The Manchurian Crisis and Japanese Society, 1931-33 (Routledge Eui Studies in Political Economy)

The Manchurian Crisis and Japanese Society, 1931–33

The repercussions of the 1931 ‘Manchurian Incident’ threw Japan into crisis, and the event has commanded a central place in writing on modern Japanese history ever since. This book re-evaluates notions of its place in the social and political history of pre-war and wartime Japan. Sandra Wilson explores the reactions to the Manchurian crisis of different sections of the state and of a number of different groups in Japanese society, particularly rural groups, women’s organisations and business associations. She seeks to avoid a generalised account of the military and diplomatic events of the early 1930s, offering instead a nuanced analysis of the shifts in public and popular opinion during this crucial period. This incisive study contributes to major international debates about imperialism, nationalism and the chain of events leading to world war, as well as specifically addressing the nature of Japanese militarism and nationalism. Of particular importance to historians of modern Japan, modern China and World War Two, this work will also interest scholars in the fields of imperialism, militarism and the impact of the depression on world history. Sandra Wilson is Senior Lecturer in the School of Asian Studies, Murdoch University. She is co-editor of The Russo–Japanese War in Cultural Perspective, 1904–05, and is currently researching Japanese nationalism.

Routledge/Asian Studies Association of Australia (ASAA) East Asia Series Edited by Tessa Morris-Suzuki and Morris Low Editorial Board: Professor Geremie Barmé (Australian National University), Professor Colin Mackerras (Griffith University), Professor Vera Mackie (Curtin University) and Associate Professor Sonia Ryang (Johns Hopkins University). This series represents a showcase for the latest cutting-edge research in the field of East Asian studies, from both established scholars and rising academics. It will include studies from every part of the East Asian region (including China, Japan, North and South Korea and Taiwan) as well as comparative studies dealing with more than one country. Topics covered may be contemporary or historical, and relate to any of the humanities or social sciences. The series is an invaluable source of information and challenging perspectives for advanced students and researchers alike. Routledge is pleased to invite proposals for new books in the series. In the first instance, any interested authors should contact: Professor Tessa Morris-Suzuki Division of Pacific and Asian History Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies Australian National University Canberra, ACT 0200 Australia Dr Morris Low Department of Asian Languages and Studies University of Queensland Brisbane, Queensland 4072 Australia Routledge/Asian Studies Association of Australia (ASAA) East Asia Series 1 Gender in Japan Power and public policy Vera Mackie 2 The Chaebol and Labour in Korea The development of management strategy in Hyundai Seung Ho Kwon and Michael O’Donnell 3 Rethinking Identity in Modern Japan Nationalism as aesthetics Yumiko Iida 4 The Manchurian Crisis and Japanese Society, 1931–33 Sandra Wilson

The Manchurian Crisis and Japanese Society, 1931–33

Sandra Wilson

London and New York

First published 2002 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2003. © 2002 Sandra Wilson All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Wilson, Sandra, 1957– The Manchurian crisis and Japanese society, 1931–33 / Sandra Wilson. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Manchuria (China)–History–1931–1945. 2. Mukden Incident, 1931. 3. Japanese–China–Manchuria. I. Title. DS784.W55 2001 951⬘.804⬘–dc21 ISBN 0-203-16479-2 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-25904-1 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0–415–25056–0 (Print Edition)

2001034966

To my parents

Contents

Acknowledgements Note on names Abbreviations used in notes Introduction

ix xi xii 1

PART I

Managing the crisis: at home and abroad

13

1

The Manchurian crisis, 1931–33

15

2

Managing opinion: censorship and the Manchurian crisis

30

3

Orthodox views: the public face of the crisis

44

PART II

National perspectives

75

4

The view from the inside: establishment perspectives

77

5

Left, right and centre: public intellectuals and political revolutionaries

105

PART III

Interest groups and local perspectives

123

6

Reactions in the countryside

125

7

Urban workers and organised labour

157

8

Rights and interests: the business community and the crisis

170

9

Serving on the home front: women and Manchuria

196

Conclusion

217

Bibliography Index

228 245

Acknowledgements

I am grateful to many colleagues, mentors and friends for their generous assistance and advice at various stages of this work. I first began researching this topic for a DPhil thesis at the University of Oxford, and I thank my supervisors, Ann Waswo and Arthur Stockwin, for their guidance. In addition I am deeply indebted to Professors Ito¯ Takashi and Banno Junji, now retired from the Faculty of Letters and the Institute of Social Science, respectively, at the University of Tokyo. Their knowledge and insights have been crucial to the progress of this work. Professors Nishida Yoshiaki and Kase Kazutoshi of the Institute of Social Science have generously provided advice and encouragement. Stephen Large from the University of Cambridge and Sheldon Garon from Princeton University made very valuable comments at critical stages. A number of people read parts of the manuscript, helped with research difficulties or discussed particular points with me, and I am glad to record my thanks to Tamara Jacka, Radha Krishnan, Naoki Kurita, Stewart Lone, Vera Mackie, Anne-Marie Medcalf, Iwane Shibuya, Kerry Smith and Beatrice Trefalt, as well as to my colleagues in the School of History at La Trobe University and the School of Asian Studies at Murdoch University. Financial support was provided at the initial stage by the UK government through the Commonwealth Scholarship and Fellowship Plan (UK Award) and the Japanese government through the Monbusho¯ Scholarship scheme. This book would not have been completed without the support and assistance, both practical and intellectual, of David Wells, who not only did all the usual things but has also read every word of every incarnation of the work, and solved all the technical problems as well. My greatest debt, however, is acknowledged in the dedication.

Note on names

Japanese personal names are given in the Japanese order, with surnames first, except for Japanese authors writing in English who have chosen to use the reverse order. Macrons have been omitted in the case of Tokyo and Osaka where they appear in the text, in translations of titles and organisations and as places of publication. Chinese place-names appear in the form in which they were known in English in the 1930s.

Abbreviations used in notes

All citations are given in full form when they first occur. Subsequent citations in the notes use either the abbreviations listed below, or author and short title. FS GS 40 IH PRO SKG USNA

Fujo shinbun Uchikawa Yoshimi (ed.), Gendaishi shiryo¯, Vol. 40: Masumedia to¯sei, Misuzu shobo¯, 1973 Ie no hikari Public Record Office, London Naimusho¯, Keiho¯kyoku, Sho¯wa ––nenju¯ ni okeru shuppan keisatsu gaikan United States National Archives, Washington DC

Introduction

On the night of 18 September 1931, a minor explosion occurred on a section of the Japanese-owned South Manchurian Railway near Mukden (now Shenyang) in the north-east of China. Japanese troops, stationed in Manchuria since 1905 to protect the railway and its associated operations, moved swiftly and decisively to defend Japan’s interests. Meanwhile their leaders loudly asserted to the world that Chinese soldiers were responsible for the explosion, which was branded as only the latest in a series of anti-Japanese ‘outrages’. Actually, damage to the railway had been slight, and the ‘incident’ had in any case been perpetrated not by Chinese soldiers but by Japanese troops, as part of a wider plan to extend Japanese power in Manchuria. The explosion on the railway did in fact become a pretext for extensive military action against Chinese troops loyal to Nanking in the south. Fighting quickly spread across southern Manchuria, then to the northern region. International opinion was especially shocked by the aerial bombing of Chinchow, a city some distance from the original scene of the fighting, towards Peking, in October 1931. Within a few months of the explosion on the railway, all of Manchuria had fallen under Japanese control. Further conflict between Japanese and Chinese troops erupted in Shanghai in late January 1932. The fighting was contained relatively quickly, but not before world opinion had again been shocked, more than five years before Guernica and well before the bombing of civilians in the Second World War, by the use of incendiary bombs and artillery in urban areas. Meanwhile, political moves consolidated military success in Manchuria, and on 1 March 1932 ‘Manchukuo’, in reality a puppet state of the Japanese, ‘spontaneously’ declared its ‘independence’ from China. By now, however, China had appealed to the League of Nations to intervene on its behalf, eventually prompting the League to send a commission of enquiry to investigate the Sino-Japanese dispute. When the commission’s report, which included important reservations about the Japanese version of events, was accepted by the League Council in February 1933, the Japanese delegation walked out in protest. In May of the same year the Truce of Tangku officially ended hostilities between Japan and China in Manchuria, but only after the region had been firmly if informally incorporated into Japan’s empire, to join Taiwan, which had been colonised by Japan in 1895, and Korea, annexed in 1910.

2

Introduction

From the beginning, Japanese observers referred to the dramatic series of events from September 1931 onwards as the Manchurian ‘incident’ (jihen), a term apparently denoting an undeclared war,1 which has been used in the literature ever since. The word ‘incident’, in English at least, however, scarcely begins to suggest the historical significance which has been accorded to the events themselves. While historians differ in their interpretations, they have commonly seen the Manchurian Incident as a major turning-point or defining moment in modern Japanese history, very often as the starting point on the ‘road to Pearl Harbor’. For some observers, the primary importance of the Manchurian Incident lay in its tragic international consequences. Thus Sara R. Smith singled it out in 1948 as ‘the first of the steps leading downward to the abyss of global war’, while for John M. Maki in 1961, the Manchurian crisis was ‘a direct cause of the Second World War’ and was responsible for the victory of Communism in China as well.2 Works on the history of Japan specifically have also accorded the Manchurian Incident a very prominent place. The journalist Otto Tolischus, writing in 1943, believed it not only ‘put the military in the driver’s seat’, but made the country war-minded again, discredited any Diet opposition, created numerous fanatical and Fascist groups of gunmen led by Army officers, started the campaign to purge the nation of Western ideas in favour of a return to the ‘Way of the Gods’, set even the proletarian movement off on the way towards a national Socialism, and lifted the country out of the depression even if it sent the national debt soaring.3 Takehiko Yoshihashi, writing in 1963, held the Manchurian crisis responsible for ‘[bringing] the army’s influence to the fore of Japan’s politics’.4 In similar vein, Ogata Sadako concluded in 1964 that the Manchurian Incident arose from the ‘defiance’ of the government by the Japanese army in the field, and thereby marked a turning point in civil–military relations.5 For James B. Crowley in 1966, it was a major episode in Japan’s unfolding ‘quest for autonomy’ as an imperial power, while in 1993 Ian Nish interpreted the Manchurian Incident as a watershed in Japan’s ‘struggle with internationalism’.6 Most recently, Louise Young has identified Manchuria as the benchmark of Japan’s evolving vision of ‘total empire’ from 1931 to 1945, indeed, as the very ‘heart’ of Japan’s empire.7 Many other claims have been made for the Manchurian Incident, but undoubtedly the dominant view of recent decades is that the invasion of northeast China marks the beginning of a chain of linked events stretching to final defeat in 1945: in short, that September 1931 constitutes the beginning of a ‘fifteen-year war’. As Ienaga Saburo¯ wrote, ‘The Pacific War began with the invasion of China in 1931’, and the events of the period 1931 to 1945 ‘are inseparable, all part of the same war’.8 In such a view, not only did the military and diplomatic events of the Manchurian crisis flow almost seamlessly into the ‘China Incident’ of 1937 and the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, but the

Introduction

3

domestic history of the whole period tended clearly in the same direction, marked as it apparently was by a new dominance of the military in politics, severe repression of dissent among the people and ready mobilisation of society behind militarist and nationalist goals. This book seeks to re-examine the significance for Japanese society and the state of the crisis over Manchuria, understood as the period beginning in September 1931 with the explosion on the railway, and encompassing the fighting in Shanghai, the creation of ‘Manchukuo’, Japan’s conflict with and eventual departure from the League of Nations and the signing of the truce in May 1933. In reality, how far did the Manchurian Incident actually constitute a turningpoint or defining moment in modern Japanese history? To what extent did it transform Japan’s foreign policies and international position, let alone change Japanese social and political life? In particular, how far is it valid to see the Manchurian Incident as the beginning of a ‘fifteen-year war’? Reactions to the events of the period 1931–33 of key groups in Japanese society are analysed in order to address such questions. Ultimately the book aims to gauge more precisely what the Manchurian Incident meant to Japanese people at the time, and to reflect on the long-term significance of the crisis over Manchuria, in relation to the ‘fifteen-year war’ interpretation which remains so influential, as well as to the evolution of nationalism and militarism in modern Japan more generally. If in retrospect 1931 marks a turning-point, as so many works have argued, this study will show that it was not evident to most ordinary Japanese at the time. The lives of the majority were not perceptibly changed by the invasion of far-off Manchuria: certainly most people were much less affected by the Manchurian Incident than they were by the global depression. Though ‘war fever’ was very much evident in the initial weeks after 18 September,9 thereafter life continued more or less as normal for most people. One small but suggestive illustration is contained in the reminiscences of a country woman looking back on the 1930s many years later. Farming and domestic duties had kept her so busy and so isolated from radio, films and newspapers, she said, that she remained completely unaware that Japan was fighting in Manchuria in 1931 at all.10 If this woman’s recollection is to be trusted, then the term ‘fifteen-year war’ cannot encompass her experience. No women and a comparatively small number of Japanese men were actually fighting between 1931 and 1937. As a woman who was living in Osaka in 1931 remarked, ‘I don’t remember the Manchurian Incident very well. For one thing, no-one from my family or my neighbourhood went to Manchuria.’11 What fighting did occur impinged on domestic society for quite short periods only. An emphasis on war for these years particularly, therefore, is a distortion of the experience of most Japanese. Further, to concentrate on the initial reaction to the Manchurian Incident, without tracing attitudes into 1932 and 1933, is to mistake the significance of the Incident for Japanese society. The war fever on which many accounts focus was in fact short-lived, and Manchuria in reality did not assume the dominant place in popular consciousness that has been suggested, whatever its importance may have been for some key figures in the Kwantung Army.

4

Introduction

The political, military and diplomatic crisis provoked by Japan’s invasion of Manchuria had a definite beginning in 1931, with the explosion on the South Manchurian Railway line on 18 September, and a clear end in the first half of 1933, when the Japanese delegation left the League of Nations and, three months later, the truce of Tangku was signed, ending that phase of Chiang Kai-shek’s confrontation with Japan and securing the borders of ‘Manchukuo’. Japanese ambitions on the Asian mainland certainly did not cease, as is revealed by attempts in 1935–36 to bring about an ‘autonomous’ state in North China and then by the outbreak of full-scale war between Japan and China in July 1937. Nevertheless, neither the war with China nor the Pacific War was inevitable or predestined, and the 1930s do not represent a steady escalation towards war. The first half of 1933 saw a slackening of the sense of urgency generated by the incident at Mukden and world reaction to it, and a formal end to the ‘Manchurian Incident’. Withdrawal from the League of Nations in 1933 did not lead to international isolation for Japan, contrary to the assertions of many standard accounts of the period. In fact, Japanese diplomacy turned towards a highly orthodox policy of co-operation with Great Britain and with the United States, which, like Japan, was not a League member.12 Even Japan and China began exploring ways of normalising their relations at the national level. Troops came home and, until the February mutiny of 1936, the army returned to relative stability, concentrating in Manchukuo on further consolidation of its position and attempting to find ways of ending Chinese boycotts of Japanese goods and services. For most ordinary people, too, life had returned to ‘normal’ shortly after the initial burst of enthusiasm which greeted the Manchurian Incident, and it would be very surprising to find that they regarded their country as being ‘at war’ at any time between 1933 and 1937. Yet it is essential to recognise that despite the apparent normalcy of life for many Japanese, and the failure of politics and foreign policy to impinge noticeably upon their lives for very long, momentous changes were occurring in the early 1930s. Japan’s successful invasion of Manchuria and subsequent events raised the army’s profile, delivered ‘Manchukuo’ into its hands and facilitated an increased repression of political dissent within Japan. Further, as historians have recognised in the case of Nazi Germany, the apparent normalcy of everyday life in itself has political implications and is no ‘innocent’ phenomenon; to put it differently, everyday life is itself politicised.13 At the very least, the failure of key groups to reject the military’s policies in Manchuria allowed an escalation and extension of Japanese military gains that was not to be taken for granted at the beginning of the Manchurian crisis. Less tangibly, the events of 1931–33 had a critical effect on the shape and strength of both nationalism and militarism in Japan. If ‘nationalism’ is understood not as ‘a latent force that manifests itself only under extraordinary conditions’, but rather as ‘a discourse that constantly shapes our consciousness’,14 then the Manchurian crisis certainly contributed to Japanese nationalism, not least by generating a flood of rhetoric about the nation. Again, measuring ‘militarism’ by the prevalence of ‘military-based values and ideals’ in a society,15 the Manchurian crisis

Introduction

5

undeniably strengthened militarism by providing repeated opportunities for the public endorsement of such ideals: at gatherings to bid farewell to soldiers at ports or railway stations, on group visits to hamlet shrines to pray for the welfare of soldiers, and on many other occasions. This book argues, however, that the connection between the events of the early 1930s and the development of increasingly authoritarian and militarist social and political structures is more complex than is commonly imagined; that the situation was more fluid than is often acknowledged, containing the possibility of outcomes other than those which did in fact occur; and that while the Manchurian Incident can be seen as a milestone in Japanese militarism, this is an interpretation which rests heavily on hindsight. Analysis of responses to the Manchurian crisis also prompts, on the one hand, significant modifications to standard views of Japanese nationalism, and on the other, a reassessment of the relationship between army and society in Japan in the early 1930s. Most importantly, the years 1931–33 show that commitment to the nation could take more than one form, and was not automatically linked to military priorities. Later chapters will demonstrate that the crisis provoked by Japan’s invasion of Manchuria challenged articulate groups in society and among the elites to clarify where they stood in relation not only to the immediate crisis but to the imperial state itself. Though most groups revealed a deep commitment to the nation, and a willingness to support the state, however, they did not necessarily embrace the army’s view of the world. In fact, study of Japan in the early 1930s reveals not the fruits of long-standing army attempts to consolidate social and political control, but rather a much more volatile and unsettled society than is commonly supposed. The projects of militarism and national integration, in particular, were far from complete. Though there was a perception virtually everywhere that Japan was in crisis and that renovation was urgently needed, no consensus existed as to how such renovation was to be achieved. Even within the Japanese state, significant diversity of opinion remained. The responses of different sections of the elite to the Manchurian Incident certainly show that important parts of the state itself were not yet ready actively to endorse military solutions to Japan’s predicament. Domestic politics were similarly volatile and ambiguous. The end of party cabinets brought by the attempted right-wing coup of 15 May 1932 has often been taken as a sign of fundamental change in the political order, the dissolution of ‘Taisho¯ democracy’ and the basis for the eventual move to a single party which would support the objectives of the state. At the time, however, many observers expected a return to ‘politics as usual’ sooner rather than later; and the Saito¯ Makoto Cabinet itself, the ‘national unity’ cabinet which followed the failed coup, was seen as preserving the flavour of party cabinets rather than demolishing them. At least in the minds of contemporaries, then, ‘national unity’ cabinets did not represent an irreversible development or the expected trend of the future, and were not necessarily a sign that military objectives would inevitably triumph. Rather, many contemporaries still saw party politics as the norm.

6

Introduction

Popular support for the Manchurian Incident, which seems in retrospect to have been overwhelming, is often seen as vital evidence of the dominance of military values in the early 1930s. The standard scholarly view is largely that of Richard Smethurst, who sees the countryside at least as solidly behind the army by the late 1920s, and implies that by that time the agenda for the 1930s was already set.16 The publicly-expressed response to the Manchurian Incident was indeed largely enthusiastic, though critical voices and scepticism did remain: ‘Manchuria is now in Japan’s possession, but has your life changed?’, as one village writer demanded to know.17 The relationship between military and society, however, was much more complex than Smethurst allows. It is rarely recognised, for example, that senior army figures were actually surprised and relieved by the popularity of the military action in Manchuria, and that not all of them counted on it continuing. The previous year, in fact, the army had launched a campaign, the kokubo¯ shiso¯ fukyu¯ undo¯, or campaign to spread the ideology of national defence, which was specifically designed to counter what were feared to be widespread anti-military attitudes among the people.18 Even after the success of the Kwantung Army’s plotting in September 1931, some in the army clearly lacked confidence in the potential of the Manchurian Incident to unite the nation in support of military priorities, just as others, as revealed by the planning for a coup in October 1931, feared that the government and the army hierarchy itself would not adequately support the Manchurian venture. Military dominance of Japanese society and politics, then, was by no means established by the end of 1931, even in the eyes of those who sought to do the dominating. The countryside in fact provides an especially suggestive area for reassessment of the relations between army and society. Reactions to the Manchurian crisis in rural areas were neither uniform nor clear-cut. Farewell gatherings for departing soldiers, for instance, were prized occasions for the celebration of nation, but could also provide the ideal platform for an anti-war speech, as police discovered in more than one Nagano Prefecture village. As for the military authorities, far from simply capitalising on their existing links with the countryside in the early 1930s, as Smethurst’s analysis implies, they in fact expended considerable effort in countering perceived rural radicalism and creating positive images of army actions in Manchuria. The military’s continuing efforts to shore up its position in the countryside testify not to a static and secure basis of rural support for the army, but rather to the persistent ambivalence with which farmers in common with others continued to respond to the military. Farmers generally reacted favourably to the army’s much-touted emphasis on rural concerns, but they did not necessarily support all the army’s actions. Nor, in reality, did the army necessarily care deeply about the countryside, rather than finding in rural issues a convenient political tool. Many standard and broadly accepted explanations of social reactions to the Manchurian Incident centre on ‘a nationalistic people full of naive ardour for the war effort’, as Ienaga Saburo¯ puts it, or on ‘the simple credulity of the masses’, in the words of a US army document.19 The fact that the Manchurian Incident occurred during the worst of the depression has also led some to an emphasis on

Introduction

7

the Japanese as ‘an apolitical mass – easily manipulated into an escape from reality by being offered an exciting illusion of participation in a military garrison state’.20 It is not the purpose of this book to reveal new evidence of widespread Japanese resistance to the invasion of Manchuria. Undoubtedly, many people did applaud the military action, at least for a while. This does not mean, however, that Japanese reactions to the Manchurian Incident are unworthy of further attention or can be easily dismissed, as has most often happened in the past. To simplify reactions to the Manchurian crisis in this way is to pass over a vital moment in the history of the 1930s in Japan, even if that moment is not interpreted as the beginning of a ‘fifteen-year war’ or the sign of the inevitable ascendance of the military in politics. In the final analysis, it is not possible to know with any certainty what the majority of ordinary people thought about the Manchurian crisis or any other set of events in Japan in the 1930s, because records of their responses are so inadequate. It is possible, however, to move beyond elite politics and military discourses to recognise the multiplicity of groups and interests which made up the complex society of 1931–33, and to uncover many more of the voices addressing ordinary Japanese and their concerns. Such voices came not only from high positions but from middle levels of Japanese society, and often directed themselves specifically to women, to farmers, to young people or to other groups. The voices heard in this book, then, range from the political, military and bureaucratic to those of editors, writers, business leaders and youthful village activists. A careful examination of the messages they conveyed provides strong evidence of a variety of responses to the invasion of Manchuria and an insistence on embedding the military events firmly within broader concerns dictated by the conditions of the early 1930s. The crisis over Manchuria thus affords a crucial opportunity to examine the relationship between state and society in Japan at a time of considerable volatility. A study of both elite and more popular responses to the events of 1931–33 has a solid contribution to make to the growing effort to understand how the various social groups behaved in the decade before the Second World War, and the relations of those groups with each other and with the state. So far, there have been comparatively few studies considering the links between state and people in the 1930s, but a number of scholars have ventured into parts of this difficult ‘dark valley’. The sensitive area of the involvement of intellectuals in politics and the bureaucracy, particularly from the later 1930s onwards, has been addressed by several writers, and the equally crucial issue of the relationship between farmers and the state by others.21 Miles Fletcher has examined the relationship between state policy and the business community, while Sheldon Garon has analysed the relationship between the state and labour, and, more recently, has explored state campaigns to mobilise the population for various purposes in the pre-war and post-war periods.22 Notable work has also appeared on the complex connections between women and the state in the 1930s.23 As for the specific issue of popular support for the military in the 1930s and 1940s, a number of writers have pointed to the importance of structural

8

Introduction

factors, particularly the influence of semi-bureaucratic regional organisations like those for reservists, women and young men. Smethurst emphasises the cohesiveness of rural society and the support which the army had built for itself by the 1920s through village branches of national organisations. Eguchi Keiichi, Awaya Kentaro¯ and Yui Masaomi reach similar conclusions about the importance of such organisations in mobilising support for ‘fascism’, while Eguchi on one hand and Louise Young on another have also highlighted the role of the press in willingly promoting uniformity of opinion by encouraging anti-foreign sentiment and militarist fervour.24 The work of these historians has done much to elucidate some of the institutional factors which encouraged ordinary Japanese to support the army in the 1930s and 1940s. There is no doubt, for example, that the army did use the existing social structure of rural Japan to spread its ideals and win popular support. Nor is there any doubt that established mechanisms of control and indoctrination were well used by the state in general, or that the mass media played a vital role in endorsing the Manchurian venture. However, many such studies remain essentially overviews, written ultimately as attempts to explain Japan’s wars with China and the United States rather than to understand the 1930s more broadly, and often presenting a somewhat static picture of Japanese society. They do not always take full cognisance of the specific and complex historical circumstances in which people’s attitudes were actually formed, or of the degree of diversity and change in both official and popular attitudes. Smethurst is perhaps extreme in his conviction that the stage was already set and the story already written by the late 1920s. Awaya, on the other hand, identifies significant differences in the pattern of popular support for ‘fascism’ during three distinct periods: the first between about 1930 and early 1936, the second between early 1936 and about the middle of 1942 and the third from mid-1942 to 1945.25 Awaya also distinguishes carefully between support for war and support for the domestic manifestations of ‘fascism’ such as military-dominated cabinets and the proliferation of right-wing associations.26 Thus his work is a useful reminder that popular attitudes did not necessarily come as a neat package combining endorsement of the Manchurian Incident with support for particular domestic policies or political movements. Despite the value of studies such as these, there remains a need to analyse the period of the Manchurian crisis in its own terms – in a sense, to detach it temporarily from subsequent events, in order to re-attach it in a more convincing way. Again as in Germany, much historiography of 1930s Japan has been dominated by ‘the overwhelming impact of the catastrophic end and final condition of the regime’, and there is a great temptation to use that catastrophic end as ‘a golden thread to explain a posteriori the motives, methods, and stages’27 of ‘Japanese fascism’. An explanation of attitudes during the Manchurian crisis, however, must rest essentially on a consideration of the period 1931–33, not on a historian’s knowledge that full-scale war would soon occur, or that the army had had a reasonably strong presence in the villages in the 1920s.28 One wonders how existing interpretations of the 1930s might have differed if by some diplomatic or

Introduction

9

political manoeuvre war had been averted in 1937 or 1941, as a number of scholars argue it could have been. This book begins with an outline of the background and events of the Manchurian crisis itself. It then moves on to consider the issues of censorship and propaganda as they affected reporting of events in Manchuria, Shanghai and the League of Nations at Geneva. The thorough manipulation of public opinion by the state during the 1930s is one important element in the popular view of the ‘fifteen-year war’. Chapter 2 considers the extent to which censorship mechanisms actually did mould opinion during the Manchurian crisis. Chapter 3 turns to propaganda about the crisis, investigating the ideas circulated by newspapers, magazines, radio and film. Part II of the book considers ‘national’ perspectives on the Manchurian crisis, beginning in Chapter 4, which analyses views within the establishment. Chapter 5 considers the responses of moderate public intellectuals and political extremists of both the right and the left. In Part III of the book, responses to the Manchurian crisis of different groups in society are examined. Chapter 6 considers farmers, while Chapter 7 turns to the towns and cities to analyse the reactions of labour unionists and workers’ political parties. Chapter 8 assesses the responses first of organisations representing small and medium enterprises, then of big business, and Chapter 9 explores the gendered nature of the Manchurian crisis through an analysis of discourse about Manchuria aimed at women, and an assessment of the responses of women’s organisations. The Conclusion then returns to a reinterpretation of the significance of the Manchurian crisis and an assessment of its place in the history of the 1930s.

Notes 1 Eguchi Keiichi, Ju¯gonen senso sho¯shi, Tokyo, Aoki shoten, 1986, p. 29. The word ‘incident’ in ‘Manchurian Incident’ might seem to trivialise and limit a set of events which the Chinese certainly regarded as war. As Eguchi Keiichi has pointed out, however, alternative terms like ‘the invasion of Manchuria’ or ‘the invasion of the north-east’ would tend to cause confusion with other events from 1904–05 onwards. Furthermore, the Chinese term for ‘Manchurian Incident’ is ‘the 18 September Incident’ (ibid., p. 5). In this book, the term ‘Manchurian Incident’ is used to mean the events which occurred near Mukden on 18 September 1931; the period between then and early/mid-1933 is referred to as the ‘Manchurian crisis’. 2 Sara R. Smith, The Manchurian Crisis 1931–1932: A Tragedy in International Relations, New York, Columbia University Press, 1948, p. 3; John M. Maki, Conflict and Tension in the Far East: Key Documents, 1894–1960, Seattle, Washington, University of Washington Press, 1961, pp. 62–3. 3 Otto D. Tolischus, Tokyo Record, London, Hamish Hamilton, 1943, p. 59. 4 Takehiko Yoshihashi, Conspiracy at Mukden: The Rise of the Japanese Military, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1963, viii. 5 Sadako N. Ogata, Defiance in Manchuria: The Making of Japanese Foreign Policy, 1931– 1932, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1964. 6 James B. Crowley, Japan’s Quest for Autonomy: National Security and Foreign Policy 1930– 1938, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1966, Chs 2, 3; Ian Nish, Japan’s Struggle with Internationalism: Japan, China and the League of Nations, 1931–1933, London, Kegan Paul International, 1993.

10 Introduction 7 Louise Young, Japan’s Total Empire: Manchuria and the Culture of Wartime Imperialism, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1998. 8 Ienaga Saburo¯, The Pacific War, 1931–1945: A Critical Perspective on Japan’s Role in World War II, trans. Frank Baldwin, New York, Pantheon Books, 1978, pp. xiii, 3. For a critique of the concept of the ‘fifteen-year war’, see Sandra Wilson, ‘Rethinking the 1930s and the “15-Year War” in Japan’, Japanese Studies, Vol. 21, No. 2, September 2001, pp. 155–64. 9 See Young, Japan’s Total Empire, pp. 55–114. 10 Tsurumaru Yukio et al., ‘Sono koro watashi wa – onnatachi no sho¯gen’, Ju¯goshi no¯to, No. 3, January 1983, pp. 41–2. 11 Ibid., p. 40. 12 Inoue Toshikazu, ‘Kokusai renmei dattaigo no Nihon gaiko¯’, Hitotsubashi ronso¯, Vol. 93, No. 2, February 1985, pp. 210–29; see also Ogata Sadako, ‘Gaiko¯ to yoron: Renmei dattai o meguru ichiko¯satsu’, Kokusai seiji, Vol. 1, 1969, p. 50. 13 See especially Mary Nolan, ‘The Historikerstreit and Social History’, in Peter Baldwin (ed.), Reworking the Past: Hitler, the Holocaust, and the Historians’ Debate, Boston, Beacon Press, 1990, pp. 224–48; Detlev J. K. Peukert, Inside Nazi Germany: Conformity, Opposition and Racism in Everyday Life, trans. Richard Deveson, London, Penguin, 1989. 14 Umut Özkirimli, Theories of Nationalism: A Critical Introduction, New York, St Martin’s Press, 2000, p. 4. 15 Patrick M. Regan, Organizing Societies for War: The Process and Consequences of Societal Militarization, Westport, Connecticut, Praeger, 1994, p. 5. 16 Richard J. Smethurst, A Social Basis for Prewar Japanese Militarism: The Army and the Rural Community, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1974. 17 Kaura Hatsumi, ‘No¯son no kyo¯dai e’, Kamishina-mura shi kanko¯kai (ed.), Kamishina jiho¯, Ueda-shi, 1978, May 1932, p. 1. 18 See Young, Japan’s Total Empire, pp. 130–40. 19 Ienaga, Pacific War, p. 124; United States Army, Forces in the Pacific, The Brocade Banner: The Story of Japanese Nationalism, Special Report by Civil Intelligence Section, 23 September 1946, p. 7. 20 Kato¯ Shu¯ichi, ‘Taisho¯ Democracy as the Pre-Stage for Japanese Militarism’, in Bernard S. Silberman and H. D. Harootunian (eds), Japan in Crisis: Essays on Taisho¯ Democracy, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1974, p. 231. 21 In English, see especially William Miles Fletcher III, The Search for a New Order: Intellectuals and Fascism in Prewar Japan, Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press, 1982; James B. Crowley, ‘Intellectuals as Visionaries of the New Asian Order’, in James William Morley (ed.), Dilemmas of Growth in Prewar Japan, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1971, pp. 319–73; Barrington Moore, Jr, Social Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy: Lord and Peasant in the Making of the Modern World, Harmondsworth, Penguin, 1966, p. 308; Smethurst, Social Basis. 22 William Miles Fletcher III, The Japanese Business Community and National Trade Policy, 1920–1942, Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press, 1989; Sheldon Garon, The State and Labor in Modern Japan, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1987; Sheldon Garon, Molding Japanese Minds: The State in Everyday Life, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1997. 23 For example, Suzuki Yu¯ko, Feminizumu to senso¯: fujin undo¯ka no senso¯ kyo¯ryoku, Tokyo, Marjusha, 1986; Fujii Tadatoshi, Kokubo¯ fujinkai: hinomaru to kappo¯gi, Tokyo, Iwanami shoten, 1985; Sharon H. Nolte, ‘Women’s Rights and Society’s Needs: Japan’s 1931 Suffrage Bill’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, Vol. 28, 1986, pp. 690–714; Sheldon Garon, ‘Women’s Groups and the Japanese State: Contending Approaches to Political Integration, 1890–1945’, Journal of Japanese Studies, Vol. 19, No. 1, 1993, pp. 5–41. 24 Eguchi Keiichi, Nihon teikokushugishiron: Manshu¯ jihen zengo, Tokyo, Aoki shoten, 1975,

Introduction

25 26 27 28

11

esp. Chs 5 and 6; Awaya Kentaro¯, ‘Fasshoka to minshu¯ ishiki’, in Eguchi Keiichi (ed.), Taikei. Nihon gendaishi, Vol. 1: Nihon fashizumu no keisei, Tokyo, Nihon hyo¯ronsha, 1978, pp. 252–302; Yui Masaomi, ‘Gunbu to kokumin to¯go¯’, in To¯kyo¯ daigaku shakai kagaku kenkyu¯jo (ed.), Fashizumu no kokka to shakai, Vol. 1: Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1978, pp. 149–95; Young, Japan’s Total Empire, pp. 55–114. Awaya, ‘Fasshoka’, pp. 262–6. Ibid. Martin Broszat, ‘A Plea for the Historicization of National Socialism’, in Baldwin (ed.), Reworking the Past, p. 83. See Banno Junji, ‘Sho¯wa ju¯nen no kiro – rekishi ni okeru hitsuzen to gu¯zen’, Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron, April 1985, pp. 88–99, for a discussion of this general historiographical point in relation to 1930s Japan.

Part I

Managing the crisis At home and abroad

1

The Manchurian crisis, 1931–33

The explosion on the South Manchurian Railway on 18 September 1931 was undeniably the starting-point for a new stage in relations between Japan and Manchuria. Equally, however, it takes its place in the longer history of SinoJapanese tension in the region. This chapter outlines the context within which the Manchurian Incident occurred, before proceeding to an overview of its consequences and reactions to it both within Japan and internationally.

Japanese interests in Manchuria Agreements imposed upon Russia in 1905 and China in 1915 had ceded to Japan substantial control of Manchuria, or the three north-eastern provinces of China: Liaoning (formerly Fengtien), Kirin and Heilungkiang, which together constitute an area roughly equal to that of France and Germany combined.1 Most importantly, in 1905, after defeating Russia in war, Japan gained a rail network in southern Manchuria and the right to station troops to consolidate and protect Japanese interests in the region, including the railway. The military force sent to Manchuria, which came to be known as the Kwantung Army, remained there until 1945,2 operating in conjunction with the Kwantung Government administration, which had been set up by the Japanese after the Russo–Japanese War to police the railway lines and to take responsibility for the administration of the territory in the southern tip of Manchuria, formerly known as Liaotung, which was now to be leased by Japan. In 1906, the semi-governmental South Manchurian Railway Company was established by Japan with a capitalisation of 200 million yen. Important Japanese political leaders participated in the planning of the company, which became Japan’s largest firm and ‘the economic spine of Manchuria’.3 While maintaining the appearance of an independent private corporation, it also acted as an instrument of Japanese political power.4 Thus the South Manchurian Railway Company, like the East India Company before it, represented an unusual fusion of political, military and business interests. The Company controlled not only 700 miles of railway, but also the great majority of all Japanese economic activity in Manchuria, including mining, industry, commerce, power supply, foreign trade and shipping. It claimed almost exclusive authority in the towns and cities

16

Managing the crisis

that grew up along the railways, of which there were more than a hundred in 1931. The company also acquired other lands outside these towns, including significant deposits of coal and iron at Fushun and Anshan, and various port and harbour works. Moreover, the railway zone itself traversed the most fertile land in Manchuria. The agricultural importance of the region for both China and Japan was enormous. The soya bean, Manchuria’s major crop, was exported to Japan for fertiliser and fodder, and to Europe as raw material for manufacturing vegetable fats and oils, used for lighting as well as food. By 1927 nearly half the world’s supply of soya was coming from Manchuria, which also accounted for a high proportion of China’s total coal and iron output and of its foreign trade.5 By the 1920s the railway and its supporting industries had become the symbol of the Japanese presence in Manchuria, and the South Manchurian Railway Company’s interests were so large that they ‘greatly limit[ed] and condition[ed] successive Chinese administrations’ in the region.6 The company’s assets exceeded 1 billion yen by 1930.7 The controller and beneficiary of most of this development was of course Japan, not China. By the 1920s, it was an established canon throughout decision-making circles in Tokyo that Manchuria was vital to Japan, for strategic as well as economic reasons, and that the Japanese had inviolable rights in Manchuria which had been legitimately won by treaty. A few independent voices warned against this view, as we shall see in later chapters, but they were a distinct minority. Some within the Japanese army, on the other hand, had long maintained that only direct control of Manchuria was sufficient for Japan’s needs. The idea of an ‘independent’ Manchuria recurred regularly within the Japanese army between 1911 and 1932, and was also propounded in certain civilian rightist circles.8 This argument seemed stronger by the middle and later 1920s, when the growing force of Chinese nationalism prompted Tokyo elites to speak of a ‘crisis’ in relation to Japanese interests in Manchuria, especially after 1928, when Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist troops completed their Northern Expedition, having established a new ‘national’ government in Nanking. The Japanese government’s nervousness about potential threats to its power in the north-east was plainly revealed in 1927 and 1928: though Chiang Kai-shek had showed his willingness to compromise with Japan, the Seiyu¯kai Cabinet of Tanaka Giichi sent Japanese troops to Shantung province in both May 1927 and April 1928 in an attempt to prevent Northern Expedition troops from moving into north China and eventually Manchuria.9 Moves to establish firmer Japanese control in Manchuria gained momentum. One month after the first incursion of Japanese troops into Shantung, the Tanaka Cabinet convened an ‘Eastern Conference’ (To¯ho¯ kaigi) to discuss Japan’s policy towards China. After ten days of deliberation by diplomatic officials, bureaucrats, military officers and others, a new policy was announced which declared the right of Japan to intervene positively in the affairs of Manchuria and Mongolia. In fact, according to Yoshihashi, the ‘undisguised object’ of the whole conference was ‘to hammer out a course of action . . . [leading to] Japanese seizure

The Manchurian crisis, 1931–33 17 of Manchuria’.10 Fear that Japan was about to lose control of Manchuria and a desire either to provide a pretext for Japanese occupation or to install a new leader there who would be more sympathetic to Japan led a group of Kwantung Army officers to assassinate the Manchurian warlord Chang Tso-lin in June 1928. The plotters’ goals were not achieved, however: orders for the mobilisation of the Kwantung Army in the aftermath of the assassination were not forthcoming, and Chang Tso-lin’s successor, Chang Hsueh-liang, far from becoming a Japanese puppet, was flying the Nationalist flag in Manchuria by mid-November 1928. Meanwhile, the political consequences in Japan of Chang’s assassination had forced the resignation of Tanaka Giichi as Prime Minister in July 1928. The perception that Chinese nationalism posed a serious threat to Japanese control of Manchuria was not misplaced. Labour strikes against Japanese firms, disruptions to railway operations and other protests occurred in Manchuria, while a nation-wide anti-Japanese boycott took place in 1928.11 In addition, the Chinese were engaged in developing Manchuria outside the South Manchurian Railway zone; Japanese investments in Manchuria were particularly threatened by the construction of new railway lines, according to claims by the Japanese government and other interests.12 From the late 1920s Manchuria began to appear in the Japanese press more often; until then there had been little media interest in the region. Within Japan, the murder of Chang Tso-lin and its political consequences in 1928–29 attracted a great deal of attention. Japanese residents in Manchuria after 1928 were also showing signs of restlessness, and expressing frequent criticism of ‘Shidehara diplomacy’, or the relatively conciliatory China policy implemented by Foreign Minister Shidehara Kiju¯ro¯.13 Late in 1928, Japanese residents in Manchuria formed the Manchurian Youth League (Manshu¯ seinen renmei), a pressure group dedicated to the defence of Japanese rights and interests in Manchuria. Comprising mostly junior members of the South Manchurian Railway Company and independent Japanese businessmen in Manchuria, the League attracted 3,000 members in its first year. In the summer of 1931 it embarked on its first lecture tour to Japan. Critical of Japanese foreign policy and party politics and advocating the creation of an autonomous state in Manchuria, the group aimed ‘to awaken the brothers at home’ to the plight of their compatriots in Manchuria and the need to strike against the Chinese government.14 In Japan, meanwhile, popular journals were by now featuring articles on ‘the Manchurian–Mongolian problem’ (Manmo¯ mondai) with some frequency.15 On the whole, however, it is unlikely that the ‘problem’ as yet impinged greatly on the consciousness of most Japanese outside of the Kwantung Army and the South Manchurian Railway Company. Japanese business interests, like those of Great Britain, the United States and other nations, were on balance much more interested in the commercial and trade opportunities in the Shanghai area than in Manchuria. For the general public, rural depression, unemployment, elections and allegations of political corruption were more prominent issues than events in Manchuria, which, for many, was little-known and remote.

18

Managing the crisis

Even in 1935–36, women in one Kyu¯shu¯ village, albeit a comparatively remote one, ‘had only the vaguest notion of where and how far away Korea, China and Manchuria might be’.16 It is unlikely that they were much better informed a few years earlier. Among the decision-making elites in Japan, the threat to Japanese control of Manchuria was recognised from the late 1920s onwards, but outside the army, military force was not considered an appropriate way of dealing with it at a time when the ideal of international co-operation still prevailed. When the Manchurian Incident did occur, there was initially an almost universal concern among the elites that the military action should not be allowed to escalate, even if that concern did not translate into effective action. By contrast, certain members of the Kwantung Army still believed a forceful solution to the ‘Manchurian problem’ to be an urgent necessity, in view of the twin threats of Chinese nationalism and growing Soviet power. Despite the failure of the Chang Tso-lin Incident to escalate in the desired manner, many, perhaps most, in the Kwantung Army continued to believe that such methods would be necessary. The most ardent exponents of this view included Lieutenant-Colonel Ishiwara Kanji, Lieutenant-Colonel Itagaki Seishiro¯ and the members of a study group organised by Major Suzuki Teiichi. Ishiwara in particular believed that the international environment by 1931 was uniquely favourable to military action by Japan in Manchuria, as no other country would have both the capacity and the will to intervene against Japan. Furthermore, Ishiwara and Itagaki were both facing possible transfer out of Japan in the near future. For these reasons, the Manchurian Incident was instigated by members of the Kwantung Army in September 1931.17 Their action, however, was in accordance with the views of most of the Japanese army, and the General Staff voiced no objection in principle to the Kwantung Army’s action.

The summer of 1931 Several events in the middle of 1931 heightened the sense that Japan’s relations with Manchuria had reached a crisis-point. The most significant were the Wanpaoshan Incident and the killing of Captain Nakamura Shintaro¯. The dispute known as the Wanpaoshan Incident highlighted long-standing issues relating to Japan’s right to lease land and engage in commercial activity in Manchuria, and as an incidental bonus it also allowed the Japanese authorities to pose as protectors of the 800,000 or so Koreans who were resident in Manchuria. In July 1931 conflict broke out between Chinese and Korean farmers over irrigation rights in Wanpaoshan, a village near Changchun in Kirin province, and a group of Chinese attacked the Korean farmers. The Chinese farmers were backed by Chinese police and the Koreans by Japanese consular police, who fired over the Chinese crowd at one point. The Koreans and Japanese eventually prevailed without bloodshed on either side. However, anti-Chinese riots immediately broke out in Korea, incited by propaganda by Japanese extremists seeking to promote a more aggressive Japanese policy in Manchuria. Over one hundred Chinese were killed; in retaliation, the Chinese carried out anti-

The Manchurian crisis, 1931–33 19 Japanese activities in a number of Chinese cities.18 The League of Nations commission of enquiry later set up to investigate the Manchurian Incident considered the ‘intrinsic importance’ of the Wanpaoshan Incident to have been ‘greatly exaggerated’,19 but many Japanese observers saw it as incontrovertible evidence of Chinese infringements of Japan’s legitimate rights in Manchuria. On the other hand, the incident infuriated many Chinese, and an anti-Japanese boycott was initiated in Shanghai as retaliation. Relations between China and Japan were still strained as a result of this and other incidents when the case of Captain Nakamura Shintaro¯ came to light.20 Nakamura was a Japanese military officer on active duty, travelling incognito with interpreters and an assistant in June 1931 through Manchuria. He and his companions were captured and shot by Chinese soldiers who believed, not unreasonably, that they were spies. Many years after the event, one former Japanese diplomat stated that Nakamura was indeed a spy, and was gathering information - but in preparation for war with the Soviet Union, rather than to facilitate Sino-Japanese conflict.21 At the time, Japanese authorities insisted that the killings were unwarranted and revealed the depth of Chinese contempt for Japanese rights in Manchuria and for the Japanese nation itself. There was intense press coverage of the story in Japan from mid-August, when the Kwantung military authorities first released an account of Nakamura’s death; once again, the case provided an opportunity to demand a stronger China policy. Chinese authorities eventually agreed to investigate the deaths, and according to the Lytton Report, ‘it would seem that diplomatic negotiations for attaining a solution of the Nakamura case were actually progressing favourably up to the night of September 18’.22 Nakamura’s death was not made public until mid-August, but despite the efforts at diplomatic resolution it greatly inflamed the treatment of Manchurian issues in Japan. The army was certainly not averse to capitalising on the affair, particularly at a time when some articulate Japanese were airing the view that Japanese rights in Manchuria were less important than trading relationships with Shanghai and other parts of central China.23 As a senior Foreign Ministry official remarked in August, ‘The army is trying to use the killing of Captain Nakamura, by enlarging the importance of the whole affair, as a lever for the solution of matters in Manchuria and Mongolia. I am very worried.’24 The killing of Nakamura gave the military and ultranationalists in Japan the most persuasive argument yet in favour of ‘using force to settle once and for all the outstanding issues relating to Manchuria’.25 Ishiwara Kanji, for one, wanted the Nakamura Incident used as a pretext for military action by Japan,26 and on 14 September at a district meeting in Tokyo, the Reservists’ Association also passed a resolution demanding ‘strong and decisive’ action to protect Japan’s rights and interests in Manchuria.27 At a special conference the next day, Army Minister General Minami Jiro¯ and Chief of Staff Kanaya Hanzo¯ expressed the view that the death of Nakamura was highly significant, and that the opportunity should be seized to ‘bring about a fundamental change in the Chinese attitude’. They called for retribution and agreed that ‘the time is ripe . . . to launch a vigorous campaign to

20

Managing the crisis

reach a basic solution of the present situation’. Others present at this conference included Colonel Doihara Kenji, Resident Officer at Mukden; LieutenantGeneral Sugiyama Gen, Vice-Minister of the Army; and Lieutenant-General Ninomiya Harushige, Assistant Chief of Staff. Meanwhile, Foreign Minister Shidehara Kiju¯ro¯ was still insisting on a diplomatic solution to the dispute, leading some observers to comment that the gap between the Foreign Ministry and the Army Ministry over Manchurian issues was widening, as indeed it was.28 By September 1931 a considerable number of press articles was calling for firm action in Manchuria. In Daniel R. Ramsdell’s view, the Nakamura case in particular had made the Japanese public ‘more willing to accept the forcible solution to all Manchurian problems which the Mukden incident was soon to offer’.29 The Nakamura and Wanpaoshan incidents were the most specific grievances, but other issues also rankled, particularly those relating to lease rights, railway rights and taxes. In fact, it became a media cliché that ‘over 300 pending issues’ between Japan and China over Manchuria now required definitive action. Failure to resolve these issues was giving China cause to be contemptuous of Japan, according to many observers. One journalist, Hosono Shigekatsu of the Kokumin shinbun (People’s Newspaper), declared that Japan and China were virtually in a state of war, and that Japan should go ahead and actually declare war against China in order to protect its interests in Manchuria and Mongolia.30 Reports indicated that Yoshizawa Kenkichi, Japan’s delegate to the League of Nations, would suggest in a speech to the League’s Assembly that ‘the protection of special rights and interests should be regarded as a special case not falling under the purview’ of the Anti-War Pact to which Japan was a signatory, though he would not mention Manchuria and Mongolia specifically.31 In short, a serious state of tension existed between Japan and China over Manchurian affairs on the eve of the incident at Mukden, and senior figures in the army were not loathe to stimulate and increase this tension in order to provide a pretext for the military action they had long wanted.

Aftermath of the Manchurian Incident The explosion on the railway outside Mukden on 18 September 1931 provoked very little public criticism in Japan, especially compared to the wave of public enthusiasm for the Kwantung Army’s actions. Communists denounced the Manchurian Incident, but to little effect: they were an isolated minority and were continually repressed by the authorities. Labour unions were at best ambivalent about the invasion of Manchuria, and neither of the two main proletarian parties was prepared to take an unequivocal stand against the Kwantung Army’s actions, though both had anti-war declarations in their platforms in 1931. A handful of liberals opposed the Manchurian Incident outright, but most Japanese intellectuals either supported it or remained silent. The great majority of the press seized on the Incident as an opportunity to increase circulation through sensationalist reporting of events. Pacifist feeling was not a significant factor. Indeed, with the exception of those

The Manchurian crisis, 1931–33 21 intellectuals and others who actively espoused a kind of pacifism similar to that found in Europe and the United States after the First World War, few Japanese were opposed to the idea of war as such. The Manchurian crisis itself produced a comparatively small number of casualties: according to official figures, 603 members of the armed forces were killed in action up to mid-July 1932, a further 100 died from their wounds and 1,492 were injured.32 Japan’s experience of the First World War, unlike that of the European nations, had been a positive and profitable one.33 None of Japan’s modern wars had been fought on Japanese territory, and thus the direct effect on the civilian population was very limited.34 Even the Russo-Japanese War, a bloody and a costly war for both sides, was by the early 1930s less a deterrent to another war than a convenient source of military propaganda in Japan, particularly in the context of justifying the seizure of Manchuria and as a repository of ‘heroic stories’ which could be used to impart proper values to new generations.35 The significance of this relative lack of negative attitudes to war in Japan is suggested by a comparison with other countries which had been involved in the First World War in particular. For example, memories of the ‘[n]ear starvation, crushing financial burdens, and, above all, appallingly long casualty lists’ of 1914–18 still ‘ran deep within the British people’ in the early 1930s, ‘shatter[ing] the belief that war was a legitimate method of furthering national ambitions and replac[ing] it with a determination to avoid war and a fear of armaments as a primary cause of war’.36 In Japan, by contrast, despite widespread commitment among the elites to an internationalist diplomacy in co-operation with the Western powers, in the early 1930s there remained broad acceptance of the view, now largely outdated in Europe, that ‘in certain circumstances national interests could only be served by going to war’.37 It was still possible, too, to glory publicly in the power of weaponry and the excitement of war, in terms that would be hard to imagine in a mainstream publication in Britain, France or the United States in the same period. As one Japanese magazine declared early in 1933: When the interests of nations conflict and diplomatic negotiations end in failure, the final means of telling right from wrong is war. War!! Once war breaks out, it is necessary to exert all efforts and win.38 Among the decision-making elites in Japan, as noted above, the consensus in 1931 was that military action in Manchuria was inappropriate. However, this was less a matter of principle and more because of an expectation that overt aggression would lead to alienation from the Western powers, and perhaps because of unwillingness to allow a situation likely to benefit military budgets and military power. Nor, in 1931, were ordinary people averse to war. It had seemed to work in the past, with little cost or with costs not now clearly remembered. In fact, the Manchurian Incident generated excitement among many ordinary Japanese. In Osaka, maps of Manchuria were completely sold out within four or five days of the explosion outside Mukden.39 In To¯hoku, home of a large number

22

Managing the crisis

of the Japanese soldiers in Manchuria, villagers rushed to donate money and goods for the troops, despite the privations of the depression.40 The British Ambassador to Tokyo concluded in his annual report for 1931 that ‘the country, true to its long military tradition, was found to be enthusiastically and solidly behind the army’,41 while in early December, another foreign observer wrote: war maps and vivid pictures attract crowds to the show windows where they are displayed; at night electric ideographs flash across the faces of the great newspaper offices telling the day’s happenings in Manchuria to the populace of Osaka and Tokyo. Young middle-school students, emphasizing their importance with pennants and arm bands, patrol the downtown streets, haranguing the crowds for funds to help the ‘heroes’ up in the bitter northern territory. Girls make appeals for nursing volunteers. Newspaper headlines clamor about ‘the enemy’, ‘the latest engagement’, the ‘shifting front’, ‘our troops’ progress westward’. It is difficult to reconcile all this activity, all this deliberate stirring of patriotism, with the solemn official pronouncements of ‘no war in Manchuria’.42 After September 1931 Manchurian themes began to appear not only in newspapers, magazines, films and books but also in plays, exhibitions, toys, music and speeches throughout Japan. Schools, factories and all manner of other organisations held fund-raising drives. Soldiers went to Manchuria with great fanfare, politicians made patriotic pronouncements. The army encouraged and attempted to stage-manage public enthusiasm for the fighting in Manchuria. Rallies of army reservists passed resolutions demanding firm action at every point; senior military officers supplied suitable information and articles for the press. The impression of virtually universal enthusiasm, however, disguises the complexity of reactions to the invasion of Manchuria and suggests a unity of purpose that was not in fact there. Within elite circles, there was scepticism about or opposition to the army’s actions. The Wakatsuki Cabinet sought to prevent escalation of the fighting, as did Army Minister Minami and Chief of Staff Kanaya at first. The powerful Home Ministry exhibited little interest in the army’s exploits, preferring to concentrate on domestic concerns: clearly, the military’s agenda had yet to win full acceptance even at the heart of the state itself.43 In some quarters there was support for the military action but doubt that it would be properly followed up. Rightists feared that the fruits of the army’s efforts would be squandered by a weak and vacillating government.44 The fact that even the military itself did not take public support for the Manchurian venture for granted is suggested by the quantity of propaganda that was directed at the Japanese people through a variety of media, stressing the benefits of acquiring Manchuria and the need for the military to take action against Chinese violation of Japanese rights in the region. Presumably there would have been little requirement for such efforts if public patriotism had been beyond doubt. The situation in late 1931, then, was more fluid and uncertain than is often acknowledged.

The Manchurian crisis, 1931–33 23 The Minseito¯ Cabinet of Wakatsuki Reijiro¯ sought desperately to restrain the Kwantung Army in the immediate aftermath of the explosion on the South Manchurian Railway, but despite early co-operation with its efforts from some senior army figures, the cabinet’s line was defeated. In December 1931 the cabinet collapsed, thanks to a combination of its discredited approach to the Manchurian crisis, the failure of Finance Minister Inoue Junnosuke’s economic policies in the context of the depression, and the activities of a dissident wing within the Minseito¯ Cabinet led by Home Minister Adachi Kenzo¯ which favoured coalition rather than party cabinets.45 The Wakatsuki Cabinet was replaced by the Seiyu¯kai Cabinet of Inukai Tsuyoshi, which was more amenable to the idea of military expansion on the Asian mainland. Then, at the end of January 1932, fighting also broke out in Shanghai, the heartland of foreign investment in China and the site of considerable SinoJapanese tension since the middle of the previous year. The anti-Japanese movement which had begun in China around mid-1931 and intensified after the Manchurian Incident was strongest in the Shanghai area. By the end of 1931, boycotts of Japanese goods and other anti-Japanese actions had become a serious threat to Japanese economic activity there. Several incidents occurred in January 1932 to aggravate relations between the Chinese and the Japanese; the incident which actually ignited the fighting was deliberately provoked by a Japanese military aide attached to the Consulate-General. The Japanese government, under pressure from Japanese residents in Shanghai, eventually sent military reinforcements. On 29 January, Japanese forces bombed the Chapei district of Shanghai from the air. Hostilities continued for some weeks, producing many casualties: in fact, more than in the Manchurian campaign. A truce was signed early in May.

International reaction to the Manchurian and Shanghai Incidents In one sense, it is surprising that the dispute between Japan and China over Manchuria ever became a major international issue. 1931 was, above all, a year in which governments, bureaucracies and ordinary people throughout the world struggled to understand and to survive the economic depression into which all had been plunged. The major powers were committed, publicly at least, to the ideal of co-operation among nations and the peaceful solution of international disputes. In reality, however, most governments could ill afford to do more than grapple with their own domestic and regional problems in an effort to stay in power at a time of unprecedented unemployment and economic suffering. Thus, the rest of the world had little reason to be interested in a sudden military incursion by Japan into the north-eastern provinces of China, or in the ensuing dispute between China and Japan. For Europe and the United States, East Asia was remote and other problems were much more pressing. The United States was officially pursuing a policy of isolationism in international relations, symbolised by its refusal to join the

24

Managing the crisis

League of Nations despite its stated support for the League’s ideals. Its economy was in disarray, and the depression required almost all the government’s attention. The administration of President Herbert Hoover already faced congressional opposition on domestic issues; it did not want to risk further problems over foreign policy by taking too firm a stand on Manchuria.46 Consequently, though the United States was the most vociferous critic of Japan, it ultimately was not prepared to go beyond moralistic expressions of disapproval. The Soviet Union, geographically the closest of all the major powers to Japan and China, was preoccupied with the collectivisation campaign and the first Five-Year Plan when Japan invaded Manchuria. It did not challenge the Kwantung Army, choosing to avoid a clash when the Japanese advanced into northern Manchuria, a Soviet sphere of influence.47 Great Britain, one of the mainstays of the League of Nations, was embroiled in a cabinet and financial crisis during 1931. In any case, it was inclined to sympathise with Japan’s position. The League of Nations itself, despite its concern with international treaties and with disarmament, was preoccupied with European problems and the world economy. In China, of course, there was vehement reaction to the Japanese invasion. Boycotts of Japanese goods and services, demonstrations and even attacks on Japanese citizens occurred throughout the country. A variety of groups, most notably student groups, demanded decisive counter-action both from Chang Hsueh-liang, who controlled Manchuria after the Japanese murdered his father, Chang Tso-lin, in 1928, and from Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist government in Nanking, with which Chang Hsueh-liang was allied.48 Chiang, however, was in a difficult situation, with only limited national authority and facing opposition from both Chinese Communists and rival Nationalists. In order to avoid becoming embroiled in a military conflict he chose a policy of ‘non-resistance’ and opted instead to invoke international intervention by appealing to the League of Nations.49 Chang Hseuh-liang, too, instructed his subordinates to avoid encounters with the Japanese after 18 September 1931. The Chinese Communist Party itself, then concentrated in Kiangsi province, was exhorted by Moscow to rise up against the Japanese, and the government of the Kiangsi Soviet did formally declare war on Japan on 15 May 1932. In reality, however, the Communists could do little. Their Kiangsi base was far south of Manchuria, and party members were at that time fully occupied with battling the Nationalists in any case. On the other hand, resistance against the Japanese was by no means totally absent in the early 1930s. Fighting by irregulars, especially by the forces of General Ma Chan-shan in Heilungchiang, continued for several years in Manchuria, and in Shanghai there was notable and popular resistance to the Japanese by the Nineteenth Route Army. At the end of September 1931, the Council of the League of Nations noted Japan’s statement that troops would be withdrawn as soon as the lives and property of Japanese residents could be guaranteed. In October, Japan having failed to withdraw from Manchuria, the League Council passed a resolution by a vote of thirteen to one ( Japan opposing), calling for Japan to evacuate Manchuria within three weeks. In December, it finally decided to appoint a commission of

The Manchurian crisis, 1931–33 25 enquiry into the Sino-Japanese dispute. Japan consented to this move, apparently confident it could present a convincing case to the League in view of China’s many treaty violations.50 On the whole, then, the Manchurian crisis became an issue for the Western powers not because China had been invaded, but because the dispute was brought before the League of Nations. The exception was the Soviet Union, for which Japan’s action raised pressing questions about defence capabilities in the Soviet Far East. During 1932, in fact, substantial new land and sea forces were sent to the region, and attempts were also made to increase its economic selfsufficiency.51 For the League of Nations, the Manchurian crisis seemed to become a test case for its new machinery, or for the sanctity of treaties in general. The larger nations were in reality willing to compromise with Japan, but the structure of the League allowed smaller member nations a relatively strong collective voice, and the small nations saw the Manchurian crisis as a threat in principle: they were anxious that the rights of the ‘weaker’ of the disputants should be protected.52 It was a different matter with the Shanghai Incident, given the extent of Western commercial interests in Shanghai. Whereas there was little serious interest in Manchuria on the part of Europe and the United States, the Japanese attack on Shanghai in January 1932 was interpreted as ‘a major threat to Western possessions, lives and interests’.53 The emotional impact of the fighting in urban Shanghai was also much greater than that in remote Manchuria had been. With European settlements close at hand there were thousands of foreign eyewitnesses to the carnage. The fighting was also widely photographed and passionately reported in the world press. Again Chiang Kai-shek sought Western intervention as a means of resolving the dispute. Though some prominent Chinese sought to link the Shanghai fighting with the Manchurian issue, Chiang’s government rejected this approach and sought a local solution, which was achieved in May 1932. 54 Japanese observers, too, generally spoke of the two disputes as separate issues, at least publicly, and this was also the official government view: Japan’s differences with China by 1932, according to one official publication, consisted of ‘two phases, entirely different in nature from each other and to be considered independently of one another’.55 Despite this lack of an explicit, official linkage, the Shanghai Incident undoubtedly worsened Japan’s image in Western countries, and certainly hindered the Japanese attempt to justify the Manchurian Incident as a result. The League’s commission of enquiry into the Manchurian dispute, headed by Lord Lytton of Great Britain, visited Japan and China during 1932 and presented its report in October of that year. The report was relatively moderate and indeed sympathetic to Japan in places, conceding Japan’s ‘special position’ in Manchuria and acknowledging the complexity of Sino-Japanese relations. However, it rejected the main Japanese justification of the Manchurian Incident, which was that the events of 18 September 1931 had constituted a legitimate and necessary act of self-defence:

26

Managing the crisis The military operations of the Japanese troops during this night [18 September 1931] . . . cannot be regarded as measures of legitimate selfdefence. In saying this, the Commission does not exclude the hypothesis that the officers on the spot may have thought they were acting in self-defence.

The report also rejected the claim that the formation of Manchukuo had been the direct result of a spontaneous independence movement among its inhabitants: the present regime cannot be considered to have been called into existence by a genuine and spontaneous independence movement . . . [Although titular heads of government departments are Chinese,] the main political and administrative power rests in the hands of Japanese officials and advisers. Commission members added that ‘there is no general Chinese support for the “Manchukuo Government”, which is regarded by the local Chinese as an instrument of the Japanese’.56 The commission’s report recommended that a new administrative arrangement be found for Manchuria that would be consistent with the principle of Chinese sovereignty, while protecting Japan’s special rights and interests there. When the assembly of the League unanimously endorsed the proposals of the Lytton Report (Siam abstaining) in February 1933, the Japanese delegation, led by Matsuoka Yo¯suke, withdrew in protest. The Japanese government’s formal notification of its intention to withdraw from the League, dated 27 March 1933, maintained that the Lytton Report was guilty of ‘entirely misapprehending the spirit of Japan’.57 Japanese military forces had not been idle while international negotiations took their course. Beginning in late 1932, the Kwantung Army had advanced into Jehol province, south of Manchukuo and bordering on the Great Wall, which constituted the boundary between Manchuria and North China, on the pretext of guaranteeing defences for Manchukuo. By the beginning of 1933, all of Jehol had been captured by Japanese forces. Between March and May 1933, Chiang Kai-shek finally fought the Japanese, his troops suffering heavy casualties in the process.58 In May, the Kwantung Army negotiated a truce with local Chinese officials, on terms favourable to Japan, resulting in the creation of a demilitarised zone insulating Japan’s gains from the area further south. In effect, the Chinese had recognised Japan’s conquest of Manchuria and Jehol, which henceforth was part of ‘Manchukuo’. At home in Japan, meanwhile, the events described above had been filling newspapers, magazines, radio broadcasts and newsreels since September 1931, providing a great deal of new material to be exploited by the burgeoning mass media. With such a flood of new information and reports came also new challenges for those whose official task was to prevent disruptions to good order and public morals. The next chapter will consider the structure and workings of the censorship system in order to assess its significance in shaping opinion about the Manchurian crisis.

The Manchurian crisis, 1931–33 27

Notes 1 It has been pointed out that the term ‘Manchurian’ itself is a less than impartial label which is ‘primarily political and imperialistic’ in nature, since it implied that the area was not part of China and could legitimately be severed from China. The Chinese referred to the region as ‘the north-east’ or ‘the three eastern provinces’ (Gavan McCormack, Chang Tso-lin in Northeast China, 1911–1928: China, Japan and the Manchurian Idea, Folkestone, Kent, Dawson, 1977, p. 4). While this is a valid and useful observation, it will be argued here that the name ‘Manchuria’ evoked particular images and meanings in Japan in the early 1930s, and thus is important in any discussion of Japanese responses to military activities in the region. See Chapter 3 for further discussion of the implications of the name ‘Manchuria’. 2 See Alvin D. Coox, ‘The Kwantung Army Dimension’, in Peter Duus, Ramon H. Myers and Mark R. Peattie (eds), The Japanese Informal Empire in China, 1895–1937, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1989, pp. 395–428. 3 William Roger Louis, British Strategy in the Far East 1919–1939, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1971, p. 175. 4 See Ramon H. Myers, ‘Japanese Imperialism in Manchuria: The South Manchurian Railway Company, 1906–1933’, in Duus, Myers and Peattie (eds), Japanese Informal Empire, pp. 101–32. 5 McCormack, Chang Tso-lin, pp. 1–8; Chong-Sik Lee, Revolutionary Struggle in Manchuria: Chinese Communism and Soviet Interest, 1922–1945, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1983, pp. 11–15; Herbert P. Bix, ‘Japanese Imperialism and the Manchurian Economy, 1900–31’, China Quarterly, No. 51, 1972, pp. 427–30; Myers, ‘South Manchurian Railway Company’. 6 McCormack, Chang Tso-lin, p. 6. 7 Myers, ‘South Manchurian Railway Company’, p. 115. 8 See W. G. Beasley, Japanese Imperialism 1894–1945, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1987, pp. 105–6; Lee, Revolutionary Struggle, p. 12. For a rightist view see, for example, Ogawa Heikichi, ‘Manshu¯ dokuritsu kankei keika (1)’, Ogawa Heikichi monjo kenkyu¯kai (ed.), Ogawa Heikichi kankei monjo, Vol. 1, Tokyo, Misuzu shobo¯, 1973, p. 641. 9 According to Yoshihashi, the sending of troops in May 1927 is attributable solely to pressure from Mori Kaku, Vice-Minister of Foreign Affairs; Prime Minister Tanaka and key members of the General Staff were most reluctant: Yoshihashi, Conspiracy, pp. 19–20. 10 Ibid., p. 23. 11 Myers, ‘South Manchurian Railway Company’, pp. 127–8; Banno Junji, ‘Japanese Industrialists and Merchants and the Anti-Japanese Boycotts in China, 1919–1928’, in Duus, Myers and Peattie (eds), Japanese Informal Empire, pp. 323–7. 12 On the railway disputes, see Louis, British Strategy, p. 175. 13 Morishima Morito, Consul in Mukden, in Ando¯ Yoshio (ed.), Sho¯washi e no sho¯gen, Vol. 2, Tokyo, Hara shobo¯, 1993, pp. 18–19. 14 Ogata, Defiance, pp. 18, 38–41, 50. The Manshu¯ seinen renmei, forerunner of the Kyo¯wakai (Concordia Association), dispatched lecturing teams to Japan several times after the Manchurian Incident as well. One such group lectured on the causes of the Manchurian Incident; another was sent to pressure the Japanese government and public opinion in favour of early recognition of Manchukuo. See also ibid., pp. 86, 158–9. On the effect of the youth league on Ishiwara Kanji’s thinking, see Mark R. Peattie, Ishiwara Kanji and Japan’s Confrontation with the West, Princeton, Princeton University Press, pp. 146, 158, 160–1. 15 The compound ‘Manmo¯’ (Manchuria and Mongolia) was very often used when speaking or writing about Manchuria. Beasley notes that Manchuria and Inner Mongolia were ‘customarily elided in Japanese drafting’ by 1915 (Japanese Imperialism, p. 112).

28

Managing the crisis

16 Robert J. Smith and Ella Lury Wiswell, The Women of Suye Mura, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1982, xviii. 17 See Peattie, Ishiwara, pp. 110–18; Ogata, Defiance, pp. 49–50. 18 Report of the Commission of Enquiry of the League of Nations Signed at Peiping, September 4, 1932, Shanghai, Chung Hwa Book Co., reprinted by Ch’eng Wen Publishing Company, 1971, pp. 114–18; Yoshihashi, Conspiracy, pp. 143–4; Parks M. Coble, Facing Japan: Chinese Politics and Japanese Imperialism, 1931–1937, Cambridge, Mass., Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1991, pp. 23–4. 19 Report of the Commission of Enquiry, p. 114. 20 See ibid., pp. 118–24; Daniel R. Ramsdell, ‘The Nakamura Incident and the Japanese Foreign Office’, Journal of Asian Studies, Vol. 25, 1965, pp. 51–67; Yoshihashi, Conspiracy, pp. 144–50; I. H. Nish, ‘Japanese Military Intelligence on the Eve of the Manchurian Crisis’, Proceedings of the British Association of Japanese Studies, Vol. 11, 1986, pp. 23–6; Coble, Facing Japan, pp. 25–6. 21 Morishima, in Ando¯ (ed.), Sho¯washi, p. 19. 22 Report of the Commission of Enquiry, p. 122. See also Morishima, in Ando¯ (ed.), Sho¯washi, p. 23. 23 Tatsuji Takeuchi, War and Diplomacy in the Japanese Empire, London, George Allen & Unwin, 1935, p. 347. 24 The speaker was Tani Masayuki, Chief of the Asia Bureau. Harada Kumao, Saionjiko¯ to seikyoku, Vol. 2, Tokyo, Iwanami shoten, 1950, p. 41, 27 August 1931, quoted in Richard Storry, The Double Patriots: A Study of Japanese Nationalism, London, Chatto & Windus, 1957, p. 68, n. 2. 25 Yoshihashi, Conspiracy, p. 144. 26 Ramsdell, ‘Nakamura Incident’, p. 59. 27 Takeuchi, War and Diplomacy, p. 348, n. 39. 28 Trans-Pacific, 24 September 1931, p. 7. See also Takeuchi, War and Diplomacy, pp. 342–6. 29 Ramsdell, ‘Nakamura Incident’, p. 59. 30 Pamphlet summarised and translated in Japan Weekly Chronicle, 17 September 1931, p. 345, as ‘The Increasing Gravity of the Situation in Manchuria and a Plea for Action’. 31 Ibid. 32 Fujo shinbun (hereafter FS), 24 July 1932, p. 3. 33 On Japan and World War I see Frederick R. Dickinson, War and National Reinvention: Japan in the Great War, 1914–1919, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Asia Center, 1999. 34 Usui Katsumi, ‘On the Duration of the Pacific War – A New Look at the Accepted View’, Japan Quarterly, Vol. 28, No. 4, 1981, p. 484. 35 See Sandra Wilson, ‘The Russo-Japanese War and Japan: Politics, Nationalism and Historical Memory’, in David Wells and Sandra Wilson (eds), The Russo-Japanese War in Cultural Perspective, 1904–05, Basingstoke, Macmillan, 1999, pp. 182–8; Sandra Wilson, ‘The Past in the Present: War in Narratives of Modernity in the 1920s and 1930s’, in Elise K. Tipton and John Clark (eds), Being Modern in Japan: Culture and Society from the 1910s to the 1930s, [Sydney], Australian Humanities Research Foundation, 2000, pp. 170–84. 36 Patrick Kyba, Covenants Without the Sword: Public Opinion and British Defence Policy 1931– 1935, Waterloo, Ontario, Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1983, p. 10. 37 Arthur Marwick, War and Social Change in the Twentieth Century: A Comparative Study of Britain, France, Germany, Russia and the United States, London, Macmillan, 1974, p. 5. 38 ‘Heiki to gunkan’, Ie no hikari (hereafter IH), January 1933, pp. 16–18. 39 Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, p. 159. 40 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, Ch. 1. 41 Sir Francis Lindley, ‘Feeling in Japan’, 1932, Public Record Office, London (hereafter PRO), Foreign Office Records, FO 371/16247.

The Manchurian crisis, 1931–33 29 42 Elizabeth Green, ‘Progress of the Manchurian Disease: As Viewed from Peiping and Tokyo’, Pacific Affairs, Vol. 5, No. 1, January 1932, p. 52. 43 Sandra Wilson, ‘Bureaucrats and Villagers in Japan: Shimin and the Crisis of the Early 1930s’, Social Science Japan Journal, Vol. 1, No. 1, April 1998, pp. 121–40. 44 Storry, Double Patriots, pp. 87–8. 45 On the crisis in late 1931 leading to the fall of the Wakatsuki Cabinet, see Banno Junji, ‘“Kenseito¯do¯” to “kyo¯ryoku naikaku”’, Kindai Nihon kenkyu¯, 1984, pp. 183–203. 46 Christopher Thorne, The Limits of Foreign Policy: The West, the League and the Far Eastern Crisis of 1931–33, London, Hamish Hamilton, 1972, p. 81; Armin Rappaport, Henry L. Stimson and Japan, 1931–33, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1963, Ch. 2. 47 See Jonathan Haslam, Soviet Foreign Policy, 1930–33: The Impact of the Depression, London, Macmillan, 1983, pp. 71–82; George Alexander Lensen, The Damned Inheritance: The Soviet Union and the Manchurian Crises 1924–1935, Tallahassee, Florida, Diplomatic Press, 1974, pp. 180–211. 48 John Israel, Student Nationalism in China 1927–1937, Stanford, Stanford University Press, 1966, pp. 47–86; Coble, Facing Japan, pp. 11–18, 32–8. 49 Coble, Facing Japan, pp. 11–31; Youli Sun, China and the Origins of the Pacific War, 1931–1941, New York, St Martin’s Press, 1993, pp. 19–21. 50 Reaction by the United States, Britain, the European nations and the League of Nations is covered in detail by Nish, Japan’s Struggle; Thorne, Limits of Foreign Policy; Rappaport, Stimson and Japan; Smith, Manchurian Crisis; Joseph C. Grew, Ten Years in Japan: A Contemporary Record Drawn from the Diaries and Private and Official Papers of Joseph C. Grew, United States Ambassador to Japan, 1932–1942, London, Hammond, Hammond, 1944, Ch. 2. 51 Haslam, Soviet Foreign Policy, p. 83. 52 On the role of the smaller League members during the Manchurian crisis, see David Lu, ‘Matsuoka Yo¯suke – Kokusai renmei to no ketsubetsu’, Kokusai seiji, No. 2, 1976, pp. 90–2; Rappaport, Stimson and Japan, p. 191; Thorne, Limits of Foreign Policy, p. 213. 53 Thorne, Limits of Foreign Policy, p. 225. See also Crowley, Japan’s Quest, pp. 159–68; Sandra Wilson, ‘Containing the Crisis: Japan’s Diplomatic Offensive in the West, 1931–33', Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 29, No. 2, 1995, pp. 337–72. 54 Sun, China and the Origins of the Pacific War, pp. 26–8. 55 Relations of Japan with Manchuria and Mongolia: Document B, revised edn, n.p., July 1932, p. 1. 56 Quoted in Maki, Conflict and Tension, pp. 68–70. 57 Telegram quoted ibid., pp. 72–4. 58 See Sun, China and the Origins of the Pacific War, p. 35, for estimates.

2

Managing opinion Censorship and the Manchurian crisis

One strand of the common argument linking the events of 1931–45 in a ‘fifteenyear war’ asserts both a new level of and a definite coherence in official attempts to control the flow of public information in Japan. The notion of the ‘fifteen-year war’ is thus strongly identified with effective and pervasive systems of both censorship and propaganda. The manipulation of information by the Japanese state was singled out very early as a critical feature in explaining why the Japanese went to war against the United States and its allies. In 1946, for example, General Douglas MacArthur asserted that until the previous year the Japanese, ‘with a few enlightened exceptions’, had been ‘abject slaves to tradition, legend, mythology, and regimentation’.1 Some Japanese writers took up the same theme, contributing, whether consciously or not, to the formation of the view that the great majority of the Japanese people were to be absolved from any meaningful responsibility for or involvement in the events leading to war. For many, the Manchurian Incident specifically was identified as the starting point of a new or at least harsher application of the censorship laws. The result of such repression, according to Ienaga Saburo¯, and the reason for the lack of concentration camps or mass killings of dissenters in Japan, was that by the late 1930s, Every aspect of life was so regimented and controlled that no one could plan a treacherous act worthy of the death penalty . . . All government authorities, including the judges, did their best to eradicate freedom.2 Propaganda was the other side of the coin. Maruyama Masao, dissecting ‘Japanese ultra-nationalism’ in 1946, argued that in addition to ‘the external system of coercion’, ‘the key factor is the all-pervasive psychological coercion, which has forced the behaviour of our people into a particular channel’.3 Nearly three decades later, historian Kakegawa Tomiko asserted: During the period of the Manchurian crisis government information controls, aimed at regulating the content of news available to the people, resulted in an abundance of slanted information that was directly, if not totally, responsible for the rise of fanaticism among the Japanese public.4

Managing opinion: censorship

31

In the West, this sort of argument achieved common currency in the widespread idea that all Japanese believed their emperor to be divine and were willing and happy to sacrifice their lives for him. Among Japanese, such views are clearly, in part, an understandable emotional response to the need to find an external scapegoat on which to blame Japan’s ‘slide into militarism’. It is certainly true that a well-developed system of censorship existed and was used against many who expressed opinions unacceptable to the state, and that propaganda was employed in the service of the state. Doubtless, too, some writers, critics and publishers chose silence in fear that the state would otherwise destroy their livelihoods or even threaten their lives, at least in the later 1930s and during the Pacific War. However, criticism of the government, if seldom of the war itself, continued to be expressed and reported throughout the 1930s and even after Pearl Harbor.5 The Minseito¯ politician Saito¯ Takao provides one example of a public figure who openly criticised the Konoe Fumimaro government’s handling of Japan’s ‘holy war’ in China in 1940. Though Saito¯’s speech led to his expulsion from the Diet, a substantial part of it was nevertheless made available to the reading public through reports in the contemporary press, notwithstanding suppression of that part of the speech which directly attacked the ‘holy war’ itself.6 The construction and dissemination of the core set of ideas that would become the orthodox view of the Manchurian crisis will be analysed in the next chapter. Here, the nature and scope of the censorship system, and the ways in which it affected reporting of the Manchurian crisis, will be discussed. While it is crucial to recognise that the state influenced public attitudes to events in Manchuria in powerful ways, it will be shown that official censors did not play a large part in limiting public debate of the issues in a direct sense, apart from their continuing efforts to suppress the left and its criticisms of the state. In fact, the censors had to spend more time curbing enthusiasm for the Manchurian venture than dissent from it. Explanations for the relative lack of dissent from the policies of the Japanese state, therefore, must be sought elsewhere. The assertion that censorship, in particular, was responsible for lack of criticism of the government in the 1930s is especially untrue of the earlier part of the decade. Censorship of ordinary commercial publications was relatively lax until the tightening of control which followed the 26 February Incident of 1936 and the ‘China Incident’ of July 1937, though such was not the case with extreme left-wing publications, where the aim was complete suppression. Mainstream publications also risked a ban if they published articles by Communists: in 1931, for example, the prominent general magazine Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron (Central Review) was banned for publishing an article sent from Moscow by the Communist labour movement activist Katayama Sen. The November 1931 issue of the same magazine contained an essay by Inomata Tsunao, a Marxist critic and one of the founders of the original Japan Communist Party. In this article, entitled ‘Monopoly Capitalism and the Crisis in Manchuria/Mongolia’, Inomata had argued that the Mukden incident was ‘designed to secure the survival of some military cliques’ and to ‘secure the life-line [Manchuria] for some capitalists or

32

Managing the crisis

military cliques’. Four entire pages of this article were removed, either by the censor or by the magazine’s editors before publication.7 However, articles by Communists could sometimes be published with the use of fuseji (Xs and Os used to replace potentially offensive words and passages), and liberals continued to express anti-government opinions in the early 1930s. In January 1932, for example, Yoshino Sakuzo¯ attacked the argument that Japan was fighting in Manchuria in self-defence in the pages of Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron and Kaizo¯ (Reconstruction). Yanaihara Tadao, a critic of Japan’s colonial policy in general and its activity in Manchuria in particular, also contributed articles to both those journals in this period.8 Overall, much blue-pencilling and many fuseji adorned Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron and Kaizo¯. The latter in particular was a staunch opponent of the military activity in Manchuria, though it changed its stance dramatically in 1937.9 Censorship, therefore, was far from all-pervasive. However, in both direct and indirect ways it certainly affected the content of printed materials, radio broadcasts and films during the Manchurian crisis, and an understanding of the working of the system is thus indispensable to any analysis of opinion in that period.10

The censorship system Scholars disagree on the links between the censorship system of the Meiji period and that of the 1930s. Gregory J. Kasza sees Meiji policy as comparatively liberal in practice; for him, ‘the radical controls of the 1930s involved a sharp and conscious rejection of the Meiji legacy’.11 Richard Mitchell, on the other hand, believes that Meiji policy led naturally to the more severe controls of the later period.12 Regardless of this debate, it is clear that the structure, at least, of the system in the 1930s dates from the Meiji period. Japan had a ‘relatively mature’13 censorship system as early as the 1880s. Since 1868 there had been laws empowering the authorities to censor newspapers or to close them down. In 1887 existing regulations were expanded to create the Press Regulations (covering newspapers and magazines) and the Publications Regulations (covering books), the provisions of which remained virtually unchanged until 1945. Public speeches and political meetings were also subject to supervision by police, who could disband or cancel political meetings at will. Women (until 1922), men in military service, police officers, teachers, students and agricultural and technical apprentices were forbidden to attend political meetings at all. Political associations were barred from advertising and from soliciting membership, and from combining or communicating with other political organisations. In 1875, censorship authority had been transferred from the Ministry of Education to the Home Ministry. Legislation in 1909 also empowered Ministers of Foreign Affairs, the Army and the Navy to issue ordinances prohibiting or limiting the printing of articles concerning their respective spheres. However, most censorship continued to be carried out by the Police Bureau of the Home Ministry, which had absolute and unlimited power to ban publications. Under

Managing opinion: censorship

33

the Publication Law (Shuppanho¯, 1893) and the Newspaper Law (Shinbunho¯, 1909), successors to the 1887 regulations, the Home Minister had authority to stop the sale and distribution of, and to seize, any publication that might disturb public peace and order, or injure public morals. There was no right of appeal against bans, and no specific standards were ever officially issued to which publishers could adhere. The emphasis on the banning of unacceptable material after publication, with the heavy financial loss that could entail, led to a considerable amount of selfcensorship by the press. Self-censorship might take the form of omission of an article or passage from a publication altogether, or the use of fuseji to replace sensitive words or passages. Fuseji were not inserted by censors, but by publishers, in order to delete potentially offensive parts while retaining a hint of the original meaning. Editors and publishers liked fuseji, and continued to use them until they were banned in 1941, though the extent to which they were used varied considerably. Some publishers and editors, if they had been warned by the censors before, probably deleted more words than necessary. According to Hatanaka Shigeo, who joined Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron as a journalist in 1932, serving as its Chief Editor between 1941 and 1947, new editorial staff were often told by their more experienced colleagues to delete automatically certain words, including the two characters for ‘revolution’ (kakumei). Reference to the Rice Riots of 1918, the High Treason trial of 1910–11, and to such taboo subjects as incest would also be deleted automatically. In some cases, readers familiar with the style of writing in question would not have had much difficulty in filling in the blanks. Other pieces, which were more specialist or had longer passages replaced by fuseji, might be rendered incomprehensible to the reader.14 The concentration on financial threat to publishers also encouraged the development of extralegal arrangements between publishers and police. In particular, a system of ‘pre-publication warnings’ (jizen keikoku) was devised during the 1920s. When the Home Minister issued an order that a particular matter was not to be discussed in the press, the Police Bureau would notify the tokko¯ (Special Higher Police) sections of local police stations accordingly. Local police then sent one of three types of notification to publishers, depending on the importance of the subject matter. ‘Instruction’ (shitatsu) not to publish items on a particular subject was the most common. Publication of any matter in this category invariably resulted in a ban on sales. A ‘warning’ (keikoku) that publication might, depending on circumstances, incur a prohibition order, could also be issued. Thirdly, a publisher could be invited to a ‘consultation’ (kondan) as a sign that the censors ‘desired’ that items on a particular subject should not appear, and that they relied on publishers’ ‘integrity’ in the matter. Bans on publishing items on particular subjects were usually, though not always, lifted after a certain period of time.15 The method of issuing cautionary notices became so formalised that it was included in Police Bureau statistics. That the police themselves considered the procedure effective is shown by a remark in the Home Ministry Police Bureau’s annual report for 1932:

34

Managing the crisis when a serious matter arises, the authorities inform the parties concerned of the items which are likely to be banned and warn them in advance not to report on them. These parties can thus avoid unexpected damages, and at the same time, we can expect thorough enforcement of the rules in controlling newspaper articles. We therefore believe that this is the most effective and appropriate control measure.16

If the news were sufficiently sensational, however, editors might consider it worthwhile to publish despite a warning: there were hundreds of violations of pre-publication warnings associated with the Manchurian Incident, which can be attributed mainly to eagerness to report on the Kwantung Army’s successful exploits.17 ‘Instruction’, ‘warning’ or ‘consultation’ orders were issued sixteen times in 1931, sixty-eight times in 1932, and fifty-three times in 1933. This was a significant increase over the nine orders issued in 1930 and twelve in 1929. The greatest number of pre-publication warnings between 1931 and 1933 concerned military subjects, followed by items on arrests of Communists.18 In 1931, 487 newspaper articles were banned after publishers had ignored one of these warnings, and in 1932 the total was 1,080, of which 696 concerned the conflict between Japan and China, and 224 concerned either the attempt on the life of the emperor of 8 January, or the 15 May Incident. Of the other articles, sixty-nine were about the current ‘financial confusion’, thirty-nine about military secrets and fifty-two about arrests of Communists.19 It was sometimes possible to distribute a publication even if part of it had been banned. If the ‘undesirable’ parts were small enough to be removed, publishers could apply for permission to undertake ‘dismemberment and restitution’. Hatanaka provides a description of this process, participation in which was the first of his duties on joining Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron in 1932. Two or three days after a specimen copy had been sent to the authorities, the publisher or editor would be summoned. He would receive a warning if the offence were minor. For a more serious offence, he would be instructed to remove the offending parts, and if the offence were very serious the publication would be banned. In the second case, application could be made to continue distribution after removal of the offending part. If approval were received, the entire staff of the publishing company would be enlisted to go around to all the police stations in the city by car, tearing out the relevant part from the confiscated copies of the book or magazine. They would then stamp ‘revised edition’ on the cover, and distribution could be resumed.20 Although specific official standards on what could or could not be published were never issued, the censors did devise their own guidelines. The set written in 1926–27 was enforced by the Police Bureau as closely as possible in the early Sho¯wa period. It was divided into guidelines for establishing violations of public morals, and those for establishing violations of public peace and order. In 1931, only 376 publications (10.9 per cent of the total banned) were prohibited from sale and distribution for violations of public morals, compared to 3,075 (89.1 per cent) for violations of public peace and order. These figures contrast with those

Managing opinion: censorship

35

for 1925, for example, when over three-quarters of the total number of banned publications were said to violate public morals.21 Possible violations of public morals were judged according to whether they dealt with obscenity, immorality, instructions on abortion and other matters, the entertainment districts or brothels, or cruelty. Under violations of public peace and order, material could be banned for any of the following general reasons: debasing the dignity of the imperial family; denying the validity of the monarchical system; support of Communist or proletarian movements or of revolution; emphasising the class nature of the laws, the courts or of state power; advocating terrorism, direct action or mass violence; advocating independence for the colonies; criticising the parliamentary system in an illegal manner; undermining the armed forces; hindering diplomatic relations; publishing secret information likely to obstruct the armed forces or diplomatic relations; advocating criminal acts or defending criminals; seriously hindering the search for a major criminal; disturbing the financial world or promoting social anxiety.22 In addition to these, a set of ‘specific guidelines’ was also devised. Thus, the Police Bureau would take into account the purpose of the publication; scope of readership; number of copies sold and probable influence; the ‘social situation’ at the time of publication (items which would normally be allowed to appear might be banned immediately before May Day, for example); area of distribution; proportion of copies already distributed by the time the material was discovered (an item would probably not be banned if most copies were thought to have been already distributed); number of offending sections in an article or book. Both the general and the ‘specific’ guidelines were taken into account in the application of the Newspaper Law and this was why, the Police Bureau claimed, different publications might receive different treatment for publication of the same article.23 In January 1932, both sets of guidelines were passed on to the press to assist in reporting events in Manchuria.24 The ambiguity of some of the guidelines, however, as well as the latitude allowed in their application, makes it clear that an understanding of the rules would not have been enough to avoid censure. Individual police officials were also able to exercise a considerable degree of discretion: so much so that, as Kasza concludes, ‘the press control system was in great measure one of rule by men rather than rule by law’.25 Publishers could and did avoid censorship. The Police Bureau’s secret annual reports for 1931–33 note sixteen methods of evasion which, it was claimed, were particularly common among left-wing groups. They included changing printing places, not submitting or delaying submission of censors’ copies, use of fuseji, and deletion of offending passages from the censors’ copy only.26 Moreover, the emphasis on post-publication censorship meant that ‘banned’ material could and did reach its readers before the ban could be imposed; Ben-Ami Shillony gives an example of a banned article reaching its readers as late as 1943.27 Left-wing groups in particular had well-established distribution routes which allowed many copies of banned publications to reach readers before police could seize the material. This was especially so in the case of periodicals, which were delivered to the censors as soon as printing was completed, but after distribution had

36

Managing the crisis

begun, so that police had to act very quickly if they were to confiscate a high proportion of the material. Books, on the other hand, were more easily controlled as they had to be submitted to the censors after they were printed and bound, but before distribution began. However, the pressure of work often made it impossible for the censors to issue a ban until several days after the first edition had been sold out at the bookshops. Banning at this point nevertheless prevented publication of subsequent editions, thus depriving the publisher of some of his profit.28 The various methods of evasion meant that in a direct sense, the banning of publications was quite ineffective. In 1932, the confiscation rate for a group of 236 periodicals submitted at the time of publication and banned by the Home Ministry under the Newspaper Law amounted to only 25 per cent of their total circulation. This figure was also typical of later years. For books and magazines submitted under the Publications Law, which required the presentation of censors’ copies three days before publication, the rate of confiscation was less than 14 per cent in 1932, and about 27 per cent in 1933.29

Censorship during the Manchurian crisis The Home Ministry censors issued their first ban after the Manchurian Incident on 22 September 1931, at the request of the army.30 Pre-publication warnings and post-publication bans thereafter increased greatly. However, this does not to any significant degree represent suppression of criticism of the army or the government during the Manchurian crisis. A large proportion of the warnings and bans concerned troop movements and other military ‘secrets’. After the Manchurian Incident, it was forbidden to refer in the press to the departure of troops, their deployment, numbers or identity. By the end of 1931, not even the details of the proposed or actual armament of the army as a whole could be published without risk of a ban on sale and distribution. Many other bans were connected with diplomatic matters. Thus prohibitions were issued for reports on initial plans for the establishment of an ‘independent’ Manchuria (September 1931), the participation of Japanese nationals in Manchurian politics and administration (February 1932), the visit by the Lytton Commission to Japanese army officials (April 1932), the adoption of a monarchy by Manchukuo (November 1933) and so on.31 In May 1932 a Secretary to the British Embassy in Tokyo estimated that ‘at the moment there are between thirty-five and forty subjects of a topical character which may not be mentioned’.32 ‘Ordinary’ publications – those judged by the censors to be neither left-wing nor right-wing in origin – incurred many more bans than usual in 1931 and 1932 because of the prohibition on reporting of military and diplomatic matters.33 One hundred and sixty of a total of 304 articles banned from ‘ordinary’ newspapers in 1931 were about military matters such as troop movements and increases in army strength. These articles had titles like ‘Mobilisation Orders for – Division’, and ‘Tientsin Situation Worsens; Military Resolve Increasingly Firm; Orders to Move Out Finally Come’. A further category of articles in ‘ordinary’ newspapers

Managing opinion: censorship

37

incurred bans for discussion of the financial and agricultural depression. Thirtyeight of the 304 banned articles in 1931 discussed banking problems or regional bank closures. Another article, banned in December 1931, was entitled ‘A Frank Analysis of the Feelings of 90,000 Aomori Prefecture People Faced with Financial Panic and Depression’. Eleven articles were banned for reasons pertaining to domestic politics, including one entitled ‘The Central Government Showing Signs of Slight Movement; a Cabinet Reshuffle is Expected’, and another headed ‘Activities of Home Minister Adachi’. A further thirty-two of the 304 banned articles called for the creation of an independent country in Manchuria.34 The list of banned subjects after the Manchurian Incident placed a considerable strain on the Home Ministry censors, who complained that their workload had increased enormously, though no-one outside the Police Bureau appreciated how hard they were working. One report pointed out that the understaffed censorship section was now having to examine a much wider range of ‘ordinary’ publications than usual, because there was hardly a single issue of a newspaper or magazine which did not refer to troop movements, departures, battles, deaths, injuries, returns home or other matters related to the newsworthy Manchurian crisis. The burden had been particularly heavy around the time of troop departures for Tientsin and Shanghai, when all staff had been forced to work for several days and nights without a break, and when banned items had numbered as many as seventy in one night for the country as a whole.35 Thus, where articles were banned from the ‘ordinary’ press, it was seldom for criticism of foreign policy or military activities. It was much more likely to be occasioned by publication of details of troop movements, or indicating too early that an ‘independent’ Manchuria could be expected. The left-wing press was another matter, and it absorbed much of the censors’ attention, as it had done before the Manchurian Incident. The censors continued to amass information in great detail on alliances and splits among left-wing groups, as well as on the ideological tendencies and distribution of their various publications. The number of leftist periodicals banned increased each year from 1929 to 1932. In 1931, 241 of the 283 newspaper editions banned for violating standards of public order – rather than for disobeying pre-publication warnings – were leftist in orientation.36 In 1932, of a total of 214 books which incurred a ban for violating standards of public order, 123 were said to have advocated Communism or Communist revolution, praised the USSR, publicised left-wing revolutionary strategy, or promoted class consciousness or class war. A further seventeen were banned for promoting anarchism.37 Representatives of the major Osaka and Tokyo newspapers and news agencies were so concerned at the increase in bans following the Manchurian Incident that in January 1932 they requested clarification of matters likely to incur censorship.38 In reply they were given a set of specific guidelines; those guidelines provide a revealing indication of what Communists and perhaps others must have been writing or could be expected to write. The Home Ministry informed the press that the following were likely to incur bans:

38

Managing the crisis

1

Items which present the action of the Imperial Army on 18 September 1931 as something other than self-defence. Items which present the defensive military occupation of Manchuria as an act of invasion by the Japanese empire. Items which present the actions of the Imperial Army in Manchuria as actions undertaken by imperialist Japanese capitalism in order to acquire markets or to plunder natural resources. Items which present the actions of the Imperial Army in Manchuria not as based on national consensus but as military action designed to secure the survival of certain military cliques endangered by disarmament. Items which present Manchuria as a life-line for certain capitalists or military cliques only, and not a life-line for workers and peasants. Items which present the new Manchurian state not as based on the spontaneous initiative of the 30 million Manchurians, but merely as a puppet regime invented by Japanese military cliques and some party politicians, and which consider that the new state is actually controlled by the Japanese empire, and that it is only a matter of time before the new state of Manchukuo meets the same fate as Korea.39

2 3

4

5 6

The censors in the early 1930s were also beginning to show a concern with the right wing and its capacity to threaten social stability. As rightist publications began to increase rapidly in 1932, evidently stimulated by the Manchurian Incident, so too did the number of right-wing items which were banned or which incurred some kind of warning. Of the 214 books banned in 1932, sixteen had advocated rightist terrorism, an ‘imperial flag revolution’ (a revolution in the name of the emperor),40 or other direct mass action. This category included books praising the right-wing terrorist group, the Ketsumeidan (Blood Pledge Corps), responsible for two assassinations early in 1932, and the defendants in the trials connected with the 15 May Incident.41

Radio and film Both radio and film were growing rapidly in popularity in the early 1930s; the Manchurian Incident is usually seen as one stimulus to the increase in the number of radio sets and the size of film audiences. In 1929, there were about 650,000 radio sets in Japan; 5.5 per cent of households owned one. By March 1932 these figures had increased to 1,056,000 and over 8 per cent, respectively. Distribution, however, was far from even. Most radios were in the cities; very few country households owned one in the early 1930s. That the major urban newspapers were beginning to feel the pressure of competition from radio is reflected in the fact that the To¯kyo¯ asahi, To¯kyo¯ nichinichi and Jiji shinpo¯ each began a radio page in May 1931. ‘Talkie’ films began to be made in Japan in 1931, and audiences grew rapidly. ‘Silent’ films – which were accompanied by live performances of narration and music – also continued to be very popular. In 1934, the total annual film public reached 250 million.42

Managing opinion: censorship

39

The initial development of radio and film in Japan coincided with a period in which censorship controls were being tightened. Radio broadcasting was controlled from the start, with the first regulations appearing in 1923. Film was also controlled from a comparatively early period, beginning with regulation by the Police Bureau of the Home Ministry in 1925. There was a procession of new laws governing radio and film after the Manchurian Incident; overall government control of film production was achieved in 1939. In 1934, the Publications Law was revised to include gramophone records, which had previously been regulated by the Public Peace Police Law (Chian keisatsuho¯). Thenceforth, censorship of records, as of books, was the responsibility of the Police Bureau of the Home Ministry.43 Radio was subject to particularly rigid supervision. Programmes and scripts had to be approved before broadcasting, whereas the print media were generally not scrutinised until after publication. Radio stations regularly received instructions on which subjects were forbidden, and there was a categorical ban on all political argument. If anything objectionable were aired, the broadcast could be interrupted at any time. Radio censorship was the responsibility of the Telegraph and Telephone Bureau of the Communications Ministry (Teishinsho¯). In addition, the Broadcasting Council, a national organisation which included among its members the Vice-Ministers of the Communications, Home and Education Ministries, was created in 1932 to supervise all radio broadcasting. Thus, there was much less opportunity for the expression of ‘unsuitable’ opinions on the radio than in print, and it is unlikely that left-wing and other minority groups had much independent access to the media of radio and film in any case. It was not impossible, though, for dissent to reach the airwaves. It was reported, for example, that on 20 March 1932 an unknown station had broadcast for several minutes in the Osaka area after ten o’clock at night, when all official radio stations closed. The broadcast consisted of ‘radical propaganda and statements attacking the policies of the Government in regard to the Manchurian and Shanghai Emergencies’. Despite a thorough search for the unknown station, another broadcast was made on 28 March, when ‘the same station again sent into the air destructive propaganda against the War Office and the financial magnates of Japan’. There was speculation that either an amateur radio station had been established in the Osaka area, or that the broadcast was actually coming not from Osaka, but from Shanghai or Vladivostok.44 Film was controlled by the Home Ministry in the period before major legislation was passed in the late 1930s. Home Ministry censors could ban or cut films, return them for revision, recommend their withdrawal or restrict their viewing to certain regions or venues. In practice, they tended to cut films rather than ban them outright. The Army and Navy Ministers could ask the Home Ministry to exercise caution in dealing with certain matters on film, and the Home Ministry sometimes consulted with the Education Ministry as well.45 Films did not become a prominent vehicle for political criticism in the 1930s. Gregory Kasza attributes this to inspection before circulation, the fact that a considerable amount of money and expertise was required to make films and the

40

Managing the crisis

difficulty of concealing violations of the censors’ requirements. There was no significant increase in the percentage of films cut in 1931–32. Newsreels were almost never cut; of Japanese non-news films (mostly dramatic films) inspected, 14 per cent were cut in 1928, 10 per cent in 1930, 10 per cent in 1931 and 10 per cent in 1932. A large number of the cuts made in 1931 were of ‘items feared to damage good will in foreign affairs’, but most of these were probably occasioned by invective against China and the West.46

Conclusion Censorship of the media, then, was not in any overt way suppressing a groundswell of anti-government opinion. Outspoken individual opponents of the authorities would be watched by the police and perhaps risked attack by army or reservist officers. Harassment of known opponents of the government and suppression of their publications were stepped up. The censors, however, were mainly concerned with extreme leftist publications, which affected a very small minority of the population; with right-wing publications, to a lesser extent; and with ensuring that mainstream publications did not divulge military or diplomatic ‘secrets’. Thus censorship cannot be held responsible for the general lack of criticism of the government and army in ‘ordinary’ publications. To concentrate exclusively on coercion and manipulation in analyses of opinion in the early 1930s ignores those who did continue to criticise the government. More importantly, such an approach ignores the extent to which relative uniformity of opinion was the product not of fear and repression but of a general consensus on major political and foreign policy issues. Fear of censorship and a requirement to use government-sponsored propaganda are not the main reason for lack of criticism of the government in the mainstream press and in radio and film. Such factors do not explain, for example, why the press was prone to making frequent and elaborate statements in support of Japanese expansion into Manchuria in the early 1930s. Newspapers did not merely excuse the actions of the officers of the Kwantung Army, as they might have done if operating primarily under coercion; they made heroes of the army. All the major daily newspapers supported the Manchurian Incident, and none questioned the official version of the events of 18 September. All defended Japan’s actions as legitimate self-defence against the depredations of the Chinese. Some went further, as will be seen in the following chapter. Radio and film were at least as enthusiastic about the Manchurian Incident as were the newspapers. It is another question to what extent press opinion was regulated by fear of the system; there were probably cases in which even major newspapers modified their comments in order to avoid the financial losses associated with a ban. In a general sense, too, the system of thought control, together with the mass arrests of Communists which took place from 1928 onwards, undoubtedly ‘created an environment in which a reasoned deliberation and assessment of national issues was difficult’.47 By limiting the interpretations of developments in Manchuria, Shanghai and Geneva which were publicly available to ordinary

Managing opinion: censorship

41

Japanese, the censorship system played its part in restricting the context within which people responded to the events of the early 1930s, and contributed to the prevailing sense of national crisis. Much more potent, however, was the mix of intervention from the authorities to ensure that the correct version of events was publicised, on the one hand, with the rapid realisation in the mass media that the Manchurian crisis could make money if properly marketed, on the other. The next chapter will consider the ways in which the Manchurian crisis was reported to the Japanese public and analyse the main themes presented in the media.

Notes 1 Douglas MacArthur, ‘Statement First Anniversary of Surrender’, 2 September 1946, in Report of Government Section, Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers, Political Reorientation of Japan. September 1945 to September 1948, republished by Scholarly Press, Grosse Pointe, Michigan, 1968, p. 756. 2 Ienaga, Pacific War, pp. 114–15. Ienaga absolves the general public of guilt on the grounds of censorship and a militaristic education system, but is quite willing, unlike Maruyama Masao and Tsurumi Shunsuke, to state that ‘the intellectual community not only caved in under pressure but accommodated with alacrity to the new order’ (p. 121). 3 Masao Maruyama, ‘Theory and Psychology of Ultra-Nationalism’, in Masao Maruyama, Thought and Behaviour in Modern Japanese Politics, ed. Ivan Morris, Tokyo, Oxford University Press, 1979, pp. 1–2. Maruyama’s essay was originally published in Sekai in March 1946. 4 Kakegawa Tomiko, ‘The Press and Public Opinion in Japan, 1931–1941’, in Dorothy Borg and Shumpei Okamoto (eds), Pearl Harbor as History: Japanese–American Relations 1931–1941, New York, Columbia University Press, 1973, p. 542. Curiously, Kakegawa’s work in Japanese differs in tenor on this point. She argues, in fact, that external censorship was not crucial until after the China Incident, and that in the earlier 1930s, the tone of the press would probably not have been substantially different had external censorship been absent. In other words, the uniformity of press opinion in this period was due not to censorship but to factors related to the emergence of a ‘mass society’. See ‘Masumedia to¯sei to taibei roncho¯’, in Hosoya Chihiro et al. (eds), Nichibei kankeishi 4: Masumedia to chishikijin, Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1972, pp. 34–5. 5 See Ben-Ami Shillony, Politics and Culture in Wartime Japan, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1981, pp. 97–109; Sharon H. Nolte, Liberalism in Modern Japan: Ishibashi Tanzan and his Teachers, 1905–1960, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1987, Ch. 7. 6 Earl H. Kinmonth, ‘The Mouse that Roared: Saito¯ Takao, Conservative Critic of Japan’s “Holy War” in China’, Journal of Japanese Studies, Vol. 25, No. 2, Summer 1999, pp. 331–60. 7 See Hatanaka Shigeo, Sho¯wa shuppan dan’atsu sho¯shi, Tokyo, Tosho shinbunsha, 1965, pp. 10–11. Two scholars disagree about the Inomata article in Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron. According to Tsutomu David Yamamoto, the four pages were removed by the censor: ‘The Japanese Press and Japanese Foreign Policy 1927–1933’, unpublished PhD Thesis, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, 1981, pp. 167–8. According to Gregory J. Kasza, the pages were removed by the editors to avoid sanctions, but the issue was still banned: The State and the Mass Media in Japan, 1918– 1945, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1988, p. 48. 8 Ibid., pp. 49–50. On liberal critics of the government and army, including Yoshino and Yanaihara, see Sandra Wilson, ‘The Manchurian Crisis and Moderate Japanese

42

9 10

11 12 13 14 15

16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

32 33 34 35 36 37 38

Managing the crisis Intellectuals: The Japan Council of the Institute of Pacific Relations’, Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 26, No. 3, 1992, pp. 511–18. See Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, pp. 110–21; Kasza, State and the Mass Media, pp. 48–9. Censorship is a complex subject which has been treated at length elsewhere. In English see especially Richard H. Mitchell, Censorship in Imperial Japan, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1983; Jay Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals: Writers and the Meiji State, Seattle, University of Washington Press, 1984; Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, Ch. 5; Kasza, State and the Mass Media, Part 1. The major Japanese primary sources for the period of the Manchurian crisis are Naimusho¯, Keiho¯kyoku, Sho¯wa rokunenju¯ ni okeru shuppan keisatsu gaikan (hereafter SKG 1931), Sho¯wa nananenju¯ ni okeru shuppan keisatsu gaikan (hereafter SKG 1932) and Sho¯wa hachinenju¯ ni okeru shuppan keisatsu gaikan (hereafter SKG 1933). Kasza, State and the Mass Media, p. 7. Mitchell, Censorship, for example, pp. 339–41. Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals, p. 15. Hatanaka, Sho¯shi, pp. 177–80. On fuseji, see also Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals, pp. 29ff. Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, p. 102; Mitchell, Censorship, pp. 267–8; Uchikawa Yoshimi (ed.), Gendaishi shiryo¯, Vol. 40: Masumedia to¯sei, Tokyo, Misuzu shobo¯, 1973 (hereafter GS 40), xlviii–xlix, pp. 223–5. On ‘consultations’ see Kasza, State and the Mass Media, pp. 172–5. SKG 1932, p. 69. Kasza, State and the Mass Media, p. 173. Mitchell, Censorship, p. 267. SKG 1932, pp. 70–1. Hatanaka, Sho¯shi, p. 176. See Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, p. 303. SKG 1931, pp. 10–16. Ibid. See also Kasza, State and the Mass Media, pp. 34–5. Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, pp. 105–7. Kasza, State and the Mass Media, p. 35. See also Elise K. Tipton, The Japanese Police State: The Tokko¯ in Interwar Japan, Sydney, Allen & Unwin, 1990, pp. 65–6. See, for example, SKG 1931, pp. 56, 71–3. Shillony, Politics and Culture, p. 132. Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals, p. 5. Kasza, State and the Mass Media, p. 36. Naimusho¯, Keiho¯kyoku, ‘Manshu¯ jihen irai no ken’etsukei kinmu gaikyo¯’ (1934), in Awaya Kentaro¯ (ed.), Dokyumento Sho¯washi, Vol. 2, Manshu¯ jihen to ni. ni roku, Tokyo, Heibonsha, 1975, p. 99. See Wilfrid Fleisher, Volcanic Isle, London, Jonathan Cape, 1942, pp. 204–10; Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, p. 157; Kasza, State and the Mass Media, p. 34. Fleisher was the editor of the English-language Japan Advertiser. Banned subjects are listed in, for example, SKG 1932, pp. 74–8. Memorandum of Mr Davies, Japanese Secretary to Embassy, Tokyo, 12 May 1932, PRO, Foreign Office Records, Embassy and Consular Archives, FO 262/1801. See for example SKG 1932, pp. 78–142, for lists of the hundreds of items banned from ‘ordinary’ newspapers for disclosing prohibited military or diplomatic information. SKG 1931, pp. 107ff. Naimusho¯, ‘Manshu¯ jihen irai’, pp. 99–102. Kasza, State and the Mass Media, pp. 39–40. SKG 1932, pp. 160–1. Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, pp. 157–8.

Managing opinion: censorship

43

39 Naimusho¯, ‘Manshu¯ jihen irai’, p. 101. 40 The October Incident of 1931 was known as a ‘kinki kakumei’ or imperial flag revolution. On this term, see Storry, Double Patriots, pp. 57, 86, 93. 41 SKG 1932, pp. 160–1. See also Kasza, State and the Mass Media, pp. 139–43. 42 Ikei Masaru, ‘1930nendai no masumedia: Manshu¯ jihen e no taio¯ o chu¯shin toshite’, in Miwa Kimitada (ed.), Saiko¯. Taiheiyo¯ senso¯ zenya – Nihon no 1930nendairon toshite, Tokyo, So¯seiki, 1981, p. 143; GS 40, xiv; Shu¯ichi Kato¯, ‘The Mass Media: Japan’, in R. E. Ward and D. A. Rustow (eds), Political Modernization in Japan and Turkey, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1964, p. 240; Kasza, State and the Mass Media, p. 88; Freda Freiberg, ‘The Transition to Sound in Japan’, in Tom O’Regan and Brian Shoesmith (eds), History on/and/in Film: Selected Papers from the 3rd Australian History and Film Conference, Perth, Perth, Western Australia, History and Film Association of Australia (WA), 1987, p. 76. 43 This paragraph and the next are based on GS 40, xiv ff.; Noritsune Takagi, ‘Broadcasting’, in Ko¯dansha Encyclopedia of Japan, Vol. 1, Tokyo, Ko¯dansha, 1983, p. 71; Kasza, State and the Mass Media, p. 91. See also Arase Yutaka, ‘Mass Communication between the Two World Wars’, Developing Economies, Vol. 4, December 1967, pp. 762–3. 44 Mainichi Daily News, 16 April 1932, p. 1; 17 April 1932, p. 1. 45 Kasza, State and the Mass Media, Ch. 3. 46 Ibid., pp. 60, 62, 67, 71. 47 Kenneth B. Pyle, ‘State and Society in the Interwar Years’, Journal of Japanese Studies, Vol. 3, No. 2, Summer 1977, p. 424.

3

Orthodox views The public face of the crisis

The Japanese public was presented with a remarkably consistent view of the Manchurian crisis, with the same themes and interpretations appearing again and again in newspapers, magazines, on radio and in film. Censorship is in part responsible for limiting the points of view that could reach audiences and readers, as we have seen, but positive efforts by the authorities and by the producers of newspapers, magazines and films to exploit the crisis were much more significant. Fortuitously for media entrepreneurs, the Manchurian crisis occurred at a time when literacy rates had risen significantly, the technical capacity of the media was expanding rapidly and consumer society was well established, at least in the cities. At the same time, fierce commercial rivalry existed among the large newspapers and film companies, and between newspapers and radio, with the result that all competed to produce the most sensational stories about battles in Manchuria and Shanghai, noble sacrifices on the home front, and unforgivable insults to Japan at the League of Nations. In this chapter we will examine the reporting of the Manchurian crisis in the mainstream media, and the major themes to be found in accounts of the crisis.

Reporting the crisis in the printed media The mainstream press, as we have seen, failed to criticise the invasion of Manchuria, but in fact it went much further than that. Most newspapers and magazines responded to events in Manchuria, Shanghai and Geneva with positive enthusiasm and energy, so much so that they were prepared to spend large sums of money covering the military action especially. During the first half of 1932, the Asahi and the Mainichi each spent an estimated 1 million yen in extraordinary expenses, mostly on covering the Manchurian crisis, at a time when the Prime Minister’s salary was 800 yen per month. In the same period, the total amount spent by Japanese newspapers and news agencies in reporting Manchurian events exceeded 10 million yen.1 Smaller newspapers like Ho¯chi shinbun, Jiji shinpo¯ and Kokumin shinbun had much less capital than the big metropolitan dailies, and could not compete effectively with them. In fact, only about ten newspapers in the whole country were able to continue to operate profitably throughout the Manchurian crisis and, in the largest cities,

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45

competition for readers quickly reduced itself to a contest between the Asahi and the Mainichi.2 Newspapers spent the extra money on sending special correspondents to Manchuria and on exploiting the opportunities for speedy reporting provided by the latest technology. According to figures published in the Nippon shinbun nenkan (Japan Newspaper Annual) in 1933, the reporting corps covering the Manchurian crisis, in addition to regular correspondents already in place, included fifty special correspondents and cameramen from the Osaka and Tokyo editions of the Asahi, together with forty assistants, interpreters and chauffeurs. The O¯saka mainichi together with its associated paper the To¯kyo¯ nichinichi matched these figures, while Jiji shinpo¯, Ho¯chi shinbun and the Nippon denpo¯ and Rengo¯ agencies managed to send between three and five special correspondents each. By comparison, the Asahi group dispatched three correspondents to the Olympic Games in Los Angeles in 1932, while the O¯saka mainichi/To¯kyo¯ nichinichi sent four.3 Aeroplanes were much in demand to facilitate the reporting of the Sino-Japanese conflict. The Asahi alone used eight aeroplanes in its coverage of the fighting in Manchuria: by transporting its camera crew by air, it was able to publish its first photographs from Manchuria on 20 September, though the Fukuoka nichinichi was actually the first to publish photos from the front.4 The lengths to which journalists were prepared to go in order to be first with the news or to provide the most graphic accounts is suggested by the fact that at least two incidents resulted in the deaths of Japanese staff covering the conflict. In June 1932 a special correspondent from the O¯saka mainichi, and a journalist and a sidecar driver from the O¯saka asahi, were all killed on the battlefield at Chinchow. In September of the same year, an Asahi aeroplane carrying a photograph of the signing of the Japan–Manchukuo protocol, by which Japan officially recognised Manchukuo, crashed into the Japan Sea in dense night fog, killing the pilot and engineer.5 The intrepid cameraman, in fact, became a stock figure in sensationalist stories about the Manchurian crisis, with some stories spuriously claiming a remarkably high death rate among those who ventured on to the battlefield with their cameras.6 In their actual analyses of the Manchurian crisis, however, the major newspapers were less adventurous than the exploits of some of their staff might suggest. In the recent past, the large papers had been by no means uncritical of the military, failing, for example, to support the Kwantung Army’s attempt to exploit the assassination of Chang Tso-lin in Manchuria in 1928, supporting the government’s desire to sign the London Naval Treaty in 1930, and joining in calls for cuts to military budgets.7 Now, however, despite some initial hesitation, they quickly accepted the official version of the Manchurian Incident, justifying Japan’s actions as legitimate self-defence, just as decades earlier they had supported the government in the Sino-Japanese and Russo-Japanese Wars. The To¯kyo¯ nichinichi went so far as to criticise the government’s initial policy of nonescalation of the ‘incident’. Even the supposedly liberal Asahi pressed the government to submit to the army’s wishes, on the grounds that it would be wrong to reveal to the outside world and to the Japanese people the conflict that existed

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between cabinet and army over the Manchurian Incident. Indeed, though the Asahi had begun by expressing hopes for a diplomatic solution to the troubles in Manchuria, and had not unequivocally accepted the army’s right to independent action, its editorials after 18 September became more supportive of the army with each passing day.8 An O¯saka asahi journalist, recruited not long before the Manchurian Incident, recalled in his post-war memoirs that he had been aware of some opposition to the army’s actions in Kansai business and intellectual circles, but nevertheless he recalled no discussion at his newspaper of whether or not the army should be supported.9 The Asahi proceeded to show its colours by initiating a campaign for relief packages for the troops in its issue of 16 October. By this time, according to Hando¯ Kazutoshi, the paper was completely in step with the military,10 though like the Fukuoka nichinichi, it had in fact displayed considerable concern about possible international repercussions of the bombing of Chinchow on 8 October 1931.11 Four principles informed To¯kyo¯ asahi as well as O¯saka mainichi editorials on the crisis over north-east China, in Ikei Masaru’s analysis. The first two – that Manchuria was historically an area of Japanese rights and interests, and that the Japanese action constituted legitimate self-defence – closely reflected government statements and past policy. A third principle of the newspaper editorials was that China should back down (hansei suru), and that the Japanese people favoured drastic measures if it did not. Fourthly, the intervention of a third party which resulted from China’s appeal to the League of Nations was wrong.12 The O¯saka mainichi and To¯kyo¯ nichinichi were particularly active in encouraging public patriotism and defending Japan’s cause. The East Asia Research Centre, a body established as part of the Mainichi/Nichinichi group, held an extraordinary meeting on 25 September 1931 and passed a resolution ‘encouraging’ the government to protect Japan’s ‘life-line’. The resolution was immediately delivered to the Prime Minister, the Foreign Minister and the leaders of both houses of the Diet. On 30 October, the Chairman of the To¯kyo¯ nichinichi, Motoyama Hikoichi, sent a declaration based on the 25 September resolution to The Times, the New York Times and other influential foreign publications, justifying the Japanese action in Manchuria as self-defence. Another declaration was sent on 15 November, prompting the Asahi to take similar action the next day.13 The major newspapers continued to support the army’s actions throughout the Manchurian crisis. Few critics questioned the legality of the new state in Manchukuo or advocated the postponement of recognition by Japan, though the influential monthly journal Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron was an exception. On the contrary, some commentators castigated the government for its ‘tardiness’ in recognising Manchukuo. Machida Shiro¯, head of the Foreign Affairs Section of the To¯kyo¯ asahi, for example, wrote in July 1932 in the League of Nations Association journal Kokusai chishiki (International Understanding): If the people are ready [for recognition of Manchukuo] but the government is not, that must be because of the latter’s lack of foresight. To hesitate to

The public face of the crisis

47

recognise Manchukuo at this stage in deference to the anger of the Chinese government or people would do nothing but invite the contempt of the Chinese nation. It would certainly not contribute to friendship between the two countries.14 Eight days before publication of the Lytton Report, the East Asia Research Centre had already passed a resolution calling for rejection of ‘intervention’ by the League ‘at any cost’. By the time the Lytton Report appeared, all the main papers were predicting that Japan would withdraw from the League. In the end, only Jiji shinpo¯ consistently opposed withdrawal; the Asahi had expressed opposition for a time early in 1933 but later changed its stance. The condemnation of the report and personal attacks on Lytton by the major newspapers in late 1932 had been sufficiently violent as to anger elder statesman Saionji Kinmochi and the cabinet. Even Kokusai chishiki, mouthpiece of the League of Nations Association, in November 1932 described two of the Lytton Report’s conclusions as ‘large poison fangs pointed at Japan’.15 The uniformity of opinion displayed by the major newspapers during the Manchurian crisis can be linked to the fierce sales war among the papers, and between the newspapers and radio, which was expanding rapidly in this period, as we have seen. Well before 1931, commercial rivalry had produced a growing emphasis on sensational reporting. The rapid rise in basic literacy contributed to a dramatic increase in the reading public: the circulation of the O¯saka mainichi, for example, grew from 260,000 in 1912 to 670,000 in 1921 and 1.5 million in 1930.16 Competition for readers led the newspapers to devise various measures to increase circulation. Such efforts were then redoubled because of the inroads made by radio broadcasting, which had an obvious advantage in terms of speed. The response from newspapers to the challenge from radio was to produce more and more sensational reports, extra editions, more pictures and larger headlines, and the fighting in Manchuria provided ideal material for this. In fact, according to one scholar, the desire to increase circulation prompted the mass media to take an even harder line on Manchuria than the army did.17 A further pressure to move away from the relatively independent editorial position maintained by the press during the Taisho¯ period, towards conformity with government opinion, came from the need to avoid costly bans on publication at a time when only a few papers could operate profitably. The overall result was a mainstream press which was extremely supportive of government and army in the period 1931–33.18 The media’s enthusiasm for the Manchurian venture is nowhere more evident than in its recounting and embellishing of the many ‘beautiful stories’ (bidan) idealising military and home-front virtues which were presented to the Japanese public throughout the Manchurian crisis, chiefly at the instigation of the military. The archetypical ‘beautiful story’ was that of the ‘three bomb heroes’ (nikudan sanyu¯shi), referred to in English publications as the ‘three human bombs’ or ‘three human bullets’.

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The ‘three human bombs’ In February 1932, three soldiers of an engineering regiment from Kyu¯shu¯ were reported to have died heroic deaths in Shanghai when they charged into a previously impregnable Chinese position with a large amount of explosive strapped to their bodies. The true story appears to be that the three soldiers were accidentally killed by a short fuse on a charge they set, and that an intelligence officer quickly grasped the opportunity to fabricate a more heroic version of events.19 Japanese newspapers seized on the official version of the story – and in fact it was really the media which created the ‘three bomb heroes’ as a social phenomenon. Journalists reported on the ‘matchless bravery’ and ‘unswerving loyalty’ of the soldiers, emphasising their display of ‘the culmination of the Japanese spirit’ which was trumpeted as a ‘spirit unparalleled in the world’, surpassing that shown by any brave warriors to be found in ‘the annals of the world’s great wars’.20 Reporting of the three heroes quickly became another occasion for competition among the major newspapers. On 26 February 1932, two days after the first reports of the deaths in Shanghai, the Mainichi group sent 3,000 yen to the soldiers’ families as condolence money; the Asahi group gave the same amount the next day. The O¯saka asahi also announced that it would send portraits of the three heroes together with reference material on the war to all primary schools, young men’s associations and reservist associations in the Kansai region and westwards.21 Newspaper publicity about the three heroes reached a peak when both the Asahi and the Mainichi groups sponsored competitions to find the best song in praise of the dead soldiers. Both announced a competition on the same day, each offering a first prize of 500 yen. The Mainichi group promised it would arrange for ‘inspiring music’ to be composed for the winning song ‘by a famous composer’; the song would then be ‘popularized’ throughout the country.22 The winners of both competitions were announced on 15 March, by which time the Asahi had apparently received 124,561 entries and the Mainichi group 84,177.23 First prize in the Asahi competition went to a seemingly unknown resident of Nagasaki, Nakano Tsutomu. In the Mainichi competition, on the other hand, the winner was Yosano Tekkan, a well-known literary figure and husband of Yosano Akiko, who, ironically, had written a famous anti-war poem during the Russo-Japanese War nearly thirty years earlier. Public response to the story of the three heroes was immediate. On 24 February, the first day the deaths were reported, condolence money of 2,472 yen and 20 sen was collected nationally in what was said to be a record since the establishment of the Japanese army. By the time of the evening news editions of 27 February the total had exceeded 15,000 yen.24 The ‘beautiful story’ from Shanghai also inspired many films, plays, books, songs, revues, kabuki dramas and puppet shows. In March 1932 alone, the public was offered three bunraku puppet plays, a shinpa drama and a rakugo storytelling performance dramatising the incident.25 In April at least three plays were still being performed, and in Osaka a puppet jo¯ruri ballad-drama appeared. Reports declared that all the plays

The public face of the crisis

49

were well attended, with audiences becoming very excited regardless of the quality of the performance.26 In one kabuki version, the main roles were played by the famous actors Kikugoro¯, Uzaemon and Hikosaburo¯.27 The urge to dramatise the story was evident at humbler levels as well: in June 1932, for example, two teachers at a Hokkaido¯ primary school were severely injured when preparing for a re-enactment of the exploits of the three heroes as part of a school athletic meeting. In an ironic parody of the original accident, the gunpowder which had been packed into a bamboo tube for the act exploded prematurely.28 The great rise in the number of under-age applicants to the army in 1932 has been attributed partly to the effectiveness of propaganda about the ‘three human bombs’.29 Certainly, the story appears to have made a deeper impression than many other aspects of the Manchurian crisis. Several women who were asked around the early 1980s about their recollections of the crisis could barely remember the Manchurian Incident itself, but clearly remembered the story of the ‘human bombs’.30 Fifty years after the events, a Japanese man who had been eight years old in 1931 recalled: Even at that age, we were greatly interested in what was going on in Manchuria. The boys from my street used to play war games, armed with bamboo poles as rifles . . . In particular, I remember, we played at being the Three Bomb Heroes of Shanghai. Three of the boys would get a large log of wood and tie it to their backs with string, to be the ‘bomb’, and the rest of us would be enemy guards and so on. We were very impressed by the story of the Three Bomb Heroes. We were told that only Japanese soldiers could do something like that.31 Newspapers and magazines had played a large part in implanting such a vivid story in the minds of adults and children alike. Newspaper companies actually did much more than print newspapers. In the early 1930s they also sponsored public lectures and exhibitions in the large cities and in provincial centres, often with the co-operation of the Kwantung Army, the Army Ministry or some other official body. One exhibition in an Osaka department store, for example, featured ‘a display of things pertaining to the Shanghai Incident’.32 Newspaper firms played a major role in campaigns to collect relief packages and money for the troops, and sent envoys to take the packages to Japanese soldiers in Manchuria. They were also major producers of films, including films about Manchuria, as we shall see below.

Radio and film Radio and film reacted to the Manchurian crisis with no less energy than the printed media. In the case of radio, orchestration by the authorities may be regarded as the main reason, in view of the extent of official control noted in the previous chapter. Radio response to the outbreak of hostilities in Manchuria was very rapid.

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Listeners were first informed of the incident at Mukden in an early morning broadcast on 19 September 1931, in what was in fact Japan’s first unscheduled ‘news special’ (rinji nyu¯su). There were seventeen such ‘specials’ in September 1931, and in the twelve months after the Manchurian Incident, the time devoted to radio news nearly doubled in comparison with the previous twelve months. After 18 September 1931, the four regular daily news broadcasts were increased to six. Newspapers were so threatened by this vigorous challenge from radio that their representatives, at the end of October 1931, asked the Japan Broadcasting Commission (NHK) to cease making special news broadcasts.33 Programmes on political and military topics, feature commentaries, lectures on current events and patriotic programmes all increased in number. In addition to news broadcasts, there were numerous on-the-spot broadcasts covering such events as troop departures and returns, patriotic rallies and ceremonies in which aeroplanes built by public donation were officially handed over to the army. Lectures were given by academics, business leaders and critics, but especially by speakers associated with the military. Between September 1931 and September 1932, approximately 225 such speeches were broadcast, or more than one every two days. The subjects covered included the historical connections between Japan and Manchuria, the background to the Manchurian Incident, the South Manchurian Railway Company, recognition of Manchukuo and so on.34 In addition to talks for the general public, housewives were specifically targeted by journalists, heads of girls’ schools, religious leaders, and again, by speakers associated with the military, while other talks were aimed at children. In the first twelve months after the explosion outside Mukden, thirty regular programmes in the Children’s Hour series were devoted to the Manchurian Incident. A children’s news show began in June 1932, presenting patriotic stories for young listeners. Overall, according to one calculation, a total of 410 programmes was presented to mobilise public support for the Manchurian Incident between September 1931 and September 1932, not counting special news bulletins. Direct links were also promoted through the broadcast of entertainment programmes from Manchuria to Japan.35 Film was similarly employed to convey patriotic messages about Manchuria, both by the army as a medium of propaganda, and by film companies, which quickly recognised that topical material treated in a sensational manner would sell well. As in Nazi Germany, film was an important means of transmitting patriotic messages, because the cinema, much more than newspapers or radio, ‘was associated with relaxation and entertainment’ and therefore had an unobtrusive effect.36 Cinema, especially talking pictures, ‘presented the most vivid pictures yet of what it meant to be Japanese’,37 and the government was well aware of its potential. A 1934 ‘Rationale for the Proposed Establishment of a National Policy on Film’ observed: Film is an important means of public enlightenment as well as entertainment . . . It has a greater influence on the young than the other media and than formal education . . . [T]herefore it is necessary to guide and control the film

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51

industry, which has up till now been left without positive guidance or control and been guided purely by the profit motive.38 News films, dramatic films and educational films all flourished in this period, with newspaper firms as the most prominent producers of films on the Manchurian Incident and subsequent events. Their films proved very popular, showing not only in cinemas but also in public halls, department stores and schools. Asahi films on Manchuria, for example, were shown in about 1,500 venues throughout Japan.39 One of the most popular of the early efforts was the Mainichi group’s Mamore Manmo¯ (Defend Manchuria and Mongolia), made at the instigation of the army and opening at the beginning of 1932. The Englishlanguage Mainichi Daily News told its readers that the film explains in a most concise manner the outstanding situation of the present punitive expedition to Manchuria. It is purely an educational film without being affected by sensationalism, and yet it is full of thrill and excitement. There is no hero or heroine in this picture. Many names are listed in the cast, but none of them play any principal role – for the main theme itself requires none. Japan, as an Empire, is the hero, so to speak, and Manchuria and Mongolia in one is the heroine.40 Mamore Manmo¯ concentrated on battle scenes and was clearly intended to convince the public that Manchuria was Japan’s ‘life-line’.41 In early February 1932, the Osaka Mainichi Company also screened films ‘showing actual scenes of the Shanghai Incident’, in order to ‘help citizens to see how hard the Japanese troops in China are struggling against the marauding Chinese soldiers, muftis, and mobs’. Readers were assured that ‘the pictures of the Shanghai and Manchurian incidents were all taken by the Osaka Mainichi’s camera men at the risk of their lives, under a rain of shells’. The didactic purpose is unmistakeable: a film screening on 6 February, for example, was preceded by an address from the Assistant Editor-in-Chief of the O¯saka mainichi on the subject ‘How the Powers Observe the Japan–China Incidents’.42 The official Japanese view of the founding of Manchukuo was also promoted through films, especially ‘Seigi wa tsuyoshi’ (Justice is powerful), released in February 1932.43 The following month, the Osaka Mainichi Film Unit released newsreel footage repackaged as ‘an 8-reel affair which depicts how the new era of peace has been established in Manchuria’. The public was reminded once more that Mainichi staff were war heroes just as soldiers were: ‘These pictures have been rushed home by the fastest means of transportation available, Mainichi airplanes often taking risky hops on dark and starless nights as well as in the daytime.’ The film was no doubt widely screened, for in February 1932, a contract had been signed between the O¯saka mainichi and Nikkatsu (Japan Motion Picture Company, based in Kyo¯to) allowing for the release of Mainichi newsreels in the 500 or so cinemas of the Nikkatsu national chain.44 The first dramatic film using the Manchurian Incident as a theme was released

52

Managing the crisis

as early as 8 October 1931. The film featured the bravery and eventual victory of a small number of Japanese soldiers fighting against a much more numerous group of Chinese, while also focusing on the patriotic mother at home whose virtues provided the basis of the soldiers’ bravery.45 Women’s sacrifice was again the theme of the 1931 film Shi no senbutsu Inoue chu¯i fujin (The wife of Lieutenant Inoue gives her life as a parting gift), which presented one version of a widelypublicised story in which the heroine, after bidding farewell to her husband, kills herself in order to encourage him to fight bravely at the front, undeterred by concern for her welfare at home. Many other films were also made with the theme of loyal suicide (junshi).46 Forty films were produced about the Manchurian Incident in 1932 alone.47 The ideal subject for the war film in this period was, above all, the story of the ‘three human bombs’, and in the single month of March 1932, five films on the Shanghai heroes appeared. The technical quality of these films provoked much negative comment from reviewers, who tended to regard them as a waste of celluloid,48 but their popularity was doubtless unaffected by such criticism.

State propaganda Though the media provided willing support for the conquest of Manchuria, it remains true that government and army went to considerable lengths to influence the content of newspapers, magazines, radio and film, and much material that can be understood as officially-inspired propaganda found its way to the press. The systematic and formal use of propaganda did not begin until July 1936, when the Cabinet Information Committee (Naikaku jo¯ho¯ iinkai) was established, becoming a division (bu) in 1937 and a bureau (kyoku) in 1940, at which time it took over ultimate authority for censorship and propaganda from the Home Ministry.49 However, positive efforts to manipulate opinion within and outside of Japan had begun much earlier, dating back to the period immediately following the First World War. Such efforts were not centrally controlled, but took the form of various activities by different ministries. For example, the Press Unit (Shinbunhan) of the Army Ministry was set up in 1920; the Information Division (Jo¯ho¯bu) of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was established in 1921; and a similar committee (Gunji fukyu¯ iinkai) was established within the Navy Ministry in 1923. The number of such committees increased rapidly in the early Sho¯wa period. The Manchurian Incident greatly stimulated efforts to co-ordinate official propaganda. Disagreement between the Foreign Ministry and the army, especially the Kwantung Army, over the initial government policy of nonescalation and later over the creation of Manchukuo, led to calls from various quarters for the two arms of government to present a united view both internally and externally. The result was the formation in 1932 of a committee known as the ‘Jikyoku do¯shikai’, consisting of representatives from both the Foreign Ministry and the army, joined later by representatives from the Home, Education and Communications Ministries. The committee began to produce

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53

proposals for the unification and strengthening of propaganda, and in August 1932, its representative from the army, Suzuki Teiichi, offered a proposal for a new propaganda committee.50 The result of Suzuki’s suggestion was the formation in September 1932 of an unofficial Information Committee (Jo¯ho¯ iinkai), comprising representatives from the Home Ministry (the head of the Police Bureau) and the Education, Foreign, Army, Navy and Communications Ministries. It was established as a Foreign Ministry committee, with the Vice-Minister of Foreign Affairs as its head, meeting weekly until it was replaced in July 1936 by the Cabinet Information Committee. It undertook a variety of specific tasks, including attempts to influence the Lytton Commission and responses to requests for propaganda to be directed at staff of foreign embassies in Japan, as well as foreign students and journalists. The committee’s most concrete achievement was the unification of the two major Japanese new agencies, Rengo¯ and Dentsu¯. In September 1932, the Information Committee, through the Foreign Ministry, asked the two agencies to combine. Such a proposal had been made before for commercial reasons, but the Manchurian Incident spurred the committee on to seek its urgent implementation so that Japan could present a united and therefore potentially more effective view to the outside world. Because of conflict between the two news agencies and some of the ministries concerned, the new organisation, Do¯mei tsu¯shinsha, did not actually come into existence until June 1936. When it did appear, it functioned as a government mouthpiece.51 A foreign correspondent remarked of Do¯mei in 1938: ‘It becomes more and more easy to learn from Do¯mei what may happen next year, and more and more difficult to learn what did happen yesterday.’52 In the meantime, different ministries were active in their own spheres. The army in particular expended a great deal of effort in influencing the way the Manchurian crisis was reported and dramatised. Army officials provided speakers for radio programmes and articles for magazines. They lent out horses and equipment to film-makers for no charge,53 and also commissioned their own films, such as Mamore Manmo¯, discussed above, and Hijo¯ji Nippon, to be analysed below. As will be seen in the next chapter, the Home Ministry evinced little interest in the crisis over Manchuria, but on the other hand the Foreign Ministry was active in disseminating the official Japanese view of the crisis throughout the world. At home, the arm of government most commonly associated with endorsement of patriotic orthodoxy in the 1930s is the Education Ministry, and we shall now turn to consider the role of education in forming opinion about the Manchurian crisis.

The role of education It is often asserted that education, as well as the press, was particularly subject to manipulation by the military in the period before the Second World War, and, undeniably, schools were potentially an important channel for army influence. John Embree writes in his 1935–36 study of a village in Kumamoto Prefecture:

54

Managing the crisis In every classroom is a world-map or map of Asia which shows Japan in red as a very small land indeed, compared to the mainland nations of Asia. Manchukuo is colored pink, but even this pink area is not so large. In a perfectly bland manner some villager, on looking at such a map, will suggest how nice it would be to appropriate a bit more of China. Charts of various nations’ military strength, always emphasizing the smallness of Japan in comparison to these others, are hung in various schoolrooms. These maps and charts illustrate to the farmer and his child how essentially reasonable it is for Japan to enlarge, and how unreasonable are those nations that object.54

Schoolchildren, moreover, learned and regularly recited the Imperial Rescript on Education of 1890, with its emphasis on the obligation of all Japanese to serve the emperor, and to offer their lives in wartime if necessary. On the other hand, however, the coherence of educational policy and the extent to which a nationalistic education system was responsible for ordinary people’s opinions should not be overemphasised. Not all school textbooks sought to explain and justify Japan’s actions in an assertive and nationalistic manner: some texts used between 1918 and 1933, in particular, advocated internationalism, co-operation and conciliation, though others were aggressively militaristic. The first national textbooks, issued in 1903, emphasised the building of a great civilisation and association with the West; the next editions, published in 1910, stressed the development of ‘Japanese spirit’ and Japan’s role in East Asia. Harold J. Wray observes that Japanese school textbooks have been stereotyped as ultranationalistic and militaristic, but argues that such stereotypes apply chiefly to those issued between 1936 and 1945; taken as a whole, the textbooks of other periods are more ambiguous.55 There were certainly some famous Japanese heroes from the Sino-Japanese and Russo-Japanese Wars who became very familiar to schoolchildren. From the 1890s onwards, for instance, virtue and loyalty to duty (chu¯gi) were preached in schools partly through the example of Kiguchi Ko¯hei, an ordinary private who was said to have fallen in action in July 1894. He was a bugler who went on bugling even after being struck by a bullet, according to the story, and was found dead with the bugle still pressed to his lips.56 At least one of the heroes of the Russo-Japanese War appeared in textbooks: General Nogi Maresuke, who committed suicide on the death of the Meiji Emperor, supposedly to ‘follow his lord’ and to atone for having lost the regimental colours in the Satsuma Rebellion of 1877.57 Stories like these were as much used for their illustration and reinforcement of traditional ethical values as for their celebration of the military spirit. They probably conveyed the message that the army embodied the best of the national character, but this does not automatically mean that they spoke in concrete terms of the need for Japanese expansion abroad. Even if such stories did imply an emphasis on military conquest, they must be considered alongside the evidence of an overall stress in textbooks in certain periods on international co-operation. Thus, the messages contained in school texts were mixed ones, closely reflecting

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55

the stance of the government at the time of publication. Over 97 per cent of prewar Japanese youth were exposed to the national elementary textbooks, but the effect of the texts on the views of any individual Japanese must have depended to a large extent on the dates between which that person attended school. It should also be remembered that school was only one of a number of influences on the views of the young, and that middle-aged and older people in the early 1930s may have had a quite limited exposure, or no exposure at all, to the education system. Compulsory schooling was raised to six years from four years in 1907; so in 1931, a person aged over about twenty-five was likely to have had four years’ schooling or less. Middle-aged and elderly women in particular might have had very little schooling, given that in 1890 only about 30 per cent of eligible girls were actually at school.58 In the early 1930s, then, a nationalistic education system can be attributed only limited responsibility for moulding opinion on the Manchurian crisis.

Major themes relating to Manchuria Overall, considerable effort was expended between 1931 and 1933 by government ministries, the army and various other agencies interested in promoting patriotism and a certain view of events in Manchuria. Though the official propaganda effort was not as tightly co-ordinated as in later years, it did produce a core of ideas which were emphasised again and again in almost every conceivable context. These ideas were also taken up with alacrity by a surprising range of non-official ideologues, and are found repeated in the writings and speeches of everyone from former Communists to moderate intellectuals to chamber of commerce committees, each time couched in terms appropriate to the particular audience but each time containing the same familiar words and phrases. Indeed, one of the striking features of the arguments relating to Manchuria is the broad consensus that emerged: when it came to Manchuria, the views of conservative military figures, moderate journalists and intellectuals, progressive bureaucrats and even socialists had a great deal in common. Among other things, this phenomenon indicates that commitment to a version of the ‘national interest’ ran deep among civilian ideologues as well as establishment figures. Mere manipulation by the state could not have produced such broadranging, active consensus. Use of the word ‘propaganda’ in this context is not meant to imply ‘a top-down phenomenon that manipulated a gullible audience into betraying its own interests’.59 Despite the seductive simplicity of formulations blaming censorship and the education system for popular compliance with Japanese expansionism, allowance must be made for interaction between audience and message, and propaganda should neither be automatically equated with public response, nor considered as all-powerful. Scholars working in other contexts have noted that the power of the media to persuade is limited by existing social attitudes, values and experiences;60 that propaganda was most effective ‘where it was building upon, not countering, already existing values and mentalities’.61 As one study of

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propaganda and social control observes, ‘whilst the media may have agendasetting and reinforcement functions, they are “not omnipotent in terms of controlling the minds and behaviour of members of the mass audience”’.62 Audiences, then, are not merely passive recipients of propaganda, and not all propaganda is equally effective. Propaganda is most powerful when it reinforces existing beliefs and myths; in other words, when it strikes a responsive chord in its audience. It is also more powerful when it does not limit itself to any particular social group, but rather offers itself to the whole society. At the same time, it may stress different themes to different groups. What, then, were the points on which so many commentators agreed during the Manchurian crisis? ‘Life-line’ By far the most conspicuous slogan was ‘Manchuria, Japan’s life-line’ (seimeisen). The idea that the region was essential for Japan’s survival was at the core of all official and non-official ideology surrounding military attempts to control Manchuria in the early 1930s. In the words of the Japanese government’s September 1932 statement recognising Manchukuo, the region ‘from the point of view of national defence and the very existence of our people stands in an inseparable relation with Japan’.63 The large newspapers, particularly the Mainichi, played an important role in implanting the concept of the ‘life-line’ at a popular level. The Mainichi’s special issue of 27 December 1931, for example, was headed ‘Defend Manchuria and Mongolia: Life-line of the Empire’ (Mamore Manmo¯: teikoku no seimeisen).64 Evidence suggests that the ‘life-line’ idea had indeed sunk into popular consciousness to an extent. ‘Seimeisen’ is listed as one of five ‘fashionable expressions’ (ryu¯ko¯go) for 1931 in the Japan Broadcasting Corporation’s official history.65 Of the many songs about Manchuria that were circulating, one was entitled ‘Life-line Melody’ (‘Seimeisen bushi ’).66 In almost all the journals, speeches, reports and other records used in this study, the word ‘seimeisen’ appears frequently. There was nothing natural, inevitable or even obvious about the slogan. The expression ‘seimeisen’ in connection with Manchuria is said to have been coined by Matsuoka Yo¯suke when he was Vice-President of the South Manchurian Railway Company in the late 1920s,67 though it may have been used by elder statesman Yamagata Aritomo much earlier.68 Serious efforts by senior military officers to convince their own soldiers that Manchuria was Japan’s life-line appear to have begun only in 1929.69 At the end of 1928, one military study group, the Thursday Club, which included leading figures such as Colonel To¯jo¯ Hideki, Colonel Nagata Tetsuzan and Major Suzuki Teiichi, was convinced of the need to focus the minds of both the public and young army officers on the requirements of Japan’s next war, whoever the opponent might be, and on Japan’s need to control the resources of Manchuria. (Siberia had been briefly considered as an alternative, but, as one member remarked, it was too cold.) Casting around for a slogan, members of the group considered a range of

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options, but none of them included the term ‘life-line’. Instead, they chose to emphasise Japan’s poverty and lack of space in unlikely-sounding suggestions such as ‘Japan, the poor country’ (hinkoku Nihon), ‘Japan, poor but strong’ (hinkyo¯ Nihon), ‘land of the gods, poor but vigorous’ (shinshu¯ hinken) and ‘to the continent because we’re too crowded’ (komiaimasukara tairiku e).70 The previous obscurity of the ‘life-line’ slogan points to the force of the propaganda effort to popularise it in the early 1930s. After September 1931, ‘Manchuria, the life-line of Japan’ rapidly became a catchphrase used by those advocating further aggression. As one observer wrote somewhat optimistically in April 1932: Before September 18 last this [the idea that Manchuria is Japan’s life-line] was a faint idea scarcely realised by the people . . . [But it] has now become common sense even to men of the street that without Manchuria Japan, isolated from the world, would be helpless, while with it she cannot only endure any emergency but can ward off any conspiracy . . . Without Manchuria Japan cannot but be restless, but with it she will be about as [economically] secure as the United States of America is today.71 ‘Rights and interests’ The principle that Japan was dependent upon access to the resources of Manchuria for survival as a nation was part of an attempt to create a narrative justifying Japan’s claim to the region, and was closely linked with the assertion that Manchuria rightfully belonged to the Japanese, despite China’s technical sovereignty over it. This idea was most commonly expressed in the phrase ‘Manmo¯ no ken’eki’ (rights and interests in Manchuria and Mongolia). Far from being a dry diplomatic term, ‘ken’eki’ in the early 1930s was rather, as Murakami Hyo¯ e has pointed out, a vivid word suggesting sacrifice and the shedding of blood,72 and it relied for its effect upon a certain view of history in which the SinoJapanese and Russo-Japanese Wars figured prominently. Manchuria was frequently referred to as the place where the spirits of 200,000 Japanese war heroes slept. The importance of the South Manchurian Railway, and the large amount of Japanese public money which had contributed through the railway to the development of Manchuria, were also evoked as evidence of Japan’s right freely to exploit Manchurian resources. It was common to argue that China’s sovereignty over Manchuria was in any case tenuous. It was pointed out, particularly by those with any claim to erudition or expertise, that the Han people’s habitation of the region associated with the Manchus and other groups was of only recent origin, and that therefore Manchuria was ‘historically distinct from China proper’.73 One detailed exposition of this view was given by Akaike Atsushi, Member of the House of Peers and former Home Ministry official. Akaike maintained that Manchuria and Mongolia had been since ancient times entirely separate from the Han people; in fact, Koreans (now considered to be under the protection of Japan) had more

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claim to it than the Chinese. Even in recent times the Chinese had not permanently occupied Manchuria, according to Akaike: they had merely appointed their officials to posts there as Japan had appointed officials to its protectorates in Micronesia since 1914. Not even the Chinese thought of Manchuria and Mongolia as their own territory, as was demonstrated by the fact that they had built, maintained and protected the Great Wall. Only in the last twenty years had Chinese people moved in large numbers to Manchuria and engaged in a variety of activities there.74 Many other writers, too, referred to the influx of very large numbers of Chinese farmers from North China to Manchuria during the 1920s: the ‘peace and order’ created in the region by Japan was always said to be the attraction. Most basically, the notion that Manchuria should properly be distinguished from the rest of China and indeed, regarded as not part of China, was reflected in the very use of the term ‘Manchuria’, as Gavan McCormack has pointed out: It was the apparently innocuous convention of referring to the Northeast as ‘Manchuria’ that allowed the idea to develop that it was not part of China and that prepared the way for severance from China and the eventual establishment of the Japanese puppet state of Manchukuo.75 In propaganda, Japan’s ‘right’ to Manchuria was confirmed by the assertion that no-one else wanted or could properly exploit the region. The Japanese view of Manchuria often implied that no-one lived there, apart from a few brave expatriate Japanese and a lot of ‘bandits’. The image was of a Manchuria with no Chinese, of an empty land waiting to be claimed by Japan.76 As a writer in Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron, advocating Japanese emigration to Manchuria, proclaimed: ‘Like the colonial days in American history, a new State is in the making, the vast virgin plains, unhampered by tradition, ready to welcome armies of fresh immigrants.’77 One woman who went to Manchuria in 1931 at about the age of twenty-six spoke many years later of her childhood image of Manchuria. She had thought of Manchuria, she said, as a limitless snowy plain containing only huts. There is no suggestion that in fact, millions of Chinese inhabited and farmed the snowy plain.78 In the diplomatic context, the insistence on Japan’s ‘rights and interests’ in Manchuria was not actually an unreasonable one in terms of contemporary international parlance. The concept of ‘rights and interests’ was well established amongst the Western powers at the time. Indeed, Western nations had specifically acknowledged Japan’s ‘special interests’ in China, and in Manchuria particularly. On occasion they, too, expressed the view that Manchuria was not an integral part of China;79 and the term ‘Manchuria’, with its connotations of separateness, was used by Westerners as well as Japanese. The Anglo-Japanese Alliance of 1902 recognised Japanese as well as British interests in China. France and Japan later recognised each other’s interests in China, and Russia and Japan granted each other ‘special interests’ in Manchuria. In 1917, the United States recognised the principle of Japanese special interest in Manchuria in an agreement between Japanese special envoy Ishii Kikujiro¯ and US Secretary of State

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Robert Lansing.80 The Lytton Commission also recognised Japan’s special position in Manchuria, noting that ‘the rights and interests of Japan in Manchuria are facts which cannot be ignored’ and acknowledging that they complicated the Sino-Japanese dispute.81 Nor did the Japanese press ever question the doctrine of ‘special interests’, even in the 1920s when it simultaneously advocated non-intervention in the affairs of other nations, greater sympathy for Chinese national aspirations, and support for the ideals of the League of Nations. In the 1920s the press held the defence of Japanese vested interests to be equally as important as the principles of ‘mutual co-prosperity’ and ‘non-intervention’. By the end of 1928, only a handful of critics and Ishibashi Tanzan’s liberal paper To¯yo¯ keizai shinpo¯ (Oriental Economist) were still reminding their readers of the inherent contradiction between acceptance of Japan’s ‘special status’ and the pledge to respect the independence of China which Japan had made in signing the Nine-Power Pact of 1922. Neither was the need to take action to ‘protect the lives and property of Japanese residents’ in Manchuria ever questioned by the press, which, as a result, readily accepted the Kwantung Army’s justification of its actions in 18 September as ‘self-defence’.82 Sacrifice Related to the set of ideas embodied in the terms ‘life-line’ and ‘rights and interests’ were the notions of sacrifice and of self-defence. It was constantly emphasised that Japan had sacrificed a great deal of ‘blood and treasure’ in Manchuria, and in this context, memories and images of the Russo-Japanese War in particular were frequently evoked. That war had, after all, ended only twenty-six years previously. In 1931, therefore, there were still many Japanese who remembered it; and through the education system, many more had been exposed to a particular version of the course and significance of the war.83 School texts used the war as a source of examples of heroism and bravery. Ideologues harked back to it nostalgically as a period of laudable national unity and co-operation. Most importantly in terms of the Manchurian Incident, the official version of the Russo-Japanese War was crucial in implanting the image of rights and interests in Manchuria in the popular imagination. The politician and public speaker Tsurumi Yu¯suke had summed up this view in the late 1920s when he said: Manchuria is watered by the blood of Japanese patriots; their graves and battle monuments dot the landscape from Port Arthur to Mukden. The land may [technically] belong to China, but it is hallowed soil for the Sons of Nippon.84 Japan had fought for and in Manchuria, and in doing so had made enormous sacrifices, according to this argument. In short, Japan had ‘earned’ Manchuria, and had earned it legitimately: through warfare conducted according to the usual international ‘rules’, it was implied.

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These arguments existed in some form before 1931, as Tsurumi’s assertion shows. They were given explicit expression and were greatly encouraged by the major newspapers and by radio and film after the Manchurian Incident. Japanese had made sacrifices not only in the Russo-Japanese War, it was argued, but also in developing Manchuria since 1905: Manchuria had reached its current state thanks to the blood and sweat of Japanese people, invested through the South Manchurian Railway Company and Japanese leaseholds in Kwantung.85 Japanese soldiers were also making personal sacrifices on behalf of the nation and for peace in the region, as was made clear by constant references to the extreme cold in northern Manchuria and other hardships. ‘Marching in Pursuit of Bandits’ (‘To¯hiko¯’), a song that spread throughout Japan in the first half of 1932, captured the mood of soldierly sacrifice and hardship: How long will this muddy trail last? For three days and two nights without food Rain pours down on the helmet. My horse fell and whines no more; Cutting off his mane as memento I bid farewell to his remains. Gone already are cigarettes, The matches I counted on are wet, How cold is the night when hunger stalks. If it must be, so be it – I am a fighting man of the land of the rising sun: I have little regret to have my corpse decay in the grass.86 Self-defence Arguments about the national sacrifices Japan had made led naturally to the concept of ‘self-defence’, the Kwantung Army’s principal justification for its actions of late 1931. If Manchuria ‘belonged’ to Japan, then the Japanese were entitled to take action to defend it. In the 1920s, the heyday of Wilsonian idealism and ‘pacifism’, self-defence was recognised by many as the only legitimate motive for war. This principle was explicitly enshrined in the Kellogg Pact (also known as the Kellogg–Briand Pact, the Pact of Paris and the Anti-War Pact), signed by Japan and sixty-four other nations in 1928. Japanese ideologues of all types relied heavily on the argument that Japan’s actions in Manchuria constituted legitimate self-defence against the Chinese, who had for some time been ‘trampling’ on Japanese ‘rights and interests’. In the immediate sense, too, it was always maintained that Japanese soldiers on the night of 18 September had merely acted in self-defence after Chinese soldiers blew up part of the South Manchurian Railway. The argument about self-defence was crucial not only within Japan, but also whenever Japan tried to exonerate itself in international forums, as we shall see in Chapters 4 and 5.87

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Chinese instability The propaganda surrounding the Manchurian Incident included a consistent view not only of Japan and its history, but also of China. The most common theme was of China as a disorganised and unstable state, to which, indeed, the word ‘state’ could hardly be applied at all. Contemporary China was, for one writer, just like Japan in the Sengoku or Warring States period (1482–1558)88 – that is, China today was at a stage surpassed by Japan over 350 years earlier. This argument again was used largely as an appeal to the norms governing international conduct. If China was not a ‘modern state’, Japan could not be expected to extend to it the sort of treatment that would be expected in other circumstances. Observance of treaties presupposed that a nation was capable of establishing a minimum standard of peace, order and safety for foreign nationals. Japan’s case to the world rested partly on the assertion that China had failed to establish such conditions. China was in total disarray, it was asserted; it had no political unity and it was overrun by bandits and by rival warlords. As one Japanese intellectual put it, ‘Two nations may claim the same rights. But one may be weak, poor, untruthful and turbulent – and all it can do may be to claim its right without fulfilling its duties.’89 A women’s magazine contrasted the chaotic state of China with the stable government that Japan had allegedly enjoyed for 3,000 years, adding that in Japan all the people co-operated together, whereas the Chinese people were in a most unfortunate state of disunity.90 They did have certain individual virtues, including a good physique, a low standard of living that encouraged success in business, and skill in diplomacy. The fact that they were completely unable to achieve national unity, however, meant that the nation was in a parlous state and national prestige remained low.91 The Japanese assertions about China, again, were not without foundation; nor were they out of step with the Western powers. US President Herbert Hoover, for example, seems to have shared Japan’s view of China as disordered and threatening.92 Ambassador Sir Francis Lindley of Britain agreed that ‘it is impossible to apply to China in its present condition the same standards as are applicable to more settled countries’.93 China was undeniably in a state of turmoil after the 1911 revolution. Rival warlords wreaked much havoc, and bandits were numerous, partly because of widespread poverty among the Chinese people. The actual existence of bandits, in turn, proved to be a great boon to Japanese propagandists seeking to establish their nation’s right to control Manchuria. ‘Bandits’ ‘Bandits’ (bazoku, hizoku) is in fact one of the words recurring most frequently in official and non-official discourse on Manchuria between 1931 and 1933, and the need to suppress ‘bandits’ was used both within Japan and to international audiences to justify military action for years after the Manchurian Incident itself. Evidently, Japanese opinion-leaders considered the suppression of bandits to be an accepted reason for punitive military action, and in this they were undoubtedly

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right.94 There was in fact a considerable history of banditry in Manchuria as in other parts of China, of which the Western powers were quite aware. In a poor rural society subjected not infrequently to wars and natural disasters, the raiding of other towns and villages for food and money was a common enough response to hardship, and Chinese officials themselves had long recognised banditry as a problem.95 Furthermore, as Japanese polemicists often shrilly claimed, the distinction between bandits and soldiers was not a clear one: there was an ‘intimate relationship between the army and bandit worlds’ throughout China, with bandits frequently being recruited into the various armies operating during the 1920s and 1930s.96 According to Japanese estimates, there were approximately 60,000 bandits in Manchuria on the eve of the incident at Mukden.97 Scholars suggest further that at the height of the armed anti-Japanese movement, in mid-1932, there were probably 300,000–400,000 people actively opposing the Japanese army and proJapanese forces in Manchuria.98 The largest group among the resisters comprised destitute farmers, followed by soldiers and then by former bandits; according to some interpretations, however, most of the resisters, at least in the initial period, were politically motivated. The various forces offered formidable opposition to the Japanese for about a year and a half after the Manchurian Incident. By early or mid-1933, punitive action by the Kwantung Army and the Manchukuo Army had greatly reduced the number of guerillas. Even so, Japanese soldiers continued for some time to sustain relatively high casualty rates from conflict with Chinese forces.99 It was easy and convenient for the Japanese army to label all who opposed it after late 1931 as bandits, thus legitimating the killing of many Chinese without resort to the word ‘war’, and generally avoiding the suggestion that there were any politically-motivated opponents of the Japanese at all. The Kwantung Army was in fact quite prepared to encourage bandit gangs when it was convenient to do so – to cause disruption to the local Chinese, for example, or to provide an excuse for Japanese intervention.100 Nevertheless, the Japanese authorities continued publicly to emphasise the need to suppress the ‘bandit problem’ in order to make more of Manchuria safe for ordinary habitation, and military clashes with ‘bandits’ were prominently reported in the Japanese press during 1932 and 1933. That this was a quite deliberate policy is indicated in the memoirs of Harada Kumao, secretary to elder statesman Saionji Kinmochi, who records that in February 1933, the Japanese cabinet decided to take the stance that Japan’s opponents in the Jehol campaign were bandits rather than Chinese regular troops, and to present the Jehol campaign as a case of a localised effort to defeat bandits. As this discussion took place at a time of conflict with the League, the implication was that such a position would make a better impression internationally.101 ‘A time of crisis’ Official and non-official discourse on Manchuria thus created, perpetuated and relied for its effect upon a particular view of the recent past, especially the Russo-

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Japanese War, and of the current world order, especially the condition of China. More immediately, ideologues depended upon a widespread perception of national ‘crisis’ or ‘emergency’ (hijo¯ji). In fact, this pervading sense of crisis is arguably the chief factor that marks and gives unity to the early 1930s. Some ideologues also worked hard to present 1931 as the beginning of a spiritual revival of the Japanese people. In that sense, the idea that the Manchurian Incident marked the beginning of a new era, which we have noted in a historiographical context, has a long history. The extremely vague concept of ‘national crisis’ was not new in the 1930s. Carol Gluck observes, for example, that ideologues in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were ‘impelled almost always by an acute sense of crisis’.102 Thus there was a familiar vocabulary to draw upon, but at the same time the ‘crisis’ of the early 1930s was understood in terms quite specific to that period. As in inter-war Germany, ‘a complex sense of crisis’103 emerged in Japan in the early 1930s, to be reinforced in the press and by the authorities. This sense of crisis was produced above all by a widening consciousness of the depth of the depression and of rural distress especially, often coupled with a perception that the problems were of such magnitude as to defy standard relief measures. It was stimulated by the increasing publicity given to the threat posed to Japanese interests in China by the growing Chinese nationalist movement, and then by the Manchurian Incident itself and subsequent dealings with the Western powers. The Shanghai Incident brought further condemnation from the Western powers, while the 15 May Incident of 1932 and the end of party cabinets provided a specifically domestic and political dimension to the sense of crisis, along with the mounting calls for rural relief. The October 1932 report by the League of Nations into the Sino-Japanese dispute, interpreted as unfavourable to Japan, prolonged the ‘diplomatic’ aspect of the crisis, which continued to be given prominence in the press and elsewhere until Japan’s departure from the League early in 1933.104 The sense of crisis which is so striking in the early 1930s is summed up in the word ‘hijo¯ji’. The term itself seems to have had a fairly short life, and was apparently not in use before 1932: ‘kokunan’ (national crisis) was popular before then, and ‘ju¯dai naru jikyoku’ (grave circumstances) was also used. Even Inukai Tsuyoshi’s Seiyu¯kai Cabinet of December 1931–May 1932 apparently did not use the word ‘hijo¯ji’, referring to the Manchurian Incident of September 1931 simply as a ‘ju¯dai na jiken’ (grave incident).105 According to Ro¯yama Masamichi, politicians began to use the word ‘hijo¯ji’ in connection with the 15 May Incident of 1932 and the subsequent abandonment of party cabinets.106 It was commonly employed at a more popular level from the second half of 1932, and was often thereafter applied retrospectively to the chain of events beginning with the Manchurian Incident, or somewhere further back with reference to the growth in the Chinese nationalist movement. Ro¯yama was quite precise: for him, the lifting of the gold embargo in January 1930 and its effects on the financial world; the Manchurian Incident; Britain’s reimposition of a gold embargo in the same month; Finance Minister Inoue Junnosuke’s speculative dollar-buying; and the

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end of Wakatsuki Reijiro¯’s Minseito¯ Cabinet in December 1931 were not manifestations of the hijo¯ji, but rather its underlying causes. The true ‘hijo¯ji ’ for Ro¯yama consisted of the 15 May Incident and the ensuing political crisis – which were the product of right-wing terrorism, itself the result of the weakness of the political parties.107 Whatever its origins, the term ‘hijo¯ji ’ appears in so¯go¯ zasshi (general magazines) from mid-1932 until about 1934,108 with a great many articles about the national crisis appearing in this period. Some writers extended the expression ‘hijo¯ji’ to include the ‘thought problem’ (shiso¯ mondai), using it to describe the supposed threat to society from Communism, which, it was claimed, was rife among the nation’s youth. (The education system, therefore, was suffering from ‘hijo¯ji ’.) Less often, the term was used in reference to a perceived threat from fascism. In many cases, the ‘hijo¯ji ’ was described in very general terms indeed, often in connection with the idea that society or the capitalist economic system had reached a deadlock or yukizumari, an idea which had achieved some currency in the 1920s largely on the basis of the work of the economist Takahashi Kamekichi.109 In the words of respondents to a Bungei shunju¯ survey published between December 1932 and May 1933, the world had entered a period of confusion and instability, not only materially but also ideologically.110 Ineffectiveness and corruption of the political parties was one of the factors often blamed for the ‘stalemate’, which was now perceived in much more general terms than Takahashi had suggested in the 1920s. In fact, as the Home Minister, Baron Yamamoto Tatsuo, wrote in October 1932, ‘national life (kokumin seikatsu) is deadlocked in every direction’.111 The concept of ‘hijo¯ji ’ was adopted by politicians, bureaucrats and commentators of all kinds and used for a variety of purposes: to urge frugality on the people, to call for obedience to the state, to advocate reactionary policies in education and increased spending on the military, and so on. It was exceptionally suitable as propaganda in that its meaning was never fixed; hence it could be adapted to almost any purpose. As the feminist leader Ichikawa Fusae remarked despairingly in late 1933, the people were constantly being told that there was a ‘hijo¯ji ’, but were never told exactly what the term meant. (She criticised the vagueness of the term and worried about the effect of its constant repetition.112) In one sense Ichikawa’s remark is simply not accurate given that in the magazines of the period appear any number of articles in which the writer sets out to explain the implications of the term ‘hijo¯ji ’. All, however, emphasise different aspects. The power of the term ‘hijo¯ji ’, in spite of or because of its vagueness, to impinge on the consciousness even of the very young is suggested by the comment of one woman who had been a child in Shimonoseki in the early 1930s. She remarked decades later that her first awareness of current events ( yo no naka no ugoki) stemmed from an occasion in 1934, when she had been in the fourth grade of primary school: ‘The teacher wrote the word “hijo¯ji ” in large characters on the blackboard and explained it. A feeling came over me that something serious was happening.’113 Meanwhile, the word had become ‘as common as a daily greeting’,114 and not everyone took it seriously. ‘What’s the time?’, began one joke. ‘It’s crisis time!’ (‘Ima, nanji?’ ‘Hijo¯ji!’ ). Advertising picked up the term too,

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one Tokyo cabaret promising: ‘In this time of crisis, our waitresses will set death at naught to serve you!’ (‘Hijo¯ji ni saishite, to¯ten de wa jokyu¯ mo shi o mo mono tomo shinai saabisu!’ )115 The ‘crisis’ was of course lamented by most members of the elites, but some saw in it a valuable opportunity for national renewal. Acceptance that Japan was in crisis often implied a condemnation of the previous decade or more as a time when the Japanese people had ‘lost their way’ by pursuing Western fads amidst a new affluence, or in some other way had become morally or spiritually decadent. Baron Ichiki Kitokuro¯, for example, former Education Minister and Home Minister, thought that the origin of Japan’s troubles was an increase in selfishness (rikoshin).116 Some such observers were happy to identify the army as the group which had continued to uphold the Japanese spirit (yamato damashii) when all around had lost it; now, by its actions in Manchuria, the army was guiding the people back to a realisation of their true nature and their true mission. Among the most eloquent if vague proponents of this viewpoint was General Araki Sadao, Army Minister between 1931 and 1934. One prominent vehicle for his views was a film made in June 1933 by the Osaka mainichi newspaper company, entitled Hijo¯ji Nippon (Japan in time of crisis). The film, which used a speech by Araki as its soundtrack, propounded the need for military and moral rearmament and increased industrial productivity.117 It toured Japan and was said to have been well received – Araki’s claim at his trial for war crimes in 1947 that ‘I never heard from anyone that the film made any acute impression on the spectators’ should perhaps be discounted in view of his circumstances at the time.118 The film was clearly intended as an educational tool, both for schools and the general public: as the producer said when it was shown in evidence at the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal, it was one of a number of films ‘made in lieu of textbooks’. Senior staff of the Mainichi believed that ‘not only through newspaper editorials but by utilizing the strength and power and influence of the motion picture . . . [we could] bring order out of the chaos in the thought world as well as . . . educate the people at large in international relationships’.119 In Hijo¯ji Nippon, Araki referred to the ‘great strides’ made by Japan after the Meiji Restoration. He continued, in the words of the translation prepared for the War Crimes Tribunal: However, after a short while the glory of the nation began to decline gradually. What brought this sad but undeniable situation? There may be several reasons, but the most immediate cause is our self-conceit, negligence and forgetfulness of our past history. The Japanese had become spiritually and materially ‘vulgar’, and infatuated with all things European. This point was visually emphasised by shots of a couple dancing in Western style, thereby indicating their frivolity, selfishness and Westernised habits. According to Araki: Then, fortunately, we had a revelation from Heaven which came to us in the

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Managing the crisis form of the Manchurian Incident. The true character of Japan was vividly revealed in the splendid actions of the Imperial troops fighting in extreme cold, or in scorched fields under a burning sun . . . Inside Japan, also, the real spirit manifested itself in nation-wide zeal for the encouragement of the soldiers, a story that cannot be told without tears. The patriotic zeal was apparent in the enthusiastic cheers which made soldiers go gladly to the front, leaving their dear ones behind . . . When the present incident broke out our people awakened to a realization of the racial spirit. The Japanese people, after a long interval, resumed their consciousness of being Japanese . . . The outbreak of the Manchurian Incident was really an alarm-bell telling us to wake up and to examine ourselves.

Araki’s mystical interpretation of the Manchurian Incident was reinforced by visual and verbal references to sacrifice and blood, in the context of the SinoJapanese War, the Russo-Japanese War, the Siberian Expedition and the Tsinan Incident. Throughout, the army was presented as an embodiment of the national virtues.120 Other commentators, too, saw in the Manchurian Incident a valuable opportunity to arrest moral decline. The newspaper Jiji shinpo¯ opined that the events beginning in September 1931 had restored the nation’s flagging faith in the military. Between the Russo-Japanese War and the Manchurian Incident, according to the paper, there had been unfavourable relations between the military and the people, and even antipathy towards the military: ‘No longer was a husband pleased to announce to his wife that their son had been enrolled into military service.’ The Manchurian Incident, however, had ‘served to restore the former spirit which had become lax. Japan now has perfect unanimity in national defense.’121 A magazine for rural readers rejoiced that the political consciousness even of these who had previously been ‘led astray’ was now ‘corrected’: The Manchurian Incident has powerfully called forth the nationalist thought of the masses, which had been dormant for a long time. Even within the camp of the proletarian parties, which previously hesitated to express a clear consciousness of kokutai or of national essence (kokka no honshitsu), national socialist thought is rising like a flood tide.122 The widespread adoption of a new expression in 1932 to describe the state of the nation may be taken to mean that some sort of change was believed to have occurred; or perhaps simply, that things had got significantly worse. By the same token, however, the term ‘hijo¯ji ’ as applied to Manchurian issues dropped from general use in 1933 almost as quickly as it had appeared, clearly indicating a perception that that crisis had lessened or vanished. The term ‘hijo¯ji ’ continued to be used sporadically until about 1934 or 1935, but its meanings were changing. In August 1933, after Japan’s withdrawal from the League of Nations, Sunada Shigemasa, a politician and former Vice-Minister for Agriculture and Forestry, argued that the real significance of ‘hijo¯ji ’ no longer lay in the areas of national

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defence, education or diplomacy; its true function was to warn that Japan now faced a turning-point and must set its national goals anew. In order to feed its growing population, Japan had to seek new markets and develop new territory. The Japanese claim to Manchukuo had been clearly established. Now it was time to move into Outer Mongolia, through Persia and into Central Asia. Step by step, the ‘Far Eastern Japan’ (kyokuto¯ no Nippon) of the present could thereby graduate to become ‘Pan-Asian Japan’ (zen-Ajia no Nippon).123 Others began to apply the term hijo¯ji in a completely new way, to emphasise a strategic crisis which was supposedly looming in 1935–36 in the context of an international conference on naval limitations set for 1936. Inner circles of government concluded in late 1933 that Japan should abrogate the Washington Treaty and the London Naval Treaty in 1936, in order to give its military forces more of a free hand in East Asia. It was agreed that a campaign would be implemented to inform the public about the ‘crisis of 1935–36’ even before the formal decision was taken in July 1934 to abrogate the treaties. General Araki, Army Minister until January 1934, took particular pains in late 1933 to nurture the idea of the new ‘crisis’, though his successor, General Hayashi Senjuro¯, reversed Araki’s policy, banning the use of the term in all army publications and speeches.124 In the meantime, thanks to the efforts of Araki and others, the notion of ‘crisis’, though still current to an extent, had ceased to have much to do with Manchuria as far as mainstream newspapers and magazines were concerned. ‘Crisis’, then, proved once again a malleable, useful and transferable concept. By 1936–37, however, the term in general use to describe the nation’s danger was not ‘hijo¯ji ’ but ‘kiki’, which also means ‘crisis’, but implied a break from the previous circumstances through use of a different word.125 Moreover, there was no suggestion that the ‘crisis’ of 1936–37, which in the event was marked by the 26 February Incident and the beginning of war with China as well as the naval issues mentioned above, was a continuation of the ‘crisis’ of 1931–33. Nor was it as complex a phenomenon. At some point, in other words, the original hijo¯ji had stopped.

Conclusion In a well-known argument, Maruyama Masao has suggested that while the military and the bureaucracy were the ‘driving forces’ of Japanese fascism, it was the ‘rulers of the microcosms’ or ‘pseudo-intellectuals’ – that is, the less cultured part of the middle class – who ‘showed a positive sympathy towards its development’. ‘True intellectuals’, on the other hand, who include journalists as well as professors, students, upper civil servants and others in Maruyama’s typology, displayed an ‘antipathy’ to fascism amounting ‘almost to passive resistance’.126 An examination of responses to the Manchurian crisis does not support this argument. The majority of Maruyama’s ‘true intellectuals’ provided at least as much passive or active support for the conquest of Manchuria as did other sections of the community. In particular, journalists, editors and newspaper proprietors did much to publicise and endorse the official view of Japan’s

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actions in the early 1930s. Not only Maruyama, but also those observers who emphasise government controls as the sole or main reason for conformity of opinion on Manchuria, overlook the mediating role played by many such civilians in negotiating the relationship between state and society in the 1930s. Carol Gluck’s observation about late Meiji ideology could equally be applied to discourse on Manchuria especially: ‘the strongest views – the hard line – often came from outside the government.’127 Though the state was an active agent, the process of disseminating views of the Manchurian crisis which conformed to the official line involved much more than manipulation by the authorities. Many people not directly connected with the army or the bureaucracy willingly promoted the conquest of Manchuria, just as civilian ideologues had promoted wars and other government projects in earlier periods. The army, which was very conscious of the need for a supportive public opinion at this point, certainly made it easier for them to do so – by providing much copy on Manchuria, for example. It did not, however, have the power to coerce so large a proportion of the media to publicise its cause. Nor did it need to. A variety of organs eagerly shared the task with the government and army of encouraging public support for the Kwantung Army’s project in Manchuria. Commercial rivalry was a significant factor but is not the sole explanation. Other publications apart from the major newspapers shared the same positive attitude towards Japanese control of Manchuria. From the big monthly journals to special-interest publications directed at businessmen, farmers or women, the army’s activities were reported everywhere, as we shall see in later chapters. There were exceptions: criticism continued to be expressed in Communist publications and a few other places, and some publications remained relatively indifferent to foreign affairs overall, preferring to concentrate on more immediate concerns. On the whole, however, it was difficult for a regular, mainstream publication to remain unaffected by the Manchurian crisis and unusual for it not to support the army enthusiastically. In fact, regular publications of all kinds reacted strongly to the actions of the Japanese army between 1931 and 1933. The nature of their support and the reasons for it differed to some extent according to the publication, but the great majority approved of the idea of Japanese control of Manchuria. In the case of farmers’, women’s, business and other relatively specialist journals, the explanation does not lie to any great extent in the need to compete for readers. Nor can censorship be held responsible. It is rare for such materials to contain fuseji or sections cut by the censors, or to miss a regular publication date through banning. Arguably, opinions might occasionally have been withheld or modified for fear of the censors, but this seems generally unlikely in view of the overall tone of most magazines’ support for the government. In a direct sense at least, we have seen that most ‘ordinary’ publications – that is, in the censors’ terms, those neither explicitly left-wing nor explicitly rightwing in orientation – were not much affected by censorship. The explanation for their patriotic stance must be sought elsewhere: in the basic commitment to the nation that was very widely shared by a broad spectrum of articulate opinion in Japan in the early 1930s.

The public face of the crisis

69

By virtue of constant repetition, a group of general themes became familiar to many Japanese during the Manchurian crisis. Interestingly, the focal point from all quarters was an analysis of regional ‘realities’, rather than the emphasis on the emperor or Japan’s ‘unique’ national polity (kokutai ) which is found in propaganda later in the decade. The concept of ‘o¯do¯’ (the kingly way) certainly made its appearance as a guiding principle for the administration of Manchukuo, and much fuss was made about the installation of Pu Yi as imperial ruler. At home, however, ideologues concentrated on insisting that Manchuria was vital to Japan, that Japan had a right to it, and that China was inferior, contemptible and chaotic. At the same time, there was considerable and emotive emphasis on blood, sacrifice, crisis and self-defence. Few people were likely to encounter an alternative ideological framework which might have suggested other views. The journalist and economist Ishibashi Tanzan argued that Manchuria was of little or no value to Japan, but the circulation of his business newspaper was comparatively small. In October 1931 the critic Yokota Kisaburo¯ expressed doubt that the Manchurian Incident could be justified on the grounds of self-defence, but his article appeared only in Teikoku daigaku shinbun ([Tokyo] Imperial University Newspaper).128 Communists rejected all government propaganda about Manchuria in 1931, but their adherents were very few and their publications were banned. To some extent, alternative views were available to readers of Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron and Kaizo¯,129 but these journals were very cautious, for fear of the censor, and their readership was restricted in any case. Thus, while intellectuals and others moving in informed circles might well have been aware of views differing from those propounded by the government and army, the range of opinion available to readers of the major newspapers and magazines, let alone to those who did not or could not read, was much narrower. The mainstream media – press, radio and film – had a circular relationship in that they supplied each other with themes and reinforced each other’s messages. All of them also reinforced, popularised and elaborated on official government and army ideology. It remains an open question, however, to what extent official ideology about Manchuria or press sensationalism affected ordinary Japanese people, and to what extent it was accepted or rejected. It is very unlikely that many ordinary Japanese during the Manchurian crisis ‘consciously confronted the nation when they awoke each morning’,130 except perhaps in the initial stages of the fighting. Furthermore, the very fact that there were calls for a more systematic approach to propaganda, resulting in the moves towards greater centralisation from 1936, indicates that the authorities were not wholly satisfied with the effectiveness of their propaganda efforts in the first half of the 1930s. Whether their apparent lack of satisfaction was due to any real evidence of the people’s failure to be convinced, or should be seen more as a ritual obeisance to the goal of total national unity or as paranoia, is difficult to assess. Studies of the printed media, radio and films, however, remain in the last analysis examinations of messages that were disseminated, not messages that were received, and it should be remembered that the ‘war fever’ often said to characterise the early 1930s is

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largely a fever among newspapers and other media. Later chapters of this book will suggest that ordinary people in Japan responded to the Manchurian crisis with a greater degree of ambivalence than is suggested by the notion of ‘war fever’. Certainly, most did not see themselves as part of an on-going project to further the aims of empire. First, however, we will examine responses to the Manchurian crisis among establishment institutions.

Notes 1 Japan Year Book 1933, Foreign Affairs Association of Japan, Tokyo, 1933, p. 987; Hando¯ Kazutoshi, ‘Asahi shinbun to Manshu¯ jihen’, Shokun!, November 1985, p. 56. 2 Hando¯, ‘Asahi shinbun’, p. 52; Eguchi Keiichi, ‘Manshu¯ jihen to daishinbun’, Shiso¯, No. 583, January 1973, pp. 98–113. 3 Quoted in Japan Year Book 1933, pp. 987–8. 4 Hando¯, ‘Asahi shinbun’, pp. 52–3; Ikei, ‘1930nendai no masumedia’, pp. 177–8. 5 Japan Year Book 1933, pp. 987–8. 6 Peter B. High, Teikoku no ginmaku, Nagoya, Nagoya daigaku shuppankai, 1995, p. 22. 7 Hando¯, ‘Asahi shinbun’, pp. 47–8. On the London Naval Treaty see also Ito¯ Takashi, Sho¯wa shoki seijishi kenkyu¯: Rondon kaigun gunshuku mondai o meguru shoseiji shu¯dan no taiko¯ to teikei, Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1969, Ch. 10. 8 Kakegawa, ‘Masumedia to¯sei’, pp. 5–12; Ikei, ‘1930nendai no masumedia’, p. 179; Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, Ch. 7. 9 Hando¯, ‘Asahi shinbun’, p. 59, citing Mori Kyo¯zo¯. 10 Hando¯, ‘Asahi shinbun’, p. 57. On the Asahi, see also Murakami Hyo¯e, ‘Asahi shinbun no “senso¯ sekinin” ron’, Shokun!, January 1986, pp. 40–53. 11 Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, pp. 157, 164. In general, if a paper wanted to voice a slight criticism of the government in this period, it tended to do so by quoting foreign views: Kakegawa, ‘Masumedia to¯sei’, p. 19. 12 Ikei, ‘1930nendai no masumedia’, pp. 179–82. 13 Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, pp. 159, 162. 14 Machida Shiro¯, ‘Manshu¯koku sho¯nin no kigi’, Kokusai chishiki, July 1932, pp. 18–19, quoted ibid., p. 176. 15 Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, pp. 180, 195; Kakegawa, ‘Masumedia to¯sei’, pp. 21–2. In October 1932 the Fukuoka nichinichi criticised the unfavourable reaction of the major newspapers to the Lytton Report: see Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, pp. 184–5. 16 Ito¯, Sho¯wa shoki, pp. 435–6. 17 Ikei, ‘1930nendai no masumedia’, p. 191. 18 See especially Kakegawa, ‘Masumedia to¯sei’; Eguchi, ‘Manshu¯ jihen to daishinbun’; Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’. 19 For an account of the incident by a soldier from the same regiment as the three ‘heroes’, taken from the records of the Police Bureau of the Home Ministry and confirming that the soldiers were killed after setting a short fuse, see Minami Hiroshi, Shakai shinrikenkyu¯jo, Sho¯wa bunka 1925–1945, Tokyo, Keiso¯ shobo¯, 1987, pp. 276–7. See also Ienaga, Pacific War, p. 102; Ikei, ‘1930 nendai no masumedia’, p. 174. 20 For excerpts from newspaper reports see Minami, Sho¯wa bunka, pp. 272–3. 21 Ibid., p. 274. 22 Mainichi Daily News, 1 March 1932, p. 3. See also, for example, 17 March 1932, p. 1; 18 March 1932, p. 1; 29 March 1932, p. 5. 23 Minami, Sho¯wa bunka, p. 275. 24 Ibid. 25 High, Teikoku no ginmaku, p. 23.

The public face of the crisis 26 27 28 29 30 31

32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

51 52 53 54 55

71

IH, April 1932, pp. 188–9. Ikei, ‘1930nendai no masumedia’, pp. 175–6. ‘Blast Hurts 2 Teachers’, Trans-Pacific, 23 June 1932, p. 16. Awaya, ‘Fasshoka’, p. 282. See Tsurumaru, ‘Sono koro’, pp. 38–42, esp. Nos 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 8. See also Sato¯ Fumiko, ‘“Bakudan sanyu¯shi” o meguru seso¯’, in the same issue of Ju¯goshi no¯to, pp. 43–6. Saito¯ Mutsuo, in Tessa Morris-Suzuki, Sho¯wa: An Inside Story of Hirohito’s Japan, London, Athlone, 1984, pp. 21–2. See also IH, June 1932, photographs of children playing war games; ‘The Toy Steel Helmets Are Especially Popular With the Kiddies’, Mainichi Daily News, 26 March 1932, p. 8. Mainichi Daily News, 19 March 1932, p. 3. Comments on radio programmes are based on Ikei, ‘1930nendai no masumedia’, pp. 146–76; Kasza, State and the Mass Media, pp. 95–6. See also Hando¯, ‘Asahi shinbun’, p. 52. See table in Ikei, ‘1930nendai no masumedia’, pp. 153–64. Kasza, State and the Mass Media, p. 95. David Welch, Propaganda and the German Cinema 1933–1945, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1983, p. 308. Darrell William Davis, Picturing Japaneseness: Monumental Style, National Identity, Japanese Film, New York, Columbia University Press, 1996, p. 3. GS 40, p. 263. Cited in Freiberg, ‘Transition to Sound’, p. 80 (Freiberg’s translation). Hando¯, ‘Asahi shinbun’, p. 56. Mainichi Daily News, 1 January 1932, p. 5. High, Teikoku no ginmaku, pp. 31–2. Mainichi Daily News, 7 February 1932, p. 2. High, Teikoku no ginmaku, p. 22. Mainichi Daily News, 12 March 1932, p. 5; 20 February 1932, p. 5. Ikei, ‘1930nendai no masumedia’, p. 176. Davis, Picturing Japaneseness, p. 134; High, Teikoku no ginmaku, pp. 30–1. Ikei, ‘1930nendai no masumedia’, p. 176. See also p. 175 for box-office figures for Tokyo, and p. 176 for an example of a ‘home-front’ film. High, Teikoku no ginmaku, pp. 24–5. This section is based on GS 40, xix–xxi; Kakegawa, ‘Masumedia to¯sei’, pp. 31–2. The formation, composition and activities of both the Jikyoku do¯shikai and Jo¯ho¯ iinkai are outlined in ‘Senzen no jo¯ho¯ kiko¯ yo¯ran: Jo¯ho¯ iinkai kara Jo¯ho¯kyoku made’, March 1964. This unpublished document was produced by former members of staff of the Jo¯ho¯kyoku, and is available at the Institute of Social Science, University of Tokyo. See ibid., pp. 6ff.; Kakegawa, ‘Masumedia to¯sei’, pp. 30–2; GS 40, xx–xxi. Quoted in Richard Storry, ‘The English-Language Presentation of Japan’s Case during the China Emergency of the Late Nineteen-Thirties’, in I. Nish and C. Dunn (eds), European Studies on Japan, Kent, Paul Norbury, 1979, p. 144. High, Teikoku no ginmaku, p. 31. John F. Embree, Suye Mura: A Japanese Village, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1939, p. 67. Harold J. Wray, ‘Changes and Continuity in Japanese Images of the Kokutai and Attitudes and Roles Toward the Outside World. A Content Analysis of Japanese Textbooks, 1903–1945’, unpublished PhD dissertation, University of Hawaii, 1971, pp. 1, 251, 287ff. See also John Caiger, ‘The Aims and Content of School Courses in Japanese History, 1872–1945’, in Edmund Skrzypczak (ed.), Japan’s Modern Century, Tokyo, Sophia University, 1968, pp. 51–81. Textbooks were issued in 1903, 1910, 1918, 1933 and 1941. History and geography texts were revised again in 1942 and 1944.

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56 Donald Keene, ‘The Sino-Japanese War of 1894–95 and its Cultural Effects in Japan’, in Donald Shively (ed.), Tradition and Modernization in Japanese Culture, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1971, pp. 145–51; Tan’o Yasunori and Kawada Akihisa, Kindai Nihon no bijutsu 1: Imeeji no naka no senso¯, Tokyo, Iwanami shoten, 1996, pp. 8–10. 57 On the creation of the legend of General Nogi, see Carol Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths: Ideology in the Late Meiji Period, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1985, pp. 221–5. 58 Sharon H. Nolte and Sally Ann Hastings, ‘The Meiji State’s Policy Toward Women’, in Gail Lee Bernstein (ed.), Recreating Japanese Women, 1600–1945, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1991, p. 157. 59 Maureen Honey, Creating Rosie the Riveter: Class, Gender and Propaganda during World War II, Amherst, Mass., University of Massachusetts Press, 1984, p. 11. Honey rejects this ‘top-down’ model of propaganda. 60 Ibid., pp. 9–10. 61 Ian Kershaw, The ‘Hitler Myth’: Image and Reality in the Third Reich, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1989, p. 4. This section also draws on Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths, and Jeremy Noakes, The Nazi Party in Lower Saxony 1921–1933, London, Oxford University Press, 1971, p. 220. 62 Kevin Robins, Frank Webster and Michael Pickering, ‘Propaganda, Information and Social Control’, in Jeremy Hawthorn (ed.), Propaganda, Persuasion and Polemic, London, Edward Arnold, 1987, p. 4. The quotation is from Donald F. Roberts, ‘The Nature of Communications Effects’, in Wilbur Schramm and Donald F. Roberts (eds), The Process and Effects of Mass Communication, Urbana, University of Illinois Press, revised edn, 1971. 63 ‘Manshu¯koku shomin ni kansuru Nihon seifu seimei’ (15 September 1932), in Gaimusho¯ (ed.), Nihon gaiko¯ monjo: Manshu¯ jihen, Vol. 2, Part 1, Tokyo, 1979, No. 311, p. 638. 64 See Hando¯, ‘Asahi shinbun’, p. 56. 65 Nihon ho¯so¯ kyo¯kai (ed.), Ho¯so¯ goju¯nenshi, Vol. 2: Shiryo¯hen, Tokyo, Nihon ho¯so¯ shuppan kyo¯kai, 1977, p. 665. 66 Oka Tomoshibi, ‘“To¯hiko¯” zengo’, in Mainichi shinbunsha (ed. and publ.), Ichiokunin no Sho¯washi, Vol. 1: Manshu¯ jihen zengo: koritsu e no michi, Tokyo, 1975, p. 256. In Oka’s view, the songs about Manchuria were less celebrations of militarism than evocations of the continental expanse and hugeness of the mainland (p. 256). 67 Malcolm Kennedy, The Problem of Japan, London, Nisbet, 1935, p. 4. 68 Marius B. Jansen, ‘Japanese Imperialism: Late Meiji Perspectives’, in Ramon H. Myers and Mark R. Peattie (eds), The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1984, p. 67. See also Kobayashi Ko¯ji, Manshu¯ imin no mura: Shinshu¯ Yasuoka mura no Sho¯washi, Tokyo, Chikuma shobo¯, 1977, p. 60. 69 See Tanaka Ryu¯kichi’s evidence in R. John Pritchard and Sonia Zaide (eds), The Tokyo War Crimes Trial: The Complete Transcripts of the Proceedings of the International Military Tribunal for the Far East in Twenty-Two Volumes, New York, Garland, 1981, Vol. 1, pp. 2002–3. 70 Nihon kindaishiryo¯ kenkyu¯kai (eds), Suzuki Teiichishi danwa sokkiroku (ge) (Nihon kindaishiryo¯ sensho B–yon), Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku kyo¯yo¯gakubu, Shakai kagaku, 1974, pp. 377, 381–4. On the Thursday Club, see Seki Hiroharu, ‘The Manchurian Incident, 1931’, trans. Marius Jansen, in James William Morley (ed.), Japan Erupts: The London Naval Conference and the Manchurian Incident, 1928–1932, New York, Columbia University Press, 1984, pp. 146–7. 71 Dr S. Washio, ‘World Criticism Strengthened Japan’s Position in Manchuria’, TransPacific, 7 April 1932, p. 4. 72 Murakami, ‘Asahi shinbun’, p. 49. 73 Tsurumi Yu¯suke, ‘[China, Manchuria]’, untitled and undated paper/speech, probably 1927–28, in English. Kensei shiryo¯ shitsu, National Diet Library, Tokyo,

The public face of the crisis

74 75 76 77 78 79

80 81 82

83 84 85 86

87 88 89

90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97

73

Tsurumi Yu¯suke monjo, File No. 610. See also, for example, Takagi Yasaka, ‘Relations Between Japan and the United States’, in American Studies Center, University of Tokyo (ed.), The Collected Works of Yasaka Takagi: Vol. 5. Toward International Understanding. Enlarged Edition, Tokyo, University of Tokyo Press, 1971, p. 43. Akaike Atsushi, ‘Waga Manshu¯ jihenkan’, Shimin, December 1931, pp. 1–3. McCormack, Chang Tso-lin, p. 4. Onnatachi no ima o tou kai, ‘Hajime ni’, Ju¯goshi no¯to, No. 3, January 1983, pp. 35–6. Hijikata Seiji, in Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron, trans. as ‘New Manchurian State Makes Good Beginning’, Trans-Pacific, 7 April 1932, p. 17. Yanase Yasue, ‘Manshu¯ ni “shintenchi” o motomete’, Ju¯goshi no¯to, No. 3, January 1983, p. 80. Stanley K. Hornbeck, Chief of the Far Eastern Division of the US Department of State during the Manchurian crisis, had expressed such an opinion some years earlier. See Justus D. Doenecke (comp.), The Diplomacy of Frustration: The Manchurian Crisis of 1931–1933 as Revealed in the Papers of Stanley K. Hornbeck, Stanford University, Hoover Institution Press, 1981, p. 56. See Franz Michael, ‘Japan’s “Special Interests” in China’, Pacific Affairs, Vol. 10, No. 4, December 1937, pp. 407–11. Report of the Commission of Enquiry. Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, pp. 56–7, 212. The Nine-Power Pact was signed in February 1922 at the Washington Conference by the United States, Britain, Japan, China, France, Italy, Portugal, Belgium and Holland. Signatories subscribed to the ‘open door’ policy, agreeing to respect China’s sovereignty, territorial integrity and administrative independence. Japan’s China policy from the late 1920s was criticised by other countries as a violation of the pact. See Wilson, ‘Russo-Japanese War and Japan’, pp. 182–8. Tsurumi, ‘[China, Manchuria]’, p. 12. For example, IH, January 1932, pp. 166–9. Oka, ‘“To¯hiko¯” zengo’, p. 255. Translation from L. H. Gann, ‘Reflections on the Japanese and German Empires of World War II’, in Peter Duus, Ramon H. Myers and Mark R. Peattie (eds), The Japanese Wartime Empire, 1931–1945, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1996, p. 345. See Wilson, ‘Manchurian Crisis and Moderate Japanese Intellectuals’; Wilson, ‘Containing the Crisis’, pp. 337–52. ‘Do¯yo¯ tsune nai Shina no seijo¯’, IH, January 1932, p. 168. Nitobe Inazo¯, ‘We are Not They’, 22 May 1932, in Nitobe Inazo¯ zenshu¯, Vol. 16, Editorial Jottings, Tokyo, Kyo¯bunkan, 1969, p. 532. Editorial Jottings is the collective name for a regular newspaper column written by Nitobe in English during the last years of his life. FS, No. 1,634, 4 October 1931, p. 1. FS, No. 1,641, 22 November 1931, p. 1. See Herbert Hoover, The Memoirs of Herbert Hoover: The Cabinet and the Presidency, 1920–1933, London, Hollis & Carter, 1952, pp. 362–74. Lindley to Dawson, 14 November 1931, Bodleian Library, Papers of Geoffrey Dawson, No. 76, Fols 59–71. On the extent of Western agreement with Japanese arguments about Manchuria, see Wilson, ‘Containing the Crisis’, pp. 353–72. For a description of similar Japanese images of China and the Chinese during the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–95, see Keene, ‘Sino-Japanese War’, pp. 121–75. See Phil Billingsley, Bandits in Republican China, Stanford, Stanford University Press, 1988, pp. 28–30, 74–5; Elizabeth J. Perry, Rebels and Revolutionaries in North China, 1845–1945, Stanford, Stanford University Press, 1980, pp. 62–74. Diana Lary, Warlord Soldiers: Chinese Common Soldiers, 1911–1937, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1985, p. 34. Quoted in Bix, ‘Japanese Imperialism’, p. 434.

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98 Lee, Revolutionary Struggle (p. 129), gives the figure of ‘nearly 300,000 men’ for June 1932. Kobayashi (Manshu¯ imin no mura, p. 67) gives 360,000 for July–August 1932. On the bandits and resisters generally, see Chong-Sik Lee, ‘The Chinese Communist Party and the Anti-Japanese Movement in Manchuria: The Initial Stage’, in Alvin D. Coox and Hilary Conroy (eds), China and Japan: Search for Balance Since World War I, Santa Barbara, ABC-Clio, 1978, especially pp. 143–55. Major battles between the Japanese and opposing forces in Manchuria for 1932–33 are listed on pp. 150–3. See also Coble, Facing Japan, pp. 70–4; Kobayashi, Manshu¯ imin no mura, pp. 66–9; Ienaga, Pacific War, pp. 89–90. 99 Kobayashi, Manshu¯ imin no mura, p. 67; Lee, ‘Chinese Communist Party’, pp. 148–54. 100 Billingsley, Bandits, pp. 220–4. 101 Harada Kumao, Saionjiko¯ to seikyoku, Vol. 3: January 1933–July 1934, Tokyo, Iwanami shoten, 1951, p. 23. 102 Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths, p. 8. 103 Peukert, Inside Nazi Germany, p. 245. 104 See also the discussion of the crises of the early 1930s in Kerry Smith, A Time of Crisis: Japan, the Great Depression, and Rural Revitalization, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Asia Center, 2001, esp. pp. 1–6. 105 Ro¯yama Masamichi, Nihon seiji do¯ko¯ron, Tokyo, Ko¯yo¯ shoin, 1933, p. 496. 106 Ibid. 107 Ibid., pp. 496–7. 108 Ito¯ Takashi, ‘Hijo¯ji: “kokunan” ureu “aikoku jin’ei”’, in Arisawa Hiromi (ed.), Sho¯wa keizaishi, Tokyo, Nihon keizai shinbunsha, 1976, p. 81. 109 Germaine Hoston, Marxism and the Crisis of Development in Prewar Japan, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1986, pp. 10, 82–8, 294. 110 Ito¯, ‘Hijo¯ji’, p. 81. 111 Yamamoto Tatsuo, ‘Jikyoku ni kangami no jikaku funki o nozomu’, Shimin, October 1932, p. 6. 112 Ichikawa Fusae, ‘Hijo¯ji to fujin undo¯’, FS, 12 November 1933, p. 2. 113 Tsurumaru et al., ‘Sono koro watashi wa’, pp. 41–2 (No. 8). 114 S, ‘Sate kotoshi no mokuhyo¯ wa?’, in Izumide jiho¯ fukkoku iinkai (ed.) Izumida jiho¯ shukusatsuban, Ueda-shi, 1980 (hereafter Izumida jiho¯), April 1933, p. 3. 115 High, Teikoku no ginmaku, p. 34. 116 Ichiki Kitokuro¯, ‘Jikyoku kyu¯kyu¯ to ho¯tokushugi’, Shimin, June 1933, p. 4. 117 For a description of the visual images used in the film, see Freiberg, ‘Transition to Sound’, pp. 78–9. 118 Pritchard and Zaide (eds), Tokyo War Crimes Trials, Vol. 71, p. 28, 232. 119 Ibid., Vol. 8, pp. 18, 619–22 (evidence of Mizuno Yoshiyuki). 120 Ibid., Vol. 2, pp. 3, 155–89. See also GS 40, pp. 231–52 (Japanese script of Hijo¯ji Nippon) and 253–5; ‘General Araki Summons Nation to Adhere to Spirit of Past’, originally published in the Army Club’s monthly journal, Kaiko¯sha, and translated in Trans-Pacific, 4 August 1932, p. 5. 121 Editorial translated in Trans-Pacific, 8 December 1932, pp. 6, 19. 122 ‘Nihon nimo kokusui shakai shugi undo¯ okoru’, IH, March 1932, p. 184. 123 Sunada Shigemasa, ‘Hijo¯ji no ninshiki’, Seiyu¯, No. 396, August 1933, pp. 9–10. 124 Crowley, Japan’s Quest, pp. 191–207. 125 Ito¯, ‘Hijo¯ji’, p. 81. 126 Masao Maruyama, ‘The Ideology and Dynamics of Japanese Fascism’, in Maruyama, Thought and Behaviour, pp. 57–8. 127 Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths, p. 9. 128 See Takeuchi, War and Diplomacy, pp. 362–4; Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, p. 161. 129 On Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron and Kaizo¯ during the Manchurian crisis, see Yamamoto, ‘Japanese Press’, Ch. 7. 130 Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths, p. 264.

Part II

National perspectives

4

The view from the inside Establishment perspectives

Reactions to the Manchurian crisis from within the establishment – roughly defined as the bureaucracy, the cabinet and the two mainstream political parties, the upper echelons of the armed forces and the imperial court – are naturally among the best known, and have often been treated as definitive. They are outlined here partly to establish a norm against which other responses may be measured, but also because closer examination reveals that official opinion was by no means as uniform as it sometimes appears. It might be assumed that if different interpretations and reactions to the events in Manchuria are to be found, they will be found among farmers, or women workers, or business groups, or in some other place outside the national elites. But even at the heart of the establishment, where commitment to the Manchurian project could be most expected, there was in fact significant diversity of opinion. Establishment reaction to the Manchurian crisis was sometimes quite positive, and certainly there was little active opposition to the Kwantung Army’s plans. On the other hand, however, establishment figures were very often indecisive, cautious or even indifferent to the Manchurian project, with other priorities absorbing their attention. Furthermore, even the highest echelons of the army itself were not uniformly confident of the durability of the Manchurian project or of the wisdom of extending it beyond the first days. Especially in late 1931, the situation was a fluid one, producing a range of reactions which could hardly be described as pro-army. It is well known that the civilian cabinet in Tokyo was not in sympathy with the Kwantung Army’s actions in the immediate aftermath of the explosion on the South Manchurian Railway, and that elder statesman Saionji Kinmochi was also displeased. But the general assumption is that once the army had succeeded in imposing its will on the cabinet, there was no further hindrance to the military’s plans. Yet we know from many scholarly studies that the bureaucracy, the political parties and the army itself were highly factionalised in the 1920s and 1930s; there is no compelling reason to suggest they would agree about overseas military action any more than on other matters. Conquest of Manchuria sometimes seems like a transcendent issue of self-evident importance from the beginning, but this was not the case. The different parts of the establishment had different priorities and were quite often critical and unsupportive of each other

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on a variety of issues, with their conflicting views and priorities visible enough to the reading public through newspaper reports and specialist publications. So party politics were criticised in articles written by bureaucrats; politicians restricted military budgets, and so on. In the case of the Manchurian crisis, the state was by no means speaking with one voice. In September 1931, at any rate, members of Japan’s elites were scarcely surprised to hear that trouble had erupted in Manchuria. Diplomats on the spot knew what was happening, and communicated as much to Tokyo. On the morning after the explosion outside Mukden, Hayashi Kyu¯jiro¯, Consul-General at Mukden, informed Foreign Minister Shidehara Kiju¯ro¯ by telegram: ‘It is considered that the recent incident was deliberately planned by the [Kwantung] Army.’1 Ishii Itaro¯, Japanese Consul-General in the town of Kirin in Manchuria, acknowledges in his memoirs that the first reports of the Manchurian Incident did not surprise him. He immediately concluded that the explosion on the railway must have been the work of the Kwantung Army rather than of Chinese soldiers, and in a subsequent visit to the Mukden consulate, his suspicions were confirmed when he heard stories of the Kwantung Army’s careful preparation for the Manchurian Incident.2 Morishima Morito of the Mukden Consulate was also unsurprised, his suspicions having been aroused by talk among army officers’ wives, among other things.3 Some Western diplomats in China were also distinctly dubious about the Japanese version of events.4 As for Japan’s political and military leaders, in the judgment of historian Hata Ikuhiko they knew the truth from the first, albeit ‘tacitly’. Toru Takemoto points out that though Foreign Minister Shidehara did not immediately show his telegram from Mukden to any other Cabinet member or to any imperial adviser, ‘as the army’s intentions had long been rumoured amongst knowledgeable people, any sensible man in the Cabinet should have suspected the army’s plotting in Manchuria’.5 Responses to the Manchurian crisis of the different parts of the establishment will now be considered in turn.

Cabinet, court and army The Wakatsuki Minseito¯ Cabinet and the imperial court reacted similarly to the invasion of Manchuria: with dislike, perhaps, but with fatal equivocation, or at least lack of firm action. The Manchurian Incident represented a reversal of the policies each had pursued, yet ultimately, neither took decisive action, and as a result neither was able to exercise a significant degree of restraint over the Kwantung Army. The absence of a firm stance by both cabinet and court thus contributed to the broader lack of resistance to the military in the early 1930s. The events of 18 September presented a major problem for Wakatsuki’s government. Since 1929, his party, the Minseito¯, had been committed to the preservation of Japanese rights and interests in Manchuria while working within existing treaty limits; to non-intervention in China beyond those limits; and to a China policy which would not cause a clash with the League of Nations. Fearing also a worsening of relations with the USSR and the United States, the Cabinet

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sought desperately to restrain the Kwantung Army from conquering more territory in Manchuria, initially gaining the co-operation of the Army General Staff in this effort.6 ‘Shidehara diplomacy’, however, had powerful enemies by September 1931, and not only within the army. The opposition Seiyu¯kai had settled on a strong anti-Shidehara line on Manchuria, for example, and the House of Peers no longer supported the Foreign Minister’s policies. Seki Hiroharu concludes that ‘Given the domestic political situation on the eve of September 18, once military action broke out in Manchuria Shidehara’s efforts to localize the outbreak were doomed to failure’, despite the efforts of the moderate Prince Saionji and other representatives of the ‘old political structure’.7 As is well known, the Cabinet on 22 September retrospectively endorsed the movement of troops from Korea into Manchuria, which it had earlier strongly criticised, and released funds to pay for the operation, thus giving its tacit approval to the Manchurian Incident. The army, having at one time feared that the Cabinet would not support the Korea Army’s action, was much relieved.8 Efforts to prevent further escalation of military activity nevertheless continued. Within three months, however, internal power struggles and the economic depression, on top of the challenges of dealing with the Manchurian Incident and the abortive coup known as the October Incident (to be described below), brought about the end of the Wakatsuki Cabinet. The Inukai Cabinet which followed was much more amenable to the army’s plans, though it would be a mistake to see it as a cabinet united behind clear military goals. The Kwantung Army had the support of Mori Kaku, Chief Cabinet Secretary, and Army Minister General Araki Sadao, but other views were mixed. Prime Minister Inukai and Foreign Minister Yoshizawa opposed independence for Manchuria, on the grounds that it would violate the NinePower Pact guaranteeing China’s sovereignty, territorial integrity and administrative independence. Finance Minister Takahashi, for his part, opposed the advance of military forces into China on financial grounds, and specifically opposed the sending of troops to Shanghai both for financial reasons and because of Japan’s treaty obligations. He also joined Inukai and Yoshizawa in opposing recognition of Manchukuo’s ‘independence’.9 As for the imperial court, since the 1920s it had been dominated by a group of liberals and constitutional monarchists sympathising with and in many cases chosen by the elder statesman and close adviser to the emperor, Prince Saionji Kinmochi.10 Thus the court shared the commitment to co-operative diplomacy centred on the Anglo-American powers which was the basis of ‘Shidehara diplomacy’, and which had been strongly affirmed so recently by the signing of the London Naval Treaty, in which Japan had eventually accepted an armament limitation agreement decreasing the strength of the imperial fleet relative to that of the United States in the Pacific. In the aftermath of the Manchurian Incident, however, despite his personal commitment to co-operation with the Western powers, Saionji refused to sanction the use of the imperial institution in any effort to curb the actions of the Kwantung Army. According to Lesley Connors, the fundamental reason was neither indecision nor an overriding determination to

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shield the emperor from involvement in politics, as is often asserted, but rather Saionji’s reasoned fear that any overt interference by the court in the Manchurian issue would result in the defeat of constitutional monarchy itself. His knowledge of the failed coup of March 1931, which had demonstrated the lengths to which some army officers as well as civilians were prepared to go in order to secure internal reform, was one factor affecting the decisions taken by Saionji and his allies after the incident at Mukden six months later. Saionji’s primary commitment, in this view, was to the preservation of Japan’s framework of constitutional monarchy until such time as liberal forces should be able to reassert themselves.11 Saionji did not actively oppose the recognition of Manchukuo; ‘he seems rather to have clung to a forlorn hope that Manchukuo would really be an independent state and thus vindicate Japan’s international honor.’ Like others, he apparently hoped that the army would now be satisfied and would not cause further difficulties.12 The attitude of the emperor himself is less clear and more controversial. In Stephen S. Large’s analysis, the emperor held the same views of the Manchurian Incident as Saionji. Like his closest advisers, including Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal Count Makino Nobuaki as well as Saionji, he was dismayed if not surprised at the events of 18 September 1931, and like them, he strongly favoured nonescalation of the Incident and made personal efforts to prevent further Japanese aggression. His opposition to the army’s actions was in fact sufficiently well known as to produce criticism of the emperor within the military, and some of the emperor’s advisers were nominated as targets in the planned coup of October 1931. To be sure, imperial opposition to the military action stemmed not from a willingness to give up Japan’s rights in Manchuria, but rather from a conviction that the army should not be allowed to act unilaterally, and a concern for Japan’s relations with the Western powers. Constrained, however, by the conviction that a constitutional monarch should not intervene directly in political affairs, as well as by the spectre of violent reprisals and by their own fundamentally cautious natures, the emperor and his closest advisers shrank from open confrontation with the military in this view, and consequently exercised little influence over the course of events during the Manchurian crisis.13 According to Herbert P. Bix, on the other hand, the emperor displayed an indulgent rather than critical attitude towards Kwantung Army actions, and was careless in enforcing military discipline in Manchuria.14 Moreover, his attitude changed during the course of the Manchurian crisis. Though initially not an active participant in events surrounding the invasion of north-east China, he soon began to come around to the Kwantung Army point of view, so much so that by early 1932, he was prepared voluntarily to issue an imperial rescript praising the ‘unswerving loyalty’ of the troops in Manchuria: Earlier, when an incident erupted in Manchuria, the outnumbered officers and men of the Kwantung Army, acting from self-defense, resolutely and speedily gained supremacy and wiped out large numbers of the enemy. Since then, they have borne difficulties . . . wiped out bandits who have

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arisen everywhere . . . fought courageously . . . and enhanced the power and authority of the Imperial Army at home and abroad.15 Thereafter, according to Bix, the emperor continued to offer public support to the army’s campaign in Manchuria, for example by bestowing large numbers of awards and promotions on military and civilian officials for meritorious service in Manchuria and Shanghai.16 Whether the emperor was fundamentally opposed to the aggression in Manchuria or inclined to favour it, both interpretations recognise that he was more concerned with Western reaction than anything else, at least in 1931 and early 1932. As he himself remarked in 1946, ‘Manchuria is a remote area, so if an incident occurred there it was not such an important matter.’ By comparison, he observed, potential military activity in Tientsin or Peking brought a much greater risk of collision with the Western powers.17 Not surprisingly, therefore, the emperor was particularly concerned about the Shanghai Incident, and hoped that it would not escalate. In his post-war verbal account of his earlier actions, he paid much more attention to the fighting in Shanghai than in Manchuria, devoting a section of his recollections of the 1930s to the Shanghai Incident but mentioning the Manchurian crisis only in passing, and clearly claiming the credit for the Shanghai cease-fire.18 The reason, undoubtedly, is again the greater potential of conflict in Shanghai to harm Japan’s relations with Western powers. For all the court’s emphasis on co-operation with the Western powers and initial opposition to withdrawal from the League of Nations, however, imperial sanction was given to the break with the world body nearly a year after the conclusion of the fighting in Shanghai: perhaps because by this time, especially after the right-wing terrorism of 1932, the emperor valued good relations with the army and domestic stability more highly than co-operation with the Western powers.19 It was through the mechanism of an imperial rescript that Japan’s departure from the League was formally announced on 27 March 1933 – though the emperor later claimed that he would have accepted the Lytton Report as it stood if not for the opposition of Saionji, who believed that the Cabinet would repudiate the report and that the emperor should not be caught in open conflict with the Cabinet.20 The emperor’s relationship with the army certainly appears to have been rather ambiguous during much of the Manchurian crisis. Despite the undoubted status of the imperial sanction and of imperial symbols, cynicism about the person of the emperor was present within the army, which most loudly claimed to represent him and to obey him. Criticism of the emperor’s close advisers had surfaced in 1930, during the controversy over the London Naval Treaty, since for military bureaucrats as well as active military officers, disarmament represented defeat. Leaders who had supported the treaty in 1930 were scorned by some as unskilful at political manoeuvring.21 After the Manchurian Incident, however, discontent was sometimes expressed as criticism of the emperor himself.22 Complaints that the current emperor was ‘mediocre’ (bon’yo¯) escalated until he was branded as unfit to rule on the grounds that he was not only a puppet

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of those close to the throne, but was also addicted to mahjong rather than affairs of state. Such complaints were reported to emanate from leading members of the Army Ministry and General Staff, as well as from officers in lower ranks.23 The desirability of some form of direct Japanese control of Manchuria, meanwhile, was widely accepted in army circles in Tokyo as well as Manchuria itself. From at least 1928 onwards, the need to acquire Manchuria outright, rather than just to preserve Japanese rights there by other means, had been actively discussed by leading army figures including Nagata Tetsuzan, To¯jo¯ Hideki, Ishiwara Kanji and Suzuki Teiichi. In January of that year Nagata declared Japan’s ‘need to take Manchuria/Mongolia’; two months later, a study group in which he was a participant resolved that ‘for the existence of the empire it is necessary to establish complete political control over Manchuria/Mongolia’.24 The theme of ‘fieldarmy defiance’ has often been emphasised in literature on the Manchurian Incident, but by September 1931, as Akira Iriye points out, ‘Basically, the dispute between Mukden and Tokyo was over the execution of policy, not over the policy itself.’25 As time passed, the Supreme Command came more and more to approve of the Kwantung Army’s plans, despite the attempts of a few army moderates in Tokyo in November 1931 to restrain the forces in Manchuria from further aggression, and rumours during the previous month that the Kwantung Army was angrily preparing to declare its independence from the rest of the military. By early 1932, in fact, there was ‘complete rapport’ between the military bureaucracies in Tokyo and Mukden.26 At home, parts of the army worked hard during the Manchurian crisis to encourage chauvinism and support for military invasion. Reservists held rallies to whip up popular support for the army’s project and put pressure on the authorities to act ‘firmly’ in Manchuria or, eventually, to leave the League of Nations.27 Army leaders and publicists supplied propaganda to all manner of publications, including many of those examined in this book, spreading their message also through radio and film. In such ways the army contributed significantly to the creation of a public orthodoxy which firmly endorsed Japan’s right to control Manchuria. The army supreme command, then, was certainly not displeased with the events of 18 September 1931. On the other hand, in the weeks after the explosion on the railway, army central authorities recognised the uneasiness that prevailed among such groups as the Cabinet, the Minseito¯, the navy and the court, fearing that it might turn into outright opposition if the Kwantung Army moved to expand its control in Manchuria, as it was obviously planning to do. Key figures were sensitive to the need to placate public opinion both internally and externally. Their caution produced a degree of chagrin within the army itself: one motivation provoking certain officers to plan a coup for October 1931 was the desire to ensure that their own hierarchy would support the Manchurian venture fully. Army Minister Minami Jiro¯ and Chief of Staff Kanaya Hanzo¯, especially, were persuaded to support the early policy of the Wakatsuki Cabinet, making genuine efforts to prevent escalation of the Manchurian Incident. Within a few days of the Mukden explosion, however, most of Liaoning and Kirin provinces had been brought under Japanese control, and on 8 October the

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Kwantung Army bombed the southern town of Chinchow, headquarters of Chang Hsueh-liang, from the air. This latter operation did much damage to Japan’s cause in Europe and the United States; and on 24 October a League of Nations resolution called for a withdrawal of Japanese troops by 16 November.28 The supreme command by now was anxious to stop the Kwantung Army from moving either north to Harbin in Heilungchiang province, where a clash with the Soviet Union was feared, or west to Jehol, which might bring a clash with Chang Hsueh-liang.29 Some in the army’s hierarchy specifically distrusted the public support for the Kwantung Army’s actions that seemed everywhere evident, clearly perceiving it as potentially fickle. Ninomiya Harushige, the Vice-Chief of Staff, noted in a telegram to the Kwantung Army three days after the incident at Mukden that though public opinion at home and abroad had so far approved the Kwantung Army’s action, If the Kwantung Army departs from its primary functions, goes beyond the objective of self-defense, expands its occupied territory, seizes railways, and otherwise extends the conflict, the present favorable tone of public opinion will steadily change. Therefore, unless conditions alter drastically, it will be best to preserve the status quo and calmly watch the situation.30 Ninomiya continued to worry about the durability of government and public support for the Manchurian venture, and to press for a halt in the military offensive. In November 1931 he sought to dissuade Honjo¯ Shigeru, Commander of the Kwantung Army, from seizing Tsitsihar in the north of Manchuria and attacking Chinchow in the south, partly on the grounds of the fragility of the public’s attitude: Even though both the government and the people have thus far accepted the initiative of the military, they may stop supporting the military at any time when they find the military’s activities too unjust or too outrageous. Or else, a time of reaction against the military might come. While I endeavor day and night to guide and encourage the government and the people, I am secretly worried about these prospects.31 General Ugaki Kazushige, while supporting the military thrust into northern Manchuria, shared Ninomiya’s distrust of the public response to the Manchurian Incident: At the moment, public opinion on foreign affairs appears on the whole to be united, but I have the strong feeling that it is only a superficial unity. The Foreign Ministry is unable to avoid being dragged along by the army; the elite (haikara ren) pacifists and internationalists are being nervously dragged along by the nationalists and hard-liners on foreign policy; the organs of public opinion are being dragged along by bands of thugs and by the

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National perspectives sentiments of undiscerning readers . . . and this by a narrow margin maintains the appearance of a unified public opinion.32

It was, perhaps, only with the trials following the attempted coup of 15 May 1932 that army leaders began to feel more confidence in popular support for the military. In 1933–34, the public made heroes of the military rebels who had murdered the Prime Minister, attacked other public figures and occupied key buildings; in 1931–32, however, high military officials were wary in their estimation of public sentiment. The efforts of the faction working within Japan to prevent escalation of the Manchurian Incident bore fruit for a while, showing that victory of the Kwantung Army’s viewpoint was not a forgone conclusion. In November Shidehara was making headway in his efforts to win concessions from the League of Nations; War Minister Minami and Chief of Staff Kanaya looked likely to succeed in thwarting the Kwantung Army’s desire for a permanent occupation of Tsitsihar in the north and a further attack on Chinchow; to some observers, the Wakatsuki Cabinet and ‘Shidehara diplomacy’ seemed poised to regain public confidence; and elder statesman Saionji Kinmochi thought the cabinet might survive.33 The British Ambassador, Sir Francis Lindley, recorded as early as 2 October his view that the government’s position had strengthened, despite continuing financial problems. The reasons, he reported to his government, were the united front presented by the Cabinet on the Manchurian Incident, at least after the first few days; approval of the government’s energetic protection of Japan’s interests in Manchuria and of its ‘polite but firm’ attitude towards the League of Nations; and unexpectedly good results for the Minseito¯ in the recent prefectural elections.34 The Kwantung Army, however, did not give up its ambition to penetrate northern Manchuria and in any case, by mid-November 1931, the attitude of both the Cabinet and the General Staff had begun to change. Shidehara’s resistance to the military was weakening and the army central authorities began to depart from their former veto on an advance on Tsitsihar.35 Historians have suggested two major reasons for the change in stance: the aborted coup d’état known as the ‘October Incident’ and the political impact of comments made by the US Secretary of State, Henry L. Stimson, at the end of November. On 17 October 1931 ten General Staff officers were arrested as leaders of a coup d’état planned for 21 October, in which terrorist attacks would wipe out the Wakatsuki government and other undesirable elements, a new party cabinet favouring the army and prepared to consolidate the opportunities presented by the Manchurian crisis would be established, and political reform would be effected. The main group involved in the planned coup was the Sakurakai, which centred on army officers of field-officer rank and was led by Lieutenant-Colonel Hashimoto Kingoro¯.36 Though the coup was forestalled, it nevertheless produced ‘decisive political effects’: by mid-November, ‘The spectacle of army terrorism [raised by the October Incident] was reducing the cabinet, and even the supreme command, to impotence.’37 For historian Shimada Toshihiko, the

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October Incident was not only the crucial factor behind the change in attitude towards the army’s activities in Manchuria; more broadly, it caused the collapse of ‘Shidehara diplomacy’. Specifically, the civilian government was now less determined in opposing military action, which in turn took some of the pressure off the supreme command to restrain the Kwantung Army.38 At about the same time, the supreme command’s actual ability to control the Kwantung Army was undermined by diplomatic events. Amid rumours of an impending further attack on Chinchow, Shidehara gave what he evidently intended as a confidential assurance to the US Secretary of State, through the American Ambassador, that the Kwantung Army had been ordered not to attack. On 27 November, however, believing the Japanese guilty of duplicity, Stimson angrily revealed Shidehara’s assurance to a press conference, confirming and elaborating on the information the following day. It was a sensitive moment, when the faction working to prevent escalation of the Manchurian Incident was achieving some success, as outlined above. Stimson’s statements caused a furore in Tokyo, on the grounds that Foreign Minister Shidehara had committed ‘treason’ and ‘betrayed military secrets’ by revealing to Stimson the contents of an order to the Kwantung Army. In addition, the Kwantung Army and the Reservists’ Association inferred that the Japanese government and army had submitted to US pressure in formulating policy on Manchuria. The result, according to Banno Junji, was that the government and army headquarters forfeited all credibility with the Kwantung Army. Army headquarters lost its hard-won measure of control of the Kwantung Army and Shidehara in turn was unable to control army headquarters. Thus, Stimson’s statements had an enormous impact on the non-escalation faction in Japan, and on civilian control of the military more generally.39 On 7 December 1931, army headquarters approved another attack on Chinchow, which was occupied by Japanese troops on 3 January 1932. In the meantime, on 10 December, the Council of the League of Nations had decided unanimously to appoint a commission ‘to study on the spot and to report to the Council on any circumstances which, affecting international relations, threaten to disturb peace between China and Japan’.40 The list of members of the commission was agreed on 14 January 1932. In the last months of 1931 the Kwantung Army also expended considerable energy on promoting the case for creation of a ‘new state’ in Manchuria. By early October the Kwantung Army’s determination to create such a state was explicit, and pressure was being exerted on Tokyo leaders by various means, though Ishiwara Kanji had not yet abandoned his own preference for outright Japanese occupation instead. The supreme command at that stage still favoured the alternative of supporting a pro-Japanese government that would be independent of Nanking and would extend Japanese rights and interests in Manchuria. Leading civilians like Saionji and Makino were shocked at the Kwantung Army’s more radical proposal for an officially ‘independent’ state which ‘will outwardly be under unified Chinese administration but actually under our control’,41 rather than simply a pro-Japanese government which, the Kwantung Army feared, could all too easily slip away from Japanese control. Shidehara wanted a

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settlement through negotiation with Chiang Kai-shek’s government and, like Army Minister Minami and others, was adamantly opposed to the creation of a separate state on the grounds that such obvious Japanese interference was certain to alienate world opinion. Other prominent figures favoured negotiation with Chang Hsueh-liang. However, the sense of crisis generated by the October Incident, the consequent discrediting of ‘Shidehara diplomacy’ and the fear of independent action by the Kwantung Army impelled Tokyo leaders by the end of 1931 to accept the proposal for a ‘new state’ rather than any other arrangement. By early January 1932, the Kwantung Army had devised final guidelines for the projected new government.42 By the end of that month, all attention had switched to the fighting in Shanghai. Then, on 1 March 1932, the formation of an ‘independent’ Manchukuo was announced.

Party politics For the mainstream political parties, the issue of Manchuria initially revealed important differences in policy. In another sense, however, it was perceived in party terms as a short-term political weapon, as were any number of other issues, rather than something of especially obvious and transcendent importance. As we have seen, the Wakatsuki Minseito¯ Cabinet at first attempted to prevent escalation of the situation in Manchuria. Prime Minister Wakatsuki, Foreign Minister Shidehara and Finance Minister Inoue in particular favoured a policy of containment and withdrawal, believing the matter could be handled through normal diplomatic channels rather than by military measures. By contrast, however, the opposition Seiyu¯kai proclaimed within a month of the Manchurian Incident that withdrawal from the League of Nations should be considered before any sacrifice of Japan’s treaty rights in Manchuria, and blamed the Minseito¯ government and ‘the weak-kneed policy of Baron Shidehara’ as ‘the chief cause of Japan’s loss of position there’.43 The Seiyu¯kai had been hardening its policy on Manchuria for some time. It was already publicly committed to the attainment of a foreign policy that would be independent of the attitudes of the Western powers.44 In 1931–32 in the interests of gaining and retaining power, the mainstream of the party showed itself further prepared to embrace army priorities, forming an alliance with the ‘renovationist’ faction of the army immediately after the Manchurian Incident.45 The influential Seiyu¯kai figure Mori Kaku, long a proponent of a tough China policy, made an extended visit to Manchuria in mid-1931, accompanied by other members of the Seiyu¯kai. After his party won power in December 1931, Mori pushed for a hard line on Manchuria.46 In the period before the Seiyu¯kai regained power, the Manchurian crisis, like the economic depression, was useful to the party as a stick with which to beat the Minseito¯ government. ‘Shidehara diplomacy’ was sufficiently discredited as to make it an easy target. Party officials openly blamed the Manchurian Incident itself on the Minseito¯ government: in one article, because the Manchurian Incident was ‘caused’ by the Chang Tso-lin Incident of 1928, which, it was said,

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had been used as a tool by the Minseito¯ to overthrow the Seiyu¯kai cabinet of Tanaka Giichi;47 more commonly because of the failure of Shidehara’s ‘weakkneed policy’. On 16 October, the Seiyu¯kai’s Chief Secretary, Kuhara Fusanosuke, attacked Shidehara on the one hand and praised the military on the other for its prompt action in Manchuria, thanks to which ‘Japan was saved from national humiliation’. Though the government did not know how to handle the new circumstances, according to Kuhara, the public could be assured that the Seiyu¯kai by contrast ‘has a program to deal with the Manchurian situation’. The nature of the programme was fairly clear: There is no cause to fear the League of Nations if we are resolved to act in accordance with principles of justice. Nothing should deter us from asserting our rights acquired through treaties. If we find our adherence to the League obstructs the exercise of our rights, we might withdraw from it. It is pathetic to witness the spectacle of the Minseito Government being embarrassed by the League of Nations at every turn.48 After the fall of the Wakatsuki Cabinet and its replacement with a minority Seiyu¯kai government in December 1931, the press predicted a ‘more positive diplomatic policy, especially in regard to Manchurian affairs, and a greater measure of co-operation with the military authorities’.49 Soon enough, the party’s policy affairs committee adopted a report by its chairman, Yamamoto Jo¯taro¯, stating that The first thing that the Government should do is to settle finally the Manchurian question . . . The Seiyukai stands in favor of settling all questions pending between Japan and China independently of other countries, while the Minseito pursued a policy of subordinating the interests of the country to those of foreign countries.50 When a new Seiyu¯kai government was returned in February 1932 with a record majority, the aggressive Mori Kaku became Chief Cabinet Secretary. At a party convention in Yokohama several months later, 25,000 people heard him declare that Japan had been ‘fawning at the League of Nations . . . hesitating before the prestige of a great nation and being startled or dazzled by the name of the sacred covenant of the League or the Kellogg–Briand Anti-War Pact’. Covenants and treaties, Mori maintained, ‘are nothing more than expediencies to help a few influential nations maintain the status quo’. Japan should act with dignity and impartiality but without regard to the attitude of foreign powers.51 Not all Seiyu¯kai voices were as bellicose, however. Former diplomats were among the moderates. In Diet speeches in the first months of 1932, Foreign Minister Yoshizawa Kenkichi still placed considerable emphasis on international co-operation, without departing from the standard arguments about the conflicts in Manchuria and Shanghai. Yoshizawa believed that the League of Nations and the United States were gradually coming to an understanding of Japan’s position,

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while the Soviet Union had taken a neutral, non-interventionist stance. The government, according to his address on 22 January 1932, was therefore satisfied.52 Though he noted that Chinese propaganda and various misunderstandings had produced unfavourable reactions from the Western powers after the Shanghai Incident, particularly at the end of March 1932, Yoshizawa continued to express optimism that Japan’s relations with the Western powers would gradually improve.53 The diplomat-turned-Seiyu¯kai politician Ashida Hitoshi warned a budget committee meeting in August 1932 that ‘the Government should not attach so much importance to the Manchuria and Mongolia questions and should not forget relations with China’. Several months earlier, he had told the Diet that it was not in Japan’s interest to withdraw from the League of Nations.54 At the same time, the Minseito¯, now the parliamentary opposition, was in its turn discovering the potential advantage of Manchurian issues as political weapons. In March 1932 it attacked the Seiyu¯kai government for an alleged tardiness in recognising the ‘independent state’ of Manchukuo, on the grounds that ‘The Japanese people have become of one mind that Japan must recognize the new regime’. The opposition also demanded to know what the government’s policy was on maintaining peace and order in Shanghai; why the government was allowing the League to interfere in Manchurian and Shanghai affairs, despite its own repeated declarations that these questions could be settled only by direct negotiations between Japan and China; and what steps were being taken to counteract Chinese propaganda which had allegedly influenced the League’s attitude.55 Nevertheless, regardless of parliamentary attacks and counter-attacks, there was by this stage substantial common ground between the parties, at least at the emotional level; or, to put it another way, the demand for public ideological conformity on Manchuria was very strong. Politicians were anxious to show the public a united front in applauding the army’s actions. At a session of the Lower House of the Diet in December 1931 a vote of thanks to Japanese troops in Manchuria, who have ‘fulfilled their duty in protecting the rights of Japan’, was moved by a member of the Minseito¯, seconded by a member of the Seiyu¯kai, and passed without a dissenting vote. A similar vote was passed unanimously in the House of Peers. To complete this attractive picture of national unanimity, the Army Minister and the Navy Minister formally thanked each House for its vote of thanks56 – even though the navy was not concerned in the Manchurian situation, and the Manchurian Incident itself, since it brought the risk of a major war without a significant role for the navy, ‘was something the navy did not like’.57 The same ritual was performed again at the opening of the Sixty-First Diet in March 1932. To make sure the message was quite clear, the politician proposing the resolution to thank the armed forces on this occasion took care to emphasise the value of the Manchurian issue in promoting unity across party political divisions and throughout the nation.58 A few days later the Army and Navy Ministers agreed that the Shanghai Incident had brought even the army and navy together – the level of co-operation between them in fact was ‘virtually unprecedented in world history’.59

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Very important differences undoubtedly remained between the Minseito¯ and the Seiyu¯kai, especially on matters relating to social policy and to the army and the imperial house. On all of these issues the Seiyu¯kai was fundamentally conservative; it was the Seiyu¯kai which later joined with the Imperial Way (ko¯do¯) faction of the army to attack Minobe Tatsukichi’s liberal interpretation of the constitutional role of the emperor, for example.60 Differences between the parties over Manchuria had also been significant in the first months after the explosion at Mukden. During 1932 and 1933, however, the two parties were publicly converging on Manchuria and related issues. While both parties concentrated on domestic issues in the election campaign of January–February 1932, the Minseito¯ produced a set of slogans which included ‘participation of the masses in the benefits of the rights and interests possessed by Japan in Manchuria’, and the Seiyu¯kai placed ‘the establishment of an independent foreign policy’ near the top of its list of policies, though behind its major slogan, which was ‘Better Times or Depression?’.61 As one editorial writer remarked, At one time, to many thoughtful Japanese electors, the Minseito seemed to recommend itself on account of its moderate and conciliatory foreign policy. Nowadays, however, in foreign policy there is very little to choose between the parties.62 The main public difference between the parties, by this time, was not in the realm of foreign policy but of economics, with ‘the Minseito holding to the gold standard while the Seiyukai discarded it as its first official act’.63 By January 1933, one press article about the forthcoming parliamentary session observed that ‘On the Manchurian problem the nation is united and there will be no criticism in the Diet’. Since the attempted coup of May 1932 and the assassination of Prime Minister Inukai, a ‘national unity’ cabinet under Saito¯ Makoto had been in power, but contemporary observers clearly expected the return of party politics. The only question of any interest in the forthcoming session, according to the writer of this article, was how long it would be before the return of party government, ‘which the Seiyu¯kai is hoping for particularly’, as it held a majority of seats yet did not form the government. In policy terms there was nothing to choose between the Saito¯ Cabinet and the Seiyu¯kai alternative; and ‘On the Manchurian problem neither will be weaker nor stronger’. There would, however, be some attacks on the government in the Diet because of the large military expenditure in the new budget.64 The press joined the chorus of criticism about large military budgets within a short time.65

Home Ministry bureaucrats Bureaucrats, along with villagers, have long been identified as crucial players in the creation of ‘Japanese fascism’. For Maruyama Masao, for example, certain bureaucratic groups between 1931 and 1936 ‘played no small part in preparing

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for the dominance of fascism from above in [the period 1936–45]’.66 Robert J. Spaulding attributed much responsibility to bureaucrats for the creation of ‘Japanese fascism’,67 and Sheldon Garon has also pointed to ‘the central role of the civilian bureaucracy in framing the authoritarian programs that would dominate Japan’s home front from the early 1930s to 1945’, along with the role of bureaucrats in the development of Japanese ultranationalism from 1931 onwards.68 ‘Japanese fascism’ was undoubtedly driven by bureaucrats as well as the military, as Maruyama and later writers assert. Closer examination shows, however, that at least in the early 1930s, there was no automatic identification of bureaucrats with the army’s agenda or with support of overseas expansion. Officials in the large and powerful Home Ministry, in particular, who have often been associated with the military in standard interpretations of the 1930s, turn out not to have been especially eager to support a venture so closely associated with another budget and another ministry. Especially in comparison with propaganda about the ‘Manchurian paradise’ emanating from the army and the mainstream urban press, they communicated a certain coolness about the Manchurian project and an unwillingness to be diverted from other concerns. The ‘war fever’ promoted by the press left most of them unmoved as they continued to battle with the depression at home and to seek solutions to it within their own field of operations. Home Ministry views are readily identifiable through the pages of the journal Shimin (The People), a publication targeting local officials and other members of the rural elite, produced by the Central Ho¯tokukai, or Society for the Repayment of Virtue, and dominated by bureaucratic contributors, especially those from the Home Ministry.69 The magazine evidently functioned as a channel by which the views of key ministries could be speedily transmitted to the countryside. Enthusiasm for the Manchurian project, however, was rarely communicated to readers of Shimin in the early 1930s, suggesting that bureaucrats were generally more interested in other things. The orthodox line on the Manchurian crisis – that Japanese troops had acted in self-defence, that Manchuria was vital to Japan and so on – was not contradicted in the journal’s pages, and was occasionally endorsed; but on the other hand contributors, who included a number of senior Home Ministry officials, showed very little positive interest in the subject. Shimin simply did not discuss Manchuria much, and all the usual themes relating to Manchuria in this period are notably scarce within its pages. Specifically, the journal did not advocate settlement of Japanese farmers in Manchuria in order to secure the territory for Japan, as other publications did; in fact, it actively discouraged such emigration, on the grounds that prospects for Japanese farmers there were very dim and that those wanting to emigrate should go to Brazil instead.70 Nor did Shimin discuss the supposed benefits to Japan of the acquisition of Manchuria. The otherwise ubiquitous phrase, ‘Manchuria, Japan’s life-line’, is almost completely absent from the journal’s pages in the early 1930s. The journal did not publish ‘glorious stories’ (bidan) of heroic battlefield exploits. It did not report on the patriotic donation campaign which received so much

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coverage in the daily newspapers and elsewhere; nor did it make constant reference to the ‘bandits’ in Manchuria who were the chief justification for continued Japanese military action there. It did not advocate Japan’s withdrawal from the League of Nations. Even when Japan had in fact announced its withdrawal, Shimin presented articles arguing that Japan should continue to co-operate with the League on matters other than Manchuria.71 In its virtual silence on so many of the topics of the day, Shimin contrasts markedly with other regular publications of the period, especially the mainstream urban press and periodicals influenced by the army. Occasionally, on the other hand, Shimin pointed directly to the cost to Japan of the Manchurian Incident and of the ‘new nation’, Manchukuo.72 Home Ministry bureaucrats certainly had their own enthusiasms, but they were domestic ones in which their own role would necessarily be very large. As officials concerned with running the nation, they were chiefly preoccupied with the economic depression, and their preferred strategy for tackling the depression in the early 1930s was not military adventurism. In particular, writers in Shimin regularly held up examples of co-operation and conciliation of conflicting class interest in villages as representing the possibility of recovery from economic difficulties. After September 1932 the same theme was subsumed in their energetic support of the newly announced keizai ko¯sei undo¯ or economic revitalisation movement, the plan to rationalise and improve village life by providing financial aid for specific projects in selected villages which from that time was a major focus of government strategy for combating the depression, along with more concrete measures such as public works projects, price stabilisation and attacks on rural indebtedness. Specifically, the revitalisation campaign, which represented an extension of previous national policies as well as of autonomous local and regional efforts to improve standards of living in the villages, aimed to increase production, expand the agricultural co-operatives and restrict spending, by means of village-level economic and management planning, a heavy moral emphasis on co-operation within the village, and the designation of ‘model villages’ on an annual basis to receive financial aid, thus encouraging competition among villages.73 The economic revitalisation movement was launched by the Agriculture and Forestries Ministry (No¯rinsho¯), but epitomised also the central concerns of officials in the Home Ministry, which had for some time actively advocated selfhelp and self-reliance (jiriki). In fact, a movement to encourage the spirit of self-help in rural areas was launched alongside the economic revitalisation movement, with responsibility for the self-help campaign shifting to the Home Ministry.74 Officials of the Home Ministry devoted great energy to publicising the revitalisation movement. In it they often saw the same potential for national renewal that others perceived in events in remote Manchuria: it was through self-reliance and co-operation within the village, rather than through expansion into foreign territory, that the Japanese spirit would be reinvigorated and the depression overcome, in this view.75 The economic revitalisation movement, or the more general concept of self-reliance, even supplied Home Ministry

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bureaucrats with parallel versions of the army’s ‘glorious stories’. Shimin barely mentioned the ‘three human bullets’, but it had its own ‘beautiful stories’ of hardworking, studious young men committed to improvements in agriculture and of whole villages exhibiting successful co-operation between landlords and tenants. Thus a young man in the village of Atago in Iwate Prefecture, Kikuchi Ichiro¯, ‘has a gentle nature, is diligent, eager to study and very innovative in his work’. He ‘is a keen reader of daily newspapers and magazines and is always going to classes and lectures’. Not only was he particularly committed to improvements in agriculture, to economic revitalisation and the collective good of the village, but in addition, ‘he is registered at the citizenship training school (ko¯min gakko¯), where he has a good record of attendance and is an example to others’.76 Writers in Shimin were not sufficiently blatant to use the label ‘bidan’ (glorious story), as other publications freely did. However, the inspirational story or practical example was as useful in the cause of economic revitalisation as anywhere else. Kerry Smith has shown that in due course, revitalisation was energetically pursued in thousands of Japanese towns and villages, changing the lives of many farmers along the way.77 In its initial stages, however, the movement produced little concrete result – hardly surprisingly, considering its heavy emphasis on spiritual or ethical virtues and with appropriate funding not yet in place, and in the face of a disastrous international depression. Just as the army’s vision of Manchuria as the panacea for Japan’s ills fell far short of being realised, the bureaucrats’ vision of a national revival based on the economic revitalisation movement bore little fruit in the years 1932–36. For the most part, meanwhile, the bureaucrats represented in Shimin appear to have paid minimal attention to Japan’s activities in Manchuria, which after all very clearly belonged to the army. There was little room for Home Ministry involvement in the Manchurian project or for that ministry to take any credit. The fact that Shimin was not a commercial publication relying on sensationalist war articles for its sales is doubtless another reason for its comparative silence on Manchuria. At the same time, it is abundantly clear from the journal’s pages that the army had not yet persuaded leading Home Ministry bureaucrats that the military solution was the best for Japan’s future. There certainly were bureaucrats who perceived the Manchurian crisis as an ideal opportunity to begin restructuring Japanese society, and some factions played an explicit and early role in supporting the army. One hard-line group within the Foreign Ministry, for example, whose prominent members included Shiratori Toshio, actively supported the Kwantung Army’s invasion of Manchuria from the start, even though the Ministry overall was much more cautious;78 and there were influential bureaucrats in the Ministry for Overseas Affairs who supported Manchurian emigration from an early point. Nevertheless it is significant that Shimin on the whole did not endorse the army’s actions in Manchuria or Japan’s withdrawal from the League of Nations. On one level the journal’s relative silence on these matters can be explained by factional politics. Shimin was very much influenced by a group of bureaucrats who would later become known as the ‘new bureaucrats’ (shin kanryo¯) or ‘reform

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bureaucrats’ (kakushin kanryo¯): that is, officials committed to a change in the status quo through ideological means or state control of the economy or both, with the goal of increasing the nation’s spiritual and military strength.79 On the other hand, the future ‘new bureaucrats’ opposed General Araki Sadao, who was Army Minister between 1931 and 1934, and thus were likely to be cool towards army activities in this period. The ‘new bureaucrats’ grew closer to the army after 1934 when the anti-Araki or to¯sei (control) faction was dominant, but they had little inclination to applaud military actions in the earlier period. Perhaps, as bureaucrats, they had not much taste for radical action of a disruptive nature in any case: not only did Shimin fail to endorse the Manchurian Incident with any conviction, it also declined to report on the 15 May 1932 Incident, unlike other organs of the press which covered the trials of the offenders sympathetically. In the early 1930s, Home Ministry bureaucrats by and large remained faithful to their traditional emphasis on village self-sufficiency and co-operation, and most concerned with solving the rural crisis through such internal, gradualist means. Neither expanding into Manchuria nor violently overthrowing the state was seen as the way to improve the lot of the villages. It was the economic revitalisation movement which represented the hopes and preferred methods of most bureaucrats concerned with domestic affairs. With the dominance of the control faction after 1934 and the stabilisation of the military situation in Manchuria came a greater emphasis from within the army as elsewhere on campaigns of national integration within Japan. At the same time, the power of the ‘new bureaucrats’ themselves increased when six of them were given influential posts in the Okada Cabinet in 1934.80 Campaigns for national integration and mobilisation were most congenial to the ‘new bureaucrats’ and other officials in that they switched the focus of national effort to domestic life and a restructuring of Japanese society, and were highly compatible with older ideals and older campaigns like the economic revitalisation movement. Indeed, Shimin paid considerable attention (not all of it uncritical) to campaigns for national integration in the mid- and late 1930s, particularly the Election Purification Movement of 1935–36 and the National Spiritual Mobilisation Movement of 1937 onwards, while at the same time maintaining its usual focus on local and regional concerns and providing regular reports of virtuous villages struggling against the odds. On the other hand, in 1936 it conspicuously failed to comment on the attempted coup perpetrated on 26 February by Araki’s ko¯do¯ (imperial way) faction.

Diplomacy Some bureaucrats could scarcely avoid dealing with the Manchurian crisis, whether they wanted to or not. Japanese diplomats posted in Western countries took on the task of disseminating the official view of the Manchurian crisis to a variety of audiences, particularly in the United States, embarking in some areas on a seemingly endless round of lectures, radio talks and newspaper interviews to explain and justify Japan’s position.81 The consul in San Francisco, Wakasugi

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Kaname, for example, reported that between January and April 1932 alone, he and his staff had given several hundred lectures in total on the Sino-Japanese conflict. Wakasugi himself, formerly a section head in the Information Division of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, had addressed nineteen clubs and organisations, and had written two substantial pamphlets, of which thousands of copies were distributed.82 Uchiyama Kiyoshi, the Japanese Consul in Seattle, reported in April 1932 that he and his staff would shortly complete a schedule which involved lecturing on the Sino-Japanese conflict at all major places in Washington State.83 The dominant theme of such talks was the necessity, justice and desirability of Japanese control of Manchuria, and considerable efforts were made to explain these matters in ways which were expected to appeal to Western audiences. All diplomats who argued Japan’s case to Westerners stressed the history of Japanese ‘rights’ in the region and China’s internal disorder. Some chose to emphasise the Communist ‘threat’ which China supposedly represented. In addition, business organisations were told of the advantages to business of Japanese control of Manchuria, while groups more concerned with workers were told that Manchuria was necessary for the Japanese worker. When addressing Western diplomats and politicians, one of the most important arguments was that there was a division between ‘military’ and ‘civilian’ elements in Japan which corresponded to a division between ‘militarist’ and ‘moderate’ or ‘liberal’ thought. The ‘military element’ had gained a temporary ascendancy, but would be defeated by the moderates in the natural course of events so long as there was no interference in the Sino-Japanese dispute by ‘third parties’, meaning the League and the United States, according to this argument. Another favourite tactic was to compare Japan’s attitude to Manchuria with, for example, the United States attitude to the Panama Canal and other strategic locations. Consul Uchiyama told the Transportation Club in Seattle on one occasion that Japan was reacting in much the same way in Manchuria as the United States would if foreign troops or armed bandits destroyed part of the Panama Canal: Would the American troops stationed there [Panama Canal] stand aside with folded arms and wait to see that the case is presented to the world court or the League of Nations? Did not the United States send 6,000 troops into Nicaragua to protect only 600 Americans, and also take similar measures in Haiti and in Mexico for the same reason as the Japanese are now acting?84 The message could be radically altered, however, for different audiences. Central and South American readers, for example, were informed in a substantial Spanish-language pamphlet that Japan’s action in Manchuria, being based solely on self-defence, was quite different from US action in Central and South America, which constituted ‘purely imperialistic expansion’. In this interpretation, the motive governing American action in Mexico, Hawaii, Cuba, Panama, Nicaragua and the Philippines

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is completely different from Japan’s motive respecting Manchuria, as the former is conquistatory, while Japan’s has been defense of her very existence. The United States can well live without annexed territory, but the disintegration of Manchuria or its annexation by a foreign country would endanger the independence and absolute existence of Japan.85 Evidence suggests that such Japanese claims did not fall entirely on deaf ears, with Western diplomats, politicians and others showing distinct sympathy for Japan’s cause. After all, nations which were themselves imperialist were likely to acknowledge the logic of imperialism, so long as it did not clash with their own areas of interest. As Lindley, the British Ambassador to Tokyo, candidly remarked in one of his despatches home, I have little doubt that there are other countries besides Japan which, if put to the test of seeing their vital interests involved, would have behaved with as little regard for multilateral treaties and pacific ideas as has Japan . . . And it seems to me that the Western world should be thankful that . . . [ Japan’s] explosive energy and teeming life should have found an outlet in the distant plains of Manchuria, where foreign interests hardly exist and where the task is such as to try the strength even of this remarkable people.86 Though smaller states belonging to the League of Nations were often much more critical of Japan, very few Americans, Britons or French had any real objection to the exploitation of Manchuria. The Sino-Japanese clash in Shanghai, on the other hand, and Japan’s recognition of Manchukuo, were issues that the Western powers could not ignore. The distinguished American financier Thomas W. Lamont, a friend to Japan who had been prepared to blame the Manchurian Incident entirely on the Chinese and had accused the League of Nations of bias in China’s favour,87 reacted sharply to the Shanghai Incident. For him, it changed everything: ‘The good will towards Japan that has been built up over many years [in the United States] disappeared in a few weeks.’88 Japanese diplomats in the field thus publicly supported Japan’s official cause in the early 1930s, perhaps with some effect. Further, they did so with an energy which shows that they neither desired nor necessarily expected to be cut off from the international community as a result of the Manchurian crisis. On the other hand, strikingly few attempts were made at the diplomatic level to influence Chinese opinion at this point. Efforts were certainly made by the Japanese army in Manchuria itself. The ‘new state’ of Manchukuo was supposedly founded on the principles of ‘racial harmony’ (minzoku kyo¯wa) and the ‘kingly way’ (o¯do¯). In the first half of 1933 the Kwantung Army was reported to be distributing propaganda leaflets among the inhabitants of Manchuria, with titles like ‘The Japanese army comes in peace’ and ‘The Japanese army co-operates with the Manchurian army’,89 and the people of Manchuria and other parts of China became very familiar with slogans like ‘land of happiness’, ‘co-existence and co-prosperity’ and ‘kindly benevolence’.90 Not for some years, however, would concerted

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efforts be made by Japanese civilian authorities to convince the majority of the Chinese, through the rhetorical apparatus of ‘Greater East Asia’, that Japan’s actions were righteous and benevolent. For Japanese diplomats in the early 1930s, the crisis over Manchuria had to be dealt with in terms of its impact on Japan’s relations with the West, but it did not inherently constitute a radical break with the past. Neither the political parties nor the Foreign Ministry considered it necessary or desirable for Japan to leave the League of Nations, even after the recognition of Manchukuo in September 1932 and the publication of the Lytton Report in October. Indeed, the Cabinet did not make its decision to leave the League until 20 February 1933. Even when the Foreign Ministry did begin to favour withdrawal from the League, it was with the expectation that leaving would enable Japan to continue its pursuit of ‘co-operative diplomacy’. According to this argument, withdrawal would satisfy the smaller League members without affecting co-operation between Japan and the larger powers, which were believed, with some justification, to be quite willing to reach a compromise with Japan. Withdrawal would also ensure that Manchuria was no longer discussed at the League.91 Thus the Foreign Ministry, even when advocating withdrawal, did not intend that Japan should depart from co-operative diplomacy or abandon its role in international affairs. Matsuoka Yo¯suke himself, on his way back to Japan after so dramatically leading the Japanese delegation out of the League at Geneva, gave numerous press conferences and speeches on the Manchurian Incident, US–Japan relations, China and the League of Nations in New York, Boston, Washington, Oregon, Chicago and San Francisco. Though opinions differed on the effectiveness of his efforts,92 his busy schedule indicates that he had certainly not given up on international relations. In 1933 and beyond, the Japanese Foreign Ministry continued to operate on the basis of two long-standing principles. One was to seek consistently the approval of the great powers, and so to emphasise ‘co-operative diplomacy’; the other was to maintain a distance from China – paying little attention to Japan’s image there – while still exploiting its resources. For several years to come, such ‘moderate’ views remained far from defeated within the Foreign Ministry, which thus had not yet departed from the diplomatic framework of the 1920s.

An end to the Manchurian crisis: military, diplomatic and political developments after February 1933 From a diplomatic, political and even military perspective, the Manchurian crisis wound down in 1933. In February the Japanese delegation walked out of the League of Nations, ending Japan’s conflict with that body. In May a ceasefire was negotiated in north-east China, and the Kwantung Army, satisfied for the moment, remained relatively quiet for some time afterwards, concentrating on consolidation of its control of Manchukuo and suppression of the anti-Japanese and Communist movements in China.93 Japan’s relations with the Western powers and with China proper were not severed, and for a time the sense of crisis

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in foreign affairs abated. Contrary to the established view, the pattern of Japan’s international relations did not change to one of steadily increasing isolation. Rather, diplomatic relations continued to muddle along, within the limits set on the one hand by Japan’s determination to maintain a commitment to Manchukuo, and on the other, the Western powers’ determination not to recognise the ‘new nation’. In fact, the Japanese Foreign Ministry by and large did maintain an active pursuit of co-operative diplomacy, as it had expected to do. Even the army began to join with the Foreign Ministry to try to alleviate tension with the United States particularly, in an effort to win tacit American acceptance of Japan’s China policy, as well as co-operation from the United States in suppressing the anti-Japanese activities – now presented by the Kwantung Army as conflicting with the United States principle of the Open Door – that were harming Japanese interests in China.94 Within Japan, meanwhile, military attention was turning away from North China as the army became preoccupied with the prospects of war with the Soviet Union. The mainstream of the Foreign Ministry, as we have seen, never intended that Japan should depart from co-operative diplomacy or abandon its role in international affairs, even when it had finally advocated Japan’s withdrawal from the League. In September 1933 the efforts of diplomats to keep Japan within the international community received a boost when Uchida Yasuya was replaced as Foreign Minister by Hirota Ko¯ki. While Uchida had been associated with withdrawal from the League and earlier had made a famous declaration in the Diet that the Japanese people would not relinquish any of Manchukuo, ‘even if the country turned to scorched earth’,95 Hirota initially took a conciliatory approach to the Western powers, stressing his desire to see an improvement in relations with the United States in particular, though his ‘conciliatory’ foreign policy had certainly hardened by late 1935. In the event, leaving the League did not particularly isolate Japan, as some had feared it would, nor did it hinder Japan’s trade relationships. The possibility of economic sanctions against Japan, which had been discussed since October 1931, disappeared. Japan continued to participate in the Disarmament Conference of 1932–34 and joined in the World Economic Conference convened by the League in June 1933. It was not required to relinquish the Pacific Islands it held under a League mandate.96 Japan’s relations with the large European nations and even with China’s national government in fact improved in 1934–35. In Britain, Chancellor of the Exchequer Neville Chamberlain and others sought to establish a closer AngloJapanese relationship, in particular through a proposal that the two countries should co-operate on reform of the Chinese monetary system. Negotiations on this issue were not successful, but the British desire to restore good relations with Japan is clear.97 In March 1935 an agreement was reached between Japan and the Soviet Union over the sale to Manchukuo of the Chinese Eastern Railway.98 The United States was less willing to back down from the stance it had taken during the Manchurian crisis, and in 1933 it flatly rejected a proposal from Hirota for a joint Japanese–American statement on a ‘new balance of power in the Pacific’, based on US recognition of Japan’s existing position in Asia. On the other hand,

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the United States took no action against Japan, and US–Japan relations at least did not worsen.99 In the immediate aftermath of withdrawal from the League, US Ambassador to Japan Joseph Grew later explained, ‘the leaders of Japan took a line that looked almost like appeasement – at any rate as far as the United States was concerned’.100 Nor did withdrawal from the League mean the end of efforts to persuade the people of the major Western countries by direct means of the justice of Japan’s cause, as is shown by Matsuoka Yo¯suke’s lecture tour of the United States, mentioned above. Other prominent figures also continued to lecture in Japan and the United States in an effort to improve US–Japan relations,101 and Japanese diplomats posted in the United States continued to address all manner of groups in an attempt to persuade them of the legitimacy of Japan’s actions in Manchuria. In China itself, discussion and reporting on conflict with Japan over Manchuria lessened considerably after the Truce of Tangku in May 1933.102 The year 1934 saw the resumption of direct rail service between Peking and Mukden, which had been cut at the Great Wall, and in 1935 diplomatic relations between Japan and China were formally upgraded – though the Japanese military continued to provoke regional unrest in north China in pursuit of its own expansionist aims. From May 1933 onwards, there were moves towards economic rapprochement between China and Japan at the national level, partly because the Nanking government needed to stabilise its financial situation and therefore wanted the restoration of ordinary economic and political relations with Japan. Japan’s share of total imports into China, even excluding Manchukuo, began to increase again from 1934 onwards. In that year, Japanese investment in China, including Manchukuo, outstripped Great Britain’s.103 The journalist and China specialist Ozaki Hotsumi, writing in mid-1936, judged that Sino-Japanese relations since 1931 had been ‘strained and serious’, and that efforts by Japanese military forces to increase their control in North China from mid-1935 onwards presented a ‘fatal obstacle’ to Sino-Japanese rapprochement. Nevertheless, he foresaw ‘the promotion of more amicable and closer relations between Japan and China’.104 Within Japan as well, there was a definite sense of an ending of the crisis in domestic politics. Though ‘national unity’ cabinets continued, many contemporary observers expected a fairly rapid restoration of party cabinets, by now considered to be the norm for Japan. Political crises lessened after the October Incident of 1931 and the 15 May Incident of 1932. Thus, as Banno Junji has pointed out, by 1934–35, the three crises which had precipitated the demise of party politics in 1932 – the economic crisis, the international crisis and the crisis caused by direct action on the part of the military – had all abated.105 In 1933, moreover, conspicuous public criticism of the military again emerged, within both the mainstream political parties and elsewhere, partly in connection with negotiations over the 1934 budget, in which the army was allowed big increases at the expense of other ministries. In fact, so public did such criticism become that in December 1933, Army Minister General Araki Sadao issued a strong warning about a movement ‘to alienate the public mind from the military’, in the process providing details of what was apparently being said:

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[Some] say that the crisis of 1936 is nothing but propaganda put out by the military authorities, or that those who died in past wars belonged exclusively to the lower ranks, and that no high officers died. Others are saying that the welfare of the farmers was sacrificed for the sake of the military budget. Araki’s outburst against all opponents of the forthcoming ‘1935–36 crisis’, whom he labelled as either Communists or pacifists, infuriated many party politicians and others, prompting further public criticism of the military from them.106 A quite strong hostility towards the army was evident again in the Diet after the national election of February 1936, in which the Minseito¯ won the highest number of seats and the social democratic parties were also notably successful; subsequent regional elections reflected the same anti-military tone. The Diet continued to provide one forum for occasional public criticism of the military. In May 1936 the Minseito¯’s Saito¯ Takao blamed the army for the uprising of 26 February of that year, while in January 1937, the Seiyu¯kai’s Hamada Kunimatsu publicly embarrassed the Army Minister, General Terauchi Hisaichi, in a Diet speech which for military observers constituted not just an individual exhibition of pique but ‘a display of the anti-military feelings of the parties in general’.107 In February 1940 Saito¯ Takao openly criticised the Konoe government for its handling of the war with China.108 Saito¯ was expelled from the Diet on the second occasion while in January 1937 Hamada was not, testifying to the increase in the army’s power between 1937 and 1940. The critical factor was surely the outbreak of full-scale war with China in July 1937, which effectively ended the broader confrontation between Diet and army, though obviously it could not put a stop to criticism altogether.

Conclusion For the elites in the early 1930s, Manchuria was not the transcendent issue it sometimes seems. Significant sections of officialdom were neither convinced for their own part that they should follow the army’s agenda, nor prepared to attempt to mobilise the people into support for the military’s plans, nor yet willing to advocate an autonomous foreign policy at the expense of relations with the Western powers. Many of those in authority, even some of the ‘new bureaucrats’ who later collaborated with the military, remained unconvinced of the need to control Manchuria. The different arms of the state were undeniably trying to mobilise the population in the service of national causes, but beyond certain typical emphases on such things as self-reliance and co-operation, there was not always agreement on the goal of that mobilisation. In particular, Manchuria was not necessarily perceived as the issue that would unify the nation. It was not even an issue that was sufficiently compelling to overcome existing rivalries within the elites. If the Manchurian Incident and the attempted coups of 15 May 1932 and even 26 February 1936 are interpreted as milestones in Japanese ‘fascism’, then it is striking that, for example, the majority of bureaucrats represented in Shimin did

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not want to associate themselves with any of them. It was rather through campaigns like the Election Purification Movement of 1935–36 and the National Spiritual Mobilisation Movement of 1937 onwards, in which the army played a prominent role, that Shimin became increasingly implicated in the restructuring of Japanese society in concert with the military. The evidence presented here suggests that it was not spectacular events like the invasion of Manchuria which performed an integrating function among the different institutions and factions that made up the Japanese state; indeed, significant sections of officialdom remained unmoved by such external events. Rather, a comparative quieting of the external situation after 1933, a heightened emphasis on incorporationist campaigns requiring gradualist means and significant bureaucratic input from 1935 onwards, and changes in the balance of power within the military provided the environment in which military and bureaucratic interests, at least, became increasingly interwoven. For public figures outside the establishment, on the other hand, issues relating to Manchuria, Shanghai and the League of Nations at Geneva often had critical consequences, as we will see in the next chapter.

Notes 1 Quoted in Toru Takemoto, Failure of Liberalism in Japan: Shidehara Kijurol’s Encounter with Anti-Liberals, Washington, DC, University Press of America, 1978, p. 117. 2 Ishii Itaro¯, Gaiko¯kan no issho¯, Tokyo, Chu¯o¯ ko¯ronsha, 1986, pp. 201, 213. 3 Ando¯ (ed.), Sho¯washi e no sho¯gen, Vol. 2, p. 22. 4 For example, Sir Miles Lampson, British Minister at Peking (Louis, British Strategy, pp. 179–80); Sir Francis Lindley, British Ambassador to Tokyo (see letter dated 30/ 9/1931 to Geoffrey Dawson, editor of The Times, Bodleian Library, Oxford, Papers of Geoffrey Dawson, No. 76, fol. 46); M. E. Dening, British Consul at Dairen (see letter to Lindley, early October 1931, PRO, FO 262/1773). 5 Hata Ikuhiko, ‘1932 nen no Nichibei kiki: kyozo¯ to jitsuzo¯’, Kokusai seiji, No. 1, 1969, p. 23; Takemoto, Failure of Liberalism, p. 124. 6 Banno Junji, Nihon seijishi: Meiji, Taisho¯, senzen Sho¯wa, Tokyo, Ho¯so¯ daigaku kyo¯iku shinko¯kai, revised edn, 1997, pp. 171–2; Crowley, Japan’s Quest, pp. 122–6; Nish, Japan’s Struggle, pp. 34–43. 7 Seki, ‘Manchurian Incident’, pp. 207–8. 8 Shimada Toshihiko, ‘The Extension of Hostilities, 1931–1932’, in Morley (ed.), Japan Erupts, pp. 250–1. 9 Masuda Tomoko, ‘Seito¯ naikaku sei no ho¯kai: 1930–1932 nen’, in To¯kyo¯ daigaku shakai kagaku kenkyu¯jo (ed.), Gendai Nihon shakai, Vol. 4: Rekishiteki zentei, Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1991, pp. 205, 210, 219. 10 Lesley Connors, The Emperor’s Adviser: Saionji Kinmochi and Pre-War Japanese Politics, London, Croom Helm, 1987, p. 106. 11 Ibid., pp. 126–34. 12 Oka Takashi, ‘Saionji and the Manchurian Crisis’, Papers on China (Harvard University), 1954, pp. 58, 62. 13 Stephen S. Large, Emperor Hirohito and Sho¯wa Japan: A Political Biography, London, Routledge, 1992, pp. 35, 47–55. 14 Herbert P. Bix, ‘The Sho¯wa Emperor’s “Monologue” and the Problem of War Responsibility’, Journal of Japanese Studies, Vol. 18, No. 2, Summer 1992, pp. 342–5; Herbert P. Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan, New York, HarperCollins,

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15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

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2000, pp. 240–5. For a similar view see Awaya Kentaro¯, ‘Emperor Sho¯wa’s Accountability for War’, Japan Quarterly, October–December 1991, p. 392. Quoted in Bix, ‘Sho¯wa Emperor’s “Monologue”’, p. 344. Bix, Hirohito, pp. 247–8. Terasaki Hidenari and Mariko Terasaki Miller (eds), Sho¯wa tenno¯ dokuhakuroku: Terasaki Hidenari goyo¯gakari nikki, Tokyo, Bungei shunju¯, 1991, p. 35. Ibid., pp. 28–9. Bix, Hirohito, p. 263. Terasaki and Miller (eds), Sho¯wa tenno¯ dokuhakuroku, p. 25. See Ito¯, Sho¯wa shoki; Crowley, Japan’s Quest, pp. 35–81. Masuda, ‘Seito¯ naikaku sei no ho¯kai’, pp. 187–8. Ibid., pp. 188–9; Ben-Ami Shillony, Revolt in Japan: The Young Officers and the February 26, 1936 Incident, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1973, pp. 102–3. Banno, Kindai Nihon no gaiko¯ to seijishi, p. 171. Akira Iriye, ‘Introduction’, in James William Morley (ed.), Japan Erupts: The London Naval Conference and the Manchurian Incident, 1928–1932, New York, Columbia University Press, 1984, p. 236. Ibid., pp. 236–7; Shimada, ‘Extension of Hostilities’, pp. 303, 328. Yui, ‘Gunbu to kokumin to¯go¯’; Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, p. 160; ‘League Denounced at Meetings Here’, Trans-Pacific, 23 February 1933, p. 9. See Nish, Japan’s Struggle, p. 38. Shimada, ‘Extension of Hostilities’, pp. 262–6. Quoted ibid., p. 257. Quoted in Banno Junji, ‘Diplomatic Misunderstanding and the Escalation of the Manchurian Incident’, Annals of the Institute of Social Science (University of Tokyo), No. 27, 1985, p. 121. Ugaki Kazushige, Ugaki Kazushige nikki, Vol. 2, Tokyo, Misuzu shobo¯, 1970, p. 816. See also Banno Junji, Kindai Nihon no kokka ko¯zo¯: 1871–1936, Tokyo, Iwanami shoten, 1996, p. 213. Banno, ‘Diplomatic Misunderstanding’, p. 114. Sir Francis Lindley to Marquess of Reading, 2 October 1931, PRO, FO 371/15518. Shimada, ‘Extension of Hostilities’, pp. 266–79. Yoshihashi, Conspiracy, pp. 194–206; Banno, Kindai Nihon no gaiko¯ to seijishi, pp. 177–9; Crowley, Japan’s Quest, pp. 131–5. On the October Incident see also Takahashi Masae, Sho¯wa no gunbatsu, Tokyo, Chu¯o¯ ko¯ronsha, 1969, pp. 125–44. Shimada, ‘Extension of Hostilities’, pp. 279–80. Ibid., pp. 279, 328. See also Yoshihashi, Conspiracy, pp. 203–5. Banno, ‘Diplomatic Misunderstanding’; Banno, Kindai Nihon no gaiko¯ to seijishi, pp. 173–5. Nish, Japan’s Struggle, p. 52. ‘Fundamental Policy for a Settlement of the Manchurian Question’, adopted by the Kwantung Army on 24 October 1931, quoted in Shimada, ‘Extension of Hostilities’, p. 329. Shimada, ‘Extension of Hostilities’, pp. 325–35; Y. Tak Matsusaka, ‘Managing Occupied Manchuria, 1931–1934’, in Duus, Myers and Peattie (eds), Japanese Wartime Empire, pp. 103–4. ‘Seiyu¯ kai Manifesto Condemns Cabinet’ (statement of 16 October), Trans-Pacific, 22 October 1931, p. 7. Gordon Mark Berger, Parties Out of Power in Japan, 1931–1941, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1977, p. 39. Banno, Nihon seijishi, p. 180. Yoshihashi, Conspiracy, pp. 147–9. Makino Ryo¯zo¯, ‘Futatsu no ju¯dai kokunan’, Seiyu¯, No. 377, February 1932, p. 56.

102 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73

74

75 76

National perspectives

‘Seiyu¯ kai Manifesto Condemns Cabinet’, Trans-Pacific, 22 October 1931, p. 7. ‘Seiyu¯ kai Attitude on China Stronger’, Trans-Pacific, 24 December 1931, p. 12. ‘Group of Seiyu¯ kai Approves Policies’, Trans-Pacific, 31 December 1931, p. 8. ‘Futility of Facts Stressed by Mori’, Trans-Pacific, 12 May 1932, p. 8. Teikoku gikai shu¯giin giji sokkiroku, Tokyo, Naikaku insatsukyoku, 22 January 1932, pp. 17–18. Ibid., 61st session, 23 March 1932, pp. 10ff. ‘Seiyu¯ kai Obstructs Gathering of House’, Trans-Pacific, 1 September 1932, p. 8; Nish, Japan’s Struggle, p. 138. ‘Opposition Attacks Government Policy’, Trans-Pacific, 31 March 1932, p. 9. Trans-Pacific, 31 December 1931, p. 9, report on Diet session. Vice-Admiral Kobayashi, quoted in Nish, Japan’s Struggle, p. 37. Teikoku gikai shu¯giin giji sokkiroku, 61st session, 20 March 1932, p. 1. Ibid., 23 March 1932, p. 12. Banno, Kindai Nihon no kokka ko¯zo¯, pp. 189–91. Trans-Pacific, 28 January 1932, pp. 11, 12. ‘The Voter’s Choice’, Trans-Pacific, 4 February 1932, p. 1. ‘The Election’, Trans-Pacific, 25 February 1932, p. 14. Dr S. Washio, ‘War Clouds in China Overshadow Politics’, Trans-Pacific, 26 January 1933, p. 4; see also p. 9. ‘Japanese Press Views’, Trans-Pacific, 2 February 1933, p. 6. Maruyama, ‘Ideology and Dynamics’, p. 32. Robert J. Spaulding Jr, ‘The Bureaucracy as a Political Force, 1920–1945’, in James William Morley (ed.), Dilemmas of Growth in Prewar Japan, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1971, pp. 33–80. Garon, State and Labor, pp. 188, 200. On the characteristics of the journal see Sakata Masatoshi, ‘Kaisetsu’, in Naiseishi kenkyu¯kai and Nihon kindai shiryo¯ kenkyu¯kai (ed. and publ.), Zasshi ‘Shimin’ mokuji so¯ran: 1906–1944, Tokyo, pp. 1–19. See especially Yanai Hisao, ‘Burajiru imin to Manmo¯ imin’, Shimin, June 1932, pp. 32–7. See Matsuda Michikazu, ‘Kokusai renmei dattai tsu¯kokugo no Nippon’, Shimin, May 1933, pp. 8–12; Aoki Kazuo, ‘Sekai keizai no genjo¯ to Renmei dattaigo ni okeru wagakuni no chii’, ibid., pp. 13–21. For an extended analysis of the attitude of Shimin to the Manchurian crisis, and references to specific articles, see Wilson, ‘Bureaucrats and Villagers’. Smith, A Time of Crisis, esp. Ch. 6; Kase Kazutoshi, ‘Ryo¯-taisenkanki ni okeru no¯gyo¯ seisaku to no¯songawa no taio¯’, in Rekishigaku kenkyu¯kai (ed.), Higashi Ajia sekai no saihen to minshu¯ ishiki: 1983nen Rekishigaku kenkyu¯ bessatsu tokushu¯, Tokyo, Aoki shoten, 1983, pp. 154–5. Takahashi Yasutaka, Sho¯wa senzenki no no¯son to Manshu¯ imin, Tokyo, Yoshikawa ko¯bunkan, 1997, p. 93. See also Taikakai (ed.), Naimusho¯shi, Vol. 1, Tokyo, Chiho¯ zaimu kyo¯kai, 1971, pp. 409–11. On the Home Ministry and revitalisation see Smith, A Time of Crisis, pp. 203–6. Wilson, ‘Bureaucrats and Villagers’, pp. 131–4. Murata Ikeru, ‘Iwate-ken Atago-mura seinendan no katsuyaku’, Shimin, March 1933, pp. 52–4. The late 1920s and early 1930s were a critical period in the development of ko¯min kyo¯iku (civic education), or education in the rights and obligations of citizenship. With the granting of universal manhood suffrage in 1925 came new efforts to educate the population in such matters, and at the same time to promote a nationalistic ideology through civic education. Civics was gradually introduced as a subject throughout the school system, including vocational training schools (jitsugyo¯ gakko¯) in 1930. The ko¯min gakko¯ said to have been attended by Kikuchi Ichiro¯ may in fact have been a vocational training school with such a subject

Establishment perspectives

77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104

103

in the curriculum. See Narita Katsuya, ‘Ko¯min kyo¯iku’, in Nihon kindai kyo¯ikushi jiten henshu¯ iinkai (ed.), Nihon kindai kyo¯ikushi jiten, Tokyo, Heibonsha, 1977, p. 328. Smith, A Time of Crisis. See Usui Katsumi, ‘The Role of the Foreign Ministry’, in Borg and Okamoto (eds), Pearl Harbor as History, pp. 127–48. Spaulding, ‘Bureaucracy as a Political Force’, p. 60. For ‘new bureaucrats’ in Shimin, see Wilson, ‘Bureaucrats and Villagers’, p. 123. Spaulding, ‘Bureaucracy as a Political Force’, p. 65. See Wilson, ‘Containing the Crisis’. Wakasugi Kaname to Foreign Minister, 23 April 1932, Gaiko¯ shiryo¯kan, Tokyo, Foreign Ministry papers, Manshu¯ jihen: Yoron narabi shinbun roncho¯: Yoron keihatsu kankei, Vol. 5, A.1.1.0.21–4–2. Uchiyama Kiyoshi to Foreign Minister, 17 April 1932, ibid. Uchiyama Kiyoshi, ‘Japan’s Rights and Interests in Manchuria’, address at luncheon of Transportation Club, Seattle, 30 November 1931, ibid., Vol. 2. [Arai Kinta], ‘La Voz del Pueblo Japones respecto del Manchukuo’, October 1932, ibid., Vol. 8; also ‘Japanese Attacks Policies of United States in Pamphlets Broadcast in Latin America’, New York Times, 23 November 1932, p. 1. Translation from New York Times. Lindley to Simon, 30 August 1932, PRO, FO 410/94. Warren I. Cohen, The Chinese Connection: Roger S. Greene, Thomas W. Lamont, George E. Sokolsky and American–East Asian Relations, New York, Columbia University Press, 1978, p. 190. Quoted (in Japanese translation) in Kitaoka Shin’ichi, Kiyosawa Kiyoshi, Tokyo, Chu¯o¯ ko¯ronsha, 1987, p. 96. See also Wilson, ‘Containing the Crisis’, pp. 353–72. Gaiko¯ shiryo¯kan, A.1.1.0.21–4–2, Vol. 10. Yuanqie, ‘May Twenty-first in Tangshan’, in Sherman Cochran, Andrew C. K. Hsieh and Janis Cochran (trans. and ed.), One Day in China: May 21, 1936, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1983, p. 218. See Inoue Toshikazu, ‘Kokusai renmei dattai to kokusai kyo¯cho¯ gaiko¯’, Hitotsubashi ronso¯, Vol. 94, No. 3, November 1985, pp. 353–72; Ogata, ‘Gaiko¯’, pp. 49–50. Wilson, ‘Containing the Crisis’, p. 347. Inoue Toshikazu, Kiki no naka no kyo¯cho¯ gaiko¯: Nitchu¯ senso¯ ni itaru taigai seisaku no keisei to tenkai, Tokyo, Yamakawa shuppansha, 1994, p. 95. Ibid., pp. 92–5. See Usui, ‘Role of the Foreign Ministry’, pp. 133–4; Ian Nish, Japanese Foreign Policy 1869–1942: Kasumigaseki to Miyakezaka, London, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1977, pp. 187, 190. Inoue Toshikazu, ‘Kokusai renmei dattaigo no Nihon gaiko¯’, Hitotsubashi ronso¯, Vol. 93, No. 2, February 1985, pp. 210–29; Ogata, ‘Gaiko¯’, p. 50. On British overtures, see Gill Bennett, ‘British Policy in the Far East 1933–1936: Treasury and Foreign Office’, Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 26, No. 3, July 1992, pp. 545–68. See Lensen, Damned Inheritance, pp. 212–334. Takafusa Nakamura, A History of Sho¯wa Japan, 1926–1989, trans. Edwin Whenmouth, Tokyo, University of Tokyo Press, 1998, pp. 103–4. Grew, Ten Years, p. 73. See Fujino Tadashi, ‘Sho¯wa shoki no “jiyu¯shugisha”: Tsurumi Yu¯suke o chu¯shin toshite’, Nihon rekishi, No. 415, December 1982, p. 71. Usui Katsumi, Manshu¯koku to Kokusai renmei, Tokyo, Yoshikawa ko¯bunkan, 1995, p. 193. Hotsumi Ozaki, Recent Developments in Sino-Japanese Relations, Tokyo, Japanese Council, Institute of Pacific Relations, 1936, pp. 6–7, 11–13. Ibid., pp. 3, 7–8, 22.

104

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105 Banno Junji, ‘Seito¯ seiji no ho¯kai’, in Banno Junji and Miyaji Masato (eds), Nihon kindaishi ni okeru tenkanki no kenkyu¯, Tokyo, Yamakawa shuppansha, 1985, pp. 368–9. 106 Crowley, Japan’s Quest, pp. 205–6. See also Banno, Kindai Nihon no kokka ko¯zo¯, pp. 224–6; Smith, A Time of Crisis, pp. 166–7. 107 Quoted in Berger, Parties Out of Power, pp. 106–7. 108 Kinmonth, ‘Mouse that Roared’.

5

Left, right and centre Public intellectuals and political revolutionaries

This chapter will consider the responses to the Manchurian crisis of public figures outside the government and Diet – that is, the scholars, journalists and others who made public statements about events in Manchuria, Shanghai and Geneva – and dissident political activists of both the left and the right. While the opinions of radicals from either end of the political spectrum did not normally reach wide audiences, both groups had an unusual opportunity to present their views in the early 1930s, through major public trials of Communists in 1931–32 and of right-wing terrorists in 1933–34. The views of more moderate public intellectuals, on the other hand, were aired frequently in the newspapers and serious magazines, where they had considerable potential to help shape public opinion about the Manchurian crisis.

Left-wing and liberal opposition to the Manchurian Incident Some individuals were publicly critical of Japan’s role in the fighting in Manchuria, though they were greatly outnumbered by those who actively supported it or remained silent. In terms of organisations, only the Communist Party responded to the Manchurian Incident with immediate and unqualified denunciation and managed to hold to this position for any length of time. Other socialist, democratic and labour organisations were soon thrown into confusion and crisis by events in Manchuria, often splintering over the issues they raised, as we shall see in later chapters. By mid-1933 the ramifications of the Manchurian Incident had helped provoke a mortal crisis in the Japan Communist Party, too. In late 1931, though, the Communist attitude to events in Manchuria was clear. The illegal Communist newspaper Sekki (Akahata, Red Flag) proclaimed: The bourgeois newspapers and magazines unanimously find the ‘causes’ of the present war in the ‘violence’ and ‘scornful attitude toward Japan’ of Chinese soldiers and in the partial destruction of the Manchurian railway. However, this is completely false. The real cause lies in the fact that the Japanese imperialists have been preparing a war of territorial plunder in order to extricate themselves from the crisis with which they are confronted at home. The action that the Japanese military clique took under instructions from the financial bourgeoisie did not come about all at once . . . It is an act of

106

National perspectives imperialism and the beginning of armed intervention in the Soviet Union . . . We must transform the war of imperialism that will intensify the dictatorship of the bourgeoisie into a civil war in order to establish the dictatorship of the proletariat.1

An even better arena in which to publicise their views was provided by a major trial of Japanese Communists that had been underway in Tokyo since June 1931. For the first time, the trial was a public one, attended by capacity audiences and reported in the newspapers and elsewhere. Charged with attempting to overthrow the existing form of government, Communist leaders after 18 September 1931 seized the many opportunities afforded by daily appearances in court for forthright opposition to the war in Manchuria.2 Lasting over a year, the public trial provided the Communist Party with unprecedented opportunities for propaganda. In the final analysis, however, the party’s capacity to affect opinions in the wider society was limited. Its influence on the broader left wing was undoubtedly greater than membership of a few hundred would suggest, but the fact remains that the Japan Communist Party in the early 1930s was a minuscule group whose effectiveness was much reduced by police harassment. In particular, writings by Communists were always likely to be banned by the censors, printing presses were seized when possible and speeches were disrupted. Further, Japan’s invasion of Manchuria and public reaction to it was a vital factor leading to the wave of ‘recantations’ (tenko¯) that decimated the Communist Party from the middle of 1933 onwards.3 In June of that year, two very prominent Communists, Sano Manabu and Nabeyama Sadachika, issued a statement from prison recanting their former beliefs and announcing their conversion to love of country. Though still identifying themselves as socialists, they rejected both the Japan Communist Party and the Communist International. The statement came as a huge shock to other party members and marked the beginning of a tidal wave as a large number of other Communists joined Sano and Nabeyama in ‘recanting’ from 1933 onwards. For their part, the authorities were delighted with the defections and put much effort into encouraging them. By the end of July 1933, just over a month after the joint statement, 548 other alleged Communists either already convicted or awaiting trial under the Peace Preservation Law had formally renounced Communism. By mid-1936, threequarters of the 438 Communists serving gaol sentences had ‘recanted’.4 The ‘conversions’ of 1933 had definite antecedents: in the national socialism and apologia for Japanese expansionism developed after the Russian Revolution by the prominent socialists Takabatake Motoyuki, Akamatsu Katsumaro and Takahashi Kamekichi, and in the departure from the Japan Communist Party as early as 1929 of a group of junior members, the ‘dissolutionist faction’ (kaito¯ha), whose dissatisfactions with the party closely prefigured those of Sano and Nabeyama four years later.5 The roots of Sano and Nabeyama’s joint statement, however, lie clearly in the events of 1931 and 1932.6 The contradictory attitude of the Communist International to Japan in this period doubtless played its part.

Intellectuals and political revolutionaries 107 The Comintern’s 1932 Theses on Japan not only labelled Japanese society as ‘barbaric’, ‘backward’ and ‘feudalistic’ but also completely overturned its own Draft Political Theses on Japan of the previous year, which had briefly lent support to the view that far from being backward, the country was in fact sufficiently advanced as to be ripe for the proletarian revolution.7 The 1932 Theses thus came as a considerable shock to Japanese Communists, a number of whom were using the previous set of Comintern theses as the basis for vigorous propaganda during the long-running public trial mentioned above.8 Undoubtedly, however, it was the Manchurian Incident itself that was pivotal in provoking the 1933 recantations. Sano and Nabeyama’s change of mind, and that of others after them, were greatly encouraged by the jingoistic atmosphere surrounding the army’s exploits, as well as by the increased level of police harassment of Communists following the incident at Mukden. The new situation brought about by the invasion of Manchuria helps explain why many more Communists followed the lead of Sano and Nabeyama in 1933, whereas the 1929 departures from the party had sparked no such large-scale defections. Whatever the complex causes of the ‘recantations’ which wrecked the Communist Party, they certainly ended the party’s capacity to continue any significant public opposition to Japan’s actions in Manchuria. Meanwhile, open opposition to the Manchurian Incident had also been expressed by a few other organisations, including the Musan fujin do¯mei (Proletarian Women’s League), which was associated with the Nihon ro¯no¯to¯ (Japan Labour–Farmer Party). During 1932, however, the League, like other socialist and reformist groups, suffered severe internal dissension over issues relating to the Manchurian crisis.9 The nervousness made evident by the phenomenon of Communist ‘recantation’ spread to other workers’ organisations as well. Several left-wing labour and cultural associations, which had previously supported the party and opposed war, such as the Proletarian Writers’ Union and the Proletarian Artists’ Union, disbanded within a year of the joint statement by Sano and Nabeyama. Individual Marxists outside the Communist Party who denounced the Kwantung Army’s actions included the veteran socialists Sakai Toshihiko and Arahata Kanson. A few days after the explosion at Mukden, Arahata wrote that regardless of who was responsible for the outbreak of hostilities, their purpose was to enhance Japan’s imperialist rights and interests in Manchuria; that inherent in the current conflict was the risk of a second world war, whatever the authorities might say about localising it; that the conflict in Manchuria not only represented an attempt to defuse workers’ hostility towards the state but would also be used as an opportunity to further the repression of the working class at home; and that the military, which was clearly at odds with the civilian government, was striving to establish its own dictatorship. Arahata concluded with a call to workers to protect their class interests by opposing imperialist war and fighting against the danger of a second world conflict. His efforts, however, were in this case greatly hampered by the fact that the whole issue of the journal for which he was writing was banned on publication.10

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A handful of liberal intellectuals also denounced the Manchurian Incident outright. One of the most consistent and forthright opponents of the view that Japan had to defend its ‘rights and interests’ in Manchuria was the liberal journalist and critic, Kiyosawa Kiyoshi. In the late 1920s Kiyosawa had advocated relinquishing Japanese rights in Manchuria for the sake of good relations with China. In any case, he took the unusual position that Japan’s rights in Manchuria were of dubious value and were not adequately based on the existing treaties. Kiyosawa did not change his view in September 1931. Immediately after the Manchurian Incident he expressed doubt about the Japanese version of events and further doubt that Japan would gain anything from the Manchurian Incident, also rejecting the ubiquitous propaganda slogan which proclaimed Manchuria to be Japan’s ‘life-line’. In fact, he correctly predicted that Japanese interests in southern Manchuria would suffer and that there would be a drop in Japanese trade with China.11 The influential liberal economist and journalist Ishibashi Tanzan was if anything even more insistent than Kiyosawa on the uselessness of Japan’s interests in Manchuria. Curiously, his newspaper, To¯yo¯ keizai shinpo¯ (Oriental Economist), acquiesced in the Manchurian Incident itself. Ishibashi as an individual, however, powerfully attacked the notion that Japan could legitimately intervene in Manchuria except in the most limited circumstances, insisting that Manchuria was unquestionably Chinese territory and thus was not Japan’s to exploit, other than through normal trading relations, which in any case were in danger of serious damage thanks to Japanese actions. For Ishibashi, the idea that Japanese in any numbers could live in Manchuria was an ‘absurd notion’ which if pursued would produce many victims on the one hand, and very few benefits on the other. He took issue with all the standard arguments about advantages Japan could gain from the exploitation of Manchuria, adding that any economic prosperity which might eventually result from the development of the region belonged to its existing inhabitants, not to an outside power.12 The cogent arguments of Ishibashi, however, reached only a small, select audience in comparison to the much higher readerships of the mainstream newspapers and magazines: circulation of To¯yo¯ keizai shinpo¯ was estimated at just 30,000 in the mid1930s. By the same token, the journal’s ‘modern, cosmopolitan, corporate’ audience put it in a strong position to influence an important section of public opinion.13 Among the opponents of the military action in Manchuria were also several specialists in law and politics, whose criticisms centred on the relevant international treaties and on the argument that Japan was acting in ‘self-defence’. Yokota Kisaburo¯, professor of law at Tokyo Imperial University, for example, questioned the doctrine of self-defence and declared his support for the measures taken by the League. In his opinion the Kwantung Army’s actions had violated not only the League Covenant but also the Kellogg–Briand (Anti-War) Pact, which Japan had signed in 1928, thus renouncing the use of war, and the NinePower Pact of 1922, in which Japan and eight other countries had agreed not to interfere in China. Similarly, the prominent political scientist and legal scholar

Intellectuals and political revolutionaries 109 Yoshino Sakuzo¯ opposed the Japanese military action, which he labelled as imperialist, rejected the self-defence argument and lamented the willingness of the press and left-wing political parties to applaud the dispatch of troops to Manchuria. Yanaihara Tadao, professor of colonial policy at Tokyo Imperial University, also attacked Japanese activity in Manchuria, calling for support for Chinese nationalists’ attempts to unify the country, and concluding that Japan could not afford to sacrifice its relations with other countries, especially China, because of an exaggerated concern over Manchuria On the other hand, he never seriously challenged official arguments about Japan’s ‘rights and interests’ in the region. A few individual Christians – but not Christian organisations – also protested against Japanese militarism in Manchuria.14 Scholars like Yokota, Yoshino and Yanaihara, however, became more and more isolated, in a milieu where most of their colleagues eventually took the position that the military action in Manchuria did not violate the existing legal order. More typical of legal scholars was Tachi Sakutaro¯, professor of international law at Tokyo Imperial University, who wrote that as ‘war’ in the legal sense had not been declared, Japan had not violated the first article of the Kellogg–Briand Pact, which renounced war ‘as an instrument of national policy’. Tachi accepted the self-defence argument and, like most Japanese scholars of international law, particularly emphasised the point that the right of self-defence took precedence over all other international obligations.15

The Manchurian Incident and moderate opinion The events of September 1931 onwards produced a painful period of confusion and compromise for many public figures and organisations of moderate views, especially those committed to some form of internationalism. Though they may have been shocked and even repelled by the Kwantung Army’s actions, ultimately very few of them were prepared publicly to reject Japan’s right to control Manchuria. Some potential critics probably remained silent out of prudence: the economist Ueda Teijiro¯ recorded in his diary, for example, that he had been warned at a private gathering that it was dangerous to speak against the military action in Manchuria.16 Others took refuge in simply reiterating the official version of events without further comment. A significant number, however, cautiously supported the government, persuading themselves that the changed economic, political and international circumstances of the early 1930s justified drastic action on Japan’s part in order to rescue itself from the dangers which beset it. Sometimes they saw themselves as simultaneously trying to restrain the army from further excesses or the Cabinet from actions likely to damage Japan’s image in the West, such as withdrawal from the League. Some who had international connections sought to placate Western countries and soften their reaction to the invasion of Manchuria, using much the same arguments as the diplomats who worked so assiduously on Japan’s behalf. Again, however, very few among civilians sought to placate Chinese opinion. Damage to Japan’s image in China meant little compared to preserving Japan’s reputation in America and

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Britain, and few prominent Japanese at this stage saw the advantage of trying to win China over to the official Japanese point of view. Several case studies, detailed elsewhere, demonstrate that, for most individuals, commitment to co-operative diplomacy in the 1920s did not preclude acceptance of the main principles of ‘Japan’s case’ in late 1931.17 The progressive women’s magazine Fujo shinbun (Women’s and Girls’ Newspaper) is one example of a publication which rationalised its internationalism and self-proclaimed ‘pacifism’ to the point where it could support Japan’s actions in Manchuria, just as it had supported the military in the war against Russia nearly three decades earlier, justified the colonisation of Korea in 1910, and endorsed Japan’s involvement in the Great War of 1914–18.18 By 1931 the paper was a longstanding supporter of the League of Nations and identified itself explicitly with the peace movement, largely on the grounds that women were idealists and ‘natural’ pacificists because of their comparative physical weakness and their status either as biological mothers or as the spiritual mothers of the human race. In November 1931, the socialist Yamakawa Kikue attempted to dismiss such a stance as an amusing indulgence possible only in peace-time, in an argument which failed to reach her readers because of drastic cuts made to her article in a bid to avoid the attentions of the censor.19 Evidently, she was right in her suspicion that a ‘pacifism’ based on maternalism was unlikely to last: after 18 September 1931, Fujo shinbun switched smoothly to a consistent defence of Japan’s actions, asserting that events in Manchuria should not be interpreted as ‘war’ because fighting was local and limited and did not involve invasion of a weaker country, and that Japan had not contravened the principles of the League of Nations because it had acted in self-defence. The Japanese government had no wish to fight a war with China, it was argued; the escalation of the ‘incident’ had occurred because the dishonesty and insincerity of ‘the Manchurian government’ had driven the patience of peace-loving Japan to its limit after consistent abuse by China of Japan’s legitimate rights and interests in Manchuria.20 Fujo shinbun repeated for its readers the standard arguments about Japan’s rights and interests in Manchuria and the region’s importance for Japan; the myth of the spontaneous movement seeking the creation of the independent state of ‘Manchukuo’; the claim that Manchuria did not really belong to China; the arguments about the disorder and weakness of China. It accepted that Manchuria was Japan’s ‘life-line’ and, by the time the Lytton Report appeared, agreed that the world was dealing unjustly with Japan.21 Though there was little or no editorial interest in emigration to Manchuria, other sections of the magazine printed reports of the campaigns to recruit wives for the settlers, the occasional article exhorting women to go to Manchuria, and reports on a school in Tokyo which aimed to train colonists. There were also constant reports of delegations of all kinds travelling to and from Manchuria to bring greetings, deliver petitions for further action, hand over donations, see Manchuria at first hand, and so on. Fujo shinbun, despite its professed pacifism, thus not only failed to challenge the fundamental points of Japan’s official justification of its actions during the Manchurian crisis, but positively endorsed them. It was certainly a willing stance:

Intellectuals and political revolutionaries 111 neither censorship nor official pressure can explain the amount of space it gave to Manchurian issues. The underlying reasons for the magazine’s position were undoubtedly the deep and long-standing commitment of the journal’s editor, Fukushima Shiro¯, to establishment policies and values, together with his disregard for other Asian countries including China. A journalist who saw himself as dedicated in the same measure to equality between men and women and respect for the national essence (kokutai),22 Fukushima was profoundly devoted to the imperial house and convinced of its importance for the Japanese people. Further, he believed that Japan, as the only Asian country which had been able to rise above backwardness and decay, had a mission to lead the region towards civilisation; accordingly, ‘Japan, land of the gods, is on the road to expansion’, and in the end would defeat those countries which contravened the will of heaven, that is, the advance of Japan.23 Fundamentally, however, Fukushima was uninterested in China or any other Asian country, habitually turning his eyes to the West, which he characterised as progressive in comparison to backward Asia. Even before the Manchurian Incident, the journal’s espousal of pacifism and internationalism had been counterbalanced by strong patriotism and nationalism. Between 1931 and 1933, though Fukushima continued to assert that he opposed war in a general sense, he always ended up conceding that there were some circumstances which made war necessary or inevitable, even while he urged women to uphold the ideal of peace and to resist war, and maintained that Japan was a peace-loving country which preferred to co-operate with other races and assimilate with them. A similar pattern of response to the Manchurian crisis was exhibited by the Japanese members of the Institute of Pacific Relations (IPR), an important international non-government organisation dedicated to resolving problems affecting the Pacific region. The Japan Council of the IPR was organised in 1926, with Shibusawa Eiichi, the well-known and powerful business leader, as overall chairman; Inoue Junnosuke, then Governor of the Bank of Japan, as chairman of the board of directors; and scholars and public figures such as Nitobe Inazo¯, Tsurumi Yu¯suke, Takagi Yasaka and Takayanagi Kenzo¯ as prominent members. The Council played a significant role in the 1930s in Japanese–American relations in particular. Its members had a high profile as distinguished but nonofficial spokesmen for Japan, especially during the international conferences of the IPR, which were held approximately every two years and widely reported in the world’s presses and elsewhere. Japanese members of the IPR had been committed to Woodrow Wilson’s pacifist ideal. They advocated co-operation in international relations, supported the League of Nations, and believed in the potential efficacy of treaties in regulating international conduct, and in their own mission to guide the general populace towards the same beliefs.24 Yet by the end of 1931 they supported Japanese expansion into Manchuria and staunchly defended their country’s actions against criticism from the League of Nations and the United States. The single most important point that Japanese members of the IPR sought to convey to non-Japanese, in their lectures, at IPR conferences and through

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personal contacts, was that their country’s claims to special rights and interests in Manchuria were legitimate. They also emphasised Japan’s need for Manchuria, repeating the cliché that it was Japan’s ‘life-line’ of natural resources, in addition to stressing the region’s strategic importance for Japan: as Nitobe said in a lecture in November 1932, Japan needed Manchuria as a first line of defence against the USSR and against ‘the propaganda of Communist ideas’ from that country.25 They justified Japan’s military action in Manchuria as having been necessary for self-defence in two senses. First, and in the long term, anti-Japanese activity in China was said to have provoked the Japanese to an extent that could no longer be tolerated. Particular reference was made to the issue of economic boycotts, which, according to Nitobe, constituted ‘war in its incipient stage’.26 Second, Japanese members of the IPR publicly subscribed to the official view that on 18 September 1931 the Kwantung Army had been forced by Chinese soldiers into a defensive action. It is unlikely that people as well-connected as the Japanese IPR members would really have believed this story. However, reiteration of the official arguments about self-defence allowed them to maintain that their country had not in fact contravened the Kellogg–Briand Pact; they could therefore assert that Japan had remained within the bounds of 1920s co-operative diplomacy.27 Thus, in defending the Manchurian Incident, members of the Japan Council of the IPR employed arguments which were very close to the official line. In fact, their public acceptance of the Japanese government line was never in doubt,28 though it did not come without personal cost. Many Japanese members of the IPR had built their careers and their considerable personal prestige at least partly on the basis of support for and from the United States, Europe and the League. Tsurumi Yu¯suke believed that in the Japanese public mind he was identified with America; Nitobe was fond of defining his mission as ‘transmitting the ideas of the West to the East, and of the East to the West’.29 Moreover, through the IPR and by other means, they often had close personal ties with Americans and Europeans. The Sino-Japanese conflict, or more precisely the resulting conflict between Japan and the Western powers, therefore posed acute problems for individual members of the Japan Council of the IPR and represented a serious crisis for the group as a whole. As Ogata Sadako notes, they in common with Japanese liberals of all kinds were very much caught in the middle during the Manchurian crisis, and their position became more and more precarious as domestic and foreign pressures increased.30 It is telling that for Nitobe and his colleagues, firmly oriented as they were towards Western countries, the Sino-Japanese dispute warranted comparatively little attention until it had quite obviously become an issue in US–Japan relations – that is, in 1932 rather than 1931. As far as they were concerned, the ‘squabble now going on in Manchuria’31 was, initially, no more than a temporary problem, and they did not expect it to damage US–Japan relations, which were their prime concern. The Shanghai Incident in early 1932, then the issue of Japanese recognition of Manchukuo, loomed larger for them than had the Manchurian Incident itself. For them, once again, China was simply not the point. With their Western contacts and their sensitivity to European and American opinion, they

Intellectuals and political revolutionaries 113 were well aware that Shanghai was much more important than Mukden in Western eyes, and that the creation and recognition of Manchukuo were more offensive to the United States and the League of Nations than was de facto Japanese control of the region. The fairly powerful argument that Japan needed and had a right to Manchurian resources – an argument which had won some level of acceptance among Western observers – did not explain the necessity for an ‘independent state’, considering that Japan could presumably have continued to extract raw materials cheaply from Manchuria without insisting on the region’s severance from the rest of China. During 1932 and 1933, Nitobe, Tsurumi, Takagi and others argued to foreign audiences that a strong Japanese presence in Manchuria was essential so that the people could enjoy as much peace and security as did the residents of Shanghai, Tientsin and other treaty ports; continued to appeal to anti-Communist sentiment, arguing that without an ‘independent’ Manchukuo, the region would ‘fall an easy prey to Bolshevist Russia’;32 and elaborated an ‘Asiatic Monroe Doctrine’ according to which Japanese expansionism in the Sho¯wa period could be compared with the mid-nineteenth-century concept of ‘Manifest Destiny’ used by the United States to justify territorial expansion into territories such as Florida, Texas and California.33 On occasion such moderates also pointed to the hypocrisy of Western calls for a cessation of Japanese hostilities. Over a decade earlier, Konoe Fumimaro had written that ‘peace’ was advocated only by those nations which already had territory, labelling Japan and Germany as ‘have-not’ nations and criticising the League of Nations as a tool of the ‘haves’.34 Tsurumi Yu¯suke had expanded on the idea of ‘have’ and ‘have-not’ nations for Englishspeaking readers in January 1931,35 and such views surfaced again among articulate groups after the Manchurian Incident. Fujo shinbun, for instance, remarked that ‘the respect for territory which underpins all international ethics needs rethinking’, since national boundaries are ‘not based on logic, economics, social or historical reasons’, but ‘are either random or are the result of selfish spheres of influence of heroes of the past’.36 In 1932, the democratic socialist politician Kamei Kan’ichiro¯ referred to Japan in a Diet speech as a ‘proletarian country’ (musan kokka Nihon) because of its large population and lack of resources,37 while the moderate labour leader Nishio Suehiro complained at the International Labour Organisation that the white race ‘has concluded antiwar pacts which have guaranteed territorial possessions and permanent peace under conditions extremely unfavorable to the colored races’.38 Japanese members of the IPR, in their turn, made the standard comparison of Japan’s position in Manchuria to America’s in Central and South America, or argued that Manchuria, along with Korea, stood in the same relation to Japan strategically as did Belgium and the Netherlands to England. Japanese members of the IPR usually continued even during the Manchurian crisis to support the League of Nations, as they had done since its inception. Like many other moderate and liberal intellectuals, politicians and bureaucrats, they saw little or no contradiction between this support and their defence of the Manchurian Incident, believing that it was possible for Japan to pursue its

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‘legitimate interests’ and still remain within the framework of international cooperation, as Western countries had done in the past and continued to do in the present. They thought that Western countries would come to accept the Japanese position, if only they were prepared to listen impartially to ‘facts’, and they saw it as their role to impart the necessary information. ‘Facts’ considered particularly relevant by Japanese members of the IPR included China’s internal disorder and official Japan’s version of the history of Japanese involvement in Manchuria. Their own supposedly ‘factual’ or ‘scientific’ approach was often contrasted by Japanese members of the IPR with the methods used by their Chinese counterparts, which were labelled ‘emotional’ and ‘propagandistic’, and the Japanese were confident that their ‘factual’ approach would be better received by the West than China’s arguments would be.39 Thus, members of the Japan Council of the IPR retained their faith in the League of Nations and, in common with many diplomats and politicians, were confident, or at least hopeful, that the League would come to accept their point of view. It was not an especially unrealistic hope. As noted in the previous chapter, there was widespread sympathy in informed circles in the United States and Europe for the Japanese position and for Japan’s problems of overpopulation and lack of resources; and Britain, the United States and France, at least, had no fundamental objection to Japanese control of Manchuria. Even after Japan’s withdrawal from the League of Nations, Nitobe for one retained ‘great hopes’ that the League would change its mind about Japan, for ‘there are statesmen who can see facts with the naked eye and recognize realities, however ugly they may sometimes be’.40 Japanese members of the IPR moved to support the government line during the Manchurian crisis because they were essentially nationalistic, notwithstanding their commitment to internationalism, and had long accepted that Japanese interests in Manchuria were sacrosanct. They were basically not interested in any Chinese points of view, sometimes dismissing them quite explicitly as unimportant compared to Japanese and Western perspectives. Nitobe, for example, referred in January 1932 to China’s new national government as a collection of ‘half-educated youths’. It was only the ‘maturer minds’ of other governments that could ‘get together and attend to the rudimentary duties of keeping promises to other nations and of maintaining order and security within their territory’.41 Feeling so little need to take account of Chinese perspectives, such observers were outspoken on Japan’s rights in China, which they believed to be unreasonably threatened by the nationalist movement. Further, though they prided themselves on their status as non-government figures, they maintained close connections with Japanese government figures and tended to see themselves as semi-official representatives of Japan to the West. It was very difficult for them in these circumstances to distance themselves from official views.42

The right wing Rightist activists are commonly portrayed as fanatical terrorists bent on overseas conquest above all else. More soberly, the right wing has often been included as a

Intellectuals and political revolutionaries 115 critical part of the picture of a nation moving inexorably towards war from September 1931 onwards. An examination of the activities and motivations of rightist radicals in the early 1930s suggests, however, that the coherence of the right wing, and the degree of its association with continental expansion in this period, have both been exaggerated. Right-wing reactions to the Manchurian Incident remain elusive because rightist groups left few written records and were themselves small and shadowy, despite the influence they certainly wielded and the sympathy they found among highly placed political, military and business leaders. Nevertheless, pressure from right-wing nationalism was a crucial element of the political and social landscape of the early 1930s, and rightists undoubtedly exercised more real influence over the course of events than did the better organised and more institutionalised left-wing activists. In the two years after the signing of the London Naval Treaty in 1930, the right-wing nationalist movement expanded rapidly. While acknowledging that some groups ‘functioned for only a short time or existed in name alone’, the Police Bureau of the Home Ministry counted eighty-seven such groups in 1931 and 196 in 1932, compared to one in 1921, five in 1922 and twenty-five in 1927.43 As in the case of the leftists, moreover, the influence of right-wing activists far outweighed their numbers, as details of their plotting to assassinate leading figures and bring about the fall of cabinets spread deep alarm throughout the ruling class in the early 1930s and beyond, discouraging firm action against the military by moderates who feared further right-wing retaliation. Two points can be made about the responses of the right-wing movement to the Manchurian crisis. First, the Kwantung Army’s actions in Manchuria can hardly fail to have found favour in principle with at least some rightist groups, as many of them were committed to Japan’s ‘mission’ in Asia, and well disposed to the idea of decisive military action. Home Ministry censors certainly believed the Manchurian Incident stimulated right-wing and reactionary groups in 1931 and 1932, leading to a marked increase in rightist publications, as well as the growth in numbers noted above.44 Second, however, right-wing interest in and approval of the events of September 1931 was not automatic: some rightist leaders considered the Manchurian Incident an unwelcome distraction from the more urgent task of internal reconstruction. For them, the Manchurian Incident did not constitute an important landmark, and in their eyes, there was no guarantee that Japan would have gained anything by the Kwantung Army’s action unless internal reform could be secured immediately. Though there was little or no connection between civilian and semi-civilian right-wing groups in Japan and the Kwantung Army conspirators who staged the Manchurian Incident, the army’s successful strikes in Manchuria held a certain amount of natural appeal for many rightists, because they represented recovery of Japan’s ‘legitimate interests in Manchuria’. Indeed, to an extent, the Manchurian Incident provided a new focus and direction, and a basis for collective action, for what had been a rather motley collection of rightist groups.45 The events of September 1931 onwards also appealed to those right-wing extremists who

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tended to look to the military as the potential saviours of the nation. Many rightwing groups had links with individual military officers or factions. As a US State Department analysis noted: Just as the Emperor was to preside over the ‘reconstruction’ of Japan and eventually of the world, the military was to be the instrument of reconstruction in the extreme rightist view. Military men were considered to be the natural and untainted leaders of Japan, who had the armed strength, the moral fiber, and the devotion to both Emperor and people needed to carry out reformation. Many extreme rightists habitually sought the proclamation of martial law as the first step in the reconstruction process.46 Moreover, societies like the prestigious Kokuhonsha (National Foundation Society), whose members included leading politicians, soldiers, bureaucrats and zaibatsu leaders, had long emphasised Japan’s supposed mission in Asia. The influential right-wing author and revolutionary Kita Ikki also favoured expansion on the Asian mainland, while the Kokuryu¯kai (Amur River Society or Black Dragon Society), founded in 1901, had a particular interest in the extension of Japanese power in Manchuria. Some rightists actively promoted Japanese emigration to Manchuria after September 1931.47 The veteran ultranationalist politician Ogawa Heikichi was one prominent rightist who showed a strong commitment to Japanese action in Manchuria, in keeping with his lifelong interest in China issues.48 Seemingly, he had been biding his time for at least two years before exerting pressure for decisive Japanese action, but after September 1931 Ogawa was a persistent exponent of the necessity for an independent Manchuria, doggedly urging members of the government to bring it about, and publishing a small pamphlet on the subject that was widely distributed within the army and elsewhere. He argued in the pamphlet that without Manchuria, Japan could not carry on its national life in an appropriate manner, and furthermore, would lack the resources to fight a future war with the Western powers. It was necessary, he contended, to separate Manchuria from China in order to guarantee the continuation of regional peace. In somewhat contradictory fashion, Ogawa also maintained that Japan should not fear the reaction of the League and the Western powers, as it could fight them now over Manchuria if necessary. From an early point he worked to have Pu Yi installed as the imperial ruler of an ‘independent’ Manchuria. At the end of 1932 Ogawa was already looking forward to the extension of Japanese power outwards from Manchukuo into central China. Interestingly, on the other hand, he was by no means convinced of the stability of the new regime in Manchukuo, warning Japanese leaders on a number of occasions that the collapse of the new government was a distinct possibility.49 Like the left, however, the right wing was far from unified, and there certainly was no consensus as to where revolutionary activities should be first directed. Manchuria was not an automatic priority for rightists; nor was overseas expansion generally, and the question of whether to concentrate on domestic or foreign

Intellectuals and political revolutionaries 117 issues remained a source of tension within rightist circles. Nor did all right-wing nationalists look upon the military with favour. Questions of internal reform and overseas expansion were undoutedly closely interrelated.50 For extreme nationalists within the military, ‘a coup d’état at home would be the best means of overcoming civilian resistance to military plans abroad, of ensuring that the army, unlike the navy [during the crisis over the London Naval Treaty] in 1930, was ultimately independent of cabinet control’.51 Both Lieutenant-Colonel Hashimoto Kingoro¯ of the Sakurakai (Cherry Blossom ¯ kawa Shu¯mei at one point thought Society) and the civilian right-wing activist O there should be precisely simultaneous coups in Manchuria and at home.52 ¯ kawa was certainly committed to both fields of action. Associated with the O abortive plot of March 1931, which aimed at political assassinations that would bring General Ugaki Kazushige to power as Prime Minister, he was also director of the South Manchurian Railway East Asia Research Institute, and from 1929 onwards was very active in lecturing throughout Japan on his own initiative in order to bring the alleged need for firm action in Manchuria to the attention of ¯ kawa, however, apparently became reconciled to the view the Japanese people. O that internal reconstruction should come before foreign adventure, as did Hashimoto, a leader of the next attempt to organise a coup, in October 1931.53 The General Staff of the Army itself declared in a 1930 report, ‘If a positive solution of the Manchurian problems is to be sought, it is inevitable that national reconstruction must precede it. Our thinking has been dominated by this one thought.’54 In fact, one of the reasons for the collapse of the plot to stage a coup d’état in March 1931 had been the withdrawal of several army figures, including Suzuki Teiichi, who believed that the settlement of Manchurian problems should have priority.55 Inoue Nissho¯ was one extreme rightist with strong China connections who apparently decided in 1928 that unless Japan were first reformed, there was no prospect of ‘reform’ of China or the world. The revolution in Japan must come first.56 His later memoir shows no interest in the Manchurian Incident, passing over it with almost no comment at all. At the trial resulting from the Ketsumeidan (blood brotherhood) assassinations of 1932, Inoue professed hatred of ‘military cliques’, whom he regarded as just as selfish as the other elites in power, and explained that he was not interested in military action in Manchuria, since it was senseless to kill lots of Chinese people when the real enemies of Japan were its own ruling elites. Nor did he want military government for Japan.57 Yoshihashi concludes that in 1930–31 the Manchurian problem had been temporarily eclipsed in the minds of right-wing revolutionaries.58 By 1932, on the whole, the need for domestic renovation seemed more urgent to most of them. Right-wing action in Japan in the very busy year of 1932 was certainly in practice more centred on domestic renovation than overseas expansion, though several groups mixed in calls for immediate recognition of Manchukuo, or government support for emigration of farmers to Manchuria, with their core demands for the alleviation of rural poverty, changes to the system of government and so on.59 Discontent at political, social and economic conditions in Japan and the desire to establish a new, revolutionary government were the apparent

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motivations behind the succession of assassinations plotted by Inoue Nissho¯’s ‘blood brotherhood’, resulting in the deaths of former Finance Minister Inoue Junnosuke in February, and executive head of Mitsui, Dan Takuma, in March. The most ambitious plan, to be set in motion through the attempted coup known as the 15 May Incident, was to construct a political system based on the national socialist principles espoused by Kita Ikki, including state ownership of capital and land, then to create the kind of ideal agrarianist society envisaged by the civilian activist Gondo¯ Seikyo¯.60 The 15 May rebels, comprising a group of young naval officers, a few army cadets and some extremists from outside the military, under the leadership of the civilian Tachibana Ko¯saburo¯, carried out extensive attacks on officials and on public offices in Tokyo, including the murder of Prime Minister Inukai Tsuyoshi. The 1933–34 trials of the Ketsumeidan assassins and the 15 May rebels, like the trial of the Communists before them, provided many opportunities for publicising their vehement denunciations of the political parties and zaibatsu. In marked contrast to the Communists, however, comprehensive criticism of the status quo in this case produced an outpouring of public sympathy, expressions of admiration for the ‘pure’ and ‘unselfish’ motives of the defendants and numerous petitions for leniency in sentencing.61 The manifesto distributed by participants in the 15 May Incident makes very little mention of foreign issues – apart from the obligatory reference to ‘weakkneed’ diplomacy – railing instead against the political parties, zaibatsu, bureaucrats and police, and lamenting the ‘indescribable hardships’ of farmers and workers. The ‘military clique’, too, was branded as ‘worthless’.62 Statements made by the defendants in the trials following the 15 May Incident confirm that the ‘patriotic’ rebels were preoccupied with internal issues. Again, they had supposedly been stung to action by the corruption of the ruling elites, especially the political parties and the zaibatsu, and by the suffering of farmers: more than once they were styled as ‘the voice of thirty million farmers’. To the extent that they had been stimulated by foreign policy matters at all, they nominated the conclusion of the hated London Naval Treaty of 1930, the issue which had done so much to bring nationalist groups to public prominence, rather than questions relating to Manchuria.63 Similarly, the Aikyo¯kai, the Ibaragi-based farm co-operative movement founded by Tachibana in 1929, nineteen of whose members participated in the attempted coup, was ‘antagonistic to central authority, cool toward the military, and suspicious of overseas expansion’.64 Members of the Aikyo¯kai invested their energies instead in work for the renewal of farm villages and in criticism of the social and political order which had brought such ruin to the countryside by the early 1930s. Clearly, not all rightists advocated Japanese expansion into Asia as a priority, or were particularly interested in foreign issues at all; and not all looked to the military to rescue Japan from the crises in which it found itself. In some cases, right-wing radicals even fail to conform to the public image of disinterested patriots motivated by devotion to the emperor. The diary of one of the leading figures among right-wing radicals in the navy, Lieutenant-Commander Fujii Hitoshi, for example, reveals the same scepticism evident elsewhere in the

Intellectuals and political revolutionaries 119 military about the fitness of the current emperor to rule. While Fujii retained considerable awe for the imperial institution, he considered that the present incumbent was declining just as Japan was declining, and that he needed to be reawakened to his true role.65 Rightist revolutionaries were as confused as other groups in Japanese society by the circumstances and possibilities of the early 1930s. They did not automatically support the Manchurian Incident. Those whose principal goal was continental expansion, like Ogawa Heikichi, were excited by the Kwantung Army’s actions. Others, however, resolutely kept their eyes on the need for reform at home and, like some more mainstream figures in the bureaucracy, refused to be diverted as yet by military adventurism abroad. For most rightists, the Ketsumeidan assassinations and the attempted coup of 15 May 1932 were of far greater significance than the army’s incursion into north-east China, not only because they promised internal reform but also, perhaps, because such actions allowed a large role for themselves, whereas they had not initiated the Manchurian project. If the early 1930s constituted a landmark from the point of view of right-wing revolutionaries, it was because of political terrorism at home rather than the Manchurian Incident.

Conclusion Events in Manchuria and Geneva brought critical consequences for leftist and centrist groups, forcing them to redefine their positions and indeed, to abandon old commitments. Clearly, there was a substantial area of common ground shared by conservatives, liberals and even some socialists in Japan, common ground that was starkly revealed in the conditions of late 1931. In short, commitment to ‘national interest’ ran deep among civilian public figures as well as military ideologues and government officials. For people like Fukushima Shiro¯, editor of Fujo shinbun, and Nitobe and Tsurumi of the Japan Council of the Institute of Pacific Relations, the needs of the state were ultimately more important than their other, more progressive principles. Such people were not extremists. They rarely, for example, endorsed the more blatant attempts to glorify the military by repeating stories of incredible acts of heroism on the battlefield; nor did they have much to say about the desirability of securing Manchuria through Japanese settlement. In most cases they were reluctant to see Japan withdraw from the League of Nations. They did, however, accept the essential elements of Japan’s claim to Manchuria that were outlined in Chapter 3, and were prepared vigorously to defend them in the public arena. Such a worldview meant that the potential for both moderates and left-wingers to oppose the army or government was severely impaired. In the event, moderate intellectuals for the most part voluntarily tied themselves to Japan’s official stance on Manchuria and the League of Nations, while the left wing was all but destroyed by a combination of official harassment and internal collapse. For right-wing activists the picture was more complex. Those rightists with a particular commitment to overseas expansion celebrated Japan’s new gains but,

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unsatisfied with what had been achieved, conspired to extend them. The formal recognition of Manchukuo by Japan in September 1932 and eventual withdrawal from the League of Nations placated nationalist opinion to a degree, but at home, agrarian suffering continued and the zaibatsu and political parties were still powerful. Those whose major concern was with domestic issues continued to criticise the status quo and to plot internal insurrection, receiving more and more guidance and support from military sources. In the meantime, the majority of people with no particular involvement in politics continued to focus much more on the economic depression than events in Manchuria or the prospects of revolution, especially in the countryside, where conditions were extremely harsh in the early 1930s.

Notes 1 Sekki, 5 October 1931, quoted in George M. Beckmann and Okubo Genji, The Japanese Communist Party 1922–1945, Stanford, Stanford University Press, 1969, p. 220. 2 Nabeyama Sadachika, Watashi wa Kyo¯santo¯ o suteta: jiyu¯ to sokoku o motomete, Tokyo, Daito¯ shuppansha, 1949, pp. 137–40; Beckmann and Okubo, Japanese Communist Party, p. 219. 3 See Sandra Wilson, ‘The Comintern and the Japanese Communist Party’, in Tim Rees and Andrew Thorpe (eds), International Communism and the Communist International 1919–43, Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1998, pp. 300–3. 4 Patricia G. Steinhoff, Tenko: Ideology and Societal Integration in Prewar Japan, New York, Garland, 1991, p. 6. 5 Germaine A. Hoston, The State, Identity, and the National Question in China and Japan, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1994, pp. 32, 177–8. 6 Nabeyama, Watashi wa Kyo¯santo¯ o suteta, pp. 146, 154. 7 Hoston, Marxism and the Crisis of Development, pp. 71–4. 8 See Fukumoto Kazuo, Kakumei undo¯ razo¯, Tokyo, San’ichi shobo¯, 1962, pp. 142–4; Takabatake Michitoshi, ‘Ikkoku shakaishugisha: Sano Manabu, Nabeyama Sadachika’, in Shiso¯ no kagaku kenkyu¯kai (ed.), Tenko¯, Vol. 1, Tokyo, Heibonsha, 1959, p. 173. 9 FS, 27 December 1931, p. 2; 1 May 1932, p. 2; 15 May 1932, p. 2; Ishizuki Shizue, ‘1930nendai no musan fujin undo¯’, in Joseishi so¯go¯ kenkyu¯kai (ed.), Nihon joseishi 5: gendai, Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1982, p. 209. See also Chapter 9 of this book. 10 [Arahata Kanson], ‘Daini [sekai senso¯] no kiki to tatakae!’, Ro¯no¯, October 1931, pp. 2–3. The author’s name is not given in the original and the characters in square brackets in the title had been replaced by fuseji. Arahata summarises the article in Arahata Kanson, Kanson jiden, Tokyo, Ronso¯sha, 1960, p. 493. See pp. 494–5 on Sakai’s opposition to the Manchurian Incident. 11 Kitaoka, Kiyosawa, pp. 52–63, 91–5. 12 Ishibashi Tanzan, ‘Shina ni taisuru tadashiki ninshiki to seisaku’ (6 February 1932), in Kamo Takehiko (ed.), Dai Nippon shugi to no to¯so¯ (Ishibashi Tanzan cho¯sakushu¯ 3: seiji gaiko¯ ron), Tokyo, To¯yo¯ keizai shinpo¯sha, 1996, pp. 193–201; Nolte, Liberalism, pp. 161–3, 248, 270–2. On To¯yo¯ keizai shinpo¯ during the Manchurian crisis, see also Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, Ch. 7. 13 Nolte, Liberalism, pp. 26, 241. 14 Taiichiro Mitani, ‘Changes in Japan’s International Position and the Response of Japanese Intellectuals: Trends in Japanese Studies of Japan’s Foreign Relations,

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15 16 17 18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

27

28 29 30 31 32 33

34 35 36 37 38

1931–1941’, in Borg and Okamoto (eds), Pearl Harbor as History, pp. 577–84; Sadako Ogata, ‘The Role of Liberal Nongovernmental Organizations in Japan’, ibid., pp. 471, 476. On Yanaihara see Susan C. Townsend, Yanaihara Tadao and Japanese Colonial Policy: Redeeming Empire, London, Curzon Press, 2000, esp. Ch. 6. Mitani, ‘Changes’, pp. 576–7. Ueda Teijiro¯, Ueda Teijiro¯ nikki, Vol. 3, Tokyo, Ueda Teijiro¯ nikki kanko¯kai, 1963, p. 166 (November 1931). See especially Sandra Wilson, ‘Women, the State and the Media in the Early 1930s: Fujo shinbun and the Manchurian Crisis’, Japan Forum, Vol. 7, No. 1, April 1995, pp. 87–106; Wilson, ‘Manchurian Crisis and Moderate Japanese Intellectuals’. On the magazine’s attitude to earlier conflicts see Orii Miyako, ‘Fukushima Shiro¯ no senso¯kan’, in Fujo shinbun o yomu kai (ed.), ‘Fujo shinbun’ to josei no kindai, Tokyo, Fuji shuppan, 1997, pp. 257–82; Nagahara Kazuko, ‘Fujo shinbun ni miru Ajia kan’, ibid., pp. 121–2. Yamakawa Kikue, ‘Manshu¯ no ju¯sei’, Fujin ko¯ron, November 1931, reprinted in Yamakawa Kikue, Josei goju¯ ko¯, Tokyo, Kaizo¯sha, 1933 and Suzuki Yu¯ko (ed.), Josei: hangyaku to kakumei to teiko¯ (Shiso¯ no umi e: kaiho¯ to henkaku 2), 1990, pp. 206–10. FS, 27 September 1931, p. 1. ‘Fujin no kokuminteki jikaku’, FS, 9 October 1932, p. 1. Orii, ‘Fukushima Shiro¯ no senso¯kan’, p. 280. ‘Hakai to kensetsu: tomo ni ten’i no hatsugen’, FS, 28 February 1932, p. 1. See also Wilson, ‘Women, the State and the Media’, pp. 95–101; Nagahara,‘Fujo shinbun ni miru Ajia kan’, p. 121; Orii, ‘Fukushima Shiro¯ no senso¯kan’, p. 269. Nakami Mari, ‘Taiheiyo¯ mondai cho¯sakai to Nihon no chishikijin’, Shiso¯, No. 728, February 1985, pp. 106–7; Wilson, ‘Manchurian Crisis and Moderate Japanese Intellectuals’, pp. 518–20. Nitobe Inazo¯, ‘The Manchurian Question and Sino-Japanese Relations’, in Nitobe Inazo¯ zenshu¯, Vol. 15: Lectures on Japan, Tokyo, Kyo¯bunkan, 1969, pp. 221–33. Nitobe Inazo¯, ‘Japan, the League of Nations, and the Peace Pact’ (texts of two radio broadcasts in the United States, 8 May 1932 and 20 August 1932), in Nitobe Inazo¯ zenshu¯, Vol. 15, p. 243. See also Takayanagi Kenzo¯, ‘On the Legality of the Chinese Boycott’, Pacific Affairs, Vol. 5, No. 10, October 1932, pp. 855–62. See, for example, Nitobe, ‘Japan, the League of Nations, and the Peace Pact’. For a discussion of whether Nitobe is likely to have believed the official version of the events of 18 September 1931 see O¯ ta Yu¯zo¯, ‘“Taiheiyo¯ no hashi” toshite no Nitobe Inazo¯’, Part 4, Misuzu, No. 294, April 1985, pp. 55–6. See Wilson, ‘Manchurian Crisis and Moderate Japanese Intellectuals’, pp. 518–44. O¯ ta, ‘“Taiheiyo¯ no hashi”’, Part 1, Misuzu, No. 286, August 1984, p. 5. Ogata, ‘Role of Liberal Nongovernmental Organizations’, p. 469. Nitobe Inazo¯, ‘Sino-Japanese Friendship’, 31 July 1932, in Editorial Jottings, p. 382. Nitobe, ‘Japan, the League of Nations, and the Peace Pact’, pp. 249–52. Takagi Yasaka, ‘World Peace Machinery and the Asia Monroe Doctrine’, in American Studies Center, University of Tokyo (ed.), The Collected Works of Yasaka Takagi, Vol 5: Toward International Understanding. Enlarged Edition, Tokyo, University of Tokyo Press, 1971, pp. 9, 14–16. This article was also published under the same title in Pacific Affairs, Vol. 5, No. 11, November 1932, pp. 941–53. Konoe Fumimaro, ‘Ei-Bei hon’i no heiwashugi o haisu’, Nippon oyobi Nipponjin, No. 146, 15 December 1918. See also Ogata, ‘Gaiko¯’, pp. 43–4. Tsurumi Yu¯suke, ‘Japan in the Modern World’, Foreign Affairs, Vol. 9, No. 2, January 1931, pp. 264–5. FS, 6 December 1931, p. 1. Teikoku gikai shu¯giin giji sokkiroku, 61st session, 25 March 1932, p. 67. Quoted in George Oakley Totten III, The Social Democratic Movement in Prewar Japan, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1966, p. 259.

122 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65

National perspectives

Nakami, ‘Taiheiyo¯’, pp. 106–8, 111. Nitobe, ‘Great Hopes for the League’, 6 June 1933, in Editorial Jottings, p. 479. Nitobe, ‘China’s New Government’, 7 January 1932, ibid., pp. 295–6. For more detailed discussion of these points see Wilson, ‘Manchurian Crisis and Moderate Japanese Intellectuals’, pp. 522–31, 537–40. Quoted in Ito¯ Takashi,‘The Role of Right-Wing Organizations in Japan’, in Borg and Okamoto (eds), Pearl Harbor as History, p. 492. SKG 1931, p. 70; SKG 1932, p. 152. See Okamoto Seiichi, Funaguchi Manju den, Tokyo, 1942, quoted in Ito¯, ‘Role of Right-Wing Organizations’, p. 493, n. 10 (p. 718). ‘The Extreme Right in Japan’, 2 November 1953, p. 7, United States National Archives, Washington, DC (hereafter USNA), Records of the Department of State, Record Group 59, Research and Analysis Reports, Division of Research for Far East, Office of Intelligence Research, OIR Report No. 6432. See, for example, Nakamura, History of Sho¯wa Japan, pp. 111–12. On Ogawa, see Wilson, ‘Russo-Japanese War and Japan’, p. 176. Ogawa, ‘Manshu¯ dokuritsu kankei keika (1)’; Ogawa Heikichi, ‘Manshu¯ dokuritsu kankei keika (2)’, Ogawa Heikichi kankei monjo, Vol. 1, pp. 644–51; Ito¯ Takashi, ‘Ogawa Heikichi shoden narabi ni shuyo¯ monjo kaidai’, ibid., pp. 96–8. See Takahashi, Sho¯wa no gunbatsu, pp. 127–8, 131. Storry, Double Patriots, p. 56. Inoue Nissho¯, Ichinin issatsu, Tokyo, Shinjinbutsu o¯raisha, 1972, pp. 185–6. Seki, ‘Manchurian Incident’, pp. 71–2; Yoshihashi, Conspiracy, pp. 100–2. Report by intelligence section of General Staff, quoted in Yoshihashi, Conspiracy, p. 101. See Seki, ‘Manchurian Incident’, p. 164. Inoue, Ichinin issatsu, pp. 176–7. Stephen S. Large, ‘Substantiating the Nation: Terrorist Trials as Nationalist Theatre in Early Sho¯wa Japan’, in Sandra Wilson (ed.), Nation and Nationalism in Japan, London, Curzon Press, forthcoming 2002. See also Stephen S. Large, ‘Nationalist Extremism in Early Sho¯wa Japan: Inoue Nissho¯ and the “Blood-Pledge Corps Incident”, 1932’, Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 35, Part 3, July 2001, p. 550. Yoshihashi, Conspiracy, pp. 95, 100–2. See Ito¯, ‘Role of Right-Wing Organizations’, pp. 497–9. See Banno, Nihon seijishi, p. 186. See David A. Sneider, ‘Action and Oratory: the Trials of the May 15th Incident of 1932’, Law in Japan, Vol. 23, 1990, pp. 1–66; Large, ‘Substantiating the Nation’. Quoted in Mainichi Daily News Staff, Fifty Years of Light and Dark: The Hirohito Era, Tokyo, 1975, p. 56. Sneider, ‘Action and Oratory’, pp. 28–9, 42. Stephen Vlastos, ‘Agrarianism without Tradition: The Radical Critique of Prewar Japanese Modernity’, in Stephen Vlastos (ed.), Mirror of Modernity: Invented Traditions of Modern Japan, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1998, p. 93. Fujii Hitoshi, ‘Ko Fujii kaigun sho¯sa no nikki utsushi (sho¯)’, in Hara Hideo, Sawachi Hisae and Sakisaka Tetsuro¯ (eds), Kensatsu hiroku: Go ichi go jiken III, Tokyo, Kadokawa shoten, 1990, pp. 658, 677. On Fujii, see Large, ‘Nationalist Extremism’, pp. 546–7.

Part III

Interest groups and local perspectives

6

Reactions in the countryside

Many stereotypes about Japanese responses to the Manchurian crisis are based on evidence from urban areas. Where rural society is taken into account, it is often said to have provided unqualified and virtually automatic support for the army. In fact about half of Japan’s population lived in rural areas in the early 1930s, making rural responses to the Manchurian crisis a vital part of the picture. What actually emerges from a close study of publications produced in and for the countryside is the clear message that for villagers, the overwhelming issue at the time of the invasion of Manchuria was not foreign policy but the depression. To interpret villagers’ experience of the early 1930s chiefly in terms of the ‘fifteenyear war’, or to dismiss rural reactions to the Manchurian Incident as blind obedience to the army or as a straightforward manifestation of ‘war fever’, is to ignore this central fact. An appreciation of conditions in the countryside, therefore, is an essential part of the context in which the Manchurian Incident and subsequent events occurred. This chapter begins with an outline of the rural impact of the depression, then goes on to examine the question of the army’s relationship with the countryside before analysing rural responses to the Manchurian crisis itself.

Conditions in the countryside The sharp decline in prices for agricultural goods from 1929 onwards caused great suffering among villagers, particularly in the north and north-east of Japan. The income and welfare of the rural population had already fallen in the 1920s, owing to an absolute decline in prices for agricultural goods in Japan caused by competition from rice imports from Korea and Taiwan; the government’s effort throughout the decade to deflate the economy sufficiently to allow a return to the gold standard, abandoned in 1917, at pre-war parity; and a fall in world prices for agricultural goods.1 Exports, however, had increased by 133 per cent between 1913 and 1929. Silk and cotton were the principal products, with silk thread accounting for about 40 per cent of Japan’s exports by the end of the 1920s. The United States was Japan’s most important market, taking more than 90 per cent of silk thread and 43 per cent of total Japanese exports by 1929.2 Dependence on a relatively small group of export commodities and on the

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Interest groups and local perspectives

United States as a market left Japan particularly vulnerable to the sharp, worldwide decline in export prices for agricultural goods which occurred from 1929 onwards; and the fact that the world depression began in the United States was especially unfortunate for Japanese producers. Japan’s agricultural depression began with the fall in the silk-thread price in May 1930, which led immediately to a drop in prices for cocoons. In 1930, spring cocoon prices fell to about half those of the previous year. During 1931, the price for silk thread also declined by more than half compared to January 1930. The amount of silk exported to the United States, affected not only by the depression in that country but also by continuing competition from rayon, fell by 44.6 per cent between 1929 and 1930. Japan’s Asian markets for cotton goods, principally China and India, also contracted markedly, with both countries raising tariffs to protect their home industries.3 The drop in silk prices in particular had a drastic effect on agricultural areas in Japan. At the beginning of the depression, about 40 per cent of all farm households raised silk, which provided one of very few sources of cash income apart from wage labour by young rural women in the textile mills of the towns and cities.4 In certain areas, dependence on silk was much higher. In Nagano Prefecture, a major silk region, 80 per cent of farm households raised silk-worms in 1930. However, a middle-level farm household producing 100 kan or 375 kg of cocoons per year would have earned only 200 yen in 1930, compared to 1,000 yen in 1925.5 In some areas, particularly in mountain villages with a shortage of arable land, there were households which depended entirely on silk. For them the depression was disastrous. Then, in October 1930, prices also plummeted for rice, the other staple of Japanese agricultural production. In 1925 rice had sold for 41 yen per bushel (koku). In August 1930 the price had fallen to 30 yen and 50 sen per bushel, in September to 28 yen and 70 sen, and in October to 19 yen.6 A bumper rice crop was partly responsible for the sudden, catastrophic drop during 1930. The following year, the average price for rice was 18 yen and 46 sen per bushel, but the cost of production was 20–23 yen.7 The result, unavoidably, was an increase in farm household debt, which rose in 1932 to an average of 846 yen per household. At the time, the average annual income for tenant farmers, including earnings from both agricultural and non-agricultural sources, was 552 yen; so average debt was more than 1.5 times higher than the average annual income for tenant farmers.8 In 1930, 59 per cent of owner-farmers and 76 per cent of tenants were in debt. Opportunities to increase the household income through wage labour decreased as textile mills closed or suspended operations in the depression, and as wages for agricultural labour fell. According to figures produced by the Imperial Agricultural Association (Teikoku no¯kai), the cost of agricultural production fell by 24.1 per cent between 1930 and 1931, and 35.2 per cent of this decrease was attributable to wage reduction.9 Opportunities to supplement income through cocoon production were threatened not only by low prices for silk, but by the very cost of keeping silk-worms at all, given that the gap between prices for agricultural products and prices for manufactured goods had greatly reduced farmers’ purchasing power. As one village writer complained sarcastically,

Reactions in the countryside 127 The silk-worms of the old days ate only mulberry leaves, but the silk-worms of today have strong teeth and eat houses and land as well. If they build you a house, that’s fine, but they eat and then leave without paying the bill.10 The bumper rice crop of 1930 was followed by abnormally poor crops in Hokkaido¯ and To¯hoku in 1931, and again in 1934. Food shortages were widespread in northern Japan in 1932, combining with unemployment and the burden of debt to cause great suffering in many rural areas. In one village in Iwate Prefecture, the infant mortality rate in 1934 rose to 50 per cent, at a time when the national average was 13 per cent. A village head in Yamagata Prefecture reported in 1931 that 110 of the village’s 467 girls aged between fifteen and twenty-four had been sold as prostitutes,11 while a 1932 newspaper report informed readers that in Niigata, a girl in the third grade, aged about eleven, would bring 100 yen, while a girl of fifteen, a graduate of a primary school, would bring 400 yen.12 Other young women left the villages to work as entertainers, waitresses, maids and nursemaids, with fewer now finding employment in textile mills. Newspapers frequently reported suicides and murder–suicides in both city and country which were attributed to inability to find work or feed families: according to Home Ministry statistics, more than 25 per cent of the 389 official cases of ‘family suicide’ in the three years from 1928 to 1930 were already caused by ‘the difficulty of getting a livelihood’.13 Children, especially in northern areas, were often absent from school because they had to help with farm work or care for younger children, or because they did not have suitable wet-weather clothes. Hungry children attracted nation-wide publicity. It was reported that over 200,000 primary-school pupils throughout the country took no food to eat during the day at school, while in one village in Iwate Prefecture, 400 of the 900 children of primary-school age in early 1932 were said to be undernourished.14 A further consequence of the depression in rural areas was an increase in disputes between tenants and landlords, especially in To¯hoku, where economic distress prompted many small landlords to attempt to evict tenants in order to cultivate more land themselves.15 In 1928, the number of officially-registered tenant disputes throughout Japan was 1,866. In 1930 the total rose to 2,478, in 1931 to 3,419 and in 1935 to a pre-war peak of 6,824. Thus the situation in the villages became a political as well as a social problem.16 The political dimension of the rural crisis only increased in 1932 when thousands of farmers petitioned the Diet for rural relief. In that year, too, rural suffering achieved further political prominence as numerous groups and individuals, from politicians to right-wing terrorists, cited the need to rescue suffering farmers as the justification for a variety of policies and actions. Not least, the army took up the cause of the countryside, confirming many later observers in the view that there was some sort of special relationship between the two.

The army and the countryside A fairly straightforward relationship between rural areas and the army has often been posited for pre-war Japan. Some writers have argued that high tenancy rates

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Interest groups and local perspectives

and oppression by landlords produced a potent discontent which led farmers to support militarist solutions; some that landlord dominance and a collectivist ethic at least discouraged opposition to militarism; some that the army’s institutional links with the countryside were so strong that farmers almost automatically obeyed the military. It has often been assumed, more generally, that because a large number of soldiers came from the countryside, it was ‘natural’ for villagers to support the army. In reality, the relationship between rural areas and the military was more complicated than these interpretations suggest. Richard Smethurst and others have shown that by the time of the Manchurian crisis, the army and its reservist associations were able to build on an institutional base in the countryside which was already strong. Smethurst goes much further, however, characterising the villages as an ‘obedient rural following’ for the army, which by the late 1920s had been able to create in the countryside ‘a support that never faltered’,17 chiefly by manipulating village youth, reservist and women’s organisations so as to provide ready channels of army influence. He implies that the stage was set by the late 1920s, and that the momentous events of the 1930s were all but irrelevant to the attitudes of farmers towards the army: ‘military leaders would probably have increased their influence in the 1930s even if the depression, the Manchurian Incident, and the assassinations of party prime ministers had never taken place’.18 Smethurst’s argument is unconvincing and unsatisfying for at least two reasons. First, it oversimplifies the complex period of ‘Taisho¯ democracy’, in which a variety of left-wing, conservative and centrist movements sprang up in the countryside as much as in the towns and cities. The political stance and demands of such movements varied, but taken together, they reveal a range of activity in rural areas which was relatively independent of bureaucratic control, contradicting Smethurst’s image of passive and obedient farmers. Some movements specifically opposed army initiatives.19 Second, Smethurst fails to allow for the fluidity of political attitudes in the countryside in the early 1930s and beyond; in particular, he makes little or no allowance for the impact of the depression. Undeniably, however, at the beginning of the 1930s a proportion of village opinion must have been well disposed towards the army, with which farmers had had diverse links for at least the previous decade.20 The impression that the army to some extent represented rural interests was enhanced by a belief among the Japanese public, not least in rural areas, that other elite groups had been thoroughly discredited. Just as in Germany the Nazi Party took advantage of a long-standing ‘aversion to politics, not to this or that policy, this or that party, but to politics as such’,21 the Japanese army skilfully exploited similar feelings in Japan. In many people’s minds the political parties and the zaibatsu were inseparable and were as bad as each other. Together they were held responsible for the economic depression and the political corruption that was believed to be widespread. The belief that the zaibatsu and political parties were to blame for economic and political problems was in fact well entrenched. The business and political elites were said to be selfish, dishonest and corrupt, and to be in league with each other

Reactions in the countryside 129 against the true interests of the nation and the people. In the common view from the villages, party politicians were uncaring about the plight of farmers and others, completely failing to represent farmers’ interests: Diet members representing rural Japan, according to one local publication, were ‘feudal lords’ (shoko¯) who made fancy speeches full of empty promises about revival of the villages but in the end delivered nothing.22 Rather, they protected the zaibatsu and passed laws favourable to businessmen. Some rural publications disparagingly referred to cabinets as the ‘Iwasaki [i.e. Mitsubishi] clique’ or ‘the government of finance capital’ (kin’yu¯ shihon seifu).23 In addition, party politicians were often accused in the early 1930s of failing to represent Japan adequately in world affairs. Foreign Minister Shidehara Kiju¯ro¯’s ‘weak-kneed diplomacy’ in relation to China was the usual scapegoat in this argument. The zaibatsu were regarded as enemies by almost everyone. As A. E. Tiedemann has observed, To radical young army officers and other right-wing groups, the zaibatsu were corrupt and self-seeking exploiters of the masses, always willing to sacrifice the national interest in the pursuit of private gain. To the small- and middle-sized businessmen going through the throes of the Great Depression, they were unfair competitors mercilessly strangling the little man. To the consumer, especially to the farmer, they were monopolists squeezing the last bit of profit out of every sale.24 Hostility towards the zaibatsu deepened as a result of the ‘dollar-buying incident’ of 1930, when certain Japanese businessmen had profited considerably by exporting a large amount of gold to buy dollars just before Japan returned to the gold standard.25 This episode aroused great public comment, and Mitsui in particular was universally attacked as evil and traitorous. In addition to other reasons for hostility towards the political parties and zaibatsu, farmers associated both of them with the city. Indeed, both could be regarded as direct manifestations of the evil of the city, which was contrasted with the wholesomeness, patriotism and respect for tradition supposedly manifested by farmers – and by the army. In such a context, the army could present itself implicitly as an alternative force which had the interests of the nation, and particularly of farmers, at heart; was free from discredited special interests; and offered hope for a solution to the hardships of the depression. One of those solutions involved Japanese control of Manchuria, which supposedly would allow successful settlement of Japan’s ‘surplus’ population, the growing of more foodstuffs for those at home, opportunities for small and medium-sized Japanese businesses to thrive, and other benefits. More generally, the army posed as protector and spokesman of rural areas. Thus Army Minister General Araki Sadao called in late 1933 for unemployment relief in fishing villages, crop diversification, rural industrialisation, debt reduction and an increase in by-employment to boost cash income;26 and the military officers who participated in the terrorist incidents of 1932 cited rural suffering as

130

Interest groups and local perspectives

one of their major motivations. Rural distress and the need to relieve it, in fact, became a very powerful theme and a prime means of legitimating a variety of policies and actions. One soldier who participated in the 15 May Incident said later in court: The impoverishment of the farming villages is a cause of grave concern to all thoughtful people. It is the same with the fishing villages and the small merchants and industrialists. Among the troops the farmer conscripts make a good showing, and the farmers of the north-eastern provinces provide the Army with model soldiers. It is extremely dangerous that such soldiers should be worried about their starving families when they are at the front exposing themselves to death. In utter disregard of poverty-stricken farmers the enormously rich zaibatsu pursue their private profit. Meanwhile the young children of the impoverished farmers of the north-eastern provinces attend school without breakfast, and their families subsist on rotten potatoes. I thought that to let a day go by without doing anything was to endanger the Army for one day longer.27 It is difficult to judge how sincere were any of the various people who spoke out on behalf of the countryside in the early 1930s. Even the right-wing revolutionaries, within and outside of the military, evidently were not always as devoted to the welfare of farmers as they claimed. The diary of the leading rightist naval officer, Lieutenant-Commander Fujii Hitoshi, reveals a surprising variation to the perceived motives of such activists. Fujii wrote early in 1931 that a coup to overthrow the bourgeoisie would be essential in the near future. He was clearly prepared to subordinate everything to a strategy to bring about such a coup, in which he believed the emperor could be persuaded to participate. The suffering of Japanese people in rural areas, however, rather than an inspiration or spur to action, was for Fujii an instrument to be used: poverty among farmers, he believed, had great possibilities in encouraging the solidarity of his organisation. For him, the coup came first, and suffering farmers provided a useful justification, especially now that conditions in the countryside were so conveniently bad. Fujii hoped and believed that 1932 would be the year of revolution in Japan, actively plotting with others towards that end, and exercising considerable influence over the ‘blood brotherhood’ assassinations and the 15 May Incident. He himself did not live, however, to see the failed coup of May: he was killed in the Shanghai Incident in February.28 As for those mainstream army figures who spoke out publicly about the countryside in the early 1930s, it is unlikely that the relief of rural poverty was their main motivation either, except inasmuch as poverty produced weak and sickly recruits or, as the defendant quoted above claimed, took the soldiers’ minds off their job. Ronald Dore, Awaya Kentaro¯ and Thomas Havens all convincingly reject the thesis that the army was motivated by humanitarian concern for the farmers, and Havens also refutes the common assertion that the army paid attention to the countryside because of an overrepresentation of rural

Reactions in the countryside 131 men within the army.29 In the view of these scholars, the army’s attitude towards rural areas during the depression was more significantly affected by a desire to increase Japan’s self-sufficiency in foodstuffs in case of war, and by a fear of radicalisation of rural areas. As Awaya points out, if the eradication of poverty had truly been the army’s goal, then more of the military budget would have been spent on relief. In fact, financial support from the army to conscripts’ families was very low, especially in view of the rapid increases in the military budget in the first half of the 1930s. Awaya concludes that the army’s real motive in wooing the countryside was anti-revolutionary: it sought to forestall the danger that people might identify the increase in military budgets as the basic cause of continuing poverty.30 Such a fear was not without foundation, in view of the fact that rural organisations had not always seen eye-to-eye with the army in the recent past. During the 1920s, rural young men’s associations had advocated reductions in military spending, and some had also opposed the creation of special training schools (seinen kunrenjo) by the army to prepare young men for later military service. Complaints about the financial burden on villages that these schools would impose had in fact led to a substantial reduction in village contributions to their support.31 Havens concludes, in similar fashion to Awaya, that ‘only insofar as rural decay threatened the country . . . did most of them [young army officers] remain upset about the farm dilemma’.32 Most recently, Kerry Smith has placed Araki’s sudden concern for the countryside late in 1933 firmly within the context of heated political battles over the government’s 1934 budget, in which the army received large increases, while rural relief was cut. Smith comments: ‘It is hard to resist the conclusion that Araki’s leap to the defense of the farms came when it did as part of a strategy to blunt public criticism that the villages had been sacrificed to pay for the military’s budget’.33 Whatever its motives, the army did direct as much or more attention than anyone else towards rural areas in the early 1930s, and farmers naturally responded to this. For many, support of the army’s exploits was doubtless a straightforward expression of patriotism, as well as a sort of protest vote through which dissatisfaction with and contempt for the existing system could be registered. The army, in turn, not being accountable to an electorate, was able to make extravagant and even contradictory promises to the public without the responsibility to deliver. After September 1931, the success of the Manchurian Incident, together with the removal of critics through the increase in official repression of left-wing activity in the same period, combined to increase the appeal of the army. Thus enrolments in the seinen kunrenjo rose even in those villages where opposition to them had been greatest;34 and one Nagano Prefecture publication noted that at a time when party politics had lost all authority, the ‘present situation’, especially the Manchurian issue, had caused people to be strongly attracted to the military instead.35 Nonetheless, it is clear that the military itself did not take rural support for granted. In the first half of the 1930s the army was actively seeking to build rural support, indicating that its leaders were far from convinced they had the loyalty of all villagers. The Army Minister toured distressed areas in 1934, promising

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Interest groups and local perspectives

relief money. The army investigated and publicised village health standards and details of diet, and started its own public works schemes to provide rural employment. In a well-known pamphlet published in 1934, it emphasised rural distress as Japan’s greatest weakness.36 Allowing for the probability that it was partly motivated by a genuine concern about the consequences of the poor health of recruits, these efforts still leave the definite impression that the army was not completely confident of rural support in this period, an impression that is only strengthened by the amount of positive propaganda the military authorities felt it necessary to transmit to the countryside during the Manchurian crisis, as we shall see later.

Rural responses to the Manchurian crisis Initial public reactions to the Manchurian Incident came as a relief to certain military leaders who had been by no means confident that the public would endorse the Kwantung Army’s actions. Certainly, the response from at least some rural areas was both immediate and spontaneous – markedly more so than in the cities. Particularly in To¯hoku, which had sent a comparatively large number of soldiers to Manchuria, the opening of hostilities in September 1931 brought an instant response. Visits to shrines increased greatly; regular prayers for the soldiers were held in some areas; and a large number of relief parcels (imon bukuro), containing food, letters and other items, were packed and dispatched by youth groups, schoolchildren, reservist and women’s associations, among other groups. A Ko¯fu City geisha organisation sent 1,000 relief packages to the front, starting in October.37 Some groups sent members to Manchuria to deliver the ‘comforts’ to the troops in person, and to pass on the good wishes of those at home. Throughout rural Japan, letters and parcels were collected and sent to local men in Manchuria, and villagers and townspeople turned out to see the soldiers off and welcome them home. Fujii Tadatoshi interprets this early public response in rural areas as a spontaneous and largely practical reaction in support of individual soldiers in Manchuria, rather than as part of a generalised enthusiasm for the army or for militarism. The rush to donate money and goods for the troops was not uniform throughout Japan; the immediate donations from To¯hoku people and others of protective charms, warm clothing and food can be seen as straightforward acts of concern about relatives and village members. Similarly, there was a quick response to newspaper photographs suggesting that only about half the soldiers at the front wore steel helmets which, doctors said, would prevent 90 per cent of head injuries. When it was reported that the military budget did not allow for helmets for all, people in the soldiers’ home regions rushed to donate money.38 Manchuria’s cold weather was a further cause of much anxiety, with ‘our soldiers fighting in temperatures below minus thirty degrees [centigrade]’ becoming a media cliché. One collection of reminiscences about the Manchurian Incident stresses that many women donated money simply out of sympathy for the soldiers fighting in such cold weather.39

Reactions in the countryside 133 Thus there were strong personal bonds between the troops in Manchuria and farmers at home, and the initial rural response to the Manchurian Incident can be interpreted in this light. At the same time, ironically, soldiers from To¯hoku who had been sent to Manchuria were worrying about their relatives at home. Many sent money back from the front to their families to help tide them over the bad harvest of 1931. In fact, so much money was being sent back that, according to the Japanese consul in Kirin, which was occupied by the Second Division in September 1931, the soldiers could not afford the services of the Korean women brought in as prostitutes for them.40 In late 1931, the involvement of the Japanese public in the war effort began to take a new direction. By now the large newspapers, starting with the Asahi, were organising the collection of relief packages in the cities, in the process generating a national campaign to send ‘comfort kits, sake, solace funds, tobacco, and letters’ to the troops.41 Sending of relief parcels continued to be popular throughout Japan, but at the same time, new and different campaigns were also initiated, through newspaper companies and other organisations, which aimed to raise money for the army itself. Donations of money were now increasingly earmarked for aeroplanes and military weapons, for use both at home and in Manchuria, and later Shanghai. In the countryside, appeals to raise money for military aeroplanes were prominent, and by early 1932, two aeroplanes, called ‘Aikoku ichigo¯’ (Patriotism One) and ‘Aikoku nigo¯’ (Patriotism Two), had been built using money from the public. The two planes were sent to Manchuria for a short time, then brought back to be displayed in Osaka. Presumably, their potential to stimulate patriotism through the act of donating money and through public display was at least as important as their actual combat role. By the middle of 1933, most prefectures had formed associations through which money was to be raised to build an aeroplane bearing the name of the prefecture. ‘Aikoku Gunmakenmingo¯’, donated by the people of Gunma Prefecture, was the first of these, while other aeroplanes were donated by specific groups and by wealthy individuals. In the major cities, by contrast, fund-raising efforts centred not so much on aeroplanes as on weapons to defend the cities from possible aerial attack.42 As time went on, it became harder to collect money from villagers for the troops at the front, especially once the campaigns shifted from the collection of more or less spontaneous donations to raising money for aeroplanes and weapons. Local communities could not afford to donate the large amounts necessary for these items, particularly at a time of depression and bad harvests. Fund-raising accordingly became more highly orchestrated, with the initiative moving to prefectural authorities, which divided the total sum to be donated among the towns and villages and collected the money more or less compulsorily, often through such local organisations as reservist and youth associations. A woman who lived on the outskirts of Kurume in Kyu¯shu¯ in 1931 said many years later: I often made donations [after the Manchurian Incident]. But I never once did it of my own accord. Sometimes I donated because the town officials (yakuba)

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Interest groups and local perspectives said, ‘your household is to donate this much’, and sometimes I would give money at the Aikoku fujinkai (Patriotic Women’s Association).43

Local leaders as well as ordinary villagers sometimes resisted the efforts of prefectural authorities to raise more money. For example, at a meeting in December 1931 of town and village leaders in Shida-gun, Miyagi Prefecture, fund-raising plans were shelved because it was obvious that local people could not afford to donate towards aeroplanes. In Ko¯fu City, Yamanashi, there were reports of people being beaten by the police because they would not donate to the aeroplane fund.44 In fact, officials in Yamanashi Prefecture experienced considerable difficulty in collecting enough money for an aeroplane, even though local organisations and individuals had initially responded to the opening of hostilities as enthusiastically as their counterparts elsewhere. The Ko¯fu City branch of the Reservist Association resolved on 24 December 1931 to donate an aeroplane to the army, and a big campaign to raise money began shortly afterwards, with a target of about 20 sen per household for Yamanashi and Kanagawa Prefectures, the area covered by Ko¯fu District Reservist Association. However, barely any progress was made towards the target, which had been set at a total of 28,488 yen. By the first anniversary of the Manchurian Incident, the military had collected only 1,500 yen from Yamanashi, of a national total of 5.6 million yen. Along with Miyazaki and Yamagata, Yamanashi was amongst the last prefectures to donate an aeroplane: Yamanashi’s plane was ‘christened’ in early April 1933, thirteen months after Gunma’s plane and behind thirty-one other prefectures. It was not that Yamanashi residents were unmindful of the absent soldiers. When local soldiers died in Manchuria, for example, unprecedentedly large funerals were held. As a major silk-producing area, however, Yamanashi was suffering particularly badly from the depression, and local farmers did not have money to spare to contribute to aeroplane funds.45 Evidence suggests that farmers in other areas, too, were essentially preoccupied with their own concerns rather than overseas aggression in the early 1930s, or were ambivalent about the issues raised by the Manchurian crisis. The diary of one Niigata Prefecture farmer reveals an awareness of the Manchurian issue and a certain amount of interest in it. Nishiyama Ko¯ichi went to a lecture and a film about the Manchurian Incident, and was moved by the sight of soldiers departing from the port of Niigata in March 1932. However, references in his diary to the Manchurian Incident are few; he is much more concerned with borrowing money, settling debts and generally managing the family finances.46 Nishiyama’s concerns were shared by many throughout Japan. In rural areas, 1932 was above all a year of economic depression, and in terms of activism, it was above all the year of the movement to petition the Diet for rural relief. Between June and August, about 700 petitions were presented to the Diet by groups of farmers and rural activists, in an unprecedented appeal for assistance. According to some estimates, the total number of signatures exceeded 74,000.47 Though the authorities tried to stem the tide of rural delegates arriving in Tokyo with petitions, rural relief became one of the most prominent political issues of

Reactions in the countryside 135 1932. The high level of activism directed at securing relief measures far exceeds any rural response to the Manchurian crisis, and clearly indicates that surviving the depression was dominating village thinking. Where direct evidence exists of rural responses to the Manchurian crisis, it suggests an early and positive reaction in those areas with personal links to soldiers at the front, as noted above, but much more fractured attitudes thereafter. For the silk-producing region of Nagano Prefecture, rich source material on the political, economic and social concerns of farmers in the 1920s and 1930s survives in the form of regular newspapers produced by local young men’s associations (seinendan).48 An examination of this material exposes ambivalence about the Manchurian crisis, and tension among different village viewpoints, but no evidence that the newspapers were functioning as mouthpieces for the army in the early 1930s. Newspapers produced by several villages in Chiisagata-gun, now part of Ueda City, reveal a lively diversity of opinion in their articles, but on the other hand little patriotic fervour and a generally low level of interest in Manchuria compared to other publications. The term ‘life-line’, for instance, is almost absent from their pages. Rather, they are preoccupied with the depression and possible solutions to the hardships it brought. At the same time, however, the newspapers of the young men’s associations present stark evidence of the critical strains and tensions produced in the villages by the depression and the invasion of Manchuria, with the same publications sometimes offering dramatically opposing perspectives on the situation facing Japanese villages. Some articles presented trenchant criticism of the military’s actions in Manchuria, often within a Marxist framework which insisted on interpreting the rural crisis in terms of class conflict: they are among the few major sources used in this book which occasionally employed fuseji to avoid the attentions of the censor, or had issues banned. Other articles could not possibly have offended the authorities, consisting as they did of standard expressions of agrarianism (no¯honshugi), with its emphasis on cooperation and refusal to acknowledge class tensions in the village. Such a diversity of opinion shows that though the young people who wrote for these papers might have been uncertain and might have clashed with each other, they were definitely not docile and apolitical villagers blindly following wherever the authorities chose to lead.49 The young men’s association papers in Chiisagata-gun published a great deal less about Manchuria than did the mainstream urban press. The newspaper produced in Kamishina village, for example, which was delivered free to every household and was also sent to serving soldiers and other village members away from home,50 made almost no reference to Manchuria in the first three months after the Kwantung Army’s action of September 1931. There were no ‘glorious stories’ from the front in these rural newspapers, nor reports of patriotic fundraising campaigns. The papers rarely advocated or even discussed emigration to Manchuria in the early 1930s. Doubtless, villagers throughout Japan would have felt the impact of the fighting much more acutely had its scale been greater. Taking one of the Chiisagata-gun villages as an example, however, from a

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population of 2,680 people in 547 households in Izumida according to the 1930 census, only eight young men were serving in either Manchuria or Korea in September 1932, while by November of the following year, only five were serving in the army anywhere, including Japan.51 In sharp contrast, in one village in To¯yama, less than half the size of Izumida, thirteen red call-up papers arrived on the single day of 25 August 1937. At the end of war in 1945, that To¯yama village’s 246 households were contributing 388 serving soldiers and had lost a further fifty-three war dead.52 By the end of 1931, it is clear that members of the young men’s associations were seriously divided in opinion over the significance of the Manchurian Incident. A study group linked to the association’s branch in Izumida village, for instance, included some members arguing that Japan had nowhere to seek resources other than Manchuria and Mongolia; that even if Japan moved from capitalism to socialism it would still need resources; that Manchuria was indeed the empire’s life-line. Problems of overpopulation, discrimination against Japanese rights and interests in China and the threat of an economic boycott by Western nations had seemed insoluble, according to one speaker, ‘but fortunately there is at least Manchuria. At this point we must offer the only life we have to His Majesty the Emperor and join the struggle’. Others, however, argued that the people should seek happiness within Japan, without going to Manchuria; or that the propertyless masses would derive no benefit at all from Manchuria, which would bring profit only to the big capitalists.53 Similarly, one article in Kamishina’s newspaper declared that Manchuria would not produce one sen of profit to Japan,54 while a writer in Izumida village declared that Manchuria would be no paradise for ordinary Japanese people, but merely provided new opportunities for competition among greedy capitalists: ‘The only role allotted to us over there is to spend our blood and sweat in toil. Dreams of success without that hardship should be left to people like party politicians and the zaibatsu.’55 There remained a layer of vehement opposition in the countryside to the war in Manchuria, evident in young men’s associations and elsewhere. Farewell gatherings for soldiers leaving for Manchuria could become platforms for antiwar speeches: arrests on such occasions were made at Soehi and Urasato villages in Nagano Prefecture, for example.56 Members of tenant unions as well as young men’s associations tended to be active in such protests.57 In the village of Ochiai in Nakakoma-gun, Yamanashi Prefecture, the local young men’s association caused trouble by denouncing the patriotic donation movement.58 In January 1933, young men in Aoki village in Chiisagata-gun similarly denounced attempts by the authorities to raise money to send emigrants from Nagano Prefecture to a new settlement in Manchukuo. They argued not only that villagers could not afford to raise the 201 yen required as the contribution from Aoki, but also that the campaign to ‘protect Japan’s rights and interests’ in Manchuria was no more than a disguised attack on Soviet and Chinese Communism and should therefore not be supported in any case.59 Despite such outbursts, it cannot be denied that the capacity of organisations

Reactions in the countryside 137 such as the young men’s associations to preserve an independent voice was greatly weakened during the early 1930s. The Nagano evidence shows, however, that it is not a matter of organisations of young people already committed to the priorities of the army redoubling their efforts to support the military, as Smethurst’s analysis implies. Rather, the events of the early 1930s themselves had a profound effect on organisations which had previously shown considerable independence and spirit. Left-wing movements and publications, whether in the countryside or not, had of course long attracted the attention of the authorities, and after the Manchurian Incident, pressure on radical activists from both central and prefectural sources only increased. In December 1931, for example, prefectural authorities in Nagano wrote to town and village young people warning them against the ‘red’ leaders of the prefectural federation of young men’s associations. Amongst the charges against the leaders was that they had declared their opposition to imperialist war. At the same time, the authorities withdrew their subsidy of the federation.60 By March 1933, the federation was facing dissolution, in part because of harassment by the authorities.61 Most political groups representing farmers in fact came to support the military action in Manchuria, even if they retained other seemingly ‘left-wing’ demands, such as state ownership of the land.62 National authorities continued to use arrests and the censorship system to thwart radical activity throughout Japan, as they had done in the past. In Nagano Prefecture, government repression of progressive movements culminated in the ‘Red Teachers’ Incident’ of February 1933, in which 138 of the prefecture’s teachers were arrested, along with many tenant union activists. Investigations continued until mid-June, by which time over 600 people had been arrested. The intention was apparently to eradicate the whole of the organised left wing in Nagano Prefecture, and in this the authorities came close to success. In one village, Urasato, thirteen people were arrested and the local farmers’ union disbanded as a result.63 After the arrests, the district-level and prefectural-level young men’s associations, having earlier proclaimed their opposition to the invasion of Manchuria, went into retreat. More subtle forces were also serving to defuse radicalism, including the experience of the depression itself. Severe economic difficulties appeared to place everyone in the same quandary: thus it became harder to argue that class interest was paramount. Moreover, the depression produced the petition movement, a tactic which again emphasised the common plight of whole villages, prefectures and regions. Indeed, the petition movement was consciously promoted by the prefectural-level Heads of Towns and Villages’ Association as a means of forestalling class struggle.64 Individual contributors to the young men’s association newspapers might argue that the petition movement was a tool by which the bourgeoisie took care of its own class interest, that it was a reactionary movement which did nothing to liberate the proletariat;65 but the villages participated all the same. Fourteen representatives from Chiisagata-gun in Nagano Prefecture went to Tokyo to present various petitions for rural relief, including villagers from Izumida, Bessho and Kawabe,66 which all had active

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young men’s associations producing newspapers that included anti-government and anti-military opinions amongst other views. Like the depression, the Manchurian crisis, too, had the effect of increasing people’s consciousness of state or nation at the expense of class or generation, this time often in a positive way. The general sense that Japan as a whole was under siege by the Western powers and the League of Nations doubtless encouraged such ‘national’ consciousness. More than that, however, the Manchurian venture also presented a succession of practical occasions on which the village, in whole or in part, joined in an activity which might loosely be termed nationalist. Associations of young men, women and reservists organised the sending of letters and parcels to local men in Manchuria. Senior army figures back from the front gave lectures in villages, and relatives of soldiers fighting in Manchuria were honoured with banquets on such occasions. Members of women’s groups visited local shrines to pray for their hamlet’s soldiers at the front. Villagers went to bid farewell to departing soldiers, and returning soldiers were met at the station and formally welcomed home.67 Contemporary observers were certainly conscious of the value of such occasions. Seeing soldiers off, according to one very patriotic writer, constituted an act transcending selfish interest, exhibiting village unity most satisfactorily.68 An official from Miyagi Prefecture also acknowledged the usefulness of such occasions in a speech at a military memorial service in December 1931. Every time soldiers depart to replace those killed in battle or wounded or sick, he said, the spirits of the people who see them off are elevated – the second time more than the first, the third time more than the second.69 In addition, however, the government developed more deliberate strategies to win the allegiance of the nation’s farmers and to disguise or eradicate class tensions in the countryside. The most important were the launching in September 1932 of the rural revitalisation movement (keizai ko¯sei undo¯), the government’s major policy for countering the depression in the countryside; and, as part of the movement, the encouragement of the agricultural co-operatives, including their new youth leagues, which were deliberately designed to provide conservative alternatives to potentially radical tenant farmers’ unions and young men’s associations, as well as to contribute to the economic advancement of rural areas. Both initiatives drew heavily on agrarianist notions of community, harmony and co-operation and thus were hostile to any leftist activity or philosophy. Arguably, too, it was through the rural revitalisation movement that the very people or class of people who had formerly been anti-government activists were drawn into deep involvement with state projects during the 1930s and through the war period.70 Thus Japanese historians have interpreted the economic revitalisation movement along with other incorporationist campaigns of the first half of the 1930s as the groundwork for ‘control by Japanese fascism of the population’, as well as an attempt at reorganising the rural economy.71 The rhetoric of the rural revitalisation movement, which relied heavily on such slogans as ‘mutual co-operation’, ‘self-help’ and ‘unity of the village’, reveals clearly the aim to defuse class conflict and strengthen existing agrarianist tendencies. Similarly, the youth leagues which had been recently launched by the

Reactions in the countryside 139 agricultural co-operatives, in direct competition with the young men’s associations, sought to present themselves as comprehensive organisations promoting harmony among all classes of the village, even if in reality they best represented the interests of middle-class or upper-class farmers.72 Thus they appealed to the ‘agrarianist’ strand which certainly already existed within the young men’s associations, while at the same time their very existence was inimical to the continuation of radical activity within those organisations. In reality, the new leagues did grow at the expense of the older associations, operating as they now were within an even more repressive environment than before.

Messages from the centre Another strategy to counter radicalism in the countryside was to encourage the publication of ‘sound’ material in places where farmers would read it. The army and the bureaucracy made good use of the mainstream press which, as we have seen, was generally eager to publish sensational war articles. It is difficult, however, to assess to what extent the views expressed in the daily newspapers reached the countryside.73 Rural readership statistics for the major newspapers are not available, but there were clearly a great many households which did not receive a daily paper. In the Kyu¯shu¯ village studied by John Embree, about one in ten households subscribed to a newspaper. Embree noted: [Their] influence is not great, but some people read [newspapers] and gain a wider outlook. Sometimes they discuss the news with one another, although there is remarkably little of this as yet.74 As for radio, there were more than a million sets in Japan in 1932, but few were in country areas, as noted in Chapter 3. In Embree’s village, the first radio appeared around 1930 or 1931. In 1935 there were three, one at the school, and the other two owned by prominent villagers. Embree commented: The radio owned by the broker [debt-collector and speculator in rice and property] is always turned on but rarely listened to. The one at school is used chiefly for radio exercises. When the 1936 Olympic games were broadcast, less than five young men bothered to go to the school to listen at 9.00 p.m.75 At about the same period, a resident of a Yamagata Prefecture village reported that sixteen of the 566 households – less than 3 per cent – owned a radio.76 Few mainstream publications were directed towards the needs and interests of the non-urban population: the women’s magazines, general entertainment magazines and other publications which had become such a conspicuous feature of contemporary Japanese culture were mainly aimed at urban markets. As one writer addressing rural readers complained, the mainstream women’s magazines, for example, were far removed from the lives of rural women (as they doubtless were from the lives of most urban women too, in reality), publishing

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Interest groups and local perspectives

recipes requiring both ingredients and cooking facilities that were unavailable, and presenting solely images of a glamorised urban life. On the other hand, it was claimed, country women were more faithful readers of the publications they did receive, because few other sources of information were available to them, whereas a city woman had only to leave the house in order to learn what was new in the world.77 The penetration of the mainstream urban media into the countryside, though undoubtedly growing, was thus patchy at best in the early 1930s. On the other hand, at least two regular publications functioned specifically as channels between rural areas and the central authorities: Shimin, the organ of the Central Ho¯tokukai discussed in Chapter 4, and the agricultural co-operative movement’s regular journal, Ie no hikari (Light of the Home), which had been founded in 1925, and was substantially controlled by the Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry (No¯rinsho¯). Ie no hikari was heavily influenced by both the army and the navy in the early 1930s. Throughout the Manchurian crisis, in contrast to Shimin, it presented rural readers with views of Manchuria which either emanated directly from, or were sympathetic to, the military. The 1930s were a time of rapid growth for Ie no hikari, partly because of deliberate campaigns to increase readership, stemming from the belief that wide distribution of the magazine would lead to expansion of the agricultural cooperatives’ youth leagues, which were intended, as noted above, to counterbalance the radicalism of the young men’s associations. In the second half of 1931, monthly circulation reached 150,000 copies, and by December 1933, exceeded 500,000. The goal of a million readers per month was achieved during 1935 and maintained until 1944. Ie no hikari was thus a national best-seller, reaching one in three farm households at the peak of its pre-war circulation. Only the urban magazines Kingu (King) and Shufu no tomo (Housewife’s Friend) exceeded Ie no hikari’s circulation in this period.78 In Embree’s village of sixty households, very few people subscribed to women’s magazines like Shufu no tomo, while Ie no hikari was apparently the most widely-read periodical.79 It is probably true, as one of the official histories of Ie no hikari claims, that the magazine succeeded because it suited country people more than did any other publication, and because it was cheap. Distributed through the network of agricultural cooperatives, it sold for 20 sen, remaining at that price until 1945, compared to 50 sen or so for magazines like Kingu and Shufu no tomo. Official histories emphasise that it was not distributed free of charge because it was believed that people would take the trouble to read a magazine for which they had paid, whereas a free magazine would be taken less seriously.80 Ie no hikari was a general magazine for rural readers, containing articles on agriculture, the home, home economics and daily life; stories and a children’s section; news reports and analyses; advertisements and articles encouraging membership of the co-operatives; and a rather dull readers’ column. The magazine was firmly based on the philosophy of agrarianism. Thus village farming was seen as the basis of an ideal political and social order, and stood in opposition to industrialisation, urbanisation and centralised rule. Ie no hikari conveyed an

Reactions in the countryside 141 underlying message that farmers were victims of the onslaught of capitalism and the cities, which were portrayed as places of crime and corruption. The villages, on the other hand, were supposedly the embodiment of harmony and co-operation: there was tacit support here, and certainly no criticism, of the landlord–tenant system and no acknowledgment of class differences within the village. Contributors to Ie no hikari were deeply anxious about the economic state of rural Japan in the early 1930s, and there were many articles on the depression, on inflation and on the cost of living, seeking reasons for the economic crisis and forecasting future trends. All articles on the depression, however, advocated remedies based on self-help, in accordance with the magazine’s general agrarianist philosophy as well as the self-help movement (jiriki ko¯sei undo¯) endorsed by Prime Minister Saito¯ Makoto on 6 July 1932, of which the agricultural co-operatives were to be central instruments.81 Economic problems would apparently be solved by individual thrift and sacrifice, and by community co-operation, despite occasional recognition in Ie no hikari that some problems – such as the fall in the rice price – could not be solved by individual effort. Typical articles in the magazine showed country women how to make clothes cheaply, cook economically and make their own cosmetics; condemned unnecessarily extravagant weddings; discussed new and more efficient farming methods and so on. In the early 1930s, many articles also sought to transmit the official view of the Manchurian crisis in simple form. One aspect of agrarianism which was prominently displayed in Ie no hikari was the ideal of the farmer-soldier. Through the magazine’s pages, rural readers were regularly presented with the contrasting images of the urban capitalist or politician, and the rural farmer, whose values were increasingly made synonymous with those of the idealised soldier. Concrete evidence of the links between the military and the villages, and of military attempts to influence farmers, were not lacking, and jobs in the armed forces were often recommended in the magazine. Recruiting advertisements also appeared, as well as articles about life in the army or navy. Naturally, all presented military life in attractive terms. General articles on jobs for boys would emphasise not patriotic motives but rather the financial security and career opportunities associated with joining the army or navy, providing details of entrance requirements, recruitment procedures and career prospects. A career in the military was especially recommended for farm boys at a time of economic depression. It was pointed out, for example, that any male of twenty years of age was liable for conscription to the army, but that one could volunteer at an earlier age, or stay on after the period of compulsory service; and the navy also needed volunteers.82 Readers were reminded in May 1932 that new recruits to the army and navy started at 6 yen per month, and that non-commissioned officers earned about 50 yen per month. In addition, the family of each recruit received 18 yen per year.83 The children’s section of the magazine sometimes contained illustrated articles such as ‘A Typical Day on a Warship’. The considerable emphasis in this article on the amount, variety and tastiness of food allegedly eaten by naval recruits clearly indicates that it was aimed at poor

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Interest groups and local perspectives

children and their parents. Bread, butter, sugar, coffee and other exotic items are specifically mentioned, as well as more traditional Japanese foods. It was, in fact, a duty for recruits to get used to eating bread and other ‘foreign’ foods because the navy, it was said, could at any time be sent to a foreign country where rice was not available and bread would have to be eaten instead. Lest this romantic and patriotic existence should seem too daunting to young rural boys, military routine was also portrayed as reassuringly similar to an idealised family and village life. In a typical rendition of a familiar cliché, the prospective naval recruits were informed: ‘A warship is a large family. The captain is the father, the second-in-charge is the mother, and the sailors are the children’.84 On another occasion, the senior officer on a warship was likened to a chief priest who in olden times would discuss and help to solve all village problems.85 High-ranking military officers contributed articles and stories to Ie no hikari and participated in round-table discussions of current issues. News of senior military appointments, transfers and occasionally deaths at the front appeared, and photographs of military aeroplanes, weapons and training exercises were published. ‘Glorious military stories’ for adults and children often appeared, including stories about brave military horses and dogs. War in general and specific wars, notably the Russo-Japanese War and of course the military action in Manchuria and Shanghai, were made to seem highly romantic and exciting.86 ‘Glorious stories’ of the Russo-Japanese War, portrayed as the forerunner to the Manchurian Incident, appeared frequently both in the children’s section and elsewhere. They were always accounts of bravery, loyalty, intelligence, and very often heroic deaths.87 Occasionally there were ‘glorious stories’ from the home front, as in a June 1932 report about the Kimuras from Aichi Prefecture, who had been among a number of families honoured by the Army Minister for contributing nine or more members to the military.88 This type of article reached a peak in Ie no hikari’s contribution to the ‘three human bombs’ phenomenon. The magazine’s main story on the ‘heroic’ deaths in Shanghai appeared in April 1932. It was four pages long – longer than many Ie no hikari articles – and entitled ‘The Death of the Three Brave Warriors that Shook the World’, with the subtitle ‘The flower of yamato damashii [Japanese spirit] planted in the hearts of 80,000,000 citizens’. The bravery of the ‘three human bombs’ was said to be unparalleled in the history of warfare, and was not only a credit to the three soldiers’ home villages and towns, but was also an expression of Japanese spirit of which Japan could boast to the whole world. Indeed, the article noted, it was fortuitous that the deaths had occurred in the Shanghai area, where people from all nations were sure to hear about it. The ‘three human bombs’ thus not only would greatly encourage the Imperial Army, but deserved the admiration and gratitude of the entire nation.89 ‘Japanese spirit’ was in fact a popular topic in Ie no hikari. Some contributors echoed the view found elsewhere that the ‘Japanese spirit’ represented by the Shanghai heroes had reappeared after being somehow lost or buried in the years since the Russo-Japanese War. Others applauded the spirit of early Japanese settlers in Manchuria, Korea and Mongolia. All agreed that Japanese spirit was

Reactions in the countryside 143 much in evidence in the Manchurian and Shanghai Incidents, not only in the actions of soldiers at the front, but also in the patriotic efforts of those who battled crises at home.90 There was a ready identification between the ‘military spirit’ and the ‘spirit of the Japanese people’. Though it was soldiers who had inherited yamato damashii in its purest form, the spirit of sincerity, bravery, good manners, loyalty, frugality and above all devotion to the emperor added up to ‘Japanese spirit’ and were present in all Japanese, according to one round-table discussion. Nevertheless, ‘good manners’ were far less evident among civilians, at least in the cities, than in the military: most people failed to bow when passing Yasukuni Shrine, for example. ‘The West’ did not possess this spirit, which was the key to overcoming all the internal and external crises with which Japan was currently faced. This article contained numerous stories of soldiers dying ‘beautiful’ deaths while shouting ‘Long live the emperor!’.91 Western countries may have lacked ‘Japanese spirit’, but it was Chinese people and particularly Chinese soldiers who were especially scorned. If Japanese soldiers represented the pinnacle of glorious military achievement, Chinese soldiers, lacking yamato damashii, represented just the opposite. A number of articles purporting to expose ‘the true character of the Chinese army’ emphasised that the soldiers and the much-discussed ‘bandits’ were indistinguishable in China, which allegedly suffered almost equally from both. Chinese joined the army for the money, it was said, not through any devotion to the national interest. The implied contrast here is striking in view of the tone of the articles in Ie no hikari recommending military careers for young boys, which certainly appealed to the same instincts in the Japanese population. According to contributors to Ie no hikari, all Chinese soldiers were lazy, cowardly, ignorant and inept at fighting. If they lost a battle they ran away, and if they couldn’t run away they surrendered. They were also effete: when it rained, it was said, they fought from under umbrellas so as not to get their uniforms wet.92 The Manchurian Incident was credited not only with re-establishing Japanese spirit among the general populace, but also with ‘correcting’ the political consciousness of individuals or groups who had been ‘led astray’. One writer approvingly noted the adoption of new policies by the Social Masses Party at its Sixth Conference in January 1932, including a resolution ‘to clarify the spirit of respect for the Japanese kokutai’.93 Other articles continued in the same vein after the wave of recantations by Communists that began in earnest in mid-1933: the ‘recent national situation’, together with enough leisure in gaol to reflect on it, were correctly seen as major factors in helping Communists come to a realisation of their ‘mistakes’ and adopt more suitable views.94 Not surprisingly, Ie no hikari’s analysis of the actual military and political events of the years 1931–33 did not differ from the army and government line. The Sino-Japanese conflict, it was explained, was the outcome of worsening relations between the two countries, which in turn were blamed on the ‘arrogance’ of the Chinese in Manchuria. Japan had naturally acted to defend itself in September 1931, because China had been trampling on Japanese ‘rights and interests’ in Manchuria for some years, and was obviously anti-Japanese. All responsibility

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for the situation was China’s. Nevertheless, the Chinese did not want to solve the various problems outstanding in Sino-Japanese relations; rather, they wanted to prolong the crisis in order to wear Japan down. The Shanghai Incident was also interpreted as the result of anti-Japanese feelings and activities in China.95 World censure of the Kwantung Army’s actions was said to be based on a misunderstanding of Japan, together with excessive and unwarranted sympathy for China. In any case, the League was no more than an instrument to serve the selfinterest of the large nations – despite the fact that it proved to be the smaller member nations which put the most pressure on Japan – and had no true understanding of Far Eastern affairs. The League’s ‘betrayal’ was all the more bitter in view of the fact that Japan had worked hard as one of its founding members and one of five members of the Permanent Council, in contrast to China’s minor role.96 Some writers suspected ulterior motives for the world’s censure of Japan: the rest of the world, especially Britain, feared the Japanese economy because Japan was able to produce good-quality articles cheaply; the United States, which was said to view Japan as a bitter enemy, was motivated by a desire to take control of China, ‘the world’s treasure-house’. Some thought war to be inevitable or likely. According to one writer in November 1932, ‘in the natural course of events’ a clash with the United States would be hard to avoid, and it was merely a matter of time before it occurred. Another, in December the following year, advocated a high level of expenditure on national defence and the maintenance of military strength, despite the depression – not in order to fight, but ‘in order not to fight, and in order to protect ourselves against the unthinkable’.97 One interpretation of Japan’s withdrawal from the League of Nations went much further than the standard line, clearly foreshadowing the ideology of ‘Greater East Asia’ which became prominent later in the 1930s. Withdrawal from the League would do Japan no harm at all, according to journalist Ito¯ Kameo; Japan would be no more isolated than the United States or the Soviet Union, which were not League members. Rather, the League would suffer from the loss of Japan while Japan on the contrary had become free: There is no reason at all for Japan to feel pessimistic . . . The League’s antiJapanese attitude was consistent from beginning to end. This is only to be expected of the League, which is controlled by whites. But by our determination we rejected their pressure. We have crossed the Rubicon. There is nothing to stop us. If there is any obstruction, we will decisively drive it out and advance directly to our objective. There is absolutely no need to be pessimistic. Ito¯ further insisted that Japanese actions constituted an attempt to liberate Asia from colonial domination. Thus the present struggle was not just between Japan and the League, but also between Asia and the West. White people, with their Asian colonies, were a sort of ‘absentee landlord’ of Asia; but a movement was beginning of all Asian peoples against the absentee landlord, in which Japan had

Reactions in the countryside 145 a leading role to play. In fact, ‘Japan’s courageous behaviour in its battle with the League over the Manchurian issue is a permanent declaration of war against tyrannous whites’. According to Ito¯, the Western nations believed that if they could suppress Japan, the peoples of Asia would give in to Western domination. So they had combined to bring pressure on Japan, only to be thwarted by Japanese counter-action. Ito¯ concluded that in the future the large nations in the League would begin to lose their authority over the smaller nations; that some of the larger nations would try to restore their relations with Japan because it was against their interests not to do so; and that Japan and the United States would eventually clash ‘unless the US relinquish[ed] its ambition to rule the world’.98 In Ie no hikari, Manchuria represented primarily a solution to Japan’s economic problems and secondarily a possession necessary for national security. In 1932 particularly, the magazine promoted the idea of Manchuria as an ‘earthly paradise’ (rakuen, rakudo). It was a paradise mainly because of its abundant natural resources, but later because of the wonderful new nation which was being created in Manchukuo: a stable and peaceful nation in which all races were said to enjoy equal rights. This ideal situation was contrasted with the circumstances in Manchuria before the creation of the new nation, using the standard arguments about China as a dangerous and unstable place, ruled by competing warlords and overrun by bandits. Thanks to the protection of the Japanese army, residents of Manchukuo, at least, would henceforth live and work in peace. Education, culture and foreign goods would all come to Manchuria. To a lesser extent, Manchuria was portrayed in Ie no hikari as a possession necessary to protect Japan against the supposed threat from the Soviet Union: Manchuria would act both as a ‘buffer’ and as a source of strategic raw materials such as coal.99 The familiar phrase, ‘Manchuria, the life-line of Japan’, appeared constantly in Ie no hikari, which also industriously promoted the idea of ‘protection of our legitimate rights and interests’. The two phrases reinforced almost every news item, feature article and report about Manchuria in the magazine’s pages between mid-1931 and the end of 1933. Arguments were usually based on the conventional version of the history of Japanese activity in the region: thus Japan had the right to exploit the resources of Manchuria because of its sacrifices in two wars and through the efforts of pioneer Japanese settlers. In other words, Japan had ‘earned’ Manchuria ‘by the blood and sweat of the Japanese people’. In return, the Chinese in Manchuria had failed to recognise Japanese rights and interests. They had treated Japanese residents badly, and had taught their children to hate the Japanese.100 It may be that references to the sacrifices made in wars and pioneering settlement were thought likely to be particularly appealing in rural areas, which had produced most of the soldiers and settlers who had gone to Manchuria in the past. As we have seen, the bureaucratic writers appearing in Shimin took quite a different attitude to the Manchurian crisis, remaining for the most part unenthusiastic about the prospects offered to Japan by exploitation of Manchuria and implicitly communicating to their readership of village leaders and others

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that the army’s approach to Japan’s problems was not the only available strategy. Though the audience of Shimin was very much smaller than that of Ie no hikari, and its influence undoubtedly less, it does show that not all messages reaching the countryside in the early 1930s pointed in the same direction. While Ie no hikari embraced Manchuria enthusiastically, some villagers, at least, were being told to look to the civil authorities and within their own communities in order to find solutions to the multi-faceted crisis facing Japan and, either explicitly or by implication, were invited to view the Manchurian project with scepticism. The fact that more than one kind of message about the Manchurian crisis was being directed at the countryside in the early 1930s is well illustrated by the differing attitudes of Ie no hikari and Shimin to the question of emigration of farmers to Manchuria. The agricultural co-operatives’ journal, with its heavy military influence, endorsed the Kwantung Army’s attempts to encourage Japanese farm settlements in Manchuria. The scepticism of Shimin and its bureaucratic contributors towards the army’s project in Manchuria, on the other hand, was partly expressed as a rejection of the idea of emigration from rural Japan.

Emigration to Manchuria Government policy had for some time encouraged emigration to Brazil as one solution to the perceived problem of overpopulation of the homeland. After September 1931, however, at least in Kwantung Army propaganda, the new promised land was suddenly to be Manchuria, which was declared to be a land of huge resources of all kinds, with Japanese farmers as the people who could realise its limitless potential – while simultaneously securing and extending the military gains of the Kwantung Army. ‘Trial emigration’ began in 1932. Four years later, the Kwantung Army formulated a plan to send a million households of farmersettlers, and in the same year, emigration to Manchuria was adopted as an important national policy by the Hirota Ko¯ki Cabinet, remaining part of government policy right up until Japan’s defeat in 1945. Actual numbers of emigrants, however, fell far short of the desired targets at every stage of recruitment. By the same token, nearly 78,000 households did emigrate from Japan to Manchuria between 1932 and 1945, including about 3,000 in the ‘trial period’ between 1932 and 1936.101 The movement to settle Japanese farmers in Manchuria has been seen by some historians as a sign of the successful mobilisation of the people in the service of imperialist goals, and as crucial evidence of popular participation in the ‘fifteenyear war’, with thousands of Japanese rushing to join their nation’s colonialist project in north-east China. Others who have focused on the undeniable fact that numbers of emigrants never reached the desired levels have branded the emigration project a failure. Wherever the overall emphasis in historical interpretion is placed, however, the early period of emigration after the Kwantung Army’s takeover of Manchuria needs to be seen in its immediate context, distinct from the years after 1936 when formal structures were put in place to facilitate recruitment of settlers. Between 1931 and 1933, emigration to Manchuria was

Reactions in the countryside 147 presented primarily as one solution to the depression in rural Japan and, accordingly, it had to compete with other, rival solutions which insisted on the possibility of renewal from within the village and the nation. During 1932, at least, Ie no hikari was a strong advocate of Japanese settlement in Manchuria. It was quite a new stance: before 1931, the magazine had barely mentioned Manchuria in any context. A 1927 article on emigration as a solution to the problems of overpopulation and food scarcity mentions settlement in Hokkaido¯, Korea, South America and the South Pacific, but not Manchuria. In May 1929, the ‘ideal’ place for settlement was not Manchuria but Brazil. Less than three years later, however, Ie no hikari was promoting Manchuria as an ‘earthly paradise’.102 The magazine now very actively published details of Manchurian agriculture and prospects for emigrants, and provided constant reports, at first approvingly, of the flood of people said to be applying to emigrate.103 The appeal to individual prospective emigrants was based largely on the prospect of owning land in Manchuria, said to have vacant land in limitless quantities. For farmers, the emphasis on ‘empty plains’ was an important aspect of the Manchurian ‘paradise’ at a time when land was scarce in Japan in relation to population, class relations in the village were often strained, and the rural economy was depressed. Propaganda about emigration often promised 10 or 20 cho¯bu (24.5 or 49 acres) of land per household, whereas in 1933, 68 per cent of farm households in Japan, including Hokkaido¯, owned 1 cho¯bu (2.45 acres) of land or less.104 There was a cheerful air in Japanese villages, claimed Ie no hikari in September 1932, because there was so much land available in Manchuria, and farmers were simply awaiting their chance to go.105 Thus the young men of Izumida, in Nagano Prefecture, for instance, were urged to ‘build Izumida village in the limitless expanses of the Manchurian plains’.106 Absent was any recognition that in fact, millions of Chinese and others inhabited the supposedly endless and empty Manchurian plains, and that what actually happened in many cases was that Japanese settlers forcibly drove Chinese farmers off their land, and settled on land already long cultivated. Readers of Ie no hikari were also to view emigration as a patriotic undertaking. Thus a representative from the Agricultural Co-operative Association told readers that Manchuria was the supreme solution to Japan’s population problem,107 while Nasu Hiroshi, Professor of Agriculture at Tokyo Imperial University, argued strongly that it was essential for very large numbers of settlers to go to Manchuria so that Japan could maintain its hard-won rights and interests there.108 Before long, however, adverse accounts of settlers’ experiences started to filter back to Japan, and Ie no hikari began to warn prospective emigrants against excessive eagerness. In fact, a number of the early settler groups had encountered severe setbacks, ranging from ‘bandit’ attacks to labour shortages to outbreaks of dysentery. Many would-be settlers gave up and returned to Japan in the first years after the Manchurian Incident, while some of those groups which stayed found themselves unable to begin actual farming for two or three years after their arrival.109 Accordingly, articles in Ie no hikari began to point out that Manchuria was not actually a paradise now, but would become one after untiring efforts by

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settlers for ten years, or thirty years, or two or three generations, depending on the writer. An article in March 1933 admitted that ‘emigration to Manchuria in 1932 ended in failure’, mainly, it was said, because settlers lacked knowledge of Manchurian agriculture and conditions.110 During 1932 the Ministry of Overseas Affairs and the South Manchurian Railway Company’s office in Tokyo were reported to be concerned at the flood of enquiries from prospective emigrants, including many unemployed people and ‘ardent young men and women’ who ‘dream of easy money’ and of ‘making their fortune in one scoop’, seemingly expecting ‘to find money trees in Manchuria’. Many had neither job nor friends in Manchuria and lacked the money to come back to Japan. It was now emphasised that emigrants would have to be carefully selected, that government assistance was essential, that Japanese settlement in Manchuria and Mongolia would encounter many difficulties, and that the people needed were mainly technical specialists.111 By the end of 1932, the agricultural co-operative associations had lost interest in emigration to Manchuria, remaining quite critical of the venture until it was established as national policy in 1936.112 The bureaucratic journal Shimin was sceptical about emigration right from the start. As noted in Chapter 4, its contributors were much more interested in the economic revitalisation movement as a solution to the depression. According to one writer, a bureau head in the Ministry of Overseas Affairs, Manchuria as a destination for Japanese farmers was an ‘unfinished article’ (miseihin), especially compared with Brazil, where Japanese emigrants could draw on the experience of the 120,000 who had gone before them.113 Similarly, Yanai Hisao, Japanese Consul in Mukden and formerly stationed in Brazil, pointed out that while the Japanese had had considerable experience of settlement in Brazil, they had no usable experience of settlement in Manchuria at all, since previous immigrants had always lived under the protection of Japanese administration, either in the Kwantung Leased Territory or the South Manchurian Railway zone, where law and order and cultural facilities existed at virtually the same level as in Japan. Those who emigrated from now on to other parts of Manchuria would face danger from ‘bandits’, and in some cases would find a complete lack of cultural facilities. By contrast, Yanai wrote, difficult as life was in Brazil, settlers there hardly ever faced threats to life and property.114 Another contributor to Shimin echoed a well-established bureaucratic and scholarly consensus when he expressed doubts that Japanese settlers could compete with the existing inhabitants of Manchuria, who had a low standard of living and provided an abundant labour supply. The best thing would be to send Japanese settlers who had plenty of capital and would establish large farms employing Koreans or ‘Manchurians’, he argued. If it were considered desirable to send ordinary farmers and workers as emigrants for the sake of Manchurian development, he proposed sending Koreans as the ideal solution. They could compete with the ‘Manchurians’, he believed, with every prospect of success, meaning that their standard of living was sufficiently low.115 Ultimately, Japanese emigration to Manchuria can be judged either a success or a failure, as noted above, but either way, it should certainly not be interpreted

Reactions in the countryside 149 as the major rural response to the Manchurian crisis. In terms of rhetoric, plans for Japanese settlement in the early 1930s were tied much more closely to the need to find solutions for economic difficulties than to the beginning of war or the extension of empire. Military planners undeniably wanted to use Japanese settlers to secure their territorial gains, but even this aim was implemented in a somewhat ad hoc manner, rather than as a coherent part of an overall plan and, as we have seen, a number of the early settlement projects failed badly. Recruiting of prospective emigrants, on the other hand, while not lacking an appeal to patriotism, was based on the promise of large amounts of land at a time of great poverty in villages in the homeland. Emigration in this period, then, for the emigrants constituted primarily a response to the depression, not participation in the first stage of a long war. And the fact remains that in the early 1930s especially, the vast majority of poor farmers, even in very depressed regions like Nagano Prefecture, preferred their chances in Japan to the risks of settlement in a foreign land. Among reactions to the Manchurian crisis in the countryside, a decision to emigrate to Manchuria was one of the least common of all.

Conclusion Any assessment of reactions to the Manchurian crisis in the countryside is limited by the sources available. It is impossible to gauge with any precision how much influence the views presented in a journal like Ie no hikari had, and to what extent they reflected the opinions of those in country areas. Ultimately we cannot know how many people actually read any particular article, or how many people in a household read the magazine at all, or to what extent people accepted the opinions they did read. Were the writers and speakers appearing in Ie no hikari and other forums preaching to the converted, or does the consistency of their presentation of standard points of view indicate a sustained effort to persuade a hostile or apathetic audience? Such questions cannot be answered conclusively. This analysis has suggested, however, that attitudes in the countryside were more fluid than is often supposed, and that however much effort was directed at transmitting a sense of urgency about Manchurian issues to the countryside, farmers had their own priorities in the early 1930s and were not easily persuaded to give sustained attention to the army’s agenda. The sources of information available to those in rural areas were undoubtedly less diverse than those in the cities. Even allowing for the fact that country people circulated newspapers and magazines within their neighbourhoods, and listened to each other’s radios, familiarity with the content of major newspapers, radio broadcasts and most periodicals was probably not great in rural Japan in the early 1930s. Those who did read or listen to them, moreover, would not have encountered a wide variety of political views. As has been discussed in Chapter 3, the mass media, including radio and film, generally conformed with the army version of events in Manchuria, and critical voices were not often heard by the majority of people. Aside from radio, newspapers and magazines, there was one further major channel of information from the centre to the countryside: the

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political or patriotic speech by a local or visiting authority, including many army officers, or representative of one of the national political parties. It goes without saying that it was official views which were promoted through such speeches, which were sponsored by reservist, youth and women’s associations, often jointly, and were given in large numbers in villages and towns in the 1920s and 1930s. According to Smethurst they always drew large audiences, partly through a dearth of other ‘entertainment’ – ‘a patriotic lecture was more than nothing’ – though evidence gathered by Ella and John Embree on low attendance at women’s meetings in ‘Suye’ contradicts the suggestion that country people would attend any function at all.116 With the exception of the sceptical or critical voices to be found in publications like Shimin and some of the young men’s associations’ newspapers, rural Japan was thus receiving a relatively consistent diet of army and government views about political and military events in the early 1930s. Comparatively few sources explicitly contradicted the line espoused by Ie no hikari, and not many rural people would have had independent sources of information on such matters. If few villagers in Shinohata, the village near Tokyo studied by Ronald Dore, had any inkling of the end of the war in 1945, it is very unlikely that villagers anywhere in Japan would have known, for example, the truth about the events of 18 September 1931.117 For most people, there would be no reason to disbelieve the claim that the Kwantung Army had acted in self-defence in its conflict with the Chinese in Manchuria. The same is doubtless true of other issues relating to the fighting in Manchuria, the establishment of Manchukuo, and Japan’s withdrawal from the League of Nations. Family members working in urban factories, and returning soldiers, could have been alternative sources of information, but their views would naturally have been restricted by their particular circumstances, and by the level of information available to them. Embree notes, for example, that soldiers returning from Manchuria to ‘Suye’ village really believed that their Chinese opponents had been ‘bandits’,118 when a large number of them must have been anti-Japanese guerillas. It is very likely, indeed, that the fighting in Manchuria, let alone events at the League of Nations, seemed vague and distant to most villagers. Events in Tokyo were probably remote enough. The assassinations of 26 February 1936 occurred while John and Ella Embree were working in ‘Suye’, apparently ‘rocking the edifice of government to its foundations’.119 John Embree notes that in ‘Suye’, however, ‘many people did not even know what had happened’ – though William Chamberlin, it is true, observed the same lack of interest among Tokyo people.120 Ella Embree similarly remarked of ‘Suye’, ‘Most of these people do not know where foreign countries are located, nor will they ever know why a war occurred if one does’.121 The countryside does provide some evidence of opposition to the invasion of Manchuria, but not a great deal. A comparative lack of overt criticism of the government and army, however, does not indicate that rural Japanese were as blindly patriotic and devoted to army and nation as is suggested by a number of writers. Smethurst allows for the ‘few areas of the nation’ in which radical

Reactions in the countryside 151 activity ‘prevented the army and the reservist association from dominating certain branches’ of the young men’s association,122 but rural response to the Manchurian crisis is a much more complex matter than is implied in this picture of unquestioning obedience to the military combined with isolated patches of outright opposition. If farmers were ‘naturally’ supporters of the army, why did Ie no hikari, with its specifically rural targets, feature so many ‘beautiful stories’ of heroism, sacrifice and ‘Japanese spirit’ and, more broadly, why was it necessary for military propagandists to invent and widely publicise the story of the ‘three human bombs’? The possibility must be acknowledged that it was because public patriotism and loyalty did not exist to an extent satisfactory to the authorities. If obedience to the military could be taken for granted, moreover, it should not have been necessary to publish articles reminding potential rural recruits, especially during the depression when other jobs were scarce, that good pay, good food and job security were to be had by joining the army or navy. The anxious attention paid to the countryside in other ways by the army also serves as a reminder that rural support for the military was by no means taken for granted by those most concerned to cultivate it. For that matter, the fact that bureaucrats also perceived a need to reinforce, by means of Shimin, information that had already been sent to local government authorities through official channels perhaps indicates their own consciousness that the integration of villagers, even village leaders, into national structures had not yet reached the desired level. The countryside, then, remained at least potentially unruly from the point of view of national elites. In her analysis of the Japanese response to the Manchurian Incident between 1931 and 1933, Louise Young chiefly emphasises ‘war fever’.123 If ‘war fever’ did break out in the countryside, however, it was short-lived. Certainly, rural areas, notably in To¯hoku, were quick to show their concern and support for the soldiers who went to Manchuria. The scale of the fighting, however, was not large enough to have a significant impact on most villages. In the two years following the Manchurian Incident, the army recorded 2,566 Japanese deaths in action in Manchuria and Shanghai.124 Spread throughout Japan, the number of deaths was hardly enough to have a noticeable impact beyond the families and immediate neighbourhoods of those killed. Not until the late 1930s would the majority of villagers be forced by loss of labour and repeated funerals to face the reality of war. In the early 1930s, most farmers must have been aware of the fighting in Manchuria and many supported it in a general way, perhaps rejoicing at the expansion of Japanese influence overseas. The harsh circumstances in the countryside, however, make it scarcely surprising that reaction to the Manchurian Incident was often muted. Economic survival was a far more pressing issue, and political action in the countryside was geared much more towards securing rural relief than to any other objective in the early 1930s. There is no doubt that the official version of the Manchurian crisis was reaching the countryside through a variety of means. Some farmers, however, heard other messages too: that prospects in Manchuria were not to be overrated, that only the wealthy would profit, or simply, by implication, that problems nearer at hand were more important.

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On the other hand, the early 1930s undoubtedly were critical years in the negotiation of the relationship between state and rural society. Far from being a static environment in which ‘traditional’ institutions and attitudes held unquestioning sway, the countryside was the site of contest and of dynamic change in these years. For the rural left in particular it was a crucial period: left-wing activism specifically and independent political expression in general were fatally damaged by the depression, the Manchurian Incident, increased government repression and the emergence and encouragement of rival, conservative perspectives on the local and national situation. The depression and the Manchurian Incident both served to discourage political dissent throughout Japan, and in the countryside to strengthen the existing emphases on notions compatible with official versions of agrarianism. Simultaneously, increased government repression removed a number of activists from the villages, and government strategies to defuse discontent were put into place. By 1933, much had changed in the Japanese countryside compared to even three years earlier. By the same token, however, the consciousness of a crisis had slackened by the middle of that year. Many soldiers had already come home. In 1934, Ie no hikari no longer promoted emigration to Manchuria. Depression continued in the countryside, but by 1936, prices of both silk cocoons and rice had risen significantly. In the cities, too, meanwhile, the Manchurian crisis was making itself felt, as labour organisations and progressive political parties grappled with the ideological problems it brought, and business organisations faced the fact that the Chinese nationalist movement could inflict serious damage on Japanese profits.

Notes 1 Hugh T. Patrick, ‘The Economic Muddle of the 1920s’, in Morley (ed.), Dilemmas of Growth, pp. 218–19. 2 Nakamura, Sho¯wa no kyo¯ko¯, Tokyo, Sho¯gakkan, 1988, p. 274; G. C. Allen, A Short Economic History of Modern Japan, London, Macmillan, 4th edn, 1981, p. 114. 3 Nakamura, Sho¯wa no kyo¯ko¯, pp. 274–5, 306–7. 4 Ibid., p. 307. 5 Kobayashi, Manshu¯ imin no mura, p. 20. 6 Nakamura, Sho¯wa no kyo¯ko¯, p. 307; Mori Takemaro, Senji Nihon no¯son shakai no kenkyu¯, Tokyo,To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1999, p. 16. 7 Hashimoto Juro¯, Dai kyo¯ko¯ki no Nihon shihonshugi, Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1984, pp. 193–4. 8 Nakamura Masanori, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯ (Iwanami bukkuretto, shiriizu Sho¯washi, No. 1), Tokyo, Iwanami shoten, 1989, pp. 42–3. 9 Hashimoto, Dai kyo¯ko¯ki, p. 194. 10 S, ‘Sate kotoshi no mokuhyo¯ wa?’, Izumida jiho¯, April 1933, p. 3. 11 Mikiso Hane, Peasants, Rebels and Outcastes: The Underside of Modern Japan, London, Scolar Press, 1982, p. 115; Japan Weekly Chronicle, 19 November 1931, p. 650; Mainichi Daily News Staff, Fifty Years of Light and Dark, p. 57. 12 ‘Starving Farmers Selling Daughters into Brothels’, Trans-Pacific, 9 June 1932, p. 8. 13 Japan Weekly Chronicle, 5 February 1931, p. 117. See also ‘Woman Kills Her Five Children’, ibid., 23 April 1931, p. 459. 14 Nakamura, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, pp. 42–3; Nakamura, Sho¯wa no kyo¯ko¯, p. 308.

Reactions in the countryside 153 15 Ann Waswo, ‘The Origins of Tenant Unrest’, in Silberman and Harootunian (eds), Japan in Crisis, p. 382. Richard Smethurst offers a quite different view of tenancy disputes during the depression in his Agricultural Development and Tenancy Disputes in Japan, 1870–1940, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1986. 16 Nakamura, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, p. 43. 17 Smethurst, Social Basis, xiv, p. 184. 18 Ibid., p. 181. For a discussion of these points see Sandra Wilson, ‘Angry Young Men and the Japanese State: Nagano Prefecture, 1930–33’, in Elise K. Tipton (ed.), Society and the State in Interwar Japan, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 100–25. 19 See Nishida Yoshiaki, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯ no no¯son shakai undo¯: yo¯sanchi ni okeru tenkai to kiketsu, Tokyo, Ochanomizu shobo¯, 1978, Ch. 5. 20 On this point see also Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron; Awaya, ‘Fasshoka’; Yui, ‘Gunbu to kokumin to¯go¯’; Ronald P. Dore, Land Reform in Japan, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1959, pp. 94–5; Thomas R. H. Havens, Farm and Nation in Modern Japan: Agrarian Nationalism, 1870–1940, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1974, pp. 310–13. 21 Peter Gay, Weimar Culture: The Outsider as Insider, London, Secker & Warburg, 1969, p. 71. 22 Kishi Yoshitami, ‘Tsuchi o nigire’, Izumida jiho¯, May 1930, p. 1. 23 For two among many examples, see MT, ‘Shisen o aegi chi ni naku no¯min no sakebi: no¯son o sukuu ni wa mazu kaikyu¯ no ninshiki kara’, Izumida jiho¯, September 1930, p. 2; ‘Puro no me ni’, in Bessho jiho¯ fukkan kanko¯kai (ed.), Bessho jiho¯ shukusatsuban, 1980 (hereafter Bessho jiho¯), June 1930, p. 1. 24 A. E. Tiedemann, ‘Big Business and Politics in Prewar Japan’, in Morley (ed.), Dilemmas of Growth, p. 286. 25 See Nakamura, Sho¯wa no kyo¯ko¯, pp. 317–20; Miwa Ryo¯ichi, ‘Doru kai: kin yushutsu saikinshi o osoreru’, in Arisawa Hiromi (ed.), Sho¯wa keizaishi, Tokyo, Nihon keizai shinbunsha, 1976, pp. 78–80. 26 Smith, A Time of Crisis, pp. 166–70; p. 413, n. 97. 27 Quoted in Maruyama, ‘Ideology and Dynamics’, p. 45. 28 Fujii, ‘Ko Fujii kaigun sho¯sa no nikki utsushi (sho¯)’, pp. 655, 658, 677, 719. 29 Dore, Land Reform, p. 94; Awaya, ‘Fasshoka’, pp. 286–7; Havens, Farm and Nation, pp. 308–13. 30 Awaya, ‘Fasshoka’, pp. 286–7. 31 Nishida, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, pp. 11, 439–42. 32 Havens, Farm and Nation, pp. 310–13. See also Dore, Land Reform, pp. 94–5. 33 Smith, A Time of Crisis, p. 168. 34 Nishida, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, p. 443. 35 ‘Utsuriyuku jidai no so¯: takanaru fassho ko¯shinkyoku’, Izumida jiho¯, September 1932, p. 4. 36 Dore, Land Reform, p. 95. 37 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 7–15, 20. 38 Ibid., pp. 2–16. 39 Onnatachi no ima o tou kai, ‘Hajime ni’, Ju¯goshi no¯to, No. 3, January 1983, p. 34. 40 Ishii, Gaiko¯kan no issho¯, p. 209. 41 Mainichi Daily News, 6 January 1932, p. 3. 42 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 16–24, 29–34. See Chapter 7 of this book on fund-raising campaigns in the cities. 43 Tsurumaru, ‘Sono koro’, p. 41 (No. 7). 44 Awaya, ‘Fasshoka’, p. 266; Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 16–17, 22–3. 45 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 20–3. 46 Nishida Yoshiaki and Kubo Yasuo (eds), Nishiyama Ko¯ichi nikki 1925–1950nen: Niigata-ken ichi kosakuno¯ no kiroku, Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1991, esp. pp. 255–79.

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47 Smith, A Time of Crisis, pp. 102, 104, 110; p. 401, n. 75. See also ‘Farmers’ Demands Reveal Discontent’, Trans-Pacific, 1 September 1932, p. 14. 48 On the seinendan newspapers in the 1920s, see Kano Masanao, Taisho¯ demokurashii no teiryu¯, Tokyo, NHK Books, 1973. 49 See Wilson, ‘Angry Young Men’. 50 ‘Kanko¯ no kotoba’, in Kamishina-mura shi kanko¯kai (ed. and publ.), Kamishina jiho¯ shukusatsuban, Ueda-shi, 1978. 51 Izumida jiho¯, November 1930, p. 1; September 1932, p. 2; November 1933, p. 1. 52 Debun Shigenobu, ‘Maker of Soldiers’, in Haruko Taya Cook and Theodore F. Cook (eds), Japan at War: An Oral History, New York, New Press, 1992, pp. 124, 127. 53 ‘Kakushu no mondai ni taishi seinen wa sotchoku ni sakebu’, Izumida jiho¯, December 1931, p. 1. 54 Kaura Hatsumi, ‘No¯son no kyo¯dai e’, Kamishina jiho¯, May 1932, p. 1. 55 ‘Utsuriyuku jidai no so¯: takanaru fassho ko¯shinkyoku’, Izumida jiho¯, September 1932, p. 4. 56 Nishida, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, p. 443; Kobayashi, Manshu¯ imin no mura, p. 37. 57 On the radicalism of the pre-war tenant farmers’ movement, see Nishida Yoshiaki, ‘Senzen Nihon ni okeru ro¯do¯ undo¯, no¯min undo¯ no seishitsu’, in To¯kyo¯ daigaku shakai kagaku kenkyu¯jo (ed.), Gendai Nihon shakai, Vol. 4, pp. 263–313. 58 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, p. 22. 59 Quoted in Ide Magoroku, Owarinaki tabi, Tokyo, Iwanami shoten, 1991, pp. 43–5. 60 Nishida, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, pp. 449–50. 61 See Akabane, ‘Naze seinendan wa yukizumatta ka? Soshite kongo no seinen no mokuhyo¯ wa: Kenrensei kenkyu¯ taikai ni shusseki shite’, Izumida jiho¯, April 1933, p. 3. 62 On reactions to the Manchurian Incident of groups representing farmers, see Seiyei Wakukawa, ‘The Japanese Farm-Tenancy System’, in Douglas G. Haring (ed.), Japan’s Prospect, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1946, pp. 153–6; Andrew Roth, Dilemma in Japan, London, Victor Gollancz, 1946, pp. 127–8. 63 Komatsu Mitsuo (ed.), Nippon seishin no hatsuyo¯shi, Tokyo, Nippon shinbunsha, 1934, pp. 141–2; Nishida, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, p. 452; Kobayashi, Manshu¯ imin no mura, p. 37. 64 Nishida, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, p. 747. 65 Yamada Morio, ‘Musan no¯min wa doko e yuku’, Izumida jiho¯, September 1932, p. 3. 66 Izumida jiho¯, July 1932, p. 3. 67 For examples of such activities in Nagano Prefecture see Wilson, ‘Angry Young Men’, pp. 116–17. 68 Matsui Masao, ‘Iju¯ netsu o aoru’, Izumida jiho¯, May 1932, p. 4. 69 Kimura Tadashi, ‘Dai nikai ireisai ni okeru saibun’, 18 December 1931, in Kimura Tadashi sensei ko¯enshu¯ Soncho¯ ju¯nen kanko¯kai (ed. and publ.), Kimura Tadashi sensei ko¯enshu¯ Soncho¯ ju¯nen, Sendai, 1937, pp. 166–8. 70 See, for example, Kobayashi, Manshu¯ imin no mura, pp. 36–8; Nishida, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, pp. 460–1. 71 Mori, Senji Nihon no¯son shakai, p. 13. 72 Nishida, Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, p. 455; Dore, Land Reform, p. 104. 73 See Yamamoto Taketoshi, Kindai Nihon no shinbun dokushaso¯, Tokyo, Ho¯sei daigaku shuppankyoku, 1981, pp. 238–40. 74 Embree, Suye Mura, p. 309. 75 Ibid., pp. 46, 48, 111. By 1936 there were five radios in Suye village. Films came to Suye two or three times per summer; they were also shown three times per week in two nearby towns. 76 Hane, Peasants, Rebels and Outcastes, p. 43. 77 Niizuma Itoko, ‘No¯son seikatsu to fujin zasshi’, No¯son fujin, Vol. 1, No. 3, May 1932, pp. 10–11. See also Chiba Kameo, ‘Fujin jihyo¯’, No¯son fujin, Vol. 1, No. 9, November 1932, p. 13.

Reactions in the countryside 155 78 Adachi Ikutsune, ‘Jiriki ko¯sei undo¯ka no Ie no hikari ’, Shikan gendaishi, No. 2, May 1973, pp. 105, 108–9. See also Itagaki Kuniko, ‘Ie no hikari ni miru no¯son seikatsu no kaizen’, Ochanomizu shigaku, No. 21, 1977, pp. 1–19; Ie no hikari kyo¯kai, Ie no hikari no shiju¯nen, Tokyo, 1968; Itagaki Kuniko, Sho¯wa senzen, senchu¯ki no no¯son seikatsu: zasshi Ie no hikari ni miru, Tokyo, Mitsumine shobo¯, 1992. For 1925 circulation figures on Kingu and seven other Ko¯dansha magazines, see Kato¯ Ken’ichi, Sho¯nen kurabu jidai, 1968, pp. 38–9. On Kingu see also Kakegawa Tomiko, ‘Kingu’, in Hidaka Rokuro¯ (ed.), Masumedia no senkusha, Tokyo, Ko¯dansha, 1963. 79 Embree, Suye Mura, p. 64. 80 Ie no hikari kyo¯kai, Ie no hikari no shiju¯nen, pp. 53–4, 61–3. 81 Mori, Senji Nihon no¯son shakai, p. 20; Smith, A Time of Crisis, p. 135. 82 ‘Shokugyo¯ shido¯: rikukaigun no kashikan’, IH, May 1931, pp. 104–7. 83 ‘No¯ka shitei no shokugyo¯ annai’, IH, March 1932, pp. 130–1. In the May 1931 article cited above, pay rates for new recruits are given as nine yen (army) and six yen (navy). See also ‘Kaigun sho¯nen ko¯ku¯hei no seikatsu’, September 1933, pp. 212– 14; and two advertisements in the issues for January 1933 and July 1933. 84 ‘Gunkan no seikatsu no ichinichi’, IH, May 1932, pp. 193–200. See also ‘Shinpei no ichinichi’ (photographs), March 1933 and ‘Shin kaigun daijin no kodomo no koro’, March 1933, Children’s Section, pp. 208–9. 85 Vice-Admiral Viscount Ogasawara Naganari, ‘Gunji bidan: ko ni keireisuru oya’, IH, March 1932, pp. 22–3. 86 See Wilson, ‘Russo-Japanese War and Japan’, pp. 182–8; Wilson, ‘Past in the Present’. 87 For example, ‘Manshu¯ gunji bidan’, illustrated, IH, February 1932, Children’s Section, pp. 172–8. 88 ‘Kunin no heishi o kuni ni sasageta’, IH, June 1932, pp. 188–9. 89 ‘Sekai o shingai seshimeta bakudan san’yu¯shi no shi: hachiman no kokumin no mune ni uetsuketa yamato damashii no seika’, IH, April 1932, pp. 66–9. 90 For example, IH, February 1932, pp. 12–13; March 1932, pp. 22–3, 184; June 1932, pp. 197–204; October 1932, pp. 20–1; December 1932, pp. 12–13. See also June 1931, pp. 12–13, 18; report of General Araki Sadao’s address to the emperor on ‘What Japan has Gained from the Manchurian Incident’, October 1933, pp. 176–7. 91 ‘Nippon no gunjin seishin o kataru kai’, IH, October 1933, pp. 64–76. On soldiers’ last words, see Ienaga, Pacific War, p. 102. 92 ‘Shanhai de Nihon hei to tatakau Shina no heitaisan no hanashi’, IH, April 1932, pp. 188–9; ‘Manshu¯ wa Nihon no seimeisen’, January 1932, pp. 166–7. According to Billingsley, ex-bandit troops did in fact usually flee if subjected to enemy fire on the battlefield: Billingsley, Bandits, p. 195. 93 ‘Nihon nimo kokusui shakai shugi undo¯ okoru’, IH, March 1932, p. 184. 94 For example, ‘Tenko¯ ryu¯ko¯ jidai no umarekita tokoro’, IH, December 1933, pp. 174–5. 95 ‘Manshu¯ jihen wa naze okotta ka’, IH, November 1931, pp. 34–7; ‘Manshu¯ wa Nihon no seimeisen’, January 1932, pp. 166–9; ‘Shanhai jihen naze okotta ka’, March 1932, p. 183. 96 Ito¯ Kameo, ‘Sekai no ugoki’, IH, December 1931, pp. 30–1; ‘Jiji manga shu¯’, May 1932, pp. 186–7; ‘Nihon wa naniyue ni Renmei o dattai shita ka’, April 1933, pp. 176–7 and cartoons pp. 174–5. 97 ‘Manshu¯koku sho¯nin ni taisuru kakkoku no iko¯’, IH, November 1932, pp. 56–7; ‘Hijo¯ji dai niki no Nihon’, December 1933, pp. 30–4. See also ‘Seppaku shitekita Manshu¯koku no sho¯nin’, August 1932, pp. 182–3. 98 Ito¯ Kameo, ‘Renmei o dattaishita Nihon wa do¯ naru ka’, IH, April 1933, pp. 174–5. See also ‘Nihon kara nagameta sekai no ju¯yo¯ mondai no kaisetsu: Dai Ajia shugi no jidai’, September 1933, pp. 42ff. on Japan as the leader of Asia; ‘Gunjihi wa naze bo¯cho¯ suru ka’, November 1933, pp. 176–7.

156

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99 See, for example, IH, January 1932, pp. 167, 168; March 1932, pp. 182–7; April 1932, pp. 48, 182–3; January 1933, pp. 182–3; March 1933, pp. 184–5. 100 For example, IH, January 1932, p. 166; March 1932, pp. 6–7; May 1932, p. 46. 101 See Sandra Wilson, ‘The “New Paradise”: Japanese Emigration to Manchuria in the 1930s and 1940s’, International History Review, Vol. 17, No. 2, May 1995, pp. 249–86. 102 ‘Kaigai iju¯ kumiai ni tsuite’, IH, July 1927, pp. 11–13; May 1929, pp. 43–7; for example, April 1932, pp. 48, 182–3. See August 1926, pp. 29–32, for emigration to Hokkaido¯. 103 For example, ‘Manshu¯ de wa donna fujin o motomuru?’, IH, May 1932, pp. 184–5; ‘Zento yu¯bo¯na Manshu¯ no¯gyo¯’, June 1932, pp. 38–41. 104 Nihon gakujutsu shinko¯kai, Manshu¯ imin mondai to jisseki cho¯sa, Tokyo, 1937, p. 99. 105 ‘Mada mehana no tsukanu Manshu¯ imin: saikin senkushita imin no hanashi’, IH, September 1932, pp. 188–9. 106 Matsui Masao, ‘Akeyuku Manmo¯’, Izumida jiho¯, March 1932, p. 1. 107 ‘Moshi Nihon ga keizai fu¯sa o saretara?’, IH, March 1932, p. 38. 108 Nasu Hiroshi, ‘Shu¯dan no¯gyo¯ imin o seiko¯saseyo¯’, IH, May 1932, pp. 47–51. 109 Wilson, ‘“New Paradise”’, pp. 268–73. 110 ‘Manshu¯, Burajiru toko¯sha no tame ni mono o tazuneru kai’, IH, March 1933, pp. 110–19. 111 ‘Shin Manshu¯koku no medetaku tanjo¯’, IH, April 1932, pp. 182–3; ‘Manmo¯ kaitaku no no¯gyo¯ imin zadankai’, May 1932, pp. 46, 55–7; Hirota Shiro¯, ‘Minshu¯ no chikara de Manmo¯ o kaitaku shiyo¯’, June 1932, p. 36; ‘Manmo¯ iju¯ o kokorozasu hitobito ni: Mantetsu To¯kyo¯ shisha de wa kaku kataru’, June 1932, pp. 186–7; ‘Mada mehana no tsukanu Manshu¯ imin’, September 1932, pp. 188–9. 112 Takahashi, Sho¯wa senzenki no no¯son, p. 115. 113 Ko¯riyama Satoru, ‘No¯son kyu¯saisaku toshite no kaigai imin’, Shimin, March 1932, pp. 8–13. 114 Yanai Hisao, ‘Burajiru imin to Manmo¯ imin’, Shimin, June 1932, pp. 32–7. 115 Hiraga Makoto, ‘Shin Manshu¯koku no reimei’, Shimin, February 1933, pp. 55–8. 116 Smethurst, Social Basis, p. 170; Smith and Wiswell, Women of Suye Mura, p. 31. 117 Ronald P. Dore, Shinohata: A Portrait of a Japanese Village, New York, Pantheon Books, 1978, p. 54. 118 Embree, Suye Mura, p. 201. 119 William Henry Chamberlin, Japan over Asia, London, Duckworth, 1938, p. 216. 120 Embree, Suye Mura, p. 309; Chamberlin, Japan over Asia, pp. 216–17. 121 Smith and Wiswell, Women of Suye Mura, p. 18. 122 Smethurst, Social Basis, p. 36. 123 Young, Japan’s Total Empire, pp. 55–114. 124 Rikugunsho¯, ‘Manshu¯ jihen boppatsu man ni nen’ (18 September 1933), in Fujiwara Akira and Kunugi Toshihiro (eds), Shiryo¯: Nihon gendaishi, Vol. 8, Tokyo, ¯ tsuki shoten, 1983, Document 85, p. 290. A similar pamphlet gave a total of 2,891 O deaths in action and from wounds in Manchuria only, between 18 September 1931 and July 1936: see Rikugunsho¯, ‘Manshu¯ jihen boppatsu man go nen’ (18 September 1936), ibid., Document 89, pp. 333–4.

7

Urban workers and organised labour

No matter how much attention governments paid to the countryside in the 1930s, the towns and cities could not be ignored, in terms either of demographics or of politics. In 1930, nearly a third of the Japanese population lived in cities of 30,000 people or more, and by 1935, thirty-four cities had populations of over 100,000.1 Manufacturing, commerce and transportation together were beginning to challenge agriculture as employers, accounting for 40 per cent of the total workforce, including a large number of women, who made up almost half the employees in the manufacturing sector in 1930, largely thanks to their predominance in textile production. Politically, the importance of business as a whole was growing. Big business, of course, had long exerted crucial influence on Japanese governments and the making of policy, a point which was constantly reiterated by those seeking radical reform of the status quo during the early 1930s, while ‘the problem of small and medium enterprises’ (chu¯sho¯ sho¯ko¯gyo¯ mondai, chu¯sho¯ sangyo¯sha mondai) was placed firmly on the political agenda in this period.2 Urban business and urban workers, therefore, were significant and often vocal groups in the economic, political and social landscape of the early 1930s. The operators of smaller-scale enterprises in fact dominated the commercial and industrial scene in numerical terms, with large enterprises the exception. About 86 per cent of the total number of factories in 1931 employed between five and thirty workers; only 2 per cent employed more than 200 people. Very small ‘factories’ with less than five employees and virtually no capital formed the broad base of industry. Seventy-nine per cent of the industrial labour force in 1930 worked in factories with fewer than a hundred employees; over half worked in establishments with four or fewer employees. The finances of small businesses, however, were often precarious. In 1931, two-thirds of all firms and factories had less than 50,000 yen in capital. On the other hand, 407 large firms and factories, or less than 1 per cent of the total number, held 57 per cent of total capital. The same pattern is found in commerce. Of the 5 million people who were involved in businesses of some kind in 1930, two-thirds were in the retail sector, and the majority of these people worked in extremely small establishments. The operators and employees of smaller enterprises became the chief urban victims of the depression. Though not as central a symbol of the depression as were suffering farmers, they attracted some of the same kind of attention

158

Interest groups and local perspectives

from the press and politicians and in political rhetoric were often mentioned in the same breath. In 1931–32, Japanese army and government policy in Manchuria enjoyed the backing of all groups representing business, as we shall see in the next chapter. The organisations supported by labour, on the other hand, achieved no such broad consensus. Both political parties and trade unions representing the working class were seriously split by the challenge of the Manchurian crisis, in very much the same way as were other progressive organisations. After considering the evidence about attitudes to the Manchurian crisis of urban workers in general, this chapter analyses the responses of the proletarian political parties and the mainstream trade union movement, whose members were chiefly the employees of the small and medium-sized enterprises referred to above.

Urban workers Though conditions were not as bad as in the countryside, inhabitants of towns and cities were also preoccupied with the economic depression in the early 1930s. Reliable unemployment figures are elusive, but the overall rate was reported as 6.94 per cent in January 1931, and 7.2 per cent in July 1932. Factory employment dropped by 13 per cent between 1928 and 1931. According to the Social Bureau of the Municipality of Tokyo, as at 31 December 1932 there were 478,636 people with no work in the city of Tokyo alone. Relief measures for the unemployed were acknowledged to be inadequate. In 1931, over a third of university graduates were reported to be unemployed.3 For those who were employed, especially for the mass of unskilled labour, wages were falling. A union source estimated that in May 1931, wages had fallen about 20 per cent compared to May 1930; or in real terms, 30–40 per cent. The effects were most evident in firms of small and medium scale. In many such factories, especially weaving factories and silk mills, payment of wages had stopped altogether: ‘to all intents and purposes, the wages system has completely collapsed’. Labour disputes had increased markedly as a result.4 Urban workers, like others in Japanese society, were exposed to the standard arguments about Japan’s rights in Manchuria and the benefits to be gained by exploiting the region. Evidence about their responses is extremely fragmentary; like those of farmers, their political attitudes went largely unrecorded. Some indication is provided in the statements made by political parties and trade unions representing workers, but such evidence is unfortunately limited. Membership of workers’ political parties was small, and statements by such parties inevitably reflect the opinions of leaders disproportionately. The Shakai taishu¯to¯ (Social Masses Party), the leading workers’ party of the 1930s, had 70,000 members in 1932, the year of its foundation through the merger of two existing parties. One of its constituent groups, the Zenkoku ro¯no¯ taishu¯to¯ (National Labour-Farmer Masses Party), reported about 100,000 members on 30 October 1931.5 Similarly, the organised union movement, at its pre-war peak in 1931, represented less than 8 per cent of industrial workers.6 Nevertheless,

Urban workers and organised labour 159 such evidence as is offered by the records of these organisations, partial and unsatisfying though it is, constitutes much of what can be known at present about the political attitudes of urban workers in the early 1930s. One aspect of the Manchurian crisis in which urban workers in general were said to be conspicuous was the movement to donate money for soldiers at the front. In the latter part of November 1931, ‘donation fever’ swept Tokyo, with 18,000 yen presented to the Army Ministry on the single day of the 18th, 34,000 yen on the 27th and 35,000 yen on the 28th.7 Newspapers often claimed that the working class was prominent amongst contributors to the patriotic donation movement, after students, children and women. The To¯kyo¯ nichinichi declared in late 1931, for example, that the majority of Tokyo donations were coming from the poorer districts, including Honjo, Fukagawa, Senju¯, Mikawashima and Eharacho¯; fewest donations, it was said, came from the wealthy Ko¯jimachi area.8 Newspaper companies themselves played a leading role in organising and publicising fund-raising campaigns, undoubtedly using such campaigns to present themselves as patriotic supporters of the army and to generate reader interest, in the ceaseless quest for a competitive edge over their rivals. It was the Asahi which took the initiative among the newspapers, announcing on 16 October 1931 that it would spend 10,000 yen on 20,000 comfort kits, and would accept public donations of 50 sen or more to pay for them. After that, the newspapers competed in running campaigns to raise money for the troops. By 16 December the Asahi had collected 231,500 yen, and by June 1932 the total, including donations for soldiers in Shanghai, had reached 453,746 yen. A large number of contributions did indeed come from factories and shops as well as schools and street collections, with notations indicating that they represented ‘all workers’ at a particular plant or shop. In some cases, workers were forced by their employers or others to donate to the fund for Manchuria and Shanghai, but many donations were undoubtedly spontaneous.9 ‘Donation fever’, however, is difficult to interpret. The military attempted to present it as a simple outpouring of support from ordinary people for the army’s plans, but in reality the situation was more complex. Though propaganda stories concentrated on the pittances alleged to have been contributed despite the hardships of the depression by poor children and women at great personal sacrifice, many donations were in fact quite large, and the total amounts collected were certainly inflated by generous and well-publicised contributions from wealthy individuals and from large companies anxious to be associated with a patriotic cause. In late November alone, Mitsui and Mitsubishi each donated 50,000 yen, while Mitsui bussan gave a further 20,000 yen, and a few wealthy individuals like the prominent businessman Yasuda Zenjiro¯ and Ginza cabaret manager Okamoto Sho¯jiro¯ donated 10,000 yen each.10 At a time when criticism of big business was heard almost everywhere, support of the army’s goals was not necessarily the primary motivation of these large donors: big business wanted good publicity as much as the newspapers did. The contribution of wealthy companies and individuals was perhaps even more obvious in the campaigns of 1932. In the countryside, as we have seen, the

160

Interest groups and local perspectives

movement to donate money for the welfare of soldiers later developed into orchestrated campaigns to raise money for military aeroplanes. In the cities, appeals for money for aeroplanes were not notably successful, but from 1932, successful campaigns were launched in Osaka, Kyo¯to, Ko¯be and Yokohama to raise money for air defence of the cities themselves. The Osaka campaign ran under the slogan ‘Protect the skies over Osaka – heart of Japan’. Six sets of airdefence equipment were to be purchased, at a cost of 165,000 yen each. Again, the appeals were sponsored by the O¯saka asahi and O¯saka mainichi newspaper groups, as well as the governor, the mayor, the head of the chamber of commerce and two divisions of the army. Once again, wealthy individuals and large businesses were prominent. One individual donated enough money for a complete set of equipment before the campaign even opened officially. Sumitomo, leader of the Osaka business world, donated 300,000 yen in early 1932. Mitsui and Mitsubishi, at this time contributing to a variety of organisations and causes in an attempt to improve their public image and so forestall terrorist attacks, gave another 50,000 yen each to the Osaka campaign, though public resentment over their wealth at a time of great economic suffering undoubtedly continued. Osaka Commercial Shipping gave 30,000 yen and Meiji Insurance and four other companies contributed 20,000 yen each. In fact, the top thirteen contributors, including those mentioned above, were responsible for 70 per cent of the total collected in the Osaka air-defence campaign, and large donations from individual businessmen and companies were prominent enough for some patriotic groups to worry that ordinary people were not making sufficient sacrifices. Thus one group of young people from the Kokubo¯ shiso¯ fukyu¯ kyo¯kai (Association for the Propagation of National Defence Philosophy) marched in Osaka with banners reading ‘Don’t just entrust air-defence facilities to the bourgeoisie’, ‘Take your coin [directly] to the [army] division’ and ‘Citizens of Osaka! Protect your own city!’.11 Fundamentally, then, the donation movements were as much a part of newspaper campaigns to increase sales as they were a means of supporting the army. It may well be true, moreover, as Fujii Tadatoshi suggests, that ordinary people who donated money did so not as an expression of support for military goals, but primarily as an emotional reaction to the plight of Japanese soldiers ‘in Manchuria, where even the sweat freezes’, to use a cliché from the magazines. A comparison with parallel fund-raising efforts supports this point. The campaigns to raise money for the soldiers in fact competed with other newspaper appeals for worthy causes in the early 1930s, and though the Manchurian Incident produced an unusual degree of excitement and a high level of donations, some campaigns with different purposes raised even greater sums. The Asahi, for example, collected 453,746 yen for comforts for the troops in Manchuria and Shanghai in 1931–32, compared to 640,344 yen for the victims of crop failures in To¯hoku in 1934–35 and 1,385,247 yen for victims of storm and flood damage in the Kansai area, again in 1934–35. As Fujii argues, the common element is the desire to donate money to alleviate the plight of compatriots in distant parts: in this sense, the motives of people who donated money to help soldiers in Manchuria and

Urban workers and organised labour 161 Shanghai were essentially the same as those of contributors to flood relief in other parts of Japan.12 In terms of ultimate significance, however, the campaigns to contribute money for soldiers in Manchuria and Shanghai must undoubtedly be considered in a different context from the campaigns to raise money for disaster relief. It is likely that many who gave money to the patriotic appeals did in fact support Japanese intervention in Manchuria. In any case, whatever the motivation of individual donors, the success of the campaign to raise money for soldiers clearly had a far broader significance than the equally successful campaigns for disaster relief. The much-publicised donations for soldiers gave support to the army at a crucial time, reinforcing official propaganda about Manchuria and apparently awarding the public’s seal of approval to the Kwantung Army’s project. There may also be a link between the donation campaign, seemingly so active in urban workplaces, and the continuing shift to the right by the labour movement in the early 1930s. Certainly, participation in the campaign to raise funds to aid Japan’s soldiers encouraged a national consciousness in some degree, and may have discouraged any focus on narrower class interests. Fujii reminds us, however, that such feelings were often very fleeting: the donation of money was usually a one-off action, perhaps best interpreted as satisfying a transitory emotional impulse.13 More generally, the atmosphere of heightened national consciousness created by Japan’s invasion of Manchuria and subsequent events at the League of Nations had a decided effect on unions and workers’ political parties. A case in point was provided by women workers at one of the To¯yo¯ Muslin factories at Kameido, in Tokyo, who were reported to be enthusiastically collecting money for soldiers in Manchuria in November 1931. In all, 1,006 workers, comprising 90 per cent of the factory’s workforce, donated a total of 132 yen and 45 sen, a considerable sacrifice when a worker’s daily wage in that factory was 80 sen.14 Up till then, the Kameido workers had had a reputation as the most radical women factory workers in Tokyo: a deserved reputation, considering the bitter strike they had waged, with maximum publicity, just a year before.15 Their apparent turn to patriotism was duly publicised, presumably affording considerable satisfaction to the authorities. Over the next few years, the authorities would have more and more reason to be satisfied with the stance taken on national issues by organisations representing workers.

Workers’ political parties Union activity and workplace disputes had been intense in 1930–31 as the effects of the economic depression became evident, often polarising labour and capital.16 Disputes continued in 1932, but great changes in the character of unionism and of leftist politics were on the way. The major effect of the Manchurian crisis on the Japanese labour movement was significantly to exacerbate existing splits between those who favoured overseas expansion and some form of national socialism at home, and those who were cautious about expansion and determined to adhere to democratic socialism in Japan.17 As it was for other

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Interest groups and local perspectives

progressives, then, the Manchurian Incident proved to be a decisive event for social democrats in the labour movement. The two main proletarian parties, the Shakai minshu¯to¯ (Social Democratic Party) and the Zenkoku ro¯no¯ taishu¯to¯ (National Labour-Farmer Masses Party, formed in July 1931 from an amalgamation of parties to the left of the Social Democratic Party), both had anti-war declarations in their platforms in 1931, as, in fact, did virtually all proletarian parties and unions up to September 1931.18 The policies of the new National Labour-Farmer Masses Party, for example, included absolute opposition to aggression and imperialism and a drastic reduction in armaments. In the event, however, neither of the two main workers’ parties was prepared to take an unequivocal stand against the invasion of Manchuria. More broadly, both the labour unions and the workers’ parties also moved further towards embrace of the state’s agenda and away from an emphasis on class interest in this period. At best, working-class organisations, with the exception of Communist groups at first, took an ambivalent stance on the invasion of Manchuria. For many social democrats, failure to follow the logic of their party’s anti-war pronouncements no doubt stemmed from a sincere conviction of the justice of Japan’s cause, shared with their counterparts in such places as the Institute of Pacific Relations, discussed in Chapter 5. Some were certainly preoccupied instead with the overwhelming issue of the early 1930s: the depression and its effect on workers and farmers. The two issues were not inseparable, however, and concern about the depression sometimes in itself encouraged or permitted a favourable attitude to the conquest of Manchuria. One of the propaganda themes highlighted by many labour leaders was the idea of Manchuria as a place from which the zaibatsu would be barred, an idea with obvious appeal at a time when workers and those involved in smaller urban enterprises believed themselves to be suffering because of the greed of the large combines. The Social Democratic Party supported the Manchurian venture partly on the basis of the anti-capitalist theme; and opposition to capitalism was also one of the fundamental positions of Aso¯ Hisashi, a leader of the Social Masses Party, which sought to promote a ‘socialist’ Manchuria free from zaibatsu control.19 In fact, the anti-zaibatsu theme, in some cases at least, was probably a convenient rationalisation of a position that had been taken for much more basic reasons. The lack of opposition to the Manchurian Incident from most workers’ organisations can doubtless be attributed in part to the adoption of ‘tactical nationalism’, as Sheldon Garon and others suggest.20 Thus the mainstream union movement’s acceptance of the state as an ally rather than an enemy, despite the intense disputes that had characterised relations between labour and capital since the onset of the depression and the close relationship perceived to exist between state and capital, was no accidental process, nor an admission of defeat. Rather, it constituted a posture deliberately adopted in the interests of winning advantages for workers in a changed industrial and bureaucratic context. Mainstream union leaders recognised that the Manchurian crisis had produced an environment in which class struggle was even less likely to succeed

Urban workers and organised labour 163 than before, given the new emphasis by the authorities on national emergency, and resorted to a ‘realistic and essentially protective’ stance characterised by moderation and passivity.21 Accordingly, the mainstream union movement not only began to avoid strikes, but launched an ‘industrial co-operation’ (sangyo¯ kyo¯ryoku) campaign and began to seek collective agreements with employers. More fundamentally, however, the Manchurian crisis presented a major challenge to the convictions of social democrats, as it did to many Communists and a number of more moderate public intellectuals. Pressure was heavy for them to give priority to nation rather than class, to abandon divisive rhetoric while the nation was apparently besieged from outside, and to close ranks with other Japanese rather than seeking allies abroad. As a result the events of 1931– 33 very often exposed the limits of social democrats’ ideological commitment to peace, internationalism and the promotion of class interest, revealing a deeper, underlying commitment to the apparent interests of the nation as a whole and a willingness to subscribe to state orthodoxy in circumstances where the nation seemed threatened. In short, the proletarian parties were under pressure to ‘take a more definitely national position’.22 Critical tensions within the working-class movement were thus laid bare during the Manchurian crisis, and the result was soon evident in the defection of some prominent leaders from social democratic ranks, which paralleled the more famous defections among the Communists. The leader of the nationalist faction of the Social Democratic Party, Akamatsu Katsumaro, like the centrist leader Aso¯, had already shown his commitment to radical change and his attraction to rightist methods by choosing to be involved in the abortive March Incident of 1931. Soon after the explosion on the South Manchurian Railway in September, Akamatsu conducted a group of leaders of his party on a tour of Manchuria, returning to condemn the class struggle in Japan and announce his support for the military’s programme in Manchuria.23 Thereafter he made repeated statements in favour of overseas expansion, arguing that a country as poor in raw materials as Japan was ‘not at all obliged, for the sake of peace, to carry on a semistarvation existence for all eternity, for fear of being called aggressive’.24 Akamatsu continued to place importance on opposing capitalism in one sense, however, joining those who called for ‘an end to bourgeois control over Manchuria’, so that workers and farmers could be the chief beneficiaries of Japanese control of the region.25 When the party’s executive refused in April 1932 to endorse the new stance of Akamatsu’s group, the faction split off, eventually to form the Nihon kokka shakaito¯ (Japan State Socialist Party). That party’s platform, among other things, promised that efforts would be made to achieve a ‘liberation of the Asian peoples in accordance with the principle of equal human rights and the principle of the equal distribution of natural resources’.26 In fact, neither of the main factions in Akamatsu’s Social Democratic Party was prepared publicly to question the justice of Japan’s actions in Manchuria. In ‘A Decision Concerning the Problem of Manchuria and Mongolia’, the party as a whole blamed Chinese warlords and selfish Japanese capitalists for the difficulties in Manchuria and Mongolia, praised the army’s high ideals and

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Interest groups and local perspectives

advocated the creation of a socialist system in Manchuria which would benefit both Chinese and Japanese residents. Through such a system, apparently, Japan’s special rights in Manchuria would contribute to the development of socialism within Japan.27 The rival National Labour-Farmer Masses Party, for its part, did appear to take a firm stand at its convention in December 1931, opposing the Manchurian Incident as likely to lead to world war, and demanding the withdrawal of all Japanese troops from China. Delegates also complained that because of the ‘Manchurian–Mongolian war’, factories producing goods for export to China had been forced to close; and that the business slump in general had forced many unemployed workers to the brink of starvation. A party committee was set up ¯ yama Ikuo to continue opposition to the dispatch of under the leadership of O troops to China. After it unanimously adopted a resolution opposing the government’s ‘imperialist invasion’ of Manchuria, the convention was closed by the police.28 Views on Manchuria within the party, however, were less united than the resolutions of December 1931 might suggest. Matsutani Yo¯jiro¯, for example, soon to be one of the party’s two successful candidates at the Diet elections of February 1932, was in the process of a drastic change of mind on Manchuria, and consequently rejected the campaign slogan ‘oppose imperialist wars’. Like Akamatsu of the other party, Matsutani too had apparently changed his views after a trip to Manchuria, in company with a delegation from the Diet, in October 1931. He returned to support Japan’s actions unequivocally, issuing a statement maintaining that it was not ‘imperialistic’ to dispatch troops to protect Japanese interests, while also arguing that peasants and workers rather than capitalists should benefit from those interests. From August 1932 onwards, having been ejected from his party (now the newly formed Social Masses Party), Matsutani became the leader of a series of national socialist parties, but finished poorly in the Diet election of 1936.29 The proletarian parties performed badly in the February 1932 elections, receiving altogether only about half the vote won by workers’ parties in 1930 and less than two-thirds that of 1928.30 Soon afterwards, the nationalist factions of both the Social Democratic Party and the National Labour-Farmer Masses Party seceded and established new groups in alliance with the national socialist movement. In fact, after the Manchurian Incident, in one estimate, the two major proletarian parties together lost a third of their membership to the national socialist movement.31 In July 1932 the majority social democratic factions of the two parties merged to form the Shakai taishu¯to¯ (Social Masses Party), with Abe Isoo as chairman of the executive committee and Aso¯ Hisashi as secretarygeneral. Party slogans at the time of the merger included expressions of opposition to fascism, capitalism and ‘imperialistic wars’ and a call for a reduction in armaments.32 Nevertheless there was still considerable difference of opinion within the new party over Manchuria. In 1933, for example, party members disagreed over the propriety of the actions of veteran labour leader Suzuki Bunji who, as Japan’s representative at a conference of the International

Urban workers and organised labour 165 Labour Organisation, was seeking to promote understanding of Japan’s case over Manchuria among European working-class associations. The majority of the members of the Central Executive Committee apparently supported Suzuki’s efforts.33 On the other hand, according to one observer, Suzuki was greeted on his return to Japan by ‘a storm of criticism from Social Mass Party members’.34 In general, the new Social Masses Party in this period concentrated on trying to improve the lot of workers and farmers and refrained from direct attack on the military or on foreign policy, though it did on occasion speak in favour of a reduction in defence expenditure. At the same time, however, the party was quietly moving away from any remaining possibility of outright opposition to the invasion of Manchuria, to oppose ‘capitalist domination’ of Manchuria instead, progressively abandoning as well the language of class struggle in favour of the principle of national unity.35 The workers’ parties in general no longer emphasised a narrow class base, but sought a more inclusive rhetoric. When the National Labour-Farmer Masses Party at its December 1931 convention spoke of the oppression of the propertyless classes, it included farmers and small and medium enterprise, as well as soldiers, government officials and those on army pensions.36 By December 1933, the Social Masses Party had formally decided to aim at the broad middle stratum of society. Thenceforth the party was to try to extend its appeal to those in small and medium firms, who were seen to be suffering both from the depression and from oppression by the zaibatsu.37 Party official Aso¯ Hisashi, meanwhile, was advocating closer relations between workers and the military, eventually becoming a supporter of the war against China. By the late 1930s, many of his party’s activists were participating willingly in organisations such as the Taisei yokusankai (Imperial Rule Assistance Association) and the Sangyo¯ ho¯kokukai (Industrial Patriotic Society).38 The Manchurian crisis had played a vital role in this trajectory from promotion of workers’ interests to support of the state.

Trade unions Within the trade unions there was the same ambivalence over the Manchurian issue. Similar splits emerged, together with a similar movement towards the rhetoric of ‘national unity’. At its national convention in November 1931, the Nihon ro¯do¯ so¯do¯mei (So¯do¯mei, or Japan Federation of Labour), which represented the mainstream of the legal labour movement and styled itself ‘right-wing’ in comparison to other groups, took no official stand on the Sino-Japanese conflict: in fact, it did not discuss the fighting in Manchuria at all. According to Stephen Large, neither the So¯do¯mei nor the Nihon ro¯do¯ kurabu, an umbrella group representing fourteen labour organisations, ever did make an official statement on the Manchurian Incident. Privately, most So¯do¯mei members were either equivocal about or sympathetic to Japan’s actions in Manchuria. Just as it had affected workers’ political parties, meanwhile, the challenge from national socialism began to affect the So¯do¯mei as well as the centrist Nihon ro¯do¯ kumiai

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Interest groups and local perspectives

so¯rengo¯ (General Alliance of Japanese Labour Unions) and Nihon ro¯do¯ kumiai do¯mei (Japan Labour Union Alliance), all of which saw the departure of splinter groups from their ranks. In December 1931, the General Alliance of Japanese Labour Unions announced its commitment to the new national socialist movement.39 The So¯do¯mei’s journal, Ro¯do¯ (Labour), provides compelling evidence of the changes going on within the labour movement, partly because of what is missing from its pages. Though the magazine championed the interests of workers who had been sent to the front as soldiers, and advocated welfare measures for their families at home, it contained little comment on the Manchurian Incident itself. One crucial reason is doubtless a preoccupation with the economic depression which was affecting all workers, but the journal’s relative silence on Manchuria also powerfully suggests the divisiveness of the issue for union members, and probably their leaders’ fear of schism, in addition to a large measure of tacit acceptance of Japan’s right to control Manchuria. Even campaigns to raise money for soldiers at the front received little or no publicity in Ro¯do¯, though fundraising activities for suffering farmers were publicised. On the other hand, Ro¯do¯ remained committed to internationalism, in much the same way as diplomats, members of the Institute of Pacific Relations and others retained their faith in Japan’s role as contributor to the community of nations. One writer expressed regret at Japan’s withdrawal from the League of Nations, asserting that Japan could have convinced League members of the justice of its case over Manchukuo if it had stayed a League member, and should continue to co-operate with international organisations apart from the League, especially the International Labour Organisation.40 It is a view that could equally have come from the Foreign Ministry, the Home Ministry or the Japan Council of the Institute of Pacific Relations. Meanwhile, the journal’s rhetoric was drawing ever nearer to that of the state. Already in October 1931, in an article addressing the effects of the world economic depression, one writer was preaching that Japan must not only reform its capitalism but ‘construct a foundation of national unity’ in order to recover.41 The similarity with the language and concepts used by Japan’s ruling authorities is striking. By 1934–35, unionists were reported to be singing the national anthem at the beginning of a meeting,42 worshipping at the local shrine and then cleaning the grounds as a voluntary group activity,43 or joining in collective workplace physical exercise ‘inspired by the spirit of industrial co-operation’, even though they had previously criticised this sort of practice in the knowledge that employers used it as a means of reinforcing control over their workers: every morning with the eight o’clock siren, workers get together in the square in the factory. To the accompaniment of the national anthem played through the factory’s loudspeaker, three flags – our nation’s, the company’s and the labour union’s – are raised fifty feet into the sky. Then the workers do the first, followed by the second set of radio exercises.44

Urban workers and organised labour 167 The depression and the crisis over Manchuria not only caused splits in the mainstream union movement, but also stimulated the growth of another group of unions, the ‘Japanist’ or right-wing nationalist unions, which had first appeared in the late 1920s and eventually merged to form the Nihon sangyo¯ ro¯do¯ kurabu (Japan Industrial Labour Club) in 1933. Reflecting the ideas of other civilian right-wing groups and of dissatisfied military officers, the deeply antiCommunist ‘Japanist’ unions rejected the idea of class struggle, refusing to acknowledge the existence of conflict between labour and capital at all. Instead they called for sacrifice and loyalty to the nation and a strong foreign policy, in addition to co-operation between labour and capital, in the meantime criticising the mainstream union movement as greedy and selfish. Though they remained small, their impact during the early 1930s was critical, for example in working in factories to destroy and replace other unions, usually those affiliated with the mainstream So¯do¯mei, sometimes through violent confrontation. Some mainstream union leaders converted to the programmes espoused by these unions, throwing the social democratic union movement into further disarray; some such unions also received support from both managers and bureaucrats. Thus their growth struck a serious blow at the mainstream union movement at a particularly delicate time.45 The circumstances of the early 1930s, then, exercised a crucial influence on the trade union movement and on political parties representing workers. The economic depression and the Manchurian crisis combined to create an atmosphere which encouraged labour and political activists to break with previous modes of thought and action and to work towards new positions – positions which foreshadowed their responses to the crises brought by full-scale mobilisation and war from 1937 onwards. Labour unions did experience another period of growth in the mid-1930s, with disputes again increasing, and the Social Masses Party was unexpectedly successful in local and national elections between 1935 and 1937, while maintaining ‘a generally consistent set of socialist positions on major domestic and foreign affairs problems’, including criticism of the growing influence of the military in politics.46 The outbreak of war with China in July 1937, however, once again brought forth public expressions of patriotism and endorsement of the need for national unity. In 1938, the party showed its support for statist projects by agreeing to back the government’s new order for labour, represented by the launching of Sanpo¯, the Industrial Patriotic Movement. Though So¯do¯mei leaders fought to maintain an autonomous identity for their organisation, labour unions, too, rushed to support the new body.47 In the meantime, the emphasis in the workers’ journal, Ro¯do¯, had begun to change from late 1932, not only in terms of the stress on national unity, but also because economic recovery had begun. A focus on inflation was starting to replace the earlier preoccupation with the depression. By 1934, new concerns predominated altogether. Now, when the journal expressed concern about ‘boycotts’, it referred not to the Chinese boycott of Japanese goods which had previously generated much anxiety in the context of the Manchurian crisis, but

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Interest groups and local perspectives

rather, a worldwide boycott of Japanese goods because of unfair competition resulting from low wages in Japan.48 For organised workers as for other groups, the Manchurian crisis was clearly over. If the mainstream trade union movement represented the workers in small and medium enterprises, there were also very active organisations working on behalf of the business operators. We will now turn to consider their responses to the Manchurian crisis.

Notes 1 Information on population, occupational distribution and size of firms in this section is based on E. B. Schumpeter, ‘The Population of the Japanese Empire’, in E. B. Schumpeter (ed.), The Industrialization of Japan and Manchukuo 1930–1940, New York, Macmillan, 1940, pp. 64, 77; Gary R. Saxonhouse, ‘Country Girls and Communication among Competitors in the Japanese Cotton-Spinning Industry’, in Hugh Patrick (ed.), Japanese Industrialization and its Social Consequences, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1976, pp. 99–100; Robert E. Cole and Ken’ichi Tominaga, ‘Japan’s Changing Occupational Structure and its Significance’, in Patrick (ed.), Japanese Industrialization, pp. 60–1; Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, p. 140; Cho¯ Yukio, ‘From the Sho¯wa Economic Crisis to Military Economy: With Special Reference to the Inoue and Takahashi Financial Policies’, Developing Economies, Vol. 4, December 1964, pp. 590–2; Johannes Hirschmeier and Tsunehiko Yui, The Development of Japanese Business, 1600–1980, London, Allen & Unwin, 2nd edn, 1981, pp. 156–8; Smith, A Time of Crisis, p. 43. See also Nishinarita Yutaka,‘Manshu¯ jihenki no ro¯shi kankei’, Keizaigaku kenkyu¯, No. 26, January 1985, Part I. 2 Maeda Yasuyuki, ‘“Chu¯sho¯ ko¯gyo¯ wa ikinokoreruka”: kin’yu¯ kyo¯ko¯ de mondai hyo¯menka’, in Arisawa (ed.), Sho¯wa keizaishi, p. 61. 3 Japan Year Book 1933, pp. 921–5; Stephen S. Large, Organized Workers and Socialist Politics in Interwar Japan, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1981, pp. 132–3. 4 ‘Dai nijukkai taikai o mukaeru: sara ni aratanaru jinchi e’, Ro¯do¯, No. 245, November 1931, p. 3. 5 Yamamuro Kentoku, ‘Shakai taishu¯to¯ shoron’, in Kindai Nihon kenkyu¯kai (ed.), Vol. 5: Sho¯waki no shakai undo¯, Tokyo, Yamakawa shuppansha, 1983, p. 78; Robert A. Scalapino, The Early Japanese Labor Movement: Labor and Politics in a Developing Society, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1983, pp. 202–3. 6 Large, Organized Workers, p. 79. 7 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, p. 25; Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, p. 162. 8 Quoted in Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, p. 163. 9 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, p. 29; Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, pp. 164–5. 10 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 24–6. 11 Ibid., pp. 30–1, 34. 12 Ibid., pp. 26–9. 13 Ibid., pp. 26, 29. 14 Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, p. 170. 15 For details see Andrew Gordon, Labor and Imperial Democracy in Prewar Japan, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1991, pp. 243–5. 16 See Large, Organized Workers, pp. 132–4. 17 This section is based on: ‘Left-Wing Groups in Japanese Politics 1918–1946’, 1 January 1947, USNA, Records of the Department of State, Record Group 59: General Records of the Department of State, Division of Research for Far East, Office of Intelligence Research, Research and Analysis Report No. 2530; Totten, Social Democratic Movement, pp. 69–79, 259–66; William D. Wray, ‘Aso¯ Hisashi and

Urban workers and organised labour 169

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48

the Search for Renovation in the 1930s’, Papers on Japan, Vol. 5 (East Asia Research Center, Harvard University), 1970, pp. 55–98; Aso¯ Hisashi denki keiko¯ iinkai (ed.), Aso¯ Hisashi den, Tokyo, 1958, Ch. 3. See also Kanda Fuhito, ‘Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯ki no shakai undo¯’, in To¯kyo¯ daigaku shakai kagaku kenkyu¯jo (ed.), Fasshizumuki no kokka to shakai, Vol. 1: Sho¯wa kyo¯ko¯, Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1978, pp. 284–8. Gordon, Labor and Imperial Democracy, p. 275. See Wray, ‘Aso¯ Hisashi’; Totten, Social Democratic Movement, pp. 263–4. This theme is discussed at greater length below. Garon, State and Labor, p. 193. Ernest James Notar, ‘Labor Unions and the Sangyo Hokoku Movement, 1930–1945: A Japanese Model for Industrial Relations’, unpublished PhD dissertation, University of California, 1979, p. 71. Delmer M. Brown, Nationalism in Japan: An Introductory Historical Analysis, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1955, p. 191. Gordon, Labor and Imperial Democracy, p. 283. Quoted in ‘Left-Wing Groups’, USNA, p. 40. Totten, Social Democratic Movement, pp. 70–1; Wray, ‘Aso¯ Hisashi’. Quoted in Brown, Nationalism in Japan, p. 192. See also Notar, ‘Labor Unions’, pp. 73–5. Crowley, Japan’s Quest, p. 138. Aso¯ Hisashi den, pp. 416, 418. Totten, Social Democratic Movement, pp. 261–2; Gordon, Labor and Imperial Democracy, pp. 284–5. ‘Left-Wing Groups’, USNA, p. 41. Honda Takeo, Nihon shakai undo¯shi gaisetsu, Tokyo, Tatebana shobo¯, 1952, quoted in Brown, Nationalism in Japan, p. 191. Aso¯ Hisashi den, p. 449; ‘Left-Wing Groups’, USNA, pp. 41–2; Totten, Social Democratic Movement, pp. 89–90. ‘Left-Wing Groups’, USNA, pp. 42–3. Roth, Dilemma in Japan, p. 149. On Suzuki’s tour of Europe, see Wilson, ‘Containing the Crisis’, pp. 347–8. Gordon, Labor and Imperial Democracy, pp. 285–6. Aso¯ Hisashi den, pp. 418, 421–2. Wray, ‘Aso¯ Hisashi’, pp. 61–2. ‘Left-Wing Groups’, USNA, pp. 44–5; Wray, ‘Aso¯ Hisashi’, pp. 62–3; Yamamuro, ‘Shakai taishu¯to¯ shoron’, pp. 75, 88; Totten, Social Democratic Movement, pp. 91–3, 185. For the Social Masses Party statement on withdrawal from the League of Nations, see ‘Left-Wing Groups’, USNA, p. 44; Totten, Social Democratic Movement, p. 274. Large, Organized Workers, pp. 153–6. See also Scalapino, Early Japanese Labor Movement, pp. 196–7, 203. On the trade unions, see also Nishinarita, ‘Manshu¯ jihenki no ro¯shi kankei’, esp. pp. 296–309. ‘Wazawai o tenjite fuku to nase: hijo¯ji no motto¯’, Ro¯do¯, No. 260, March 1933, pp. 52–3. ‘Fuken gisen no kyo¯kun’, Ro¯do¯, No. 244, October 1931, p. 3. Niwa Shichiro¯, ‘Masa ni sangyo¯ ho¯koku no gutaika’, Ro¯do¯, No. 272, March 1934, p. 18. Ro¯do¯, No. 293, December 1935, photographs preceding p. 2. ‘Ko¯jo¯ taiso¯ o jikko¯ su’, Ro¯do¯, No. 279, October 1934, p. 21. Garon, State and Labor, pp. 192–3; Gordon, Labor and Imperial Democracy, pp. 257–61, 276–7. Large, Organized Workers, p. 192. See ibid., pp. 211–18. ‘Nihon sho¯hin no boikotto: ro¯do¯sha no tachiba wa do¯ naru?’, Ro¯do¯, No. 272, March 1934, p. 10.

8

Rights and interests The business community and the crisis

Japanese businesses which dealt with China, many of which were located in Osaka, were directly affected by the crisis in Manchuria, and the associations representing them devoted a great deal of energy to studying and commenting on the events of 1931–33. In the past, episodes of Sino-Japanese tension had conspicuously failed to produce a united response from Japanese business interests, and government strategies for dealing with economic friction with China had not always found approval in business circles.1 Now, however, all groups representing business publicly supported government and army policy on Manchuria. This chapter concentrates on reactions from small and medium enterprises, given the preponderance of smaller-scale business and industry in the economic structure that was noted at the beginning of the last chapter. Responses from the biggest concerns, the zaibatsu, are also a crucial part of the picture, and will be considered at the end of the chapter. First, however, we will outline the general conditions under which smaller enterprises were operating in the early 1930s.

Small and medium enterprises Conditions in the early 1930s undoubtedly favoured large firms. The great majority of enterprises remained at the smaller end of the scale, however, and fared badly. Nearly half of Japan’s total production in 1932 came from small workshops. These tiny enterprises were highly susceptible to exploitation by the zaibatsu, which often specified the product to be made, supplied raw materials and monopolised the marketing of the product. As John G. Roberts commented of Mitsui: [Mitsui] Bussan was said to be the biggest patron of these ‘midget capitalists’, who in most cases were no better off than their workers. In good times their profits were held to a minimum by high prices for materials and low selling prices; and in bad times their credit with [Mitsui] Bussan was likely to be cut off, forcing them into bankruptcy.2 Smaller enterprises were already suffering in the late 1920s. The ‘financial

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171

panic’ of 1927 had forced the closure of forty-four banks of small and medium size, with capital of less than 2 million yen and in some cases only 1 million. A variety of smaller businesses that had traded directly with these banks was adversely affected by the closures. Again, when the gold embargo was lifted in 1930, export industries like raw silk, silk goods and cotton goods were hit hard, and there were many further bankruptcies among small and medium banks and other businesses.3 According to some writers, small urban business proprietors were worse off during the depression than the working class. A survey in June 1931 established that the average daily net profit of small retailers in Tokyo was 57 sen, at a time when the average daily wage of a factory worker was 1 yen and 86 sen; even the women workers at the To¯yo¯ Muslin factory in Kameido who were donating money for soldiers at the front in November 1931 earned 80 sen per day. Between January and June 1931, a total of about 30 per cent of the members of one Tokyo business organisation, the To¯kyo¯ jitsugyo¯ kumiai rengo¯ (Federation of Tokyo Business Associations), closed down or sold their businesses, or fled their creditors.4 The difficulties experienced during the depression by small and medium enterprises received considerable publicity. In fact, though the term ‘small and medium industry’ (chu¯sho¯ ko¯gyo¯) had existed since about the end of the Meiji period, it was in the early 1930s that the specific problems of enterprises of this scale achieved political prominence.5 Movements relating to issues of concern to small and medium enterprises – opposing the growth of department stores or agitating for lower electricity and gas charges, for example – sprang up in this period, though it cannot be claimed they achieved lasting influence. In Tokyo, Osaka, Nagoya and other large cities, a succession of political parties was formed with small retailers as their driving force. All had anti-monopolist demands, as well as a variety of other demands, often of a democratic nature: women’s suffrage, for instance, or reduction in military spending.6 Others of this broad lower middle class joined the labour movement or perhaps the radical right. All such activity, however, was the exception rather than the rule. The majority may well have held views that were critical of the zaibatsu and the political parties, but did not translate them into political action. Despite the evidence of widespread suffering among smaller-scale enterprises, government policy during the depression on the whole gave priority to large concerns. The Important Industries Control Law (Ju¯yo¯ sangyo¯ to¯sei ho¯), passed on 1 April 1931, was both a symbol and a major instrument of this policy. The new law encouraged the formation of cartels among large enterprises in designated industries such as cotton-spinning, iron and steel, and chemicals. Control was to be exercised within an industry, by the enterprises themselves; there were to be agreements among enterprises to fix levels of production, establish prices, limit new entrants to an industry and control marketing. The law worked to the advantage of the zaibatsu, as all of the industries selected were in areas in which they predominated.7 It did nothing to lessen the feeling among those in smallerscale enterprises that the zaibatsu and political parties were working against them.

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The world depression also had a major impact on Japanese enterprises in Manchuria, where, again, smaller firms predominated. There were a few large plants, such as the Sho¯wa Steel Works’ machine tool factory, which employed over 2,000 workers, the South Manchurian Railway Company’s machine tool factory at Dairen, with nearly 4,000 employees, and some munitions plants in Mukden with about a thousand employees. On the whole, however, the scale of operation was small: the average Japanese factory in Manchuria employed between ten and thirty workers. Over half of 165 private Japanese companies surveyed in 1927 were capitalised at less than 50,000 yen.8 In 1931, such small enterprises were extremely vulnerable both to the depression and to the nationalist anti-Japanese movement in China. The chambers of commerce and industry were the voice of small and medium enterprises, regularly expressing concern about the plight of smaller Japanese firms, whether in Japan, Manchuria or Shanghai. Chambers of commerce and industry had existed in the largest Japanese cities since the late 1870s, at first with a mix of large and small firms as members. Considerable friction developed, however, between big business and small and medium enterprises, and in 1917 a separate organisation, the Japan Industrial Club (Nihon ko¯gyo¯ kurabu), was founded to represent big business. At its inception it had 185 member firms, each holding at least 200,000 yen in capital. The new organisation rapidly gained influence and took over the role of making proposals on matters of general policy. By 1928 it had 1,000 members, and other organisations had also emerged, especially the Nihon keizai renmeikai (Japan Economic Federation), which had surpassed the Japan Industrial Club to become the dominant association representing big business by the early 1930s, and the Zenkoku sangyo¯ dantai rengo¯kai (National Federation of Industrial Organisations), a group formed specifically to oppose new labour laws. In the meantime, the chambers of commerce and industry had become the representatives of small and medium enterprises and of provincial interests, though their leaders tended to be wellknown figures from large industry.9 In 1931, the President of the Tokyo Chamber of Commerce and Industry was the leading industrialist and businessman Go¯ Seinosuke; Inabata Katsutaro¯ was President of the Osaka Chamber. The interests of the two chambers ranged from proposed new labour laws to unemployment and the world depression, tax cuts and the export promotion policies of foreign countries. Each chamber published a monthly journal giving regular reports of the stock market, the domestic economy, changes to commercial laws and regulations, overseas trade and other matters of interest to members, in addition to reports from the chambers’ various committees. As well as a major focus on the state of the world and national economies, from at least the late 1920s onwards, both journals dealt regularly with the question of trade with China, which was Japan’s second biggest trading partner after the United States. Though 25 per cent of Japan’s exports went to China in 1929, including Kwantung, Manchuria and Hong Kong,10 SinoJapanese trade was hardly proceeding smoothly. By the time the Kwantung Army invaded Manchuria in September 1931, chamber of commerce journals

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were concerned most of all about the capacity of Chinese nationalists to harm Japanese business and industry through the weapon of the economic boycott.

The Chinese boycott Anti-Japanese sentiment had been growing in China since the ‘Twenty-One Demands’ of 1915, increasing when the Versailles Conference gave Japan control of the former German special interests on the Shantung Peninsula. In 1919 a boycott of Japanese goods formed part of a Chinese nationalist movement aimed at recovery of these interests. Further anti-Japanese boycotts took place during the 1920s, but until 1928, the campaigns were temporary and the crises were weathered through concessions by the Japanese or because Great Britain, with traditionally the largest interest in China, was the more important target. In any case, the Chinese side did not have the capacity to effect a complete boycott of Japanese or other foreign goods as threatened.11 A turning-point came around 1928, however, when the Kuomintang (Nationalist Party) took over leadership of anti-Japanese activity in order to consolidate its own support among the Chinese people, increasing the movement’s efficiency by removing its opponents and providing government finance. The longest and most serious campaign of the 1920s began when the Kuomintang organised a nation-wide boycott after the military clash between Japanese and Chinese forces at Tsinan in April–May 1928. Japan became ‘the leading target of a vigorous anti-imperialism’;12 from about the end of 1930, the anti-Japanese movement began to inflict real damage on Japanese economic interests through the boycott, non-renewal of contracts, non-delivery of goods and other measures. Small Japanese firms in China, together with smaller enterprises involved with the China trade from Japan, suffered the most heavily from these actions. A new boycott, China’s ninth against Japan, began in Shanghai in July 1931 in the wake of the Wanpaoshan Incident, entering a second phase after the events of 18 September, with the expectation on the part of its Chinese leaders that damage to Japanese interests would be sufficient to force Japan to surrender Manchuria and more broadly to drop its aggressive posture towards China. While in the medium term the campaign may not have inflicted the anticipated degree of damage on Japanese exporters, who were able to find markets elsewhere, and while Japanese firms based in China also found ways around the boycott,13 there is no doubt that the immediate impact of the movement was a matter of great concern to Japanese commerce and industry both at home and in China. Japanese exports to China proper dropped by two-thirds after 18 September 1931.14 The total value of Japanese exports to China in November 1931 was only about 22 per cent of that for November 1930, and about 26 per cent of that for August 1931.15 It is difficult to separate the effect on economic activity of the Manchurian Incident from the general decline in world trade caused by the depression, and from the effect of Britain’s departure from the gold standard in the same week as the Manchurian Incident. Japan experienced a drop in trade

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Interest groups and local perspectives

not only with China but also with its other big trading partners, the USA and India; and the fall in price of British goods on the Chinese market after Britain’s abandonment of the gold standard would have affected Japan’s exports to China regardless of the boycott. However, the fact that Japan’s exports to China, excluding Hong Kong and the Kwantung Territory, declined by 40 per cent for the whole of 1931, compared to a decline of only 22 per cent in total exports, cannot be explained solely by the drop in price of British goods.16 Japanese businessmen and other observers certainly believed that the boycott was an important factor in the decline in exports to China and in the fortunes of Japanese enterprises in China. It is also clear that there was a marked reaction among the Chinese immediately after the Manchurian Incident. Partly because of the Kwantung Army’s increasing control over Manchuria, but largely because of the concentration of Japanese interest elsewhere, the areas worst hit by the anti-Japanese boycott after 18 September 1931 were not in Manchuria itself. An American report of March 1932 noted that the boycott had been most effective in South China, followed by Central China, Hong Kong and North China in that order, whereas the effect on Manchuria itself was not great.17 In Shanghai the anti-Japanese movement now sought not only to boycott Japanese goods, but to bring about the cessation of all economic relations with Japan. Immediately after the Manchurian Incident, new transactions and the delivery of Japanese goods were suspended, and notice was given that contracts would be broken. Many Japanese factories, banks and shops were forced to close.18 According to the American report, Japanese trading firms in China ‘have found it almost impossible to conduct business’ since the Manchurian Incident. Furthermore, ‘Japanese banks have been widely boycotted, and small Japanese industrial and business units in China completely snuffed out’. In late October 1931, Funatsu Shin’ichiro¯, director of the Japan Spinners’ Association in China, reported to Tokyo that ‘small concerns are especially hard hit and declare that even if the movement subsides, they haven’t enough money left to do business afterward’. A month later it was reported that most of the small Japanese merchants in China were faced with bankruptcy. Of forty Japanese factories employing more than thirty people in the Shanghai area, thirty-three had already closed in late November 1931, the remaining seven being able to remain open through sales to the local Japanese population. Japanese spinning mills, which were concentrated in Shanghai, were seriously affected by the boycott, ‘causing drastic curtailment of production and eliminating sales except to Hongkong and British India’. Late in January 1932, after the beginning of the Shanghai Incident, Japanese mills in the Shanghai area completely suspended their operations. In Tientsin, one of the two large Japanese mill-owning companies suspended operation of its mills in November 1931; it was reported early in December that the other controlling company would also shortly be forced to close its mills.19 Shipping along the coast and inland waterways, of which Japan had controlled nearly a third in 1929, was also seriously affected by the boycott of 1931–32. One important Japanese company operating on the Yangtze was forced to lay up its ships, and other Japanese shipping firms sustained heavy losses. Chinese dock

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workers refused to unload freight from Japanese ships in some places. The US Commercial Attaché in Shanghai reported that during the last three months of 1931: Importers bringing in cargo on indent for Chinese, requested their representatives in foreign countries not to ship by Japanese ships owing to the fact that the Chinese would refuse to take delivery. In the same way, export cargo in those cases where Chinese middle-men had any connection therewith was shipped through other lines.20 Despite all the evidence of damage caused by China’s economic boycott of Japan, the campaign did not succeed in turning Japan away from aggression as Chinese leaders had hoped. Even business associations hardened their attitudes, both in Manchuria and in Japan, rather than considering other approaches. Support for the Manchurian Incident even as it threatened the livelihood of those in smaller enterprises was demonstrated at public meetings and conferences, where representatives from small and medium enterprises passed resolutions calling for firm action to protect Japan’s rights and interests in Manchuria and Mongolia, despite the potential for further disastrous damage to trade with China. Documents and resolutions produced by the chambers of commerce and industry show the same combination of deep concern at the effects of the boycott with calls for firm action by Japan to suppress the Chinese.

The chambers of commerce and the Manchurian Incident Initial reactions from the Japanese chambers of commerce and industry to the Manchurian Incident were unified and close to the official line. Before September 1931, influential Osaka business organisations had been highly critical of the army, and had favoured a reduction in military spending as a way of battling the depression. Towards China specifically they had adopted a ‘negative’ attitude, in the terms used by one secret report from the military police. However, all this changed with the Manchurian Incident.21 Certainly, the chambers of commerce joined in the general public enthusiasm for the army’s brave exploits after 18 September. By April 1932 chambers of commerce in Osaka Prefecture had collected more than 84,000 yen, to be given to soldiers and to bereaved and indigent families of soldiers in Osaka.22 Apart from collecting relief money, both the Tokyo and Osaka chambers held receptions for soldiers, invited military officers to speak at their meetings, visited wounded officers in hospital, held discussions with army officials on business and industrial issues affecting Japan and Manchuria and despatched missions to study conditions in Manchuria. Their journals repeated the clichés about Manchuria as a ‘new paradise’, a ‘life-line’, a symbol of racial harmony and a place of limitless resources. Exhibitions were held and trade fairs promoting Manchurian goods in Japan and Japanese goods in Manchuria were sponsored. In November 1931, for instance, the Osaka chamber agreed to sponsor an

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Interest groups and local perspectives

exhibition on the anti-Japanese movement in China, using materials supplied by the Osaka Asahi newspaper. In another campaign, the Tokyo and Osaka chambers each contributed 400 yen through the Japan Chamber of Commerce to a nation-wide soldiers’ relief fund, then supplied a representative to a delegation of four which took the money, totalling 10,000 yen, to Manchuria and paid its respects to the troops, to General Honjo¯ Shigeru, Commander of the Kwantung Army, to the South Manchurian Railway Company and to Japanese chambers of commerce and industry in Manchuria. There were several other visits to Manchuria: ten members of the Osaka chamber and eight from the Tokyo chamber participated in another visit around September 1933, for example.23 The Osaka Chamber of Commerce and Industry, which represented those interests most closely involved with China, generally took a hard line on the Manchurian dispute, in keeping with the outspoken statements on the preservation of Japanese prerogatives in China it had been making since the late 1920s.24 On 23 September 1931 it decided to send a telegram to Ambassador Yoshizawa Kenkichi at the League of Nations, encouraging him to work for the protection of Japanese rights and interests in Manchuria. Three days later it passed a unanimous resolution deploring the Manchurian Incident and blaming it entirely on the Chinese, claiming that the Chinese people had been consistently ignoring Japan’s legitimate interests, complaining of the anti-Japanese boycott as a violation of the basic principles of international peace, and accusing the Chinese government of encouraging the anti-Japanese movement instead of putting its own house in order. The resolution ended by calling for the settlement of all ‘outstanding disputes’ between China and Japan and an end to the antiJapanese boycotts in order to establish permanent peace in the Far East. Copies of the resolution were to be sent to all cabinet ministers, the leaders of both houses of the Diet, all political parties and to other relevant people, urging them to work for the objectives outlined in the manifesto.25 On 28 September, a hundred people were reported to have attended another meeting at the Osaka Chamber of Commerce, representing thirteen groups apart from the chamber itself, including the Japan Spinners’ Association, the Association of Japanese Spinners in China, the Japan–China Economic Association and the Osaka Trade Association. The meeting decided to form a permanent association to deal with the ‘China problem’. A unanimous resolution was passed calling for settlement of the Sino-Japanese dispute, the maintenance of Japanese rights and interests, and Chinese government action to end the anti-Japanese boycott and to guard against future outbreaks of similar activity. This time the demand for action was prefaced by assertions that Japanese troops had acted in self-defence, that the anti-Japanese boycott violated international ethics, and that the boycott threatened the life and property of Japanese residents in China. The resolution was to be sent not only to cabinet ministers and politicians, but to leading figures in the army both in Tokyo and Manchuria, and to Japanese chambers of commerce and industry in Shanghai and Manchuria.26 Additional messages were to be sent to the Japanese government linking the boycott with the ongoing issue of the abolition of extraterritorial privileges for

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Japanese resident in China, which had been under discussion for some time, as part of the new Chinese Nationalist government’s policy of ‘revolutionary diplomacy’, which was designed to free China from long-standing foreign domination. Japanese business leaders were adamant that the Chinese were not to be permitted to use the boycott as a weapon to achieve their other aims. Accordingly, the Japanese government was urged not to participate in negotiations to abolish extraterritoriality unless the boycott ended, anti-Japanese statements were removed from Chinese school textbooks and guarantees for the future were given.27 In this and other ways, the latest in the series of Chinese boycotts of Japanese goods and services was presented not primarily as a response to Japanese military action, but as part of a continuing history of Chinese xenophobia, directed against Japan in this case.28 Further objections to the Chinese boycott were registered by the Osaka Chamber on the grounds that it contravened international law, was inhumane and obstructed trade. Officials at the League of Nations and the International Chamber of Commerce were now to be amongst those furnished with the chamber’s view of the anti-Japanese boycott in China.29 The Tokyo Chamber of Commerce and Industry was less directly concerned about the Manchurian Incident than its counterpart in Osaka, but published the same sort of comment on the disruptive effects of the boycott. Its journal also revealed significant contact with the Japanese chambers of commerce in Manchuria and Shanghai which, like other Japanese business associations and civilians in China, had been vocal in requesting support in fighting the Chinese boycott since before the Manchurian Incident, and continued to exert such pressure, both by telegram and by sending representatives to Japan, as we shall see.30 Despite initial enthusiasm for the army’s action in Manchuria, by October, some business leaders were becoming anxious about the negative effect of prolonged Sino-Japanese conflict on trade, and worried that the army’s insistence on a ‘fundamental solution’ to the ‘Manchurian/Mongolian problem’ could lead ultimately to a world war and cessation of world trade. Moreover, some Japanese businessmen clearly believed that Japan’s interests in Manchuria were scarcely worth all the fuss. There were complaints in business circles that the army was preoccupied with protection of rights and interests in Manchuria which, though important in principle, had little concrete effect on real Japanese interests. On the other hand, Japan’s trade with and investment in the rest of China were extremely significant, and the boycott in China proper affected Japanese businessmen directly. The army, it was felt, was not paying enough attention to Japan’s commercial interests in China proper.31 Such doubts both reflected the reality of Japanese commercial interests in China and echoed the opinions of certain long-term Japanese observers of SinoJapanese relations. Manchuria was definitely not the main focus of Japanese business interest in China. Trade with China and economic activity within China had long been important to Japan, but it was the Shanghai area rather than remote Manchuria which was of greatest value to Japanese investors as well as to other foreign powers, leaving aside the South Manchurian Railway Company,

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Interest groups and local perspectives

Japan’s greatest single overseas investment. Since before the First World War, Shanghai port had handled 40 per cent of China’s total trade. Throughout the 1920s, it handled 35–40 per cent of all Japanese exports to China. Only a quarter of Japanese capital in China was invested in Manchuria; Japanese and other foreign investment in modern industry was quite obviously concentrated in the Shanghai area.32 The diplomat Ishii Itaro¯ counted nine Japanese spinning companies in Shanghai in 1932, as well as branches of other large Japanese firms and banks and a variety of small firms.33 Thus it was in central and southern China that Japanese interests were concentrated and where the effects of the boycott were felt most acutely. For Japanese capitalists, the long-standing focus of Japanese interest was Shanghai; it was the Kwantung Army which changed the agenda to Manchuria. This point had been made before, as we have seen in Chapter 5. Ishibashi Tanzan, well before the Manchurian Incident, argued that China proper was far more important for the Japanese economy than was Manchuria, which in his opinion was of little value to Japan. He believed that by its activities in Manchuria, Japan was only antagonising the Chinese and jeopardising its more important interests elsewhere in China.34 A leading member of the Osaka Chamber made a similar point. Kurimoto Yu¯nosuke, the head of an Osaka Chamber of Commerce mission to China in mid-1931, stressed the importance of Shanghai in Sino-Japanese relations, showing a positive attitude to the Kuomintang government and sympathy for its attempts to eliminate unequal treaties, and emphasising the need for new economic development through peaceful economic activity by Japan.35 In late 1931, however, such doubts as existed in business circles about the army’s actions did not produce any official call for moderation on Japan’s part, or for a conciliatory attitude towards China. It is also striking that, as was the case with the majority of diplomats and other prominent internationalists during the Manchurian crisis, business and industrial leaders on the whole did not seek to persuade their Chinese counterparts of the justice of Japan’s cause. Rather, the associations representing business and industry worried only about their image in Western countries, in some cases taking considerable care to mollify their Western clients and friends, while simultaneously calling for even stronger action by the Japanese government. There would be no end to the boycott in mainland China – which amounted to ‘an act of war without weapons’ – and trade would not recover, in their usual estimation, until the Manchurian question was resolved. Therefore, the Japanese government was urged not to negotiate, but rather to embark on ever more resolute military action in suppressing the Chinese in Manchuria.36 As noted earlier, the Japanese government was also to be informed that Osaka interests implacably opposed the abolition of Japanese extraterritorial privileges in China. Japanese business and industrial leaders further resolved that Japan should seek to enlighten the League of Nations and Western countries about the justice of Japan’s cause and the history of illegal depredations by the Chinese.37 Presumably they felt that, if international opinion were won over to Japan’s side, it would put pressure on China to negotiate directly with Japan.

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The chambers of commerce did recognise quite clearly in their journals that the Chinese boycott of Japanese goods had actually worsened as a result of the Manchurian Incident. With the decline of trade after 18 September 1931, noted one report, production had stagnated, prices had dropped, unemployment had risen and the business depression had worsened.38 Despite all this, the chambers of commerce continued to stand firm in their attitude to Manchuria. Inabata Katsutaro¯, President of the Osaka Chamber, in an address before the Minister for Commerce on 8 January 1932, urged the government to use this opportunity to solve ‘fundamentally’ the Manchurian ‘problem’, while also working for ‘true friendship’ between Japan and China for the sake of peace in the Far East. He told his audience of 350 that though Osaka, as the area with most direct contact with China, was feeling the effects of the boycott most directly, the people of Osaka were nevertheless prepared to make sacrifices in order to ensure a lasting solution to the ‘problem’, and that Osaka economic organisations, too, supported the government’s China policy.39

Attempts to influence Western opinion In addition to activities on the home front, the chambers of commerce and industry also joined in the effort to win over Western opinion, with the Osaka Chamber again taking the lead. Its greatest opportunity came with the visit to Japan of the Lytton Commission, but the process of attempting to influence foreign opinion had begun well before then, with some in the business world, as noted above, apparently deciding that a pro-Japanese stance by the Western powers would put pressure on the Chinese to halt the boycott and negotiate with Japan. As early as 23 September 1931, the Osaka Chamber resolved to produce pamphlets on political and economic issues relevant to Sino-Japanese relations and the Manchurian Incident, to be sent to various foreign countries. They were to include sections on extraterritoriality, tariff autonomy, the anti-Japanese movement, railway issues, trade, industry and the economies of China, Manchuria and the Kwantung Province. In late November the resulting two pamphlets were translated into English; a French version was completed by March 1932. An initial print-run of 10,000 copies of the two pamphlets was distributed to politicians in Japan, then abroad, and a further 20,000 produced. The O¯saka mainichi, with the permission of the Osaka Chamber, printed and sold further copies and the navy produced still more. Copies of the pamphlets were also requested by the Foreign Ministry and the army.40 Other publications by the Osaka Chamber of Commerce included ‘The Origins of the Anti-Japanese Movement’, widely distributed in Japan and abroad; ‘China Under Pressure’, ‘The Manchurian Problem from an International Point of View’ and ‘The Truth about Manchuria/Mongolia’; and materials in Japanese and English on the Chinese boycott, which were among the literature given to the Lytton Commission. Inabata wrote ‘The Key to Sino-Japanese Friendship’ for the Japan Times, giving a historical outline of Sino-Japanese relations and appealing for a halt to the boycott. The Osaka Chamber presented opinions on

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the Lytton Report to the Foreign Ministry, furnishing Matsuoka Yo¯suke with materials before his departure for Geneva, for example, in the belief, as Inabata explained, that the unfavourable attitude of the League of Nations towards Japan was due to a lack of publicity from the Japanese side.41 For the Lytton Commission a special effort was made. On 10 March 1932 a conference was held with representatives from various Osaka economic associations and the members of the commission. Three members of the Osaka Chamber delivered a paper in English and French entitled ‘The Opinions of Osaka Businessmen on Sino-Japanese Relations’, covering the usual issues of the anti-Japanese movement, the boycott, the disorganisation of China and so forth. The Commission was expected to return to Osaka later, and the chamber of commerce made preparations for another thorough presentation of Japan’s case at that time. However, the visitors did not in the event reappear in Osaka, and Inabata and his delegation had to be content with bidding them farewell at Kobe on 17 July.42 The reaction of the Osaka Chamber of Commerce and Industry to the Lytton Report when it eventually appeared was predictable. In December 1932 the chamber passed a resolution stating that though the Commission had shown some understanding of the confused state of China, it generally lacked information, had not observed conditions in China sufficiently thoroughly, contradicted itself in its own report and made arbitrary judgements based on prejudice. The resolution confirmed the chamber’s belief that China did not have the capacity to fulfil its international obligations, that the treaties between Japan and China were legitimate treaties and so on.43 Thus the Osaka Chamber closely supported the official government line on the Lytton Report, as well as the view of the mainstream press. Rejection of the Lytton Report, however, did not automatically lead to agitation for Japan to leave the League of Nations. In the textile industry in particular, some business leaders were cautious about the question of withdrawal, and overall, business opinion on the issue was split. Some were prepared to risk all in their confidence in the righteousness of Japan’s cause, while others wanted to manipulate the League through diplomatic means, allowing Japan to maintain its position as a League member. Once again, the motivation behind such caution was anxiety about the risk of alienating the Western powers. In the meantime, now that Japanese control of Manchuria had been established and the region given a new status through the creation of ‘Manchukuo’, the focus of Japanese business interest in the region had shifted to the economic development of the ‘new nation’.44 The question remains as to why the chambers of commerce so readily supported the Manchurian Incident and subsequent events. Miles Fletcher points to the general outlook of the Japanese business world, suggesting that the ambitions of business leaders were strictly limited, encompassing neither a broad vision for Chinese national development nor dreams of a ‘grand empire’. Rather, ‘buffeted by events apparently beyond control, the business community focused on maintaining as much of the status quo as possible’, while clinging to its faith in

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‘the virtues of peaceful foreign trade’.45 Another factor influencing the Japanese chambers of commerce in favour of the Kwantung Army action was the attitude of Japanese business and industrial interests in China itself.

Pressure from Japanese business in China Small and medium Japanese enterprises in Manchuria and Shanghai sided strongly with the Kwantung Army in the Manchurian crisis,46 and the reports of the Tokyo and Osaka chambers of commerce reveal a steady level of contact between those chambers and Japanese economic associations in China. Japanese businessmen from China were clearly putting pressure on their counterparts in Japan to demand firm action in Manchuria. Smaller Japanese firms in Manchuria apparently saw at least a partial solution to their economic difficulties in direct Japanese control of Manchuria, and may have been strongly attracted by the promise that zaibatsu power would be eliminated under the new order. Japanese business and industrial interests in Shanghai, on the other hand, supported firm action in Manchuria as a threat to the anti-Japanese movement in their own region. By December 1931, Japanese businessmen in Shanghai were beginning to worry that business circles at home were losing interest in Shanghai, which was still beset with the problems of the boycott, and even that Osaka exporters were now looking to Manchuria rather than Shanghai. In a pamphlet published on 28 January 1932, the day that the Municipal Council of the Shanghai international settlement proclaimed a state of emergency, and the day before Japanese forces bombed the Chapei district, a group representing Japanese commercial and industrial interests in Shanghai, as well as the Foreign Ministry and the army, urged that the Manchurian Incident be expanded to suppress the anti-Japanese movement in Shanghai. For this group, the Manchurian Incident would be meaningless and an opportunity lost if Japanese military action remained restricted to Manchuria. On the other hand, in October 1931 the Mukden Japanese Chamber of Commerce revealed its own desire to emulate the success of Shanghai as a site for Japanese business activity. The chamber expressed satisfaction at the fact that the Manchurian Incident had aroused some economic organisations in Japan which in the past had been indifferent to ‘the Manchurian/Mongolian problem’ and had paid more attention to Shanghai. Seeing the ‘success’ of the Manchurian Incident, these organisations, the Mukden chamber believed, would now be prepared to take a hard line over Manchuria, even at the risk of inflaming the anti-Japanese movement in the Shanghai region.47 It was not the first time that Japanese economic associations in China had pressed for intervention from home to repress the boycott movement. Japanese chambers of commerce in China, which included large spinning companies among their members, had consistently opposed the boycotts of the first half of the 1920s and had sought intervention from the Japanese government and support from business circles in Japan. They were successful in 1923 in uniting chambers of commerce and exporters at home in support of their cause, but

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efforts to influence the government proved unsuccessful. Not until the later 1920s, especially after the Tsinan Incident of 1928, did Japanese merchants and industrialists find themselves supported strongly both by exporters at home and by the government. By this time, small dealers and large industrialists in Shanghai were united in their calls for a tougher Japanese policy in China.48 Thus, when the Manchurian crisis began, it was already an established practice for Japanese economic organisations in China to seek to influence government and business at home. Yonesato Monkichi, head of the Shanghai Japanese Chamber of Commerce, travelled to Japan after the Manchurian Incident in order to arouse opinion at home over the ‘China problem’, addressing the Osaka Chamber’s committee on China at some length in December 1931. Yonesato called for a solution not only to the problems in Manchuria but for the whole of China; decisive action was necessary in order to prevent further outbreaks of anti-Japanese activity in China proper, and it was vital to find a ‘fundamental solution’ now, even if it meant that sacrifices were necessary in the short term.49 For Yonesato, as for other Shanghaibased Japanese businessmen, the primary significance of the Manchurian Incident clearly lay outside of Manchuria. Other representatives arrived from Manchuria, and the chambers of commerce at home also heard reports from delegations which had gone from Japan to study the situation there. Telegrams arrived often from Manchuria seeking support from Japanese business and industry. Opinion in Shanghai and other parts of China was less united on the subject of the Shanghai Incident. Ishii Itaro¯, Consul-General in Shanghai from September 1932, observed a difference in opinion between the Japanese company staff in spinning mills, banks and large firms, and the ‘indigenous Japanese’ of Shanghai. The former, he wrote, were mostly ‘intellectuals’ with experience of the West, who had direct business dealings with Chinese and Westerners. They favoured peace in 1932, whether for idealistic reasons or because it was better for business. The ‘indigenous Japanese’, on the other hand, were much more right-wing.50 Commercial and industrial interests in Japan did not welcome the Shanghai Incident, and prominent Japanese businessmen in Shanghai probably reacted similarly. By January 1932 world opinion had tacitly accepted the Manchurian Incident, the Japanese business world was recovering from its initial impact, and the new Inukai Cabinet had boosted the prospects of trade by abandoning the gold standard. Merchants and industrialists may also have felt that there should be no trouble in Shanghai where Western interests were concentrated.51 Thus business and industrial leaders were wary of the Shanghai Incident. Meanwhile, delegations from Manchukuo continued to arrive in Japan, and were offered hospitality by the chambers of commerce. They included a group of twenty-one business and cultural delegates in December 1932, the Manchukuo Ambassador to Japan in August 1933, the Governor of the Manchurian Central Bank and a trade delegation of fifteen people in December 1933.52 Whether in speeches from business delegates visiting from China, in reports from their own members returning from tours of Manchuria, in telegrams asking

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for support or in resolutions from their own committees, members of the chambers of commerce and industry were given the same central message: that Japanese rights and interests in China were to be protected. The message was sometimes clothed in the idealistic terms of brotherhood and economic cooperation between the two nations, but this did not obscure the crucial point that the anti-Japanese boycott in China was not to be tolerated. The idea that military action in Manchuria could be a portent of things to come elsewhere in China was not lost on the Osaka Chamber of Commerce and Industry, in particular. Many of the Osaka Chamber’s members were engaged in the China trade, and consequently had suffered heavy losses from reduced exports due both to the depression and to the boycotts. With or without the visiting Japanese businessmen from China, most of them were likely to have supported any measure which might lessen the impact of the anti-Japanese movement. Except in the 1923 boycott, Japanese exporters had in the past remained relatively unmoved by appeals from Japanese chambers of commerce to join them in supporting the suppression of Chinese nationalism.53 In 1931, however, the economy at home could not be relied upon. China was now all the more important, and all the more alluring if certain obstacles could be removed. Other factors also served to attract the proprietors of small and medium enterprises to the idea of direct Japanese control of Manchuria. Business operators, like others, were regularly exposed to government and army propaganda about rights and interests, self-defence and Manchuria as Japan’s life-line. Like the leaders of the labour movement, they were perhaps particularly susceptible to Kwantung Army propaganda promising that Manchuria would henceforth be closed to the zaibatsu.

‘No zaibatsu in Manchuria’ Historians have stressed the importance of anti-capitalist statements by the army in exploiting popular dissatisfaction with the zaibatsu and political parties to produce a wave of public xenophobia after the Manchurian Incident. The army’s manipulation of the middle classes was obvious in its assurance that Manchuria was a paradise that would remain unavailable to the zaibatsu. In reality, keeping large capitalists out of Manchuria was neither possible nor desirable from the Kwantung Army’s point of view. However, the slogan was a powerful propaganda tool at the depth of the depression, especially when combined with the themes of Manchuria as a land of limitless resources, Japan’s need to defend its ‘rights and interests’ and the sacrifices by which Manchuria had been ‘won’ during the Russo-Japanese War. Early statements by the Kwantung Army on Manchurian economic policy stressed the need for a planned economy: ‘learning a lesson from the evil of the unfettered capitalist economy’, the policy was ‘to apply appropriate controls’. The fruits of business and the opportunity to exploit natural resources were not to be monopolised by one social class. Eguchi and Awaya suggest that these slogans, along with the ubiquitous term ‘life-line’, ensured middle-class support for the military’s actions and produced a

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‘Manchuria boom’ at the popular level. Those involved in smaller enterprises were particularly susceptible to the anti-capitalist, anti-monopoly rhetoric, and they responded eagerly to the promise that big business would be suppressed.54 One book published in March 1932 assured its readers that small firms would thrive in Manchuria. Manmo¯ sho¯shihon kaihatsu annai (A Guide to the Development of Manchuria and Mongolia by Small Capital) provided a detailed guide for the Japanese middle classes on how to start a business in Manchuria with, incredibly enough, less than a thousand yen in capital. Shops, roadside stalls and itinerant trading were recommended. To allow Japanese rights and interests in Manchuria and Mongolia to be monopolised by a few wealthy families could never be defended before the thousands of noble spirits whose bleached bones lay in the Manchurian wilderness, the author declared, and the ideal form of investment was through joint-stock companies created by the middle classes. Indeed, it was allegedly the army’s intention to encourage involvement by the Japanese people. The rewards would be great, both for the individual and for the nation: The large fertile field of Manchuria is now born again to become a paradise of peace; it welcomes hundreds and millions of the Yamato race . . . In view of this wonderful opportunity which should not be neglected, advance into this ideal land is not simply a matter for individuals, but is also a pressing issue for the national economy. In fact, it was the task of the middle classes to open up the unlimited treasurehouse of Manchuria for the sake of the toiling masses who were unable to join their compatriots in their Manchurian endeavours. To the author, this was all most desirable ‘from the point of view of social policy and of the thought problem’, at a time when ‘overpopulation has caused a stalemate and the nation is suffering from lack of food’.55 Some in the Kwantung Army, including Ishiwara Kanji, genuinely did hold anti-capitalist views.56 Moreover, for the first few years after the establishment of Manchukuo, the Kwantung Army and the South Manchurian Railway Company did attempt to implement a plan of development which was statecontrolled. At first, it was the policy of the Kwantung Army and of Japanese capitalists that there should be no independent industrial development in Manchukuo. The region was to be a source of raw materials and a market for surplus Japanese goods, and in particular, no industries were to be encouraged which might compete with industries at home. Virtually from the start, however, leading figures in the Kwantung Army sought private investment, in spite of any dislike of capitalists they may have felt. In reality, the promise to keep the zaibatsu out of Manchuria was little more than useful rhetoric. From 1933 onwards, the establishment in Manchuria of certain industries which were not likely to threaten enterprises in Japan was encouraged. Munitions industries, mining and industries which depended on Manchurian raw materials were to be promoted. For other things, the region was to be made to depend on Japanese imports.57 The Manchurian economy, in other words, was always to be subordinate to Japan’s

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needs, in the classic relationship between metropolis and sphere of influence. The chambers of commerce must have been aware of the Kwantung Army’s attempts to attract large capitalists into Manchuria, and anti-zaibatsu rhetoric is not prominent in their journals. The ideal, according to one article, was for smaller Japanese enterprises in Manchuria and large capital to work together cooperatively; not only should the entry of capital to Manchuria be allowed, there should be equal opportunity for foreign companies as well.58 On 1 March 1933 the basic economic policies of Manchukuo were announced. The new policies were apparently designed ‘to avoid the baneful effects of unbridled capitalism through the application of a certain measure of national control so that a sound development in all branches of the people’s economy may be realised’.59 The government emphasised again that no specific classes of people were to be allowed to monopolise the benefits of economic development. Nevertheless, the Kwantung Army sought to enlist private capital, particularly from Japanese sources, which would be allowed to operate, under government supervision: in many cases, by means of ‘special companies’, through which the government extended certain privileges to private investors while retaining the right to control their operations to a considerable degree. In the Diet, early in 1933, the Army Minister stated baldly that: he wished clearly to point out that while there are many who still possess the idea that the Army intends to handle everything in Manchuria, and consequently refrain from investing capital in that territory, the Army does not intend to shoulder the entire burden of leading Manchuria to peace and prosperity.60 The slogan ‘no zaibatsu in Manchuria’ does not appear to have been used after 1934 or 1935.61 In the event, however, it required some time and effort to attract large private capital to Manchuria.

Big business and Manchuria At least until 1936, Japanese businesses and industries were reluctant to become involved in Manchuria, and the biggest of the zaibatsu remained cautious even then,62 though they were heavily involved in the region by the time of the Pacific War. Lieutenant-General Koiso Kuniaki, made Chief of Staff of the Kwantung Army in 1932, was one of those who advocated mobilisation of capital from within Japan to create new joint-stock companies in Manchuria. In December 1932, Koiso ended a visit to Japan during which he had taken the opportunity to see ‘as many financial leaders as possible’. He complained in a press interview at their apparent reluctance to invest in Manchuria: Frankly, . . . I was disappointed in their attitude, as they appeared to place money above life. Manchuria has vast natural resources and in order to develop them an

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Interest groups and local perspectives immense amount of capital is needed. As pacification of the country is progressing, why the Japanese capitalists hesitate to invest in Manchuria is a mystery to me. If the Japanese, whether capitalists or proletarians, realize the importance of Manchuria as the ‘life-line’ of Japan, they will abandon their present attitude. Nothing is a matter of greater regret from a patriotic point of view than the hesitation shown by the Japanese capitalists to take part in the development of Manchukuo.63

By this time, some business and industrial leaders had returned to their pre1931 advocacy of limits to military spending. The President of the Yokohama Chamber of Commerce, Isaka Takashi, with other business leaders, praised Finance Minister Takahashi Korekiyo in November 1932 for ‘having forced the military ministries to take much less than they demanded’ in the 1933–34 budget.64 Two weeks later, Go¯ Seinosuke, in a speech in the presence of Army Minister General Araki Sadao and other high officials which attracted considerable publicity, criticised the large issue of government bonds planned under the new budget. Go¯ irritated Araki by adding the following remark: An increase in military expenditures is inevitable on account of the Manchuria and Shanghai incidents, but from a purely economic standpoint, military expenses are fundamentally unproductive in nature. Araki was reportedly angry and sarcastic when he replied that the recent growth of an anti-capitalist movement was a far greater danger to the nation than the projected issue of loans. Go¯’s speech, commented US Ambassador Joseph Grew, was indicative of a wider public concern with the large budget and the amount of military expenditure contained in it.65 The scepticism of big business concerning investment in Manchuria was in fact noted by a number of diplomatic observers. As early as February 1932, an American official had written of ‘reports that capitalists are somewhat apprehensive about Manchurian investments’. By April concerns were said to be emanating from Nagasaki about ‘the prospects of facing competition with Manchuria in many of the commodities, such as coal, which have hitherto been mainstays of local prosperity’, though critics were believed to be keeping quiet for fear of being accused of lack of patriotism or of Communism; and an American memorandum noted in June that the ‘reluctance of Japanese manufacturers and producers to establish competing mines and factories on the [Chinese] mainland is an important obstacle to the plans of the army and fascist leaders’. An Osaka businessman visiting Washington told diplomats that ‘Osaka businessmen are asking where are the profits that were supposed to come as a result of the Manchuria affair’.66 The fact that some Japanese capitalists were unenthusiastic from the start about investment in Manchuria, or became disenchanted after a while, however, did not mean that they opposed the idea of military intervention as such. It may

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well have meant that big business had no need to seize on the idea of Manchuria as other groups did: the elite of the zaibatsu, at least, gained rather than lost ground during the depression.67 Nevertheless, though some large firms were undoubtedly sensitive to the damage which could be done to their image overseas by the Kwantung Army’s actions,68 initial big business reactions to the Manchurian Incident were similar in tone to those of the chambers of commerce and industry. The Japan Industrial Club held an emergency meeting on 29 September 1931, subsequently issuing a statement declaring that the action taken by the Japanese military to protect Japanese interests and the lives and property of Japanese residents in Manchuria had been necessary and natural, and urging the Japanese government to take a firm stand in demanding that the Chinese ‘seriously reflect’ (mo¯sei ) on the situation. The statement called for the resolution of all outstanding problems between the two countries and expressed an earnest desire for the removal of all obstacles to mutual friendship. On 10 October a joint declaration was issued by several economic associations, including the Japan Industrial Club and the Japan Chamber of Commerce and Industry, calling for the elimination of anti-Japanese activity in China and a ‘fundamental solution’ for all outstanding issues between the two countries.69 Reactions from big business groups to the Lytton Report also resembled those of the chambers of commerce. The Japan Industrial Club and other groups had gone to some lengths to provide the Lytton Commission with hospitality and with what they considered to be relevant literature and the correct opinions on the Manchurian issue, holding a reception for the visitors, for example, in order to give their view of the conflict and answer questions. They were disappointed with the Commission’s eventual report. A joint statement was issued on 11 November 1932 by the Japan Industrial Club, the Japan Economic Federation, the Nikka jitsugyo¯ kyo¯kai ( Japan–China Business Association), which represented large Japanese spinning companies with factories in China, and the Japan Chamber of Commerce and Industry. The statement condemned the report as too legalistic, claiming it revealed an inadequate understanding of the current situation of China, which could not be treated as a modern, organised state in view of its anti-foreign movement and indifference to international treaties. It concluded that recognition of Manchukuo by the world was vital for the sake of peace in the Far East, since failure to recognise Manchukuo would bring about the same disorder and confusion in Manchukuo as prevailed in the rest of China.70 Prominent businessmen did not, at least publicly, voice doubt over Japanese military intervention in China. Some clearly approved of the Manchurian Incident. Just as commercial and industrial leaders had given ‘hearty and sometimes effusive support’ when Japan had gone to war in 1894 and 1904, at times helping to raise large sums of money at short notice to help cover war costs,71 so now they threw their weight once again behind Japan’s war and the army in general, whether out of genuine conviction or a desire to be publicly associated with a patriotic cause at a time when the common perception of business was unfavourable. Under army pressure, Mitsui and Mitsubishi jointly lent 20 million yen to Manchukuo even before it was recognised by Japan. They

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also set up a munitions manufacturing firm and expanded their investment in Manchukuo and China proper. Between 1932 and 1936, Mitsui contributed another 2,680,000 yen to various projects connected with national defence and the military.72 The third, fourth and fifth of the ‘patriotic’ aeroplanes donated to the army were paid for by a wealthy Tokyo stockbroker and manufacturer, while the sixth was donated by Nihon keori, a woollen goods firm.73 As we have seen, big business was prominent in the ‘donation fever’ sponsored by newspaper firms and other organisations in late 1931, and in the appeals for air-defence equipment for the cities. Some individual businessmen and industrialists were very close to the army or were keen supporters of the Manchurian Incident in principle. An extreme ¯ ji Paper Company, a great admirer of the example was Fujiwara Ginjiro¯, of O army’s activities in the 1930s who opined: ‘We have a splendid opportunity to expand abroad; it is the manifest destiny of the Japanese nation’.74 Aikawa Gisuke of Nissan was also well known for his military connections. Asakura Tsuneto, another industrialist involved in spinning, electric power and automobile manufacture, had a strong interest in Manchuria, which for him was assuredly a ‘new paradise’. Asakura was very interested in the industrial development of Manchuria and in the possibilities for economic co-operation between Japan and Manchukuo. He took a positive attitude towards the Manchurian Incident, and in August 1931 had in fact written to the then Army Minister, General Minami Jiro¯, urging him to find a solution to the Manchurian ‘problem’. Asakura and Minami met often after this. In August 1932, Asakura and a group of like-minded businessmen and others, all of whom had been urging the government to firm action in Manchuria since the previous August, held a ceremony to express their gratitude to Minami for his efforts in the Manchurian Incident, which Asakura personally believed to have been decisive.75 Not all Japanese industrialists were as close to the army or as interested in Manchuria, as is shown by the remarks of Go¯ Seinosuke and others in criticising military expenditure in late 1932, and by Araki’s and Koiso’s complaints about lack of investment in Manchuria. However, big business as a whole did not oppose the military action in north-east China. There is little evidence for Boulding and Gleason’s conclusion that the zaibatsu ‘actively opposed the extremists in a struggle for both economic and political power’, co-operating with the military only reluctantly ‘when it was obvious popular opinion was against them and there was little more than a shotgun choice’.76 There were in fact close ties between the older combines and the military. Eleanor Hadley is more convincing when she writes that there was ‘no split at all between the older combines and the majority of the senior officers of the army and navy’, while Sakamoto Masako concludes that the Kwantung Army’s economic policy in Manchuria in the first half of the 1930s closely reflected the wishes of the Japanese zaibatsu.77 The issue of relations between business and the military in the 1930s is a complex one, but in general, the same conclusion can be drawn as for the period 1895–1910: large-scale Japanese capitalists saw military expansion as compatible

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with, or at least not destructive of, their long-term interests and, for the most part, ‘the rhetoric and interests of the business community meshed with those of the government’.78 Initial unwillingness to invest in Manchuria was not incompatible with support for the military action which began in September 1931. Reluctance to invest in Manchuria was due neither to objection in principle, nor to the anticapitalist slogans of the Kwantung Army. Rather, it can be attributed to business reasons: the prospects of unstable profits and limited dividends, unfavourable conditions imposed by the Manchukuo government, unstable rates of exchange, ‘general insecurity’ and, for some, doubts about the viability of the South Manchurian Railway Company. According to Sakamoto, the zaibatsu also recognised the necessity to preserve the fiction that Manchuria was closed to them: it was considered important to avoid giving the impression that Japanese military action was undertaken only for the benefit of capitalist interests.79 Many of the very firms which hesitated to commit capital to Manchuria in 1932 or 1933 were happy to do so a few years later, when conditions had changed. Mitsui and Mitsubishi were amongst those firms which made substantial profits in Manchuria during the Pacific War.80

Conclusion A striking feature of responses from business and industry to the Manchurian Incident is that all groups supported it, though not necessarily for exactly the same reasons. In earlier periods of Sino-Japanese tension – during the 1919 antiJapanese boycott, for example – there had been marked differences in response between the large Japanese spinning companies and smaller Japanese dealers in China, and between Japanese exporters at home and merchants and industrialists in China. Even when Japanese chambers of commerce in China, together with chambers of commerce and exporters at home, were able to agree on the necessity to combat the Chinese nationalists, as in the 1923 boycott, they found themselves at odds with their own government’s policies.81 In 1931–32, however, a broad consensus supported Japanese army and government policy in Manchuria. Two main factors were responsible: the greatly increased severity of the anti-Japanese movement in China after 1928, and the world depression. The prevailing view among business and industrial leaders was that the most promising opportunities for profit in East Asia lay in China – but it would have been rare to include Manchuria in this assessment. China proper was a powerful lure for Japanese businessmen, and some had an exaggerated belief in the benefits it could offer. However, before September 1931 there were a number of legal and practical obstructions to further expansion in China, and even to maintenance of the status quo. Large Japanese merchants and industrialists trading with or operating in the Shanghai and Tientsin regions were sustaining heavy losses from the boycotts, as well as from the depression. The success of the Manchurian Incident suggested the possibility that firm measures could also be taken elsewhere in China. To the commercial lure of China was thus added the temptation to exercise greater political influence over Japan’s unruly neighbour.

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Japanese capitalists were not necessarily convinced of the economic value of Manchuria itself, and may also have been cautious about exerting Japanese power in Shanghai, a much more sensitive area than Manchuria in Western eyes. Nevertheless, some industrialists and merchants in Japan as well as China, especially those involved in the textile industry, were very tempted to regard the Manchurian Incident as a welcome start to a ‘fundamental solution’ to problems in the rest of China. At the least, Japanese action could be seen as a useful threat to the Chinese of the Shanghai and Tientsin regions, though some members of the Japanese Chamber of Commerce and Industry in Shanghai went further, favouring an actual extension of Japanese military power from Manchuria to other areas of China. Other business and industrial leaders in Japan probably supported the Manchurian Incident because there was no reason to oppose it, or because they were drawing closer to the army, at a time when increasingly strong connections were developing between the military and economic worlds. The depression itself also played its part. Japanese businessmen, especially those who did not already have significant connections with China, might have been less interested in what was going on in Manchuria and the rest of China in 1931 and 1932 if profits had not been falling drastically at home. In this sense at least, even prominent businessmen and industrialists were perhaps susceptible to the propaganda about Manchuria as the panacea for all ills. Smaller traders had their own priorities. Japanese involved in small and medium enterprises in Manchuria itself were suffering not so much from the boycott as from the depression. They were very militant, anti-Chinese and proarmy, perhaps because their standard of living was often very low and because in the early 1930s the Kwantung Army seemed able to fulfil the role of saviour and protector. The Kwantung Army’s promise that the zaibatsu would be kept out of Manchuria may have exercised a strong appeal in principle for the poorer Japanese business proprietors. However, records of the visits to Japan of representatives of Japanese business organisations in Manchuria suggest that they did not actually oppose zaibatsu involvement; essentially, they were asking for Japanese capital and assistance to develop Manchuria. In contrast, representatives from Shanghai were asking for support for the suppression of Chinese nationalism. The smaller traders based in Japan and reliant on trade with China, principally from Osaka, were also suffering badly from the depression and the boycott, and they were likely to support any measure which seemed able to lessen antiJapanese activity. Such people, who were well represented in the Osaka Chamber of Commerce and Industry, may again have been tempted to see the Manchurian Incident in terms of a ‘fundamental solution’ to years of difficulty and frustration with the China trade. Trade with Manchuria, at least in theory, offered the prospect of operating in an area protected and partly financed by the Japanese state, in which Chinese nationalism would be suppressed by the state and from which – if the Kwantung Army were believed – the zaibatsu would be barred. Moreover, Japanese exporters were also well aware that the Chinese were working to recover full tariff autonomy, which would mean an eventual

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increase in customs duties outside of Manchukuo. Manchuria, at least for a time in the depths of the depression, must have seemed like a new field which would be safe from all these hazards. Even those involved in small and medium enterprises not significantly connected with the China trade were susceptible to the ‘business’ version of army rhetoric about Manchuria. Influenced by the pleas and arguments of Japanese visitors from Shanghai or Manchuria or Tientsin, exposed to propaganda about Japan’s ‘rights and interests’ and Manchuria as the ‘life-line’ and suffering through the worst years of the depression, business proprietors like those in the chambers of commerce and those who attended large public meetings in support of the Kwantung Army in late 1931 were caught up in the Manchurian dream. All of these factors perhaps produced an expectation that enterprises which were too small to profit in Japan during the depression would be able to profit in Manchuria, or that smaller firms whose profits were suffering might be able to begin trading with Manchukuo. These expectations may not have been particularly rational, but they were real for a time. In 1931–32, few other opportunities for economic improvement presented themselves to the proprietors of smaller-scale enterprises. Some members of the urban lower middle class, like some farmers, may have felt that expansion into Manchuria was the only remaining path to take. As in the case of agricultural emigration, however, few actually embraced the apparent new opportunities in north-east China. By the middle of 1933, such interest in Manchuria had clearly waned. The chamber of commerce journals carried very few substantial articles on China from then on, though notices continued of exhibitions of goods from or in China, visitors from Manchuria, meetings of committees dealing with Sino-Japanese economic co-operation and other signs of the ongoing business relationship. In mid-1933 there were still indications of some level of concern about the antiJapanese movement in China in both the Osaka and the Tokyo chambers. On the other hand, however, at a general meeting of the Osaka Chamber in June 1933 there was a long discussion on whether or not a certain committee dealing with Manchuria and the rest of China should be established, with some speakers arguing that it was now no more necessary to focus on China than on anywhere else.82 By early 1934, the Osaka Chamber of Commerce had shifted its focus quite firmly back to Europe and the United States, especially the worsening competition with Britain in the cotton trade, and to the chamber’s usual domestic concerns. For some members, to be sure, Japanese business was still in crisis. It was still economic rather than strategic, though far removed from the months of anxiety about world depression and Chinese boycotts. Now, the crisis related to the struggle with Lancashire for the cotton market, and the exclusion of Japanese goods from overseas markets. Problems had arisen, according to the chamber’s director, Inabata Katsutaro¯, because members of the chamber of commerce had been striving just as had the brave soldiers in Manchuria, with the result that Japanese cotton goods and other products were now recognised as of a high standard, arousing hostile reactions from other producers.83 Other estimations of Japan’s economic situation were much brighter in early

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1934. After a very difficult period, wrote one of the directors of the Osaka Chamber of Commerce, Japan had increased its exports four times over between January and October 1933, and its imports by three and a half times, thanks mainly to the cheap exchange rate, but also to low wages, technological improvements and rationalisation of production. By contrast, Britain, the United States, Germany and Italy had all experienced a significant drop in trade in the same period. Japan’s success might possibly have increased anti-Japanese feeling around the world, or exacerbated the anti-Japanese feeling already produced by the Manchurian Incident, admitted the writer, but that was held to be of small consequence. There was no need for pessimism in Japan, despite some potential difficulties in overseas trade, including the prohibition of Japanese imports. Though it would be difficult to repeat the success of 1933, the outlook for 1934 was quite favourable in this estimation.84 Good prospects were expected again at the beginning of 1935, this time primarily because of continuing military spending, though it was acknowledged that rural poverty continued, and that recovery had not yet come for the owners of small and medium businesses either. Problems also remained with overseas trade.85 By this time, Manchukuo appears in the chamber of commerce journal as just another country with which Japan has economic relations, receiving no more attention than any other trading partner. The organisations represented in chambers of commerce and industry, and the big businesses which belonged to other associations, relied heavily on the labour of women. The records we have examined here, however, contain no reflection of this reality. In the next chapter, the specifically gendered dimension of the crisis over Manchuria will be explored.

Notes 1 Banno, ‘Japanese Industrialists’. 2 John G. Roberts, Mitsui: Three Centuries of Japanese Business, New York, Weatherhill, 1973, p. 287. 3 Maeda, ‘Chu¯sho¯ ko¯gyo¯’, p. 61. 4 Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, p. 141. 5 Maeda,‘Chu¯sho¯ ko¯gyo¯’, p. 61. 6 Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, pp. 142–3. 7 Chalmers Johnson, MITI and the Japanese Miracle: The Growth of Industrial Policy, 1925– 1975, Stanford, Stanford University Press, 1982, pp. 109–10, 195, 310; Awaya, ‘Fasshoka’, pp. 254–5. 8 Ramon H. Myers, Japanese Economic Development of Manchuria, 1932–1945, New York, Garland, 1982, pp. 126–8; Bix, ‘Japanese Imperialism’, pp. 437–8. 9 Hara Akira, ‘Zaikai’, in Nakamura Takafusa and Ito¯ Takashi (eds), Kindai Nihon kenkyu¯ nyu¯mon, Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1977, pp. 174–8; Hirschmeier and Yui, Development of Japanese Business, pp. 184–6. 10 Allen, Short Economic History, p. 162. 11 Murai Sachie, ‘Shanhai jihen to Nihonjin sho¯ko¯gyo¯sha’, Kindai Nihon kenkyu¯, 1984, pp. 205–31; Banno, ‘Japanese Industrialists’. 12 Donald A. Jordan, Chinese Boycotts versus Japanese Bombs: The Failure of China’s ‘Revolutionary Diplomacy’, 1931–32, Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 1991, p. 331. 13 Ibid., pp. 333–6. See also Harumi Goto-Shibata, Japan and Britain in Shanghai, 1925– 31, Basingstoke, Macmillan, 1995, pp. 116–21.

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¯ do¯ rakudo, gozoku kyo¯wa”: “Manshu¯” shokuminchika susumu’, 14 Hara Akira, ‘“O in Arisawa (ed.), Sho¯wa keizaishi, p. 114. On the boycott movement after the Manchurian Incident, see also Jordan, Chinese Boycotts, Chs 7–10; Takamura Naosuke, Kindai Nihon mengyo¯ to Chu¯goku, Tokyo, To¯kyo¯ daigaku shuppankai, 1982, esp. pp. 196–200. 15 To¯kyo¯ sho¯ko¯ kaigisho, Sho¯ko¯ geppo¯ (hereafter Tokyo Geppo¯), December 1931, pp. 75ff.; January 1932, pp. 21–3. 16 ‘Memorandum of the Chinese Boycott of Japanese Goods’, 30 March 1932, p. 1, Amerika kenkyu¯ shiryo¯ sentaa, University of Tokyo, Takagi Yasaka monjo, File 63–2, American Council, Institute of Pacific Relations, Memoranda [Vol. 1?], No. 4. 17 Ibid., p. 2. 18 See Murai, ‘Shanhai jihen’, p. 222; Tokyo Geppo¯, October 1931, p. 130; February 1932, pp. 133–5; March 1932, pp. 143–5. 19 ‘Memorandum of the Chinese Boycott’, p. 3, Takagi monjo. On Funatsu see Jordan, Chinese Boycotts, pp. 142–3. 20 ‘Memorandum of the Chinese Boycott’, p. 3, Takagi monjo. ¯ saka zaikai ho¯men no hankyo¯ ni kansuru ken ho¯koku 21 ‘Manshu¯ jihen ni taisuru O (tsu¯cho¯)’, Report from Toyama Bunzo¯, Commander of the Military Police, to General Ninomiya Harushige, Vice-Chief of the General Staff, 30 September 1931, in Fujiwara and Kunugi (eds), Shiryo¯, Vol. 8, Document 43, p. 136. 22 O¯ saka sho¯ko¯ kaigisho, Geppo¯ (hereafter Osaka Geppo¯), April 1932, p. 77. 23 Ibid., November 1931, p. 73; December 1931, pp. 1–4, 79; March 1932, p. 65. Tokyo Geppo¯, December 1931, pp. 147–50, 153; April 1932, pp. 1–10; September 1933, pp. 167–9. 24 Fletcher, Japanese Business Community, p. 73. 25 Osaka Geppo¯, October 1931, pp. 63–5. 26 Ibid., pp. 69–70. 27 Ibid., pp. 70–2. 28 Jordan, Chinese Boycotts, p. 190. 29 Osaka Geppo¯, October 1931, pp. 70–2. 30 Tokyo Geppo¯, September 1931, p. 155; October 1931, pp. 96, 128–30, 169–71. ¯ saka zaikai ho¯men no hankyo¯ ni kansuru ken ho¯koku 31 ‘Manshu¯ jihen ni taisuru O (tsu¯cho¯)’, Report from Toyama to Ninomiya, 7 October 1931, in Fujiwara and Kunugi (eds), Shiryo¯, Vol. 8, Document 48, pp. 145–7; ‘Manshu¯ jihen ni kanshi zaiO¯ saka bo¯seki gyo¯sha nado kaigo¯ ni kansuru ken ho¯koku (tsu¯cho¯)’, Report from Toyama to Ninomiya, 9 October 1931, ibid., Document 49, pp. 147–9;‘Manshu¯ ¯ saka jitsugyo¯ka no jo¯sei sono ta ni kansuru ken ho¯koku jihen ni taisuru zai-O (tsu¯cho¯)’, Report from Toyama to Ninomiya, 10 October 1931, ibid., Document 52, pp. 155–7. 32 See Murai, ‘Shanhai jihen’, p. 206. 33 Ishii, Gaiko¯kan, p. 228. 34 Kitaoka Shin’ichi, ‘Taibei gaiko¯ no jo¯ken: Kiyosawa Kiyoshi kankeikan’, Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron, March 1986, p. 131; Nolte, Liberalism, p. 148. 35 Murai, ‘Shanhai jihen’, pp. 218–19. See also Osaka Geppo¯, June 1931, pp. 4–14. 36 Toyama to Ninomiya, 7 October 1931, in Fujiwara and Kunugi (eds), Shiryo¯, Vol. 8, Document 48; ‘Manshu¯ jihen no hankyo¯ sono ta ni kansuru ken ho¯koku (tsu¯cho¯)’, Report from Toyama to Kanaya Hanzo¯, Chief of General Staff, 10 October 1931, ibid., Document 51, pp. 152–5. 37 Toyama to Kanaya, ibid., Document 51; Toyama to Ninomiya, Document 52. 38 Tokyo Geppo¯, January 1932, p. 6. 39 Osaka Geppo¯, January 1932, pp. 6–8. 40 Ibid., October 1931, pp. 64, 73; December 1931, pp. 80–1; March 1932, p. 64; July 1933, p. 13 of so¯kai minutes. 41 Ibid., January 1932, p. 7; April 1932, p. 79; June 1932, pp. 1–3, 98; July 1932, p. 96;

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August 1932, p. 72; October 1932, p. 78; December 1932, p. 95; July 1933, p. 13 of so¯kai minutes. Ibid., March 1932, pp. 1–11, 68–9; April 1932, pp. 11–17; June 1932, p. 97; July 1932, p. 99. Ibid., January 1933, p. 17 of so¯kai minutes; see also November 1932, pp. 73–4. Fletcher, Japanese Business Community, pp. 74, 77. Ibid., p. 79. Murai, ‘Shanhai jihen’, p. 205; Yanagisawa Yu¯, ‘“Manshu¯ jihen” o meguru shakai keizaishi kenkyu¯ no do¯ko¯’, Rekishi hyo¯ron, No. 377, September 1981, p. 50. Murai, ‘Shanhai jihen’, pp. 212, 224–5. Banno, ‘Japanese Industrialists’, pp. 317–27. See also Akira Iriye, ‘The Failure of Economic Expansionism: 1918–1931’, in Silberman and Harootunian (eds), Japan in Crisis, p. 248. Osaka Geppo¯, December 1931, pp. 7–22; see also Murai, ‘Shanhai jihen’, pp. 223–4. Ishii, Gaiko¯kan, p. 235. Murai, ‘Shanhai jihen’, p. 225. Tokyo Geppo¯, July 1932, p. 169; November 1932, pp. 184–5, 189; September 1933, pp. 162, 181; December 1933, pp. 135–6; Osaka Geppo¯, December 1932, p. 95. Banno, ‘Japanese Industrialists’, pp. 315–17. Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, p. 144; Awaya, ‘Fasshoka’, pp. 259–60. Aoyama Shiro¯, quoted in Eguchi, Nihon teikokushugishiron, pp. 144–5. Peattie, Ishiwara, p. 179. Sakamoto Masako, ‘Senso¯ to zaibatsu’, in Nakamura Masanori (ed.), Taikei. Nihon gendaishi 4: Senso¯ to kokka dokusen shihonshugi, Tokyo, Nihon hyo¯ronsha, 1979, pp. 53–4. Tokyo Geppo¯, May 1932, pp. 109–12. Quoted in E. B. Schumpeter, ‘Japan, Korea and Manchukuo, 1936–1940’, in Schumpeter (ed.), Industrialization, pp. 390–1. This paragraph is also based on ibid., pp. 376–8; Kungtu C. Sun, assisted by Ralph W. Huenemann, The Economic Development of Manchuria in the First Half of the Twentieth Century, East Asia Research Center, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, pp. 75–8; Nakamura Takafusa, ‘Japan’s Economic Thrust into North China, 1933–1938: Formation of the North China Development Corporation’, in Akira Iriye (ed.), The Chinese and the Japanese: Essays in Political and Cultural Interaction, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1980, pp. 222–47; Myers, Japanese Economic Development, Chs 3, 5; Johnson, MITI, pp. 130–1; Sakamoto, ‘Senso¯ to zaibatsu’, p. 55. Japan Times and Mail, 25 January 1933, cited by US Ambassador Joseph Grew in ‘Opposition to the Military in Japan’, Grew to Secretary of State, 27 January 1933, p. 3, USNA, Records of the Department of State, Record Group 59, M/F: LM058, Roll 1, 894.00/465. Hara Akira, quoted in Nakamura, ‘Japan’s Economic Thrust’, p. 240. Nakamura, ‘Japan’s Economic Thrust’, p. 240. Trans-Pacific, 8 December 1932, p. 15. See also Myers, Japanese Economic Development, p. 42. Trans-Pacific, 17 November 1932, p. 22. Ibid., 1 December 1932, p. 16; Grew to Secretary of State, No. 227, 16 December 1932, USNA, Records of the Department of State, Record Group 84, Post Records: Tokyo. See also Diaries of Captain Malcolm Duncan Kennedy, Vol. 26, 25 November 1932, Sheffield University Library. Neville to Secretary of State, No. 512, 27 February 1932, USNA, Records of the Department of State, Record Group 84, Post Records: Tokyo; Consul Henry B. Hitchcock, ‘Current Thought in Japan’, 7 April 1932, p. 2, Post Records, Nagasaki: 1932, Vol. 5; L. E. Salisbury, ‘Japanese Dubiety of Success in Manchuria’, 6 September 1932, p. 2, USNA, Record Group 59, Records of the Division of Far

The business community

67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

195

Eastern Affairs (Box 1), Lot File 244. ‘Memorandum on Japan’s Foreign Financial Problems’, 17 June 1932, Takagi monjo, File 63–2, American Council, Institute of Pacific Relations, Memoranda, Vol. 1, No. 11. Imuta Toshimitsu, ‘Mitsui to Mitsubishi: gekido¯ no naka de jitsuryoku nobasu’, in Arisawa (ed.), Sho¯wa keizaishi, pp. 69–71. See, for example, the letter quoted in Roberts, Mitsui, pp. 269–70. Nihon ko¯gyo¯ kurabu goju¯nenshi hensan iinkai (ed.), Nihon ko¯gyo¯ kurabu goju¯nenshi, Tokyo, Nihon ko¯gyo¯ kurabu, 1972, pp. 290–1. Ibid., pp. 293–6. See also Trans-Pacific, 17 November 1932, p. 16. Peter Duus, ‘Economic Dimensions of Meiji Imperialism: The Case of Korea, 1895– 1910’, in Ramon H. Myers and Mark R. Peattie (eds), The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1984, pp. 142–6. Imuta Toshimitsu, ‘Zaibatsu no “tenko¯”: tero . . . keiei seisaku o tenkan’, in Arisawa (ed.), Sho¯wa keizaishi, p. 98; Tiedemann, ‘Big Business and Politics’, p. 298. Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, p. 30. Quoted in Roberts, Mitsui, p. 264, n. 3. See also Tiedemann, ‘Big Business and Politics’, pp. 288–9. Abe Takashi et al. (eds), Asakura Tsuneto nikki: Taisho¯ ju¯gonen-Sho¯wa hachinen, Tokyo, Yamakawa shuppansha, 1983, Introduction to Vol. 2, pp. 11–14; Vol. 1, pp. 343–4 (3 August 1932). Kenneth E. Boulding and Alan H. Gleason, ‘War as an Investment: The Strange Case of Japan’, in Kenneth E. Boulding and Tapan Mukerjee (eds), Economic Imperialism: A Book of Readings, Ann Arbor, Michigan, University of Michigan Press, 1972, p. 255. Eleanor H. Hadley, Antitrust in Japan, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1970, p. 40; Sakamoto, ‘Senso¯ to zaibatsu’, pp. 59, 85. See also Jon Halliday, A Political History of Japanese Capitalism, New York, Monthly Review Press, 1975, pp. 354–5. Duus, ‘Economic Dimensions’, pp. 142–3. Sakamoto, ‘Senso¯ to zaibatsu’, pp. 55–9; Nakamura, ‘Japan’s Economic Thrust’, p. 223. Halliday, Political History, p. 354; Hadley, Antitrust, pp. 40–2. Banno, ‘Japanese Industrialists’, pp. 314–21. Eventually, a motion to establish the committee was carried unanimously: Osaka Geppo¯, July 1933, so¯kai minutes. See also ibid., June 1933, pp. 119–24; Tokyo Geppo¯, July 1933, pp. 107–8. Inabata Katsutaro¯, ‘Nento¯ shokan’, Osaka Geppo¯, January 1934, pp. 1–3. Takayanagi Matsuichiro¯, ‘Zaikai no tenbo¯ (hikan no yo¯ nashi)’, Osaka Geppo¯, January 1934, pp. 3–6. Mori Heibei, ‘Nento¯ ni saishite’, Osaka Geppo¯, January 1935, pp. 1–2; Takayanagi Matsuichiro¯, ‘Zaikai no tenbo¯ (hikan no yo¯ nashi)’, ibid., pp. 3–5.

9

Serving on the home front Women and Manchuria

In economic and political terms, women, of course, did not occupy a distinct category of the Japanese population in the early 1930s. As many women as men were engaged in agriculture and fishing; a third of the workers in factories, mines and the transport industry were women; and thousands of women worked in white-collar occupations.1 Broadly speaking, women’s attitudes to the political and military events of the early 1930s had much in common with men’s. Undeniably, however, responses to the Manchurian crisis were to an extent gendered responses, and some of the messages directed at the Japanese people about the crisis were certainly aimed specifically at women. Ideologues of all kinds in practice treated women as a separate category worthy of particular efforts at persuasion. Little or no propaganda, by contrast, was consciously aimed at civilian men. In addition, women had a prominent place in the hortatory discourse of the Manchurian crisis. The ‘glorious stories’ of the home front propagated throughout the media almost invariably featured women or children, in an obvious effort to take advantage of the ideals of purity and sacrifice associated with ‘good wives and wise mothers’ as well as with children, and in order to suggest social unity and widespread approval of the military action in Manchuria. Organisations and publications representing women, for their part, also implicitly or explicitly accepted that the crisis in which the nation found itself had particular ramifications for women, and required distinctive responses from them. In part, this perception of women’s special roles represents an extension of the heightened consciousness, noted by Sheldon Garon, of women as consumers and household managers, which had made them particular targets of government campaigns aiming at frugality and hard work throughout the 1920s.2 During the Great Depression, too, women were often told that the solution to Japan’s economic problems lay in their hands, and they were a specific focus in the economic revitalisation movement in the countryside. Thus the key to overcoming national difficulties lay in harnessing the determination of women, in a cliché of the women’s magazines. In the new conditions of the Manchurian crisis, however, the perception that women had special roles to play was extended to the sphere of the highest national goals, and especially to support of the military in a broad sense.

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The notion that women were especially suited to military relief work was not in itself new. In particular, the state-sponsored Aikoku fujinkai (Patriotic Women’s Association) had been founded in 1901 to assist wounded soldiers and bereaved families; but by the early 1930s, this association had a firm reputation as an organisation for upper-class wives. The circumstances of the early 1930s apparently required an appeal to a much broader stratum of women. In a variety of publications women of all classes were kept informed of the official version of events in Manchuria and urged in imprecise but nevertheless insistent terms to protect the home front and display their womanly virtues through frugality, patriotism and self-sacrifice. Exactly how women reacted to the stream of information and exhortations directed at them during the early 1930s is very difficult to judge. Appeals to respond to the new national crisis evidently struck a chord with some women at least. Housewives and female students were prominent in campaigns to raise money for the army and in packing ‘comfort kits’ for the front, perhaps partly as the result of deliberate targeting of women for these activities by the authorities.3 Further, the Manchurian crisis produced an important new women’s organisation, the Kokubo¯ fujinkai, or Women’s Association for National Defence, a group that was tiny at its inception in March 1932 but by 1934 would boast a million members and by 1936 would become the dominant women’s organisation in Japan. The new association was established specifically to give support to soldiers leaving for the front and specialised in such activities as greeting and sending off soldiers, making tea for departing soldiers, visiting the sick and comforting the bereaved. For progressive women’s groups, on the other hand, the Manchurian Incident clearly provoked the same sort of crisis that was experienced by labour associations and other groups committed to progressive political activity. Though a few organisations expressed early opposition to the war in Manchuria, they either declined to co-operate with like-minded groups in order to produce effective joint action, or rapidly fell prey to internal dissension, often splitting in the process. To attempt to establish a more detailed picture of women’s responses to the Manchurian crisis is to confront the same difficulties that impede efforts to reconstruct women’s experiences and ideas in other places. Ordinary women are often ‘invisible’ in historical sources, as are most ordinary men. They wrote things down comparatively rarely, and even more rarely preserved any personal records. A proportion, indeed, were functionally illiterate or scarcely literate, despite the great increases in women’s literacy over previous decades. It was usually only women exceptional in some way who attracted attention: those of outstanding achievement or articulateness, or those who publicly espoused certain causes or ideas. What follows is an analysis of the material that is available, together with an attempt to read ‘between the lines’ in order to reach some conclusions about women and the Manchurian crisis. The chapter will examine, first, the discourses on the Manchurian crisis that were aimed directly at women through women’s magazines; and second, the responses of women’s organisations to the crisis. Both of these sections necessarily deal mostly with

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urban women, who were the principal targets of the magazines and made up much of the membership of the progressive women’s organisations at least. The third section of the chapter accordingly centres on rural women.

Women’s magazines By the early 1930s, advances in literacy and in the technology of communications, as well as the increasing identification of women as consumers, had created conditions in which a wide range of magazines for women readers flourished. In fact, one journal for women – Shufu no tomo or ‘Housewife’s Friend’ – was the largest-selling magazine of the pre-war period, with sales of over 8 million in 1931.4 Most women’s magazines were aimed squarely at urban readers, who were more likely to have the leisure to read them and the disposable income and opportunity to purchase the products many of them endorsed. Very few consciously tailored their material to the perceived needs and interests of rural women, though the mainstream women’s magazines did boast a number of rural readers all the same. Such publications provided the main routes through which women, specifically, were supplied with information about the basic issues relating to the Manchurian crisis. Many articles conveyed the standard version of events and suggested what women’s responses should be.5 In Shufu no tomo, for example, the well-known critic and journalist Tokutomi Soho¯, via a regular column in the first half of 1932 entitled ‘Women and Current Events’, covered such topics as ‘The Manchurian Problem from a Historical Point of View’, ‘Manchurian Independence and the Shanghai Incident’ and ‘The League of Nations and Japan’.6 Fujin kurabu (Women’s Club), the main rival of Shufu no tomo, published an ‘illustrated diary of the Manchurian Incident’, ‘true stories’ of Manchuria and guides to relevant ‘current events’.7 In country areas, women were a particular focus of the magazine Ie no hikari, which, as discussed in Chapter 6, was very sympathetic to the army. Through Ie no hikari, rural women as well as men were exposed to a constant barrage of reporting and comment on the Manchurian crisis. Even magazines which had previously espoused a comparatively liberal, democratic viewpoint usually ended up supporting the government stance. The progressive magazine Fujo shinbun (Women’s and Girls’ Newspaper), discussed in Chapter 5, is a prime case in point. Dedicated to advocacy of women’s education and women’s suffrage, a strong supporter of the League of Nations and ‘pacifist’ according to its own definition, the magazine nevertheless found ways to rationalise its support of Japan’s actions in Manchuria. Its chief justification of the Manchurian Incident rested on perception of a clash between the ‘ideal’ of world peace and the ‘reality’ of Japan having to deal with China’s supposed failure to act as a civilised nation and inability to achieve national stability. Overall, the magazine’s treatment of issues relating to Japan’s invasion of Manchuria was an extremely orthodox one. It provided a steady stream of more or less official information on the situation in Manchuria, in Shanghai and at the League; organised a campaign for relief packages for Japanese residents in Shanghai; and

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published an emotive and alarmist series of ‘diary extracts’ and reports from one Japanese resident of Shanghai, under titles like ‘From War-Torn Shanghai’.8 It thus provides a clear example of the complicity of moderate and liberal organisations and individuals in the state’s imperialist project in the early 1930s, though it was by no means the only such example among the women’s magazines. The relatively progressive Fujin ko¯ron, for instance, was another which supported the government line.9 Ultimately, in fact, all the women’s magazines were part of a broader process by which many progressive, liberal or socialist figures, not to mention conservatives, came to accept that urgent and decisive action by Japan was necessary in the new circumstances of the early 1930s. In most women’s magazines, readers were offered a steady discourse concerning the national crisis, emphasising their special role as mothers and nurturers. Women were reminded that they had a duty to economise on food and clothing, to create sound homes and to display womanly virtues. For them, the spirit of patriotism apparently lay in protection of the home front: thus the activities of the new Women’s Association for National Defence – which were essentially those of the private realm though performed in public – showed the true spirit of Japan, according to Fujin kurabu.10 It was common to represent women as the essence of Japanese spirit, whether they revealed it through some kind of sacrifice for the soldiers at the front or through their ordinary domestic duties. Maternalist analogies were also frequently used in political rhetoric, especially in discussions during 1932 of the sensitive issue of Japan’s relationship to Manchukuo. As mothers, it was argued on one occasion, women had the greatest understanding of the need for formal recognition of the new baby.11 Family analogies were not stable, however, and Manchukuo could just as easily be cast as a ‘wife’. In the past, according to one version, Japan and Manchuria had been de facto husband and wife; once Japan had recognised the ‘new nation’, they were formally married, despite the jealousy of some observers. The new husband and wife now had to resolve to share the same fate, without fear of those who were jealous and distrustful of them.12 Alternatively, Japan and Manchukuo were siblings, comprising a ‘main’ family and a ‘branch’ family, respectively.13 In yet another version, Japan was the ‘midwife’ in the birth of Manchukuo. This common analogy avoided the political implications of asserting that Japan had actually ‘given birth’ to the new nation, in accordance with the official stance that Manchukuo was not created by Japan but had been established spontaneously by the will of the existing inhabitants, yet allowed a strong role for Japan in aiding the ‘healthy development’ of the infant. Indeed, if the baby were left alone, it might not survive.14 Only occasionally were there suggestions of a specific role for women in the development of Manchukuo or in the conflict with the Western powers. Fujo shinbun, always prepared to assert that women were ‘naturally’ peace-loving, proposed in March 1932 that women from the League of Nations Association or from influential women’s groups should be sent as envoys to the United States and Great Britain to correct the mistaken view, allegedly held by British and American women, that Japan was a warlike nation.15 The same magazine urged

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Interest groups and local perspectives

women in the most general of terms to overcome their habitual ‘apathy’ and ‘ignorance’ of the world outside the home in order to participate in the healthy development of Manchukuo. The only concrete roles allotted to them, however, remained firmly within traditional bounds. ‘Young, healthy and sturdy’ women were called upon to join the male settlers in Manchuria, since ‘in this new age’ it was not fair that women should be passive onlookers while men developed the ‘new paradise’.16 At the same time, however, only certain sorts of women were required: those who would make suitable wives for the male Japanese settlers. They should mostly be country women who were prepared to work alongside their men to develop Manchukuo, and to encourage the farm women already in Manchuria by the example of their own hard work. Women like typists, teachers and office workers would not be needed from Japan until later on.17 Thus Fujo shinbun together with other women’s magazines tacitly supported the farmersettler programmes by then underway, and discouraged urban working women in particular from ‘rushing’ to Manchuria during a period of depression and unemployment at home. Despite much initial rhetoric about emigration for all, the message was now being sent that actually, anyone other than farmers would be a liability in Manchuria rather than an asset. The authorities were certainly doing their best at this time to discourage Japanese geisha and prostitutes, whose numbers in the ‘new nation’ were reported to have increased sharply since September 1931, from going to Manchuria.18 As for the ‘brides’, it was not in fact until 1938 that a concerted effort was made to find wives for the Japanese settlers, though small groups of ‘brides’ began to arrive in Manchuria from 1934 onwards.19 Magazines aimed at women in the early 1930s contain not only direct comment on the Manchurian crisis, but also many examples of a more subtle emphasis on military values. Articles consisting essentially of moral instruction – on the proper modes of conduct for mothers, daughters and wives as well as on home management – were already an established staple in the magazines. Such articles made up two-thirds of the table of contents of Fujin kurabu in the first half of 1930, for example.20 These moral exhortations usually emanated from people of high status in such fields as education; but from 1932 onwards, the authority figures in women’s magazines, just as in Ie no hikari, were much more likely to be high-ranking military officers or their wives. The clear implication was that such people were to be regarded as role models or ideal types. Stories of military heroics also abounded in magazines like Shufu no tomo and Fujin kurabu from 1932 onwards, conveying similarly patriotic and military ideals.21 Even the previously self-consciously pacifist Fujo shinbun ran a series for young readers on the power of modern weaponry, waxing lyrical about everything from the automatic rifle to the anti-aircraft gun to the armoured train.22 Radio lectures aimed at housewives were also now given by military officers, as well as by the more familiar religious leaders, journalists and heads of girls’ schools.23 Women themselves, in suitably idealised form, were further offered as role models to the population at large, through a stream of propaganda stories designed to encourage the development of proper attitudes towards the

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Manchurian crisis. Thus, in one of the most- repeated stories, the beloved young wife of Lieutenant Inoue kills herself so that he can go to the battlefield unhindered by worry on her behalf; in others, a new bride ‘follows her husband in death’ by killing herself after his death at the front, while a mother ‘celebrates the death of her son’ or assures him cheerfully that she does not expect him to return from the front.24 The wife of General Nogi Maresuke, who killed herself in 1912 immediately after her husband had himself ‘followed’ the Meiji emperor in death by committing ritual suicide, was promoted anew as the prototype of militaristic female virtue.25 In propaganda stories, mothers were always strong, young wives were always virtuous as well as beautiful, and women always overcame pressing difficulties. Whether such stories were believed or not, they associated women with a particularly pure form of the ‘Japanese spirit’, and conveyed the message that women had their own, vital part to play in the national mission. Even women with no prospect of emulating famous role models could serve the nation through efficient management of the household: this would apparently prevent illness through good diet, reduce the costs of food and clothing, and increase production, thus ensuring the prosperity of household dependants and, ultimately, the resurrection of the nation.26 Meanwhile, organised groups of women from across the political and social spectrum were responding to the challenge of the Manchurian crisis in their own ways, sometimes through intellectual argument but often through practical activity.

Organised women’s groups A variety of women’s groups existed in Japan in 1931, including several of long standing and some founded in the comparatively liberal atmosphere of 1920s ‘Taisho¯ democracy’. Some had broad political objectives such as women’s rights, socialism or pacifism; some were committed to social service and social reform; and some were professional or religious bodies. Overall, few women’s groups took a stand against the military action by the Kwantung Army, either because they approved of events or because they had more pressing concerns. As might be expected, the Manchurian Incident was positively welcomed by the more conservative groups, including the Dai Nihon rengo¯ fujinkai (Greater Japan Federation of Women’s Organisations), which had a mass base through its constituent town and village women’s groups, and the Patriotic Women’s Association. With army encouragement, the Greater Japan Federation participated in the campaign beginning in late 1931 to donate money for the front. The Patriotic Women’s Association also reacted quickly to the Manchurian Incident, collecting donations, making up relief packages and dispatching them with envoys to Manchuria, and providing relief for soldiers’ families. Its role in these activities declined, however, with the emergence of the broad-based patriotic donation movement, and with the serious competition soon presented by the Women’s Association for National Defence. In the second half of the 1920s a number of women’s suffrage, labour and

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Interest groups and local perspectives

socialist organisations had sprung up, often as auxiliaries to the legal socialist parties which were formed in this period. The membership of such progressive groups represented a tiny minority of Japanese women: the largest of the suffrage and socialist women’s associations, Ichikawa Fusae’s Fusen kakutoku do¯mei (Women’s Suffrage League), had only 1,500 members in 1930, mostly in Tokyo, in contrast to the 3 million or so members of the Zen-Kansai fujin rengo¯kai (Federation of Women’s Associations of Western Japan).27 Nonetheless, like the labour unions and parties discussed in Chapter 7, such socialist and feminist women’s organisations were part of the broad group of socialists who ‘together offered the most vigorous advocacy of progressive alternatives to the existing order that Japan had yet witnessed’.28 As such they had considerable potential to challenge Japan’s actions in Manchuria, especially in view of their past record of opposition to imperialism. What actually happened, however, was far from this. As with other progressive organisations, the Manchurian Incident often provoked a painful crisis for such groups of women. The events of 1931–33 were in fact the first to make clear the limits of commitment by progressive women’s groups to a consistent critique of the Japanese state. Some relatively progressive groups and publications actually took a clear-cut stance in favour of Japan’s actions in Manchuria. For instance, the Federation of Women’s Associations of Western Japan, previously a supporter of the League of Nations, declared in November 1931 that Japan’s actions were based on justice and the philosophy of world peace, and did not contravene the Anti-War (Kellogg–Briand) Pact, which Japan had signed in 1928. The Federation also participated in fund-raising activities for the soldiers.29 The journal Ro¯do¯ fujin (Labour Women) was declaring by April 1932 that the Manchurian Incident had been ‘unavoidable in view of the need to protect Japan’s existing rights, which were being threatened’.30 Later the same year, around the time that the Lytton Commission delivered its report, a newspaper dedicated to women’s suffrage asserted that women ‘must insist upon the justice of Japan’s position’.31 The Shakai minshu¯ fujin do¯mei (Social Democratic Women’s League), women’s auxiliary of the Social Democratic Party, issued a more ambivalent declaration in December 1931, stating that Japanese capitalists, having reached a stalemate domestically, were seeking to exploit the fertile land of Manchuria, while also engaging in corrupt financial speculation. Politicians were using the patriotic fervour of the people to hide misgovernment; the people must be on guard against their tricks. It was mostly the working class fighting in Manchuria, and moreover, soldiers’ families at home were suffering because of crop failures. Stagnation of trade with China was causing a drop in industrial production, and again it was the workers who suffered. The working class, in other words, was bearing the brunt of the Manchurian Incident. Nevertheless, the Social Democratic Women’s League dissociated itself from the Japan Communist Party’s renunciation of Japanese rights and interests in Manchuria. ‘We who believe in the gradual realisation of socialism in Japan’ recognised the ‘necessity’ of protecting those rights and interests. At the same time, the group made the familiar demand that Manchurian resources should be controlled by the

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203

government, not the bourgeoisie, adding that a tax should be imposed on the rich for the benefit of soldiers’ families.32 Within a very short time, this association was actively supporting the dispatch of Japanese troops to Manchuria. Open opposition to the Manchurian Incident was initially expressed by one or two women’s organisations, including the Musan fujin do¯mei (Proletarian Women’s League), which was associated with the Nihon ro¯no¯to¯ (Japan LabourFarmer Party) and had publicly opposed ‘imperialist war’ before September 1931 as well. For the sake of the masses, declared the League, it would absolutely oppose war, no matter what the other women’s groups did; indeed, it went so far as to call for the abolition of ‘reactionary women’s groups’ like the Greater Japan Federation of Women’s Organisations. If opposition to war were regarded as an absolute principle, the League said, then the circumstances leading to the war were irrelevant. Thus the whole basis of Japan’s justification for the Manchurian Incident was rejected. Furthermore, war was unequivocally an issue of class: ‘War is not a mattter of individual likes and dislikes. It is something that a strong ruling force does to us.’ The League urged the people to demand that the ruling class stop killing the proletariat in order to achieve its own ends. It was still actively opposing war in March 1932, but very soon proved as susceptible to internal disarray as were other progressive groups during the Manchurian crisis. Reports in the first months of 1932 indicated that the Proletarian Women’s League, the Social Democratic Women’s League and the Kyo¯fu¯kai (Women’s Christian Temperance Union of Japan) were all suffering internal dissension over the Sino-Japanese conflict and the issue of ‘fascism’. The Social Democratic Women’s League did in fact split, producing a splinter group, the Kokkashakaishugi fujin do¯mei (National Socialist Women’s League), in a process that mirrored the fracturing in the men’s Social Democratic Party provoked by Akamatsu Katsumaro.33 Different groups and publications which did oppose the Manchurian Incident proved ultimately unable to form a united front, tending to operate alone and thus with reduced impact even where they could maintain a consistent line. The newspaper Hataraku fujin (Working Woman), organ of the Japan Proletarian Culture League (Nihon puroretaria bunka renmei, or Koppu), took a strong stance against the fighting in Manchuria, declaring that women were the prime victims of war and should oppose it. The announcement of an ‘independent’ Manchukuo, according to Hataraku fujin, was predicated on the suppression of Chinese workers and peasants, direct preparation for war against the Soviet Union and the permanent suppression of Korean and Japanese workers and peasants. The producers of Hataraku fujin, however, showed no inclination to join with other groups in opposing the military action, criticising the Proletarian Women’s League in spite of the opposition to war that group was then espousing, and showing no interest in an anti-fascist resolution passed by the Women’s Suffrage Conference in May 1932.34 Joint action among the various women’s groups continued to prove very difficult. One combined meeting to protest against the fighting in China and to demand a peaceful solution was planned for December 1931. Before the date of the meeting, however, it was discovered that

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the Social Democratic Women’s League, one of the seven groups due to participate, had begun active support of the dispatch of troops to Manchuria and therefore now opposed the meeting. Another group also withdrew and two more were considered likely to do the same. The Proletarian Women’s League, which had instigated the meeting, later complained that it had been the only group prepared to go through with it.35 The volatility of the Manchurian issue for progressive women’s groups, and the sympathy with which many of them regarded the Manchurian Incident, are doubtless the underlying reasons for the failure of the meeting to occur, and, more broadly, for the failure of women’s groups to take united action to oppose the fighting in Manchuria. The Women’s Suffrage League was one of the groups which withdrew from the anti-war rally planned for December 1931. Nevertheless, it was in fact one of the few organisations which spoke out against the military during the Manchurian crisis. Though it became increasingly pro-government after 1935, in the earlier period it neither collected donations nor joined the rush to make up relief packages for the front. At the Third All-Japan Women’s Suffrage Conference in May 1932, as mentioned above, a resolution was passed opposing ‘the fascism which is currently gaining ground’. There was, however, no resolution directly demanding peace despite calls for peace by some delegates; doubtless, the issue was again a divisive one.36 At the 1933 suffrage conference, activist Iwauchi Tomie managed to make the following statement before being stopped by police: ‘War does not bring benefit to a people. We are fed the empty propaganda that Manchuria is Japan’s life-line, but so far it hasn’t produced one sen of profit.’ The conference passed a resolution opposing any increase in the military budget, and also issued a declaration to the effect that the current national difficulties could be solved by granting full rights to women. Around this time Ichikawa Fusae, Japan’s best-known suffragist, commented in the organ of the Women’s Suffrage League: ‘the military think they are the only patriots, and that the nation cannot be saved except by them.’ The newspaper received two or three police warnings about Ichikawa’s column around this time. Suffragists continued to criticise the rise of fascism at annual conferences, but the group’s members were gradually co-opted to serve the government. Ichikawa committed herself to the military’s agenda around 1937, the year in which full-scale war with China broke out. The last suffrage conference was also held in that year, and the Women’s Suffrage League was dissolved in 1940.37 Little or no progress was made during and after the Manchurian crisis towards long-standing objectives of the women’s movement, like suffrage and the abolition of licensed prostitution. In Ichikawa’s words, such issues were ‘cast aside by the wave’ of the economic, political, social and diplomatic crisis into which Japan was widely perceived to have fallen.38 In the meantime, however, a new player had burst upon the scene: the Women’s Association for National Defence.39 This organisation began spontaneously rather than as a creature of the army, as a local Osaka support group for departing soldiers, many of whom travelled far from their rural homes before leaving Japan through Osaka or other ports for Manchuria or Shanghai. The Osaka branch was established by two local residents, Yasuda Sei and Mitani

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Eiko, as a group of forty or so women who took their kettles to the harbour and made tea for the departing soldiers. Later, they also took over the Osaka railway station. In contrast, the Patriotic Women’s Association, a group which was perceived to do little more than collect money from rich women, was much less visible, at this stage merely sending representatives with formal messages for the departing troops. Soon after its formation, the new association also became involved in meeting troop ships returning to Osaka, sending home the remains of dead soldiers, assisting the injured, and meeting and sending off various people connected with the army who were passing through Osaka. Arrivals and departures spread to other locations and in fact became great events that were sometimes very boisterous: in January 1934, for example, seventy-six people were killed and sixty-three seriously injured at Kyo¯to Railway Station when a crowd of several thousand surged into the station to bid farewell to 715 young men. A week later, in Mie Prefecture, a boat containing people seeing off new recruits sank, and a hundred people narrowly escaped drowning.40 During 1932, the founders of the new association made contact with the Army Ministry, having decided with encouragement from male supporters in Osaka, including the local police chief and two journalists, to work towards the creation of a Tokyo office and establishment as a national organisation in a quest for more funds and more members. Like their counterparts in Nazi Germany, the national authorities quickly realised that commonplace activities by women could help to put a ‘healthy gloss’ on the process of sending soldiers to war,41 and by the end of its first year, the administration of the new association was controlled by the army, with most senior positions held by the wives of high-ranking military officers. One reason for army interest was doubtless that the new organisation’s rival, the Patriotic Women’s Association, was not only considered inflexible and ponderous, but was primarily influenced by the Home Ministry rather than the army. Bureaucratic rivalries were intense in the 1930s, and the army grasped the opportunity to be associated with an active women’s organisation over which it expected to have direct control. At the first meeting of the Kanto¯ (Tokyo region) headquarters of the association in October 1932, Army Minister General Araki Sadao’s wife was made president. In 1933, now under the supervision of the army, the Women’s Association for National Defence began systematically to form new branches made up of occupational groups or workplaces, with a dramatic effect on membership figures. By 1934 the association had expanded to become a national organisation with 1 million members. Two years later, it had overtaken its rival, the Patriotic Women’s Association, to become the dominant women’s group. It grew to over 8 million members in 1939 and 10 million in 1942,42 thus far outstripping the more famous Nazi women’s organisations, the Frauenschaft and Frauenwerk, which together numbered about 3.3 million in 1939, with roughly comparable populations in Japan and Germany.43 Women undoubtedly joined the Women’s Association for National Defence for a variety of reasons, especially in the beginning before pressure from the army, enrolment of workplace groups en masse, and even forcible soliciting by existing members brought about very rapid increases in membership. In its first

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years, there was clearly something about the organisation which appealed to ordinary women. It was probably not principle or ideology; this was a group based more on action than on theory. The organisation did make formal statements of ideology, but such declarations primarily reflected the army’s interpretation of the association’s significance rather than the views of members. In effect, the army produced the ideology and the women did the work.44 There was a clear division between the group’s ideological and practical aspects. The army saw the organisation as an expression of ‘womanly virtues’ (futoku), especially ‘chastity’ (teiso¯): the virtue of women on the home front was said to be essential to men’s success in battle. An official declaration of the organisation’s aims issued in October 1932 echoed many of the statements to be found in women’s magazines in this period, both in its recitation of conventional sentiments and in its characteristic level of abstraction: ‘In this grave situation facing the Empire, the mission of Japanese women is to sacrifice themselves for the prosperity of the Empire by demonstrating the womanly virtues of traditional Japan, overcoming national difficulties, and securing our national defence’.45 Most ordinary members, on the other hand, were probably not very interested in the ideology which the army tried to press upon them. It was above all an organisation of active public service, whose ‘ideology’ was best represented by the very conspicuous white apron worn by members as a kind of uniform. The apron clearly signalled members’ devotion to service and domestic values. In other organisations, especially the Patriotic Women’s Association, the quality of kimono, a significant indicator of class background, was an important consideration for members going to meetings. The large white apron of the new organisation, on the other hand, covered both the upper and the lower body, disguising the kimono worn underneath. Even the wealthy women who eventually served on the association’s executive wore the apron, probably for the first time in some cases. Conveying a spirit of service, reinforcing the ‘feminine’ role played by association members, and ensuring public visibility, the apron arguably summed up the movement for the public and for members, if not for the army. The extent to which any further philosophy was known or understood is doubtful.46 The image of the new association as an organisation of ordinary rather than elite women was strengthened by the low cost of membership, which again contrasted sharply with the high membership dues of the Patriotic Women’s Association. Henceforth, as one magazine observed, military welfare work was no longer to be the preserve of the upper class.47 Unlike the Nazi women’s organisations, whose target was the middle class,48 the Women’s Association for National Defence did indeed recruit among the working class, as well as among farming women in later years. Geisha, who had already been among the first to send packages to the front and to contribute to a campaign for donations for air defence, were successfully mobilised in Osaka in 1932. Café waitresses, department store employees and factory workers also joined on a group basis. Within two years of its founding, the Women’s Association for National Defence had branches in forty-five factories.49 The willingness of the association to accept and even actively recruit women of low social status such as geisha, prostitutes, shop

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assistants and factory workers may in fact have been an important reason for the organisation’s rapid growth. In an obvious contrast with the elite Patriotic Women’s Association, the new organisation offered low-status women an ideal of equality and an opportunity to work alongside others in a socially approved, officially sponsored, patriotic organisation.50 If ideological conviction, beyond an implicit willingness to affirm the ‘feminine’ roles of nurturing and sacrifice, was not a motivating force for most members of the Women’s Association for National Defence, the opportunity to find activity and companionship outside the home almost certainly was. Sharon Nolte has commented that women’s groups of the 1920s were popular because ‘their members shared community interests and experiences as wives and mothers; they relished the companionship of other women, and escape from the demands of mothers-in-law, children, and men in the family’.51 The same could be said of the Women’s Association for National Defence, and many women were undoubtedly attracted to the association by the opportunity to enjoy themselves. For some, it must have been the first opportunity to meet men other than their husbands or other relatives.52 The simplicity and popularity of the association’s activities in the beginning were not easily matched by the more sedate and established organisations. Except in occasional emergencies such as natural disasters, the new association did not become involved in general social work as did its older counterparts, but remained purely a military support group whose activities continued to centre on sending off and welcoming soldiers and giving aid and comfort to soldiers’ families. The Ko¯be branch of the association, for example, welcomed or sent off soldiers as many as forty-two times during 1933, in events attended by an estimated total of over 5,000 people. In the same year it also met sick and injured soldiers seventeen times, and attended the arrival of remains of the war dead on twenty-one occasions. Over 55,000 people were reported to have participated in the events commemorating the return of the war dead.53 Being located in a port city, the Ko¯be branch was doubtless unusually busy; but all the same, a tally of these occasions suggests that on average, the association turned out an impressive six times or more each month during 1933. The Women’s Association for National Defence was thus more active than other groups, and more inclined to go on an outing than hold a meeting. Even after the association had entered a more bureaucratic phase, the opportunity to get out of the house apparently remained important. The feminist leader Ichikawa Fusae, visiting her home village in Aichi Prefecture in 1937, happened to witness the inauguration ceremony of the local branch of the association. Observing the ‘shy, but happy demeanour’ of the new members, she later wrote: ‘There are many things to be said about the Women’s Association for National Defence, but even the fact that ordinary village women who previously have never had time they can call their own have been liberated from the home for half a day to listen to lectures – this is women’s liberation’.54 From 1935 onwards, there was a change of emphasis in the association’s ideals and activities, reflecting increasing dominance of the army interpretation of the group’s role over that of the association’s founders. More priority was given to

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the cultivation of ‘womanly virtues’, and less to practical activity. Projects undertaken by members began to lose their distinctive character and to resemble those of other groups, including the Patriotic Women’s Association. At the same time, the latter group was attempting to broaden its own base by adopting some of the early methods of the Women’s Association for National Defence, resulting in a degree of convergence between the activities and even the memberships of the two groups.55 By now, the Women’s Association for National Defence had lost the spontaneity which marked its response to the Manchurian Incident. Undoubtedly, however, it had become a vital means of mobilising women to support the military role of men in a very public way. In 1942, along with all other women’s groups, it was absorbed into the Dai Nihon fujinkai (Greater Japan Women’s Association), an integral part of the war-time political structure.

Rural women Many rural women and men had limited access to information about events in Manchuria, and little time or energy to consume it. Literacy levels raise one set of issues. In the Kyu¯shu¯ village studied by the American ethnographers John and Ella Embree in 1935–36, most old men had some knowledge of the phonetic syllabaries, but all the women over fifty were functionally illiterate. Younger women were often barely literate. Many could not read Chinese characters at all, and were reliant on the syllabaries. Though this lack of functional literacy would not have greatly impeded a village woman’s normal daily activities, it would certainly affect her understanding of the more complex issues raised in newspapers and magazines. The women of the village, for example, in Ella Embree’s judgement had a ‘rather inconclusive understanding of the emperor cult being so assiduously promoted by the central government’. This applied even to one particular woman who was singled out as literate and ‘much given to relaxing with a magazine in the afternoons’.56 Rural women probably had little interest in national or international events in any case, and sophisticated arguments about the causes or progress of the SinoJapanese dispute would have had negligible impact on them or their menfolk. It is very unlikely that many villagers took particular notice of the news from Tokyo or Manchuria, unless it affected their relatives or neighbours at the front, and, as we have seen, the scale of the fighting was not great enough to ensure that they did know a soldier serving in Manchuria or Shanghai. Most villages sent very few soldiers to the front during the Manchurian crisis, and events in such distant places were remote from the day-to-day concerns of village life. In the Embrees’ village in 1935–36, few women read newspapers, though they took some interest in magazines, and were always interested in the films that occasionally came their way. In terms of personal experience, some women had barely travelled out of the village since their marriages, and most had little idea where Manchuria might be, with several suggesting that it was ‘probably as distant as America’. Ella Embree commented: ‘They knew little of the national scene and even less about their country’s involvement in international affairs. Their interest in both was

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largely limited to concern for their conscripted sons.’ China, Korea and Manchuria were discussed when young men came back to the village from the army, though it is doubtful whether even the soldiers were much interested in or knowledgeable about the broader implications of their military service.57 The Embrees’ village was remote and hence possibly unrepresentative in some respects. It is clear, however, that farm women everywhere lacked the surplus time and energy necessary for reading. One woman, from the outskirts of Kurume in Kyu¯shu¯, reminisced decades later: If I had read newspapers or anything [at the time], I’d probably now remember a bit more about the past, but in any case, if I had the time to read a newspaper my mother-in-law would usually get angry and tell me to do some work, so I couldn’t read much. I suppose I probably heard about things like the Manchurian Incident from granddad [her husband] and the others. Another, from To¯yama in western Japan, commented: We had no newspapers and no books, magazines or radio, and of course I had never once seen a film. The reason was that I simply stuck to the rice paddies and the fields. I honestly knew nothing at all about the Manchurian Incident or the three bomb heroes.58 Nearby towns and cities constituted a potential alternative source of information for those with limited literacy and limited knowledge of the outside world. By the early 1930s, many women born in rural areas had experienced life outside their own relatively small communities, by leaving to work in the textile mills or in some other occupation in a town or city. In 1930, for example, 80 per cent of the cotton textile labour-force was made up of women, the great majority from rural areas.59 Unfortunately, however, evidence about how their experiences in urban areas may have affected their views of the outside world is scarce. In the case of the textile mills, it seems unlikely that women workers had much opportunity to learn of politics or current events: work was arduous, the workers’ freedom of movement outside the mill and dormitory area was often very restricted, and, in the larger mills at least, outsiders could not easily reach them.60 Apart from personal contacts, it was probably the catchphrases and slogans about Manchuria repeated most often in newspapers, magazines and film which had greatest impact in the villages as elsewhere. At the most basic level, reports of the Manchurian situation could be reduced to notions of crisis and sacrifice, of Manchuria as Japan’s ‘life-line’ and as Japan’s rightful sphere of activity. Even if the more complex justifications of Japan’s actions were ignored or not understood, the import of these ideas was unmistakeable. Nonetheless, it is clear that the Manchurian crisis did not form a dominant part of rural women’s consciousness. Other issues were far more pressing in the early 1930s, and like men, women were primarily concerned with surviving the economic crisis. The depression, in its turn, had a particular impact on women. Female factory

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workers, to begin with, were greatly affected by the economic downturn. With the drastic fall in prices for silk, the silk industry came to a virtual halt at the end of 1929; 80 per cent of factories ceased to pay wages to their predominantly female workforces. During 1930, an additional 46,000 women employed in cotton-spinning lost their jobs permanently or were temporarily discharged. Many of these women had to seek alternative work as prostitutes, waitresses or in other low-status occupations. In To¯hoku, where economic deprivation was severe, the selling of daughters became a media issue from October 1931 onwards. According to figures from the Social Bureau of the Home Ministry, 2,420 girls were sold from Aomori Prefecture as prostitutes, geisha, maids or waitresses during 1931.61 In the first four months alone of 1932, according to another report, 819 women had left to take up the same sorts of jobs, in addition to 694 other women who left for different reasons.62 In Yamagata Prefecture, the pre-payment to the girl’s relatives in such cases ranged from 450 yen to 1,800 yen, and the usual length of contract was six years. In Fukushima Prefecture, on the other hand, girls could be sold for as little as 50 or 60 yen. Even so, it was reported that only about a third of the promised money reached the girls’ relatives. Many of the young women thus sold had lost earlier jobs in the textile industry. Others were only of primary-school age.63 In 1932 a new magazine began publication, with the announced aim of educating and enlightening rural women. Tellingly, No¯son fujin (Village Woman), founded in a year of rural crisis by the Fumin kyo¯kai, an organisation associated with the O¯saka mainichi newspaper and lacking any obvious official connection, displayed little interest in Manchuria or in any events that were not tied to the immediate wellbeing of the village. The magazine’s staple was a broad rhetoric about the superiority of rural life, couched in the familiar terms of no¯honshugi (agrarianism), a sharp consciousness of the distinction between conditions in urban and in rural areas, and a belief in the purity and power of women, especially rural women. In terms of specific issues, the most pressing concern was the steady departure of young rural women to seek employment in the cities. Frequent warnings were sounded of the dangers awaiting such women and the misleading nature of reports drifting back from the cities of abundant opportunities and an easy life. Events in Manchuria were of little relevance in the face of such immediate anxieties. Nor did rural women rush to join patriotic associations. For several years, the new Women’s Association for National Defence remained predominantly urban and best represented in its original Osaka base. In country areas in 1932 and 1933, it was not this organisation which saw rapid increases in membership, but rather the various women’s groups which sprang up in association with the rural co-operative movement, a movement with the potential directly to address the problems of the economic crisis, like farm household debt. When the Women’s Association for National Defence was eventually established in country areas, it often grew up through existing women’s organisations rather than separately, and was usually established at the instigation of regimental commanders rather than spontaneously, with membership of one woman per household virtually

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compulsory. In many cases there was little or no difference between country women’s activities as members of the Women’s Association for National Defence and their previous activities as members of other groups or simply as part of the local community. In fact, it was not uncommon for country women merely to place a second sign reading ‘Kokubo¯ fujinkai’ (Women’s Association for National Defence) outside the office of an existing women’s organisation. In some cases there was open resentment at the constant demands on women’s time and money from the different organisations.64 John Embree remarked of the village he studied that, though all the village women nominally belonged to their branch of the women’s patriotic association, ‘They never meet on their own initiative, but only when told to do so by the school or the village office’.65 The Embrees describe one formal meeting of the women’s association, which was attended by only about thirty women, from a total of 1,663 people or 285 households. The meeting was called by men and addressed exclusively by men; indeed, the association itself was headed by a man, the school principal. The women who did attend the meeting appeared to show no interest at all in the manifestos read to them on rational home and economic management, frugality and patriotism. There was no discussion of the resolutions ‘passed’ at the meeting, which were read to the women and then distributed afterwards in written form: according to Embree, the usual procedure at such meetings was that ‘After a lecture . . . [one of the male schoolteachers] says “we resolve” and lo, the whole program is resolved without a murmur’. The women in the audience on this particular occasion had to have the characters for ‘economic revitalisation’ (keizai ko¯sei) explained to them, as well as the general concept. Many could not read the resolutions distributed later. On the other hand, the village women participated eagerly in the preparation of relief packages for the soldiers overseas, which were collected from each hamlet and sent from the village office. They even included pictures of beautiful women, and perfumed soap to make the soldiers attractive to women while they were away at the front.66 Smethurst concurs with John Embree’s judgement that the Women’s Association for National Defence ‘made informal village women’s organizations into official branches of a national association’ – in other words, that village women were already doing the things the new association asked of them, as part of their normal activities.67 From this he concludes that the army had successfully indoctrinated rural women, in contrast to urban women who were less easily mobilised because they were less subject to social pressure. Long-standing loyalty to the army may indeed have played a part in increasing rural membership of the Women’s Association for National Defence from 1935 onwards, when particular efforts were made to recruit in country areas. Smethurst’s argument, however, though properly acknowledging the way in which the army succeeded in appropriating and putting its own stamp on conventional social activities, leaves no room for the city women who joined the association in its earlier years more or less spontaneously, and not necessarily with any regard for the army’s version of the significance of their activities. At the same time, it

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ignores the first years of the association’s existence, when rural women were preoccupied with economic survival and had little reason to pay attention to the army’s agenda.

Conclusion The Manchurian Incident was irrelevant to many women, but critical for a few. Undoubtedly, it struck at the roots of the progressive women’s groups, much as it affected men involved in the social democratic and radical movements and moderate and liberal male intellectuals. Ichikawa Fusae, for example, wrote that the Manchurian Incident came as a great shock to her.68 Individual women who wrestled with ideology often became confused over the Manchurian Incident: they, too, were subject to society’s expectations of women as patriotic and selfsacrificing. In the majority of cases, state-produced ideology ultimately took precedence over pacifist, internationalist, or anti-capitalist ideology, and many prominent figures as well as more ordinary women were drawn into the government’s work in various ways. Progressive women’s groups passed up an opportunity to encourage women to be sceptical about the military action in Manchuria at a time when the nature of the public response was by no means a forgone conclusion. Part of the reason was their seeming inability to form a united front despite their common interests; part of it, too, was the attraction many of their members felt to the decisive action Japan had taken at a time of economic and social disaster. In any case, they were tiny organisations which had always had very limited connection with the daily lives of ordinary women. In practice, the majority of women were likely either to be indifferent to the Manchurian crisis or to accept some version of the government line, because few of them were exposed to any other version of events. Within this context, those war-related activities which drew the most spontaneous response from women were immediate and personal, appealed to deep-seated notions of service, sacrifice and family, and provided opportunities for activity and companionship outside the home. It was because the Women’s Association for National Defence encapsulated all these qualities, and appealed to a broad spectrum of the population in class terms, that it far outstripped the membership of the other women’s organisations. By the time the Manchurian crisis had passed, the army had managed to appropriate and modify this version of women’s ideal role in society in times of national crisis and imperialist aggression. In doing so it was using the notions of service and nurturing embodied in the association to promote national integration and acceptance of an expansionist ideology. Thus did the home become the home front, in a manner reminiscent of Claudia Koonz’s comment on the role of women in Nazi Germany: ‘Nazi women mended while Nazi men marched’.69 As in Germany, the linking of the ‘personal’ concerns of women with ‘national’ goals in Japan in the 1930s produced a chilling degree of commitment to the state, or acceptance of its actions, or failure to oppose them. In rhetoric directed at women, notions of service and sacrifice were certainly the most prominent elements. The fact that motherhood, sacrifice and service

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loom so large in discourse aimed at women in the early 1930s indicates that if there were to be efforts to harness the potential of women, as was frequently claimed, they would be based more on women’s supposed consciousness of themselves as nurturers than on any sense of themselves as independent individuals. It is surely no accident that the most successful of the patriotic women’s organisations, the Women’s Association for National Defence, was based on an explicitly domestic ideal. Nevertheless, notions of women’s ideal role during a national crisis were employed very vaguely. Women as a group, unlike other social groups, were not presented with a vision of Manchuria as a solution to their problems: rather, they were offered an amorphous vision of themselves as saviours of the nation and guardians of its spirit. The efforts of women were always said to be essential to the success of ‘Manchukuo’, but there was rarely any concrete explanation of what women should do. Farmers could be encouraged to emigrate, both to solve their own problems and to serve the nation, but women, especially urban women, were for the most part only showered with exhortations to frugality, patriotism and self-sacrifice. On the whole, women were to be the guardians of the home front rather than active participants in expansion abroad; they were to nurture rather than to do. In fact, most women could ill afford to pay much attention to events in Manchuria during the worst years of the depression, and once conditions began to ease, at least in urban areas, mainstream women’s magazines lost interest in north-east China in any case. During 1934 both Fujin ko¯ron and Fujo shinbun reported on the establishment of an imperial system in Manchukuo, and other minor articles about Manchuria appeared occasionally. For the most part, however, the magazines returned to their usual concerns, with Fujo shinbun, for example, concentrating as before on education and the women’s movement, assertions of the essential equality of men and women, articles about marriage and so on. The notion of ‘crisis’ remained, but as in other publications, the crisis of the moment related not to Manchuria but to the impending end in 1936 of the naval treaties to which Japan was a signatory.70

Notes 1 Japan Times, The Japanese Empire (Year Book of Japan), 1932, Tokyo, 1931, p. 31; Japan Year Book 1933, p. 901. 2 Sheldon Garon, ‘Fashioning a Culture of Diligence and Thrift: Savings and Frugality Campaigns in Japan, 1900–1931’, in Sharon A. Minichiello (ed.), Japan’s Competing Modernities: Issues in Culture and Democracy 1900–1930, Honolulu, University of Hawai’i Press, 1998, pp. 325–6, 330. 3 Nagahara Kazuko and Yoneda Sayoko, Onna no Sho¯washi (zo¯ho¯ban), Tokyo, Yu¯hikaku, 1996, pp. 36–7. 4 Shida Aiko and Yuda Yoriko, ‘Shufu no tomo’, in Watashitachi no rekishi o tsuzuru kai (ed.), Fujin zasshi kara mita 1930nendai, Tokyo, Do¯jidaisha, 1987 (hereafter Fujin zasshi), p. 48. On women’s magazines see also Barbara Hamill Sato, ‘An Alternate Informant: Middle-Class Women and Mass Magazines in 1920s Japan’, in Tipton and Clark (eds), Being Modern in Japan, pp. 137–53. 5 See Sandra Wilson, ‘Rationalising Imperialism: Women’s Magazines in the Early

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25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

Interest groups and local perspectives

1930s’, in Vera Mackie (ed.), Feminism and the State in Modern Japan, Melbourne, Japanese Studies Centre, 1995, pp. 49–58; Wilson, ‘Women, the State and the Media’. Shida and Yuda, ‘Shufu no tomo’, pp. 93–4. Ibid., pp. 131–5. Wilson, ‘Women, the State and the Media’, pp. 93–100. Hara Terue, ‘Fujin ko¯ron’, in Fujin zasshi, pp. 15–46; Shida and Yuda, ‘Shufu no tomo’; Uemura Akiko and Shimizu Fumie, ‘Fujin kurabu’, in Fujin zasshi, pp. 124– 226. Uemura and Shimizu, ‘Fujin kurabu’, pp. 149–50. ‘Manshu¯koku sho¯nin mondai’, FS, No. 1,671, 19 June 1932, p. 1. ‘NichiMan ryo¯goku wa fu¯fu’, FS, No. 1,684, 18 September 1932, p. 1. Ibid. For example, ‘Manshu¯koku sho¯nin mondai’, FS, No. 1,671, 19 June 1932, p. 1; ‘Tsukitarazu no eiji Manshu¯koku’, FS, No. 1,675, 17 July 1932, p. 5. ‘Fujin shisetsu o haken seyo’, FS, No. 1,656, 6 March 1932, p. 1. ‘Manshu¯koku to josei’, FS, No. 1,658, 20 March 1932, p. 13; also ‘Manshu¯ shintenchi de wa no¯son fujin o motomu’, No¯son fujin, Vol. 1, No. 3, May 1932, pp. 22–3. ‘Manshu¯koku to josei’, FS, No. 1,658, 20 March 1932, p. 13. ‘Fujinkai jokyo¯kai’, FS, No. 1,749, 17 December 1933, p. 23. Jinno Morimasa, Manshu¯ ni okurareta onnatachi – tairiku no hanayome, Tokyo, Nashi no kisha, 1992, pp. 13, 232–3. Uemura and Shimizu, ‘Fujin kurabu’, p. 160. See also Sato, ‘An Alternate Informant’, pp. 144–6. Shida and Yuda, ‘Shufu no tomo’, p. 54; Uemura and Shimizu, ‘Fujin kurabu’, p. 140. FS, No. 1,647, 1 January 1932, p. 1 of Girls’ Section; No. 1,649, 17 January 1932, p. 1 of Girls’ Section; No. 1,656, 6 March 1932, p. 1 of Girls’ Section; No. 1,657, 13 March 1932, p. 1 of Girls’ Section; No. 1,658, 20 March 1932, p. 1 of Girls’ Section; No. 1,654, 28 February 1932, p. 4 of Girls’ Section. Ikei, ‘1930nendai’, pp. 164–5. These stories appear in a variety of publications. For a collection of standard stories translated into English, see Kenzo Kai, Sakura no Kaori: The Fragrance of Cherry Blossoms, Tokyo, Foreign Affairs Association of Japan, 1933. See also Nagahara and Yoneda, Onna no Sho¯washi, pp. 36–7. High, Teikoku no ginmaku, p. 30. Yamada Seiichi, ‘Mazu onna kara’, No¯son fujin, Vol. 1, No. 5, July 1932, pp. 10–11. Garon, ‘Women’s Groups and the Japanese State’, p. 8. Large, Organized Workers, p. 118. On socialist women, see also Vera Mackie, Creating Socialist Women in Japan: Gender, Labour and Activism, 1900–1937, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1997. Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 120–1; Ishizuki Shizue, ‘Zen-Kansai fujin rengo¯kai no seiritsu to tenkai’, Historia, No. 70, 1976, pp. 38–54. Quoted in Ishizuki, ‘1930nendai no musan fujin undo¯’, p. 212. Fujin sansei do¯meikai ho¯, October 1932, quoted ibid. FS, No. 1,645, 20 December 1931, p. 2. FS, No. 1,646, 27 December 1931, p. 2; No. 1,658, 20 March 1932, p. 2; No. 1,659, 27 March 1932, p. 2; No. 1,662, 17 April 1932, p. 2; No. 1,664, 1 May 1932, p. 2; No. 1,666, 15 May 1932, p. 2. Ishizuki, ‘Musan fujin undo¯’, pp. 209, 212. For declarations on the Manchurian Incident by the Proletarian Women’s League, see Suzuki Yu¯ko, Kindai joseishi kenkyu¯kai, ‘Manshu¯ jihen to musan fujin undo¯ – Musan fujin do¯mei, Shakai minshu¯ fujin do¯mei o chu¯shin ni’, Ju¯goshi no¯to, No. 3, 1983, pp. 58–62.

Women and Manchuria

215

34 Nagahara and Yoneda, Onna no Sho¯washi, pp. 33–4; Ishizuki, ‘1930nendai no musan fujin undo¯’, pp. 210–12. 35 FS, No. 1,644, 13 December 1931, p. 2; No. 1,646, 27 December 1931, p. 2. 36 Comments on the Women’s Suffrage League and Ichikawa Fusae are based on Ichikawa Fusae, Ichikawa Fusae jiden: senzenhen, Tokyo, Shinjuku shobo¯, 1974, pp. 268–333; Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 125–38. 37 See Vera Mackie, ‘Motherhood and Pacifism in Japan 1900–1937’, Hecate, Vol. 14, No. 2, 1988, p. 42. 38 FS, No. 1,744, 12 November 1933, p. 2. See also No. 1,750, 24 December 1933, p. 1. 39 See Sandra Wilson, ‘Mobilizing Women in Inter-War Japan: The National Defence Women’s Association and the Manchurian Crisis’, Gender and History, Vol. 7, No. 2, August 1995, pp. 295–314. 40 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, p. 91. 41 The phrase is used by Claudia Koonz, Mothers in the Fatherland: Women, the Family, and Nazi Politics, New York, St Martin’s Press, 1987, p. 419. 42 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 50–4; Kano Mikiyo, Onnatachi no ‘ju¯go’, Chikuma shobo¯, 1987, pp. 55, 80; Wilson, ‘Mobilizing Women’, pp. 303, 305. 43 Ute Frevert, Women in German History: From Bourgeois Emancipation to Sexual Liberation, trans. Stuart McKinnon-Evans, Oxford, Berg, 1989, p. 242. The population of Japan proper was 69.25 million in 1935, while that of Germany including Waldeck and the Saarland was just over 66 million in 1933. It should be noted that millions of German women belonged to the women’s division of the Nazi Labour Front, and that millions also attended home-making courses run by the Frauenwerk. See Jill Stephenson, The Nazi Organisation of Women, London, Croom Helm, 1981, esp. pp. 148–55, 165; Frevert, Women in German History, pp. 233–4; Koonz, Mothers in the Fatherland, p. 183. 44 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 70–8. 45 Quoted in Jane Mitchell, ‘Women, the State, and National Mobilization in Prewar Japan’, unpublished Honours thesis, University of Adelaide, 1986, p. 22. 46 Kano, Onnatachi no ‘ju¯go’, p. 80; Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 79–84. 47 FS, 2 October 1932, p. 2; 27 November 1932, p. 2. 48 See Stephenson, Nazi Organisation of Women, pp. 17–18; Koonz, Mothers in the Fatherland, pp. 187–8, 392. 49 Kano, Onnatachi no ‘ju¯go’, p. 80. 50 Ibid., pp. 61, 80, 83. 51 Nolte, ‘Women’s Rights and Society’s Needs’, p. 712. 52 Kano, Onnatachi no ‘ju¯go’, p. 71. 53 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, p. 88. 54 Ichikawa, Jiden, quoted in Kano, Onnatachi no ‘ju¯go’, p. 71. 55 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 134–42. See also Wilson, ‘Mobilizing Women’, pp. 308–9. 56 Smith and Wiswell, Women of Suye Mura, pp. 10–12. 57 Ibid., xviii, pp. 1, 15, 20. 58 Tsurumaru, ‘Sono koro’, pp. 41–2. 59 Saxonhouse, ‘Country Girls’, p. 100. 60 Helen Mears, Year of the Wild Boar: An American Woman in Japan, Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott Company, 1942, pp. 272–90. 61 Nagahara and Yoneda, Onna no Sho¯washi, pp. 12, 16–17. 62 ‘Fujin no tame no nyu¯su’, No¯son fujin, Vol. 1, No. 9, November 1932, p. 25. 63 Nagahara and Yoneda, Onna no Sho¯washi, pp. 17–18. 64 Fujii, Kokubo¯ fujinkai, pp. 63, 128–9; Nagahara and Yoneda, Onna no Sho¯washi, pp. 44– 5; Embree, Suye Mura, p. 167. 65 Embree, Suye Mura, p. 168. Underlining the point that village associations overlapped, it is unclear from Embree’s account whether he is referring to the Patriotic Women’s Association (Aikoku fujinkai) or the Women’s Association for National Defence (Kokubo¯ fujinkai), though the activities he describes suggest the latter.

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66 Smith and Wiswell, Women of Suye Mura, xxv, pp. 24–6, 30–1; Embree, Suye Mura, pp. 167–8, 171. 67 Smethurst, Social Basis, p. 80. 68 Quoted in Kano Masanao, ‘Fusen kakutoku do¯mei no seiritsu to tenkai: “Manshu¯ jihen” boppatsu made’, Rekishi hyo¯ron, No. 319, 1974, p. 85. 69 Koonz, Mothers in the Fatherland, xxxiii. 70 See, for example, Saito¯ Atsumori, ‘Hijo¯ji no igi to sokoku Nihon no kikensen – kiki wa 1935nen ka 1936nen ka’, Fujin ko¯ron, January 1934, pp. 319–23; Mizuno Hironori, ‘Nichiro, Nichibei senso¯ wa hatashite okoru ka’, FS, No. 1,755, January 1934, p. 7.

Conclusion

At first sight, the picture of responses from within Japan to the Manchurian crisis is a confusing and contradictory one, and any attempt retrospectively to place the early 1930s in their wider context is fraught with difficulty. Reactions in Japan to the invasion of Manchuria at the time ranged from total indifference to wild enthusiasm. As for the retrospective view, this book argues that the Manchurian crisis clearly constitutes a discrete episode. Yet it was implicated in complex ways in the great themes of the 1930s and beyond, especially the ongoing history of both nationalism and militarism in Japan. If confusion results, it stems, in my view, on the one hand from a mistaken impulse to view state and society in Japan in the 1930s as some kind of monolithic whole, and on the other from a desire to link the political, social and military events of the decade into an overly-smooth ‘fifteen-year war’ stretching from 1931 to 1945. In reality, the diverse reactions to the invasion of Manchuria reflect the plurality of Japanese society in the early 1930s. At the same time, the complex significance of the Manchurian crisis in retrospect reflects the fact that Japanese militarism and nationalism evolved not in a relatively simple linear progression, but rather through a series of fitful and unstable processes. Reactions in Japan to the invasion of Manchuria were certainly more varied than has commonly been recognised. Effective opposition did not emerge, and was perhaps unlikely to do so, given that the left was weak and demoralised, and intellectual leaders often had strong links to the government or at least accepted government objectives. Furthermore, while the public image of the army was not uniformly positive, the army was much more popular than was civilian government, about which negative images were widespread. By the same token, however, it is clear that ‘war fever’ does not encompass the range of reactions to the Manchurian crisis in Japanese society. No matter how strident the mass media’s reporting of the crisis became, ambivalence about and even indifference to the Manchurian venture is evident at every level of society and politics, even within elite circles where commitment to the project could be most expected. Mobilisation of society behind the army in the cause of overseas conquest was very incomplete at this point, to say the least; some military leaders had even doubted at first that ordinary Japanese would support their aims at all. In the event, many people certainly were enthusiastic about the Japanese conquest of

218 Conclusion Manchuria. A few opposed it outright. Many others were initially enthusiastic and later indifferent. A large number were preoccupied with other concerns, notably the economic depression from which all were suffering, especially in the countryside. Though Manchukuo was dramatically added to Japan’s informal empire in 1931–32, the territory did not become a dominant part of Japanese consciousness, except perhaps in Kwantung Army circles, where it had after all been central since the end of the Russo-Japanese War in 1905.

Responses to the crisis The Manchurian crisis of 1931–33 did not constitute a turning-point for all or most Japanese, though it did for certain groups. For the ruling elites, it did not necessarily produce a commitment to the army or to military points of view. Different parts of the establishment continued to be chiefly concerned with their own areas of responsibility, and in most cases these did not include north-east China. The Manchurian issue in a sense was simply not big enough to require a positive response from diplomats, bureaucrats, party politicians and most other elites. For diplomats, the overriding concern was their relationship with the Western powers, and in the mainstream view in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the crisis over Manchuria had not produced an irrevocable split with those powers, no matter how much damage it might have done to Sino-Japanese relations. Diplomats continued, therefore, to pursue co-operative diplomacy as before, albeit outside the League of Nations. At home, the Manchurian crisis did not require the kind of comprehensive domestic mobilisation that would necessarily have drawn in the Home Ministry or persuaded party politicians that ‘national unity’ cabinets should remain. Party politics did not in fact resume until after defeat in 1945, but in the mid-1930s, politicians and others clearly expected that they would, for ‘national unity’ cabinets were supposed to be a temporary expedient, and in Japan, party politics were now considered normal. The elites, in short, expected business as usual to resume. For the groups dedicated to progressive political ideals which had emerged from ‘Taisho¯ democracy’, by contrast, the Manchurian crisis must be interpreted as a defining moment. Undoubtedly, events in Manchuria, Shanghai and Geneva were more cataclysmic for public figures than for ordinary Japanese. Many conservatives welcomed the army’s actions as a matter of course. For progressive intellectuals and political activists, on the other hand, the crisis over Manchuria prompted a break from previous patterns of thought and behaviour, precipitating painful dilemmas for a number of groups and individuals. The ‘conversions’ of members of the Japan Communist Party from mid-1933 onwards provide only the most dramatic case in point. The changes of mind occurring everywhere in moderate and progressive circles starkly revealed a substantial extent of common ground that was widely shared among public figures, even by erstwhile opponents. Conservatives, liberals, even socialists, including many who had previously styled themselves as internationalists in the labour movement, in progressive publications and in

Conclusion 219 international associations, all showed themselves to be committed at a profound level to the ‘national interest’. Speeches by Japanese members of the Institute of Pacific Relations, articles in progressive magazines and writings by reformist bureaucrats illustrate the ease with which advocacy of co-operative diplomacy could slide into public support of Japan’s right to exploit Manchuria. With the exception of the Communists, progressive and moderate groups for the most part did not suddenly contradict their own previous positions in any explicit way. A willingness to co-operate with the state, or not openly to go against it, had often been implied in their earlier behaviour. Events of the period 1931–33, however, forced them to define their position much more clearly than before. In this sense the Manchurian crisis is a crucial landmark, for it provided the first clear indication of the limits of the challenge to the establishment posed by the dissenting social and political groups that had been so prominent in the 1920s, and suggests the power of the idea of nation even for such activist groups. The Manchurian crisis did not, however, turn most ordinary people into fervent nationalists, as has often been claimed. For the majority, life returned to normal in 1933 at the latest, though rural suffering certainly continued. Many soldiers had already come home by early 1933. The ‘crisis’ was all but over, and the nation was not ‘at war’ again until 1937. Improvement in the overall economic situation was undoubtedly one crucial factor allowing the extreme anxiety that had pervaded Japanese society to dissipate. The economic crisis continued for many individual Japanese, regardless of favourable statistics, but in fact the economy was acknowledged to be showing signs of recovery by the end of 1932. The case of Germany, by contrast, suggests that without economic recovery, the consciousness of crisis would have continued: in Germany, there was a swing to both the Communists and the Nazis in 1932 because of the despair produced by extreme unemployment and economic hardship in that year, while on the other hand both Britain and Japan were beginning to experience some level of recovery from the depression.1 Though there was little improvement in rural areas in 1933 or 1934, the period 1932–36 saw a ‘spectacular transformation’2 of Japanese industry as exports increased dramatically thanks to the depreciated yen, and domestic demand was stimulated by capital investment, military spending and the government’s rural relief programme. By 1936, unemployment had fallen from a 1932 peak of 6.88 per cent to 4.35 per cent; the price of rice had risen from 16.52 yen per koku in 1931 to 27.7 yen; cocoon prices had risen from 283.9 yen per 100 kan to 466.4 yen; exports were nearly 2.4 times higher than in 1931 and imports 2.2 times higher. The labour movement by 1936 had moved away from defensive protest against the dismissal of workers towards demands for wage rises.3 For no group in Japanese society or within the establishment, with the exception of some Kwantung Army plotters, did the year 1931 constitute the beginning of a ‘fifteen-year war’. For the Foreign Ministry, for Japanese intellectuals and political activists, for ordinary Japanese and even for the army at home, the Manchurian crisis had an end just as it had had a beginning. Only for the Kwantung Army and presumably the people of North China did war continue. It

220 Conclusion was the period 1937–45, not 1931–33, that ‘turned war and peace into the dominant cultural motifs of modern Japanese society’.4 Even after full-scale war with China began in 1937, as a matter of fact, life for many Japanese continued much as normal, the government’s exhortations to spiritual readiness for war notwithstanding. Only in 1939–40 did the realities of the conflict with China begin to impinge on daily life in tangible ways that could not be ignored, as wages and prices were frozen; rice became scarce, cotton goods, matches and sugar were rationed; rural areas began to suffer from labour shortages thanks both to military service and the increasing demands of heavy industry; and in the cities new administrative arrangements were put in place through neighbourhood associations and other organisations.5 Such changes had not occurred in the much smaller-scale fighting of the early 1930s. While the Japanese conquest of Manchukuo is certainly linked to later full-scale war through the series of military attempts to increase Japan’s control in North China from mid-1935 onwards, for Japan itself, in contrast, war stopped in 1933. Contemporary observers noted a slackening of the consciousness of a crisis at various times from mid-1933 onwards, or even earlier in some cases. Back in May 1932, one writer in Fujo shinbun had already sounded the end of the international dimension: problems associated with Manchuria, Shanghai and Geneva had reached a hiatus, and the public interest had apparently turned to domestic matters once again, according to this writer.6 For US Ambassador Joseph Grew, in retrospect the period between February 1933 and February 1936 constituted ‘Three Years of Calm before the Storm’.7 A British member of parliament visiting Japan judged in November 1935 that parliamentary control was reasserting itself: ‘militarism’ was waning , the Okada Keisuke Cabinet was resolved to bring ‘the more turbulent elements in the army’ to a ‘proper discipline’, and the army itself had ‘undergone a conversion towards moderation’.8 Public discussion of the issues surrounding the Kwantung Army’s action had begun to die away early in 1933. When the Japanese delegation walked out of the League on 24 February, few were surprised. Newspapers and journals returned to their usual concerns. The idea of crisis itself was less easily relinquished, undoubtedly because it suited the authorities, and in particular the military, to maintain such a useful rhetorical framework. More crises were accordingly manufactured. In the mid1930s, the most prominent of them focused attention on the notion that in 1936, Japan would apparently fall into some kind of dangerous strategic limbo on abrogation of both the Washington Treaty and the London Naval Treaty. The forthcoming ‘crisis of 1935–36’ was discussed everywhere from late 1933 onwards, though the army abandoned the topic quite quickly. In January 1935, the Seiyu¯kai politician and Deputy Speaker of the Lower House, Uehara Etsujiro¯, declared that though the term ‘hijo¯ji’ (crisis) was still in use, the nature of this crisis had changed in the past two years. Previously, Japan had been faced externally with the Manchurian question and the possibility of withdrawal from the League, and internally with economic difficulties. However, Manchurian issues had reached a hiatus and the question of Japan’s relationship with the League

Conclusion 221 had been peaceably settled. ‘Hijo¯ji’, Uehara pointed out, now referred to the 1935–36 crisis.9 Uehara was one of those who were critical of the constant talk of the forthcoming crisis, branding it as an unwarranted exaggeration of Japan’s situation, but others took it more seriously. A writer in a women’s magazine warned in dire tones early in 1934 that only the blind could argue that resolution of the Manchurian Incident and withdrawal from the League had brought the end of Japan’s crisis, for the nation was still surrounded by dangers, which if ignored might have disastrous consequences. Again, the crisis now faced by all Japanese was the one approaching in 1935–36.10 For Ie no hikari, too, the ‘crisis’ still existed, but ‘hijo¯ji’ now meant the forthcoming naval crisis. Would Japan win if it fought Russia or America, the magazine calmly wondered?11 When full-scale war with China eventually did begin, Ie no hikari reverted to a familiar role, publishing ‘ballads from the North China warfront’, declaring that ‘we are the light of Asia’ and strenuously advocating ‘national unity’.12 An examination of the ways in which events in Manchuria, Shanghai and Geneva were constructed and apprehended at the time they were taking place thus reveals that they should not, in the social and political sense, be regarded as the start of a chain of events leading directly to Pearl Harbor and Japan’s final defeat in war. Rather, they constituted a more or less self-contained episode that ended in 1933, either with Japan’s withdrawal from the League of Nations or with the Truce of Tangku a few months later. In analytical terms as well, the early 1930s remain qualititively different from the period after 1937, when Japan was engaged in outright war. Critical features associated with the post-1937 years are missing in the early 1930s. New social, political and ideological structures considered integral to the war-time regime are not evident during the Manchurian crisis. Even in 1942, censorship did not eliminate published dissent; in 1932 it was much less comprehensive. Official propaganda was widely disseminated during the Manchurian crisis, and the army was willing enough to take advantage of civilian initiatives, as can be seen in the case of the rapid military co-optation of the Women’s Association for National Defence, which had begun on a very small scale as the initiative of a few women in Osaka. Good use was also made of an existing army campaign, the Kokubo¯ shiso¯ fukyu¯ undo¯, or campaign to spread the ideology of national defence, which had been underway since 1930. Beyond such opportunistic action, however, neither government nor army initiated any new structure or campaign in order systematically to mobilise support for the war effort in Manchuria. It required outright war with China to produce something on the scale of the National Spiritual Mobilisation Movement of 1937–40. In the early 1930s, by contrast, the major campaign for national integration and mobilisation was the economic revitalisation movement, which aimed not at inculcating support for overseas aggression but rather at overcoming the disastrous effects of the depression at home. In the early 1930s, furthermore, there was little attempt outside the Kwantung Army to persuade influential elements in China of the justice of Japan’s cause. Though diplomats and intellectuals spent vast amounts of time and energy on efforts to persuade the Western powers that Japan had the right to exploit Manchuria, it was not until

222 Conclusion some years later that civilian minds turned to the task of convincing the Chinese themselves, through the rhetorical apparatus of ‘Greater East Asia’, that Japan’s actions were righteous and benevolent.

The Manchurian crisis in historical perspective The fact that reactions to the Manchurian crisis within Japan were ambivalent and contradictory does not mean that the early 1930s were irrelevant to the building of Japanese nationalism, to the spread of military values throughout society, or indeed to the chain of events leading to full-scale war. It is essential to recognise, in fact, that the early 1930s were a crucial period in the relations between state and society. Everyday normalcy, though important to acknowledge, cannot explain what happened in the 1930s as a whole; without an understanding of the nexus between high politics and everyday reality, the singularity of the decade cannot be fathomed. The events of the years 1931–33 did not lead inexorably to Japan’s involvement in the Second World War, and Japanese society was not irrevocably captured by ‘war fever’ between 1931 and 1933. Nevertheless those years mattered greatly in the overall scheme of things. In social terms, the Manchurian crisis neither produced nor revealed Ienaga Saburo¯’s ‘nationalistic people full of naive ardour for the war effort’.13 Mindless popular nationalism cannot be blamed for Japan’s war against Asian and Western enemies, and historians must continue to look very carefully at specific events, decisions and ideas in seeking to explain why Japan went to war in 1937 and 1941. On the other hand, the Manchurian crisis had the effect of greatly reducing the range of debate and opinion occurring within the public sphere in Japan – not primarily through the efforts of the censors, but rather because of the critical changes that occurred in the thought and behaviour of groups and individuals who might have offered alternative viewpoints. Specifically, the Manchurian crisis was a major factor in the collapse of the Communists as an organised force in Japan, and thus in removing the most consistently dissenting voice from the public arena or, at least, from those parts of the public arena accessible to such a tiny, illegal and harassed group. On a broader scale, the events of the early 1930s also forced more moderate and much more visible groups and individuals to clarify their relationship with the state. The willingness of labour, feminist and other groups to co-operate with the state’s projects in the early 1930s did not necessarily mean they would always support military solutions to Japan’s problems. Doubtless, however, those who sought to fashion a more integrated society were heartened by the ‘more definitely national’ outlook of such groups, to use Delmer Brown’s phrase.14 In addition, the pro-state positions adopted by moderate intellectuals and various interest groups between 1931 and 1933 made it extremely difficult for them to separate themselves from state priorities from then on, and it became correspondingly less likely that they would retain independent voices in any later tests of their loyalties. Thus, their reaction in the early 1930s paved the way for the state’s acquisition of much greater power over the population later in the decade by significantly narrowing the range of opinion

Conclusion 223 publicly available to other Japanese, and by providing the precedent for wideranging endorsement or at least tolerance of official priorities in later years. The Manchurian crisis also shows clearly that the mainstream press and a number of important organisations were prepared specifically to support military action as an instrument of foreign policy in the early 1930s, and that at the least, few groups or individuals were willing publicly to criticise the army. Japan had not had the experience of armed conflict which produced widespread revulsion against war in Europe after 1914–18, and the history of the wars Japan had fought had by now been fashioned into a triumphal narrative of power and success. Further, the army itself enjoyed a comparatively secure status by virtue of its constitutional privilege of direct access to the emperor and other factors and, as we have noted, seldom came under sustained or effective criticism from the left or from moderate intellectuals. At the same time, it had had its ups and downs in the recent past and continued to have them throughout the 1930s, with notable public criticism of the military re-emerging by the end of 1933 and again in 1936. Viewed from this perspective, the Manchurian Incident clearly does not mark the military’s definitive rise to power in domestic politics, as has often been claimed. As before, the army and navy continued to operate politically as two among several institutions competing for power and resources. Certainly, in the year of the Manchurian Incident itself, army leaders had no reason to be complacent, given the economic depression and the criticism of military expenditure that had surfaced throughout the 1920s. But the Manchurian crisis was good for the military. The success of the Kwantung Army’s action in particular strengthened it both materially and in terms of its public image. Undeniably, the crisis of 1931–33 was an important landmark for the army, providing it with an opportunity to show what it could do and, once Japan had recognised the creation of ‘Manchukuo’, arming it with a powerful new argument for an increase in funding, given Japan’s commitment to protect and develop its weaker ‘ally’. Though political battles over budgets continued, the stark fact is that in 1937, the military succeeded in claiming 70 per cent of national expenditure, compared to less than 30 per cent in 1931.15 The longer-term significance of the Manchurian Incident extends beyond military considerations into the very processes by which Japanese people in the 1930s constructed a sense of themselves as a nation and as a society. The events of 1931–33 undoubtedly contributed to Japanese militarism, if ‘militarism’ refers to the ongoing project of creating a society in which military values are dominant, and which exhibits a readiness to resort to military solutions to foreign and domestic problems. In fact the Manchurian crisis boosted militarism in several ways. First, it provided a context in which military ideals were glorified in a variety of media, after a period in which, as noted earlier, the military had not enjoyed unequivocal public support. Second, the crisis over Manchuria furnished a series of public opportunities for the celebration of ‘nation’ in a practical way – opportunities ranging from village-level gatherings to pack ‘comfort kits’ for soldiers at the front, to large urban rallies in support of army action in north-east China or calling for Japan’s withdrawal from the League of

224 Conclusion Nations. Third, as we have seen, the effect of the Manchurian crisis was ultimately to narrow the range of alternative viewpoints that were commonly heard in Japanese society. The production of militarism, presumably, is never complete, since other social and political ideals compete with military-based values in all or most societies. In this sense the Manchurian crisis starkly highlighted military values by downgrading any others that might have competed with them. Historians have long recognised that the Manchurian Incident also strengthened Japanese nationalism. Scholarly perceptions of nationalism in this period have typically been narrow ones, however, and this study suggests that prevailing notions are too simplistic. Even within officialdom, let alone outside it, an important diversity of opinion existed in the early 1930s in relation to the Manchurian project. At the same time, the different arms of the establishment and the factions within them certainly shared substantial common ground – most basically and most significantly, a common commitment to ‘the nation’. In a testament to the success of the project from Meiji onwards to develop a widespread ‘sense of nation’, by the early 1930s, all the elites, as well as many outside their ranks, wanted to claim the terrain of ‘national unity’ and ‘national interest’. By this time, the rhetorical concept of the nation was well established, and political leaders, bureaucrats and military figures were long accustomed to make appeals to it. Policies were frequently justified in the name of the nation, in an attempt to claim the moral high ground and place the projects of particular groups beyond criticism. Yet the terrain of the nation was evidently a shifting one. The army justified its subjugation of Manchuria as an act essential for the whole Japanese nation, because of the importance of Manchuria for Japanese survival and prosperity. Civilian bureaucrats on the other hand often asserted that it was economic revitalisation that would solve the nation’s ills and party politicians justified their own particular policies as best serving the nation. By now there was no necessary agreement about who represented the nation, or about how the nation could best be served in any given situation, especially in a crisis. Thus the army competed with bureaucrats and with the majority party in the Diet to speak for the people and to propose solutions for ‘national’ crises. The concept of a ‘national essence’ – the distillation of Japaneseness – was quite generally accepted, but there was no consistent view as to what actually constituted that essence. Was it the spirit of the army as exhibited in glorious deeds on the battlefield? Was it village autonomy and the spirit of self-help as displayed through the economic revitalisation movement? Or was it revolutionary action to establish a new and purer government to replace the apparent corruption and decadence of the existing one? The events of the early 1930s undoubtedly stimulated the ‘desire to preserve or enhance [Japan’s] national or cultural identity’ at a time when that identity was considered to be threatened by both external and internal forces.16 Like militarism, however, nationalism is never completely achieved. As we have seen, ordinary Japanese cannot be considered as unequivocally nationalistic in the aftermath of the Manchurian crisis. The nation had receded markedly in their consciousness by the second half of 1933, let alone 1935 or 1936. More signifi-

Conclusion 225 cantly, however, an analysis of the Manchurian crisis shows that there were in fact competing nationalisms in Japan in the early 1930s, with some emphasising domestic renovation and Japan-centred solutions to the crisis of the early 1930s, and as such remaining cool to the more aggressive and outward-looking expressions of nationalism identified with the Kwantung Army. During the Manchurian crisis, many officials as well as civilian ideologues proved themselves to be patriotic and nationalistic without any necessary commitment to overseas expansion or to the army’s solutions to Japan’s difficulties. Not even the right-wing revolutionaries, on the whole, were especially keen to support the Manchurian venture. The early 1930s were characterised by great fluidity, with rival visions of nation contending in the public domain. While an emphasis on nationalism, its power and its consequences in the 1930s and beyond is entirely justified, we need a more complex understanding of the various elements that jostled for prominence whenever words like nation, national unity and national interest were brandished. Nationalism in this period was clearly not the preserve of the military. Nor, at this stage, did it necessarily imply acceptance of the army’s agenda. More broadly still, the Manchurian crisis was critical in the shifting process of defining Japanese identity. Thus the events of 1931–33 and the actual acquisition of Manchuria as Japanese-controlled territory added to the stock of nationalist rhetoric, as previous episodes had also done, most recently the controversy in 1930 over the London Naval Treaty. The military invasion of Manchuria, for example, together with the beginnings of the movement to send rural emigrants to the region, reinforced constructions of Japan as small and crowded but nevertheless vigorous and economically and culturally advanced. The dispute with the League of Nations further defined Japan as alone, embattled and righteous. Encounters with the various inhabitants of Manchuria, principally the Chinese, provided Japan with new material to reinforce existing images of the alien ‘other’. Though the issue was complicated by the idea of common Confucian heritage, Japanese ideologues were able to present their nation’s soldiers and settlers at the very least as ‘elder brothers’ who would guide and lead the inhabitants of Manchuria to civilisation and prosperity. Less gentle portrayals included presentations of Japan as a nation of brave and disciplined fighters in comparison to the cowardly, disorganised Chinese. In such ways the Manchurian crisis both reinforced and extended some exclusivist types of Japanese nationalism, ultimately helping to define Japan for and to its people. In fact, orthodox propaganda about the Manchurian crisis reinvigorated and extended an older and dangerously simplistic narrative about Japan’s place in the world: the perceived history of Japan as victim. Standard interpretations of the events of 1931–33 emphasised China’s scorn for Japan and its unreasonable anti-Japanese behaviour, as well as unfavourable and unfair Western reactions to the Kwantung Army’s actions and Western ignorance of the ‘true situation’ in Asia. Such interpretations linked backwards in time to the Triple Intervention of 1895, when diplomatic pressure by three European countries had forced Japan to give up territory it had won by ‘legitimate’ means in the 1894–95 war with China; the failure to achieve a racial equality clause at

226 Conclusion Versailles in 1919; and the passage of the US Immigration Act of 1924, which made further Japanese emigration to the United States virtually impossible. At the same time, the narrative of Japan-as-victim skipped over the more positive and inclusive self-image that had been cultivated during 1920s ‘co-operative diplomacy’. Ironically, while the substance of ‘co-operative diplomacy’ by and large continued for some time after 1933, despite Japan’s departure from the League of Nations, the rhetoric of isolation reached new levels. Events of mid-decade added their contribution. In 1934 the Okada Cabinet formally decided that in two years Japan would abrogate the international naval treaties to which it was signatory. Though many perceptive observers, including the politician Uehara mentioned earlier, criticised the fuss over the supposed ‘crisis of 1935–36’ as a transparent means by which the military sought merely to increase its share of the national budget, the fact remains that it would have been unthinkable in Japan in the 1920s for a government to opt out of such international agreements completely, though haggling over their provisions would have been quite possible. International tensions surrounding the creation of Manchukuo had no doubt played their part in persuading Japanese leaders to refashion their strategic plans. In the meantime, public discussion of the potential consequences of abrogating the naval treaties only reinforced the image and the vocabulary of an isolated Japan. On the trade front, moreover, Japanese exports soared in the mid-1930s, but so also did Western accusations of unfair competition through the payment of low wages. Once again, the impression was reinforced that Japan would always be maligned no matter how justified its actions or how merited its success. Japanese society and politics, then, were significantly changed by the Manchurian crisis of 1931–33. Yet the nation had by no means embarked irreversibly on any road to further war. Many other events and decisions would be required before Japan was committed to that path. In terms of the experience of most Japanese, life had returned to normal by mid-1933 at latest. The state itself was not functioning as a monolithic whole, and had not capitulated to the military. Still less had it fashioned the various interests and groups in Japanese society into any coherent whole by the end of the Manchurian crisis. Politics and society were still marked by pluralism, despite the disasters of the early 1930s. No uniform sense of nation or culture permeated Japanese society as it moved forward to meet the new conditions of the middle of the decade and beyond, and outside the army, there was no sense of engagement in a continuous war. Pluralism survived to such an extent, in fact, that in 1937 the government still perceived a need for ideological standardisation to reshape society so as to support war with China. ‘National unity’, ‘loyalty and patriotism’ and ‘untiring perseverance’ were apparently still lacking among the population, prompting the launch of three years of ‘national spiritual mobilisation’.17 Until the creation in October 1940 of the Imperial Rule Assistance Association with the aim of instituting a new ruling structure, even the establishment itself was considered too unruly and too ‘political’ for the demands of a nation which was by now unequivocally at war.

Conclusion 227

Notes 1 On Germany see Detlev J. K. Peukert, The Weimar Republic: The Crisis of Classical Modernity, trans. Richard Deveson, London, Penguin, 1991, p. 257. On Britain see Andrew Thorpe, Britain in the 1930s: The Deceptive Decade, Oxford, Blackwell, 1992, p. 28. 2 Nakamura, History of Sho¯wa Japan, p. 106. 3 Banno, Nihon seijishi, p. 219. 4 Thomas R. H. Havens, Valley of Darkness: The Japanese People and World War Two, New York, W. W. Norton and Co., 1978, p. 11. 5 Ibid., pp. 33–52. 6 ‘Fasshizumi do¯ko¯: wagakuni no fassho undo¯ no genjo¯’, FS, 22 May 1932, p. 4. 7 Grew, Ten Years, pp. 73–165. 8 Ernest H. Pickering, Japan’s Place in the Modern World, London, George G. Harrap, 1936, pp. 223–4. 9 Quoted in Banno, Kindai Nihon no kokka ko¯zo¯, pp. 220–1; see also p. 226. 10 Saito¯ Atsuhiro, ‘Hijo¯ji no igi to sokoku Nihon no kiken sen – kiki wa 1935nen ka 1936nen ka’, Fujin ko¯ron, January 1934, pp. 319–23. 11 ‘Hijo¯ji gunkoku no heiei ho¯monki’, IH, January 1934, pp. 104–10. 12 For example, ‘Warera wa Ajia no hikari nari’, IH, March 1938, pp. 23–30; ‘Hokushi sensen no uta’, ibid., pp. 34–5; ‘Kyokoku itchi e no chikamichi’, ibid., p. 31. 13 Ienaga, Pacific War, p. 124. 14 Brown, Nationalism in Japan, p. 191. 15 Havens, Valley of Darkness, p. 3. 16 John Plamenatz, ‘Two Types of Nationalism’, in Eugene Kamenka (ed.), Nationalism: The Nature and Evolution of an Idea, Canberra, Australian National University Press, 1975, pp. 23–4. 17 Havens, Valley of Darkness, pp. 11–13.

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Index

Abe Isoo 164 Adachi Kenzo¯ 23 aeroplanes, built from public donations 133, 160, 188; see also fund-raising agrarianism (no¯honshugi ) 135, 140, 210 Agricultural Co-operative Association 147 agriculture, Japan 125–7 Agriculture and Forestries Ministry 91 Aikawa Gisuke 188 Aikoku fujinkai see Patriotic Women’s Association Aikyo¯kai 118 Akaike Atsushi 57–8 Akamatsu Katsumaro 106, 163, 164, 203 Arahata Kanson 107 Araki Sadao, General 65–6, 67, 79, 93, 98–9, 129, 186 army see Japanese army Asahi (newspaper): and anti-Japanese movement in China 175–6; collection of relief packages 133; fund-raising campaigns 159, 160; reporting of Manchurian crisis 44, 45–6, 47 Asakura Tsuneto 188 Ashida Hitoshi 88 Aso¯ Hisashi 162, 163, 164, 165 Association for the Propagation of National Defence Philosophy (Kokubo¯ shiso¯ fukyu¯ kyo¯kai) 160 Association of Japanese Spinners in China 176 Awaya Kentaro¯ 8, 130, 131, 183 bandits, suppression of in Manchuria 61–2 Banno Junji 85, 98 ‘beautiful stories’ (bidan) 47, 90, 142, 151, 196 Bix, Herbert P. 80–1

Boulding, Kenneth E. 188 Broadcasting Council 39 Brown, Delmer 222 business: fund-raising 159–60; importance of 157–8; in Manchuria 185–9; reaction to Manchurian crisis 181–3, 187–9; small and medium enterprises 170–3; see also chambers of commerce and industry Cabinet Information Committee (Naikaku jo¯ho¯ iinkai) 52, 53 censorship: in Japan 30–6; of the Manchurian crisis 36–8, 40–1; of radio and film 38–40 Central Ho¯tokukai 90, 140 Chamberlain, Neville 97 Chamberlin, William 150 chambers of commerce and industry 172; attempts to influence Western opinion 179–81; reaction to Manchurian crisis 175–9 Chang Hsueh-liang 17, 24, 83, 86 Chang Tso-lin 17, 18, 24, 45, 86 Changchun 18 Chian keisatsuho¯ see Public Peace Police Law Chiang Kai-shek: fights against Japan 26; Northern Expedition (1928) 16; reaction to Manchurian Incident 24 Chiisagata-gun, Nagano Prefecture: petition movement 137–8; reaction to Manchurian crisis 135–6; see also seinendan China: boycotts of Japanese goods 173–5, 177, 179; nationalist movement 63; reaction to Manchurian Incident 24; relations with Japan 18–19, 98; seen as unstable by Japan 61

246

Index

China Incident (1937) 2, 31 Chinchow: bombing of (October 1931) 1, 83; death of Japanese journalists at 45 Chinese Eastern Railway 97 Chu¯o¯ ko¯ron (Central Review) 31, 32, 33, 34, 46, 58, 69 chu¯sho¯ ko¯gyo¯ (small and medium industry) 170–3; see also chambers of commerce and industry Communists: censorship in Japan 31–2; reaction to Manchurian crisis 105–7, 218–19; trial of in Tokyo 105, 106 Connors, Lesley 79–80 countryside: army and 6, 127–32; conditions in 125–7, 129–30; newspaper circulation 139–40; propaganda directed at 139–46, 198; reaction to Manchurian crisis 132–9; ‘war fever’ and 151; women 208–12 crisis of 1935–36 67, 99, 213, 220–1, 226 Crowley, James B. 2 Dai Nihon fujinkai see Greater Japan Women’s Association Dai Nihon rengo¯ fujinkai see Greater Japan Federation of Women’s Organisations Dan Takuma 118 Dentsu¯ (news agency) 53 diplomats see Foreign Ministry Doihara Kenji, Colonel 20 ‘dollar-buying incident’ (1930) 129 Do¯mei tsu¯shinsha 53 donations see fund-raising Dore, Ronald 130, 150 East Asia Research Centre 46, 47 Eastern Conference (To¯ho¯ kaigi) 16 education: propaganda and 53–5 Eguchi Keiichi 8, 183 Election Purification Movement 93, 100 Embree, Ella 150, 208–9, 211 Embree, John 53–4, 139, 140, 150, 208–9, 211 fascism, in Japan 8, 89–90, 99 February 26 Incident (1936) 4, 93, 99, 150 Federation of Tokyo Business Associations (To¯kyo¯ jitsugyo¯ kumiai rengo¯) 171 Federation of Women’s Associations of Western Japan (Zen-Kensai fujin rengo¯kai) 202

Fifteenth May Incident see May 15 Incident (1932) films: censorship of in Japan 39–40; depiction of Manchurian crisis 50–2; popularity of in Japan 38 Fletcher, Miles 7, 180 Foreign Ministry 4, 19, 32, 78, 93–6, 96–8, 218, 219, 221–2 Fujii Hitoshi 118–19, 130 Fujii Tadatoshi 132, 160, 161 Fujin ko¯ron (Women’s Review) 199, 213 Fujin kurabu (Women’s Club) 198, 199, 200 Fujiwara Ginjiro¯ 188 Fujo shinbun (Women’s and Girls’ Newspaper) 110–11, 113, 119, 198–9, 199–200, 213, 220 Fukuoka nichinichi (newspaper), reporting of Manchurian crisis 45, 46 Fukushima Shiro¯ 111, 119 Fumin kyo¯kai 210 Funatsu Shin’ichiro¯ 174 fund-raising, to support Japanese soldiers 133–4, 159–61, 171, 175, 201, 202; see also aeroplanes fuseji (in censorship) 32, 33, 35, 135 Fusen kakutoku do¯mei see Women’s Suffrage League Garon, Sheldon 7, 90, 162, 196 General Alliance of Japanese Labour Unions (Nihon ro¯do¯ kumiai so¯rengo¯) 165–6 Gleason, Alan H. 188 Gluck, Carol 63, 68 Go¯ Seinosuke 172, 186, 188 Gondo¯ Seikyo¯ 118 Greater Japan Federation of Women’s Organisations (Dai Nihon rengo¯ fujinkai) 201, 203 Greater Japan Women’s Association (Dai Nihon fujinkai) 208 Grew, Joseph 98, 186, 220 Hadley, Eleanor 188 Hamada Kunimatsu 99 Hando¯ Kazutoshi 46 Harada Kumao 62 Hashimoto Kingoro¯, Lieutenant-Colonel 84, 117 Hata Ikuhiko 78 Hatanaka Shigeo 33, 34 Hataraku fujin (Working Woman) 203 Havens, Thomas 130–1

Index Hayashi Kyu¯jiro¯ 78 Hayashi Senjuro¯, General 67 Heads of Towns and Villages Association 137 Heilungkiang province 15 hijoji (crisis) 62–7, 220–1 Hijo¯ji Nippon (film) 53, 65 Hirota Ko¯ki 97 Ho¯chi shinbun (newspaper), reporting of Manchurian crisis 44, 45 Home Ministry, reaction to Manchurian crisis 90–3, 218; see also Shimin, censorship Honjo¯ Shigeru 83, 176 Hoover, Herbert 61 Hosono Shigekatsu 20 Ichikawa Fusae 64, 202, 204, 207, 212 Ichiki Kitokuro¯ 65 Ie no hikari (Light of the Home): on emigration to Manchuria 146, 147–8, 152; endorsement of military service 141–2; and hijo¯ji 221; and ‘Japanese spirit’ 142–3; on League of Nations 144–5; low opinion of Chinese soldiers 143; reporting of Manchurian crisis 143–4, 145, 146, 149, 151, 198; support for agricultural co-operatives 140–1 Ienaga Saburo¯ 2, 6, 30, 222 Ikei Masaru 46 Imperial Agricultural Association (Teikoku no¯kai) 126 Imperial Rescript on Education 54 Imperial Rule Assistance Association (Taisei yokusankai) 165, 226 Important Industries Control Law ( Ju¯yo sangyo¯ to¯sei ho¯) 171 Inabata Katsutaro¯ 172, 179, 191 Industrial Patriotic Society (Sangyo¯ ho¯kukukai) 165 Information Committee (Jo¯ho¯ iinkai) 53 Inomata Tsunao 31–2 Inoue Junnosuke 23, 63, 86, 111, 118 Inoue Nissho¯ 117, 118 Institute of Pacific Relations (IPR) 111–14, 119, 162, 166 International Labour Organisation (ILO) 164–5 Inukai Tsuyoshi 23, 63, 79, 89, 118 Iriye, Akira 82 Isaka Takashi 186 Ishibashi Tanzan 59, 69, 108, 178 Ishii Itaro¯ 78, 178, 182

247

Ishii Kikujiro¯ 58 Ishiwara Kanji, Lieutenant-Colonel 18, 19, 82, 85, 184 Itagaki Seishiro¯, Lieutenant-Colonel 18 Ito¯ Kameo 144–5 ‘Iwasaki clique’ 129 Iwauchi Tomie 204 Izumida (village), percentage of population in army 136 Japan: agriculture 125–7; censorship 30–41; Chinese boycotts of goods 173–5, 177, 179; fascism 8, 89–90, 99; foreign relations after ceasefire (May 1933) 96–9; interests in Manchuria 15–18; militarism 4–5, 6, 220, 223–4; nationalism 4–5, 224–6; propaganda 30, 55–6; relations with China 18–19, 98; relationship between state and people 7–8; rice production 126, 127; rural conditions 125–7; silk production 125–6; unemployment 158, 219 Japan Broadcasting Commission (NHK) 50 Japan–China Business Association (Nikka jitsugyo¯ kyo¯kai) 187 Japan–China Economic Association 176 Japan Communist Party: ‘recantations’ 106–7, 218–19; trial of members 106 Japan Economic Federation (Nihon keizai renmeikai) 172, 187 Japan Federation of Labour (Nihon ro¯do¯ so¯do¯mei) 165 Japan Industrial Club (Nihon ko¯gyo¯ kurabu) 172, 187 Japan Industrial Labour Club (Nihon sangyo¯ ro¯do¯ kurabu) 167 Japan Labour–Farmer Party (Nihon ro¯no¯to¯) 107, 203 Japan Labour Union Alliance (Nihon ro¯do¯ kumiai do¯mei) 166 Japan Proletarian Culture League (Nihon puroretaria bunka renmei) 203 Japan Spinners’ Association 174, 176 Japan State Socialist Party (Nihon kokka shakaito¯) 163 Japan Times 179 Japanese army: after Manchurian crisis 96–7, 220; attempted coups 84, 117; and emperor 81–2; and Manchuria 56–7, 82–4, 224; and propaganda 53; and public 98–9, 223, 224; relationship with countryside 6, 127–32; see also

248

Index

Araki Sadao; Kwantung Army; militarism; nationalism Japanese navy: attitude to Manchurian Incident 88; propaganda story; see also crisis of 1935–36; Fujii Hitoshi; London Naval Treaty; militarism Jehol province, Kwantung Army advances into (1932) 26 Jiji shinpo¯ (newspaper), reporting of Manchurian crisis 44, 45, 47, 66 Jikyoku do¯shikai (committee for propaganda) 52–3 jiriki (self-help) 91, 141 jizen keikoku (pre-publication warnings) 33–4 Jo¯ho¯ iinkai see Information Committee junshi (loyal suicide) 52 Ju¯yo sangyo¯ to¯sei ho¯ see Important Industries Control Law kabuki: and ‘three human bombs’ 49 Kaizo¯ (Reconstruction) 32, 69 Kakegawa Tomiko 30 kakushin kanryo¯ (reform bureaucrats) 93 Kamei Kan’ichiro¯ 113 Kanagawa Prefecture, fund-raising activities 134 Kanaya Hanzo¯ 19, 22, 82, 84 Kasza, Gregory J. 32, 35, 39 Katayama Sen 31 keizai ko¯sei undo¯ (economic revitalisation movement) 91–2, 138, 211 Kellogg–Briand Pact (Pact of Paris, Anti-War Pact) (1928) 60, 108, 109, 112, 202 ken’eki (rights and interests), as slogan during Manchurian crisis 57–9 Ketsumeidan (Blood Pledge Corps) 38; assassinations (1932) 117, 118, 119 Kiguchi Ko¯hei 54 Kingu (King) 140 Kirin province 15, 82 Kita Ikki 116, 118 Kiyosawa Kiyoshi 108 ko¯do¯ (Imperial Way) 89, 93 Ko¯fu City: dispatch of relief parcels from 132; fund-raising activities 134 Koiso Kuniaki, Lieutenant-General 185–6 Kokkashakai-shugi fujin do¯mei see National Socialist Women’s League Kokubo¯ fujinkai see Women’s Association for National Defence

Kokubo¯ shiso¯ fukyu¯ kyo¯kai see Association for the Propagation of National Defence Philosophy Kokubo¯ shiso¯ fukyu¯ undo¯ 6, 221 Kokuhonsha (National Foundation Society) 116 Kokumin shinbun (People’s Newspaper) 20; reporting of Manchurian crisis 44 Kokuryu¯kai (Amur River Society, or Black Dragon Society) 116 Kokusai chishiki (International Understanding) 46; reporting of Manchurian crisis 47 Konoe Fumimaro 113 Koonz, Claudia 212 Koppu see Japan Proletarian Culture League Kuhara Fusanosuke 87 Kuomintang (Nationalist Party) 173 Kurimoto Yu¯nosuke 178 Kwantung Army 6, 15, 18: advances into Jehol province (1932) 26; after Manchurian crisis 96, 219, 223; bombing of Chinchow 1, 83; cabinet and 78–9; creation of Manchukuo and 85–6; emperor and 80–1; Manchuria and 82–5; propaganda in Manchukuo 95; suppression of bandits 62; see also Ishiwara Kanji; Japanese army; Manchurian Incident Kyo¯fu¯kai see Women’s Christian Temperance Union of Japan Lamont, Thomas W. 95 Lansing, Robert 59 Large, Stephen 80, 165 League of Nations: and imperial court 81; investigates Sino-Japanese dispute 1, 24–6, 85, 95; and Japanese moderates 91, 110, 111, 112, 113–14, 119, 198; Japanese withdrawal from (1933) 4, 26, 82, 96, 144–5, 220, 221, 225, 226; and Foreign Ministry 96, 97, 218; see also Lytton Report Liaoning province 15, 82 Lindley, Sir Francis 61, 84, 95 London Naval Treaty (1930) 45, 67, 79, 81, 115, 117, 118, 220, 225 Lytton Report 19, 25–6, 47, 63, 81, 180, 187 Ma Chan-shan, General 24 MacArthur, General Douglas 30 McCormack, Gavan 58

Index Machida Shiro¯ 46–7 Mainichi (newspaper group) 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 51, 56, 65, 160, 210 Mainichi Daily News 51 Maki, John M. 2 Makino Nobuaki, Count 80, 85 Mamore Manmo¯ (film) 51, 53 Manchuria: big business and 185–9; emigration to 146–9, 200; Japanese businesses in 172; Japanese interests in 15–18, 181, 183–5; Japanese ‘rights’ to 57–9; Japanese ‘sacrifices’ in 59–60; Sino-Japanese tensions in (1931) 18–20; small business opportunities in 184; suppression of bandits 61–2; zaibatsu and 183–5; see also Kwantung Army; Manchurian Incident Manchurian Incident (18 September 1931) 1; army reaction to 82–6; bureaucrats’ reaction to 89–93; business reaction to 181–3, 187–9; Cabinet reaction to 78–9; ceasefire (May 1933) 96; censorship and 30–2, 36–8; chambers of commerce reaction to 175–9; Communist Party reaction to 105–7; Court reaction to 79–80; diplomats’ explanation of 93–6; effects on Japan 3–9, 222–7; emperor’s reaction to 80–2; historical perspectives 222–7; intellectual reaction to 108–9; international reaction to 23–6, 95; Japanese justification of 60; left-wing reaction to 107; liberal reaction to 108; militarism and 4–5, 6, 223–4; moderate reaction to 109–14; nationalism and 4–5, 224–6; navy reaction to 88; number of Japanese deaths in 151; origins of 1, 18; political party reaction to 86–9; reaction to in Japan 20–3, 31–2, 218–22; reporting of in Japan 44–70; right-wing reaction to 114–19; rural reaction to 132–9, 208–12; significance of 2–3, 222–7; trade unions’ reaction to 165–8; women’s reaction to 196–213; workers’ political parties’ reaction to 162–5 Manchurian Youth League 17 Manchukuo: creation of 85–6; declares independence (1 March 1932) 1; economic policies 185; Japanese propaganda in 95; Lytton Report on 26; recognition of 46–7

249

Manmo¯ sho¯shihon kaihatsu annai (A Guide to the Development of Manchuria and Mongolia by Small Capital) 184 March Incident (1931) 117, 163 Maruyama Masao 67, 89, 90 Matsuoka Yo¯suke 26, 56, 96, 98, 180 Matsutani Yo¯jiro¯ 164 May 15 Incident (1932) 118, 119, 130 Meiji Insurance 160 Meiji period, censorship system 32 militarism: in Japan 4–5, 6, 223–4 Minami Jiro¯, General 19, 22, 82, 84, 86, 188 Ministry of Overseas Affairs 148 Minobe Tatsukichi 89 Minseito¯ Party: criticisms of army 99; reaction to Manchurian crisis 78–9, 86, 88, 89; see also Wakatsuki Reijiro¯ minzoku kyo¯wa (racial harmony) 95 Mitani Eiko 205 Mitchell, Richard 32 Mitsubishi 159, 160, 187 Mitsui 159, 160, 170, 187–8 Mori Kaku 79, 86, 87 Morishima Morito 78 Motoyama Hikoichi 46 Mukden Japanese Chamber of Commerce 181 Murakami Hyo¯e 57 Musan fujin do¯mei see Proletarian Women’s League Nabeyama Sadachika 106, 107 Nagano Prefecture, opposition to war in Manchuria 136–7 Nagata Tetsuzan, Colonel 56, 82 Naikaku jo¯ho¯ iinkai see Cabinet Information Committee Nakamura Shintaro¯, Captain, murder of ( June 1931) 19 Nakano Tsutomu 48 Nasu Hiroshi 147 National Federation of Industrial Organisations (Zenkoku sangyo¯ dantai rengo¯kai) 172 National Labour–Farmer Masses Party (Zenkoku ro¯no¯ taishu¯to¯) 158, 162, 164, 165 National Socialist Women’s League (Kokkashakai-shugi fujin do¯mei) 203 National Spiritual Mobilisation Movement 93, 100, 221 nationalism: in Japan 4–5, 224–6 navy see Japanese navy

250

Index

Newspaper Law (Shinbunho¯, 1909) 33, 35, 36 newspapers: circulation in the countryside 139–40; fund-raising campaigns 159, 160; reporting of Manchurian crisis 44–9, 110–11 Nihon keizai renmeikai see Japan Economic Federation Nihon ko¯gyo¯ kurabu see Japan Industrial Club Nihon kokka shakaito¯ see Japan State Socialist Party Nihon puroretaria bunka renmei see Japan Proletarian Culture League Nihon ro¯do¯ kumiai do¯mei see Japan Labour Union Alliance Nihon ro¯do¯ kumiai so¯rengo¯ see General Alliance of Japanese Labour Unions Nihon ro¯do¯ kurabu 165 Nihon ro¯do¯ so¯do¯mei see Japan Federation of Labour Nihon ro¯no¯to¯ see Japan Labour–Farmer Party Nihon sangyo¯ ro¯do¯ kurabu see Japan Industrial Labour Club Nikka jitsugyo¯ kyo¯kai see Japan–China Business Association Nikkatsu ( Japan Motion Picture Company) 51 Nine-Power Pact (1922) 59, 79, 108 Nineteenth Route Army 24 Ninomiya Harushige, Lieutenant-General 20, 83 Nippon shinbun nenkan ( Japan Newspaper Annual) 45 Nish, Ian 2 Nishio Suehiro 113 Nishiyama Ko¯ichi 134 Nissan 188 Nitobe Inazo¯ 111, 112, 113, 114, 119 Nogi Maresuke, General 54, 201 Nolte, Sharon 207 No¯son fujin (Village Woman) 210 October Incident (1931) 79, 82, 84–5, 86, 98, 117 o¯do¯ (the kingly way) 69, 95 Ogata, Sadako 2, 112 Ogawa Heikichi 116, 119 ¯ ji Paper Company 188 O Okamoto Sho¯jiro¯ 159 ¯ kawa Shu¯mei 117 O O¯saka asahi (newspaper): fund-raising

campaign 160; reporting of Manchurian crisis 45, 46 Osaka Chamber of Commerce and Industry 175, 176, 177, 178, 179–80, 190, 191 Osaka Commercial Shipping 160 O¯saka mainichi (newspaper): circulation 47; films 51; Fumin kyo¯kai and 210; fundraising campaign 160; reporting of Manchurian crisis 45, 46 Osaka Trade Association 176 ¯ yama Ikuo 164 O Ozaki Hotsumi 98 Patriotic Women’s Association (Aikoku fujinkai) 134, 197, 201, 205, 206, 207, 208 Pearl Harbor 2 petition movement 137–8 Police Bureau 32, 33, 34, 35, 39 Press Regulations (1887) 32 Proletarian Artists’ Union 107 Proletarian Women’s League (Musan fujin do¯mei) 107, 203, 204 Proletarian Writers’ Union 107 propaganda: directed at women 200–1; during Manchurian crisis 49–50; in Japan 30, 55–6; in schools 53–5; by the state 52–3 Pu Yi 116 Public Peace Police Law (Chian keisatsuho¯) 39 Publications Law (Shuppanho¯, 1893) 33, 36, 39 Publications Regulations (1887) 32 radio: censorship of in Japan 39; ownership in the countryside 139; popularity of in Japan 38; reporting of Manchurian crisis 49–50 Ramsdell, Daniel R. 20 ‘recantations’ (tenko¯) 106–7 ‘Red Teachers’ Incident’ (February 1933) 137 relief parcels (imon bukuro) 132, 133 Rengo¯ (news agency) 53 rice production, Japan 126, 127 Roberts, John G. 170 Ro¯do¯ (Labour), reporting of Manchurian crisis 166, 167–8 Ro¯do¯ fujin (Labour Women) 202 Ro¯yama Masamichi 63–4 Russo–Japanese War (1904–05) 15, 54, 57, 59, 62, 66, 218

Index Saionji Kinmochi, Prince 47, 77, 79, 80, 84, 85 Saito¯ Makoto 5, 89, 141 Saito¯ Takao 31, 99 Sakai Toshihiko 107 Sakamoto Masako 188, 189 Sakurakai (Cherry Blossom Society) 84, 117 Sangyo¯ ho¯kukukai see Industrial Patriotic Society sangyo¯ kyo¯ryoku (industrial co-operation) campaign 163 Sano Manabu 106, 107 Satsuma Rebellion (1877) 54 schools, propaganda in 53–5 Seigi wa tsuyoshi (film) 51 seimeisen (life-line), as slogan during Manchurian crisis 56–7 seinen kunrenjo (military training schools) 131 seinendan (young men’s associations) 135–9, 150–1 Seiyu¯kai Party: criticisms of army 99; reaction to Manchurian crisis 79, 86–9 Seki Hiroharu 79 Sekki (Communist newspaper), reaction to Manchurian crisis 105–6 Shakai minshu¯to¯ see Social Democratic Party Shakai minshu¯ fujin do¯mei see Social Democratic Women’s League Shakai taishu¯to¯ see Social Masses Party Shanghai: Shanghai Incident ( January 1932) 1, 23, 25, 65; Japanese emperor and 81; Japanese trade through 177–8; ‘three human bombs’ story 48–9 Shanghai Japanese Chamber of Commerce 182 Shantung province, Japanese incursions into (1927 and 1928) 16 Shi no senbutsu Inoue chu¯i fujin (film) 52 Shibusawa Eiichi 111 Shidehara Kiju¯ro¯ 17, 20, 78, 79, 84, 85, 86 Shillony, Ben-Ami 35 Shimada Toshihiko 84–5 Shimin (The People) 90; circulation in the countryside 140; on emigration to Manchuria 148; reaction to Manchurian crisis 90–1, 92–3, 99–100, 145–6 shin kanryo¯ (new bureaucrats) 92–3 Shinbunho¯ see Newspaper Law Shiratori Toshio 92

251

Sho¯wa Steel Works’ machine tool factory 172 Shufu no tomo (Housewife’s Friend) 140, 198, 200 Shuppanho¯ see Publications Law Siberian Expedition 66 silk production, Japan 125–6 Sino-Japanese War (1894–95) 54, 57, 66 small and medium industry see chu¯sho ko¯gyo¯ Smethurst, Richard 6, 8, 128, 137, 150, 211 Smith, Kerry 92, 131 Smith, Sara R. 2 Social Democratic Party (Shakai minshu¯to¯) 162, 163, 164 Social Democratic Women’s League (Shakai minshu¯ fujin do¯mei) 202–3, 204 Social Masses Party (Shakai taishu¯to¯) 143, 158, 164, 165, 167 So¯do¯mei see Japan Federation of Labour South Manchurian Railway: explosion on (18 September 1931) 1, 15; importance of 57 South Manchurian Railway Company 56, 177–8; doubts about viability of 189; establishment of 15; influence of 15– 16; machine tool factory 172 soya beans, export from Manchuria 16 Spaulding, Robert J. 90 Special Higher Police (tokko¯) 33 Stimson, Henry L. 84, 85 suffrage movements 202, 203, 204 Sugiyama Gen, General 20 Sumitomo 160 Sunada Shigemasa 66–7 Suzuki Bunji 164–5 Suzuki Teiichi, Major 18, 53, 56, 82, 117 Tachi Sakutaro¯ 109 Tachibana Ko¯saburo¯ 118 Taisei yokusankai see Imperial Rule Assistance Association ‘Taisho¯ democracy’ 5, 128, 201, 218 Takabatake Motoyuki 106 Takagi Yasaka 111, 113 Takahashi Kamekichi 64, 79, 106 Takahashi Korekiyo 186 Takayanagi Kenzo¯ 111 Takemoto, Toru 78 Tanaka Giichi 16, 17, 87 Tangku, Truce of (May 1933) 1, 98, 221 Teikoku daigaku shinbun (Tokyo Imperial University Newspaper) 69

252

Index

Teikoku no¯kai see Imperial Agricultural Association Telegraph and Telephone Bureau 39 Terauchi Hisaichi 99 Third All-Japan Women’s Suffrage Conference (1932) 203, 204 ‘three human bombs’ story 48–9, 52, 142 Thursday Club 56 Tiedemann, A. E. 129 To¯hoku: conflict between landlords and tenants 127; support for soldiers in Manchuria 132, 133 To¯jo¯ Hideki, Colonel 56, 82 Tokutomi Soho¯ 198 To¯kyo¯ asahi (newspaper), reporting of Manchurian crisis 46 Tokyo Chamber of Commerce 175, 177, 191 To¯kyo¯ jitsugyo¯ kumiai rengo¯ see Federation of Tokyo Business Associations To¯kyo¯ nichinichi (newspaper): fund-raising and 159; reporting of Manchurian crisis 45, 46 Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal 65 Tolischus, Otto 2 To¯yo¯ keizai shinpo¯ (Oriental Economist) 59, 108 To¯yo¯ Muslin factories 161, 171 trade unions: industrial co-operation campaign 163; membership 158–9; reaction to Manchurian crisis 165–8 Tsinan Incident (1928) 66, 182 Tsitsihar 83, 84 Tsurumi Yu¯suke 59, 111, 112, 113, 119 ‘Twenty-One Demands’ (1915) 173 Twenty-sixth February Incident (1936) see February 26 Incident (1936) Uchida Yasuya 97 Uchiyama Kiyoshi 94 Ueda Teijiro¯ 109 Uehara Etsujiro¯ 220 Ugaki Kazushige, General 83–4, 117 unemployment, Japan 158, 219 Wakasugi Kaname 93–4 Wakatsuki Reijiro¯ 23, 64, 78, 86 Wanpaoshan Incident (July 1931) 18–19, 173

Washington Treaty 220 Wilson, Woodrow 111 women: countryside 208–12; magazines 198–201; organised groups 201–8; propaganda stories 200–1; reaction to Manchurian crisis 196–213 Women’s Association for National Defence (Kokubo¯ fujinkai) 197, 199, 201, 204–8, 210–11, 212, 213, 221 Women’s Christian Temperance Union of Japan (Kyo¯fu¯kai) 203 Women’s Suffrage League (Fusen kakutoku do¯mei) 202, 204 workers: fund-raising and 159; political parties 161–5; see also trade unions Wray, Harold J. 54 Yamagata Aritomo 56 Yamakawa Kikue 110 Yamamoto Jo¯taro¯ 87 Yamamoto Tatsuo 64 Yamanashi Prefecture, fund-raising activities 134 yamato damashii ( Japanese spirit) 142–3 Yanai Hisao 148 Yanaihara Tadao 32, 109 Yasuda Sei 204 Yasuda Zenjiro¯ 159 Yokohama Chamber of Commerce 186 Yokota Kisaburo¯ 69, 108 Yonesato Monkichi 182 Yosano Akiko 48 Yosano Tekkan 48 Yoshihashi, Takehiko 2, 16–17, 117 Yoshino Sakuzo¯ 32, 109 Yoshizawa Kenkichi 20, 79, 87–8, 176 Young, Louise 2, 8, 151 Yui Masaomi 8 zaibatsu 116, 118, 120, 128–9, 162, 165, 170, 171, 183–5, 188, 189, 190 Zen-Kensai fujin rengo¯kai see Federation of Women’s Associations of Western Japan Zenkoku ro¯no¯ taishu¯to¯ see National Labour–Farmer Masses Party Zenkoku sangyo¯ dantai rengo¯kai see National Federation of Industrial Organisations