, Tomiyama Ichirō refers to this distribution of capacities

as the social construction of “the Japanese” (1995, 4). Identity categories such as "the

Japanese" are often portrayed as descriptive labels that points toward some immutable

shared essence. In fact, they are prescriptive terms that index particular attributes

deemed vital to socially defined goals (in this case, the capitalist and nationalist project of

“enriching the country and strengthening the military”) (5). Meiji Japanese target

attributes included diligence (kinben 勤勉), rationality (risei 理性), good health and

hygiene (eisei 衛生), etc. The state glorified these attributes in proclamations such as the

Charter Oath and the Imperial Rescript on Education, and founded public institutions

(most notably standardized schooling and military conscription) in order to inculcate

them. Non-state actors such as reform societies also played an important role in

disseminating the dominant civil morality; as described in Chapter Five, they did so by

ensuring that the pressure to adapt to prescribed norms was never off. Finally, the private

sector incentivized the cultivation of related virtues such as discipline, punctuality, and

respect for the concept of the contract.

As we have seen, the identity category of “the Okinawan” took shape during the

Meiji and Taishō periods alongside that of “the Japanese.” For reasons discussed in

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Chapter One, “the Okinawan” was constructed in both official and unofficial discourse as

deficient in all of the ideal characteristics attributed to “the Japanese.” Rather than being

diligent, the Okinawan was said to tend toward idleness (taida 怠惰). Rather than being

rational, he was irrational and intemperate (kyōki 狂気). Rather than being healthy and

hygienic, he was slovenly and unsanitary (fueisei 不衛生). Tomiyama situates this

Japanese/Okinawan binary within Wallerstein's post-Marxist theory of ethnic

consciousness, which holds that ethnic identities are formed through habituation to

different labor conditions in core, semi-peripheral, and peripheral economies (9).

Wallerstein disputes the common-sense assumption that ethnic discrimination is

primarily a result of “irrational” xenophobic bias, arguing that it is in fact a sub-function

of “rational” utility maximization on the part of elites: subaltern identities are constructed

strategically as loopholes through which to introduce disciplinary practices that limit the

freedom of the labor market without technically violating the universalizing logics of

commodification and meritocracy (13). Drawing on his own research into labor practices

in mainland Japanese worksites that employed Okinawan migrants, Tomiyama concludes

that construction of “the Okinawan” as a “probationary Japanese” served precisely this

function (26).

The construction of “the Okinawan” as a “probationary Japanese” – i.e., a person

deficient in certain core competencies – had predictably venomous psychosocial

consequences. Rather than assuming the best of the prefecture and its citizens, mainland

Japanese officials and employers tended to assume the worst. For example, when

Odagiri Iwatarō was appointed as governor of Okinawa, he asked sardonically what

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crime he had committed to be “sentenced to service in Ryūkyū,” and soon resigned (Ōta

1996, 271). Bad press such as this not only kept discrimination against Okinawans in the

bureaucracy alive, but also dissuaded talented Japanese from accepting positions in

Okinawa. This further inhibited the efficacy of the prefecture’s institutions, thus giving

substance to Japanese prejudices. Ōta calls this vicious circle “the self-fulfilling

prophesy” of colonial domination (272). The rice market crash of 1920 exemplifies this

vicious circle. In addition to its immediate economic impact, the crash had a lasting

impact on representations of Okinawa in mainland Japanese discourse. In 1924, all three

locally owned banks collapsed (Matsumura 2007, 207). This drove governor Kamei

Mitsumasa to form a “Committee for Economic Promotion in Okinawa Prefecture,”

which petitioned the National Diet for economic relief (308). The Committee’s relief

petitions offered up the image of families “so miserable that they have to eat the sotetsu

[sago cycad, a type of poisonous palm] in order to sustain themselves” (312). The

Japanese press, keen to profit from poverty voyeurism, began describing the prefecture in

sensationalistic terms as “sago palm hell” (sotetsu jigoku). Unfortunately, the Committee

failed to address the specific causes of the crisis (which were the promotion of sugar

monoculture and irresponsible speculation); instead, it laid blame on the ambiguous

scapegoat of “underdevelopment” (313). This effectively socialized losses incurred

through poor administration and cronyism. It also dissembled the fact that Okinawa’s

weak and crisis-prone economy was not a baseline condition, but rather, an effect of the

center-periphery model of modernization adopted by Japanese policymakers throughout

the Meiji and Taishō periods.

119

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The sugar crisis also inevitably dredged up familiar stereotypes of Okinawans as

fundamentally incapable of being trusted to manage their own affairs, let alone contribute

to the good of the Empire. For Iha Fuyū and other scholars invested in the project of re-

legitimizing Okinawan culture, this was a devastating blow. As Tomiyama observes,

Iha’s writing changed in the wake of the sugar crisis, taking on a darker tone (1998).

This being said, I believe we should view Iha’s pessimistic turn less as a qualitative shift

in worldview and more as a foregrounding of previously latent anxieties. These anxieties

arise sporadically throughout Iha’s earlier work, most strikingly in the form of caustic

and self-deprecating humor. For example, Iha opens a section of Old Ryūkyū on classical

performing arts by stating, "There is a Ryūkyūan proverb: even chicken dung has its

strong point (niwatori no fun ni mo hitsotsu no chōsho ga aru 鶏の糞にも一つの長所が

ある). It stands to follow that Ryūkyū itself must have a strong point as well" (1974a,

153). In the next section, Iha predicts that despite the “universality” of music in general,

most listeners would undoubtedly find Ryūkyūan music “extremely tedious” (156). Both

sections, however, evolve into eloquent defenses of the social and artistic worth of

Ryūkyūan culture. It is a testament to Iha’s skill as a prose stylist that he is able to open a

paragraph with a scatological proverb and close it by inferring that some Ryūkyūan

traditions are not only moving but instructive: “They say that the twentieth century will

be the century of theater, and in Japan, voices have been raised calling for a national

theater … It is notable that while this ideal may be humble, it was realized in Okinawa

187 years ago” (155).

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Significantly, Iha’s sharpest anxieties attached to the concept of trust. This is

evident in a less widely read section of Old Ryūkyū entitled “The Greatest Flaw of the

Okinawan People” (Okinawajin no saidai ketten 沖縄人の最大欠点). Rejecting the

vogue for racialism, Iha writes that “the Okinawan people’s greatest flaw is not a matter

of racial difference … [or of] differing culture or customs. The Okinawan people’s

greatest flaw is that they easily forget their obligations” (1974a, 64). He continues:

I believe that this condition was shaped by our environment and circumstances

over hundreds of years. Because throughout Okinawan history rulers have

replaced each other with great frequency, Okinawans learned that forgetting one’s

obligation to the prior lord in the course of a day and immediately singing the

praises of the new lord was necessary for survival … no matter how they loathed

doing so, Okinawans had to present themselves in whorish service – perhaps the

very definition of a miserable existence. This opportunism sunk in deeply,

becoming a kind of latent second nature. Is this not the definitive flaw of the

Okinawan people? There is nothing more fearful than this kind of person, who

would sell out his friends, his teachers, and even his country for personal profit.

One cannot expect such a place to produce patriots (64-65).

Setting the question of historical accuracy aside, this piece is telling. Right off the bat,

Iha rejects the idea that Okinawans’ perceived shortcomings are coded into their racial,

ethnic, or cultural identity. Anticipating Tosaka Jun, he instead lays the blame on

habituated predispositions (“customs granted the appearance of naturalness by history”

[Tosaka 2001, 15]). He then implies that the reason that these predispositions have not

300!

been reformed is that individuals in positions of power have no real interest in reforming

them: “Educators [and officials] who shrilly declare their patriotism in public while

seeking personal profit in the shadows will only aggravate Okinawans’ failings” (65).

This is a bold indictment of the cronyism rampant among both the prefecture’s political

class and its emergent capitalists. After imploring educators and administrators to take

account of themselves, the prefecture, and the people, Iha closes with an ultimatum: “if

modern Okinawans cannot compensate for this great failing, then as citizens and as a race

they are entirely worthless.”

As I stress in Chapter Three, it is methodologically questionable to posit causal

connections between these sociopolitical and intellectual historical developments and the

stylistic development of Okinawan performing arts. For example, we cannot know

determinately whether Miyako peasants’ 1894–95 movement to abolish sexual indenture

influenced the creation of Uyanma, an early musical drama about a concubine who is

abandoned by her lover. Likewise, I do not seek to claim that the superlative value

assigned to faithfulness in mainland Japanese and Okinawan ethical and political

discourse inspired artists such as Ganeko Yaei, Iraha Inkichi, and Majikina Yūkō to craft

narratives driven by the act of promising. After all, promising is as close to a universal

facet of human experience as one can get. I do believe, however, that political discourse

on faithfulness and concurrent artistic representations of promising can be meaningfully

co-interpreted. We cannot expect this project of co-interpretation to produce objective

data concerning determinant relationships between particular socioeconomic structures

and particular cultural formations. We can, however, hope to reach a conditional

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understanding of how encultured individuals meaningfully inhabit socioeconomic

structures. This can provoke us to challenge standing interpretations of the structures in

which we ourselves dwell.

In Chapter Four, I suggest that after analyzing the historical preconditions for the

existence of a particular materially-fixed “distribution of the sensible” – a musical drama,

for example – we should provisionally bracket this analysis and approach the work as a

hermeneutically autonomous structure of meaning. We can then ask how different

spectators might have looked upon their own realities through the prism of the work.

How, for example, might a female migrant laborer in early twentieth century Naha have

“inhabited” Okuyama no botan or Iejima Handō-gwa? Ikemiya Masaharu stakes out a

standpoint from which we can explore this question when he writes that “the female

subjects of musical drama were double-exposures of the women of the Meiji period, and

their fates would not have been regarded as the fates of strangers” (cited in Nakahodo

1994, 74-75). Another way of saying this is that audiences likely saw the protagonists of

musical dramas as belonging to a common lifeworld or “world of communicable

experience” (cf. Oakeshott 1966).

Among the modalities of communicable experience that saturate the lifeworld of

Okinawan musical drama, sacrifice stands out. The plays we have read portray a

continuum of self-other relations as stretching from a pole of martyrdom, or

unconditional willingness to sacrifice the self for the other, to a pole of solipsism, or

unconditional willingness to sacrifice the other for the self. On one end of this continuum

stands Okuyama no botan’s Chirā, who sacrifices her life for her son. On the other end

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stands Kana’s father in Iejima Handō-gwa, who cannot even bring himself to make a

ritual gesture of sacrifice for Handō-gwa’s salvation.

Female migrant laborers in Naha would have been familiar with the experience of

sacrifice. Most of these women worked at least in part to support their families. Some

were effectively indentured through predatory advance payment schemes, while others

faced overwhelming social pressure. For rural families, receiving a migrant remittance

could mean the difference between mere precarity and absolute ruination: a 1933 Ryūkyū

Shimpō editorial calls migrant remittances “a crystallization of the blood and sweat of the

Okinawan people, given in cooperative service to the community (Aniya 1977, 161).

This description is not hyperbolic, as migrants certainly sweated and often bled for their

pay. According to E. Patricia Tsurumi, migrant seamstresses generally pulled twelve to

thirteen hour shifts, sometimes working up to eighteen hours straight (1984, 6). Unsafe

and unhygienic facilities made lost fingers and toes, blindness, deafness, and tuberculosis

common workplace hazards (9). Moreover, supervisors had “considerable arbitrary

power” over workers (2004, 89). Female workers were targeted with sexual violence by

males at every level of the chain of command, from fellow floor workers to supervisors

and managers. Tsurumi observes that “when rape and intimidation resulted in pregnancy,

the male employee or employer had little to fear: he would pay the unfortunate woman a

small sum, and that would be the end of the matter for him.” A number of weavers’

songs testify to these conditions, including the verse, “The owner and I are like spinning

machine thread: easily tied, but easily broken” (1984, 13).

303!

Here we find a harrowing variation on the familiar poetic trope of thread binding

lovers, which arises throughout the musical dramas we have explored. This variation

necessarily complicates our assessment of the relationships between Chirā and Sandē on

the one hand, and between Handō-gwa and Kana on the other. It is implied in Okuyama

no botan that Chirā, the daughter of an outcaste, and Sandē, the son of a lord, are lovers

bound by fate – or at least by mutual consent and legitimate affection. Period audiences

familiar with the way status and class differentials tended to play out within the field of

gender relations (for example, on the textile factory floor) may have taken this

implication with a grain of salt. A closer look at Sandē does not help his case. He is

opportunistic, mercurial, and a hypocrite. First he derides Chirā for having no feeling or

nasake, then he hyperbolically declares his love for her; when she reveals her past, he

runs and doesn’t look back. He is also a coward: rather than resist the Courtesan, he

submits to disownment, and when she sends a thug to kill him, he bares his own throat.

When his son Yamatū calls him out for his faithless cowardice, he has the audacity to ask

Yamatū to conceal his face when he goes looking for his mother so as not to bring shame

on the family. Sandē is no Romeo.

These details of Sandē’s characterization are interesting to me because they beg

the question of why Chirā was willing to sacrifice so much for him. After all, Sandē’s

utter lack of selflessness demonstrates that making sacrifices for a loved one is not a

foregone conclusion. I am inclined to believe that the answer is deceptively simple:

Chirā’s sacrifice is an expression of self-constancy. She exhausts herself entirely to

preserve the honor of Sandē's family because she promised that she would. Chirā’s vow

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(“Though I am woven through with suffering like fine thread, I would never do anything

to bring trouble upon my beloved”) appears six times throughout the play, including in

every climactic scene. It is also the magic formula that reunites Chirā with her son

Yamatū (an improbable meeting that really serves no purpose other than to intensify her

suffering). The play’s final verse – "who do you wish to see your blossoms, mountain

peony? People do not pass through a place like this?” – drives home the point that Chirā’s

virtue is not directed toward a social audience, but arises entirely from the strength of her

character. Tellingly, while Yamatū’s honorable characterization and his own exchange

of vows imply that he will return to his fiancé, the play gives no sense of whether he will

forgive his father Sandē. It is as if through his faithlessness, Sandē has ceased to exist

altogether. His character is narratively significant only because his glaring flaws refract

Chirā’s luminous self-constancy.

If Chirā’s self-constancy is an eternal flame, Handō-gwa’s is a flash fire. As

previously mentioned, Handō-gwa inherits the mantle of an illustrious line of vengeful

spirits: Genji’s Lady Rokujō, Shūshin kane’iri’s demon-woman, and Yotsuya’s Oiwa (cf.

Brown 2001; Shimazaki 2011). All of these women harbor fatal misconceptions about a

romantic counterpart. In Shūshin kane’iri, the misconception stems from a

miscommunication. In Genji, it stems from a gradual divergence of desires. In Yotsuya

and Iejima Handō-gwa, it stems from an intentional deception. Unlike her literary

predecessors, however, I do not believe the trauma of realizing her own misconception is

what drives Handō-gwa to kill. Rather, it is the antagonists’ refusal to recognize her as a

person worthy of even a modicum of respect. My interpretation owes largely to the fact

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that Handō-gwa does not exact her vengeance in a fit of unreason. Majikina’s perverse

appropriation of the poetic trope of long black hair suggests that Handō-gwa’s suicide is

an impulsive act of passion. Her vengeance, on the other hand, is anything but. Handō-

gwa gives Kana warning in the form of illness and hallucinations. Her cousin Machī-gwa

incongruously appears to ask Kana’s father to light incense in Handō-gwa’s honor, and

warns him of the consequences of refusing. Handō-gwa only finalizes her vengeance

after Kana’s father refuses to make the token gesture of lighting incense on her behalf.

This refusal – not Handō-gwa’s vengeance – is the act of unreason that seals the

characters’ fate. The murder itself is a self-possessed exercise of will.

While Handō-gwa’s mountaintop suicide and Kana’s death are clearly Iejima

Handō-gwa’s crisis points, I believe that the most jolting single scene in the Okinawan

commercial theater repertory is Handō-gwa’s victimization by a crowd of Iejima villagers

(Act Two). Upon disembarking, Handō-gwa is approached by two young men who

attempt to seduce her, and then threaten her with rape.

120

A crowd then forms around her

and jostles her, pushing her to the ground. They dance around her, tormenting her and

singing, until a village official arrives and drives them away:

Young man 2: The men of this island are used to messing around. What kind of

beastly woman would ignore fine young men like us?

Young man 1: Well, if she doesn’t want to come, we’ll make her – we’ll drag her

to the garden and show her how the young men here enjoy themselves

until we tire of it.

Song: “Ushiushi bushi” (「ウシウシ節」)

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Crowd: Promises are like broad rivers; the place to have a good time is over to the

west; the place to meet and talk is east of Castle Mountain. A beautiful

girl from another island comes here without shame to meet her lover. The

women of Hentona are crude, seducing men from other islands!

This scene should terrify the spectator. Juxtaposing mass violence with a jaunty chorus is

terrifying because it rings true – the jouissance of mass violence and the practice of

building solidarity through the victimization of the other are both well documented (cf.

Benjamin 1986; Tilly 2003; Wolin 2004; etc.). By the same logic, the scene should not

be particularly shocking. The spontaneous exertion of violence by the many against the

few is, after all, a central theme in human history.

Nevertheless, there is something unsettling in the way Majikina evokes and

enframes this theme. Up until this point the ethos of the play has been alternatingly

bittersweet and lightly comic, like its predecessors. The young men that try to seduce

Handō-gwa are buffoons, and she rebukes them wittily (“I feel like I’ve stepped into a

thorn bush. You vile men are like insects!”). The comic interlude should be over; the

narrative should resume. Instead, before we know it, Handō-gwa is on the ground and

surrounded by faceless bodies “in the throes of ecstasy.” After a few verses, the villagers

disperse and the narrative resumes as if nothing had happened. The backdrop is still

ocean blue; the stage is still decorated with lush foliage. The ethos of the play, however,

has been irrevocably altered. What is shocking about this scene is not the violence itself

but the violation of expectations. Having seen Okuyama no botan, we expect Kana to

abandon Handō-gwa; having read Genji and seen Yotsuya kaidan, we realize that the

307!

possibility of supernatural vengeance is on the table. However, after Handō-gwa’s

encounter with the crowd, we no longer feel capable of evaluating the actions on stage,

projecting outcomes, and holding up our projections against the outcomes that unfold. In

Tosaka’s terms, we no longer feel “at home” in the world of work. This violation verifies

that the spectator too is capable of being betrayed: the “law of the inside” has become the

“law of the outside” (Rancière 2009, 4).

This points toward an allegorical and collectivizing reading of the sacrifices,

betrayals, and acts of vengeance that Okuyama no botan and Iejima Handō-gwa offer us.

Chirā quite literally sacrifices herself for the next generation. Handō-gwa’s vengeance is

also generational: Kana’s father’s final lines (“What will become of this house, what will

become of this village?”) reveal that by annihilating the village’s root family, Handō-gwa

has effectively destabilized the entire kyōdōtai. The image of Chirā’s generational

sacrifice in particular resonates strongly with Iha Fuyū’s concern for the collective fate of

the Okinawan people. On the one hand, her suicide saves her son from the fate of being

“suppressed and crushed by history” (1993, 295). Chirā’s sacrifice channels Iha’s

exhortation to the new generation of Japanese-educated Okinawan elites to lay aside

immediate self-interest and dedicate themselves to fostering a new generation free from

the burden of institutional or psychological “feudal survivals” (1974a, 65). On the other

hand, Chirā’s suicide is a kind of univocal dictum to which there is no fitting reply.

Honoring Chirā’s sacrifice would require her son to never disclose it. If he did, he would

also disclose his polluted heritage and render Chirā’s death meaningless. Yamatū’s fate,

then, is either to risk social excommunication by revealing his outcaste status, or to dwell

308!

in the shadow of an incommunicable loss. Like the Okinawan people, he is fated to live

under perpetual probation. The numbing ambivalence of Chirā’s sacrifice and Yamatū’s

trauma recalls a letter written by Iha to the poet Ikenomiya Sekihō: “You have no

language of your own in which to express your uniqueness. What you have been raised

on belongs to another” (cited in Tomiyama 1998, 173).

I believe that this probationary status was the reality against which Okinawan

tragic musical drama took its stand. In light of this, I would like to revisit Ikemiya’s

assertion that “the female subjects of musical dramas were double-exposures of the

women of the Meiji period, and their fates would not have been regarded as the fates of

strangers” (cited in Nakahodo 1994, 74-75). This means that the heroines’ seemingly

hyperbolic sufferings fell within the world of possible experience inhabited by working-

class Okinawan women. However, it also means that these women were able to enter

parallel worlds in which hope and justice, or at the very least coherence, were not the

“fates of strangers.” Within the world of Tomari Aka, human emotion and freedom of

choice are approbated. Within the world of Okuyama no botan, moral capacity and

profound sacrifice are recognized and mourned. Within the world of Iejima Handō-gwa,

suffering is transmuted into indignation, and vengeance falls upon the wicked. Visiting

these worlds did not somehow inspire spectators to revolt against their “tragic class

condition.” It did, however, offer respite from the weight of history.

309!

Appendix I: Maps

I. (1). The Ryūkyū Islands in an East Asian context.

310!

I. (2). Okinawa Island.

311!

I. (3). The Naha and Shuri area.

312!

I. (4). Iejima and its surroundings.

313!

Appendix II: Musical materials

II. (1). Okinawan cipher notation: "Hama chijuyā bushi" (「浜千鳥節」)

314!

315!

II. (2). Western notation: “Hama-chidori bushi” (浜千鳥節)

* Note that the kunkunshi cipher notation is provided below the staff notation.

316!

317!

Appendix III: Temizu no en (The Bond of Water in Hands)

Sources: Geinōshi Kenkyūkai 1975 vol. 11; Kokuritsu Gekijō Okinawa Chōsa Yōseika

2004; Kokuritsu Gekijō Okinawa Unei Zaidan 2010.

Characters

Yamatū (山戸)

Tamatsi (玉津)

Shicha-nu-ufuyaku (志喜屋の大屋子)

Yamaguchi-nu-nyishinchi (山口の西掟)

Watchman (monban 門番)

Scene one

Yamatū enters.

Chorus: "Ikintō bushi" (「池当節」)

It is spring, and the wild lilies

Blossom in the fields and mountains

Their fine scent wafts about the sleeves

Of strangers crossing paths.

Yamatū: I am Yamatū, the son of the master of Fanja.

Today is the third day of the third month,

When high and low celebrate together.

The wind is blowing and I am in good spirits.

I will climb Mount Shinaga

To look at the flowers

Gather flowers and celebrate.

Gazing upon Mount Shinaga,

Known throughout the world,

The flowers are blooming beautifully

And their scent is charming.

I will rest my feet here.

Tamatsi enters.

Chorus: "Kaimiji bushi"「通水節」

In the third month,

My heart becomes light

318!

I will wash my hair

In Fanja-tama River.

Tamatsi: I am Tamatsi,

A child of the house of Murikuya.

Of Chinen-yamaguchi.

In the third month,

My heart becomes light

I will wash my hair

In Fanja-tama River.

Chorus: "Hai-chikuten bushi" 「早作田節」

I will wash my hair

In the cold water that flows

In Fanja-tama River

And then return home.

Yamatū: Having gazed upon the flowers,

I will now hurry home.

Oh, oh!

My throat is dry

I cannot endure it

Beloved! Show compassion

Allow me to drink from your hands

I want to drink water

Given lovingly

From the ladle you hold

I want to drink water from your hands.

Tamatsi: I do not know you,

I know nothing of “water from your hands,”

Because I am a young girl who knows nothing of the world

Please excuse me.

Yamatū: In the old days, water from someone’s hand

Flowed from compassion and love.

Today, it still flows –

The purifying water of Kyoda.

Tamatsi: When you say you want to drink water from my hands,

You’re only making sport of me

In plain sight of everyone.

Hurry and leave!

319!

Yamatū: I will sink beneath the dew

I will bind my fate to the grass.

Rather than go home

Without drinking from your hands,

I will throw my body

Into this river.

Tamatsi: Alas!

Rather than watch you

Throw away your life

Although I am ashamed

I will let you drink from my hands.

Yamatū: Ah, I am grateful.

Thanks to this river

I can drink water from your hands

This is a meeting ordained by heaven

A blessing from the gods

So you are Tamatsi,

The daughter of the renowned

House of Murikuya

Of Chinen-yamaguchi.

Because even the birds in the depths of night

Do not sing about this,

Please listen.

I am Yamatū,

The sole child

Of the lord of Fanja.

Please tell me your name

Allow me to ask where you live.

So that secretly,

Enwrapped by the darkness of night,

Unknown to any other,

I can come meet you there.

Tamatsi: Have you mistaken me for someone else?

I do not know you; I have never seen you.

I do not know this floating world.

I do not know the path of love.

I am a naïve young girl –

Please excuse me!

Yamatū: Alas, if I cannot be free to have you,

320!

If it must be otherwise,

Please leave your scent

On my sleeve

So I can go to my death

With your face as my memento.

Tamatsi: Even when I try to withdraw, I cannot.

What else can I do?

As you said, I am Tamatsi,

The sole daughter of Murikuya

Of Chinen.

Even if I wanted to meet with you,

I am like a flower bud

Encircled sevenfold by rough-hewn fences

Is there no other flower

That you can make bloom,

No other branch you can grasp?

Yamatū: Your manor’s gate could be guarded

By demons of old India –

Still, the path of love will break through.

Tamatsi: Here at this river,

People are always coming and going.

Today I will go home quickly

Let us meet again later.

Yamatū: Please do not break our engagement

Please do not deceive me.

Today I will return home

Let us meet again later.

Chorus: "Chunjun bushi" (「仲順節」)

If we are bound by fate,

Even when we separate,

Can flowers pierced by a thread and strung together

Be cut apart?

They exit. When Yamatū re-enters, he is carrying an umbrella and wearing a short sword.

Chorus: "Chin bushi" (「金武節」)

My heart goes stealthily,

321!

Others are unaware

I hide my face behind my umbrella

Such is the path of love.

Yamatū: The love born of purifying water,

Grows ceaselessly in my thoughts.

Her face and her scent,

Are the dwelling-place of my heart.

I am crushed and caught up in love

I could die of longing

Like lovers in old stories

That I have heard.

As if sakura could be made to blossom

On a weeping willow bough

And to exude the scent of ume.

Thus I drank deeply

The water of Fanja River

From your loving hands

From evening until noon, as if adrift on the waves

I have hardly slept

Crying together

With the birds that greet the dawn,

My tear-stained sleeves

Are as salty as the shallows at low tide

They are never dry

My emotions pour forth.

So, over mountains and fields

Past countless towns

Enfolded in darkness

I come stealthily to you.

Chorus: "Hwishi bushi" (「干瀬節」)

Over mountains and fields

Past countless towns

Enfolded in darkness

I come stealthily to you.

As the traveling song ends, Yamatū arrives at center stage.

Yamatū: In the darkness of night

While all are silent and asleep

Come to your door

And let us speak of our love.

322!

Chorus: "Nakafū bushi" (「仲風節」 )

Because I could not go on as before

I came here stealthily

Please come to your door

And let us speak of our love.

Tamatsi: In the darkness, alone,

I knew your feelings

As you came creeping –

Waiting is a torment.

Yamatū: Ah, my beloved

Your face and your scent

Rise from out of the darkness

I could not go on as before

I have come to meet you.

Tamatsi: Ah, my beloved

There are people here

Please come inside

Let us talk of the love

We have felt all this time.

Chorus: "Shukkē bushi" (「述懐節」)

Do not think the promise that binds us

Is only of this world.

The love between us

Will extend to the next.

Watchman: Surely someone has come

Creeping into the manor

If you have a name, say it!

Or shall I cut you down?

Yamatū: Although I have awakened and surprised you,

Do not become angry, watchman

Can you forbid a butterfly

From landing on a flower?

I, who have come stealthily

Alone and enwrapped in darkness

If you would fix me with a name

323!

Come toward me now

I will cut you down on the spot.

Watchman: Ah, so you have come

On some errand of love.

I am in trouble!

I will hurry and flee.

Yamatū: The love between us

Has been revealed

Tomorrow, I fear,

You will be blamed.

If this comes to pass,

Can you endure it alone?

I will come with you

And share your fate.

Chorus: "Sanyama bushi" (「散山節」)

If this comes to pass,

Can you endure it alone?

I will come with you

And share your fate.

Shicha : I am Shicha-nu-ufuyaku

An official who serves

The lord of Murikuya.

Alas, the lord’s beloved daughter

The pure flower Tamatsi

Went to Fanja River

To wash her hair

Met Fanja-no-Yamatū

And fell in love with him.

Others learned of this,

And it became impossible to hide

Rumors arose

Among the people

Someone revealed this

To our lord

And in response

He has decreed

That I should take her at first light

To Chinen Bay

And cut her down with one stroke.

324!

This is poison to my heart

But at this point there is nothing that can be done.

I must do

As I have been commanded.

Yamaguchi: Alas, as you have said,

I also sought to conceal this

As long as it could be concealed

But somebody revealed it

To our lord.

It is a sorrowful thing,

But it must be done.

Shicha: Come here, Yamaguchi

Let us hurry

And finish this business

Before the dawn breaks

Let us take her away.

Yamaguchi: Yes, my lord.

Chorus: "Shichishaku bushi" (「七尺節」)

Alas, I fear

This night will end

With the death

Of Tamatsi.

Yamatū enters.

Yamatū: Pitiful Tamatsi!

It is said

She will be taken

To Chinen Bay

Out of anyone’s sight

And killed.

I have been told this

I have just now heard it.

How can allow my beloved

To go to the next world before me?

I believe I will go meet her

So that we can die together.

Is the execution already underway?

Has she already been killed?

325!

I must hurry there

To see her while she is still alive.

Chorus (as Yamatū is traveling): "Shichishaku bushi" (「七尺節」 )

Is the execution already underway?

Has she already been killed?

I must hurry there

To see her while she is still alive.

Chorus: "Kwamuchā bushi" (「子持節」)

The love between us

Has been revealed

We are no longer free.

The time has come

To abandon my beloved

And go down the mountain road of death.

If love too

Really has a patron god

Please convey this

To my beloved.

Tamatsi enters.

Shicha: Alas, alas, we have arrived at Chinen Bay.

Beloved child –

It is too late to do anything

Your fate has been decided.

Please go into the next world

With your heart at ease.

Tamatsi: I think less of this cast-off life

Than of the morning dew.

But what will become of my beloved

Who I leave behind?

Yamaguchi: To shatter the jewel of your life

At the time the flower buds

Are bursting forth

It is a lamentable thing.

Shicha: Well, Yamaguchi –

While nobody is watching

326!

Get it over with.

Yamaguchi: Yes, my lord.

Tamatsi: Alas, Shicha-no-ufuyaku

Yamaguchi-nu-nyishinchi

The time has come

For me to discard this world

And discard my shame as well.

Please listen to what I say.

In death, can we forget

The bitterness of being alive?

I want to hurry

And go to the next world

But because I will never

See this world again

Alas! The things I would say

Are inexhaustible.

I think less of my coming death

Than of the morning dew.

But I am troubled

By what to say to my beloved.

Listen, Shicha

Tell my beloved

That he is in the prime of his life

And he was born as a man

In order to distinguish the world

By serving his king

Both day and night.

And when his fate

Is handed down from heaven

I will be waiting for him

On the mountain road of death –

Please convey these words

To my beloved.

If for some reason

He goes against my final testament

And the other world

Is like this present world,

I will not cast even one glance

Toward him –

By the end of the day

Please tell this to my beloved.

327!

Shicha: Because I will convey

The words you have said

In secret to your beloved

Please go to the next world

With your heart at ease.

Well, Yamaguchi.

It will not do to waste time.

Hurry and carry out our orders.

Yamaguchi: Yes, my lord.

This precious child

That I cared for day and night

Even under obligation –

Can I really kill her?

Chorus: "Agarie bushi" (「東江節」)

Yes, my lord.

This precious child

That I cared for day and night

Even under obligation –

Can I really kill her?

Yamaguchi: This child that I raised

With all of my devotion

I cannot find the heart

To cut her down with one stroke.

Here, Shicha –

Please do it if you can.

Shicha: No! This is your duty –

Carry it out!

Yamaguchi draws his sword.

Yamatū: Yā, yā!

Wait a moment.

Alas, my beloved!

Yamaguchi: Who is this

That stands in the way of my sword?

Yamatū: Alas, please pay attention

Listen to what I have to say.

328!

I am Yamatū

The sole heir of Fanja

I owe a deep debt

To the house of Murikuya.

Even a gate

Guarded by the demons of old India

Cannot but open

Onto the pathway of love.

Yā, Shicha

Yamaguchi

Please listen to the voice of reason:

Have not a hundred ancient tales

Taught us that secret love

Is among the ways of the world?

Think of this dear child's fate.

Have you not loved her like your own?

Must rumors end her life?

I could conceal her carefully

Until the gossip dies away.

Please entrust Tamatsi to me!

If you find yourself unable

To honor this request

Then draw your sword and cut us down –

I will die by her side.

Shicha: Yā, Yamaguchi.

I think I have an idea.

The gossip of the world

Is a short-lived thing.

If we surrender Tamatsi’s life

To Yamatū’s care

And tell the lord

That we have killed her

After some time passes,

His feelings will change

And she can come into the world again.

Let us allow their love to blossom

Let us bind their fates

Like a string of jewels.

Yā, Yamatū!

This precious child

This beloved child

I cannot bring myself

To cut her down with one stroke.

329!

Because I surrender

Tamatsi’s life to you,

Please go and conceal her!

Yamatū: Ah! That is honorable.

Because we owe

Our lives to you

You have our respect

And our deepest gratitude.

While there are many thoughts

Which I want to express

The birds and roosters are crying

And soon night will break.

I will later convey

My indebtedness and heartfelt gratitude.

Tamatsi: Yā, Shicha

Yamaguchi

I cannot put into words

The respect and gratitude I feel

For your heartfelt intentions –

I return them completely.

Yamaguchi: Yā, precious child.

Yā, Yamatū.

Because others

Will soon appear

And all of our lives

Will be in danger,

Before the break of day,

Hurry away from this place.

Yamatū: Yā, my beloved!

The secret love between us

Was discovered

And it was said

You would be killed

But I was informed

And I came to see you.

My wishes came true

And I met your still living face

Now I can take you away with me –

This is like a dream.

330!

Tamatsi: I cannot find the words

To speak of what has happened.

The birds and roosters are crying

And dawn will soon break

Let us hurry away

To a place where others’ eyes cannot see.

Yamatū: Yes, yes.

Let us hurry!

Chorus: "Tachikumu bushi" (「立曇節」)

The birds and roosters are crying

And dawn will soon break

Let us hurry away

To a place where others’ eyes cannot see.

My life has been saved

And I can leave with you –

It is truly like a dream.

Could I be dreaming?

End.

331!

Appendix IV: Uyanma (The Kept Woman)

Sources: Kokuritsu Gekijō Okinawa kōen kiroku eizō 45 [DVD]; Ōshiro 2000.

Characters

Captain Higa (sendō Higa 船頭比嘉)

Resident (zaiban bugyō 在番奉行)

Concubine (uyanma 親阿母)

The Resident and Concubine's son, Sanrā-gwa (三良小)

An old man (ānushi アー主)

A servant, Saburō (三郎)

Scene one:

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

The wind is blowing from the south

It is a favorable wind!

Haiyayo-ti-ba

Kaidaki-tituyuru

Denyo-masatimigutu

Captain: I am Higa, master of the ship

That will take his honor the Resident home.

The wind today is marvelously favorable – I believe

I’ll fetch his lordship

And suggest we take our leave!

Chorus: “Hatōma bushi” 「鳩間節」

I’ll go and fetch his lordship –

Departing [for Shuri] under smooth sail

Haiyayo-ti-ba

Kaidaki-tituyuru

Denyo-masatimigutu

Captain: Your honor!

Your honor!

Resident: Who is it?

Captain: It's Captain Higa, beg your pardon!

Resident: Oh, Higa. Please come in.

Well, what’s your purpose?

332!

Captain: The wind is blowing from the south –

It’s a marvelously favorable wind.

If it suits your pleasure, we can depart today.

Resident: My maidservant has only begun

To get the house in order –

Surely, Higa, it can’t hurt

To wait two days, or three..?

Captain: Beg pardon, but a wind like this –

We can’t afford to miss it, sir.

I ask your leave to sail today!

Resident: A wind like this.. of course..

I understand.

Captain: Oi, Saburō!

Call his lordship’s household together

So they can raise the parting-glass!

Chorus: “Kohama bushi” 「小浜節」

If you’re bound for Okinawa,

Won’t you take me with you?

Can you leave me here alone?

Can you abandon me so lightly?

Concubine: For all this time we’ve been together,

I’ve never left your side.

And yet it's said you’ll leave today.

How will I go on?

Resident: How can I leave when you say such things?

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

If you must take your leave

Face me and say farewell.

If you must leave today

I have nothing left to say.

Captain: Saburō! Be quick about it.

Fill their parting glass!

Saburō: Pardon, miss, but here’s the glass –

If you could just kneel here…

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

Sayo-! This glass I hold

333!

As I say farewell

It overflows with tears

I cannot drink.

Saburō: In any case, miss

If his lordship is bound for Okinawa –

With every mail boat

He’s sure to send you lovely gifts

Miss!

Concubine: Oh Saburō –

It isn’t gifts I’m thinking of.

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

The path of dutiful leave-taking

Must it be this bitter?

Day and night, my lover’s face

Floats before my eyes.

Resident: Sanrā-gwa, my son!

When I land in Okinawa,

Ink and brushes, a fine kimono

I’ll send them by the fastest boat!

So stay here by your mother’s side.

Sanrā-gwa: I want to stay with you, father,

Together, in Okinawa!

Concubine: My son, if you too leave me,

How will I go on living?

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

As if my single body were split in two

Before my eyes, my heart fills up with darkness.

Old man: If you went with your father,

Young sir, to Okinawa –

How would your mother go on living?

Come now, stay with us!

Captain: As long as you stay here, sir,

The sorrow of parting will only grow.

We’d best get under sail.

Resident: To be torn from my child like this –

Captain, I’m paralyzed with sorrow.

334!

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

I cannot leave,

Though of course I cannot stay.

To be bereft of one’s own child –

How bitter!

Chorus: “Tōbarā bushi” 「とうばらー節」

Until the next world and the world after

I thought we’d be together.

Today’s parting

Is the most sorrowful moment of my life.

My love!

My beloved!

Captain: Sir, as long as you stay here,

The sorrow of parting will not dwindle.

We’d best get under sail.

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

When you arrive, my beloved,

Please send me good tidings.

I pray for your safe voyage.

I do not hate the captain –

It’s the wind that fills the sails

That I hate with all my heart.

Oh master!

Ha-ri-shongane-yo-

Captain: Ah, it’s this wind now!

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

In port, we depend on the anchor,

At sea, we depend on the wind alone.

Captain: Ah, it’s this wind now!

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

When the wind fills out the headsail,

335!

It whips a tear from my eye.

When the mainsail catches the wind,

Both of my eyes fill with tears.

Captain: Ah, it’s this wind now!

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

May the waves bear you safely,

My love.

Concubine: The ship that takes my love from me

Has reached the open ocean.

Even the shadow of its sails

Has disappeared from sight.

Chorus: “Yonaguni shonganē bushi” 「与那国しょんかね節」

There, Okinawa

Here, Yaeyama

Is it some madness of the heart

That has bound our fates together.

Old man: Your lord master’s ship

Has reached the open ocean.

Even the shadow of its sails

Has disappeared from sight.

You’d best return home now, miss, and pray

For the safety of his voyage.

Chorus: “Kohama bushi” 「小浜節」

Having sent you off

On the road back home

No summer rain falls

Yet my sleeves are soaking wet.

Chorus: “Danju-kariyushi” 「だんじゅかりゆし」

Every night I served your dinner, and breakfast every morning,

Now an ocean lies between us.

I know not how I’ll manage,

But I pray for your safe journey.

336!

Appendix V: Tomari Aka (Aka of Tomari)

Sources: Geinōshi Kenkyūkai 1975 vol. 11; Okinawa Bungaku Zenshū Henshū Iinkai.

1995 vol. 10.

Characters:

Aka Tarugani (阿嘉樽金)

Aka's father (Aka no chichi 阿嘉の父)

Isa Umichiru (伊佐思鶴)

Umichiru's nursemaid (anma 乳母)

Umichiru's father (Isa no chichi 伊佐の父)

Captain (sendō 船頭)

Manservant (genan 下男)

Act One

Scene One

Akazu harbor (赤津浦)

Isa-no-Umichiru and her nursemaid enter.

Song: "Akachira bushi" (「アカチラ節」)

Umichiru: Today is the renowned third day of the third month

When high and low come together in enjoyment –

This is the custom throughout this world.

With my nursemaid, I'll go to Akazu harbor

To gather helicals and celebrate.

Well, dear nursemaid, let's hurry!

Nursemaid: Certainly, miss. Let's hurry! We have received permission from

your honored parents. Let us celebrate at our leisure.

Look, miss! A crowd has gathered and they are celebrating with

open hearts. How fitting for this happy day!

Umichiru: Indeed, on this festival of the third day of the third month, a

lighthearted crowd comes together. Aside from this day, we don’t

have the freedom to celebrate. So let’s refresh ourselves with

celebration and then return.

Aka-no-Tarugani enters from the upper part of the stage. He gazes fixedly at Umichiru.

337!

Aka: Did this maiden descend from the heavens? Or rise up from the bottom of

the earth? This is truly a godlike person. Before I head home from my

pilgrimage to Sachihijā, I must try to find out this beloved maiden’s

destination!

Scene Two

Akazu harbor

A group of women are on a procession to the harbor, celebrating while beating drums.

Umichiru and her nursemaid enter. Aka, carrying a fishing pole, approaches Umichiru

and her nursemaid.

Song: "Shūrai bushi" (「しゅうらい節」) (Chorus)

Today is the renowned

Third day of the third month.

Let us go together to the harbor,

To gather helicals and celebrate!

Tarugani's fishing hook gets caught in Umichiru's hair.

Song: "Abagwahei bushi" (「アバ小ヘイ節」)

Umichiru: Ah, nursemaid!

Something is pulling at my hair!

Nursemaid: Aha! This fellow – Where did he come from?

Hey, you there! How rude!

Aka: Please forgive my discourtesy! I was just trying to reel in my fishing line –

forgive me!

Nursemaid: Fish tend to live in the water – are there fish on dry land?

Under the pretext of fishing, It's a girl you're trying to catch, isn't it? You

shameless man!

Aka: That wasn't my intent! It was a mistake – !

Nursemaid: That was a mistake? It was on purpose, admit it! A grown man loitering

by a women's side – it's a disgrace! Hurry along and get far from here!

Umichiru: If it was not his intention, it does not bother me. Please don't lose your

temper, dear nursemaid. Allow the man a mistake!

338!

Nursemaid: Even so, what is it that he thinks of us? When I imagine it, I can't contain

my anger! I'm going to go and rebuke him once more..!

Umichiru: It is embarrassing when you get like this, nursemaid! Look, the sun is

leaning toward the West. Come, dear nursemaid, let's hurry home.

Nursemaid: Yes, miss, if we stay too long, sea snakes will creep up on us. Quickly,

put on your kimono and your overskirt. But that man's interruption

wrecked our celebration – I can't contain my anger! Perhaps I'll go back

one more time and complain!

Umichiru: Nursemaid –

You're acting shamefully!

Scene Three

Tomari-takahashi Bridge

Aka enters from stage right. The Captain enters dancing from stage left.

Song: "Ichihanari bushi" (「伊計離節」)

Aka: I can see you are in a hurry, but can I ask you a question?

Captain: What business has brought you here?

Who are you visiting, my lord?

Aka: The wavering branches of that Sendan tree are beautiful.

What manor is that?

Captain: That is the manor of the leading gentleman of Tomari, the renowned Isa.

Aka: What kind of man is the master of the house?

Captain: He is an accomplished scholar and a great man.

Aka: Ah, that is an admirable thing.

Captain: Oh, it's not just that. The beauty of his daughter’s visage is also rare. One

could truly call her a living god – that's the appraisal of the entire village.

Aha – when I said that, your expression changed. Of course, you have

your heart set on her. The House of Isa is an upright and respectable

house. Even if you return here again in your next life, there is no way you

339!

could fulfill your wish. Of course, you don’t need to listen to my tedious

opinion.

Aka: Anything can be accomplished if a man commits himself to it. A person

who gives up and accomplishes nothing is loathsome.

Captain: If it is truly a fate ordained by heaven, one can't say it's impossible. But to

accomplish that you must be like the god of love himself. But this

conversation has dragged on and the sun is setting in the west. I'll make

one request – if you succeed in doing what you have said, let me hear

about it, won't you?

Aka: Thank you for speaking with me. I will ask you one favor – please do not

spread rumors of this.

Captain: Of course, of course. Well, I am much in your debt – farewell.

Aka: When we meet again, on the road, let's talk further.

Captain: If fate brings us together, let's talk again. A man who thinks that difficult

things are impossible is loathsome – if you say so, I suppose it’s true.

Song: "Ichihanari bushi" (「伊計離節」)

Crossing the waves at the gate of Nagijinya (和仁屋門)

Is a terribly difficult thing.

Act Two

Scene One

Tomari-takahashi Bridge

Song: "Nakafū bushi" (「仲風節」) (Chorus)

Like a plover crying on the bay at night

Going down to the harbor, making the waves my pillow

Hearing the voice of the birds at dawn, having passed the night in crying.

The curtains open to show Aka standing the bridge. Umichiru’s nursemaid enters stage

left.

Song: "Isa heiyo bushi" (「伊佐へいよー節」)

Nursemaid: It's a mysterious thing for a person to pace across Tomari-takahashi from

dusk until dawn, welcoming daybreak with tears. How uncommon. What

340!

could he be thinking? I know it’s none of my business, but how pitiful! I

will go ask about it.

Excuse me, sir – may I ask your name? Why do you pace across Tomari-

takahashi from dusk until dawn, welcoming daybreak with tears? Please

tell me – don’t be ashamed. If there is something I can do to help, I gladly

will.

Aka: Nursemaid, I will put aside my shame and tell you, so please listen. Are

you the nursemaid of Umichiru, the daughter of Isa?

Nursemaid: Yes, I am.

Aka: I am the son of Aka, born in Kumoji village of Naha. On the third day

of the third month, at Akazu Harbor, I saw your mistress' face, and I

cannot forget it. Now I spend each night pacing across this bridge,

welcoming the daybreak with tears. Only the moon knows the suffering in

my heart. Oh, this floating world is a sorrowful place! Nursemaid, if you

pass this letter to my beloved Umichiru I will be in your debt until the end

of time.

Nursemaid: I cannot. What are you saying? What kind of person do you think

Umichiru is? Please go home!

Aka: Please, nursemaid! Since ancient times it has been said that short-

tempered anger reveals a demonic character. You, too, were young once,

before the years crept up on you. Honored nursemaid, I beg you to help

me.

Nursemaid: What you say pains my heart. Wearing yourself thin with love’s longing,

you feel an urgent need to convey your intentions. I will assist you. After I

pass this letter to Umichiru, will you refrain from pacing on this bridge? I

will tell you her reply.

Aka: After you pass along the letter, I will not cross this bridge again. Please

assist me!

Scene Two

Umichiru’s room

The nursemaid goes up the stairs to Umichiru’s room. Umichiru is sitting by a small fire.

Song: "Michi-no-shima bushi" (「道の島節」)

341!

Nursemaid: Are you still awake, miss?

Umichiru: Oh, nursemaid. What is it?

Nursemaid: Something has come that you must see.

Umichiru: What can it be, that cannot wait until daybreak? What do you have to

show me?

Umichiru: What it that happened, nursemaid?

It really can't wait until daybreak, can it.

What is it, what is it you want to show me?

Nursemaid: A young man has come from Kumoji village in Naha. He is the son of

Aka, around 17 or 18 years old, and good-looking. He asked me to give

you this letter, so I have. I do not know its contents. Well, open it and see

what is written!

Umichiru: Just a moment, nursemaid! So a young man asked you to pass on this

letter, and for better or worse you did so? I don’t want to hear such things!

Hurry and go back to bed.

Nursemaid: For ninety-nine nights he has paced Tomari-takahashi bridge – if you tried

to count the days you would break your fingers. He has worn himself

thin with pining, like a withered tree. If he could not convey his thoughts

to you, there was no path for that young man to choose but death – only an

animal would feel no sympathy. Does your heart not break? Hair shining

in the moonlight, sleeves wet with dew, his only indiscretion is welcoming

the dawn with tears. Is it not ethical to save him from death? Please open

the letter and see what is written.

The nursemaid passes the letter to Umichiru.

Umichiru: If you put it that way, I suppose I will take a glance…

Umichiru secretly puts the letter in her sleeve, then tears up the envelope and throws it in

the fire.

Nursemaid: Your heart wants to accept this as truth, yet you act indifferent and uphold

your honor.

Scene Three

Tomari-takahashi Bridge

342!

Aka enters stealthily. The nursemaid enters stage left.

Nursemaid: Without even glancing at the letter that you entrusted to me, she tore it to

pieces and threw it in the fire. So please forget all about this, dear child.

Song: "Shukkē bushi" (「述懐節」) (Chorus)

Although you are unreachable, when I think of you

My thoughts only grow stronger.

I want to see your face, if only its reflection in a mirror.

While the chorus sings, Umichiru comes outside to meet Aka. They embrace as the

curtain falls.

Act Three

The Aka manor

Aka's father enters.

Father: I am the master of the Aka household of Kumoji village in Naha.

I have one son. He excels as a scholar, but recently his heart has been in

disarray. I cannot comprehend it. Almost surely he has been swept up in

love. I'll quickly summon him over and have a look at him. If love shows

through in his words, I will not permit it to go any further. I will send him

as my representative to Iheya Island, to correct his feelings. Beloved child,

come here quickly.

Aka: What is it, father?

Father: There's something we must talk about.

Aka: What kind of thing?

Father: Looking at your body, you’ve wasted away to skin and bones. Something

is out of the ordinary. Your face is completely pale. Tell me immediately

what happened! Is there something wrong with your food? Your worries

appear in the color of your face. Is there something you are hiding? What

is plaguing you?

Aka: I don't feel sick in the least, father. There is nothing in particular to worry

about. Please put aside your concern and carry on as usual.

Aka politely lowers his head.

343!

Father: As you know, this father of yours has been alive for 50 years. You are my

only support in this floating world. If I were to lose you, I would have

nothing to depend on and nothing to live for. We are together, you and I.

Please listen and understand your father’s feelings.

Aka: Forgive me for laying worries upon you like this, father! Please tell me

anything you will, I will not go against you.

Father: These words you have spoken are the words of my faithful child. Beloved

son, your filial piety will persist forever as the way of the world.

Aka: Have I done enough to fulfill my filial piety? I will always pray for your

health. Whatever you command, I will endeavor to carry out.

Father: The more I see, the more I hear, my opinion of you only grows. I want to

ask you to leave Naha immediately and serve as my representative on

Iheya-jima.

Aka But could such an important position really be entrusted to

one as young as I?

Father: It's exactly because I see potential in you that I am sending you. Have you

already forgotten the words you just spoke?

Aka: Of course I must heed your words – I will do as you ask.

Father: It happens that there is a boat bound for Iheya-jima tomorrow. So, make

ready for your trip!

Aka (to Umichiru): Because I cannot go against my father's commands, I will make

ready for my journey. Please do not resent me! Until I return,

please take care of yourself and remain in good health!

Aka performs a gasshō in the doorway. Aka's father is suspicious.

Father: Where are you looking? Is there a person somewhere? This is most

unusual.

Act Four

Inside Umichiru's manor

Umichiru is languishing on her sickbed.

Song: "Iju nu kamaku-gwa bushi" (「伊集ぬガマク小節」)

344!

Umichiru: In accordance with his father's request, my beloved has crossed the sea to

Iheya island, leaving me alone to lament morning and night. My father,

not knowing my heart, has arranged for me to marry another man. When I

heard this, I became lost in thought, morning until night, sick with

yearning, my body as insubstantial as the morning dew. I have had no

word from my beloved. If death takes me, what will become of my

beloved, who I leave behind?

Umichiru’s nursemaid enters. She approaches and embraces Umichiru.

Nursemaid: What's wrong, beloved child? What has happened, that you'd wake up this

early? Whatever is affecting you is serious. If there's something on your

mind, let's talk about it together.

Umichiru: Thank you, dear nursemaid. I have a favor to ask you. This is my death

wish. I am succumbing to this illness. When my beloved returns, please

give him this letter.

Nursemaid: Miss, for you to ask such a thing – what can I do, your nursemaid who you

would leave behind? You will surely meet with your beloved again, so

please don't worry about it so deeply! Dear child!

Umichiru: I am afraid that isn’t so, dear nursemaid. I will not last until tomorrow. My

fate is bitter! You alone will remain to convey the thoughts in my heart to

my beloved.

Song: "Kuduchi" ( 「口説」)

Nursemaid: My lord! Please come here! Oh, your beloved child – alas, just now, she

has passed away.

Umichiru's father enters from stage left. He embraces Umichiru's body.

Isa: Alas, my beloved child! Have you died of broken heart, leaving your

parents behind? Oh, my beloved child! What can I do now?

Act Five

In front of Isa manor.

Aka, who has returned from his position on Iheya-jima, enters dancing from stage left.

Song: "Chāui bushi" (「茶売節」)

345!

Aka: It has been three months, but it feels as if it's been half a year, or a year or

more. Nothing could compare to the joy of finishing my duties on Iheya-

jima. Having returned in bright spirits on the rolling white waves, now I

walk familiar road to Kumoji. Approaching on swift feet, looking at the

gate of Isa manor, I hear no voices. What could have happened? Today

nobody stands in gate of Isa manor. There is nobody here.

Umichiru's nursemade, on her way home from visiting Umichiru's grave, enters stage

right.

Song: "Uchi-tumai bushi" (「内泊節」) (Chorus)

Aka: Who is this person praying and weeping? If something sad has happened,

please tell me!

Nursemaid: Something awful has happened, dear sir. This letter is my mistress' final

testament. I'll give it to you quickly.

Aka recites Umichiru’s final testament (tsurane):

Although my departure for the world beyond

Is drawing near,

My heart is in disarray, caught in a dream

My endurance is failing

My tears drip

Like water from an inkstone

Forgetting obligations and shame

From the midst of numerous thoughts

Because, even if it isn't much, I will leave you these words

As my final testament,

Please quiet your heart

And read them.

Like the Iju flowers which bloom in the,

The deep love you gave me, only an ignorant young girl –

The words you breathed – “even unto the next world” –

I took them deep into my breast,

They colored my heart.

I never forget them,

Not even for a moment.

Even if I brood,

Alone within a rough-fenced garden,

Within the fetters of obligation,

Enwrapped –

Oh, my heart

346!

In the gloom of many nights

Pines and cries out

Like the glimmer of a firefly,

As it finally vanishes completely

Like a shape in the mist

In this heartless world

Even if my life is long,

To think bitter thoughts from morning until night –

Each instant, I long to hurry

To the world beyond –

To take my leave, glancing with one eye

At the jewel-like form of my beloved, who remains in this world –

Oh sadness, I cry, I cry,

It is my time to discard this world

And go to the next.

Even the shadow

Of the moon on a hazy night –

I cannot bear to look bitterly upon it,

I think: I am powerless

In this insubstantial floating world,

And there is nobody who I resent.

Though the earth

Rot away completely

My heart will never be separated

From your side.

Because I am praying

And that nothing troubles you

From my place under the shade of the sod –

Please lead a long life.

I am waiting here for you.

Aka (tsurane):

Who is it she took her leave to

Before leaving this earth?

Please wait a moment and take me with you

On the mountain road of death.

Song: "Shukkē bushi" (「述懐節」) (Chorus)

Who is it she took her leave to

Before leaving this earth?

Please wait a moment and take me with you

On the mountain-road of death.

347!

Aka clutches Umichiru’s letter to his heart and runs offstage.

Act Six

In front of Umichiru’s grave.

Aka enters and collapses before Umichiru’s grave, calling her name. Umichiru's father

enters, accompanied by his manservant. He is holding an umbrella; his manservant is

holding a small teapot.

Song: "Kwamuchā bushi" (「子持節」) (Chorus)

Although the path ahead

Is entirely dark …

Isa: Saburō, what is this. It appears as if somebody is sleeping on my

daughter’s grave – could he be drunk? Wake him up!

Saburō: Hey you, wake up! My lord, this person is already dead.

Isa: What! Who could this be?

Saburō: Who indeed.

Isa: Is that a letter?

Saburō: Here, my lord.

Isa: Ah, Aka-no-Tarugani! Saburō, go quickly to Kumoji and tell them there is

an urgent matter; bring Lord Aka with you immediately.

Saburō: Of course, my lord.

Isa: Had you already bound your fates together in this world? Alas, your father

did not discern it.

Saburō: My lord.

Isa: What became of the master of house Aka?

Lord Aka enters.

Aka: Ah, Isa.

Isa: Ah, Aka.

348!

Aka: What is this? Alas, Tarugani! Tarugani, what has brought to you this

state?

Isa: Lord Aka, please read this letter.

Aka: Ah! Is this your daughter’s final testament?

Isa: It is. I did not discern that these two had already bound their fates together.

If I had only known, they would not have been reduced to this state.

Instead, caught up in love for Tarugani, without breathing a word of it to

her father, she passed away like a withered flower.

Aka: Lord Isa.

Isa: The two of you could not be together in this world. I pray that you can

abide together on a bed of flowers as husband and wife in the

next world.

Aka: Yes – if this is the way it must be, let us open this grave and place them

together within it, in the hope that they might arise together in the afterlife.

Isa: It would be good to do that.

Aka: It is acceptable.

Isa: Beloved children, please listen well. Because you could not be together in

this world, we pray that you can live together honorably as husband and

wife in the next, passing the days in peace on a bed of flowers.

Isa: Because the thread of fate binds you

From this world to the next –

Please go with peace of mind.

On the mountain-road of death.

End.

349!

Appendix VI: Okuyama no botan (A Peony of the Deep Mountains)

Source: Geinōshi Kenkyūkai 1975 vol. 11; Okinawa Bungaku Zenshū Henshū Iinkai.

1995 vol. 10.

Characters

Chirā (チラー)

Chirā’s father, the outcaste village headman (shīdō 勢頭)

Sandē (三良)

Sandē’s mother, Ayā (アヤー)

Sandē’s father (shu nu me 主の前)

Concubine (yūbē 妾)

Treacherous retainer (sūchichi 総聞)

Chirā and Sandē’s son, Yamatū (山戸)

Yamatū’s fiancé, Madamachi (真玉津)

Madamachi's father (Takara no chichi 高良の父)

Madamachi’s nursemaid (chīan 乳母)

Hired thug (rōdō 郎党)

Itinerant performers (chondarā 京太郎)

Aniya villagers

Act One

Aniya Village, Shuri

Setting: in front of the house of the headman (

勢頭の頭

) of Aniya Village, an underclass

village near Shuri. A group of villagers is gathered, drinking liquor and celebrating.

They are praying for a safe childbirth for the headman daughter, Chirā.

Song: "Nakazato bushi" (「仲里節」) (Chorus)

It’s said that Nakazato Village is famous for its flowers, when they open –

When they bloom, please bring me one branch.

Villagers: A child of the wind will be born –

Today we pray for that child’s safe birth. What a joyous thing!

Headman: Why aren’t you all asleep yet?

Chirā: Those people out there are making a racket – they won’t let me sleep!

Headman: My daughter says you louts are keeping her awake with your noise!

350!

Hurry home and sleep!

Villagers: We understand, sir.

A child of the wind will be born – what a joyous thing!

The villagers exit.

Song: "Nakazato bushi" (「仲里節」) (Chorus)

With what can I distract my heart while waiting?

Chirā looks distressed. Meanwhile, Sandē enters from stage right. They react to each

other passionately.

Song: "Amagu bushi" (「アマグ節」)

Chirā: It has been a long time since we last met.

I hope you are well, my beloved.

Sandē: How can you ask if I’m well?

I’ve been going mad waiting to see you. Heartless beast!

Chirā: I knew you would surely resent me, and ceaselessly thought of how I

wanted to see you, but I didn’t feel up to it so I bitterly hid myself away.

Sandē: Would someone who didn’t love you burn with passion like I have?

Never mind your thoughts, go ahead along that road. You are really an

animal. You have no feeling.

Chirā: My feelings are true, my beloved –

because of this, I gave birth to your child.

Sandē: Is it true that we have had a child together? You and I have been bound

together since a previous life – the passion of a single night gave rise to a

child, what a joyous thing!

Chirā: Don’t do me the kindness of saying that you are happy –

I must tell you something about myself that will surely bring you to tears.

Sandē What kind of thing is that? Tell me.

Chirā: Beloved, I am not the child of ordinary people.

Sandē: What are you saying? Tell me, let me hear.

351!

Chirā: Beloved, I was born the child of the headman of the underclass. I loved

you and lead you astray. Please forgive me for deceiving you into loving

me.

Sandē: What a pitiful birth you had – to be born into the midst of the underclass.

I could not have dreamed of such a thing. If that is the case, I should tell

you of my birth as well. Although I have come to the country to lead the

life of a poor commoner, I am a not of common origin. I am from a

samurai family with a recorded lineage. My mother and myself are

despised by my father’s courtesan, and as she demanded, we were driven

out of our home and live in poverty. If the island and the people of the

world learned of our affair or our child, my mother and myself would feel

shame that extended even to our ancestors. You cannot let anyone know

about us!

Chirā: Why would I ever tell anyone? Please set aside your worries, beloved one

to whom my sad fate has bound me. After we part, please dedicate

yourself to your studies and achieve a high position in the world. I will be

here praying for you.

Sandē: What you have said is good. Let us part ways and conceal this from the

eyes of the world. But what will become of this child?

Chirā: I will raise up this child, so that he will not bring shame upon you. Do not

worry, my beloved.

Sandē: Alas, for love to waste away in secret. But you must never speak of this!

Chirā: Though I am woven through with suffering like fine thread, I would

never do anything to bring trouble upon my beloved.

Song: "Jajichi bushi" (「謝敷節」) (Chorus)

Though I am woven through with suffering like fine thread,

I would never do anything to bring trouble upon my beloved.

Act Two

The hut in which the exiled Sandē and his mother are living.

Sandē’s mother is weaving. Sandē enters from stage right, walking slowly and fearfully.

He kneels and greets his mother respectfully.

Song: "Densā-bushi" (「デンサー節」)

352!

Sandē: Mother, you are still awake, and still working?

Mother: For you to go about enjoying yourself, I have to work. Because I’m

working hard for your pleasure, go ahead and do what you like! Look,

Sandē – please listen to me. You’re already nearly eighteen, and it won’t

do for you to fail to notice your mother’s hard work. Because we are

despised by your father’s courtesan, he expelled us from the manor and I

have been forced to live like this. If you would only dedicate yourself to

your studies and receive employment at court, after that, I believe I could

make my pure and serious heart known. As mother and son, how will we

ever cast off our shame if you go on acting carelessly?

Sandē: Mother, perhaps I was seized with some kind of madness – everything

I’ve done to this point has been mistaken. Is there any way you could

forgive me?

Mother: So, you’ll surely dedicate yourself to your studies beginning today? Go get

your books and start studying!

The concubine and her thug sneak in from stage right.

Concubine: This is surely the house, so sneak inside and bind those two, for your

master has commanded that it is impermissible to allow them to go on

living. He has declared that you are to take them to the shore and kill

them, so go carry out his order now!

Thug: I understand. Once we’ve killed them, we will take the promised fee of

700 kan without a single bar of silver missing, yes?

Concubine: If you deal with these two quickly I’ll give you even more.

Thug: How much more?

Concubine: 800 kan.

Thug: Ho! 800 kan!

The thugs barge into the house.

Thug: You two, listen well. The master has decreed that there is no reason for

you to be allowed to continue living in this world. I have been ordered to

take you to the shore and kill you. It’s best for you to give up willingly.

353!

Mother: Can this really be? Although we have committed no crime – it isn’t

enough for him to expel us from the manor, he has to have us killed? I

cannot accept the truth of this – I must go confirm it myself.

Sandē: Dear mother, please wait. Rather than trying to lengthen our time in this

heartless world, we should resign ourselves.

Mother: Well-said – compared to remaining longer in this world of backbreaking

labor, dying will be the greatest bliss. We should resign ourselves together.

Concubine: Do not resent either heaven or me. Your deaths are a result of the evil luck

with which you were born.

Mother: Listen well, evil-hearted husband who fell under the spell of this demon.

Even if you kill our son and I and even if you lead a long life, you will

suffer an end befitting a person whose heart desires evil.

Sandē: Don’t waste your words on that beast.

Courtesan: Shut your mouths! Bind them and take them away immediately!

Thug: Stand up, you two.

Courtesan: Now that I’ve removed you from my path, it will just be us two in this

world.

Chirā: Although I am only a woman, I can’t stand by and watch this happen. I

must try to help them!

Act Three

Sandē and his mother are kneeling on the beach, bound.

Song: "Densā-bushi" (「デンサー節」)

Thug: Now that you are about to die, do you have any last words?

Mother: What last words would we have? Kill us and get it over with.

Thug: And with this, 800 kan.

The thug draws his sword. Chirā enters holding a knife.

354!

Chirā: You evil-hearted bastards are none of my concern, but I cannot stand by

and watch this without trying to help!

Thug: Aha! If you don’t strike quickly someone will always get in the way. Piss

off! You’re between me and 800 kan.

Chirā attacks, but the thug easily throws her aside into the ocean. When the thug raises

his sword to kill Sandē and his mother, however, thunder splits the skies and lightning

flashes. A celestial maiden descends from heaven and strikes down the murderer.

Act Four

Manor

Sandē's father is sitting facing the courtyard. The concubine enters from stage left

carrying poison. The treacherous retainer (sūchichi) enters from stage right carrying a

pot of tea. The concubine pours the poison into the tea. They enter and join Sandē’s

father.

Song: "Kuduchi" (「口説」)

Concubine: My lord, I trust you are feeling well?

Retainer: My lord, I trust you are feeling well?

Father: I’ve never felt better!

Concubine: My lord, please drink your medicinal tea.

Retainer: Yes, my lord, drink your medicinal tea.

Father: I feel so healthy today, I am fine without my medicine. Rather than that,

arrange some amusements for me!

A group of chondarā performers enters.

Song: "Sensuru bushi" (「センスル節」)

Chondarā: Everyone from East to West, your attention please! We are a troupe of

chondarā. Today we have come to incubate good fortune.

Chirā: Listen up, everyone! Don’t forget to sing the songs I prepared for you

beforehand.

Chondarā: We won’t forget!

355!

Sensuru sensuru! Yō-sensuru!

With Chirā at their head, the chondarā approach the doorway of the manor.

Chirā: Is there anyone home? We are a troupe of chondarā dancers.

Retainer: How lucky you came just now! The master has commanded you to enter

and dance for him.

Chondarā: Then without further ado, let the first dancer enter!

The chondarā enter and bow. The chondarā begin to dance. The first dancer is wearing a

stylized horse costume.

Dancer 1: Hei hei!

Oh, the foolish things the lord of this house has done.

On his right is his real wife, and on the left is his concubine.

Despite having a rightful son and heir with his legal wife, he was beguiled

by the beauty of his concubine – he forgot that the eyes of the world are

upon him and fell for her – how laughable!

Dancer 2: Dō dō dō – what’s more –

This whore has been up to something fishy!

She drove the master’s heir from his father’s house, sat in his mother’s

seat, and fattened herself like a sow! She browbeats the master and keeps a

gigolo by her side! Hand in hand with him, she plots to get rid of the lord,

biting the hand that feeds her, nipping at his heels. How outrageous, the

wickedness of her heart – sensuru sensuru yō-sensuru!

They dance wildly in the courtyard while singing to each other. As Sandē’s father listens,

the color drains from his face. Meanwhile, the concubine and treacherous retainer look

agitated and anxious that their plans will be uncovered.

Father: That song you are singing pierces my breast. Tell me, is it me you’re

singing about?

Concubine: You there, dancing those vulgar dances – we don’t want to see any more –

get out of this house immediately!

Retainer: That’s right, that’s right. Our lord doesn't want to see foul dances like that.

Perform something more suitable!

Chirā: Very well! Next, I will perform a spear dance for my lord.

356!

Chirā dances a spear dance to

「作田節」

(sung by chorus). At the climax of the dance,

she stabs the concubine. Sandē’s father gasps in shock.

Father: What! I cannot allow this. You have killed my concubine! What was your

purpose?

Chirā: My lord, under the pretext of being your concubine, this evil-hearted

creature was plotting to kill you and steal your house and property – and

you never realized it.

Father: For some time now, I’ve had my suspicions as well! (To the treacherous

retainer) I’ll dispatch you with one stroke!

The retainer tries to flee and Sandē’s father follows with his sword drawn. Sandē and his

mother enter from stage right and meet Sandē’s father.

Sandē: Father, wait one moment. Cutting down a beast like this would only

pollute your hands. Calm your sharp temper!

Father: Sandē! Wife! I made a terrible mistake. I cannot look you in the eyes.

Please forgive me.

Sandē: Father, all of us make mistakes, high and low alike. From this point on let

us reunite as parent and child.

Mother: Sandē, my son. This place is in plain sight – why don’t we go inside the

courtyard with your father and talk.

Father: What foolishness! I cannot believe I brought all of this on myself…

Chirā (tsurane): With the assistance of the gods, parent and child have been

reunited. May you prosper for a hundred years.

Sandē: Alas, for love to waste away in secret. But you must never speak of this!

Chirā: Though I am woven through with suffering like fine thread, I would

never do anything to bring trouble upon my beloved.

Song: "Jajichi bushi" (「謝敷節」) (Chorus)

Though I am woven through with suffering like fine thread,

I would never do anything to bring trouble upon my beloved.

357!

Act Five

The curtain closes on Sandē’s father and Sandē’s mother. When the curtain opens, Sandē

and Chirā’s child has grown into a young man. He has just passed the civil service

examination, and his family is celebrating.

Song: "Kun-nu-hashi bushi" (「古見の橋節」)

Parents: Sandē, as a testament to your purity of heart, your son and our

grandson Yamatū has passed his civil service exam. Nothing can

compare to the happiness and pride of this day!

Sandē: It is surely thanks to his honored grandparents that my son Yamatū has

succeeded in the world.

Parents: Hey, grandson Yamatū! Come over here!

Yamatū: Honored grandfather and grandmother, it was the thought of you that

drove me to succeed.

Parents: You really dedicated yourself. You are a good grandson! Let us all gather

together as a family and meet our guests.

Madamachi's father: Pardon me.

Parents: Thank you for coming. Let us celebrate together today.

Madamachi's father: Yamatū, due to your diligent study you have passed the civil

service examination and upheld the honor of your ancestors’ name.

Please continue to do credit to your parents through dedicated

work.

Yamatū: What a thing to say – I feel unworthy of such praise.

Parents: Is that young lady over there your daughter Madamachi?

Madamachi's father: She is turning eighteen this year, but she’s really still just a shy and

spoiled child.

Parents: It is only proper for a woman to have a modest and restrained character.

Isn’t that right, Madamachi?

358!

Madamachi's father: Well, come over here and pay your respects to our hosts. Why are

you acting so shy? After all, you are promised to be Yamatū’s

bride.

Madamachi: Father! To say such a thing…

Parents: Ah, she is shy! Well, that is only proper. Let us all retire inside

and celebrate further!

Yamatū: Father, please wait a moment. I have a favor to ask.

Sandē: What favor is that?

Yamatū: Father, you promised that when I passed my exams, you would tell me

about the person who bore me into this world. Where is my honored

mother?

Sandē: Your mother is not an ordinary person, but a pitiful non-human – she was

born a child of the underclass. I did not know that she was the daughter

of a non-human, and you were born in the midst of our misguided love.

Knowing what would happen if this were revealed to the world, we parted

in tears.

Yamatū: Alas! No matter how lowly of a person she is, she is also the mother that

bore me. She should not be forgotten! I want to lay eyes on her, if only

once. Please grant me the liberty to meet her.

Sandē: I do not know where your mother is now. Where would you go?

Yamatū: I would go to the bottom of the ocean or to the furthest mountain. I beg

you for leave to go find my mother.

Sandē: If your mind is made up, I will give you leave. Go and find her. But wait

here for a moment – I have something to give you. Please go hiding your

face under an umbrella, to avoid the eyes of the people. The woman who

knows this verse will be your mother.

He hands Yamatū a poem.

Yamatū (tsurane): Though I am woven through with suffering like fine thread, I

would never do anything to bring trouble upon my beloved.

Yamatū: The person who knows this verse will surely be my mother?

359!

Sandē: Without a doubt, she will be your mother.

Yamatū: In that case, I will leave immediately.

Act Six

Madamachi: Nursemaid, they say that the Futenma Kannon will answer supplications

with miraculous deeds. Do you think that she would hear my supplication?

Nursemaid: Well, miss – the Futenma Kannon does indeed answer supplications with

miraculous efficacy, so she would certainly hear your supplication as well.

Shall we walk there?

Madamachi: But nursemaid, how should I go about praying?

Nursemaid: Well, miss, how about a prayer something like this: Because I love

Yamatū with all of my being, please draw us together so that I can become

his bride!

Madamachi: Nursemaid! I can’t say such things! Can you pray in my place?

Nursemaid: But miss, it’s not me that Yamatū is going to marry! I can’t pray in your

place! You have to carry it through yourself!

Madamachi: But I simply can’t…!

Nursemaid: In that case, I’ll help to hurry you along. Look! As we’ve been talking, we

have come close to the Futenma Kannon. Please enter here. Gods and

Bodhisattvas! We have a prayer for you to hear.

Madamachi: Nursemaid, must you talk so loudly?

Nursemaid: The louder you pray, the better the gods can hear it! You clearly don’t

understand these things. The daughter of our house is in love with Yamatū.

Because she loves him with all of her being, please draw him to her! I beg

you! Miss – you have to pray too. Making me pray all alone, I’ve run out

of breath! You wouldn’t happen to have a little sugar…?

Yamatū enters.

Song: "Sensuru bushi" (「センスル節」) (Chorus)

Truly, in this floating world,

There is nobody as miserable as I.

360!

Even among the birds and beasts

Come together in sympathy,

In this floating world.

Alas, to be born to a person you have never seen,

Not even a single glimpse –

If I become a magistrate, what good will it do?)

Quickly I’ll depart for Futenma,

And pray to Kannon to bring my mother to me.

I’ll disguise myself as a peddler,

Place all kinds of flowers inside small cages,

Creep from place to place.

Ah, I’ve already arrived at Senno harbor!

Wandering among the crowd of vacationers –

Refreshing wares, over here!

Bringing various flowers with me,

Please buy something if it catches your eye!

Madamachi: Call that flower-seller over here!

Nursemaid: Alright, I’ll call him.

That’s no flower-seller; it’s Yamatū, who your think of constantly!

Madamachi: Ah, what shall I do?

Nursemaid: Don’t ask me – I’m only your nursemaid, I can’t tell you what to do!

Hey, you there – aren’t you Yamatū?

Yamatū: Who are you, madam?

Nursemaid: I am the nursemaid of Madamachi. Miss Madamachi is deeply in love

with you – please come here and open up your heart to her!

Yamatū: I heard before that she had me in her thoughts, but there are difficulties. I

would have a word with Madamachi – please call her over here.

Nursemaid: Very well. Miss, miss! Yamatū said to tell you that he wants to speak to

you. Hurry over here!

Yamatū: Madamachi, I am not ignorant of your feelings. There is someone I

absolutely must find – this is why I am traveling the islands dressed as a

flower-seller. After I find this person, shall we come together and live as

husband and wife?

361!

Madamachi: I am truly happy you have spoken the words that I have been thinking. I

will pray for your success with all my heart.

Yamatū: Thank you for saying that, my beloved. I must take my leave for now, but

please pray for my success.

Upon parting, Madamachi gives Yamatū a vow written on a handkerchief. She takes one

of his flowers and recites a verse (in ryūka form).

Song: "Nakazato bushi" (「仲里節」) (Chorus)

(Recapitulates the verse)

Act Seven

Deep in the mountains

Song: "Uya-nu-ugwan bushi" (「親のウグアン節」 )

Chirā: Gods and Buddhas, I beg your favor. Please watch over my son and let

him advance in the world! I ask this of you, spirits.

Yamatū: I have wandered the islands and villages and have not met anyone

resembling my mother. Walking for who knows how many hours, I have

become lost on this deep mountain path. What shall I do? Ah, I see a faint

light in that mountain hollow. I will go there and beg for a night’s lodging.

I have a favor to ask of the owner of this lodge! I am a traveler who has

lost his way – I beg one night’s lodging!

Chirā: Have you lost your way on these deep mountain roads? This is a humble

lodge, but feel free to stay here if you like. You appear to be a child of

Shuri – what brings you into these deep mountains?

Yamatū: There is someone I must find, and I have been searching constantly, but

this heartless world will not bring me to that person.

Chirā: Just as you have said, this is a world without compassion.

Yamatū: The road is long, and my feet and back pain me. With gratitude for your

compassion, I will take a rest.

Chirā: You must be very tired – please take a rest. When I see you, traveler, I

think of days gone by. My own child must be about your age, but I have

not laid eyes upon him once.

362!

Chirā: I entreat you, gods and buddhas, please let my son come into his own in

the world!

Yamatū looks at Chirā and wonders if she might not be his mother. He takes the scroll his

father gave him out of his pack and looks at it.

Yamatū: This woman’s prayer is a mysterious thing – could she be my mother? I’ll

read her this verse…

(tsurane) Though I am woven through with suffering like fine thread, I would

never do anything to bring trouble upon my beloved.

Chirā: When I hear that verse, I am sure that you are the child I carried within me.

Yamatū: Ah, could this really be the mother that bore me?

Song: "Ākī bushi" (「アーキー節」) (Chorus)

Could this be a dream?

Yamatū: Mother, mother – you are still alive and healthy under these heavens!

Chirā: My own child – I finally have the chance to meet you.

Yamatū: Being able to meet my precious mother, I feel like I am watching a dream

unfold. Beloved mother!

Chirā: I once prayed to the gods and buddhas that I would be able to lay eyes on

my own child just one time. And now my prayer has been answered, in

this place on this very day. It all feels like a dream. Thank you for

traveling so far to find me!

Yamatū: I crossed countless hills and rivers to find my mother, and lost my way on

this deep mountain road. For us to meet miraculously in a place like this

must be the work of the gods and buddhas!

Chirā: That is surely the case. Perhaps the bond between parent and child simply

cannot be cut.

Yamatū: I, your son, have grown to adulthood and have received academic honors –

soon I will enter the world of the court in service to the king.

Chirā: You received academic honors!

363!

Yamatū: I hope that you are happy for me!

Chirā: All I have hoped for, while living in this mountain glen and praying to the

gods and buddhas, was for fate to bring my son to me. Seeing your form

before my eyes on this blessed day, I feel as if I could ascend into the

white clouds of heaven.

Yamatū: It could only be the result of our wishing it from morning until night. All I

could think of after passing the exam was the mother that gave birth to me.

Completely transfixed, I asked my father about you. After that, I resolved

bitterly to cross the oceans and the mountains and search for you even

unto the bottom of the sea – and now I have found you by walking to this

far mountain glen. Mother, please return with me to Shuri and live

together with me there!

Chirā: I deeply appreciate that you would offer to bring such a lowly person as I

to Shuri to live with you. But I cannot go with you. I believe I will

continue to live in this mountain hollow until the end of days. Please allow

me to keep living in this distant place.

Yamatū: Mother, what are you saying? You say that you want to live here alone –

don’t you understand the love that drove me to cross many oceans and

mountains in search of you?

Chirā: I am sorry to keep repeating myself, but if the people of the world knew

that you were carried in the womb of a person of deplorable status, it

would mean the end of your career. That is why I refuse to go to Shuri.

Please look into my heart and see that my only desire is to go on living in

this distant mountain glen, praying to the gods and buddhas for your

success in the world. No matter how difficult it is, you must leave me here

alone.

Yamatū: If you are of that mind, then I will not return to Shuri either – I will stay

here and live by your side.

Chirā: Don’t say such things!

Yamatū: How could I return to Shuri if it meant abandoning my mother alone in a

place like this? I cannot be separated from your side!

Chirā: I understand your words, my son. But it befits a man of your status to be

of service to the king – that is your vocation as a child of the nobility, my

son. You must return to Shuri.

364!

Yamatū: I was driven by filial piety for my mother when I decided to search for

you. My heart will not tolerate throwing you away and returning to Shuri

alone. Please allow me to stay here, mother.

Chirā: I understand. No matter how low my status is said to be, I am the mother

that gave birth to you, and your heart cannot bear the pain of leaving me

alone in a deep mountain glen like this. I will go to Shuri with you, then.

Take me with you.

Yamatū: So you will go with me then! Thank you, mother! So there was a purpose

to my coming here. If I return with you by my side, my father will surely

rejoice. Let us leave here for Shuri tomorrow at dawn, and live there

together as mother and son!

Chirā: Yes, We will take our leave of this place at dawn…

Yamatū: Together with the shining white clouds of dawn, we will leave for Shuri,

dear mother!

Chirā: My son, all these years, while I was praying to the gods and buddhas for

your success, I also planted mountain peony seeds. Now that their flowers

are in full bloom, you are here. I want you to see them! In the meantime, I

will go prepare for the journey.

Yamatū: That sounds wonderful. Of course, there was nothing else here to comfort

you. I do want to catch a glimpse of the trees that my mother planted and

raised!

Chirā: You must never forget that this deep mountain glen is a place that your

mother nurtured and brought into being. Look over them at your ease.

Yamatū: Please hurry and prepare for the journey while I go look over the flowers,

mother.

Chirā: Is such a thing as my birth still a cause of trouble in the world? To be born

into a low status is a hateful thing. I cannot live for even one day in a

home with the child who my birth pains brought into the world. What

what is there I can do? For the sake of my son’s career, I cannot give in.

Now that I have seen my child’s face, there is nothing left in life that I

must do. If I go on living, it will put obstacles in my son’s path – so I will

leave this world with prayers for his success!

Song: "Shukkē bushi" (「述懐節」) (Chorus)

365!

For the sake of my child, I will extinguish this reproachful life

Watch over him and protect him, Amida Buddha!

Yamatū comes back onstage and does not see his mother. He looks from right to left, but

she has already gone from this world. He returns to center stage and breaks down in

tears.

Song: "Uya-nu-ugwan bushi" (「親のウグアン節」)

Yamatū: Alas, mother! Thinking of me, you brought yourself to this. Alas, beloved

mother! What can I do?

Yamatū: Who do you wish to see your blossoms, mountain peony?

People do not pass through a place like this.

Chorus: Who do you wish to see your blossoms, mountain peony?

People do not pass through a place like this.

End

366!

Appendix VII: Iejima Handō-gwa (Iejima Romance)

Source: Geinōshi Kenkyūkai 1975 vol. 11; Okinawa Bungaku Zenshū Henshū Iinkai.

1995 vol. 10.

Characters

Handō-gwa (ハンドー小)

Handō-gwa’s cousin, Machī-gwa (マチー小)

Kana (加那)

Kana’s wife (Kana no tsuma 加那の妻)

Kana’s father (Shimamura-ya no nushi 島村屋の主)

Kana’s sister, Aba-gwa (アバ小)

Captain (sendōshu 船頭主)

Iejima villagers and village official

Act One

Kunigami District, Okinawa Island

Song: "Nakandakari bushi" (「仲村渠節」)

Is this a dream? If perchance this is reality,

Ah, what a truly sad affair. At any rate, please listen to the story as it unfolds…

Kana’s wife: Isn’t that elder brother Kana there? When you came to Kunigami you

said you’d return after twenty days, but you haven’t – this is a woman’s

doing! Some local flower has caught your heart, while loneliness smolders

in my breast as I wait for your homecoming – I can’t believe it. From the

bottom of my heart – you are a beast!

Kana: Don’t resent me! One can’t predict how a trip will go! It hasn’t gone at all

the way I imagined. That’s why so much time has passed. Please don’t

feel jealous! There’s no need for misunderstanding!

Kana’s wife: Everyone on our island already knows of what you’ve done! Isn’t it true,

the rumor that you’re having an affair with Handō-gwa of the house of

Nokihayashi-guchi?

Kana: That kind of thing just doesn’t stay hidden…. It was out of the loneliness

of travel. There was nothing else I could do to put aside my loneliness. It

was only a transient, passing love, the kind of flower that only blooms for

one night – please don’t cry so! I’m going back inside for a moment.

367!

Kana’s wife: I won’t wait any longer! Our parents and siblings told me to bring you

back immediately, so come here!

Kana: Even though she’s merely an exotic flower, can I discard her so easily? I

decided to make her mine because I was overcome with feeling. Leaving

without saying a single word would be pitiful. Wait four or five days!

Kana’s wife: Four or five days – how outrageous! I won’t even wait a single day. Come

with me right this moment.

Kana: If that’s the way it has to be, let me go say a few words... Just wait over

here, I’ll come right back immediately.

Kana’s wife: This is just too much! I won’t give you up for a second. You’ll get

snagged by that wild rose's thorns and never come home. This is an

outrageous, serious affair – I refuse to let you go. You wait here and I’ll

go in your place.

Kana: I’ll just say one word and come right back, just wait here…

Kana’s wife: I can’t do that, do you think I’ll allow it?

Kana’s wife latches onto him and drags him offstage. The lights go down. When the lights

come up again, the setting has changed to Handō-gwa’s house.

Song: "Handō-gwa bushi" ( 「ハンドー小節」)

Machī-gwa: Hey, cousin Handō! That man who made vows with you has gone

home to his island.

Handō-gwa: What happened? Who went where?

Machī-gwa: That man from Iejima who colored your heart with love – he returned to

Iejima.

Handō-gwa: You don’t understand the feelings between us! We are bound by a vow,

two birds flying wing to wing. Our vow will bind us even in the afterlife.

Like a pair of mandarin ducks preening each other, the thread of fate

binding us together – you couldn’t possibly understand. If I were to die,

he would too – if he were to die, I’d die at the same moment. We made

that vow before the gods. He couldn’t possibly toss me aside and return to

his island.

368!

Machī-gwa: Those sweet words were empty – they did not come from his heart. He

made those vows to deceive you! I saw him fling the dyed scarf you

lovingly made for him around his neck and turn and dash away. He

hopped on a small boat bound for Iejima, pushed away from shore and set

sail. His wife took him back to Iejima. You’ve been betrayed – what will

you do?

Handō-gwa: Is what you’re saying really true?

Machī-gwa: It’s true. See, look – over there – see that boat? Look at that boat,

cousin. That boat riding the waves with its white sails unfurled – that is

the boat your beloved is on. Now do you understand? That boat is sailing

toward Iejima.

Handō-gwa: Akisameyo! What can I do? Can he really have deserted me? Will that boat

not turn back? Ah, that boat has no mercy. That boat carrying the person

to whom I turn my thoughts of love, the person I exchanged vows with –

is there nobody who can send it back? He left without saying a single

word of parting. I do not know the fathomless heart of this person who

could leave me alone like this. Discarded by him – rather than pining or

burning with resentment, rather than crying, I would chase after that boat,

even if I should die.

Handō-gwa runs toward the ocean, but Machī-gwa stops her. The lights go down. When

the lights come back up, Handō-gwa is sick in bed. Anmā calls for Machī-gwa to bring

some food. Handō-gwa wakes up as if from a nightmare.

Song: "Chōkkari bushi" (「チョッカリ節」)

Handō-gwa: To be discarded and suffer to this extent, falling in love with a stranger

from another island, even vowing to tie my fate to his. I have resolved to

put this man who did me wrong out of my mind. But when I try to forget

him, his form appears in dreams, and I can’t erase him from my thoughts.

What can I do?

Machī-gwa: Men from Iejima have shallow feelings – they are incapable of making

sincere promises. They make you fall in love, then abandon you to pass

the days sobbing and pining. Didn’t I warn you not to throw your passions

into love-talk and give away your heart?

Handō-gwa: This has to be a momentary separation, doesn’t it? If he was truly gone

forever, he would have said something to me, whether good or bad. It’s

deeply mysterious that he left without a word, there’s no reason for it. I

369!

want to go to that island and get the truth from him. I pray, let me go to

that island…

Machī-gwa: No matter how you pine for him, that heartless man’s thoughts for you

will last no longer than a sparkling drop of dew on the face of a morning

glory. Rather than pursuing him to a strange island, you should marry the

headman of Okuma village – our mother said it’s possible! When you

have a husband, you’ll forget him.

Machī-gwa’s words of consolation only appear to deepen Handō-gwa’s suffering.

Handō-gwa: Tossed aside like this, even were I to die, death could not take me – how

can you tell me to get married! Rather than marrying someone else, I

would prefer you to just kill me instead!

Machī-gwa: Saying those words to you, smiling with flashing eyes – for him it was just

a bit of holiday fun. Would you really go all the way to Iejima after being

deceived by empty words like that?

Handō-gwa: If I could meet him again and then die, it would be like paradise. Please

send me to the island of the person I love.

Handō-gwa clings to Machī-gwa and cries, and Machī-gwa is overcome with emotion

and completely at a loss for what to do. At this point, the Ship Captain enters.

Song: "Totankani bushi" (「トタンカニ節」)

Ship Captain: Thank you, madam innkeeper! I’m off to Iejima – I will return later.

Machī-gwa: You were here quite a while this time, weren’t you, Captain!

Captain: I suppose I was. On account of bad weather, I’ve had to stay here until

today. From the moment I moored my ship, the wind would not let up – I

wondered if my fate had perhaps bound me to Hentona, or if I was meant

to find love here! My thoughts started straying to all the beautiful young

women of Hentona… But thankfully the storm stopped, the sun came out,

and the dawn broke over peaceful white clouds – a happy moment! The

path before the boat will be calm as we depart from the harbor, and boats

will come and go as delicately as if they were walking along a thread.

We’ll have a safe voyage and then return again later.

Machī-gwa: So like the white clouds that follow the dawn, you’ll be able to unfasten

your mooring line and depart for Iejima.

370!

Captain: That’s right. I’ll go straight away and return later. Handō-gwa,

what are you doing up so late – the bright dawn is almost breaking.

Machī-gwa: We passed the night bitterly talking about a man from Iejima who my

fell deeply in love with, who then thoughtlessly abandoned

her, leaving her to greet the dawn with tears of yearning. Looking at my

cousin’s suffering, I am overcome with bitterness and cannot bear it.

Dear Captain, if your ship is bound for Iejima, I beg you to let her go with

you. Take her to Iejima, so she can meet with this man that she loves and

clear her heart.

Captain: What a heartless cad! The young men of Iejima are all shallow of heart!

They make compassion their enemy. They are truly beastly. My heart

breaks when I see how the abandoned Handō-gwa has wasted away with

crying. But to take her on my boat to Iejima to meet him – that is not

something to take lightly.

Machī-gwa: Why is it such a serious affair?

Captain: If by any chance she becomes angry and gets into a lovers’ quarrel with

this man who abandoned her, and things become too serious to settle,

then the responsibility is on me. If come come between them, I will be

pulled this way and that, and I’ll have just worsened the dilemma!

Handō-gwa: I promised myself to a man who knows nothing of feeling, and he left me

without so much as a parting word. But now I am suffering the

consequences of my own foolishness. My regret will never be exhausted

and my heart will never find peace. But all I desire is to exchange one

word with that man. What do you say, Captain – can’t you ferry me across

to Iejima? I would be in your debt for the rest of my life. Will you

consent to take me to Iejiima?

Captain: Although this is not my affair, it breaks my heart. I cannot bear see you

crying from lovesickness like this. I will take you to Iejima, Handō-gwa.

Handō-gwa: Will you really take me to Iejima?

Machī-gwa: Captain, thank you!

Captain: Before the dawn breaks.

Both cousins: Stowed away on the ship…

Captain: We’ll reach our destination.

371!

Both cousins: Arriving in Iejima before the sun goes down.

Captain: Send your thoughts across the sea, and you will certainly be able to meet

your beloved. Hearing you cry and suffer like this is poison to my heart.

Machī-gwa, I will trust you to make things right between Handō-gwa’s

mother and myself…

Machī-gwa: Please don’t worry about that. Set sail, with Iejima as your destination.

Please look after my Handō-gwa for me!

Captain: You needn’t worry about that. Iejima is my home island, Machī-gwa. We

have plenty of yams. So many yams that you’d tire yourself out digging

them up. I’ll give her more yams than she can eat!

Machī-gwa: Captain! I am indebted to you for the rest of my life!

Captain: This isn’t a matter of obligation! It is natural to help others when they are

troubled, Machī-gwa.

Handō-gwa: I’ll leave today and return tomorrow, so wait here and don’t worry. Thank

you, Captain!

Song: "Shongane bushi" (「しょんがね節」)

Machī-gwa: Please return home after talking things over with him!

Handō-gwa: If I find that the prior bond between us is broken, I will tell him in all

seriousness that misery will reduce me to a pile of bleached bones…

Act Two

Iejima Island

Handō-gwa has arrived on Iejima and is walking tentatively toward the village. Two

young men from the village enter.

Song: "Yoi-yoi bushi" (「ヨイヨイ節」)

Young men: Hey hey, older sister! What island are you from? How old are you? Your

form is beautiful and your face is beautiful. Is this young lady drifting

through the floating world? She doesn’t answer when people speak to

her!

Young man 1: Hey, older sister! Won’t you look over here?

372!

Young man 2: No, no – look over here!

Handō-gwa: My island? I’m from Hentona in Kunigami. What are you trying to ask?

Young men: Of course, fertile Hentona. Your skin is beautiful and you smell sweet…

It’s clearly fate that brought us together. Won’t you come with me?

We’ll pass the night talking and playing around!

Handō-gwa: I don’t know of such things! I can’t tell you the things I have to say.

Young man 1: If you’re plagued with thoughts older sister, lighten your heart by enjoying

yourself with us – we’ll show you our island’s compassion as a souvenir!

Handō-gwa: I feel like I’ve stepped into a thornbush. You vile men are like insects!

Young man 2: The men of this island are used to playing around. What kind of beastly

woman would ignore fine young men like us?

Young man 1: Well, if she doesn’t want to come, we’ll make her – we’ll drag her to the

garden and show her how the young men here enjoy themselves until we

tire of it.

Song: "Ushiushi bushi" (「ウシウシ節」)

Crowd: Promises are like broad rivers; the place to have a good time is over to the

west; the place to meet and talk is east of Castle Mountain. A beautiful girl

from another island comes here without shame to meet a lover – the

women of Hentona are thick-skinned, seducing men from other islands!

Official: Stop this rowdiness immediately!

Crowd: It’s our right as young people to play around! What kind of dog are you to

restrict it? What kind of scrawny cat are you? Try to rein us in while

we’re in the throes of ecstasy and we’ll kick you like a horse, we’ll drive

you away, you cow!

They volley verses back and forth; eventually the village official disperses the crowd and

helps Handō-gwa collect herself. He asks her why she has come to Iejima, and she tells

him that she needs to talk to Kana. He agrees to lure Kana over so that she can talk to

him. He goes and fetches Kana. When he enters, Handō-gwa steps out and confronts him.

Song: "Shimajiri chijuyā bushi" (島尻千鳥節)

373!

Handō-gwa: Even though I’ve crossed a thousand oceans and a thousand mountains to

search for you, you tread upon my heart – why won’t you deign to meet

me? Don’t you find that cold-hearted? Even on the occasion of our parting,

you didn’t say a word to me, but snuck off by yourself. I became lost in

thought when you abandoned me. Even were I to die, death would not take

me. Setting aside all shame, I came here to find you, and you treat my

feelings like waste paper – even as I suffer here before you…

Kana: How could the thread of fate close the distance between far-off Hentona

and this island? Write off our vows of love as predestined to be broken.

From this point on, if you think of me, it will only bring you disadvantage.

Handō-gwa: Didn’t you say that even if the ocean dried up and the mountains crumbled,

our love would live on like a flower growing from a stone? Didn’t you

swear it? How can you say such things now?

Kana: Did you really think those words I said were true? That was all just for the

moment – a diversion to distract me from the loneliness of travel. Our love

was only meant to last one night! I never intended those vows I made to

last forever.

Kana shoves Handō-gwa away, and she falls into deep sorrow.

Song: "Shin-chijuyā bushi" (「新千鳥節」)

Handō-gwa: There is nobody I can rely on and I don’t know a soul. If you’re the kind

of man that could toss me aside after I have journeyed here out of love for

you, then kill me and toss my body aside.

Kana: I don’t know you!

Attempting to disentangle himself from the suicidal Handō-gwa, Kana calls for help from

his home. His father and wife come and shove Handō-gwa to the side. They pull him

away. Handō-gwa falls back, utterly defeated and resigned to die.

Song: "Sakiyama bushi" (「崎山節」)

Handō-gwa: I came here thinking we could be together, but that beast of a man has

turned his heart from me. I would rather die than go on living with these

bitter thoughts. After I die, my shame will return to him as a curse.

Handō-gwa wraps her scarf around her neck to strangle herself, but as she is about to do

it the Captain enters running. Handō-gwa clings to him.

374!

Song: "Shin-nakazahī bushi" (「新仲座兄節」)

Captain: Is this Handō-gwa? What happened?

Handō-gwa: Oh Captain, what can I do? Even if death came for me, I could not die.

Captain: After coming all this way to meet that man and bear your heart to him, this

is the state you’ve been reduced to? What happened? What did he say

when you met him?

Handō-gwa (tsurane):

The flowers of words lacking in emotion

Words that blossomed like sweet-smelling flowers

I imagined they were sincere

I let myself be seduced by his hateful words!

I crossed the ocean to come to this island

Filled with sorrow, I stood here waiting

In the shadow of his forest, by the side of this road

Full of longing, I waited alone

He will not meet me – I cannot even look at him.

With the aid of a compassionate person

Who saw me crying bitter tears and knew my sorrow

I came here to tell him my bitter feelings

But he scattered my thoughts of love and compassion to the winds.

He said the words he spoke to me were false

That I was a distraction from the loneliness of travel

That I was a momentary comfort

That in his heart, he never intended to keep his vows

And from today on, there would be no bond and no love between us

He said to give up on the bond I thought we shared

He told me to forget him and fled, abandoning me.

Captain (tsurane):

What! That beast! Is such a thing possible?

Although only a woman, you traveled from far-off Hentona

Crossing the mountains and the ocean alone

Only for that man to make an enemy of your heart

A person who does not know honor and humanity

Is a demon or a serpent, worse than a beast.

What crime would there be in killing him and throwing his aside?

I should chase him down and kill him this instant.

375!

The enraged Captain begins to storm off in the direction that Kana fled, but Handō-gwa

stops him.

Song: "Shin-nakazahī bushi" (「新仲座兄節」)

Handō-gwa: Please wait, Captain! Holding evil intentions like that will make you no

better than that beast [Kana]. It is my fault for coming here and spilling

my heart to a person whose character I did not know. It is my own fault

that I was treated cold-heartedly, and I must live with that. Please let the

matter rest!

Captain: It’s like you said just now, Handō-gwa. If you calm your heart and forget

about all of this, then you can go on. As long as you’re on this island, you

will be unable to forget and go on suffering. If you return to Hentona and

meet your parents and siblings, your heart will warm and you will forget

all about this. Your cousin Machī-gwa has come here out of concern for

you – please return to Hentona with her.

Handō-gwa: At this moment I cannot calm my heart, Captain. I’m going to climb

Castle Mountain and collect myself before we leave. Go ahead and I’ll

follow shortly.

Captain: Please calm your heart and return quickly!

Song: "Michi-no-shima bushi" (「道の島節」)

Handō-gwa: The perfumed words of a person who knows human kindness make a fine

souvenir to take to the other world.

Captain: The perfumed words of a person who knows human kindness make a fine

memento to take on a journey away from this world.

As he gets up to leave, the Captain thinks about what Handō-gwa just said and realizes it

might be a bad omen. He comes back to check on Handō-gwa and encourage her to leave

with him.

Captain: But to say such a thing while crying, after having been treated so

heartlessly – are you sure it isn’t your intention to die?

Handō-gwa: How could I possibly die, Captain? Even if I must live forever to do so, I

will see that man meet his fate.

376!

Captain: When you’re overcome with loneliness, everything becomes impossible.

Please return home with us today, Handō-gwa! Such worries are the cause

of illness. If you get sick, it will be to your disadvantage!

The Captain reluctantly leaves. Handō-gwa walks up the mountain.

Act Three

It becomes clear as Handō-gwa wanders on the mountain that she is looking for a place

to die.

Song: "Kohama bushi" (「小浜節」)

Handō-gwa: The sad voices of birds, crossing the island from east to west. Are they

crying for that man? Are they crying for me?

Song: "Gamaku bushi" (「ガマク節」)

Handō-gwa: Mistaking the empty words of a heartless man for vows of love that would

bind us together from this world to the next, I was driven to seek him out

on this distant island, but have not been satisfied. Now that I die, may he

know a punishment befitting his crimes!

Song: "Tobarumā bushi" (「トバルマー節」) (Chorus)

Handō-gwa (tsurane):

Separated from the island of my birth, I discard my parents and siblings

and disappear along with the dew on this unfamiliar island. When I am

gone, please forgive my sins!

Song: "Shukkē bushi" (「述懐節」) (Chorus)

Separated from the island of my birth, I discard my parents and siblings; please

forgive my sins!!

Handō-gwa wraps her own hair around her neck and strangles herself. Meanwhile, the

Captain and Machī-gwa come searching and calling for her, but arrive too late.

Song: "Handō-gwa bushi" (「ハンドー小節」)

Captain: Ah, Handō-gwa!

Machī-gwa: Ah, Handō-gwa! Has it really come to this?

377!

Captain: When she told me that she was climbing the mountain to calm her heart

and that she would return, she was resolved to die.

Machī-gwa: When she declared that if she met that man and fate did not bind them

together she would be reduced to a pile of bleached bones, she was

speaking words of parting – she was resolved to die.

Captain: She has departed and her body has returned to the earth. May her spirit not

die, but show its wrath to those who wronged her!

Machī-gwa: The bitterness and resentment that cost her life was brought on by human

cruelty. If there is an afterlife, return your sorrow to its agents!

Both: We shall find a place in the east side of this forest facing Hentona – we

should find a place facing her island and bury her there, so she can travel

the path of death without worry.

The wrap up her body and exit.

Act Four

The home of Kana’s father

Kana has fallen ill. His father, wife, and sister are all by his bedside.

Father: Kana, it won’t do for you to stay in bed all day. You have to eat your fill

and recover. As they say, “illness stems from the spirit” – put aside your

worries and get better!

Kana: I intended to eat and recovering my strengh, but when evening came, I

heard Handō-gwa singing, her voice echoing from the mountains behind

the house – it filled me with unease…

Father: What an absurd thing to say! You can hear Handō-gwa singing? Don’t spit

out such foolishness. Isn’t the one they call Handō-gwa dead and gone?

Do the living concern themselves with the dead? It isn’t fitting to speak of

such an ominous thing. Hey, there’s some soup cooked – somebody bring

Kana a bowl!

Machī-gwa and the Captain arrive outside the house.

Captain: Well, Machī-gwa. This is the house of Shimamura. Let’s announce

ourselves.

378!

Machī-gwa: Yes, let’s.

Captain: Excuse me! Excuse me!

Kana’s sister: Who is it? Why are you here?

Captain: My name is Captain Tamagusuku. I’ve come to meet with the master of

the house. Shall I come in?

Kana’s wife: Please wait one moment.

Hey, father – there’s a Captain Tamagusuku here who says he has

business with you.

Father: He wants to meet me on business? I don’t want to meet anyone today. Tell

him I’m not home.

The Captain enters without waiting for an answer.

Captain: Good heavens – you say you aren’t home and yet here you are. I’ve come

to settle some business with you.

Father: What business?

Captain: It isn’t personal business that’s brought me here. In truth, it’s this young

lady who has business with you. Please listen to what she has to say. Well

then, Machī-gwa, tell him what’s on your mind.

Machī-gwa: Well let me see. Well, father…

Father: “Father,” is it? Someone of your standing dares to address me as

“father”…?

Machī-gwa: Oh – well in that case, would you prefer if I called you “old man?”

Father: “Old man,” is it? The gall. Well, what’s your business? Spit it out quickly.

Machī-gwa: I am Machī, cousin of Handō-gwa, who died on this island. Please give me

your attention.

Father: What connection does that have to me?

Machī-gwa: Let me tell you what brought us here today. Handō-gwa came to this

island to meet with Kana, but met with failure instead. I worry that

379!

because she died here unfulfilled, her spirit will linger on this strange

island…

Father: Do you mean to say you want us to light incense for her? I don’t even

know this Handō-gwa of yours. We have no connection to her – it’s

absurd to ask me to light incense for a stranger.

Machī-gwa: Headman, sir – I’m not asking this for my own sake. It is my cousin

Handō- gwa’s vengeance that has made your son Kana sick. If you refuse

to light incense for her with us, I fear you will have to watch him suffer

and die.

Father: You rascal, you filthy-mouthed child! Oi, Captain! It was you who

brought that woman Handō-gwa here to die. Clearly you didn’t learn your

lesson – have you brought this one here to die as well?

Captain: Now now, headman! Could anyone in the world deny that your son may as

well have murdered Handō-gwa himself? Coming to Hentona to buy

cotton, your son met a typhoon and his boat was upset – but Handō-gwa

saved his miserable life. He told her he had neither a wife nor children,

and they made a vow of love together. But when it was time for him to

return to Iejima, he left without so much as a word. Handō-gwa came here

to ask the man who crushed her heart to become her true husband. But you

– parent and child alike – forgot your obligation to the person who saved

Kana’s life, and heaped bitterness and scorn upon her, driving her from

this world. And now you won’t even light a stick of incense on her behalf?

Where else in the world could I find a mean-spirited creature like you?

Father: Mean-spirited creature? How dare you! It’s only natural for a man

traveling on business to fool around with other women. Seducing a woman

for the night is part of being a man. You can’t pin her misfortunes on my

son! Perhaps I should break a few bones for you.

Captain: Oh, is that so? It was your son’s foul attitude that misled her – but

listening to your foolishness, it’s clear the apple didn’t fall far from the

tree.

Father: Foolishness? You dim-witted bastard!

Machī-gwa: You can say whatever you want, but eventually you’ll be taught the

difference between right and wrong. As they say, “when the bell rings out,

it will be too late to protest.” Think well on that when you choose the

course of your own life.

380!

Father: Oho, “when the bell rings out?” Why not let it ring out two or three times,

then?

Captain: Don’t say I didn’t warn you, headman. Well, Machī-gwa, trying to talk to

a numbskull like this is like trying to mix oil and water. Let’s fetch

Handō-gwa’s bones and return home.

Machī-gwa: I’ll say just one more thing. You might be the headman of this village,

enjoying the height of prosperity, but when you suffer the vengeance of

Handō-gwa’s spirit, this house will be reduced to a manger. Open your

eyes before it’s too late!

Captain: Exactly, Machī-gwa – this house will be reduced to a manger, and this

headman will end up bleating like a sheep.

The Captain and Machī-gwa leave.

Father: What did you say? Get back here!

Kana’s wife: Father, it won’t do any good to exchange words with ill-mannered

creatures like them. Calm down and come inside.

Father: Hey, Kana! It’s because you’re sick in bed like this that those villains can

spout libel about you. Eat something and get better quickly! Wife, bring

some food for Kana.

Kana’s wife: Please, eat something!

Kana: Handō-gwa! Handō-gwa!

Father: Kana! Hey, Kana! What’s wrong?

When Kana lifts up the rice bowl to eat, fire leaps out of it and shocks him. He drops the

bowl and chopsticks. Handō-gwa’s ghost appears behind the sliding screen.

Kana’s wife: Husband! No…!

Kana stands in a daze.

Kana: Until this moment I didn’t pay heed to things like divine punishment and

sin – only now, when I have suffered it, do I understand…

While Kana sings “Hābēru bushi,” Handō-gwa’s ghost appears onstage.

381!

Father: Ah, you demon!

Kana’s father picks up his sword and strikes out at Handō-gwa’s ghost, but cuts down

Kana’s sister.

Father: Daughter! No! No!

Kana gropes at his bed and stands. Handō-gwa’s ghost crosses the stage and stands by

his side. He chokes and falls dead. Special effects light up the stage.

Father: Kana! No! Seeing you like this – what will become of this father of yours?

What will become of our family and this island?

Song: "Sūrī agari bushi" (「スーリー東節」)

Captain: Heaven and earth mirror each other. If you sin against another, heavenly

punishment will befall you. Well, the bell that marked their fate has rung

out – headman, didn't you say to let it ring out two or three times? It

appears you have two or three burials to prepare for.

The Captain and Machī-gwa exit as Kana’s father weeps.

*In some versions, the play ends with the following song:

Song: "Sāsā bushi" (「サーサー節」) (Chorus)

The world in which humans live is shaped by compassion. Do only good in the

world. Heartlessness and abnormality will not abide.

End.

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Endnotes

Translating and Romanizing these titles presents complexities. To accomodate searching, I have mostly

used standard Japanese Romanizations in the main text. In the Naha-Shuri dialect of Okinawan, Uyanma

can be pronounced Uyanmā (うやんまー) or Uya-anmā (うやあんまー). Tomari Aka can be pronounced

Tumai Akā (とぅまいあかー) or Tumai Ākā (とぅまいあーかー). Iejima Handō-gwa is pronounced Ījima

Handō-gwā (いーじまはんどーぐゎー). I have rendered Iejima Handō-gwa as Iejima Romance because

an an earlier version of the story is titled Iejima romansu (「伊江島ロマンス」) (Nakahodo 1994, 14).

In a 2012 interview, Kōki Ryōshū , artistic director for the National Theatre Okinawa, states that “the

world of Okinawan theater and Ryūkyūan musical drama is a world of nasake” (Kokuritsu Gekijō Okinawa

Unei Zaidan 2012 vol 6, 4). Iwona Kordzinska-Nawrocka provides a concise etymology of the term as it

arises in classical Japanese literature: “The Japanese noun lexeme nasake indicated all feelings that

stemmed from the emotional nature of man. Its field of meaning encompassed such feelings and emotions

as: friendship, feeling of closeness, fondness, sympathy and love. The expression nasake aru hito 情けあ

る人 meant a man distinguished by his sensitivity and tenderness who is able to bestow his affection upon

others” (2011, 47). Sensitivity to emotion has long been recognized as a keystone of the normative moral

universe of classical Japanese literature and literary criticism. In his influential exegesis of The Tale of

Genji, for example, Motoori Norinaga argues that “characters … who ‘know what it means to be moved by

things’ (mono no aware o shiri), who ‘have compassion’ (nasake arite), and who ‘respond to the feelings

of others’ (yo no naka no hito no kokoro ni kanaeru) are ‘good,’ whereas those who lack these qualities are

‘bad’ (Shirane 1985, 644).

On the formal logical concept of co-interpretability, see Giorgie Dzhaparidze, “A generalized notion of

weak interpretability and the corresponding modal logic” (1993).

There has been much debate over the discursive politics of applying concepts in European history, such as

feudalism, to Japan (cf. Keirstead 2004; etc.). In this dissertation, I will follow David L. Howell in adhering

to Rodney Hilton’s broad definition of feudalism as “an exploitative relationship between landowners and

subordinated peasants, in which the surplus beyond subsistence of the latter, whether in direct labour or in

rent in kind or in money, is transferred under coercive sanction to the former” (Hilton 1978, 30; cited in

Howell 1992, 270).

Jansen translates its articles as follows: “1. Deliberative councils shall be widely established and all

matters decided by public discussion; 2. All classes, high and low, shall unite in vigorously carrying out the

administration of affairs of state; 3. The common people, no less than the civil and military officials, shall

each be allowed to pursue his own calling so that there may be no discontent; 4. Evil customs of the past

shall be broken off and everything based upon the just laws of Nature; 5. Knowledge shall be sought

throughout the world so as to strengthen the foundations of Imperial rule” (2000, 338).

Inoue Kawashi and Itō Hirobumi’s portrayal of the emperor as “[holding] in His hands … all the

ramifying threads of the political life of the country” further recalls Hegel’s description of the ideal

monarch as “the firm, immediate knot of the whole” (Itō 1906, 7-8; Honneth 1996, 60).

Interestingly, up until the late 1880s, Itō Hirobumi questioned the interpretation of kokutai as immutable

(Gluck 1985, 145). Gluck sees his change of heart as an adaptation to the political climate of the time.

Makishi explains this principle: “for [the character of] a king, bodily gestures, speech, and so forth that

are kingly; for a retainer, gestures and speech that are fitting for a retainer” (2002, 82-83).

As Valerie Barske notes, the Shuri-Naha Okinawan pronunciation of Iha Fuyū’s family name is “Ifa.”

(2013, 66). In this dissertation I mostly use standard Japanese Romanizations, not as a tacit political

statement but in order to simplify intertextual citation and searching.

Aniya defines “extremely small producers” as farmers working plots of less than five tan; the average

size of plots in Okinawa was 6 tan 7 se to 7 tan 4 se, compared with 1 cho 1 tan in mainland Japan (1977,

153-154).

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The “theory of common Japanese-Ryūkyūan ancestry” appears in the Mirror of Chūzan (Chūzan seikan

中山世鑑), a royal chronicle compiled in the 1650s by Shō Shōken. It was transmitted to Japan by Arai

Hakuseki in his 1719 History of the Southern Islands (Nantō-shi 南島史).

The most widely known popular source on Ryūkyū throughout the Tokugawa period was probably

Takizawa Bakin’s fanciful serial novel Chinsetsu yumihari tsuki (椿説弓張月, 1807-1811), which

dramatizes the apocryphal exploits of Minamoto Tametomo, imputed father of the Okinawan king Shunten.

Another source of popular knowledge of Ryūkyū were the intermittent tribute missions sent by the royal

government to Edo, which drew curious onlookers as they passed through the countryside.

On 1906 Ryūkyū Shimpō article, for example, harshly criticizes the implementation of policies that

neglect or marginalize Okinawa’s “precious, singular history,” calling their impact “heart-chilling” (Ota

1996, 370-371). The article goes on to praise Okinawan educators who resist the trend toward “forgetting

our mothers and fathers”: “Fortunately, among the teachers originating in our prefecture, there are those

who oppose the central government’s policies and seek to reverse them by reminding the Okinawan people

of their place of origin." Similarly, Iha Fuyū indicts assimilationism as “the divestiture of nationhood”

(kokusei hakudatsu 国性剥奪), which is tantamount to the divestiture of [ethical] values” (kachi hakudatsu

価値剥奪). In a Meiji 42 Ryūkyū Shimpō article, Iha writes: “Nationalists often speak of ‘unification,’ but

I cannot admire the kind of so-called unification that would protect the special characteristics of a particular

group while seeking to completely wipe out anything that differs. It may be good to judiciously eliminate

harmful institutions in accordance with the logic of idealism, but there is no benefit in indiscriminantly

eliminating good characteristics as well. Doesn’t true unification abide in tolerant efforts to incorporate and

exhibit the good characteristics of each individual and group?” (Hiyane 1996, 21). In a Meiji 43 letter to

poet Kawahigashi Hekigotō, Iha praises Okinawans’ increasing resistance to this attempted divestiture: “To

sum it up, ten years ago Okinawan society sought to destroy the old and simplistically copy Japan, whereas

today, we are cultivating our self-consciousness as Okinawans, preserving the old, and have opened a path

to the rejection of mimicry” (Hiyane 1996, 17). Hiyane identifies this embrace of Okinawan political and

cultural self-consciousness as a “Copernican revolution” in the prefecture’s intellectual history.

A 1902 Ryūkyū Shimpō article, for example, criticizes the Japanese government for treating Okinawa

“like a newly-occupied land” rather than a Japanese prefecture (Ōta 1996, 378). The article goes on to

excoriate Japan’s semi-colonial stance toward the prefecture: “Let us examine the government’s policies

one by one. Has a single step been taken to help Okinawa realize its true quality? Looking at the situation

honestly, with the exception of education, isn’t it the case that not a single noticeable thing has been done?

Even with regard to this single achievement, education, we can expect nothing from it but the

encouragement of a ‘national spirit’ ... Once a ‘national spirit’ has been inculcated, it is clearly not

considered necessary to continue [an Okinawan student’s] education." Unfortunately for the Okinawan

cause, Miyata Kurada (宮田倉太), who eclipsed Ōta Chōfu as the paper’s primary opinion columnist

during the Shōwa period, abandoned Ōta’s nuanced stance in favor of a simplistic and unilateral

assimilationism (Hiyane 1996, 118).

The year 1932 saw the Mukden Incident and the invasion of Manchuria, an assassination attempt on the

Shōwa Emperor by a Korean independence activist, the official denunciation of leftist legal scholar

Takigawa Yukitoki, and two violent uprisings by right-wing groups, the so-called League of Blood Incident

and the May 15 Incident.

Writing in the year of Okinawa’s reversion from American to Japanese authority, Kinjō Seitoku and

Nishizato Kikō pronounce Kerr an “American imperial ideologue,” and accuse him of overemphasizing

Ryūkyūan/Japanese difference in order to legitimize the American occupation and persuade Okinawans to

reject reunification with Japan (1972, 96). This being said, they also openly admit to occupying the

opposite ideological position (the pro-reversion position).

The Japanese Communist Party and the Okinawa People’s Party (OPP) initially embraced the concept of

Okinawan uniqueness and ethnic self-determination, declaring the American invaders a “liberatory force”

and hailing the end of Japanese “colonial domination.” At one point, the OPP, the Okinawa Democratic

League (ODL), the Okinawa Socialist Party (OSP), and the Miyako Socialist Party all supported

independence (Tanji 2003, 104). During the late 1940s, however, the Okinawa Socialist Mass Party

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(OSMP) and OPP began to favor reversion to Japan, organizing the Preparatory Council for Promoting

Reversion (Nihon fukki sokushin kiseikai). The formation of the pro-reversion Okinawa Teachers’

Association (OTA) in 1952 and the Okinawa Islands Reversion to the Home Country Preparatory Council

(Okinawashotō sokoku fukki kiseikai) in 1953 further drove the movement. In the 1960s, a series of

conflicts between the United States administration and Okinawan labor groups pushed the latter toward

favoring reversion, adding the final element to a coalition of educators, workers, youth groups, and leftist

political parties (organized as the Okinawa Prefecture Council for Reversion to the Home Country,

Okinawa-ken sokoku fukki kyōgikai) which worked to sway the population overwhelmingly toward

reversion (145).

In Shimomura’s defense, this was a salient threat at the time. In the wake of his landing in Ryūkyū,

Commodore William Perry suggested in a dispatch to Washington that the United States should colonize

and ‘civilize’ the islands (Jansen 2000, 277). Francis L. Hawks, under Perry’s supervision, recorded the

following observations: “The Commodore was deeply moved, as indeed were all the gentlemen of the

expedition, by the tyranny exercised toward the mass of the people. ‘God pity these poor creatures!’ says

the former in his journal: ‘I have seen much of the world, have observed savage life in many of its

conditions; but never, unless I may except the miserable peons in Mexico, have I looked upon such an

amount of apparent wretchedness as these squalid slaves would seem to suffer.’ ‘The poor, naked creatures,

who toil from morning till night, know not the relaxation of a Sabbath, nor the rest of an occasional holiday,

generally granted by even the most cruel taskmasters … their stolid and impassive features express nothing

but toil and care, and are a sufficient index of their abject condition.’ ‘I can conceive of no greater act of

humanity than it would be to rescue, if possible, these miserable being from the oppression of their

tyrannical rulers’” (1858, 219-220).

In his work on indigenous and Ladino populations in Mexico, Stavenhagen describes the radical self-

transformations which an Indian must execute in order to move upward into the Ladino social strata:

“Upward mobility among Indians represents a process of acculturation. But learning Spanish and adopting

Ladino dress styles is insufficient. The Indian must also become socially (generally meaning physically)

separated from his community. In order to become a Ladino, the mobile Indian must cut his ties with the

social structure of his corporate community. He must not only modify his cultural characteristics, but also

his ‘social’ condition as an Indian” (1965, 68). This analysis of Indian self-transformation prefigures

Tomiyama Ichirō’s analyses of the Okinawan “lifestyle reform” movements of the 1930s (1995).

Tomiyama follows Stavenhagen in arguing that argues that presently apparent formations of cultural

difference were not the cause of political and economic subjugation, but rather, the result: “Primary

characteristics of the colonial situation were ethnic discrimination, political dependence, social inferiority,

residential segregation, economic subjection, and juridical incapacity. In the same way, class structure was

defined in terms of labor and property relations … From these conditions there emerged the corporate

community and the formation of indo-colonial cultural characteristics, which we today call Indian culture”

(70). Kinjō and Nishizato, Yamazaki Kaoru, and Tomiyama Ichirō apply the same argument to Okinawa

(1972; 1982; 1995). Hechter’s model of internal colonialism also describes the formation of interconnected

class and ethnic identities as an effect of uneven modernization: “The spatially uneven wave of

modernization over state territory creates relatively advanced and less advanced groups. As a consequence

of this initial fortuitous advantage, there is a crystallization of the unequal distribution of resources and

power between the two groups. The superordinate group, or core, seeks to stabilize and monopolize its

advantages through policies aiming at the institutionalization of the existing stratification system. It

attempts to regulate the allocation of social roles such that those roles commonly defined as having high

prestige are reserved for its members. Conversely, individuals from the less advanced groups are denied

access to these roles. This stratification system, which may be termed a cultural division of labor,

contributes to the development of distinctive ethnic identification in the two groups” (1975, 9-10).

Tomiyama, Hiyane, and Nomura all cite this argument (1995; 1996; 2005).

In the final chapter of Kumiodori wo kiku, Yano Teruo discusses the problems facing contemporary

scholars of Okinawan performing arts and provides a comprehensive list of key topics for future research.

On music and dance, Yano lists the following topics: 1. Consolidating, identifying, and classifying primary

source documents; 2. Recording lineages of transmission; 3. Building searchable computer databases of

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works, and developing computer-based methods of comparative analysis; 4. Clarifying song-naming

practices and the function of the names of omoro and umui chants; 5. Tracing the influence of Ryūkyūan

performing arts on mainland Japanese performing arts; 6. Further research into the influence of Chinese

music on Ryūkyūan music; 7. Reconstructing sources on lesser-known lineages of transmission of modern

zō-odori dance (lineages other than Tamagusuku Seijū-ryū); 8. Identifying patterned relationships between

song lyrics and gestures; 9. Investingating the influence of Japanese kouta odori on Okinawan zō-odori

(2003, 536-543). On kumiodori and musical drama (kageki), Yano proposes the following topics: 1.

Consolidating and editing primary source material; 2. Recording the lineages of transmission of forms (型),

staging conventions, and interpretive conventions; 3. Research into period costumes and props (544-547).

This list of topics is largely representative of the priorities of Japanese scholars of Okinawan performing

arts in general.

The others are the National Theatre, the National Noh Theatre, the National Engei Hall, the New

National Theatre, and the National Bunraku Theatre (Osaka) (http://www.ntj.jac.go.jp/).

There is a significant body of work in Japanese on early modern and prewar Okinawan performing arts,

which runs the gamut from encyclopedic scholarly studies to appreciation guides written for a popular

readership to polemical treatises and manifestos. Four authoritative contemporary works are Yano Teruo's

Kumiodori wo kiku (2003), Ikemiya Masaharu's Ryūkyū bungaku ron (1980) and Okinawa geinō bungaku

ron (1982), and Ō shiro Manabu's Okinawa geinō shigairon (2000). Yano’s Kumiodori wo kiku (2003) is a

monumental work focused primarily on courtly kumiodori. In it, Yano introduces kumiodori in its

historical context as a mode of performative diplomacy, describes Tamagusuku Chōkun's trips to

Kagoshima and Edo, and explicates stylistic and structural similarities between kumiodori and Japanese

performing arts, primarily nō and kyōgen. He goes on to analyze kumiodori's stylistic and formal

characteristics, describe performance and production conventions, and give point-by-point analyses of

Shūshin kane'iri, Mekarushi, Hana-uri no en, and Temizu no en. Finally, he provides a summary of courtly

and folk ceremonial practices, with a focus on the Coronation Ship ceremony and Yaeyaman myth and

ritual. Ikemiya Masaharu's Ryūkyū bungaku ron (1980) overlaps with Kumiodori wo kiku in many areas,

however, it dedicates more attention to the arts with preceded and followed kumiodori. In its first section,

Ikemiya traces the origin of the Ryūkyū an literary tradition in the Omorosōshi (compiled in 1532). The

second section explores the Omorosōshi's roots in premodern oral traditions, drawing parallels to the oral

traditions that survived on the Ryūkyū Kingdom's rural peripheries, while third section treats addresses the

connection between the omoro songs, the ryūka poetic form, and uta-sanshin music. In the fourth section,

Ikemiya discusses popular performing arts. His account of the development of modern commercial

performing arts is especially relevant to this dissertation. Okinawa geinō bungaku ron (1982) adopts a

more self-reflexive approach while developing a theory of interpretation. This is especially apparent in the

book's fourth section, which is directed to contemporary performers. Ōshiro’s Okinawa geinō shigairon

(2000) supplements Yano's and Ikemiya’s descriptions of Miyako and Yaeyama performing arts, and

provides a valuable chapter on regional kumiodori and the current condition of shabon (hand-copied

collections of scripts) and other rare primary materials. Ōshiro also corroborates Ikemiya’s account of the

development of popular commercial theater, and provides several musical drama scripts translated into

modern Japanese.

Incidentally, this accords with Hegel’s suggestion in Lectures on Aesthetics that because the lower

classes do not know freedom of action, lower class characters in drama are best relegated to comic roles

(1975, 192).

I have chosen to focus on Lukács rather than Gramsci because “with regard to aesthetics and literary

criticism, Gramsci had no direct speculative interest and did not attempt a theoretical ordering of the

methodological categories he elaborated” (Boelhower 1981, 575-576). This being said, in his scattered

writings on literature, Gramsci followed Lukács in rejecting aestheticism (represented in his writing by

Croce) and approaching both the writing of literature and the sociological critique of literature as modes of

revolutionary political praxis: “the premise of the new literature cannot but be historical, political and

popular” (cited in Boelhower 1981, 576). Interestingly, both theorists also use organicist rhetoric to stress

the populist nature of effective literature: Gramsci states that literature must “sink its roots into the humus

of popular culture as it is,” while Lukács asserts that the best works “grow out of the life and history of the

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people … [as] an organic product of the development of their nation” (1980, 54). I do not mention the third

major Western European critical Marxist of the 1910s–20s, Karl Korsch, because he did not write

specifically on aesthetics. Korsch’s thought, however, strongly influenced the literary and theatrical theory

and practice of his friend Bertolt Brecht (Kellner 1980, 29-42).

The February 26 Incident was a 1936 coup attempt carried out by a faction of young ultranationalist

officers in the Imperial Japanese Army, who succeeded in assassinating a number of high ranking officials.

Kant identifies sensus communis aestheticus or “Taste” as “[the] faculty of judging of that which makes

universally commanicable, without the mediation of a concept, our feeling in a given representation” (Kant

1914, 173). Prior to his engagement with historical materialism and critical theory, Tosaka studied the

philosophy of science in a neo-Kantian framework at Kyoto University under Nishida Kitarō and Tanabe

Hajime. For Tosaka, as for Kant, judgments determined by habituated taste can be called aesthetic “because

[their] determining ground is not a concept, but the feeling (of internal sense) of that harmony in the play of

the mental powers, so far as it can be felt in sensation” (Kant 1914, 80; Tosaka 2001, 22).

Geological metaphors in particular arise throughout Marxist and post-Marxist literary theory. Lukacs, for

example, states that the vocation of true realism is to “capture tendencies of development that only exist

incipiently and so have not yet had the opportunity to unfold their entire human and social potential,” i.e.,

“underground trends” (1980, 48). Ranciere revisits the seismograph metaphor in his discussion of the

concept of literature as it emerged in Germaine de Stael’s De la literature: “Literature did not act so much

by expressing ideas and wills as it did by displaying the character of a time or a society. In this context,

literature appeared at the same time as a new regime of writing, and another way of relating to politics,

resting on this principle: writing is not imposing one will on another, in the fashion of the orator, the priest

or the general. It is displaying and deciphering the symptoms of a state of things. It is revealing the signs of

history, delving as the geologist does, into the seams and strata under the stage of the orators and the

politicians – the seams and strata that underlie its foundation” (2010, 161-162).

Over 200 years later, the Meiji Japanese government had this oath translated as part of its campaign to

legitimize its own claim on the islands: “The islands of Riu Kiu have from ancient times been a feudal

dependency of Satsuma; and we have for ages observed the custom of sending thither, at stated times, junks

bearing products of these islands, and we have always sent messengers to carry our congratulations to a

new Prince of Satsuma on his accession” (Toguchi 1975, in Smits 1999, 16).

Royal branch families (ōji) each received a base stipend of 300 koku. The anji aristocracy received base

stipends of between 40 and 200 koku, depending on how many generations separated them from their root

families. If they served an important position at court, this could be increased to as much as 600 koku.

Samurai of uēkata rank who were employed at court or in Kumemura usually received around 40 koku;

common samurai who were employed in these positions received 20–30 koku. Samurai who served as

sōjitō or waki-jitō received income based on the productivity of their fief. If a samurai of uēkata rank was

chosen to serve on the Sanshikan, he would receive 400 koku (Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 148-

149). In addition, royal magistrates dispatched to Kume, Aguni, Kerama, Tonaki, Ihe, and Iheya Islands

were granted a stipend of 4.5 koku (Sakihara 1971, 77).

Here it is worth mentioning the ‘on-the-ground’ structural parallels between feudalism and colonialism.

Ooms calls the Tokugawa political system a “colonial variety” of domination: the “specific nature of the

political order established by the shogun and the daimyo … was a regime of conquest like a colonial

regime” (1996, 89). Similarly, on a more general conceptual and functional level, Scott observes that

colonialism and feudalism are both paradigmatic examples of “relations in which appropriation and status

degradation are joined” (1990, 193). Derrida goes so far as to assert an ontic kinship between colonialism

and the phenomenon of culture itself, arguing that “every culture institutes itself through the unilateral

imposition of some 'politics' of language … through the power of naming, of imposing and legitimating

appellations” – this “reveals the colonial structure of any culture in an exemplary way” (1998, 39). In

Derrida’s radical critique of culture, “‘colonialism' and 'colonization' are only high points” in the variagated

history of asymmetrical intersubjective relations (25).

This was comparable to tax rates in Satsuma, and accorded with the Tokugawa maxim of “four parts to

the lord, six parts to the people” (shikō rokumin 四公六民) (Matsui 1975, 95; Sansom 1931, 467).

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According to Sakihara, the conversion rate between goods and rice was not seriously skewed when it was

initially set in the late seventeenth century, but was “definitely and seriously out-of-date in the nineteenth

century, to the great disadvantage of the peasants” (1971, 94).

The institution of indenture allowed some occupational flexibility. Beginning in 1680, the government

permitted peasants to indenture themselves or family members in urban areas for periods of up to 10 years

for the purpose of repaying debts (Sakihara 1971, 58).

Other festivals include the New Year’s Day of the Dead (jurukunichi / miisa / mii-gusoo 新後生),

sixteenth day of the first month of lunar calendar; shiimii (清明), between the twenty-second day of the

second lunar month and the third day of the third lunar month; higan (彼岸), the spring and autumn

equinoxes; shinugu and ungami (海神) festivals, during the seventh lunar month; arasachi/arashitsu (赤節),

shibasashi (柴差す), and dunga/donga festivals, during the eighth lunar month (Baksheev 2008, 284).

The concept of visiting deities (raihōshin) or stranger-deities (marebito) is important in many variants of

the Okinawan indigenous religion, and is linked to the concept of “other worlds” (nirai). In his study of

Okinawan deification practices, Evgeny Baksheev adopts Komatsu Kazuhiko’s helpful distinction between

“other worlds” (異界), of which there are many in various Japanese folk traditions, and “the other world”

(他界), the singular world of the dead. In Okinawa as well, there is one “other world” of the dead

(gushoo/gusoo), but various types of “other worlds” (nirai/nirai-kanai), including the overseas world, the

submarine world, the subterranean world, and the celestial world (2008, 287). In many locales, nirai-kanai

is believed to be an island in the eastern seas, which is the home of the “great master of Nirai” (niree nu

ufunushi) and the original source of the five grains, fire, fertility, and prosperity, as well as of visiting

deities and stranger-deities.

Among the most commonly performed kyōgen are Tori-sashi (鳥刺し), Takara-uri (宝売り), Sakana-

azuke (魚あづげ), and Juriyobi-kyōgen (ジュリヨビ狂言) (Ikemiya 1980, 282).

Historical records pertaining to commercial performing arts during the Ryūkyū Kingdom period are

scarce; moreover, the lines of transmission of most premodern commercial performing arts have died out,

making ethnographic research difficult. In his Essays on Ryūkyūan Literature (Ryūkyū bungaku-ron),

Ikemiya consolidates extant historical and ethnographic records pertaining to two major commercial

performing arts: a form of puppet theater staged by itinerant performers called chondarā (京太郎), and a

form of lay Buddhist dance related to Japanese nenbutsu-odori (念仏踊り). While these arts are no longer

performed in their original forms, they are historically significant, and traces of their influence can still be

seen in kumiodori, village kyōgen, and modern commercial performing arts. The first historical record of

chondarā appears in the 1713 Record of the Origins of Ryūkyū (Ryūkyū yurai-ki 「琉球国由来記」). The

term can be translated literally as something like “fellows from the capital,” and the Ryūkyū yurai-ki claims

that the first chondarā came to Ryūkyū from Kyōto. Miyanaga Masumori’s 1925 tract “Puppet theater of

Okinawa” (Okinawa no ningyō shibai 沖縄の人形芝居), which is based on interviews with aging

performers, gives a similar explanation. Ikemiya assesses this explanation as apocryphal and likely

inaccurate (cited in Ikemiya 1980, 273). He does, however, leave open the possibility that puppet theater

migrated to the Ryūkyū Kingdom from Japan, as the puppet and stage designs described by Miyanaga and

others are reminiscent of designs used by Ōsaka-deko, Ebisu-mai, and other types of mainland Japanese

itinerant puppeteer (274). According to Miyanaga, the puppets themselves were made of wood, around 15

cm in height, and of rougher construction than bunraku puppets. The stage was portable, and featured a

three-colored curtain (reminiscent of the well-known kabuki stage curtain); the puppets were held with

strings from above the portable stage in the style of marionettes, rather than operated directly as with

bunraku puppets, and up to ten different puppets were used. Higa Seishō further records that the average

chondarā troupe consisted of seven members, including a taiko drummer (cited in Ikemiya 1980, 275).

The chondarā were especially active during weeks surrounding the old calendar New Year, when they

would tour the homes of wealthy aristocrats in Shuri; they are remembered in songs such as “Chondarā no

uta,” recorded by 船越羲珍 (274). In addition to puppet shows, chondarā performed masked dances, sang

Ryūkyūan and Japanese songs, and put on comedy sketches in local languages. Higa records the content of

their performances as “manzai-type” (万歳形), and mentions that chondarā were banned from performing

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while Chinese envoys were present, as their art was considered too Japanese (275). As Ikemiya notes,

chondarā are often confused with ninbucha (念仏者), or nenbutsu dancers. Early records such as the

Ryūkyū yurai-ki, however, distinguish between the two. Higashionna Kanjun mentions that ninbucha were

also called hinganā (彼岸者), after higan, the equinoctial week during which Buddhist ceremonies were

held (cited in Ikemiya 1980, 276). From the seventeenth century to nineteenth centuries, ninbucha were

invited to perform at Buddhist memorial services in exchange for rice and other goods. During the later

nineteenth century, presumably as the number of chondarā and ninbucha dwindled, the traditions began to

overlap. Ikemiya regards Miyanaga and Higa’s primary informant, a man named Tamagusuku Yama (玉城

山戸), as the final bearer of both traditions. Based on his interviews with Tamagusuku, Miyanaga names

the village of Aniya (安仁屋), just north of Shuri, as the hometown of many chondarā (276). Songs and

song fragments thought to derive from the chondarā and ninbucha traditions, however, can be found in

local folk repertories from Amami to Yaeyama. Similarly, the influence of chondarā upon courtly and

popular drama is apparent in the manzai dance scenes in the kumiodori Manzai tekiuchi and the kageki

Okuyama no botan, and in the village kyōgen Torisashi, which is apparently based on a version of

torisashi-mai (鳥刺し舞, “bird-catcher’s dance”) performed by chondarā (281). Iha Fuyū also writes on

chondarā (1975 vol. 7, 314-324).

James C. Scott reports on similar “legal fictions” utilized (albeit for different reasons and to different

ends) in Lao villages under socialist governance and in Russian villages under Catherine the Great: “the

actual social organization of cultivation, apparently, remains essentially unchanged, but cooperatives have

been created by slight of hand reinforced by ersatz account books, officeholders, and cooperative activities

… It is reasonable to assume that lower functionaries and villagers are coconspirators in this effort to please

their demanding and possibly dangerous superiors” (1990, 60). In all of these cases, the “legal fiction” of

the autonomous and organically unified communal body underscores the village’s vertical relation to the

rent-seeking metropolitan elite by glossing over intermediary linkages between subordinates – an

arrangement which is often beneficial to both local and metropolitan elites (62).

Iha refers to Tamagusuku Chō kun as an Okinawan Wagner (1974a, 154). It is worth noting, however,

that the actual composition process of kumiodori and other courtly arts was likely collaborative.

A number of Okinawan scholars have written on the relationship between kumiodori and nō. In his

authoritative 2003 book Listening to Kumiodori (Kumiodori wo kiku), Yano Teruo offers a comprehensive

summary of recent comparative research on the subject. The similarities Yano identifies are: 1. Highly

formalized staging; 2. An intensely introspective presentation centered on the technique of sliding feet

(suriashi); 3. Minimal and highly symbolic stage design; 4. A gestural style that conveys internal states

through restraint rather than histrionics; 5. The use of a chorus (utai); 6. The coordination of chanting with

instrumental accompaniment; 7. The use of fixed, formalized chanting patterns rather than natural speech

or free verse; 8. The unity of time (shared with gendai-nō); and 9. Certain shared technical terms (41-43).

The major differences are: 1. Kumiodori does not employ masks; 2. There are no fixed role types (shite,

waki, etc.); 3. Kumiodori costuming is based on Ryukyuan courtly dress, most notably bingata; 4. The use

of the sanshin and focus on melodic song rather than abstract percussive textures; 5. The use of ryūka

(indigenous poems) and Ryūkyūan prosodic patterns based on 8 and 6 mora lines, in addition to Japanese

patterns based on 7 and 5 mora lines; 6. Less restrictive conventions regarding entrances and exits; 7. The

use of clappers (taku) and fixed poses (mie) influenced by kabuki, as well as stage mechanisms (karakuri)

influenced by bunraku; and 8. A Confucian rather than a Buddhist ideological background (43-45).

Tamagusuku Chōkun himself visited Kagoshima five times and Edo twice, and is recorded as having

seen multiple nō and kyōgen performances and possibly kabuki and bunraku performances (Yano 2003,

79). A skilled dancer, Chōkun performed both Ryūkyūan dances and shimai (nō performed without a mask

or costume) for the Shimazu (88).

The historical connections between classical Ryūkyūan and Chinese performing arts are less clear;

however, it is widely recorded that the scholarly families of Kumemura preserved Chinese musical

traditions. In addition, the records of Xia Ziyang (夏子陽), a Chinese envoy dispatched to the Ryūkyū

Kingdom in 1606, mention that he was entertained with performances of Chinese musical drama (Yano

2003, 60). Regarding the convention of using certain songs to signify emotional states, Wang compares the

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use of the Ryūkyūan classical melody “Agarī bushi” (「東江節」) to signify lament in kumiodori with the

use of the Chinese melodies “Ku huang tian” 「哭皇天」 and “Bei zheng gong” 「北正宮」 to signify

lament in Chinese musical drama (1998, 302-303).

Yano suggests that kumiodori may have adopted this mode of expression from the nō technique of

performing without a mask (hitamen nō) (2003, 44).

On the importance of kata in kumiodori, see Iha (1974b, 381-385).

As argued by Steven Shapin, the notion that “good character” anchors the ability to govern and the

search for reliable metrics of character often informs administrative practice in hierarchical societies

(1994). In her studies on governance in the colonial Dutch East Indies, Ann Laura Stoler, for example,

explains how “evaluations of internal comportment – evidence of integrity, reserve, and trustworthiness –

generated and motivated the density of the colonial state’s archival production and bureaucratic labors …

Appeals to sacrifice, social empathy, family honor, and parental affections guided the rhetorical strategies

of bureaucratic reports, both their credibility and the future advancement of their authors” (2008, 8).

Zhu Zaiyu’s gestural taxonomy recalls Lefebvre’s observation that “gestural systems embody ideology

and bind it to practice. Through gestures, ideology escapes from pure abstraction and performs actions”

(1991, 215).

It is worth noting that “Conversations with a Rustic Old Man” (Suoweng pianyan 蓑翁片言) resembles

Nakae’s “Dialogue with the Elder” (Okina mondō 翁問答) both in title and in content. In both works, a

venerable elder explains the application of the principles of Zhu Xi Confucianism to everyday problems

(cf. Smits 1999, 88-89; Shirane 2002, 354-358).

The other “demoness” plays are Kanawa and Aoi no Ue (Klein 1991, 293).

Interestingly, the conservative Ōta Chōfu recognizes Shūshin kane’iri’s potentially transgressive

overtones, writing that “[Shūshin kane’iri] could be misinterpreted as the kind of work that should draw the

eyes of the police, however, after a number of clashes between the woman’s passion and obsession and the

upright man’s intellect, he conclusively refuses her” (1974, 383).

In the version of Shūshin kane’iri recorded by Iha, the chorus uses the melodies “Hwishi bushi,”

“Shichishaku bushi,” and “San’yama bushi,” all of which typically accompany laments, including poems

about “young women’s single-minded devotion to love” (Iha 1974b, 51-67; Foley and Ochner 2005, 28-29

ff. 10, 14).

One key primary source for information on Ryūkyūan personages is genealogical records or kafu, which

provide curricula vitae for male members of aristocratic families. Unfortunately, due to his crime,

Heshikiya Chōbin’s kafu was purged (Ikemiya 1982b, 158). The most extensive remaining record of

Chōbin’s life is a passage in the kafu of his father, Neha-pēchin Chōbun (禰覇親雲上朝文, 1678–1706).

According to this record Heshikiya Chōbin was Neha Chōbun’s first son, born in the eleventh month of the

year 1700. His mother was Neha Chōbun’s concubine, daughter of the renowned scholar and poet Yara

Seneki (屋良宣易, 1657–1729) (156). Because Neha Chōbun died at age 29 in 1706, it is thought that

young Chōbin was raised by his mother’s family and mentored by Seneki (157). Gregory Smits has

translated an excerpt of Neha Chō bun’s kafu pertaining to the Heshikiya-Tomoyose Incident: “…

[Heshikiya Chō bin] conspired with Tomoyose [Anjō] and came up with an imprudent plot. They delivered

a letter to the residence of the [Satsuma] inspector Kawanishi Hiraemon and, after that, mentioned various

things about delivering another letter. They intended that the matter become a difficult problem for the

country (kokka). Because they were evil and reprehensible, they were executed at Ajiminato on the twenty-

sixth day of the sixth month, 1734. The writings and emoluments of those involved in the incident were

taken and are now gone” (1999, 125). A very similar account is given in the kafu of Tomoyose Anjō's

father, Takehara-uekata Ani (嵩原親方安依) (Ikemiya 1982b, 101-102).

In his partial translation of the same passage, Ueda Makoto translates giri as honor (“a play will be more

moving … when pathos is made to derive from its artistic structure focused on honor”) (1960, 111).

One major difference between Chikamatsu’s and Chōbin’s romances is that Chōbin’s male protagonists

are impoverished minor samurai rather than minor merchants. This is indicative of the fact that while

Ryūkyūan literary romanticism was stylistically indebted to mainland Japanese literary romanticism, it

served a very different social function. Mainland Japanese chōnin bunka can be correlated with the rise of

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the urban merchant class in Edo and Kansai/Kamigata. A comparable shift in power dynamics did not take

place in the concurrent Ryūkyū Kingdom. For Ryūkyūan literati like Heshikiya Chōbin, challenging

established links between social status and moral virtue was probably less a response to political economic

developments and more an act of personal or philosophical protest.

Literally, “if things are dropped in the street, nobody will take them, and people will [feel safe to] leave

their doors open” (「君々たり、臣々たり、父々たり、子々たり、四民業を楽しんで路に落ちたる

をひろはず關の戸を差さず」) (『弦声之巻』; cited in Wang 1998, 285). The saying “even if things are

dropped in the street, nobody will take them” (conventionally spelled 道に遺たるを拾はず) is derived

from a passage in the Warring States period Legalist text Han Feizi (韓非子) which praises the civic order

of the state of Zheng (鄭) under the administration of Zichan (子産, d.522 BCE). Interestingly, the original

passage also draws a connection between music, civic order, prosperity, and the rule of law: “Duke Jian

said to Zichan, ‘(if) there is no joy in drinking wine, altars are not great, and bells, drums, flutes, and zithers

do not sound, it is my affair; if the realm is not stable, the common people are not well-governed, and there

is no harmony between farmers and warriors, this is your wrongdoing’ … Zichan took his leave and

administered for five years, and the country had no thieves or bandits, people would not take things

dropped in the street, or pluck the peaches and dates shading the avenues, and tools and knives dropped in

the street would be returned within a few days. For three years this did not change, and the people did not

go hungry” (簡公謂子曰:「飲酒不樂也、俎豆不大、鍾鼓竽瑟不鳴、寡人之事不一。國家不定、

百姓不治、耕戰不輯睦、亦子之罪。」… 子退而為政五年、國無盜賊、道不拾遺、桃棗蔭於街

者莫有援也、錐刀遺道三日可反。三年不變、民無飢也。).

1 kan (貫) = 1000 momme (匁); 1 momme = 3750 milligrams.

1 kin (斤) = 160 momme (匁).

Historians have identified Satsuma’s Tenpō Reform as an uncommon instance of a domain thinking

outside the agrarian-coercive box and converting feudal power into mercantile power: rather than merely

ramping up extraction, Zusho leveraged feudal authority in order to “tap the vast revenue basis of

commerce by direct participation” (Sakihara 1971, 242). The Ryūkyū Kingdom, of course, had been doing

just this for generations.

Technically, as in Japan, peasants were considered bound to their land, however, beginning in 1680, the

government permitted peasants to indenture themselves or family members in urban areas for periods of up

to 10 years for the purpose of repaying debts (Sakihara 1971, 58).

It should be noted that mortgage and indenture were widespread in mainland Japan during this period as

well, and contributed to a similar increase in economic inequality within the peasant strata.

Ooms describes rural elites in mainland Japan in similar terms: “Analytically speaking, one can refer to

those who found themselves in this stratum as an objective class, because they monopolized either

economic cum political power … or political power only” (1996, 124). He goes on to observe that social

status and economic class took shape reciprocally, with the latter gaining in importance as the economy

modernized: while high social status remained the de jure font of legitimate local authority, “economic

status, whether past or present, was always at issue in claims of political social status” (243). As Crawcour

demonstrates, this process of class formation established the preconditions for capitalist modernization in

Japan (1974). Following Ooms and Crawcour, one could argue that constructing a false antinomy between

early modern Ryūkyūan village society and modern Okinawan society under Japanese rule obscures the

actual structural and experiential characteristics of early modern village life, as well as the role these very

characteristics played in the modernization process.

Because the kyōdōtai was also the object of regulatory codes, its disintegration also signaled the effective

“obsolescence” of the feudal juridical system (Uehara 1977, 19-21).

Sai On’s policy of allowing samurai to take up farming had precedent in Satsuma, where samurai

constituted a comparatively large percentage of the population. While samurai in most domains were

subject to strict occupational restrictions, Satsuma’s rural samurai (gōshi 郷士) were allowed to do

agricultural work (Sakai 1957, 369-371). Notably, the yadui were often allocated the most fecund land, yet

were assessed in the lowest productivity category, resulting in lower taxes. To compensate, peasant villages

on less arable land were rated in higher categories regardless of their actual productivity (Sakihara 1971,

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92). As a result, the distribution of the tax burden among farmers of samurai and peasant descent was

radically inequitable (Nishizato 1977, 193).

Kublin identifies the Ryūkyū “controversy” as an exemplary demonstration of the Meiji Japanese state’s

ability to assess the ways Western expansionism was transforming the political terrain of East Asia, and

proactively adjust its own position to maximize benefit and minimize harm. China, unlike Japan, “failed to

learn … that the sovereignty which she claimed over the states in her peripheral areas would be respected

just as long as she was able to defend them against aggression. She failed to realize that the handmaiden of

Western aggression was Western law, in which tributary relations, based on cultural and commercial rather

than political and juridical bonds, had no place” (1949, 230).

This is known as the sanshii (sansei) jiken (賛成事件) or “collaboration incident.” It is important to

remember that this kind of reactionary violence was not unique to Okinawa. The 1876 abolition of stipends

in mainland Japan, for example, prompted samurai rebellions in Kumamoto, Chōshū, Akizuki, and

eventually Satsuma (Jansen 2000, 369). Two years later, home minister Ōkubo Toshimichi was

assassinated by former Satsuma samurai. In 1889, education minister Mori Arinori was stabbed by a right

wing radical, and pro-Western foreign minister Ōkuma Shigenobu was severely wounded in a bombing

orchestrated by ex-samurai of the Dark Ocean Society (Gen’yōsha 玄洋社).

In 1879, Li Hongzhang asked visiting former United States president Ulysses S. Grant to arbitrate the

division of the islands (buntō 分島); in October 1880, the Chinese Office of Foreign Affairs under Prince

Gong (恭親王 [Aisin-Gioro Yixin 愛新覺羅奕訢]) proposed to Japanese special commissioner Shishido

Tamaka that China would grant Japan trade privileges in exchange for sovereignty over Miyako and

Yaeyama (Kublin 1949, 226-227). Shishido received the proposal favorably and pushed for formal

negotiations in Beijing, however, the Chinese backed off due to sharp criticism by ministers Shen Baozhen

(沈葆楨) and Zhang Zhidong (張之洞) (228). Matters were further complicated by the interference of the

Ryūkyūan refugees, who clung to their hope for the re-conquest of Okinawa Island itself. On November

18, 1880, the Ryūkyūan crown prince’s tutor Rin Seikō committed suicide by sword in Beijing, leaving an

eloquent letter equating the division of the islands with the death of the Ryūkyūan state. His colleague Shō

Tokukō used this to effectively shame Li Hongzhang into abandoning the buntō proposal (Nishizato 2011,

22-24). Shishido sharply expressed his frustration and returned to Japan (Kublin 1949, 229).

The practices associated with these institutions can also be understood via Raymond Williams’ less

polemical figure of the residual cultural element, which “has been effectively formed in the past, but it is

still active in the cultural process, not only and often not at all as an element of the past, but as an effective

element of the present” (1977, 122).

Peasant uprisings, of course, were not unique to Okinawa. The Okinawan uprisings of the 1880s-90s can

be compared to the 1876 Ise Rebellion, which was caused by fluctuations in the rice market. In 1875, rice

had been worth 5.15 yen per koku; in 1876, the price dropped to 3.5 yen per koku. Because taxes were

calculated according to the cash value of rice the previous year, peasants were forced to sell a larger

percentage of their yield in order to meet their tax burden. A local official petitioned the prefectural

authorities for a temporary tax reduction, but was denied. In response, tens of thousands of farmers rioted,

destroying official buildings and the houses of officials; around 50,000 were arrested and severely punished

(Vanoverbeke 2004, 38). In response to this and other incidents, the government lowered the tax rate to

2.5% and made provisions for further rate reduction during crop failures (Jansen 2000, 367).

The Meiji state recognized 378 high-ranking aristocrats as “with stipend” (150). Between 1880 and 1881,

the state monetized these aristocrats’ stipends, qualitatively transforming them from feudal landlords into a

kind of state-supported rentier class (Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 154). These cash stipends

were continued until 1909; in 1910, they were commuted into bonds (as had been done in mainland Japan

in 1876) (158). The Shō family received a 200,000 yen bond (bearing 10% interest) – a ‘severance package’

significantly more generous than most mainland daimyo had received (147). One aim of the government’s

approach to the “disposition of stipends” was essentially to buy the former ruling class’ loyalty, or at least

their acquiescence. A secondary aim was to fiscally divorce them from the land itself and render them

dependent on the central government (151).

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Many aristocrats who had in fact received stipends under the Ryūkyūan government were determined by

the Meiji government to be “without stipend.” This included former envoys to China and their retinues

(Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 164). It also included ‘tenured’ and/or pensioned court employees,

who in many cases had served for years for little or no pay in order to reach their positions (163). The

prefectural office retained some of these former bureaucrats as employees, but terminated the majority.

Others quit their positions in protest at the kingdom’s annexation (169). Immediately after annexation, the

prefectural office sent a petition to the central government asking for assistance funds for former court

employees, but this petition turned down; this resulted in intermittent demonstrations and partial strikes

(164). In 1882, Governor Uesugi sent a second petition, emphasizing the harm that former court employees

could do to the prefecture if they were not placated. The Home Ministry replied by pledging 70,000 yen to

772 unemployed former bureaucrats and 3,616 yen to 152 former envoys to China (164-165). On a person

by person level, however, this did not come out to much; former high level employees who were owed

thousands of yen often received 400–500 yen, while former low-level employees received as little as 5–6

yen each (165). For the next several years, these former employees continued to receive compensation,

however, in 1884, it was decided they should receive a one-time payout of “capital to encourage their

entrance into industry” (166). By contrast, the Meiji government continued to provide salaries for rural

local officials of jitōdai rank and below (168). Former court employees protested their treatment

consistently throughout the Meiji 10s and 20s. In 1897, for example, over 900 former court employees

submitted a petition directly to the National Diet (167).

The Meiji state’s decision to grant some low-level samurai “capital to encourage their entrance into

industry” was not a systematic attempt to address the problem of underemployment, but merely a stopgap

measure (Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 168-169). Indeed, one could argue that the Meiji state’s

greatest disservice to low-ranking samurai was not its termination of their stipends, but its failure to correct

the structural imbalances that had rendered them economically superfluous in the first place.

Many of the first mainland Japanese merchants to arrive in Okinawa were civilian porters and purveyors

who arrived with Matsuda Michiyuki’s military escort (Naha Shishi Henshū Iinkai 1974 vol. 2, 228). The

majority of these civilians returned to the mainland as soon as allowed, however, a few decided to stay and

establish themselves as itinerant salesmen. Around the same time, several enterprising merchants made the

journey independently of official dispatch (228-229).

In his influential essay “Patterns of Individuation and the Case of Japan: A Conceptual Scheme,”

Maruyama traces fundamental aspects of prewar Japanese ultranationalism to the social condition of

atomized and alienated migrants: “employers, relying on the almost limitless number of available workers,

were quite unprepared to maintain stable and continuous labor relations, and correspondingly, there was a

high degree of migration of workers from one factory to another. This is not to be understood as social

mobility in the modern world, for the laborers had not yet constituted a social ‘class,’ but existed only as a

great multitude of tramps or displaced persons … [the atomized laborer] bitterly suffers from the actual or

imagined sense of uprootedness and the loss of norms of conduct (anomie) … because he is concerned with

escaping from loneliness and insecurity, he is inclined to identify himself totally with authoritarian

leadership or to submerge himself into the mystical ‘whole’ expressed in such ideas as national community,

eternal racial culture, and so on” (1965; cited in Nimura 1997, 42-44).

The Naha City Museum of History hosts photographs of Teikokukan (http://www.rekishi-

archive.city.naha.okinawa.jp/archives/item3/14804), Taishō Gekijō (http://www.rekishi-

archive.city.naha.okinawa.jp/archives/item3/33067), and Asahi Gekijō (http://www.rekishi-

archive.city.naha.okinawa.jp/archives/item3/33071).

In her analysis of farce in Japanese kyōgen, Jacqueline Golay argues that kyōgen “belongs exclusively to

the stage. Its lines are hardly more than guidelines and they possess little meaning outside of interpretation

… words are indissolubly linked to the particular forms of diction which only a trained person can emulate,

and to the stage action and facial expressions which belong to kyōgen and kyōgen alone. Kyōgen is pure

theater and can only be enjoyed as such” (1973, 139). The same can be said of early Okinawan comic

theater.

In humiliation/deception farce, “an unpleasant victim is exposed to their fate, without opportunity for

retaliation”; in reversal farce, “the tables are turned on the original rebel or joker, allowing the victim

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retaliation”; in equilibrium/quarrel farce, “the plot focuses upon a narrow, perpetual-motion kind of

movement, in which two opposing forces wrestle each other literally or metaphorically, in a tug-of-war

without resolution”; and in snowball farce, “all the characters are equally caught up as victims in a

whirlwind of escalating sound and fury” (Davis 2003, 7-8).

Wells and Davis suggest that “going through the kyōgen plays one by one, it is possible to produce a list

of failings that Japanese audiences of the last six hundred years or so must have found psychologically

convincing in liberating laughter” (2006, 140). These “conditions justifying comic punishment” include

the “moral failings” of trickery, malice, cowardice, trouble-making, dishonesty, gullibility, stupidity,

bullying, cruelty, ineptitude, greed, boasting, theft, pretension, jealousy, shrewishness, infidelity, ignorance,

nagging, and drunkenness; the “physical failings” of blindness, ugliness, physical deformity, and being

Chinese; and the “religious failings” of ritual defilement and being the King of Hell (141). A more

extensive survey would be needed to determine what failings justify comic punishment in Okinawan farce.

As Jameson notes, literary critical portrayals of farce tend to “oscillate between the repressive and the

liberatory” (1981, 107). He dismisses such attempts at broad-spectrum genre criticism as idealist attempts

to reconstruct “something like the generalized existential experience behind the individual texts” (107-108).

Approaching the question from a functionalist perspective, James C. Scott observes that what little

empirical data we have on farce “provides little or no support for catharsis through displacement” (1990,

187). He goes on to propose that “far from being a relief-valve taking the place of actual resistance, the

discursive practices offstage sustain resistance in the same way in which the informal peer pressure of

factory workers discourages any individual worker from exceeding work norms and becoming a rate-

buster” (191).

Ikemiya, for example, mentions a form of non-comic folk kyōgen in Yaeyama (jīnu-kyongin 例の狂言),

distinct from Yaeyaman comic kyōgen (bara kyongin 笑わせ狂言) (291). Some early commercial

performers may have been familiar with folk traditions such as this.

On kuchidate in mainland Japanese shinpa performance around the same time, see M. Cody Poulton

(2010, 22).

Hegel’s Lectures on Aesthetics exemplifies the metaphysical conception of beauty, which has permeated

literary studies in Japan as thoroughly as in the West (as evidenced by Ikemiya’s idealist content-analysis

of Uyanma). In brief, Hegel proposes that art consists of two intertwined aspects: “first, a content, an aim, a

meaning; and secondly, the expression, appearance, and realization of this content. But, thirdly, both

aspects are so penetrated by one another that the external, the particular, appears exclusively as a

presentation of the inner. In the work of art nothing is there except what has an essential relation to the

content and is an expression of it” (1975 [1842], 95). Thus, in the final instance, the “content” of fine art is

nothing less than the self-objectivizing absolute spirit, manifest in the subject’s desire to achieve self-

recognition through “an intuition of something that is his own doing” which he achieves by “altering

external things whereon he impresses the seal of his inner being and in which he now finds again his own

characteristics” (31). Hegel goes on to argue that transcendental pathos (in the Aristotelian sense of the

mode of rhetoric πάθος) as “the proper center, the true domain, of art; the representation of it is what is

chiefly effective in the work of art as well as in the spectator” (232). On the matter of tragic portrayals of

love affairs across status boundaries, Hegel suggests that “if love is the one point of union, and does not

also draw into itself the remaining scope of what a man has to experience in accordance with his spiritual

education and the circumstances of his class, it remains empty and abstract, and touches only the sensuous

side of life” (210). Moreover, because love is “only the personal feeling of the individual subject, and it is

obviously not filled with the eternal interests and objective content of human existence,” Hegel regards it as

inferior to the heroic passions as a topic for tragedy (566-567).

Kamo no Chōmei’s Hōjōki, for example, opens with one of the most well-known passages in Japanese

literature:「ゆく河の流れは絶えずして、しかも、もとの水にあらず、淀みに浮ぶうたかたは、か

つ消えかつ結びて、久しくとどまりたる例なし。世中にある人と栖と、またかくの如し。」

旧慣制度の改革、名子の廃止、宿引女廃止、御陰米の廃止、耕作仮筆者の廃止 (「一木書記官

取調書」 cited in Shimajiri 1977, 69). Ichiki Kitokuro’s 1894 report to the Home Ministry estimated a

population of around 400 officials, 3,000 indentured servants, and 31,600 peasants (65).

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Regarding Okinawan officials’ arbitrary expropriation of property and labor, see Chapter II, Article 27 of

the 1890 Meiji Constitution (cited above). Regarding the continually fluctuating per-capita tax paid in kind,

Chapter VI, Article 62 states that “The imposition of a new tax or the modification of the rates (of an

existing one) shall be determined by law” – namely, the 1873 land tax code, which established fixed rates

based on land value rather than production and paid in cash rather than kind (Marutschke 2005, 209).

The low number of industrial laborers in Okinawa correlates to the low number of large factories: in

1928, for example, the prefectural office recorded twenty-seven workplaces with around 10 employees,

twenty-one workplaces with 10-50 employees, two workplaces with 50-100 employees, and three

workplaces with 100-200 employees (Taminato 1977, 170-171). Almost all workplaces with 50-200

employees were sugar refineries (171). Around 1928, the number of workplaces with around 10 employees

nearly doubled, but the other statistics remained fairly stable (170). The average number of laborers per

workplace was around 17.3 in 1921 and 16.7 in 1935 (171).

Between 1872 and 1882, foreign sugar imports had increased from 1,690,000 yen to 5,737,000 yen. The

Meiji state looked to Okinawa to offset this imbalance (Kaneshiro 1977, 115-116).

In 1880, the prefectural office loaned sugar producers 69,869 yen and 32 rin (to be repaid in sugar). In

1885, former aristocrats borrowed 5,481 yen from the state to cultivate sugar on Kumejima. The next year,

the Prefectural Office borrowed 3,800 yen from the central government to stimulate sugar production

(Kaneshiro 1977, 115-119).

In 1900, the state established the Taiwan Sugar Manufacture Company with 1,000,000 yen in capital; by

1906, it had constructed modern sugar processing facilities that surpassed those in Okinawa (Matsumura

2007, 175; 271).

This leads Kaneshiro to deduce that the Meiji state’s earlier program of loans and grants was motivated

less by an altruistic interest in helping Okinawan sugar cultivators and more by macroeconomic interests

(1977, 115).

An 1898 Ryūkyū Shimpō article actually testifies directly to this: “Customarily, during the abashibarē

festival, shops close and women go to the beaches or the fields to celebrate. Recently however, it seems as

if fewer people have been attending the traditional celebrations and more people have been going to the

theater instead” (May 31, 1898). Throughout the late Meiji period, similar articles appear which mention

traditional early spring festivities being held in commercial theaters (RS, March 7, 1902; March 21, 1902;

etc.). Similarly, in his memoirs, Majikina recalls that the third lunar month, a traditional festival month,

was particularly lucrative for commercial theaters (1987, 474). It is probably no coincidence that the long-

form tragic musical drama Tomari Aka is set during the third lunar month festivities.

“Pistol Robbery” was likely based on the exploits of armed robber Shimizu Sadakichi, who was also the

subject of one of the first Japanese-produced motion pictures (「ピストル強盗清水定吉」), while “The

Sōma Incident” was likely based on the case of Sōma Tomotane, former daimyō of Sōma-Nakamura-han,

who was committed to an asylum for mental illness by his family and briefly broken out by a former

retainer. Both incidents were the subject of numerous scandal-mongering newspaper stories in their time.

As Poulton observes, a similar process occurred in mainland Japanese shinpa, which “did not predicate

its identity on a clean break with tradition but attempted to assimilate Western cultural products within the

context of extant Japanese expressive forms” (2010, 24).

It is worth noting that Meiji period Japanese rakugo performers such as Katsura Konan I (初代桂小南)

and Tachibanaya Ensaburō III (三代目橘家圓三郎) also used multicolored spotlights to enhance their

performances; it is possible that Okinawan performers picked up the idea while traveling in Japan.

Tomari Aka was billed by various companies at various times as a historical drama (shigeki), a kyōgen,

an “ancient Ryūkyūan event” (Ryūkyū koji 古事 ) and a “Ryūkyūan tragedy” (Ryūkyū higeki 琉球悲劇)

(RS, April 7, 1907; March 14, 1909; etc.).

The scenes marked by choral interludes are Umichiru’s arrival at the festival (「しゅうらい節」), the

beginning of Aka’s vigil on the bridge (「伊計離節」), Aka’s meeting with the nursemaid (「仲風節」),

the lovers’ tryst (「述懐節」), the delivery of Umichiru’s final testament (「内泊節」), Aka’s suicidal

declaration of love (「述懐節」), and the final dedication by Umichiru’s father (「子持節」).

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The irony in Ganeko’s use of "Kwamuchā bushi" (「子持節」) recalls Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s ironic

mode of allusion: “The language is usually complex in [Chikamatsu’s allusive] passages, with references

that nearly always bear directly on one or another of the main themes flowing through the play. Sometimes

the quotation, seen in its original context, suggests an ironic comment on the surface meaning” (Gerstle

2010, 29).

Okinawan elites’ modernizing efforts were not unique, but rather, paralleled similar locally led efforts in

other peripheral areas of Japan; as Nakamura observes, “provincial versions of the case for industrialization

were typically expressed as a mixture of nationalist sentiment and aspirations for local development”

(2000, 202). According to Nakamura, Japan’s first enterprise boom “was by no means limited to urban

centers,” but rather involved “initiatives undertaken in many provincial areas” (197). Prominent early

Okinawan entrepeneurs include Shō Tai’s son Shō Jun, Shō Tai’s son-in-law Gonkū Chō i (護得久朝惟),

royal branch family members Takamine Chōkyō (高嶺朝教) and Takamine Chōshin (高嶺朝申), and

former royal steward Izena Chōboku (伊是名朝睦).

In 1900, for example, several hundred rickshaw owners and operators in Shuri formed an association and

successfully lobbied to have their trade group leader’s salary reduced from six sen to three sen per month,

while in 1912, smallholders and small producers protested the semi-coercive transfer land rights to the

Okitai Kaisha (which was owned by the Shō family) (Taminato 1977, 172). In 1913 and 1916, a number of

miners fled from the Yaeyama coal pit, presumably in protest of its wretched working conditions and

notoriously poor pay. In 1917, drivers working for Okinawa Electric Company held a strike and ejected

their manager from his office, and baggage handlers working for Okinawa Kidō held a strike. The same

year, a selection of pro-labor writings were published in the prefecture under the title Mabushiki hikari ( 貧

しき光) .

See, for example: Ryūkyū Shimpō, October 21, 1898; January 29, 1899; May 29, 1899; October 21, 1899;

December 5, 1899; April 9, 1900; March 21, 1902; May 19, 1902; June 5, 1902; July 9, 1902; January 27,

1904; November 23, 1906; April 16, 1908; Okinawa Mainichi Shimbun, April 25, 1909; RS, July 7, 1909;

July 8, 1909; August 15, 1909; September 27, 1909; December 5-10, 1909; January 11, 1910; July 28,

1910; OMS, July 28, 1910; RS, July 29, 1910; July 31, 1910; August 1, 1910; etc.

Dana Masayuki compares hajichi to a map to a woman’s life. A young girl would receive her first tattoo

around age seven to ten, and additional tattoos to mark stages in her maturation. Sometimes, the hajichi

was completed upon a woman’s marriage; in other cases, additions were made upon the birth of her first

child and/or when she reached the age of 60. Some say that hajichi custom began as a means of ensuring

that Ryūkyūan women wouldn’t flee to Japan; others say that they ensure a woman will rest in peace upon

death, because tattoos evoke the concept of permanence and perpetuity (永世観念). Because juri (geisha)

also have hajichi, some suggest that they were originally a sign of having reached sexual maturity (Naha-

shi Sōmubu Joseishitsu 1998, 349).

100

Mark Metzler observes that the “beautiful customs” espoused by conservative reformers were often

linked to patriarchal power structures, and that both progressive and conservative versions of lifestyle

reform disproportionately targeted women (2004). Dana Masayuki confirms that this was the case in

Okinawa as well: lifestyle reform targeted women and female-specific customs and practices more

aggressively, often leveraging legal pressure as well as social pressure (Naha-shi Sōmubu Joseishitsu 1998,

328-352). In 1886, for example, governor Ōsako declared hajichi hand-tattoos to be an evil custom and

strongly urged that they be eliminated; when middle school students were surveyed in 1895 as to which

customs the lifestyle reform movement should target, 74 out of 100 named hairstyles and 68 named hajichi.

In 1898, 30 students of Shuri girls’ high school went so far as to attempt to have their hajichi removed

using chemicals (349).

101

The article also shows interesting parallels with earlier theater reform discourse in mainland Japan.

Suematsu Kenchō’s 1886 Society for the Improvement of Theater prospectus, for example, also derides

contemporary theaters for targeting a lower class audience, as well as complaining about infrastructural

issues such as overcrowding and congestion, poor seating arrangements, and shoddy staging (Fuhara 1965,

26-27).

102

During the 1890s-1900s, theaters capitalized on the attractiveness of young actors by having them walk

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through town announcing upcoming shows, however, as literacy rates increased, this practice was gradually

abandoned in favor of newspaper advertisement (RS, January 21, 1906).

103

Cf. Prefectural Decree #25, “Rules for the Management of Theaters” (Kenrei dai-nijūgogō, Engekijō

torishime kisoku 県命第２５号「演劇場取締規則」).

104

The Ryūkyū Shimpō’s review, for example, features the following excerpt from a conversation between

a recently-drafted youth and his mother: “Mother: ‘What are you doing just now?’ The young man is

surprised by her voice. Youth: ‘Is that my mother? It’s just that I was thinking about how conscription was

proclaimed by the imperial court and extended to Okinawa, and about how my health inspection went off

without a hitch. Also, I was just chosen in the lottery – all of these things can be deemed gifts from my

parents, and I am truly happy. Serving in the military is a duty to the nation, and for those born as men,

fulfilling this duty to the nation is the single most important thing (in life); moreover, there are those who,

no matter how much they want to fulfill their obligation in their hearts, cannot do so because of physical

inadequacy; and there are those who squander the health and vigor their parents bestowed upon them in

self-indulgence and contract sexually transmitted diseases, and then cannot serve their country; this is an

unending disservice to one’s mother and father and to the imperial court. It must be truly deplorable for the

poor mothers of those among us who scheme to evade service. Serving in the military – in particular going

to war – fulfills one’s obligation to the nation, and also raises the good name of one’s house. However, if I

go to serve in the military my mother will be left all alone, and when I think about this it tears my insides

apart. Mother: ‘when I heard you had been drafted from the group of village youths milling about, it was

poison to my heart, but the kind of person who thinks that way doesn’t truly love Okinawa!’ She urges him

to go accept conscription. Youth: ‘I acknowledge these honorable words and my heart illuminates the

heavens!’ He will go to serve” (April 6, 1900).

105

Roberson, for example, describes how Fukuhara Chōki was investigated in 1941 for his use of the

honorable appellation gunjin in his 1933 Okinawa folk song “Gunjin bushi” (“Soldier’s Song”) (2009, 689).

Following postwar critics Arakawa Akira and Nakahodo Masanori, Roberson proposes that the song’s

Okinawan language lyrics and the “characteristic sadness in the sanshin-based music” can be interpreted as

reflections of Okinawan “ambivalence” toward conscription (690).

106

Matsumura argues that “Okinawa’s condition in the post-World War I period was simply a regional

inflection of Japan’s interwar experience … Just as the postwar period revealed the truly global nature of

the world capitalist system and the embeddedness of the Japanese economy in it, it also showed the

inextricable relationship that Okinawa had to the rest of the world as a monocultural producer of a global

commodity” (2007, 303).

107

「吾人は歴史によって圧しつぶされる。」 (Iha 1993, 295).

108

Chikamatsu establishes a precedent for this plot conceit. In Yosaku from Tamba, the character Shigenoi

“must reject her long-lost son because of her giri to the princess she serves; if it is known that the princess’

governess has a son who is a horse driver, the princess will be disgraced” (Keene 1961, 34).

109

Interestingly, the review also makes note of the fact that the theater was electrically lit, and mentions

that entertainers from Nakamō were planning to tour Taiwan.

110

Ikemiya speculates that another possible source of inspiration was an abridged translation of Verdi’s La

Traviata by Matsui Shōyō (1980, 395). This translation was performed at the Imperial Theater under the

title Tsubagi-hime (「椿姫」) in 1911. A play called Tsubagi-hime was performed at Naka-za the same

year, although since it was not reviewed we cannot be absolutely sure it was the same play (OMS, March

20, 1911).

111

Incidentally, Yara-maruchi pond, where Iraha is said to have been inspired to create Okuyama no botan,

is the site of a well-known giant serpent legend (大蛇伝説) that closely resembles the plot of Kōkō no maki.

112

「露と落ち 露と消えにし 我が身かな 浪速のことも 夢のまた夢」.

113

In his preface to the 1979 Okinawa Times edition of the script, Majikina Yūkō notes that he created

Iejima Handō-gwa while he was touring, which was necessary because of the poor economic climate in

Naha (cited in Nakahodo 1994, 9-10). He attributes his inspiration for the Iejima Handō-gwa to the folk

story “Kamado of Hentona,” which is included in the July 1919 publication Okinawa-ken Kunigami-gun

shi (沖縄県国頭郡志) (11). In a 1957 interview with Shimabukuro Mitsukō (島袋光袷), however,

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Majikina contradicts himself, asserting that a newspaper article on the tragic story of the “Iejima romance”

motivated him to go to Iejima, where he was inspired to write the play (14). Nakahodo is skeptical of both

stories, however, and suggests that Majikina’s actual inspiration was a historical drama entitled Onna no

shūnen: Iejima romansu (「女の執念 伊江島ロマンース」), which was staged by Naka-za in 1916 (15;

cf. RS, June 17, 1916; September 9, 1916). Majikina would almost certainly have heard about the Naka-za

production. In 1916, the Ryūkyū Shimpō published a ranking of Okinawan actors in hopes of encouraging

them to “polish their artistic competence” and advance the goal of theater reform – Takara Chōsei (多嘉良

朝成), who played the Captain in Naka-za’s Onna no shūnen: Iejima romansu, was ranked first, while

Majikina Yūkō was ranked third (Nakahodo 1994, 20-21). Given the atmosphere of high competition in

the theater world at the time, actors would have taken this ranking quite seriously and kept abreast of each

other’s performances. This being said, a relatively favorable Ryūkyū Shimpō review of Naka-za’s Iejima

romansu does mention that it was inspired by an Asahi Shimbun article on the folk tale “Kamado of

Hentona” – so it is possible that Majikina knew the story before Naka-za staged it (17-19).

114

The title of Naka-za’s Iejima narrative, Onna no shūnen, underscores this allusion by borrowing a kanji

from Shūshin kane’iri.

115

「在天願作比翼鳥、在地願為連理枝。天長地久有時盡、此恨綿綿無期。」

116

The figure of male and female mandarin ducks (oshidori 鴛鴦) appears in a number of classical Chinese

and Japanese works. The most well known appearance of this image in English language literature is

probably in the story “Oshidori” included in Lafcadio Hearn’s Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange

Things. In Hearn’s “Oshidori,” the female duck dramatically kills herself after her male companion is

killed. In the Noh play Kinuta, which also deals with the subject of female jealousy, Zeami uses the image

of oshidori to evoke the estranged wife’s nostalgia for prior happiness, and by implication her frustration at

her current separation from her husband (Savas 2008, 133). To Savas, this frustration is “sublimated into

the suffering of the oppressed, whose lives are in the hands of those who are in power” (136).

117

“Kotoba, kanezukai” (「言葉、銭遣い」) (National Theatre Okinawa 2012, 5).

118

The Five Relationships are explained in the Mengzi: "between father and son, there should be affection;

between sovereign and minister, righteousness; between husband and wife, attention to their separate

functions; between old and young, a proper order; and between friends, fidelity" (3A.4; Legge 1945, 630-

631).

119

Notably, several prominent Okinawan elites, such as Ōta Chōfu and Oyadomari Kōei, publically

criticized the Committee’s positions (Matsumura 2007, 324).

120

It is worth noting here that Thomas Elsaesser describes melodrama as a genre is typified by “the element

of interiorisation and personalisation of primarily ideological conflicts, together with the metaphorical

interpretation of class conflict as sexual exploitation and rape” (1991, 71).

398!

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