Einstein
meets
IR:
a
relativist
approach
to
the
rise
of
Japan
in
the
19th
century
A
paper
prepared
for
the
Millennium
Annual
Conference
2012
‘Materialism
and
World
Politics’
Authors:
Maximilian
Mayer1
Barbara
Petrulewicz
University
of
Bonn
1
Author
contact:
maximilian.mayer@uni‐bonn.de
Einstein
meets
IR:
a
relativist
approach
to
the
rise
of
Japan
in
the
19th
century
Abstract
Drawing
on
ANT,
this
paper
applies
a
relativistic
approach
to
the
phenomenal
rise
of
Japan
during
the
late
19th
and
early
20th
century.
It
reframes
common
perspectives
on
one
of
the
classical
questions
in
IR.
The
point
of
departure
is
the
understanding
that
our
empirical
knowledge
about
the
nexus
at
which
modern
states
and
the
expansion
of
colonial
empires
emerges
at
the
one
side,
and
the
advent
of
modern
sciences
and
technologies
at
the
other
side,
completely
discredits
a
range
of
common
IR
notions.
We
suggest
analytically
focusing
on
the
processes
of
assembling,
reassembling,
and
dissembling
actor‐networks.
Actor‐networks
usually
entail
embedded,
interrelated,
and
entangled
material,
discursive,
and
practical
dimensions.
The
intimate
relation
and
mutual
reinforcement
between
the
construction
of
a
modern
state
and
colonial
expansion
are
evident
in
the
Japanese
case.
Exploring
how
multiple
actors
have
assembled
Japan’s
emergence,
we
suggest
that
time
and
material
artifacts,
built
environments,
knowledge,
and
subjectivity
are
not
constants
but
questions
to
empirical
research.
Examining
the
creative
process
of
assembling
that,
as
it
were,
created
an
entire
new
reality,
then,
is
key
to
understand
power
shifts.
Indeed,
the
Tokugawa
Shogunate
turned
into
the
Great
Power
Japan
through
a
prolonged
period
of
creative
destruction
that
reconfigured,
translated,
and
replaced
existing
materials,
identities,
time
frames
and
knowledges.
In
discussing
the
case
study
we
conclude
that—besides
foregrounding
ethnographic
methods—the
outstanding
strength
of
the
ANT‐agenda
is
to
incorporate
the
extensive
extra‐disciplinary
bodies
of
knowledge
about
subject
matters
that
are
usually
ignored
in
IR.
Moreover,
ANT
offers
a
foundational
collector
that
enables
IR
researchers
symmetrically
incorporating
materials,
practices,
and
discourses
into
their
apprehension
of
larger
world
political
phenomena.
As
such,
our
relativistic
approach
does
not
only
open
up
a
largely
uncharted
post‐Cartesian
landscape
of
new
questions
and
puzzles
in
IR,
but
also
allows
for
a
serious
conversation
with
various
neighboring
disciplines
such
as
history,
STS,
area
and
postcolonial
studies
and
geography.
Keywords:
Power
shifts,
Japan,
IR
theories,
ANT,
technology,
science
and
technology
studies,
Tokugawa
2
Table
of
Contents
1.
Introduction ........................................................................................................................................ 4
2.
Assessing
what
we
know:
conceptual
notions,
theoretical
approaches,
and
ontological
omissions .............................................................................................................................. 6
3.
A
post‐Cartesian
approach
to
Japan's
rise ...............................................................................15
4.
Assembling
a
great
power:
Japan’s
emergence .....................................................................21
4.1.
The
Tokugawa
period:
assembling
in
splendid
isolation? ........................................22
4.2.
The
Meiji
period:
assembling
the
state/assembling
the
empire ............................36
5.
Discussion ..........................................................................................................................................50
6.
Towards
a
relativistic
approach
to
world
politics............................................................55
Literature ....................................................................................................................................................59
3
1. Introduction
The
study
of
great
powers
is
much
older
than
the
discipline
of
International
Relations
(IR).
Although
it
nowadays
appears
for
many
old‐fashioned
it
remains
one
of
the
most
fascinating
topics
in
IR.
This
article
sheds
new
light
on
the
age‐old
puzzle
of
“rising
powers”
through
reexamining
Meiji
Japan’s
rise
between
the
mid‐nineteenth
century
and
the
early
twentieth
century.
This
case
constitutes
an
intriguing
and
extraordinary
puzzle:
not
only
has
the
country
become
the
first
ancient
political
unit
in
Asia
to
fully
modernize
itself.
After
the
collapse
of
the
Tokugawa
shogunate,
it
also
became
the
first
non‐western
great
power
to
overcome
the
“great
divergence”,
which
had
set
apart
the
European
empires
and
other
forms
of
political
authority
all
over
the
world.
In
addition,
Meiji
Japan
epitomizes
the
challenge
of
“late‐development”.
As
such,
it
is
often
presented
as
the
most
successful
case
of
state‐led
modernization
(e.g.
Freeman
1987).
Moreover,
scholars
have
employed
the
lenses
of
great
power
politics
and
various
other
theoretical
perspectives
to
analyze
Japan’s
ascent
within
the
international
system.
Thus,
at
the
first
sight,
one
might
infer
that
we
know
this
case
fairly
well.
However,
this
article
argues
that,
especially,
the
explanations
put
forward
in
the
confines
of
IR
remain
unconvincing
for
several
reasons.
In
drawing
on
various
external
disciplinary
sources
we
show
how
IR
systematically
neglects
crucial
aspects
of
Japan’s
emergence,
particularly
the
“material”
side
of
the
puzzle.
Furthermore,
while
this
is
a
historical
case,
it
is
still
highly
relevant
for
explaining
today’s
world
politics.
For
we
live,
by
now,
in
a
world
that
is
even
more
characterized
by
the
pervasive
role
of
technologies
than
it
was
during
the
rise
of
Meiji
Japan.
So,
new
empirical
materials
enable
us
to
reconsider
certain
core
notions
of
IR
in
the
light
of
a
post‐Cartesian
understanding.
In
short,
the
paper
has
two
interrelated
aims:
for
one,
it
sheds
fresh
light
on
Japan’s
rise.
For
another,
it
engages
with
the
empirical
reality
of
the
pervasiveness
of
technologies
and
modern
science,
which
has
remained
ignored
and
under‐theorized
in
the
discipline
of
IR
(see
Herrera
2003,
Fritsch
2011).
This
paper
then
develops
a
relativistic
approach
to
the
rise
of
Meiji
Japan.
It
applies
new
methodological
tools
and
synthesizes
a
wide
range
of
existing
knowledge.
Especially,
the
formation
of
a
modern
state
in
Japan
and
the
parallel
colonial
conquest
of
its
surroundings
cannot
convincingly
be
subsumed
under
the
headers
of
“institutional
reform”,
“the
quest
for
security”,
“Japanese
culture”
or
“racist
ideologies”.
We
instead
4
suggest
enriching
our
analysis
to
explicitly
include
the
intermingling
of
materials,
for
example
technological
infrastructures
and
novel
artifacts,
natural
sciences,
and
engineering
practices
that
enabled
Japan’s
rise
in
the
first
place.
This
means
taking
into
account
a
set
of
ontological
parameters
that
are
usually
absent
from
Cartesian
IR
theories.
So,
the
way
in
which
we
approach
our
case
contributes
to
the
improvement
of
theories
of
international
politics.
Especially,
we
draw
inspiration
from
science
and
technology
studies
in
order
to
make
sense
of
a
relational
and
heterogeneous
reality,
in
which
ideas,
practices,
and
artifacts
are
seamlessly
interwoven
(Jasanoff
2004,
Hughes
1983,
Latour
1987,
MacKenzie
2009).
This
post‐Cartesian
approach
challenges
the
unbearable
lightness
of
IR
theories
that
construe
the
world
as
it
were
a
purely
social,
discursive,
or
inter‐subjective
domain.
Reframing
the
puzzle
of
Japan’s
rise
as
activities
of
assembling
by
means
of
a
symmetrical
methodology,
thus,
does
not
only
illuminate
the
particular
historical
subject
matter
under
study,
but
opens
up
a
larger
canvas
to
stimulate
IR
theories
about
the
contemporary
world.
Having
outlined
our
rationale,
our
argument
proceeds
in
five
consecutive
sections:
first,
we
examine
the
empirical
knowledge
as
it
relates
to
differing
approaches
to
Japan’s
rise
including
models
of
imperialism,
systemic
theories
of
world
politics,
and
accounts
of
modernization
and
state‐led
development.
Finding
that
these
approaches
commonly
tend
to
eschew
the
dimensions
of
science,
technology,
and
engineering,
we
introduce
our
own
theoretical
lens.
Our
framework
proposes
a
relativist
methodology
that
draws
on
a
wide
range
of
inter‐disciplinary
data
sources
and
concepts
while
exploring
the
assembling
of
a
new
reality.
This
involves
the
exploration
ofthe
revolutionary
shifts
in
time,
space,
built
environments
as
well
as
subjectivities
in
the
emerging
assemblage
of
modern
Japan.
Using
this
post‐Cartesian
framework,
our
description
is
divided
into
two
subsequent
sections:
1)
it
explores
the
evolving
human‐material
entanglements
during
the
Tokugawa
period
(ca.
1600
to
1860);
2)
it
explores
the
processes
by
which
a
modern
state
was
constructed
on
the
one
hand,
and
the
expansion
of
the
Japanese
colonial
empire
on
the
other
hand
(1860
to
1930).
The
latter
processes
follow
from
the
agency
of
various
actors
and
are
both
technologically
mediated
and
highly
controversial.
Thirdly,
summarizing
the
main
insights
we
address
the
significance
of
this
case
study
for
theorizing
and
conceptualizing
world
politics.
In
conclusion,
we
argue
that
relativistic
approaches,
which
empirically
explore
the
progressive
construction
of
time,
material
environments,
spatial
formations
and
collective
identities,
represent
a
promising
option
to
replace
Cartesian
IR
theories.
So,
while
the
rise
of
Japan
bears
some
resemblance
to
traditional
IR
puzzles,
it
highlights
the
added
value
of
reframing
IR
theories,
research
methodology
and,
thus,
empirical
concerns.
Ultimately,
however,
taking
seriously
the
reference
to
Einstein
involves
more
radical
shifts
in
the
perspectives
and
the
potential
puzzles
within
post‐Cartesian
research.
Still,
our
puzzle
raises
important
questions:
how
does
the
manner
in
which
Japan
has
established
itself
as
a
great
power
refer
to
the
contemporary
understanding
of
“power”,
“development”,
and
“underdevelopment”
in
world
politics?
The
answers,
as
we
will
shortly
indicate,
lead
to
a
significantly
different
research
agenda.
5
2. Assessing
what
we
know:
conceptual
notions,
theoretical
approaches,
and
ontological
omissions
More
than
hundred
years
of
research
have
accumulated
a
large
body
of
interdisciplinary
knowledge
about
“the
fact
that,
among
the
ancient
Asiatic
states
which
during
the
nineteenth
century
felt
the
political,
economic,
and
cultural
impact
of
the
West,
Japan
alone
has
risen
to
the
status
of
Great
Power.”
(Pollard
1939:5)
Against
this
backdrop,
one
might
argue
that
we
comprehend
fairly
well
what
is
at
stake
in
Japan’s
phenomenal
rise.
The
puzzle
itself
is
intriguing
for
its
theoretical
implications:
it
is
related
to
the
question
of
change
and
the
“emergence”
of
power
in
international
politics;
it
is
a
prime
example
of
rapid
modernization
and
successful
economic
development.
Indeed,
a
good
many
frameworks
and
theoretical
perspectives
have
been
advanced
in
order
to
explain
this
puzzle.
Japan’s
history
has
provoked
different
and
shifting
strands
of
research
over
the
last
century.
Notwithstanding,
in
scrutinizing
the
existing
knowledge
our
main
impetus
is
our
impression
that
one
might
still
neglect
central
aspects
and
ontological
parameters
of
this
puzzle.
Particularly,
when
bridging
the
deserted
lands
between
the
bodies
of
knowledge
that
are
produced
in
area
and
science
studies
on
the
one
hand,
and
that
of
IR
on
the
other,
Japan’s
rise
sets
of
a
ripple
a
dissonance
in
the
Cartesian
framework
of
IR.
So,
what
conceptual
considerations
and
theoretical
perspectives
have
been
related
to
the
rise
of
Japan?
In
the
following,
we
briefly
review
three
relevant
research
fields:
the
examination
of
Imperial
Japan’s
expansion;
the
conceptual
treatment
of
emerging
great
powers
within
systemic
theories
of
IR;
the
exploration
of
modernization
and
late
development
during
the
Meiji
revolution.
These
three
strands
of
research,
while
different
in
their
respective
scholarly
concerns,
constitute
a
large
treasure
of
empirical
knowledge.
We
can
employ
Pollard’s
aforementioned
quotation,
which
was
written
more
than
70
years
ago,
as
prism
to
evaluate
the
insights
as
well
as
the
contradictions
and
the
omissions
of
various
approaches
to
Japan’s
rise.
Evolving
explanations
of
Japanese
Imperialism
The
first
important
body
of
research
that
we
want
to
draw
on,
is
concerned
with
Japan’s
Imperialism.
Although
almost
buried
in
the
discipline
of
IR
and
its
theorizing,
this
sophisticated
body
of
research
examines
the
reasons
and
the
driving
forces
behind
Japan’s
expansion
focusing
on
Tokyo's
formal
rule
to
include
Formosa
(Taiwan;
1895‐
45),
Korea
(1910‐45)
and
later
large
areas
in
Southeast
Asia.
Geographically,
Japan’s
colonialism
was
an
attempt
to
liquidate
the
Western
possessions
of
Chinese
territories
6
or
countries
that
were
part
of
the
Beijing‐centered
Tributary
system.
While
the
Japanese
ultimately
repelled
the
“unequal
treaties”
with
the
United
States
and
Great
Britain
in
1899
they
established
their
own
extraterritorial
legal
enclaves
and
zones
of
informal
influence
mainly
in
Imperial
China
such
as
in
Manchukuo
(1932‐45)
and
Shandong
(1914‐1945)
as
well
as
in
Micronesia.2
Various
theoretical
explanations
for
the
Japanese
expansion
have
been
put
forward.
For
the
purpose
of
this
article,
we
confine
them
to
three
groups
that
are
subsequently
interrogated.
The
first
group
of
arguments
stresses
the
importance
of
Japan’s
“cultural
heritage”.
This
involves
a
militaristic
and
racial
ideology
enmeshed
in
philosophical
and
messianic
shintō
discourses
of
national
superiority
(Pollard
1939,
Morishima
1982,
Armstrong
1989).
Secondly,
others,
following
economic
theories
of
Imperialism,
have
stressed
the
profit
interests
of
corporations
and
merchants
or
the
economic
imperative
of
secure
access
to
foreign
markets
and
the
supply
of
raw
materials.
These
explanations,
however,
have
little
merit
concerning
Meiji
Japan
(see
Etherington
1982,
Conroy
1966).
Lastly,
some
researchers
emphasize
the
patriotic
desire
of
Japanese
statesmen
and
citizens
to
become
members
of
the
“civilized”
club
of
Western
nations:
including
equal
treatment,
full‐blown
national
sovereignty,
and
also
colonial
rule
in
the
not‐so‐civilized
neighboring
countries
(Suzuki
2003,
Kal
2005).
All
these
facets
were
important
for
Japan’s
expansion;
yet,
these
approaches
typically
presuppose
a
top‐down
imperial
design.
The
focus
on
the
commanding
highs,
the
“leaders
and
architects”,
leaves
little
room
for
appreciating
the
diversity
of
the
actors
involved,
such
as
engineers,
scientists,
settlers,
prostitutes,
and
all
kinds
of
“pioneers”
many
of
whom
both
mediated
and
embodied
the
colonial
expansion.
Detailed
historical
studies
about
the
nitty‐gritty
of
controversies
and
biographical
twists
suggest
that
colonial
expansion
‐at
least
until
the
mid‐1920s‐
was
pursued
much
more
by
default
than
by
design
(Wilson
2005,
Uchida
2011).
In
addition,
major
public
controversies
among
the
elites
and
beyond,
such
as
the
one
referring
to
the
so
called
“Korean
question”
in
the
aftermath
of
the
nationalist
uprising
in
Korea
and
their
violent
crackdown
in
1919,
defy
a
simple
top‐down
point
of
view
(Duara
2006:55,
Ku
2002).
Moreover,
as
the
“national
character”
was
itself
under
construction
and
an
achievement
of
the
exactly
same
period
(Ikegami
1995),
it
is
difficult
to
contrive
Japan’s
colonialism
with
the
features
of
“Japaneseness”.
But
even
if
we
assume,
contra‐factually,
a
stable
set
of
cultural
norms
and
values
like
this,
could
they
suddenly
stimulate
the
venture
of
colonialism
after
having
legitimized
a
stubborn
seclusion
for
over
two
hundred
years?
This
proposition
does
not
withstand
logical
scrutiny.
In
addition,
we
should
listen
to
the
perceptions
of
foreign
travelers
in
the
pre‐Meiji
era.
They
describe
the
late
Tokugawa
shogunate
as
fragmented
and
largely
composed
of
dispersed
social
formations—
certainly
not
constituting
a
national
community
(Iwabuchi
1994).
In
short,
the
empirical
record
ridicules
the
premises
of
essentialist
cultural
explanations:
2
For
the
orthodox
English
literature
on
Japan's
colonial
empire
see
Conroy
1960,
Myers
and
Peattie
1984,
Duus
1995,
Duus,
Myers
and
Peattie
1989,
Duus,
Myers
and
Peattie
1996.
7
“Nothing
could
convince
us
more
about
the
artificiality,
historicity,
partiality
and
falsity
of
‘Japaneseness’
than
precisely
these
observations
of
Japanese
indolence
and
incapacity
for
systematic
work.
After
all,
diligence,
loyalty
and
systematic
work
are
now
widely
acknowledged
as
national
cultural
‘traits’
of
the
Japanese
and
are
expected
as
such.
These
now
unfamiliar
observations
suggest
that
such
national
‘traits’
are
cultural
constructs
in
dynamic
process
rather
than
a
static
set
of
given
essences.
National
identity
is
not
authentic
so
much
as
a
battleground
where
various
social
groups
compete
with
each
other
to
define
the
meaning
of
the
‘national’”
(Iwabuchi
1994)
Furthermore,
in
addition
to
the
difficulties
of
pointing
to
a
moving
target,
the
explanations
of
imperialism
that
focus
on
ideational
or
cultural
factors
come
at
the
expense
of
the
material
features
of
the
empire.
Due
to
a
logo‐centric
view,
it
neglects
the
crucial
supporting,
mediating,
and
framing
role
of
technological
infrastructures,
engineering
and
the
exact
sciences.
It
also
misses
the
enabling
agency
of
modern
technological
knowhow
including
shipbuilding,
guns,
railways,
engineering,
architecture,
and
agriculture
(Headrick
1979,
Carrol
2006).
Numerous
contemporaries
were
fully
aware
of
the
space‐time
compression
that
followed
from
these
innovations
(Duncan
2005).
As
such,
the
recent
wave
of
research
on
Japan’s
colonial
expansion
provides
further
insights.
Adding
a
new
ontological
dimension,
it
highlights
the
substantial
links
and
interactions
between
colonial
expansion
and
modernization
as
well
as
the
emergence
of
exact
sciences,
modern
engineering,
and
technological
infrastructures
(Mizuno
2009,
Wilson
2005).
Japan’s
technological
progress
and
the
war
efforts
against
Imperial
China
and
Czarist
Russia
were
mutually
reinforcing
(Yamamura
1977).
In
comparing
economic
explanations
that
focus
on
the
exploitative
nature
of
European
colonies,
Duara
(2006:65)
argues
that
Japan’s
Imperialism
in
Manchuria
represents
a
new
strand
of
imperial
formation
characterized
“by
high
levels
of
investment,
the
development
of
new
modes
of
mobilization
and
identity
production,
and
a
discourse
of
brotherhood
and
regional
federalism.”
Similarly
highlighting
the
interconnections
and
flows
between
the
core
and
the
periphery,
Wilson
notes
in
recent
research:
“one
implication
is
a
greater
recognition
that
the
colonial
relationship
is
shaped
by
the
responses
of
the
colonised
as
well
as
the
intentions
and
actions
of
the
colonisers.
Another
is
that
life
in
the
metropolis
itself
is
seen
as
affected
deeply
by
its
colonies:
the
‘mother’
country
is
no
longer
accepted
as
the
modern,
civilised
nation
that
on
the
one
hand
imposes
its
will
abroad
through
its
colonial
agents,
and
on
the
other
continues
along
its
own,
independent
historical
trajectory.
A
third
implication
is
an
acknowledgment
that
mainstream
studies
of
Japanese
history
should
include
consideration
of
the
colonies
as
a
matter
of
course:
all
or
most
topics
in
modern
Japanese
history
will
be
relevant
to
the
colonies,
and
vice
versa,
and
colony
and
metropolis
should
no
longer
be
in
separate
baskets.”
(Wilson
2005:288)
Research
on
the
Japanese
version
of
colonialism,
following
similar
historical
studies
8
about
the
Spanish,
Portuguese,
or
British
colonial
experiences
(e.g.
Darwin
2012),
increasingly
puts
emphasize
on
the
multiple
interactions
between
“core”
and
“periphery”.
Conceptually,
this
literature
deliberately
transcends
the
nation‐centered
perspective.
It
aims
at
grasping
the
repercussions
of
colonial
encounters,
imperial
economic
and
technological
designs,
nurtured
nationalisms,
as
well
as
their
various
linkages
with
the
construction
of
a
modern
state
in
Japan
(Duara
2003,
2006,
Wilson
2005).
In
conclusion,
our
current
knowledge
about
Japan’s
imperialism
renders
culture,
identity,
or
discourse,
if
they
are
treated
as
isolated
explanatory
factors,
as
“background
variables”,
or
if
confined
to
national
perspectives
progressively
problematic.
For
this
view
downplays
or
silences
the
empirical
reality
of
Japan’s
modern
state
formation,
in
which
essentially
everything—material
and
ideational—was
transformed,
remodeled,
and
newly
assembled.
Returning
to
IR
theory,
it
is
reasonably
to
say
that
research
designs
that
are
unable
to
capture
in
addition
the
technological
dimensions
inexorably
intertwined
with
a
“rising
power”
lead
to
flawed
modes
of
analysis.
The
emergence
of
great
powers
and
the
limits
of
systemic
theories
Whereas
especially
logo‐centric
explanations
of
Imperialism
are
implausible,
the
research
on
Imperialism
in
general
helps
to
enrich
our
understanding
of
the
subject
matter.
Most
importantly,
it
empirically
and
conceptually
underscores
Japan’s
rise
as
an
imperial
power.
Taking
seriously
this
statement
is
far
from
banal.
Because
the
discipline
of
IR
privileges
a
view
that
foregrounds
interactions
between
“like‐units”
we
are
insensitive
to
the
historical
reality,
which
does—at
least,
up
to
World
War
II
and
arguably
until
the
present
(Krasner
1999,
Duffield
2006)—not
resemble
an
even
“anarchical”
playing
field.
Exploring
Japan’s
rise
reminds
one
of
the
heavily
segregated
patterns
of
world
politics.
These
differentiations
of
authority,
sovereignty,
and
autonomy
that,
in
particular,
systemic
IR
theory
conceals
by
definition,
constrain
various
“state”
entities
in
strikingly
differing
ways.
In
this
sense
Meiji
Japan’s
experience
is
telling.
The
world
appears
less
characterized
by
sovereignty
as
“organized
hypocrisy”
in
general
(Krasner
1999),
than
divided
by
a
specific
ideologically
and
materially
buttressed
topology:
on
the
one
hand,
the
web
of
“modern
state
power”
with
its
planetary
tendrils
of
civilization;
on
the
other
hand,
the
areas
“lagging‐behind”
that
are
open
to
intervention,
regulation,
and
control
epitomized,
for
example,
by
the
system
of
extraterritorial
legal
authority.
Yoshida
Shōin,
the
most
influential
pre‐Meiji
advocate
of
Japan’s
“nationalization”,
who
also
negotiated
with
the
US
envoy
in
the
1850s,
clearly
saw
the
collaborative
way
in
which
the
British,
the
French,
or
US
empires
enforced
this
semi‐colonial
practice
(Wakabayashi
1992).
Against
this
backdrop,
Japan’s
rise
exemplifies
the
successful
attempt
to
overcome
the
chasm
between
sovereign
Western
powers
and
the
backwardness
of
a
semi‐colonized
space
(Suzuki
2005,
Spruyt
2000).
Indeed,
the
prominent
group
of
Japanese
visitors
that
traveled
through
the
United
States
and
Europe
in
the
1860s
and
1870s
quickly
internalized
an
important
lesson:
“Japan
would
need
a
modern
army
and
navy,
railroads,
factories,
schools,
and
a
modern
banking
and
currency
system”
(Pollard
1939:27)
in
order
to
enter
the
concert
of
9
Western
powers.
This
comprised
not
only
an
“internal”
revolution,
but
also
the
installment
of
extraterritorial
practices
in
informal
zones
of
influence
such
as
areas
in
coastal
China
and
the
pacific
islands
(Kayaoğlu
2010:68ff).
To
the
extent
to
which
it
is
empirically
untenable
to
presuppose
“like‐units”
in
international
politics
(Krasner
2001),
the
case
of
Japan
highlights
the
transformation
and
expansions
that
were
needed
to
achieve
a
truly
sovereign
status
(Duara
2006).
Is
this,
than,
not
the
predestined
puzzle
for
realist
explanations?
Indeed,
the
language
of
realists
ritualistically
refers
to
the
magnitude
of
power
difference
that
determines
if
states
belong
to,
or
are
excluded
from
the
“great
powers”
(Mearsheimer
2001).3
Yet,
realist
claims
to
this
research
field
are
an
empty
promise
as
Simon
Dalby,
for
example,
argues:
“if
American
power
is
understood
in
imperial
terms
then
it
follows
that
international
politics
is
not
a
simple
matter
of
international
relations
and
debates
between
independent
states
in
some
form
of
anarchical
arena.
There
is
obviously
much
more
to
the
pattern
of
international
power
than
international
relations
models
of
competing
and
cooperating
autonomous
states
suggest.
Territorial
assumptions
about
sovereignty
are
not
very
useful
in
a
world
of
imperial
power;
the
purposes
of
states,
the
supposed
repositories
of
political
aspiration
on
the
part
of
their
peoples,
are
also
in
doubt.”
(Dalby
2004:1)
Realists
and
Neorealists
purport
the
existence
of
a
conceptual
apparatus
that
is
far
too
reductionist
to
offer
a
meaningful
understanding
of
how
a
great
power
emerges
in
the
first
place.
Especially,
theorizing
the
increased
“interaction
capacity”
(Buzan,
Jones,
and
Little
1993:
chap.
4)
adds
little
depth
to
our
comprehension
of
the
role
of
technologies
in
the
emergence
of
great
powers
because
it
suggests
a
sort
of
deus
ex
machina
occurrence
of
“technical”
change
upon
which
unitary
elements
in
a
closed
system
have
to
act.
Imagine,
for
instance,
how
helpful
a
realist’s
advice—boiling
everything
down,
for
example,
to
measurable
variables,
such
as
demographics,
industrial
output,
and
military
capacities—would
have
been
for
officials
in
the
Meiji‐government,
who
aspired
to
empower
their
country
in
the
mid‐19 century.
The
example
of
time
standardization
illustrates
that
“technical
change”—empirically—is
never
isolated
from
“society”
and
vice
versa.
Rather,
as
historians
of
modern
technology
have
demonstrated,
this
distinction
is
flawed
from
the
very
beginning
(Hughes
1983,
Bijker,
Hughes
and
Pinch
1987).
Constructivist
insights
into
power
shifts
in
the
international
system
would
have
even
less
practical
value;
they
would
be
severely
misleading,
as
they
vaguely
construe
technological
change
as
a
sort
of
“master
variable”.
Because
Wendt
renders
technology
an
external
driver
of
political
change
(Wendt
1999:243‐249)
it
curiously
appears
th
3
The
renewed
attention
to
“empires”
similarly
emphasizes
the
real‐world
differentials
between
states.
It
gives
fodder
to
those
who
see
“sovereignty”
as
an
illusion
both
in
principle
and
practice
(Barkawi
and
Laffey
2002,
Shaw
2002).
10
completely
out
of
the
grasp
of
governments.
Another
thorny
obstacle
that
hampers
our
inquiry
comes
with
the
often
implicit
premise
that
“Japan”
prior
to
the
Meiji‐revolution
could
be
treated
as
an
infant
form
of
nation,
state
or
society
(see
Howell
1998).
Against
this
notion,
Ringmar
argues
that
the
bakufu
state
actually
resembles
a
sort
of
“international
system”
comparable
with
the
Westphalian
order
in
Europe
and
the
Chinese
tribute
system
(Ringmar
2012).
Clearly,
treating
a
country
as
if
it
were
a
preexisting
unit
that
miraculously
develops
experiences
an
increase
of
its
capacities—as
realist
and
neorealist
approaches
would
suggest
(Waltz
1993)—leads
into
methodological
doldrums.
In
fact,
this
a‐historical
reductionism
berefts
us
of
the
possibility
to
empirically
capture
the
historical
emergence
of
Meiji‐
Japan.
In
contrast,
an
ethnological
exploration
swiftly
sheds
light
on
the
substantial
technological
and
ideological
innovations,
but
also
the
massive
controversies,
novel
connections
and
the
emerging
webs
that
enabled
the
Meiji
regime
to
achieve
parity
with
the
Western
powers.
Describing
the
contested
task
of
introducing,
for
instance,
the
Gregorian
calendar
and
clock‐based
time
synchronizing,
illuminates
the
fundamental
dimensions
of
“rising
power”
that
are
easily
overlooked
in
IR:
“It
is
important
to
appreciate
that
the
Meiji
government
introduced
the
Western
form
of
time
regulation
in
1872
with
the
intention
of
leading
Japanese
society
into
‘civilazation’.
Tsutamoto
Meiki,
one
of
the
governments
members,
wrote
in
the
draft
of
the
declaration
that:
‘we
must
try
to
bring
the
people
away
from
superstition
and
try
to
lead
them
into
civilization’
(quoted
in
Hirose
1978:96).
In
this
period
the
most
important
duty
of
the
Meiji
government
was
to
negotiate
with
the
Western
parties
as
an
equal
partner
because
of
the
existing
unequal
contracts
with
them.
Accordingly,
the
adoption
of
the
Western
form
of
time
regulation
was
one
way
of
demonstrating
that
their
own
society
was
a
civilized
one.”
(Shimada
1995:254)
To
depart
from
the
subordinate
areas
and
colonized
modes
of
existence
requires
more
than
adjusting
certain
parameters
in
a
top‐down
manner.
The
case
of
Meiji
Japan
shows
that
this
involves
the
collective
reinvention
and
creation
of
an
entire
reality—in
the
fullest
sense
of
the
word.
The
historical
record
suggests
that
only
this
elevates
an
entity
into
the
domain
of
the
full‐fledged
modernized
nations
(Morris‐Suzuki
1998,
Jansen
2000).
Apparently,
great
powers
do
not
emerge
incrementally
under
the
condition
of
”all
other
things
being
equal”.
Conceptualizing
this
process
merely
as
the
effect
of
the
shifts
in
abstract
variables
such
as
“population
and
product”
(Waltz
1993:55)
is
thus
historically
wrong
and
analytically
misleading.
In
sum,
the
main
schools
of
IR
lack
a
meaningful
notion
of
“power”
that
speaks
to
the
largely
uneven
and
non‐Westphalian
global
landscape
(see
Suzuki
2003).
In
addition,
they
propose
(albeit
often
implicitly)
a
rational
understanding
of
power‐seeking
that
appreciates
neither
the
inevitable
material‐cultural
transformations,
nor
the
notorious
blending
of
mythology,
ideology,
and
technology,
which
is
present
not
only
in
this
case.
As
such,
Japan’s
ascent
points
to
11
the
lack
of
both
constructivist
and
neorealist
frameworks
that
would
enable
us
to
account
for
the
origins
of
power
and
power
differentials.
In
turn,
the
puzzle
of
Meiji
Japan’s
expansion
provides
an
enormously
rich
body
of
empirical
material
which
we
can
employ
to
grasp
the
reality
of
power
and
power
shifts
in
world
politics.
Grasping
the
Japanese
modernization
and
late
development
A
third
body
of
knowledge
emphasizes
Japan’s
successful
development
as
stemming
from
its
top‐down
implementation
of
a
modern
institutional
setting.
The
Meiji‐era
elites,
or
so
story
went,
established
a
modern
political
constitution,
a
legal
system,
a
modern
education
and
university
system,
industrial
production
capacities
that
propelled
Japan
to
the
“center
of
world
economic
dynamism”
(Cummings
1984:1).
Against
the
orthodox
economic,
numerous
scholars
hailed
Japan
as
an
alternative
model
of
development;
a
model
that
enormously
successful,
though,
rejecting
market
liberalism
while
preferring
state‐centered
coordination
and
state‐led
economic
policies
(Freeman
1988,
Henderson
1993,
Fallows
1994,
see
Cumings
1998).
Historically,
these
perspectives
tend
to
point
to
the
instrumental
role
of
the
elites
such
as
the
Samurai
for
the
innovative
successes
of
top‐down
development
and
reforms,
especially
during
the
Meiji
period
(e.g.
Bronfenbrenner
1969).
Also
this
seemingly
appears
to
be
an
elegant
explanation
for
the
strong
focus
on
military
build‐up;
and,
lastly
Japan’s
drift
to
a
“fascist”
society
preparing
for
war
the
1930s.
Though,
already
in
the
late
1960s
historians
called
in
to
question
the
main
tenet
of
these
works,
which
builds
upon
an
early
orthodox
view
on
Japan’s
economic
ascent.
A
new
generation
of
studies
showed
the
predominately
bottom‐up
nature
of
the
Japanese
reforms.
Non‐elite
participants
made
a
major
contribution
economic
dynamics
and
institutional
innovations
(Yamamura
1997).
The
state‐led
view
tends
to
over‐emphasize
the
role
of
government
authorities
and
to‐down
policies;
an
understanding
that
also
underpins
later
accounts
of
the
“Japanese
innovation
system”.
But
numerous
historical
studies
show
the
large
extent
to
which
non‐elite
actors
or
fake‐Samurai
have
advanced
the
economic
and
technological
catching‐up
(Iwabuchi
1994,
Yamamura
1997).
A
bottom‐up
dynamic,
obviously,
shackles
the
central
notion
of
state‐led
models
of
“late‐developing”.
The
centrality
of
state
policies,
in
addition,
is
questioned
if
we
have
to
take
into
account
the
repeated
controversies
that
have
plagued
the
construction
of
railways
and
other
radical
technological
novelties
as
much
as
the
education
system,
the
calendar
reform,
the
electrification
or
the
Meiji
constitution.
Also,
from
the
comparison
with
Ching
China,
it
becomes
clear
that
people
in
all
social
strata
shifted
their
attitudes
and
learning
behavior
at
that
time.
From
the
top‐level
of
the
Meiji
government
to
the
merchants,
the
scholars,
the
peasants
and
the
factory
workers—numerous
actors
realized
that
the
absorption
of
western
technology
is
more
than
a
mere
technical
matter.
Its
enactment
simultaneously
entailed
instrumental,
practical
and
symbolic
dimensions,
which,
at
the
same
time,
required
transforming
the
individual
subjectivities
and
the
collective
practices
at
once
(Wittner
2008).
These
empirical
observations
do
not
12
support
the
Weber‐inspired
idea
that
underpins
some
explanations
of
Japan’s
modernization
(e.g.
Morishima
1982).
Zooming
in
at
factories,
ministries,
shipyards,
universities,
offices,
and
schools,
we
find
the
meandering
and
mutation
of
subjectivities—but
no
pervasive
discursive
tradition,
or
a
somewhat
homogeneous
ideational
essence
of
the
Japanese
that
presumably
steered
the
nation’s
ascent
as
an
underlying
driver
or
the
“intervening
variable”.
We
must
instead
analyze
the
fluidity,
the
mutations,
and
the
innovations
in
consciousness
and
institutions
as
integral
part
of
the
modernization
process.
Clearly,
this
undermines
the
premises
of
late‐development
frameworks
that
see
the
Meiji
government
and
top‐elites
single‐handedly
manufacturing
the
reform
institutions
and,
by
extension,
a
modern
Japanese
nation
state
(Amsden
1989,
Levy
and
Samuels
1992,
Waldner
1999).
But
these
reforms
were
a
messy
and
unplanned
process
that
amounts
to
the
double
effect
of
the
“Japanization”
of
imported
concepts,
technologies,
and
practices,
and,
meanwhile,
to
a
radical
reconstruction
of
Japanese
subjectivities.
As
a
result,
various
actors
jointly
produced
a
mixture
of
ideologies,
myths,
religion,
and
invented
traditions
(Sakamoto
1996,
Morris‐Suzuki
1998).
For
instance,
in
order
to
enable
and
legitimate
the
introduction
of
a
seemingly
profane
technological
novelty
such
as
the
light
bulb,
Japanese
kokugaku‐scholars
invented
a
new
mythic
theory
of
light
that
explained
why
the
light
bulb
ultimately
originated
in
Japan
and
how
it
was
related
to
the
emperor
(Wachutka
2004).
Similarly,
this
creative
diversity
renders
theoretical
“copy”
or
“imitation“
models
of
Japan’s
modernization
and
late‐
development
utterly
inappropriate4.
Not
unlike
the
encounters
with
modernity
in
imperial
China
(Duara
1991),
the
Japanese
have
mixed
up
a
seemingly
irrational
bunch
of
things.
The
empirical
reality
of
the
modernization
process
invented
Shintō
cults
next
to
railway
lines;
merged
messianic
philosophies
with
high‐precision
industries;
connected
geomantic
practices
with
modern
positivist
science
and
the
activities
of
divine
spirits
(see
fourth
section).
Thus,
it
becomes
untenable
to
understand
Japan’s
late‐development
as
interplay
between
the
adoption
of
modern
western
political
concepts,
economic
institutions,
and
technical
artifacts
on
the
one
hand,
and
a
“Confusion
heritage”
on
the
other
(e.g.
Dore
1979:147).
Simplifying
accounts
of
modernization
that
purport
conceptual
dichotomies
and
impose
“institutional”,
“cultural”
and
“technical”
divides
eschew
the
hybrid
outcomes
of
modern
state
formation
in
Meiji
Japan
(Sakamoto
1996).
Back
in
1939,
Pollard
advanced
this
insight
brilliantly,
albeit
with
some
bewilderment:
"There
is
to
be
sure,
something
decidedly
incongruous
in
the
spectacle
of
a
modern
Japanese
army,
amply
supported
by
tanks,
heavy
artillery,
and
airplanes,
doing
the
word
of
the
gods
in
the
extension
of
the
Heavenly
task
in
China.
No
less
incongruous,
on
the
other
hand,
is
the
position
of
an
emperor,
divinely
descended
and
himself
worshipped
as
a
Shintō
deity,
reigning
over
a
land
alive
with
the
roar
of
heavy
industry
with
makes
4
For
an
critical
overview
on
various
models
see
Fraser
Low
1989.
13
possible
the
military
effort
in
China”
(Pollard
1939:34)
Similarly,
Morishima’s
sophisticated
“cultural”
approach
must
be
qualified.
He
claims
the
specific
convergence
of
traditional
Confucian
and
Taoist
lines
of
thinking
were
significant
for
the
way
in
which
the
innovators
of
the
Meiji‐revolution
have
adopted
foreign
technologies.
Especially,
their
Shintō‐ethos,
according
to
Morishima,
rendered
them
far
more
predestined
for
modernization
than
their
Chinese
peers
across
the
sea
(Morishima
1982).
However,
the
controversies
over
“national
spirit”
that
were
intrinsically
related
to
the
construction
of
new
infrastructures,
the
use
and
classification
of
artificial
objects,
and
the
implementation
of
unknown
materials
such
as
steel
and
concrete
seriously
ridicule
Morishima’s
Weberian
presumption:
no
single
set
of
principles
were
guiding
the
Meiji
revolution.
The
cultural
discourses
of
the
Meiji
era
constitute
an
amalgam
of
Shintō,
neo‐Confucian,
nativist,
feudal,
modernist,
and
scientific
strands
of
thought.
Moreover,
even
if
we
modify
Weber’s
idea
by
assuming
the
adoption
of
imported
technology
changed
the
“culture”
in
Meiji
Japan
as
much
as
the
latter
framed
the
employment
of
the
former,
we
still
lack
a
sufficiently
sensible
analytical
framework.
The
scientific
advances
of
Japanese
seismology,
which
have
revolutionized
the
Western
knowledge
and
methods
to
study
earthquakes,
illustrate
that
merely
juxtaposing
“technology”
and
“culture”
grossly
misses
the
mark
(Clancey
2006).
In
sum,
although
space
constraints
merely
allow
us
to
outline
the
state
of
knowledge,
this
bears
significant
conceptual
and
methodological
insights
for
IR
approaches
to
Japan’s
rise.
On
the
one
side,
IR
scholars
have
hardly
harnessed
the
rich
and
divers
inter‐
disciplinary
treasure
of
expertise
about
this
puzzle.
On
the
other
side,
the
empirical
diversity
and
complexity
of
Japan’s
rise
unravels
the
shaky
premises
and
limited
ontological
scope
of
IR
accounts
of
“rising
powers”.
Moreover,
as
these
three
bodies
of
knowledge
incorporate
different
yet
often
interrelated
perspectives
and
empirical
materials,
we
should
reject
theoretical
approaches
that
prematurely
de‐emphasize
or
silence
empirical
aspects
for
they
apparently
do
not
fit
their
conceptual
frameworks.
Though
Japan’s
rise
has
attracted
so
much
scholarly
attention,
still,
crucial
empirical
aspects
have
been
completely
lost
in
the
conceptual
grid
of
IR.
Particularly,
from
a
post‐
Cartesian
point
of
view,
the
theoretical
approaches
that
capture
only
“social”
or
“ideational”
dimensions
are
bound
to
scratch
at
the
surface.
Ultimately,
they
risk
misconstruing
the
interconnected
and
hybrid
processes
of
state
building,
modernization,
and
colonial
expansion
at
the
Japanese
archipelago.
In
this
sense,
our
paper
does
not
just
add
another
layer
of
empirical
evidence;
nor
a
additional
explanatory
“factor”.
It
rather
aims
at
reframing
the
entire
puzzle
through
symmetrically
capturing
practices,
materials,
and
discourses
and
their
connections
and
interrelations.
Thereby,
some
of
the
above
mentioned
limitations
of
our
understanding
are
resolved.
Furthermore,
this
reveals
the
shift
in
dimensions
that
IR
by
and
large
treats
as
constants.
To
this
end,
we
propose
a
novel
analytical
approach.
Thereby,
Japan’s
rise
is
explored
through
the
lens
processes
of
assembling
an
emerging
actor‐network.
As
the
following
section
further
elaborates,
this
comprises
a
sensitive
reading
of
analytical
terms
such
as
14
“rising”,
“power”,
or
“Japan”.
3.
A
post‐Cartesian
approach
to
Japan's
rise
This
section
lines
out
a
relativistic
approach
drawing
on
methodical
insights
from
science
and
technology
studies
(STS)
(Latour
2005,
Law
and
Hassard
1999,
Law
2004).
Through
a
post‐Cartesian
lens,5
first
of
all,
it
replaces
the
“sociology
of
the
social”
(Latour
2005)
with
an
analytical
framework
that
treats
humans
and
non‐human
actors
symmetrical
in
principle.
Taking
a
relativistic
understanding
seriously
renders
timespace,
that
is
dimensions
that
are
usually
accepted
as
constants,
into
subject
matters
for
empirical
research
(May
and
Nigel
Thrift
2001).
To
signify
these
dimensions
we
use
the
categories
“regimes
of
time”,
“orders
of
knowledge”,
“circulation
of
artifacts”,
“built
environments”,
and
“identity”.
But
the
last
category
is
partly
treated
as
an
empirical
concern
in
IR,
while
the
others
are
deemed
stable
background.
Our
approach,
in
a
nutshell,
rests
on
three
pillars:
firstly,
a
foundational
collector
that
helps
to
describe
the
rise
of
Japan
as
processes
of
assembling.
Secondly,
relying
on
fresh
vocabulary,
we
propose
the
concepts
of
“translation”
and
“creative
destruction”.
This
theoretical
model
puts
our
analytical
focus
on
the
assembling
and
reassembling
of
the
Meiji
state
as
well
as
Japan’s
colonial
empire
as
we
have
to
capture
the
agencies
of
mutually
embedded
and
interrelated
materials,
discourses,
and
practices.
Thirdly,
in
terms
of
methods,
we
propose
a
set
of
hypothetical
propositions
to
guide
this
exploration.
Approaching
the
puzzle
of
Japan’s
rise
in
this
relativist
manner,
necessarily,
leads
to
a
redefinition
of
basic
notions
of
IR
including
actorhood,
agency,
and
power.
Foundational
collector:
assemblages
To
begin
with,
the
idea
of
a
“foundational
collector”
is
not
to
add
another
theoretical
aspect
to
the
puzzle.
It
rather
enables
our
research
to
account
for
a
fuller
picture
of
reality.
Employing
the
foundational
collector
“assemblages”
aims
at
expanding
our
ontological
parameters,
making
additional
things,
connections,
and
agencies
visible.
At
its
core
lies
a
symmetrical
methodology
that
replaces
dichotomist
understandings
such
as
the
distinction
“social”/“technical”
and
“science”/“nature”
(Latour
2005).
So,
the
term
“assemblage”
does
not
have
the
purpose
of
“explaining”.
Instead,
to
main
task
of
a
post‐Cartesian
approach
is
writing
a
thick
description
that
excludes
as
few
actors,
practices
and
relations
as
possible.
In
this
sense,
the
emergence
of
a
“great
power”
constitutes
a
qualitative
process,
in
contrast
to
a
quantitative
change
among
pre‐given
like‐units.
Employing
“assemblages”—synonymous
with
“collectives”,
“associations”
or
“actor‐networks”
as
foundational
collector—enables
us
to
report
the
full
range
of
5
Different
forms
of
“post‐Cartesian”
frameworks
have
been
sketched
out
elsewhere
(Wendt
2004,
Pouliout
2010).
15
practices
and
relations
that
interconnect
humans,
ideas,
words,
and
all
kinds
of
things.
This,
apparently,
cuts
across
the
usual
categorical
domains
that
are
cherished
in
the
social
sciences.
Particularly,
this
foundational
collector
avoids
the
customary
discrimination
between
inside
and
outside
in
IR.
This
paper,
then,
builds
on
a
number
of
ANT‐methods
that
is
time‐tested
in
a
growing
body
of
literature6
in
order
to
analyze
the
evolutionary
process
through
which
the
“great
power”
Japan
had
been
assembled
during
the
Meiji
era.
This
construction
process
is
contingent
upon
the
innovative
agency
of
various
actors,
who
contribute
to
assembling
getting
enrolled
in
the
new
collective.
The
non‐static
characteristics
of
assemblages
are,
conceptually
speaking,
linked
to
a
performative
understanding
of
agency
and
group
formation.
Accordingly,
actorhood
does
not
refer,
for
instance,
to
notions
of
intentionality.
We
avoid
presupposing
a
fixed
set
of
(social)
actors
while
a
priori
excluding
other
things.
Acting,
here,
denotes
a
relational
effect
of
both
human
and
non‐human
actors
upon
other
actors.
Crucially,
these
relational
effects,
that
is,
whether
something
is
a
mediator
making
a
difference,
need
to
be
empirically
tested
(Whatmore
2009).
So,
to
the
extent
to
which
“assemblages”
assists
us
to
uncover
new
empirical
materials
it
transcends
the
purely
social
accounts
of
Japan’s
rise.
Because
we
cannot
foresee
which
actors
have
been
assembled
into
one
collective
this
methods
defies
to
rule
out,
a
priori,
hybrid
connections
between
humans
and
material
things,
infrastructures,
artifacts,
symbols,
spirits,
or
gods.
Furthermore,
a
relativistic
approach
implies
that
stable
assemblages
resemble
an
entire
reality
comprising
a
time
regime,
a
knowledge
order,
built
environments,
and
specific
material
artifacts.
Especially,
large
and
divers
actor‐
networks,
such
as
“state
assemblages”,
evolve
by
gluing
together
heterogeneous
elements
while
objectifying,
normalizing,
or
qualifying
basic
dimensions
of
life
such
as
time,
knowledge,
or
space
(Latour
1987,
Law
2002).
This
leads
to
a
difficult
question:
how
the
assembling
of
a
“great
power”
actually
works?
How
might
one
analytically
capture
it?
Theoretical
model:
translations
and
creative
destruction
Exploring
the
evolution
of
assemblages
requires
an
infra‐language.
Two
basic
concepts
are
advanced
here:
“translation”
and
“creative
destruction”.
These
two
constitute
components
of
a
theoretical
model
that
are
slightly
more
abstract
than
the
foundational
collector.
Their
main
purpose
is
setting
the
analytical
grid
in
order
to
test
hypothetical
propositions
about
what
might
be
relevant
actors
and
relations.
Ultimately,
these
theoretical
models
are
not
explanatory,
but
descriptive
tools;
no
more
and
no
less.
Figure
1
presents
the
axial
evolutionary
model
that
depicts
the
process
of
assembling
a
collective
that
has
been
developed
elsewhere
(see
Mayer
2012).
The
x‐axis
refers
to
the
translation
process
and
the
y‐axis
the
size
of
an
emerging
assemblage.
For
analytical
6
See
among
others
Calis¸kan
and
Callon
(2010),
Latour
(1999),
Mol
and
Law
(1994),
Aradau
(2010),
Lippert
and
O'Connor
(2003),
MacKenzie
(2009),
Mayer
(2012),
and
Schouten
(2011).
16
purposes,
we
have
divided
the
x‐axis
into
three
layers:
practices
of
group
formation,
the
status
of
material
objects,
and
the
different
forms
of
onto‐politics.
Moreover,
the
x‐axis
represents
in
a
stylized
way
three
distinct
temporary
phases
of
translation.
Following
Bruno
Latour,
the
model
uses
the
original
definition
of
a
thing
as
an
“assembly
of
a
judicial
nature
gathered
around
a
topic,
reus,
that
creates
both
conflict
and
assent.”
(Latour
2000:117)
Consequently,
the
model
assumes
that
innovative
actors
pick
up
a
“thing”,
which
initially
was
ignored,
inexistent,
or
forgotten,
in
an
attempt
to
assemble
further
actors
through
the
thing.
In
the
beginning,
possibly
only
few
actors
try
to
assemble
while
almost
nobody
else
is
interested.
Actors
set
out
to
(re)assemble.
They
establish
novel
connections,
construct
new
alliances,
enroll
alternative
partners,
or
reconfigure
orthodox
thoughts
(red
arrow).
Over
time,
this
innovative
agency
becomes
controversial;
things
that
were
ignored
thus
far
turn
into
matters
of
concern.
But
a
growing
network
of
actors
might
further
a
potentially
large
assemblage
(unknown
in
its
actors
and
extension).
Figure
1.
The
evolution
of
assemblages
Source:
Mayer
(2012)
Considering
the
case
of
the
Meiji
revolution,
it
is
accurate
to
say
that
whoever
had
pushed
for
innovations—nobles,
engineers,
scholars,
statesmen,
generals
or
entrepreneurs—their
motivations
were
manifold.
This
includes,
as
will
be
shown,
belief,
vision,
profits,
truth,
glory,
problem
solving,
aesthetics,
enrichment,
psychology,
and
adventurism.
The
important
theoretical
point
to
note
here
is
that
assembling
does
not
require
a
uniform
motivation.
As
John
Darwin
argues
in
Unfinished
Empire,
the
assembling
of
even
the
biggest
empire
has
worked
without
a
“master
plan”;
without
a
17
guiding
ideology;
without
a
fixed
and
centrally
coordinated
set
of
practices
(Darwin
2012).
In
this
sense,
the
core
question
is
which
actors
possess
the
creativity
and
adaptability,
first,
to
overcome
ignorance,
and,
second,
to
be
capable
of
“technically”
connecting
all
kinds
of
actors
and
practices.
Our
empirical
knowledge
about
assembling
clearly
indicates
that
no
single
actor—presumably
at
the
commanding
highs—can
carry
out
this
creative
process
in
a
top‐down
manner.
The
enormous
expansion
of
coordinated
action
that
a
successful
innovation
presents
is
only
due
to
the
ability
of
the
many.
The
reality
of
Japan’s
rise,
therefore,
cannot
be
attributed
to
entities
such
as
“social
structures”,
“culture”
or
“national
policies”.
Our
view
builds
on
numerous
studies
that
show
that
the
analytical
concern
with
“state‐led”
strategies
is
particularly
misleading,
though,
an
array
of
actors
that
are
often
wrongly
subsumed
under
the
label
state
are
playing
important
roles.
The
“nation
state”
or
the
“free
market”
constitute
itself
a
complex
assemblage,
comprising
human
and
non‐human
actors
(Carrol
2006,
Alonso
1994,
Callon
2007).
Hence,
creative
destruction
elsewhere
can
affect
“state
assemblages”
and
vice
versa.
It
usually
escapes
the
Cartesian
radars
of
social
science
that
assembling
includes
the
shifts
of
agency
between
humans
and
artificial
objects
since
assembling
requires
the
enrollment
of
an
array
of
non‐human
actors
in
the
first
place.
According
to
the
history
of
technological
change,
we
can’t
presume
a
determining
character
of
technologies,
nor
technological
path‐dependency.
In
this
line,
we
can
propose
that
the
massive
“revolution”
that
enabled
Japan’s
rise
involved
the
sharing,
the
recombination,
or
the
exchange
of
agency
among
humans
and
non‐humans.
Assembling
activities
inevitably
evolve
through
processes
of
translation.
The
model
suggests
an
assemblage
emerges
only
after
various
unpredictable
adjustments
and
transformations.
In
this
phase
(red
fields)
the
innovative
work
of
assembling
really
begins.
As
controversies
set
in,
the
relationships
among
the
involved
actors
including
their
identities,
properties,
and
interests
are
“a
series
of
negotiable
hypotheses”
(Callon
1986).
From
the
perspective
of
the
actors,
translation
means
everything
remains
unstable.7
The
multiple
agencies
involved
not
yet
coordinated.
“Translation
is
the
mechanism
by
which
the
social
and
natural
worlds
progressively
take
form.
The
result
is
a
situation
in
which
certain
entities
control
others.
Understanding
what
sociologists
generally
call
power
relationships
means
describing
the
way
in
which
actors
are
defined,
associated
and
simultaneously
obliged
to
remain
faithful
to
their
alliances.
The
repertoire
of
translation
is
not
only
designed
to
give
a
symmetrical
and
tolerant
description
of
a
complex
process
which
constantly
mixes
together
a
variety
of
social
and
natural
entities.
It
also
permits
an
explanation
of
how
a
few
obtain
the
right
to
express
and
to
represent
the
many
silent
actors
of
the
social
and
natural
worlds
they
have
mobilized.”
(Callon
1986:224)
7
This
fluid
reality
is
exemplified,
for
instance,
through
the
existential
difficulties
that
the
practice
and
theory
of
law
face
in
grasping
technological
changes
(Bennett
Moses
2007).
18
To
construct
a
collective
is
a
creative
and
collective
process.
Multiple
interactions,
positioning,
controversies,
and
replacements
of
identities,
interests,
and
properties;
otherwise
no
actor
would
get
assembled
into
a
stable
collective
in
the
first
place.
To
construct
collectives,
actors
employ
a
wide
range
of
practices—entailing
also
the
use
of
violent
force.
However,
far
more
important
is
the
ability
to
negotiate,
objectify,
standardize,
normalize,
qualify,
and
connect;
in
short,
to
convince
other
actors
to
become
stable
parts
of
an
emerging
assemblage.
But
how
turns
this
process
of
translation
into
a
stabilized
collective?
Taking
about
colonial
expansion,
is
violence
the
key,
which
eventually
cuts
the
Gordian
knot?
As
the
backlashes
of
Japanese
colonial
rule
in
Korea
show,
the
use
of
brute
force
and
disciplining
coercion
does
not
substitute
the
ability
to
stabilized
assemblages.
Instead,
actors
often
solve
controversies
through
“boundary
objects”—including
concepts,
artificial
objects,
notions,
images
et
cetera.
Boundary
objects
become
a
point
of
crystallization
enabling
various
actors
from
heterogeneous
contexts
to
engage,
connect,
and
negotiate
(Mayer
2012).8
They
are
interfaces
enabling
“the
weaving
together
of
a
multitude
of
different
elements
which
renders
the
question
of
whether
they
are
'scientific'
or
'technical'
or
'economic'
or
'political'
or
'managerial'
meaningless.”
(Latour
1987:223).
In
the
beginning,
boundary
objects
are
used
pragmatically
to
allow
for
the
finding
of
a
common
problem
definition
or
standards
regarding
the
matter
of
concern.
Boundary
objects,
however,
do
inevitably
lead
to
the
stabilization
of
an
assemblage.
The
global
climate
negotiations
exemplify
the
difficulty
to
standardize
and
objectify.
Due
to
global
circulation
modeling—the
major
boundary
objects
in
this
area—few
actors
deny
the
fundamental
ecological
interconnectedness
of
“human
activities”
and
bio‐chemical
or
physical
processes
on
a
planetary
scale.
Though,
nearly
25
years
still
failed
to
produce
a
common
definition
of
the
matter
of
concern
and,
thus,
stable
prescriptions
to
solve
to
problem
(Hulme
2009).
The
same
holds
true
for
technological
innovations,
which
only
in
retrospect
appear
to
have
followed
a
linear
“technical”
development
trajectory.
In
contrast,
their
actual
empirical
evolution
is
full
of
twists,
uncertainty
and
contingency—
a
history
that
is
largely
forgotten
later
on.
Although
several
boundary
objects
may
exist
in
parallel
for
long
periods,
our
model
assumes
that
boundary
objects
tend
to
become
obligatory
passage
points.
The
evolution,
then,
is
in
a
phase
of
stabilization:
Practices
were
synchronized;
routines
are
set;
meaning
is
normalized;
an
order
of
knowledge
is
fixed—thereby
holding
a
large
assemblage
and
an
entire
(new)
reality
stable.
Accordingly,
the
y‐axis
in
our
model
represents
the
size
of
an
assemblage.
It
indicates
the
number
and
diversity
of
human
and
non‐human
actors,
which
are
enrolled
and
act
in
concert,
as
a
measure
of
the
power
an
assemblage.
Drawing
on
Joseph
Schumpeter,
we
label
the
entire
phase
of
translation
as
“creative
destruction”
(Schumpeter
1943).
On
the
one
hand,
this
term
highlights
to
creativeness
8
Among
sciences,
for
instance,
boundary
objects
synchronize
research
work,
facilitate
communication
among
different
professional
groups
and
reinforce
scientific
authority
(Shackley
and
Wynne
1996,
Sundberg
2007).
19
of
involved
actors
that
is
necessary
for
assembling.
On
the
other
hand,
Schumpeter’s
terminology
emphasizes
the
resulting
“destruction”
that
inevitably
follows
from
innovations
as
well.
While
Schumpeter
mainly
concentrated
of
innovations
to
revolutionize
“economic
structures”,
in
our
sense,
they
reconfigure,
more
generally,
collectives
of
humans
and
non‐humans.
Due
to
their
heterogeneous
and
fluid
character
the
assemblages
described
above
have
only
temporary
stable
conditions
and
the
trajectory
of
evolution
can
always
be
reversed.
While
new
assemblages
emerge
and
enroll
increasingly
more
actors
other
existing
assemblages
are
affected
by
controversies,
must
realign
themselves,
or
can
even
break
into
pieces
(Latour
2005).
Translations
in
one
assemblage
involve
the
“creative
destruction”
of
another.
Thus
stabilization
leads
elsewhere
to
the
reassembling
or
even
the
disassembling
of
actor‐
networks.
In
sum,
the
theoretical
model
entailing
“translation”
and
“creative
destruction”
suggests
to
hypothesize
the
rise
of
Japan
as
a
process
of
assembling,
reassembling,
and
disassembling.
Methodology:
propositions
for
testing
actors
and
relations
Based
on
the
tools
of
“assemblages”,
“translation”,
and
“creative
destruction”,
we
hypothesize
a
set
of
symmetrical
propositions
that
guide
our
exploration
of
the
19 century
emergence
of
Japan.
While
our
hypotheses
could
be
falsified
with
recourse
to
empirical
observations,
they
secure
that
we
cautiously
progress
towards
a
comprehensive
description
of
our
subject
matter.
Against
imposing
a
certain
theoretical
order
upon
empirical
materials,
our
post‐Cartesian
methodology
advances
five
propositions
in
order
to
empirically
test
agencies
and
the
relations
among
actors:
1.
Uncounted
human
and
non‐human
agencies
assemble
a
modern
state
in
Japan
through
creating
and
connecting
practices,
materials,
and
discourses.
2.
Stabilizing
the
Japanese
assemblage
does
enroll
things,
people,
practices,
and
concepts
in
a
way
that
crisscrosses
the
“internal”/“external”
divide
by
establishing
connections
throughout
East
Asia
or
the
entire
world.
3.
The
Japanese
colonial
empire
is
constructed
by
practices
from
seemingly
incongruent,
or
even
incommensurable
domains
such
as
modern
science
and
messianic
cults.
4.
Stabilizing
Meiji
Japan
as
a
great
power
involves
the
reconfiguring
of
fundamental
dimensions
of
realty
including
time,
knowledge,
spatiality,
bodies,
subjectivities,
and
the
form
of
built
living
environments.
5.
The
creative
destruction
that
enables
Japan’s
rise
is
linked,
at
the
same
time,
to
processes
of
disassembling
elsewhere.
th
20
Before
we
investigate
through
these
five
propositions
the
controversies,
the
translations,
and
the
enrollments
of
actors,
a
few
notes
are
in
place
to
clarify
the
kinds
of
data,
which
we
have
collected
as
well
as
the
generic
vocabulary
that
we
employed
to
our
puzzle.
To
begin
with,
the
relationship
between
increases
in
“power”
and
the
outreach
of
technological
infrastructures,
scientific
practices,
and
the
entanglement
with
the
material
world
at
large
have
remained
a
grossly
under‐researched
issue
in
IR
(but
see
Rosenau
and
Sing
2002,
Herrera
2003).
Therefore,
we
draw
on
empirical
materials
and
qualitative
data
that
are
stemming
from
extra‐disciplinary
sources—
including
works
from
history,
area
studies,
sociology,
geography,
ethnology,
colonial
studies,
and
science
studies.
The
foundational
collector
“assemblages”
enables
this
inter‐disciplinary
plunder
for
it
does
not
a
priori
privilege
a
fixed
set
of
actors
or
groups.
As
we
combine
a
wide
array
of
sources
out
central
purpose
is
to
discover
and
to
describe
accurately
the
multiplicity
of
relational
effects,
actors,
and
group
formations.
Finally,
we
emphasize
the
awareness
of
the
problematic
wording
and
vocabulary
related
to
our
puzzle.
The
literature
refers
to
the
transformative
period
that
we
explore
below
either
as
the
“Meiji
revolution”
or
as
the
“Meiji
restoration”.
For
reasons
that
become
fully
obvious
in
the
course
of
this
article,
the
sheer
magnitude
of
innovations
lends
support
to
the
term
revolution.9
Furthermore,
as
“Japan”
arguably
has
not
existed
prior
to
the
Meiji
revolution,
we
reject
to
presume
a
nascent
“nation
state”—not
to
mention
a
like‐unit
in
the
“international
system”—when
talking
about
the
Tokugawa
shogunate
or
the
Edo
bakufu
(Ravina
1995).
Instead
we
aim
at
preserving
as
much
as
possible
the
ambivalent
terms
that
characterize
our
puzzle:
the
co‐evolution
of
the
emergence
of
a
modern
nation
state
at
the
Japanese
archipelago
and,
at
the
same
time,
the
rise
of
Meiji
Japan
to
great
power
status.
The
term
“rise”,
consequently,
does
neither
signify
the
establishment
of
yet
another
nation
in
a
static
world
of
perfect
sovereign
authority.
Nor
does
it
imply
that
a
new
great
power
joins
the
allegedly
perennial
struggle
for
hegemony.
It
is
precisely
the
agencies
that
these
views
silence—the
actors
who
are
assembling,
constructing,
connecting,
and
reframing
their
world—
that
are
at
stake
if
one
wants
explores
how
“Japan”
became
a
“unit”
of
sorts
in
the
first
place.
The
story
of
this
empowerment
is
extraordinary.
It
allows
us
to
enter
the
reality
of
“great
power”
through
the
rear
window.
The
puzzle
of
the
Meiji
era
shows
how
multiple
the
agencies,
how
divers
the
actors,
and
how
complex
the
actor‐networks
necessarily
are
in
order
to
lift
a
semi‐colonized
country
above
the
non‐Westphalian
world
of
extraterritorial
legality,
semi‐colonial
dependency,
and
technological
backwardness
4.
Assembling
a
great
power:
Japan’s
emergence
This
section
illuminates
the
emergence
of
Japan
through
exploring
the
assembling
processes
that
have
virtually
constructed
a
new
reality
during
the
Meiji
era
and
beyond
9
While
the
usage
of
the
term
“restoration”
is
an
interesting
object
for
the
examination
of
the
historiography
of
Japan’s
rise
itself.
21
(1868‐1940).
We
especially
aim
at
shedding
light
on
the
evolution
of
“regimes
of
time”,
“orders
of
knowledge”,
“built
environments”,
and
“subjectivities”
during
these
periods.
Apparently,
this
task
constitutes
a
considerable
inter‐disciplinary
challenge
and
we
necessarily
have
to
limit
our
attention
to
a
few
selected
aspects
only.
Also
these
four
categories
while
usually
accepted
as
constants
within
essentialist
theoretical
frameworks
here
suggest
an
open‐ended
approach:
our
relativistic
methodology
turns
them
into
subject
matters
for
empirical
research.
They
are
examined
based
one
or
combinations
of
the
five
propositions
detailed
in
the
last
section.
In
the
following,
we
divide
“Japan’s
emergence”
into
three
broad
concerns:
first,
the
characteristics
of
the
“Tokugawa
assemblage”
that
preceded
“Japan’s”
emergence
as
a
nation
state.
Second,
the
creation
of
a
modern
state
in
Meiji‐Japan;
and,
third,
we
explore
the
growth
of
the
actor‐network
through
colonial
expansion.
This
division,
though
it
speaks
to
common
historical
and
scholarly
periodization,
is
here
advanced
for
analytical
purposes
to
enable
a
good
description.
Certain
tenets
and
traditions
of
the
Tokugawa
period,
as
it
were,
become
entangled
within
the
evolving
assemblage
in
the
Meiji
era.
Yet,
the
formation
of
a
modern
Meiji
state
and
the
later
imperial
expansion
are
much
more
intermingled
and
mutually
reinforcing
in
comparison
to
their
connections
with
earlier
historical
events,
ideas,
or
practices.
In
this
sense,
the
metaphor
“Meiji‐revolution”
correctly
denotes
the
abrupt
vanishing
of
a
“world,
which
the
new
regime
systematically
destroyed.”
(Ravina
1995:1019)
Notwithstanding
its
half‐arbitrary
nature,
the
threefold
division
of
our
materials
thus
does
not
prevent
us
from
following
the
actual
connections,
interrelations,
or
circulations
that
stubbornly
evolve
otherwise.
The
subsequent
section
is
not
intended
to
form
a
definitive
or
comprehensive
account.
It
merely
contributes,
in
an
unorthodox
manner,
to
mapping
a
new
landscape;
a
wilderness
of
sorts
that
appeared
impenetrable
or
unfathomable
for
IR
theories
so
far.
4.1.
The
Tokugawa
period:
assembling
in
splendid
isolation?
The
term
Tokugawa
period
denotes,
translated
into
our
calendar,
the
years
between
1603
and
1868.
In
this
period
the
Shogunate
was
the
center
of
authority
within
a
conglomerate
of
domains
or
“countries”
at
the
Japanese
archipelago.
The
bakufu,
located
in
Edo
(ancient
name
of
Tokyo)
functioned
as
the
Shogun’s
administration.
Tokugawa
Ieyasu
founded
both
institutions
after
victoriously
ending
a
phase
of
war
and
unrest.
The
establishment
of
a
feudal
order
involved
a
strict
social
hierarchy
that
placed
the
warrior
class
(samurai),
comprising
the
daimyō
(feudal
lords)
and
the
lower
ranking
samurai,
at
the
top
of
the
hierarchy.
Below
this
status
were
ranked
social
groups
such
as
farmers
(hyakushō),
townspeople,
merchants
and
artisans
(chōnin),
and
several
outcaste
groups.
While
the
emperor
officially
invested
the
Shogun,
he
was
an
a‐political
figure;
merely
a
source
of
legitimacy.
Taking
over
the
military
command
from
Toyotomi
Hideyoshi
after
the
war
with
Korea,
the
Tokugawa
clan
ruled
at
the
center
of
a
complex
feudal
structure,
which
divided
the
main
island
among
roughly
250
feudal
lords
(Kim
22
1961,
Smith
1960).
Subsequently,
the
Tokugawa
bakufu
dominated
Japanese
politics.
It
purportedly
sealed
the
country
from
external
influences.
For
example,
trade
was
restricted,
citizens
were
prohibited
from
traveling
abroad,
and
after
ca.
1620
Christian
missionaries
as
well
as
Portuguese
and
Spaniards
were
expelled
from
the
country.
Only
250
years
later,
the
appearance
of
the
“black
ships”
of
Commodore
Perry
in
1853
forced
the
bakufu
to
open
up
the
country
to
US
and
British
trade
(Jansen
2000).
This
challenged
the
balance
of
authority
within
the
Tokugawa
regime;
a
balance,
which
was
at
that
time
already
under
heavy
pressure
from
a
range
of
dynamic
socio‐economic
transformations
that
undermined
the
feudal
order
(Morishima
1982).10
Yet,
when
the
last
Tokogawa
shōgun
agreed
to
establish
diplomatic
relations,
accepted
the
infamous
unequal
treatise
allowing
for
extraterritorial
legal
courts,
the
European
empires
rendered
the
country
a
semi‐colonial
zone.
Ultimately,
a
group
of
Southern
daimyo
overthrew
the
bakufu
in
a
civil
war
shortly
before
the
onset
of
the
Meiji
revolution
in
1868.
As
scholars
critically
reexamined
earlier
historiography,
the
orthodox
understanding
about
the
extent,
and
about
the
manner
in
which
the
bakufu
“ruled”
Japan
underwent
major
revisions.
Especially,
although
the
earlier
orthodox
view
saw
the
Edo
bakufu
as
a
feudal
administrative
institution
not
comparable
to
a
modern
public
government,
numerous
scholars
have
applied
models
of
European
state
formation
and
their
terminology
to
the
bakufu
in
a
sort
of
a
retrospective
teleology
(Ravina
1995).
In
contrast,
new
research
led
to
a
redefinition
of
several
characteristics
of
the
Tokugawa
shogunate;
three
of
which
matter
most
for
our
purpose:
firstly,
the
practice
of
the
“sakoku”,
that
is,
the
bakufu
efforts
to
regulate
the
influx
of
people,
ideas,
and
things;
secondly,
the
nature
of
the
“state”
against
the
backdrop
of
both
the
elusive
forms
of
premodern
authority
and
the
biased
historiography
of
modern
state
formation;
thirdly,
and
related,
the
significance
of
the
access,
which
the
country
actually
had
to
foreign
technologies,
philosophies,
and
sciences,
as
a
measure
of
its
“backwardness”.
Interrogating
these
aspects
the
following
employs
a
relativistic
methodology.
Particularly,
we
describe
the
Tokugawa
period’s
“built
environments”,
its
“time
regime”
and
the
shifting
“subjectivities”
of
its
people—in
short,
essential
characteristics
of
“Japan”
prior
to
its
“international
rise”.
Material
integration
and
jōkamachi
One
way
to
approach
the
Tokugawa
assemblage
is
analyzing
how
the
shōgun
and
their
vassals,
emerging
from
a
phase
of
political
disintegration,
warfare,
heterogeneous
and
competing
forms
of
authority,
and
unregulated
economic
exchanges
with
people
of
the
entire
East
Asian
region
(Yasunori
2005),
have
assembled
a
new
order
by
interweaving
forms
of
feudal
authority
with
the
“material
living
environments”.
A
good
starting
point
10
In
the
late
19th
century,
the
bakufu
responded
to
famines
and
natural
disaster
with
a
series
of
reforms
informed
by
neo‐Confucian
ideas
in
order
to
reestablish
a
controlled
social
order
(Hanley
and
Yamamura
1971,
Burns
2003).
23
is
the
construction
of
Edo.
At
the
orders
of
Tokugawa
Ieyasu
a
backwater
village
was
turned
into
the
new
capital—the
center
of
a
civilization
as
Ieyasu
and
the
architects
believed.
Whereas
Edo
quickly
became
the
“supreme
metaphor
and
mechanism
of
bakufu
authority”
(Coaldrake
1981:246),
the
early
shōgun
attempts
to
delimitate,
unify,
and
integrate
their
realm
took
decades.
The
Tokugawa,
first
of
all,
were
great
innovators.
For
the
purpose
of
stabilizing
a
feudal
assemblage
with
a
strong
social
hierarchy,
they
set
out
to
standardize
and
regulate
the
prior
customary
modes
of
professions,
arts,
and
artisans;
in
particular
architecture
and
construction.
So,
Edo
supremely
symbolized
the
blending
of
law
and
architecture
by
which
the
early
Shoguns
were
ordering
their
country—but
military
dominance
over
the
other
daimyo
on
the
main
Japanese
Islands
would
not
have
stabilized
the
emerging
assemblage.
Literally,
the
shoguns
rendered
the
capital
into
a
boundary
object
to
enable
an
“integration
project”
after
decades
of
war
and
the
breakdown
of
centralized
order.
The
daimyo
had
not
only
to
build,
on
behalf
of
the
Shogun,
the
city
themselves—using
their
own
resources,
manpower,
and
finances.
Edo
also
became
the
place
in
which
the
feudal
lords
and
their
families
had
partly
to
live
according
to
the
system
of
“compulsory
attendence”
(sankin
kōtai);
a
principle
that
was
formally
codified
in
1632.
Thus,
the
daimyo
families
were
in
persona
assembled
in
Edo;
virtually
as
hostages
of
the
bakufu.
The
design
of
a
city
that
would
quickly
become
the
world’s
largest
and
most
populated
metropolis
with
more
than
1
Million
inhabitants
was
based
on
a
distinctively
spatial,
geomantic,
and
cosmological
plan
(Coaldrake
1981:246‐247).
The
architecture
of
the
buildings
and
the
compounds
were
regulated
according
to
the
class
status.
The
planning
granted
the
samurai
an
over‐proportionally
large
space
in
comparison
to
the
chōnin
(townspeople).
Over
the
decades,
the
bakufu
and
the
city
administration
began
to
prescribe
the
putative
differences
between
architectural
forms,
styles,
and
materials
to
be
employed
for
the
interiors,
the
gateways,
and
the
roofs
among
the
different
classes.
Thus,
the
early
phases
of
urban
development
in
Edo
are
characterized
by
a
remarkable
“homology
between
the
physical
and
political
environments”
(Coaldrake
1981:236).
But
this
is
not
to
say
that
the
bakufu,
presumably
because
of
the
military
dominance
of
the
Tokugawa
shōgun,
had
stabilized
the
feudal
collective
in
a
top‐down
manner.
Rather,
the
city
design,
regulations
and
practices
evolved
through
various
controversies.
An
important
example
is
Edo’s
roofs
that
were
on
the
one
hand
a
marker
of
social
status
(allowing
only
the
daimyō
to
have
non‐wooden
roof
tile),
and
a
constant
threat
on
the
other
hand.
These
regulations
while
favoring
daimyo
run
the
risk
of
great
fires
in
the
city.
The
limits
of
the
bakufu
control
became
evident
after
the
mereki
teika
great
fire
in
1659.
At
that
time,
daimyo
refused
to
rebuild
the
world
largest
castle.
Coaldrake
concludes
the
“concert
between
architectural
forms
and
governments”
was
finally
reversed
in
the
course
of
the
Tokugawa
shogunate
(Coaldrake
1981:257ff).
The
fluidity
of
the
feudal
order
is
illustrated
by
the
fact
that
the
edicts
for
urban
regulation
were
often
ineffective.
In
part,
the
daimyō
and
the
chōnin
met
the
regulation
of
roofs,
gateways,
and
furniture
with
ignorance
or
resistance.
In
part,
new
laws
often
sealed
into
law
what
was
already
common
practice;
developed
without
the
consent
of
the
bakufu.
24
So,
“ultimately
gateways
regulated
the
edicts”
(Coaldrake
1981:284).
Another
central
element
in
the
construction
of
the
Tokugawa
assemblage
was
the
reassembling
of
firearms.
Portuguese
sailors
brought
a
couple
of
guns
on
Japanese
soil
in
the
1550s.
The
daimyo
quickly
began
using,
developing,
and
manufacturing
these
weapons
in
a
large‐scale
manner.
The
usage
of
guns
in
the
numerous
battles
of
this
period
led
to
massive
shifts
in
tactic,
strategies,
fortifications,
and
weapon
industry
(Brown
1948).
At
the
time
of
Hideyoshi’s
invasion
in
Korea,
the
Japanese
daimyo
arguably
had
mastered
land
war
with
guns
and
cannons
better
than
anywhere
else
in
the
world.
As
in
Europe,
guns
called
into
question
the
samurai.
They
affected
the
class‐
difference
during
sixteenth
century
pre‐Tokugawa
(Perrin
1999).
While
the
Tokugawa
clan
owned
its
military
dominance
also
to
guns
and
cannons,
the
bakufu,
in
1636,
ordered
the
edict
of
“sakoku”
(secluded
country).
Its
goal
was
partly,
to
control
the
artifacts
that
would
enter
the
country.
The
bakufu
started
a
confiscation
campaign
to
recollect
guns
from
commoners.
The
final
success,
however,
was
due
to
the
large
size
of
samurai
class
(probably
10
percent
of
the
population).
They
collectively
established
a
feudal
hierarchy
that
bereft
the
low
classes,
first
of
all,
from
the
right
to
use
any
weapons,
which
prior
was
absolutely
usual.
Meanwhile,
the
samurai,
who
for
good
reasons
disgusted
guns
as
weapons
stuck
to
their
swords
and
bows—yet
not
when
it
came
to
hunting
(Perrin
1999).
However,
peasants
have
not
merely
stopped
having
firearms.
Instead,
the
guns
as
objects
became
entangled
in
violent
practices
other
than
warfare
or
civil
unrest.
Indeed,
guns
were
in
common
usage
by
farmers
as
tool
to
frighten
or
kill
animals
throughout
the
Edo
period
(Howell
2009).
The
Tokugawa
assemblage
is
also
quite
distinct
from
the
European
evolution
of
city
fortifications.
The
disassembling
of
guns
and
cannons
led
to
the
virtual
absence
of
city‐walls
and
fortifications
in
the
numerous
towns
build
during
the
Tokugawa
period
(see
Hall
1955).
Without
doubt,
the
inexorable
nexus
of
disassembling
guns,
the
objectifying
of
the
feudal
class
system,
and
the
construction
of
the
build
environments
within
the
Tokugawa
assemblage
is
one
of
the
most
intriguing
and
one
of
the
less
understood
aspects.
To
normalize
the
feudal
order
throughout
the
country,
the
Tokugawa
and
the
vassal
daimyo
also
reconstructed
the
entire
landscape,
in
particular,
through
urban
development.
While
the
bakufu
became
the
central
authority
among
the
daimyō,
the
daimyo
put
the
lands
and
towns
in
their
“countries”
under
a
central
magistrate,
taxation
and
law
implementation.
These
magistrates
were
located
in
the
huge
number
of
newly
build
jōkamachi
(castle
towns).
According
to
Hall,
“it
would
be
hard
to
find
a
parallel
period
of
urban
construction
in
world
history.”
(Hall
1955:43‐44)
“The
castle
towns
thus
individually
and
collectively
became
the
physical
embodiment
of
the
Tokugawa
feudal
elite.
Edo,
the
shogun's
capital,
symbolized
the
hierarchal
unity
of
the
daimyo
under
the
Tokugawa
house,
as
the
several
daimyo
built
residences
in
the
shadow
of
the
castle
and
25
proceeded
on
a
regular
basis
to
pay
yearly
homage
to
the
supreme
feudal
authority.
The
daimyo's
castle
towns
were
but
miniatures
of
this
pattern.
The
morphology
of
the
castle
town
was
in
essence
a
cross‐section
of
the
pattern
of
Japanese
feudal
society.
The
castle
town
was
built
by
and
for
the
daimyo
and
his
vassals.
The
castles,
which
occupied
the
center
of
these
cities,
were
built
to
protect
the
aristocracy.
No
outer
wall
enclosed
the
whole
community
as
in
Europe,
although
outer
moats
were
not
infrequent
(Hall
1955:45).
Embodying
the
feudal
order,
the
jōkamachi,
however,
led
to
new
practices
that
came
to
challenge
its
main
tenets,
namely
the
undisputed
segregation
of
the
samurai
from
the
chonin.
For
one,
the
samurai
became
increasingly
dependent
on
the
services
of
merchants
and
artisans.
“The
result
was
a
radical
rearrangement
of
commercial
activity
in
Japan.
Daimyo,
eager
to
attract
to
their
castles
the
services
of
merchants
and
artisans,
offered
liberal
conditions
to
those
who
would
join
them.
The
old
guild
system
of
medieval
Japan
was
broken
down
as
merchants
took
advantage
of
‘free’
markets
provided
in
the
castle
towns.
Thus
as
the
daimyo
rose
to
power
the
older
centers
of
trade
declined
and
new
communities,
surrounding
the
new
castles,
began
to
flourish.”
(Hall
1955:47)
On
the
one
hand,
the
administrative
control
over
the
chōnin
intensified
throughout
the
Edo
period,
restricting
foreign
trade,
regulation
urban
life
and
commercial
activities,
but
on
the
other
hand,
the
oppression
was
counterbalance
by
the
dependency
of
the
samurai
(Hall
1955).
Moreover,
the
chōnin
were
not
satisfied
with
commerce
and
profit.
They
developed
a
kind
of
“pre‐democratic”
culture
that
merged
arts,
commerce,
and
lifestyle
that,
in
turn,
began
to
increasingly
influence
the
views
and
attitudes
of
the
samurai
(Smith
1960).
In
sum,
the
castle
cities,
that
were
mostly
constructed
from
virtually
from
nothing
between
1580
and
1620
became
obligatory
passage
points
within
the
Tokugawa
assemblage.
“No
doubt
a
certain
provincialism
was
inevitable
in
a
feudal
society
such
as
that
of
Tokugawa
Japan.
But
we
find
that
throughout
the
nation
the
castle
cities
took
on
a
remarkable
uniform
guise
as
the
necessities
of
alternate
attendance
of
the
daimyo
and
their
retinues
at
Edo
circulated
the
ideas
and
practices
of
the
center
to
the
periphery,
and
as
the
enforced
trade
and
Edo
knit
the
merchants
of
the
realm
more
closely
together.”
(Hall
1955:52)
Building
castle
towns
was
but
one
material
embodiment
of
the
Tokugawa
order.
The
practices
of
sankin
kōtai
(alternate
attendance)
in
addition
required
an
elaborate
system
of
roads
and
traffic
infrastructure.
The
first
Shoguns
ordered
to
construction
of
five
highways
(gokaidō)
as
means
of
connecting
the
“provinces”
to
Edo
(Vaporis
1994:17)
in
order
to
enable
the
great
daimyo
processions
back
on
fourth
between
Edo
and
their
castle
towns.
The
roads
allowed
the
250
daimyō
(who
of
course
traveled
with
their
court)
to
come
to
Edo
every
two
years
and
then
reside
there
for
one
year.
They
were
also
used
as
a
primary
way
of
communication,
since
they
allowed
of
on‐foot
travel
of
express
messengers.
As
such,
these
roads
were
besides
the
castle
towns
an
26
integrative
element
of
Tokugawa
assemblage.
Elements
of
this
system
were
post‐
stations
(tonyaba),
which
had
to
supply
the
travellers
with
relay
horses
(sometimes,
but
not
always
provided
by
the
Edo
government)
and
men
power
and
provided
lodging
for
the
travelers.
Due
to
the
bakufu
regulation,
the
local
peasants
were
responsible
for
maintenance
on
their
own
expense
yet
were,
in
turn,
exempted
from
taxation
(Mitsui
1941:91).
As
means
of
control
over
the
movement
on
the
highways,
the
bakufu
established
fifty‐three
barriers
(sekisho)
meant
primarily
to
control
the
flow
of
weapons
into
Edo
and
assuring
that
the
daimyo’s
families
who
weren’t
allowed
to
leave
Edo,
didn’t
do
it
(Vaporis
1994:100).
Special
permissions
were
needed
not
only
to
transport
weapons,
but
also
for
transporting
goods.
Most
people
traveled
by
foot.
Popular
transport
was
also
palanquins
and
the
goods
were
mostly
transported
on
the
horseback.
“For
short
distances
ox‐carts
were
sometimes
employed
as
e.
gr.
for
the
transport
of
rice
from
Otsu
on
the
Tokaidō
to
Kyoto.
But
the
absence,
as
a
whole,
of
vehicles
on
the
roads
is
one
of
the
most
striking
features
of
the
history
of
communications
in
the
feudal
age.”
(Mitsui
1941:92)
Ambivalent
authorities,
mediated
zones,
and
sakoku
Much
of
the
earlier
literature
on
the
Tokugawa
regime
has
correctly
been
accused
of
writing
into
history
the
teleology
of
state
formation.
To
overcome
“national”
biases,
researchers
have
pointed
to
the
ambiguity
of
language
that
was
characteristic
to
the
Edo
period.
Especially,
forms
of
authority
and
their
territorial
delimitation
were
never
unambiguous.
To
use
translations
such
as
“state”,
“country”,
or
“nation”
connected
with
a
modernist
clear‐cut
reading
therefore
conceals
the
unstable
and
contested
employment
of
the
respective
words
in
the
Tokugawa
era.
As
Ravina
shows,
assuming
the
bakufu
as
a
central
government,
which
had
ultimately
aimed
at
exclusively
administering
subordinated
“domains”
is
misleading.
Instead
the
Tokugawa
assemblage
was
constituted
through
ambivalent
practices
of
authority
and
“multiple
systems
of
legitimacy”
(Ravina
1995:1003).
The
Edo
bakufu
and
the
daimyo
used
terms
from
one
semantic
field
often
interchangeable:
“kokuō”,
“kuni”,
“kokka”
could
be
translated
as
country,
land/state,
domain,
and
nation.
These
terms
were
applied
in
parallel
either
to
the
entire
“country“
or
to
the
daimyō
investitures
(Ravina
1995:1004ff).
In
brief,
the
polysemantic
ambiguity
is
a
permanent
feature
of
this
assemblage.
Certainly,
the
feudal
lords
have
not
seen
this
ambivalence
as
something
to
be
erased
once
and
for
all;
as
arguably
a
modern
state
would
attempt
(cf.
Bauman
1991).
In
this
sense,
using
fixed
translations
of
these
terms
in
our
research
practice
runs
the
risk
of
a
bias
for
modernist
“clarity”.
“It
is
difficult
to
translate
Tokugawa
political
texts
into
modern
Japanese:
the
language
of
Tokugawa
politics
did
not
outlive
the
Tokugawa
political
order.
In
1868/6
the
djokan
(council
of
state)
designated
three
types
of
international
division
for
Japan:
ken,
fu,
and
han.
Ken
and
fu
were
ancient
Japanese
terms
for
provincial
units
of
the
imperial
state
and
were
created
by
27
aggregating
Tokugawa
house
lands,
liege
vassal
holdings,
and
small
domains.
Larger
daimyo
holdings
were
designated
han.
Under
the
pretext
of
restoring
seventh‐
and
eight‐century
political
institutions,
the
Meiji
government
eliminated
the
word
kuni
as
a
tern
for
domain.
Implicitly,
Japan
became
the
only
effective
country/kuni,
the
Meiji
state
the
sole
state/kokka,
and
the
Japanese
people
the
only
true
nation/kokumin.
The
introduction
of
distinct
terms
for
prefecture,
domain,
and
state
was
thus
par
of
the
construction
of
the
modern
state
itself.”
(Ravina
1995:1007)
The
ambivalence
of
authority
is
further
evident
from
the
bakufu
project
of
mapping
the
realm
of
the
shōgun.
Although
the
bakufu
produced
the
most
comprehensive
map
to
date
(Yonemoto
2003),
the
techniques
of
map
making
were
not
as
precise,
invasive,
and
related
to
state
engineering
as
in
Europe
(cf.
Carroll
2006).
In
fact,
the
Edo
bakufu
had
to
wait
for
the
daimyo
to
deliver
information.
Territorial
delimitations
were
often
a
question
of
convention
and
unsettled
controversies
over
territories
remained
within
the
maps
as
“disputed
land”.
This
reflected
the
existence
of
multiple
authorities
that
the
bakufu
could
even
not
override
on
its
map.
On
the
other
side,
the
bakufu
was
not
alone
in
charting
the
country.
Multiple
commercial
mapmakers
and
the
bourgeoning
literature
field
of
travel
itineraries
additionally
draw
diverging
pictures
(Yonemoto
2003).
So,
as
in
Europe,
mapping
played
a
crucial
role
in
state
formation.
Yet
the
co‐construction
of
map
and
authority
that
was
particular
to
the
Tokugawa
assemblage
was
radical
different
from
the
increasing
territorial
uniformity
and
exclusive
borders
that
embodied
the
emergence
of
Europe's
“modern
states”
(cf.
Branch
2011).
This
“inaccuracy”
was
related
to
the
state
ideology
of
the
bakufu.
It
has
modeled
itself—mimicking
the
Imperial
Chinese
understanding—as
a
cosmological
center
of
a
civilization.
This
rendered
the
areas
beyond
the
daimyo
estates,
where
the
“barbarians”
(i)
lived,
into
“amorphous
zones
defined
by
trade,
diplomacy
and
ritual”
(Howell
1998:111‐112).
But
even
the
authority
within
the
civilized
world
(ka)
of
the
Japanese
archipelago
did
only
comprised
people
who
were
endowed
with
status.
This
meant
that
several
groups
of
outcastes,
in
turn,
remained
completely
“ungoverned”
by
the
bakufu.
“Early
modern
Japan's
borders
were
not
the
unambiguous
lines
on
a
map
that
separate
modern
nation‐states
from
one
another.
Even
within
the
inner
boundaries
of
the
core
polity
lay
zones
that,
like
the
Ezochi
and
Ryūkyū,
were
autonomous
yet
subject
to
the
authority
of
the
shogunate;
these
internal
autonomies
included
the
daimyo
domains
(whose
physical
borders
were
relatively
clearly
defined),
territories
under
the
authority
of
Buddhist
temples
and
Shintō
shrines,
and
the
more
anomalous
realm
of
the
outcastes.
The
internal
autonomies
of
the
early
modern
polity
were
situationally
defined
according
to
the
rules
of
the
status
system,
so
that
different
social
groups
understood
the
political
geography
of
Japan
differently.
However,
the
complex
internal
geography
of
the
core
polity
had
a
coherence
that
derived
from
the
fixity
of
the
polity's
borders:
daimyo
domains,
outcaste
territories,
and
other
spatial
units
were
part
of
the
political
order
of
the
28
Tokugawa
state
and
had
no
meaning
outside
that
context.
The
core
polity's
inner
boundaries
linked
the
overlapping
internal
geographies
of
shogunate,
domains,
temple
grounds,
and
outcaste
territories
into
a
coherent
institutional
whole.”
(Howell
1998:112‐113)
In
a
similar
way,
turning
again
to
“foreign
relations”,
the
“act
of
seclusion”
(sakoku)
had
by
no
means
drawn
clear
demarcations.
Clearly,
the
Tokugawa
assemblage
was,
strictly
speaking,
never
isolated.
The
Tokugawa
shogunate,
however,
relied
on
a
complex
network
of
“trade
by
proxy”,
which
made
it
dependent
upon
certain
Daimyo
at
the
Southern
and
Northern
part
of
the
archipelago
as
well
as
on
Chinese
and
European
traders—particularly
the
Dutch
(Laver
2008).
So,
the
country
was
“effectively
integrated
into
East
Asian
economic
networks
and
maintained
trade
relations
with
nearly
every
East
Asian
country.
What
the
rulers
of
Japan
sought
to
prohibit
was
trade
with
particular
Western
nations,
while
reaffirming
Japan's
official
relations
with
China
and
Korea”
(Schottenhammer
2007:39).
“The
shogunate
delegated
responsibility
for
overseeing
foreign
relations
to
domains
with
historical
ties
to
the
various
‘windows’
on
the
outside
world:
the
Matsumae
domain
oversaw
trade
ties
with
the
Ainu
in
the
Ezochi,
Tsushima
mediated
relations
with
Korea,
and
Satsuma
regulated
contacts
with
Ryūkyū.
To
be
sure,
the
shogunate
retained
sanctioning
power
over
its
proxies'
outside
contacts
and
thus
set
the
parameters
for
their
diplomatic
and
commercial
activities;
moreover,
it
managed
the
‘window’
at
Nagasaki
itself,
although
the
Dutch
and
Chinese
traders
who
called
there
were
not
recognized
as
official
envoys
of
their
home
countries.
Nevertheless,
the
gap
between
the
shogunate's
interests
and
perceptions
and
those
of
the
domains
was
wide
enough
to
complicate
the
functioning
of
Tokugawa
foreign
relations.”
(Howell
1998:120)
Through
assembling
a
mediated
form
of
“foreign”
relations
the
bakufu,
after
three
decades,
succeeded
in
monopolizing
trade.
It
achieved
to
disassemble
the
East‐Asian
spanning
network
of
illicit
trade,
human
trafficking,
and
“piracy”
(wakō)
in
which
many
daimyo
on
the
Japanese
archipelago
were
actively
participating.
When
Hideyoshi
banned
the
use
of
force
in
coastal
proximity,
he
raised
a
claim
to
“territorial
waters”,
in
which
he
would
act
as
the
sole
arbitrator
(Yasunori
2005:191).
Similarly,
the
Edo
bakufu
later
tried
to
stem
the
tides
of
unregulated
moving
goods,
ideas,
and
people,
in
which
the
disintegrated
rests
of
Imperial
Japan
was
increasingly
drawn
after
the
Chinese
Ming
dynasty
had
restricted
its
foreign
trade
and
stopped
to
control
maritime
traffic
in
the
late
16th
century.
As
Portuguese
and
Spanish
(and
later
Dutch
and
British)
ships,
merchants,
and
missionaries
became
part
of
this
dynamically
evolving
network
it
swept
not
only
the
first
gun
on
Japanese
soil
in
the
1540s.
It
also
led
to
the
foundation
of
new
port
cities
such
as
Nagasaki.
So,
by
putting
in
place
“seclusion”,
the
bakufu
aimed
at
stopping
the
uncontrolled
flow
of
goods
and
the
intermingling
of
people.
29
The
Tokugawa
draw
demarcations
in
terms
of
authority
and
identity
in
order
to
assemble
the
“country”
(Yasunori
2005,
Leupp
2003).
The
Edo
bakufu
established
the
new
treatment
of
residents
from
non‐Japanese
origins
in
consecutive
steps;
which
of
course
steered
major
controversies.
The
normalization
of
procedures
and
practices
for
sorting
out
“foreigners”
needed
almost
a
hundred
years.
In
the
pre‐Tokugawa
era
Dutch,
Portuguese,
Spaniards,
British,
Koreans,
or
Ching‐Chinese,
and
many
other
people
were
self‐evident
actors—many
of
whom
occupied
a
variety
position
even
within
the
ruling
classes.
Yet,
after
1616
the
bakufu
only
allowed
them
to
trade
in
Nagasaki
and
Hirada.
It
also
strictly
ruled
out
by
edict
“multiethnic
cohabitation”.
This
led
to
deportations
of
mixed
children
and
Christian
converts,
while
stigmatizing
Japanese
woman
who
were
affiliated
with
European
men
(Yasunori
2005:194ff).
While
amongst
the
European’s
only
the
Dutch
obtained
to
right
to
stay
in
Nagasaki,
new
regulations
finally
required
from
Chinese
merchants
to
carry
“shinpai”.
From
the
year
1715
on
they
needed
a
prescribed
form
of
credentials.
Through
the
use
of
these
artifacts,
the
Tokugawa
authorities
reassembled
their
country
despite
the
massive
protests
of
merchants,
traders
and
other
Ching
Chinese
residents,
who
resisted
against
their
new
status
as
“barbarians”.
Even
though
their
identity
was
by
now
scripted
according
to
the
Japanese
calendar
and
denoted
in
a
language
that
stripped
the
heavenly
Kingdom
of
its
superiority,
the
Ching
Emporer
Kanxi
finally
accepted
the
use
of
the
shinpai
(Toby
1985).
Ultimately,
the
shinpai
practice
embodied
the
active
separating
out
of
all
non‐Japanse‐
turned‐aliens.
Note
that
these
practices
bear
no
resemblance
to
textbook
accounts
of
modern
sovereignty.11
Keeping
ordinary
“Japanese”
from
traveling
and
trading
abroad,
the
“seclusion”
constituted
a
highly
complicated
form
of
mediated
relations
with
and
through
Tribute
states.
The
overlapping
of
the
Tokugawa
and
the
Ching
tribute
systems—intersecting
for
instance
in
Korea
and
the
Ryūkyū
kingdom—led
to
repeated
controversies
over
the
status
of
such
countries,
islands,
and
domains.
To
stabilize
their
assemblage,
the
Tokugawa
shogunate
also
became
enrolled
in
the
extensive
and
often
volatile
networks
of
Chinese
and
European
merchants
including
the
trading
posts
at
strategic
positions
such
as
in
Taiwan,
the
Philippines,
and
Batavia;
these
networks
facilitated
the
flow
of
commodities
and
communications
that
was
needed
notwithstanding
“sakoku”
(Schottenhammer
2007,
Howell
1998).
For
example,
the
bakufu
eventually
stabilized
the
export
of
silver
to
the
extent
that
the
production
trends
of
the
daimyo
mining
precious
metals
became
“closely
related
with
the
history
of
colonization
and
the
Far
Eastern
trade
of
Europeans.”
(Kobata
1965:247)
Also,
as
the
extraction
and
export
of
precious
metals
became
almost
the
sole
prerogative
of
the
bakufu,
the
Shogun’s
financial
power
were
aligned
with
“foreign”
ships
that
exported
Japanese
silver
and
broad
back
commodities
from
Ching
China
and
Indochina
such
as
sugar,
spices,
medicines,
and
clothing
materials,
gold,
raw
and
woven
silk.
As
such,
the
sheer
amount
of
Tokugawa
silver
influenced
commodity
prizes
and
the
colonial
11
But,
perhaps
more
so
to
historical
real
world
practices
of
sovereignty
in
middle
Europe
(see
Osiander
2001).
30
expansion
in
the
Americas
and
elsewhere.
At
home,
the
professionalization
in
silver
production
and
the
increased
use
of
silver
coins
enabled
the
“unification
of
currency”
under
the
Tokugawa
regime
(Kobata
1965,
Laver
2008).
In
sum,
it
was
only
from
a
Western
perspective
possible
to
argue
that
“sakoku”
led
to
Japan’s
isolation;
whereas
the
bakufu
was
effectively
trying
to
ban
Catholicism
from
its
soil
and
reoriented
the
country
towards
East
Asia
(Jansen
2000).
The
emphasis
on
“closure”
is
also
misplaced
because,
as
Dutch
merchants
at
the
small
island
of
Deshima
became
an
obligatory
passage
point
in
the
course
of
sakoku,
the
scholars
of
“Western
learning”
were
spreading
the
information
about
the
latest
intellectual,
technical,
and
scientific
developments
in
Europe.
Through
the
translation
of
Dutch
books
western
arts
and
science
such
as
astronomy,
mathematics,
physics,
anatomy,
and
surgery
entered
Japanese
thinking
and
practices
long
before
the
Meiji
revolution
(Jansen
1984).
Resetting
the
calendar,
innovating
historicism,
and
rangaku
As
another
crucial
aspect
of
the
reset
in
“foreign
relations”,
the
bakufu
established
a
new
regime
of
time.
What
emerges
from
different
historical
studies
is
the
fact
that
the
bakufu
relations
to
the
external
world
were
crucial
to
its
legitimacy
(Toby
1977).
This
involved
the
mimicking
of
the
Imperial
Ming
Tribute
system
and
its
status
as
“kingdom
at
the
center
of
the
world”;
only
with
Edo
at
its
center.
By
resetting
the
calendar
in
the
first
decade
of
the
seventeenth
century
the
Shoguns
challenged
the
Chinese
imperial
world
order.
The
Edo
bakufu
arranged
itself
at
the
center
of
the
world
by
means
of
creating
a
new
calendar.
Particularly,
it
began
using
Japanese
era
names
in
the
official
correspondence
with
Kingdom
Korea,
the
Ryūkyū
Islands
and
Ming
China.
Through
a
shift
in
language
the
autonomous
position
of
the
Tokugawa
shōguns
(“taikun”)
outside
the
Tribute
system
was
emphasized.
So,
the
bakufu
reassembled
a
sort
of
foreign
relations
on
its
own
terms
in
the
first
decades
of
the
17th
century
(Toby
1985).
The
Edo
bakufu
reconstructed
time
so
as
to
leave
unchanged
the
basic
structure
of
the
lunisolar
calendar,
which
has
been
introduced
from
China
in
the
year
604
(a.c.).
However,
by
using
new
era
names
with
reference
to
the
Tennō
(emperor),
the
Tokogawa
shogunate
assembled
a
time
regime
that
objectified
the
authority
and
the
autonomy
of
the
Edo
bakufu
as
the
center
of
the
world
(Toby
1985).
Surely,
if
we
consider
the
magnificent
cosmological
design
and
the
architectural
largess
of
Edo,
which
was
around
1720
way
bigger
than
Madrid,
Lisbon,
Paris
and
London,
we
cannot
easily
dismiss
the
shogun’s
vision
to
reside
in
the
center
of
the
world
as
illusory.
So,
while
the
new
time
regime
was
intertwined
with
the
bakufu
attempts
to
“unify”
the
country,
at
a
larger
scale,
it
rendered
the
calendar
and
the
chronology
into
a
matter
of
translation
across
entire
“official”
East
Asia.
Until
the
early
seventeenth
century,
the
region
was
accustomed
to
use
the
Imperial
Chinese
era
names
as
a
common
regime
of
periodization
in
communications,
letters,
and
exchanges.
This
complicated
the
correspondence
with
Korea
and
the
Ching
Empire,
which
by
than
both
used
their
own
31
era
periodization.
But
it
made
also
the
Japanese
understanding
of
the
European
time
more
difficult.
During
the
sixteenth
century,
the
European
empires
had
their
own
major
calendar
reform,
substituting
the
Julian
calendar
with
the
Gregorian
sun‐calendar.
On
the
Tokugawa
side,
the
anno‐domini
chronology
was
popular.
However,
its
meaning
was
largely
unknown.12
In
brief,
this
brewed
a
cognitive
dissonance
among
the
Asian
countries,
by
now
having
constructed
their
separate
era
name
systems,
as
well
as
between
them
and
the
unified
European
time‐line
of
the
Gregorian
calendar.
The
use
of
mechanic
clocks
illuminates
yet
another
aspect
of
time
particular
to
the
Tokugawa
period.
“Foreign”
artifacts
experienced
an
odyssey
within
the
Tokugawa
assemblage
despite
sakoku.
In
the
late
16th
century,
mechanic
clocks
were
known
at
the
Japanese
Island.
Missionaries
and
merchants
offered
them
as
early
as
1560
to
the
daimyo
and
other
authorities
as
valuable
presents.
Though
clocks
were
highly
appreciated
in
Imperial
China,
only
Japanese
smiths
started
imitating
and,
finally,
building
their
own
indigenous
timepieces.
However,
in
order
to
adopt
the
European
design,
they
had
to
overcome
a
considerable
difficulty.
In
contrast
to
European
countries
and
China,
Tokugawa
Japan
did
not
measure
time
in
24
fixed
even
hours.
The
Japanese
instead
measured
time
in
terms
of
six
hours
per
night/six
hours
per
day.
Because
their
recourse
to
the
sun
light
the
duration
of
an
“hour,
of
course,
was
not
constant
but
respectively
shifting
according
to
the
season
(Cipolla
2011).
So,
the
24
even
hour
clock
face
made
no
sense
for
them.
Yet,
the
Japanese
clock
makers
used
the
same
basic
mechanic
elements
remaking
the
dial;
later,
they
constructed
“wadokei”
with
separate
dials
for
days
and
nights.
The
proliferation
of
clocks,
mainly
as
luxury
goods
for
the
bushi
class,
has
not
changed
the
traditional
way
of
measuring
time.
It
remained
synchronized
with
natural
rhythms
and
standardized
through
the
numerous
bell
towers
in
towns
and
villages
(Coulmas
2000:71‐74);
much
like
in
medieval
and
early
modern
Europe
(see
Landes
2000).
Until
the
Meiji
era
no
generic
vocabulary
denoting
exact
durations
such
as
“minutes”
or
“seconds”
existed.
The
standardization
of
time,
then,
meant
that
people
had
literately
to
learn
reading
the
clock.
In
sum,
to
the
extent
to
which
the
wadokei
are
an
innovative
work
of
construction,
they
constitute
an
assemblage
that
embodies
in
a
unique
way
the
blending
of
the
“modern”
mechanically
fixed
time
and
a
“premodern”
regime
of
time
that
is
coupled
to
natural
rhythms,
to
cultural
calendar,
and
to
peasant
life
(Coulmas
2000:90).
However,
while
the
bakufu
never
thought
of
introducing
the
solar
calendar,
the
superior
European
astronomy
and
time
measurement
nevertheless
made
an
impact.
Through
the
knowledge
of
the
Dutch
astronomical
methods,
the
Tokugawa
scholars
became
aware
of
the
problematic
inaccuracy
of
the
lunisolar
framing
of
days,
months
and
years.
It
enabled
them
to
enact
four
major
corrections
and
calendar
reforms
during
the
Tokugawa
period
(Coulmas
2000:111‐113).
In
sum,
the
time
regime
of
Tokugawa,
though
it
was
locally
synchronized
through
bell
towers,
was
as
precarious
and
multi‐
12
In
some
instances
the
Tokugawa
authorities
wrongly
believed
that
the
specific
year
of
the
foundation
of
a
country
meant
the
actual
number
of
years
since
its
foundation
(Coulmas
2000:112).
32
layered
as
the
authority
of
the
bakufu.
Lacking
the
ubiquity
of
precise
clocks
and
sticking
to
a
system
of
naturally
uneven
“hours”,
it
has
no
resemblance
to
the
monocultures
of
time
that
developed,
at
the
same
time,
during
the
European
Neuzeit.
The
last
aspect
of
time
that
warrants
consideration
is
the
advent
of
“historicism”.
By
the
late
seventeenth
century
the
scholars
of
the
“kokugaku”
school
(national
learning)
reinterpreted
ancient
texts
and
set
out
to
construct
the
largest
order
of
time:
history.
They
achieved
what
Benedict
Anderson
has
stressed
as
a
critical
origin
of
nations
(cf.
Anderson
1996).
Confronted
with
a
phase
of
social
unrest,
rapid
urbanization
and
commercialization,
increasing
challenges
mounted
to
the
bakufu
legitimacy
they
pursued
unorthodox
ideas
and
frames.
Motoori
Norinaga,
Ueda
Akinari,
and
others
began
to
capture
their
country
in
terms
of
a
“national
history”.
This
involved
the
contestation
of
“transcultural
and
transhistorical”
principles
that
were
the
norm
in
the
Tokugawa
knowledge
order.
“Implicated,
as
well,
in
this
transformation
was
a
new
concern
to
historicize
contemporary
modes
of
discursive
practice”
(Burns
2003:38).
Especially,
they
attacked
the
bakufu
neo‐Confusian
response
to
the
massive
transformations
and
upheavals.
Against
an
emphasis
on
individual
virtue
and
personal
attitudes,
these
scholars
relentlessly
searched
for
a
difference
in
virtues
(between
Japan/China).
Having
discovered
history,
they
contextualized
the
classical
Chinese
thoughts
while
trying
to
comprehend
the
truly
indigenous
“spirit”
that
would
form
the
basis
of
a
“national”
community.
In
effect,
the
kokugaku
tradition,
though
an
internally
contested
collection
of
thoughts,
de‐centered
the
“heavenly
Kingdom”
and
put
“Japan”
as
an
entity
into
a
historical
horizon
(Burns
2003).
The
search
for
“Japaneseness”,
among
other
things,
led
to
a
reconsideration
of
the
“Chinese”
content
within
the
style,
the
characters,
and
the
grammar
of
the
spoken
and
written
language
at
that
time
(Ueda
2008).
Incorporating
the
views
of
Western
scholars
about
Imperial
China,
the
kokugagku
also
reconfigured
the
discursive
benchmark
for
“superiority”:
one
could
by
now
choose
between
ancient
China
or
the
West
while
Japan’s
place
on
the
map
was
divinely
secured
by
its
own
native
spirit.
Assembling
“history”,
yet,
involved
a
lot
more
things.
For
example,
the
kokugaku
school
developed
of
a
theory
of
subjectivity
and
a
theory
of
language
on
the
one
hand,
while
propagating
the
reinvigoration
of
Shintō
practices
that
contested
the
predominance
of
neo‐Confucian
ideas
and
Buddhist
cults
on
the
other.
Most
crucially,
the
kokugaku
propagated
a
mythology
that
granted
the
Japanese
emperor
a
cardinal
role.
The
Tenno,
by
now,
was
seen
as
a
figure
prior
to
history—indisputably
standing
outside
the
cyclic
ebbs
and
flows
of
the
Chinese
dynasties.
For
the
kokugaku
scholars,
the
emperor’s
family
could
never
downfall
because
it
could
not
lose
the
“mandate
of
heaven”
in
the
first
place.
For
Norinaga
and
his
followers
claimed
the
emperor’s
direct
divine
descent
in
an
unbroken
line
from
the
Sun
Goddess
Amaterasu.
As
the
spiritual
essence
of
the
nation,
the
Tennō
thus
belongs
to
a
time
regime
radical
different
from
the
Chinese
dynasties
(Burns
2003,
Leupp
2003:90,
Wakabayashi
1999:30ff).
While
not
directly
challenging
the
bakufu,
importantly,
this
theory
reconfigured
the
era
name
system
of
the
Tokugawa.
The
kokugaku
reassembled
it
from
a
tool
of
periodic‐distinction,
to
a
33
historically
precise
chronology
of
the
Tennō’s
passage
thought
time—and
with
him
the
history
of
the
koku
(“nation”).
As
such,
the
proponents
of
“national
learning”
have
collectively
established
a
novel
time
regime,
which
was
understood
by
their
contemporaries
as
a
challenge
to
the
bakufu
government.
Obviously,
the
kokugagku’s
linear
notion
of
time
suggested
a
telos
that
contradicted
the
Tokugawa’s
“ahistorical”
time
regime
of
eras
(Burns
2003).
The
bakufu
indeed
censored
or
banned
some
kokugaku
works.
Nonetheless,
this
set
of
ideas
was
taken
up
decades
later
during
the
Meiji
period
by
the
innovators
who
took
up
the
task
of
constructing
the
Japanese
nation.
The
controversies
about
the
question
of
“learning”
during
the
late
Tokugawa
period
illustrate
a
serious
destabilization
of
the
knowledge
order
(Harootunian
1988,
Brownstein
1987).
The
bakufu
came
under
increasing
pressure
because
of
social
disorder,
unrest,
and
Russian,
British
and
American
pressure
to
open
its
borders
for
trade
and
investment.
Against
this
backdrop,
the
central
question
among
the
daimyo
and
the
scholars
became
what
the
“country”
had
to
learn.
How
could
it
preserve
independence,
that
is,
the
principle
of
sakoku?
Individual
writers
and
different
“schools”
such
as
the
Mito‐school
and
the
rangagukshō
sought
for
differing
answers.
But
their
discussion
crystallized
around
the
concepts
of
“attacking
and
repelling
the
Barbarians”
(jōi)
and
“opening
the
country”
(kaikoku).
As
Wakabayashi
stresses,
these
two
approaches
to
sakoku
did
not
stand
in
clear
opposition.
The
basic
meaning
and
implications
was
differently
framed
by
various
discussants.
The
publication
of
Aizawa’s
Shinron
(New
Thesis)
marked
a
watershed
in
this
regard.
It
was
published
in
1825,
the
year
in
which
the
bakufu
promulgated
jōi
as
official
doctrine—
demanding
from
the
daimyo
to
use
force
if
necessary
against
foreigners
approaching
the
shores
except
the
Dutch.
The
Shinron
merged
nativist
Shintō
and
Confucian
thoughts
into
a
polymorph
body
of
knowledge
(Wakabayashi
1999:4ff.).
While
supporting
jōi
Aizawa
profoundly
re‐
envisioned
the
space‐time
the
conditioned
the
Tokugawa
shogunate.
His
work
“contained
tenets
of
proto‐nationalism:
the
idea
and
belief
that
all
Japanese,
despite
their
unalterate
differences
in
social
status,
owe
ultimately
loyalty
to
the
existing
bakuhan
state
as
the
only
form
of
political
organization
proper
to
an
independent
and
sovereign
Japan.
Thanks
to
this
ideology
of
Japan
as
Middle‐Kingdom,
Aizawa
made
the
crucially
important
shift
in
world
view
from
universial
empire
(tenka)
to
nation‐state
(kokka),
a
perceptual
shift
that
would
take
decades
longer
in
China.
After
the
appearence
of
New
Thesis
in
1825,
bakumatsu
thinkers
and
leaders
continued
to
conceive
a
Japan‐
centered
world
order,
but
they
realized
that
Japan
did
not
dominate
it.”
(Wakabayashi
1999:9)
On
the
other
hand,
the
“rangakushō”
(Dutch
Studies)
and
the
school
of
“yōsai”
(Western
learning)
answered
the
core
questions
much
more
pragmatic.
Drawing
on
their
theoretical
and
practical
knowledge
about
Western
technology
and
sciences,
they
brushed
aside
Shintō
or
neo‐Confucianism
systems
of
thought.
The
rangaku
34
professionals,
many
of
whom
studied
under
Dutch
supervision
and
worked
as
interpreters,
typically
did
not
belong
to
the
samurai.
They
gained
their
know‐how
largely
unconnected
and
unregulated
by
the
bakufu
yet
in
the
late
Tokugawa
they
increasingly
attained
influence
in
bureaucratic
decision‐making
and
public
debates.
Rangaku
scholars
were
neither
necessarily
pro‐opening,
nor
automatically
anti‐
Tokugawa.
But
these
pragmatists
shared
a
common
mind‐set
that
by
definition
looked
beyond
the
“heavenly
Kingdom”
for
knowledge
and
know‐how.
They
clearly
understood
the
shifts
in
world
politics—often
seeing
Russia
as
the
prime
threat
to
the
Tokugawa
country
(Horiuchi
2003,
Jansen
1984).
The
debate
took
off
especially
after
the
reports
about
Ching
China’s
defeat
in
the
Opium
wars
during
the
early
1840s.
The
lessons
of
the
British
enforcement
of
unequal
treaties
gave
the
discussions
at
the
bakufu
and
among
informed
observers
about
the
pursuit
of
sakoku
and
jōi
an
increased
urgency
even
before
Commodore
Perry’s
ships
arrived
in
Edo
(Wakabayashi
1992).
That
the
bakufu
was
barely
able
to
up‐keep
the
principle
of
sokaku
reframed
the
view
on
jōi.
Realist
thinkers
persuaded
their
peers
that
opening
the
country
was
unavoidable.
Furthermore,
many
argued
to
make
the
country
“independent”
again
“learning
from
the
West”
was
paramount.
This,
however,
meant
not
only
to
import
modern
technologies.
It
rather
implied
to
also
acquire
the
“spirit
of
modern
Western
civilization”
(Wakabayashi
1999:8).
Yoshida
Shōin,
the
most
influential
voice
of
that
day
that
called
for
“expelling
the
barbarians”,
demanded
to
this
end
a
truly
Japanese
“national
identity”
as
he
believed
that
the
lack
of
“national”
cohesiveness
among
the
common
people
was
at
the
core
of
the
Ching’s
defeat
at
the
hand
of
British
troops
and
merchants
(Wakabayashi
1992).
Similarly,
by
claiming
that
the
Japanese
should
import
the
“spirit
of
civilization”,
scholars
such
as
Kukuzawa
Yukichi
rejected
merely
copying
the
West.
Instead,
Westernization
was
understood
as
the
response
the
expansion
of
the
European
civilization,
which
required
the
creation
of
a
nation
state;
this
nation
state,
more
crucially,
constituted
a
hybrid,
impure,
and
contingent
amalgam.
Yuckichi
did
not
see
the
“Japanese
nation
state“
as
the
materialization
of
an
allegedly
native
“identity”
or
“spirit”
in
the
essentialist
sense;
as
the
kokugaku
scholars
had
claimed.
On
the
one
hand,
his
understanding
offered
the
innovators
of
state
formation
room
to
maneuver.
They
had
not
slavishly
to
follow
the
European
blueprint;
on
the
other
hand,
Yukichi
construed
Japan’s
success
against
the
rest
of
“Asia”
that
were,
by
and
large,
unable
and
unwilling
to
Westernize
(Sakamoto
1996).
In
sum,
the
controversies
in
the
late
Tokugawa
about
“western
learning”
were
closely
connected
to
constructions
of
identity
and
otherness
between
“Japan”,
the
“West”,
and
“China”.
The
experiences
from
the
practice
of
“western
learning”
proofed
this
contention.
Dozens
of
shipyards
were
build
in
the
Satsuma,
the
Saga
and
the
Mito
domain
after
the
appearance
of
Perry’s
squadron
in
Edo
had
ultimately
forced
the
bakufu
to
open
the
country.
These
“westernized”
places
resembled
to
a
certain
degree
Yukichi
vision
of
“hybridity”.
The
organization
of
the
technical
instruction,
the
translation
and
collaboration
procedures,
the
reverse
engineering
as
well
as
the
integration
of
local
skills
in
iron
processing
created
unique
“Japanese”
instances
of
industrialization
well
before
the
Meiji
revolution
(cf.
Smith
1949).
35
4.2.
The
Meiji
period:
assembling
the
state/assembling
the
empire
When
one
takes
the
magnifying
glass
of
post‐Cartesian
propositions,
one
stumbles
upon
enormously
complicated
networks
of
human
and
non‐human
actors
assembling
what
we
got
used
to
call
“the
Japanese
empire”.
This
term
usually
depicts
the
period
dating
from
the
Meiji
restoration
until
the
end
of
the
World
War
II.
During
this
time
Japan
managed
to
break
out
of
its
semi‐colonial
status
it
attained
in
the
middle
of
the
19th
century
with
its
incorporation
into
the
treaty
port
system
and
asserted
its
position
as
a
colonial
power
itself.
Firstly,
Japan
annexed
Taiwan
(then
Formosa)
from
China
in
1895,
the
southern
part
of
Sakhalin
(Karafuto)
and
an
influence
sphere
in
south
Manchuria,
taken
over
from
Russia
in
1905
followed.
Korea
became
a
protectorate
in
1905
and
a
proper
colony
in
1910
and
Japan
continued
spreading
its
influence
over
a
large
part
of
Asia
Pacific
(Beasly
1987:6).
However,
this
expansion
was
clearly
not
the
result
of
a
well‐
planned,
top‐down
action
of
the
Meiji
government
(Conroy
1966).
The
following
section
especially
focuses
on
the
events
during
the
late
Meiji
(1868
‐
1912)
and
Taishō
period
(1912‐1926)
and
early
Shōwa
period.
Following
the
evidence
from
numerous
recent
studies,
the
Japanese
relationship
with
its
colonies
at
this
time
was
highly
complex,
mutually
dependent
and
inexorably
intertwined
with
modern
state
formation,
both
within
Japan
as
well
as
in
the
colonial
territories.
Not
only
did
Japan
had
an
immense
influence
on
its
dependent
territories
in
various
areas,
such
as
communication,
science
and
education,
but
the
influence
also
went
the
other
direction,
rendering
knowledge
and
identities
at
the
centre
controversial
as
well
(Schmid
2000
and
Wilson
2005).
Reassembling
time,
reconstructing
the
built
environment
The
formation
of
a
modern
state
in
Japan
involved
the
construction
of
various
actor‐
networks,
the
introduction
of
new
artificial
objects,
and
the
enlargement
of
infrastructures.
While
the
entire
process
is
too
complex
and
multi‐faced
to
get
fully
mapped
here,
this
section
mainly
highlights
the
new
time
regime,
the
introduction
of
“foreign”
technologies,
in
Japan
in
order
examine
the
relation
of
modern
state
formation
and
Japan’s
rise.
The
establishment
of
a
“modern”
form
of
time
in
Japan
entailed
a
complex
and
mutually
reinforcing
implementation
of
regulations,
the
spread
technological
artifacts
measuring
time,
and
various
synchronizations
related
to
machines
in
factories
as
well
as
railway
lines
to
the
effect
that
time
became
increasingly
standardized
and
synchronized.
When
adopting
the
Western
time
system
in
the
year
1873,
a
system
that
the
great
powers
had
established
through
a
convention,
which
settled
the
zero‐meridian
at
the
conference
of
Washington
in
October
1884
the
first
government
of
the
Meiji‐period
marked
to
start
of
a
construction
process
that
radically
reconfigured
“time”
in
Japan.
As
the
practical
apprehension
and
measurement
of
time
36
prior
to
this
phase
was
hardly
influenced
by
technological
artifacts
–
beyond
bells
–
this
implied
an
even
more
revolutionary
shift
in
the
popular
time
consciousness
as
it
has
been
the
case
in
Europe
(Nakamura
2002,
Shimada
1995,
Suzuki
2002
etc.).
Yet
the
“time
revolution”
in
Japan
also
created
a
unique
assemblage.
This
is,
for
example,
mirrored
by
the
fact
that
the
emerging
reality
of
a
new
“time”
required
a
new
vocabulary.
As
the
practical
construction
and
experience
of
time
altered
the
conceptual
understanding
and
the
common
usage
of
words
for
time
changed
as
well.
As
Shimada
observes,
the
Meiji
era
was
not
only
marked
by
the
adoption
of
various
Western
notions,
but
also
by
linguistic
innovations.
As
such,
the
traditional
word
for
time,
as
it
were,
“toki”
was
complemented
by
the
word
“jikan”;
the
Japanese
incorporated
and
translated
the
latter
directly
from
English.
The
term
toki
could
be
understood
with
a
meaning
of
duration,
but
also
as
a
fixed
point
in
time,
however
it
does
not
function
as
a
noun.
Jikan,
however,
refers
only
to
duration
and
is
not
filled
with
any
specificity
of,
for
example,
“that
time”,
as
in
the
use
of
toki.
It
can
also
be
used
as
a
noun.13
Shimada
argues
that
the
introduction
of
this
new
term
was
necessary
because
“a
new
aspect
of
the
meaning
of
time
emerged;
specifically,
time
as
an
object
of
thinking
and
time
as
thing
which
one
could
possess
and
measure.”
Furthermore,
“this
concept
of
time
expressed
an
idea
of
objectified
and
externalized
time,
according
to
which
day‐to‐day
life
was
organised.”
(Shimada
1995:253)
The
evolving
usage
of
the
new
term
for
time
is
illustrated
at
best
by
the
working
rules
of
the
factories,
called
since
than
“rōdō
jikan”
(Shimada
1995:252f).
These
regulations
underwent
significant
changes
over
time.
At
first,
a
relic
of
the
old
time
understanding
was
to
be
found
in
the
working
hours
system.
In
the
late
Edo
period
the
agricultural
class
was
using
the
variable‐hour
time
system,
whereas
the
ruling
class
has
already
switched
to
the
fixed‐hour
system.
At
times
when
these
two
classes
met,
this
resulted
in
the
representatives
of
the
lower
class
having
to
wait
long
hours
for
their
superiors,
which
was
broadly
socially
accepted.
Such
was
also
the
case
in
factories,
which
worked
using
the
fixed‐hour
system.
According
to
regulations
from
year
1873
workers
were
made
to
arrive
to
work
one
hour
early
before
the
actual
work
started.
As
Suzuki
states
“That
extra
hour
in
the
morning
before
work
can
only
be
understood
in
terms
of
class
relations
which
dictate
that
in
a
management‐run
factory,
labor
has
to
show
up
early
for
work,
if
only
to
make
sure
that
management
is
not
inconvenienced
in
any
way.”
(Suzuki
2002:80)
With
time
however,
different
factories
introduced
measures
to
enforce
a
greater
workers
punctuality,
the
most
popular
of
which
was
the
pre‐work
loud
steam
whistle
that
could
be
heard
in
the
surroundings
of
the
factory
and
gave
workers
the
signal
of
having
to
hurry
to
the
factory.
Together
with
appearing
of
clock
towers
and
a
spread
of
clocks
in
shops,
the
workers
gradually
had
to
get
used
to
a
fifteen‐minute
span
of
punctuality.
At
the
same
time,
regulations
were
introduced
which
enforced
reducing
the
pay
of
workers
who
came
in
late,
and
by
1886
tardy
workers
were
not
allowed
to
enter
the
factory
at
all.
The
reason
for
this
strict
regulation
was,
in
fact,
technological.
13
As
in
for
example,
“Do
you
have
time
this
evening?”
“konban,
ikan
ga
arimasuka?”
37
Since
factories
at
this
time
used
the
steam
powered
motor
for
powering
different
machines,
the
most
effective
way
to
run
a
factory,
was
to
let
all
the
work
begin
at
the
exact
moment
the
motor
accumulated
enough
steam
pressure
in
the
boiler
(Suzuki
2002:79‐85).
It
is
therefore
clear
that
the
technological
conditions
of
the
production
process
required
from
the
workers
developing
a
different
time
consciousness.
A
similar
replacement
of
the
“old”
time
regimes
through
novel
technologies
took
place
with
regard
to
railways.
The
first
line
opened
between
Shinbashi
and
Yokohama
1872
six
months
before
the
Gregorian
calendar
and
an
invariable
hour
system
was
adopted.
Because
of
the
need
to
ensure
equal
time
intervals
between
trains,
the
railway
timetable
had
to
operate
in
accordance
with
the
new
invariable
hour
system
already
then.
As
it
was
meant
as
a
service
for
the
passengers,
who
were
still
functioning
according
to
the
traditional
time
system,
the
question
arose
of
how
to
set
a
standard
time
and
whether
the
passengers
would
be
able
to
understand
operations
based
on
the
fixed‐hour
time.
In
order
to
solve
this
problem
the
Ministry
of
Public
Works,
Railway
Section
decided
to
move
a
temple
bell
to
the
top
of
the
highest
natural
mountain
in
Tokyo
(Mt.
Atago)
and
for
it
to
be
struck
“on
the
hour,
every
hour,
from
one
through
twelve,
day
and
night,
every
day”.
Rather
than
establishing
a
new
time
for
this
bell,
the
Ministry
of
Public
Works
gave
instruction
to
synchronize
it
with
the
gunfire
of
Edo
Castle,
establishing
a
common
time
and
setting
the
time
used
by
the
Edo
Castle
as
the
standard
time.
However
the
new
technology
didn’t
only
make
people
change
their
notion
of
the
“hour”.
It
required
the
Japanese
to
change
their
time
consciousness
altogether.
It
was
namely
customary
to
go
about
ones
day
using
approximately
30
minutes
as
the
basic
unit
of
time.
But
the
timetables
distributed
to
the
public
informed
the
passengers
to
appear
at
the
station
between
15
and
5
minutes
from
the
departure.
Tardiness
would
result
in
missing
the
train,
since
the
stations
were
to
be
closed
at
this
point,
preventing
train
delays.
As
Nakamura
puts
it
“In
other
words,
people
were
forced
to
experience
time
in
minutes,
which
they
had
never
even
considered
before.
If
they
were
even
a
minute
late,
they
would
miss
the
train.”(Nakamura
2002:14ff)
In
order
to
convince
the
general
public
of
the
superiority
of
railways
to
other
means
of
transportation,
it
was
necessary
to
ensure
an
on‐schedule
operation
and
demonstrate
the
speediness
of
this
way
of
transport.
With
this
purpose,
a
number
of
measures
concerning
timeliness
were
implemented.
Concrete
procedures
for
controlling
the
accuracy
of
the
clocks
for
the
conductors,
stationmasters,
and
distribution
of
timetables
to
the
public
were
of
the
utmost
importance.
Here
another
technological
advancement
played
a
crucial
role.
The
telegraph
was
used
to
transmit
the
correct
Tokyo
time
to
all
stations,
playing
a
central
role
in
the
on‐schedule
operation
(Nakamura
2002:17fff).
Furthermore,
the
stationmaster
could
not
allow
a
train
to
depart
until
he
had
received
a
telegraphic
message
from
the
stationmaster
up
the
line
indicating
that
the
respective
track
section
was
clear
(Saito
2002:5).
This
processes
of
state
formation,
of
course,
involved
various
controversies
and
debates.
Assembling
“foreign”
technology
–
something
that
has
been
fiercely
discussed
in
the
pre‐Meiji
decades
–
was
practically
contested.
Empirical
evidence,
here,
runs
38
against
the
top‐down
views
on
Japan’s
modernization.
For
example,
many
scholars
have
treated
the
introduction
of
railways
as
an
instrument
of
“the
Japanese
government”
to
convince
the
Western
powers
of
Japanese
civilisational
advancement.
Yet,
the
ideological
controversies
present
in
the
discourse
about
the
introduction
of
this
new
way
of
transportation
and
the
networks
of
actors
that
influenced
the
final
decision
are
often
overseen.
Already
the
Tokugawa
shogunate
possessed
considerable
knowledge
of
railway
technology
and
might
have
had
plans
for
building
a
railway.
Also
the
Meiji
government
didn’t
act
upon
these
plans
right
away.
Rather
it
required
pressure
on
the
government
from
the
US
legation
to
grant
their
concession
to
lay
a
railway
between
Edo
and
Yokohama
(which
was
supposedly
already
given
away
by
the
shogunate).
Only
then
did
the
government
start
to
formulate
a
policy
in
this
matter.
However
then,
the
decided
course
of
action
was
to
construct
a
railway
system
independently
of
the
US.
This
could
have
only
been
achieved
thanks
to
the
interests
of
the
British
minister
to
Japan,
H.
S.
Parkes,
who
arranged
for
an
economic
loan
on
the
London
Market
as
well
as
introduction
of
the
technology
from
Great
Britain
(Hayashi
1990).
Whatever
the
final
decision,
this
project
was
confronted
with
a
strong
opposition
from
within
the
government
itself.
The
leaders
of
the
Ministry
of
Military
Affairs,
most
notably
Saigō
Takamori,
were
of
strong
belief
that
spending
huge
sums
of
money
on
railways
would
divert
the
funds
from
where
they
were
needed
the
most,
namely
in
the
building
of
a
mighty
military
force.
Some
also
believed
that
a
railway
from
Tokyo
to
Yokohama
would
enable
the
military
forces
of
Great
Britain
and
France
stationed
in
the
latter
to
use
them
in
a
military
invasion
on
the
capital.
Others
like
conservative
bureaucrats
from
Military
Affairs
and
what
later
became
the
Ministry
of
Justice,
represented
a
traditional
exclusionist
view
and
simply
demanded
that,
how
Katsumasa
puts
it,
“machine
civilization
from
vile
foreign
countries
should
not
be
permitted
into
the
land
of
the
gods”.
The
whole
argument
was
turned
into
ridicule
by
some
others,
who
feared
that
“because
tetsu
(iron),
the
first
Chinese
character
in
tetsudo
(railroad),
can
also
be
read
to
mean
"lose
money"
(kane
o
ushinau),
the
laying
of
metal
rails
would
cause
Japan
to
mint
and
print
large
volumes
of
money
that
would
be
lost
in
the
venture.
The
dead
seriousness
of
those
who
held
these
views,
no
matter
how
readily
apparent
their
weirdness,
was
often
manifested
in
threats
to
the
lives
of
Okuma
and
Ito”.
(Katsumasa
1993)
As
already
mentioned,
regardless
the
controversies
it
evoked
with
the
government
circles,
the
Meiji
time
brought
railway
to
Japan.
Notwithstanding
these
controversies,
“most
government
railways
were
built
using
British
designs
and
methods
but
lines
in
Hokkaido
and
the
San’yo
Railway
(Kobe–
Shimonoseki)
used
American
technologies
while
lines
in
Kyushu
used
German
methods”
(Saito
2002:6).
While
increasing
the
speed
of
travel,
the
rail
network
was
expanding
quickly.
By
1889,
railway
lines
where
operating
between
Tokyo
and
Kobe,
Takasaki
and
Niigata,
Maibara
and
Toyama,
Fukushima
and
Aomori,
and
further
cities
(Saito
2002:6).
The
speediness
of
transportation
and
the
new
routes
of
traffic
redraw
the
infrastructural
map
of
the
Tokugawa
period.
While
the
Japanese
road
system
where
constructed
to
serve
the
daimyo
processions
related
to
the
governance
system
of
39
“alternate
residence”
(Ohkawaw
and
Rosovsky
1997:210).
The
new
arteries
comprising
roads
and
railways,
instead,
connected
land‐locked
areas
with
the
bustling
harbor
cities
enabling
a
dynamic
export
oriented
economic
growth
in
Japan.
Connecting
the
landlocked
prefectures,
which
were
the
main
producers
of
silk
to
the
port
cities
was
decisive
in
the
rapid
expansion
of
silk
export,
which
was
the
main
export
item
of
Japan
in
the
Meiji
era.
To
this
end,
especially,
the
speed
of
delivery
was
critical,
since
silk
cocoons
are
very
perishable
goods
and
the
market
prices
for
cocoons
as
well
as
raw
silk
were
highly
instable
at
the
time.
Compared
to
boats,
a
big
advantage
of
rail
in
speed,
reliability
and
stable
fares.
It
also
helped
turning
coal
into
a
major
export
good
of
that
time,
seen
as
it
was
by
weight
the
most
important
item
carried
by
rail
during
the
Meiji
period
(Erickson
1996:40ff).
Mythical
imperialism,
constructions
of
identity,
colonial
entanglements
Claiming
that
the
Japanese
project
of
colonial
expansion
in
Asia
was
an
idea
brought
about
by
the
encounter
with
the
Western
colonial
powers
in
the
late
19th
century,
and
consequently
implemented
by
the
government,
would
be
ignoring
the
historical
memories
and
the
sets
of
ideas
inherited
from
earlier
“expansionist
experiences”
as
has
been
described
in
section
4.1.
Albeit
heterogeneous
discourses
existed
within
the
Japanese
bureaucratic
and
political
elites,
the
nexus
between
mythological
roots
of
Japan
and
the
extension
of
authority
is
recurrent.
Already
in
the
16th
century,
daimyo
Toyotomi
Hideyoshi,
having
unified
Japan
to
an
unprecedented
scale
after
two
centuries
or
disintegration,
turned
to
the
lands
overseas.
Starting
with
Korea,
his
intention
was
to
unify
“people
of
the
four
seas”
under
his
rule,
much
as
he
did
in
Japan
proper.
In
a
letter
to
the
Korean
King
(and
letters
to
the
King
of
Liuchiu,
rules
of
the
Philipines,
Formosa
and
India
followed),
as
a
key
argument
for
the
expansion,
he
is
believed
to
have
used
a
recollection
of
his
mothers
dream
before
his
birth,
who
had
envisioned
a
Sun
entering
her
bosom
(Kuno
1937:302f,
cited
in
Pollard
1939:17).
This
reference
to
the
Sun
Goddess,
Amaterasu
O‐mi‐kami,
illustrates
how
mythological
beliefs
were
entangled
in
the
process
of
colonial
expansion
from
the
beginning.
Based
on
the
stories
from
the
first
historical
chronicles
of
Kōjiki
(712)
and
Nihongi
(720)
‐
basic
texts
of
the
shintō
religion
‐
Japan
was
a
land
where
Gods
came
to
earth.
This
served
as
a
basis
for
various
interpreters,
most
notably
the
aforementioned
kokugaku
scholars
for
Japan
to
be
at
the
centre
of
the
world
and
ruled
by
direct
descendants
of
the
Sun
Godess’s
Grandchild,
Ninigi
no
mikoto.
Also
in
the
Meiji
period,
frequently
referred
to
as
the
period
of
“Japanese
enlightenment”,
this
mythology
keeps
being
invoked
as
a
forceful
idea
with
the
political
process.
For
example,
this
kind
of
messianic
vision
can
be
found,
at
the
onset
of
the
Meiji
revolution
in
the
teachings
of
the
Chōshu
samurai,
Yoshida
Shōin,
who
urges
to
expand
Japan’s
control
over
Kamchatka,
the
Kurile
Islands,
Korea,
Formosa,
the
Liuchiu
Islands.
His
students
later
became
dignitaries
of
the
Meiji
government,
most
notably
Yamagata
Aritomo,
who
was
responsible
for
the
organisation
of
Japan’s
modern
army,
a
40
prince
and
a
genrō;
and
Itō
Hirobumi,
a
genrō,
a
Resident‐General
of
Korea,
as
well
as
a
four
times
Prime
Minister
of
Japan
and
the
statesman
Kido
Kōin.
As
the
two
latter
individuals
belonged
to
the
prominent
Iwakura
Mission,
which
travelled
throughout
Europe
and
the
United
States
(1871)
to
learn
from
the
“West”,
the
mythological
beliefs,
however,
were
blended
with
the
impressions
and
knowledge
gained
in
Europe.
Having
witnessed
that
Japan
is
not
even
treated
as
an
equal
partner,
let
alone
a
superior
power,
evidence
of
which
was
that
no
other
country
had
to
tolerate
extraterritorial
jurisdiction,
residential
concessions
where
foreigners
ruled
themselves
within
its
border,
or
their
import
and
export
tariffs
being
controlled
by
a
treaty;
they
advised
for
Japan
to
take
a
moderate
international
course
and
start
with
internal
reforms
before
engaging
in
external
wars
(Pollard
1939:25ff).
Through,
the
question
of
Japan’s
position
was
not
just
influenced
by
the
new
perspectives
that
the
Iwakura
Mission
popularized
at
home.
To
the
extent
to
which
Formosa
(Taiwan)
became
part
of
the
colonial
empire
after
1894,
the
idea
of
a
top‐down
approach
based
on
rational
designs
is
unsustainable.
Prior
to
1894,
“Japan
did
not
have
a
long
range
plan
for
the
annexation
of
Taiwan.
It
is
even
doubtful
that
the
notion
of
annexation
ever
entered
the
minds
of
Premier
Itō
Hirobumi
and
Foreign
Minister
Mutsu
Munemitsu
at
the
time
of
the
outbreak
of
the
war”
(Chen
1997:61).
The
immediate
consideration
that
preceded
the
final
decision,
were
in
fact,
products
of
the
unexpected
military
victory,
although
“Ito
and
Mutsu
were
convinced
that
the
victory
vis‐a‐vis
the
acquisition
of
colonies
would
enhance
Japan's
international
prestige;
they
viewed
membership
in
the
‘colonial
club’
as
a
step
toward
equality
with
the
Western
powers”
(Chen
1997:62).
But
annexing
Taiwan
led
to
serious
repercussions
at
home.
Especially,
the
treatment
of
the
people
in
Taiwan
rendered
the
Japanese
subjectivity
controversial.
As
national
identity
was
under
construction
already
(Ikegami
1995),
by
now,
the
notion
of
who
can
be
classified
as
a
Japanese
in
the
new
territories
to
be
governed
became
a
pressing
issue.
As
Henry
puts
it,
being
a
Japanese
at
the
time
of
colonial
expansion
was
“less
of
a
fixed
entity
than
it
was
a
fluid
identity
frequently
adjusted
to
specific
colonial
encounters
and
projects”
(Henry
2005:560).
Although
too
often
blended
out
by
many
scholarly
works,
focussing
only
on
the
implemented
policies
of
the
government,
the
imperial
project
was
essentially
contested
“from
within”
(see
Schmid
2000).
The
best
example
for
these
rampant
controversies
represents
the
so‐called
“Korea
Problem”
(chōsen
mondai).
This
terminus
refers
to
the
internal
Japanese
discussion
about
the
course
of
action
towards
Korea
between
1868
(when
Korea
refused
to
recognize
the
Meiji
government)
and
1910
(when
it
became
a
colony).
In
his
study
of
this
topic
Conroy
identifies
three
main
positions
‐
the
Liberals,
the
Realists
and
the
Reactionaries
‐
differing
grandly
in
their
views
on
the
future
of
Korea.
The
Liberals,
mostly
party
man,
represented
by
Fukuzawa
Yukichi
represented
a
programme
of
helping
Korea,
“help
her
from
the
old
erroneous
way
of
Confucianism,
isolation,
misgovernment
into
the
light
of
modern
civilization,
toward
independence
and
progress”
(Conroy
1956:445).
This
group
however
also
didn’t
act
on
their
own,
but
collaborated
with
their
Korean
counterparts.
And
so
the
close
relationship
between
Fukuzawa
and
a
Korean
progressive
Kim
Ok‐Kiun
led
to
the
former
ending
up
being
41
involved
in
a
Korean
coup
de
etát
of
1884
and
with
time
accepting
ideas
actions
that
“were
leading
to
something
quite
different
than
the
independent,
progressive
Korea
originally
envisioned
by
the
Liberal
group”.
The
second
group,
the
Realists
were
the
leaders
of
the
Meiji
government
with
Itō
Hirobumi.
This
group’s
prior
concern
was
to
“built
Japan
into
a
full
strength
Western‐style
nation,
free
of
unequal
treaties
[and]
safe
from
foreseeable
future
dangers.”
(Conroy
1956:447)
And
so
their
policy,
although
directed
toward
progress
in
Korea,
was
more
prepared
to
accept
“realistic
compromises”.
Military
measures
were
to
be
avoided
at
first,
but
with
the
constant
reluctance
of
cooperation
in
implementing
reforms
from
the
Korean
side,
stronger
measures
became
“necessary”.14
Though
wanting
to
remain
peaceful,
the
forced
abdication
of
the
Korean
king
made
the
disarmament
of
Koreans,
which
in
turn
provoked
riots
and
led
Japanese
forces
to
burn
villages
(Conroy
1956:450).
The
third
force
in
the
Japanese
discourse
was
presented
by
Reactionaries,
represented
by
Uchida
Ryōhei,
who
revived
the
old
argued
in
favour
of
a
“great
oriental
federation”
(Conroy
1956:451)
where
“a
Korean
would
hardly
be
distinguished
from
a
Japanese;
it
would
be
an
Asiatic
brotherhood”
(Conroy
1956:452)
Also
these
forces
were
linked
to
their
Korean
counterparts
and
were
involved
in
a
rebellion
against
the
ruling
dynasty,
much
like
the
Boxer
movement
in
China
(Conroy
1956:451).
In
describing
these
mutual
dependencies
of
mythological
beliefs
finding
their
way
into
political
argumentation
and
expressing
itself
in
the
notion
of
national
and
personal
destiny,
being
again
contradicted
by
the
experiences
made
“out
there”
in
the
West
or
within
the
scope
of
war,
makes
it
clear
that
during
the
assembling
of
modern
Japan
self‐
representation
and
subjectivity
are
intrinsically
intertwined
with
the
expanding
order
of
knowledge
and
the
enlarging
of
territorial
scope.
As
the
example
of
the
Korean
problem
shows,
the
colonisation
was
not
just
action
at
a
distance.
It
was
intrinsically
connected
to
identity
of
the
Japanese,
as
well
as
the
reassembling
of
power
within
the
state
and
in
the
colonies.
Similarly,
colonial
governance
in
Korea
implied
an
intermingling
of
population
planning,
assimilation
policies,
and
language
reforms
in
which,
for
instance,
the
Korean
orthography,
Japanese
expressions,
policies
for
language
oppression,
the
reluctant
Korean
linguistics,
and
the
colonial
administration
(Rhee
1992).
The
story
of
the
Ryūkyū
Islands
(Okinawa)
that
usually
gets
not
treated
as
part
of
Japan’s
colonial
expansion
is
even
more
telling
as
how
complex
of
the
expansion
of
Meiji
Japan’s
state
authority
evolved.
Heinrich
argues,
“with
the
Japanese
expansion
into
Taiwan
(1895)
and
Korea
(1910)
the
belief
among
Ryūkyūans
that
they
and
the
Japanese
formed
‘the
same
nation’
(doitsu
minzoku),
whereas
the
Koreans
and
Taiwanese
did
not,
grew
stronger.”
(Heinrich
2004:157)
Yet,
as
the
national
integration
of
Ryūkyū
Islands
illustrates
the
continuances
from
the
bakufu
to
the
Meiji
era,
it
defies
clear‐cut
notions
of
“sovereignty”.
Having
been
a
long‐lasting
tributary
to
the
Emperor
and
placed
in
the
authority
of
the
Satsuma
domain
already
in
the
17th
century
the
Ryūkyū
Islands
14
These
categories
are
not
to
be
seen
very
strictly,
as
there
were
considerable
frictions
also
within
this
group,
resulting
for
once,
in
having
to
return
arms
to
Korean
soldiers,
after
recalling
the
order
to
disarm
Korean
troops.
After
the
forced
abdication
Koreans
were
disarmed
again
(Conroy
1956:449).
42
were
in
the
border
zone
of
the
Tokugawa
civilization,
yet,
at
the
same
time
also
a
part
of
the
Chinese
tributary
system.
While
the
people
at
the
Ryūkyū
Islands
were
intermediaries
between
the
Ming
and,
later,
the
Ching
dynasty
and
the
bakufu,
the
Satsuma
daimyo
imposed
laws
that
forbade
the
Ryūkyūans
to
wear
Japanese
styled
haircuts
or
clothes,
take
Japanese
names
and
generally
act
“like
a
Japanese”
(Smits
1999:19).
Under
the
sakoku
principle,
although
politically
incorporated
into
the
bakuhan
system,
the
Ryūkyūans
were
clearly
not
seen
as
“Japanese”
(Smits
1999:18ff).
This
attitude
changed
with
the
emergence
of
kokugaku.
The
kokugaku
scholars
employed
a
new
form
of
linguistics
classifying
the
Ryūkyūan
language
as
dialect
of
Japanese
(hōgen).
The
consequence
of
which
were
language‐planning
activities
to
eliminate
the
“misuse”
(goyō)
of
the
just‐codified
“Standard
Japanese”
and
“unnatural
expressions”
(fushizen
na
hyōgen)
(Heinrich
2004:154).
And
so,
following
the
annexation
of
Ryūkyū
into
the
nation
state
in
1872,
the
Meiji
government
aimed
at
full‐scale
assimilation:
“Assimilationist
ideology
held
that
Ryūkyūan
customs,
tradition
and
language
represented
obstacles
to
the
aim
of
catching
up
with
the
mainland.
Enlightenment,
progress
and
development
came
to
be
equated
with
assimilation:
a
local
newspaper
columnist
Ota
Chofu
coined
the
popular
expression
that
the
people
of
Okinawa
Prefecture
should
also
learn
how
to
sneeze
in
Japanese”
(Heinrich
2004:156).
Yet,
treating
the
Ryūkyūans
as
Japanese
is
less
self‐evident
than
the
slogans
encouraging
the
use
of
the
standard
Japanese,
such
as
“One
country,
one
mind,
one
language
too
(ikkoku,
isshin,
kotoba
mo
hitotsu)”
or
“Uniting
100
million
minds
‐
standard
language
(ichioku
no
kokoro
o
musubu
hyōjungo)”
might
one
lead
to
believe
(Heinrich
2004:160,
cited
after
Kondō,
1997:32).
The
standardizing
activities
of
the
Japanese
government
officials
didn’t
remain
unanswered
by
the
inhabitants
of
the
islands.
In
the
early
20th
century
it
was
the
Ryūkyūans,
who
graduated
at
mainland
Japanese
universities,
to
supported
their
native
language
and
culture,
most
notably
Iha
Fuyu.
Iha
became
the
founding
father
of
Okinawa
studies
and
1916
published
a
first
textbook
of
Ryūkyūan
as
a
foreign
language,
with
a
view
to
teach
the
Japanese.
This
was
an
“attempted,
in
vain,
to
resist
the
process
of
Ryūkyūan
marginalisation”,
for
it
was
“not
a
response
to
demand,
but
a
criticism
of
the
fact
that
the
study
of
Ryūkyūan
was
never
considered
by
mainland
Japanese.”
(Heinrich
2004:158)
Following
his
footsteps,
another
scholar
of
“Okinawan
Studies”
(Tojo
Kinjo)
criticised
the
classification
of
this
Ryūkyūan
as
a
dialect
of
Japanese,
as
proposed
by
the
kokugokaku
representatives
(Heinrich
2004:161).
Engineering
the
colonial
state
and
local
intermediaries
The
Japanese
expansion
entailed
a
massive
restructuring
of
the
built
environments
in
the
colonial
territories.
This
process,
which
Carroll
denotes
“socio‐material
engineering”,
took
place
in
both
of
the
earliest
Japanese
colonies,
Taiwan
(previously
Formosa)
and
Korea.
As
it
was
the
case
with
the
British
annexation
of
Ireland,
the
43
Taiwanese
and
Koreans
were
described
to
be
living
in
a
“place
unsafe
for
the
abode
of
civilized
people”
(about
Taiwan,
Hishida
1907:275)
and
in
“dirty
and
dangerous
places,
both
in
terms
of
their
allegedly
unhygienic
and
immoral
conditions”
(Henry
2005:684)
and
therefore
were
to
be
“rescued
from
their
natural
state
by
fully
incorporating
them
(…)
into
[in
this
case
Japanese]
civil
culture.
Taming
the
land
and
culturing
the
environment
became
central
to
the
practice
through
which
this
incorporation
was
effected.”
(Carroll
2006:144)
At
the
core
of
“civilisatory
advancement”
were
modern
sciences
and
engineering.
Conducting
surveys
of
population
and
land,
introducing
a
unified
system
of
weights
and
measures,
and
setting
up
medical
and
technical
schools
were
just
a
few
implemented
measures.
Often
these
measures
were
earlier
implemented
in
the
colonial
areas
than
in
the
country.15
The
governor
general
of
Taiwan,
Baron
Kodama,
based
his
administrative
measures
on
what
Han‐Yu
and
Myers
call
“biological
politics”.
Writes
Kodama:
“Any
scheme
of
colonial
administration,
given
the
present
advances
in
science,
should
be
based
on
principles
of
Biology.
What
are
these
principles?
They
are
to
promote
science
and
develop
agriculture,
industry,
sanitation,
education,
communications,
and
police
force.
If
these
are
satisfactorily
accomplished,
we
will
be
able
to
persevere
in
the
struggle
for
survival
and
win
the
struggle
of
the
‘survival
of
the
fittest.’
Animals
survive
by
overcoming
heat
and
cold,
and
by
enduring
thirst
and
hunger.
This
is
possible
for
them
because
they
adapt
to
their
environment.
Thus
depending
upon
time
and
place,
we
too
should
adopt
suitable
measures
and
try
to
overcome
the
various
difficulties
that
confront
us.
In
our
administration
of
Taiwan
we
will
then
be
assured
of
a
future
of
brilliance
and
glory.”
(cited
after
Chang
and
Myers
1963:438)
According
to
this
principle
in
the
next
few
years
seaports
and
harbours
were
improved,
so
as
to
admit
large
ships;
a
251
miles
railway
line
from
the
northern
end
of
the
island
to
the
southern,
and
connecting
major
cities
was
erected
encompassing
63
stations;
almost
2000
miles
of
highway
were
constructed
to
connect
the
principal
towns
with
seaports;
two
submarine
cables
were
lied
down
to
connect
Taiwan
with
Japan
and
China;
eleven
lighthouses
were
built
(Hishida
1907:277);
later
on
planes
to
and
from
Japan
proper
carried
both
mail
and
commercial
passengers
on
a
daily
basis;
also
every
day
there
was
a
clockwise
and
a
counter‐clockwise
air
service
flying
the
island
circuit
(Kerr
1942:52)
to
speak
only
of
the
area
of
communication.
While
these
innovations
were
at
the
heart
of
colonial
policies,
there
implementation
relied
on
many
agents
posing
as,
if
not
initiators
of
the
process,
at
least
as
intermediaries.
The
agricultural
reforms
in
Taiwan
exemplify
the
importance
of
local
actors
for
the
stabilization
of
the
colonial
governance.
After
the
administration
initiated
the
extensive
land
survey
of
1920‐1921
it
planned
organisational
and
technological
change
in
the
15
The
population
survey
in
Taiwan
in
1905,
for
example,
was
conducted
before
the
Meiji
government
managed
to
implement
a
national
census
in
Japan
proper
(Henry
2005:654).
44
agriculture.
However,
the
implementation
of
this
plan
required
a
complex
network
of
institutions,
policies,
knowledge,
and
people:
“agriculture
must
be
studied
scientifically;
new
technical
knowledge
should
be
introduced
by
methods
of
example
and
persuasion;
the
powerful
pillar
of
the
rural
community,
the
landlord
class,
must
first
be
convinced
that
these
changes
were
to
its
benefit,
and
then
must
be
encouraged
to
take
steps
to
direct
villagers
to
adopt
and
practice
new
farming
methods”
(Ching
and
Myers
1963:559).
Obviously,
the
colonial
administration
stresses
the
need
for
negotiating
with
various
interests
groups;
not
at
scientific
research.
In
order
to
implement
this
reform
a
system
of
agricultural
institutions
was
put
in
place.
In
every
district
an
agricultural
association
(nōkai)
was
erected,
which
was
organised
under
the
leadership
of
local
officials
in
cooperation
with
landlords
and
wealthy
farmers.
These
associations
kept
tight
ties
with
also
newly
erected
scientific
research
bureaus
‐
the
main
one
in
Taipei,
the
Central
Agricultural
Research
Bureau
conducting
scientific
research
in
soils,
seeds,
chemistry
and
live‐stock
disease.
Tied
with
this
organisation
were
agricultural
experimental
stations
at
a
district
level.
In
sum,
the
colonial
administration
set
up
a
network
consisting
of
experimental
farms,
Japanese
fertilizer
companies,
financing
schemes,
printed
reports,
local
land
lords,
and
general
surveys,
which
produced
“guidelines
(…)
for
various
parts
of
the
island”,
placing
Taipei
as
obligatory
passage
point
to
achieve
“a
greater
interchange
of
knowledge”.
The
success
of
this
network,
however,
crucially
depended
on
the
participation
of
police
officers
at
the
local.
“In
each
district
throughout
the
island
the
chief
of
police
exercised
the
power
to
protect
and
change
traditional
behavior
as
well
as
introduce
new
customs
and
ideas;
he
also
was
dedicated
to
stimulating
industry
and
increasing
the
wealth
of
his
area
and
laying
the
groundwork
for
a
new
communication
system.
Since
the
police
penetrated
to
every
village
household
through
the
ho‐ko
(pao‐chia)
system,
it
was
relatively
easy
for
them
to
insist
on
the
adoption
of
new
sugar
cane
or
rice
seeds
and
supervise
their
use.
[And
so
t]he
early
success
of
large
sugar
companies
in
increasing
sugar
cane
cultivation
in
southern
Taiwan
was
due
to
the
assistance
of
local
police,
who
compelled
villagers
to
switch
from
existing
food
crops
to
cane.”
(Ching
and
Myers
1963:448)
Assembling
an
agricultural
reform
in
the
colonial
Taiwan
therefore
involved
agency
from
the
administration
officials,
scientific
research
centres,
local
landlords,
farmers
themselves
and
with
that
a
network
linking
them,
as
well
as,
the
newly
introduced
complex
system
of
policing.16
16
“A
police
office
was
established
in
each
district
(cho)
to
assist
local
officials.
Each
district
was
divided
into
sub‐districts,
containing
another
echelon
of
police
stations
manned
by
police
officers
appointed
by
the
district
police
chief.
Successful
enforcement
of
law
at
the
village
level
depended
on
these
officers.
This
system
was
coordinated
with
the
village
mutual
aid
and
protection
group,
the
pao‐chia
(ho‐ko).
Ten
households
made
up
one
chia
(ko)
and
ten
chia
made
one
pao
(ho).
ITe
head
of
each
chia
and
pao
was
chosen
from
among
the
village
elders
and
held
accountable
to
the
policeman
45
Another
example
of
an
unlikely
enrolment
of
new
actors
can
be
found
in
the
establishment
of
Japanese
colonial
medicine
in
Korea.
As
explained
before,
the
ambition
of
bringing
modernity
to
Korea
was
a
prevalent
mind‐set
in
Meiji
Japan.
The
government
viewed
sanitation
as
one
of
most
important
steps
of
achieving
this
project.
Here,
on
the
one
hand,
there
were
what
Henry
calls
Japanese
“popular
ethnographers”
of
Korea,
closely
tied
to
the
institutions
and
people
in
power
in
Korea,
producing
publications
sold
on
the
market
in
Korea,
as
well
as
in
Japan
targeted
to
the
general
audience,
which
used
discriminatory
language
to
depict
a
huge
“civilizational
gap”
between
the
two
countries.
And
so
they
depicted
all
Koreans
to
be
dumb,
pitiful
and
extremely
unhygienic.
They
were
further
described
as
individualistic
and
clannish,
lacking
a
sense
of
public
consciousness,
which
was
supposed
to
explain
the
lack
of
social
facilities,
such
as
hospitals,
schools
or
orphanages.
These
depictions
therefore
served
as
an
explanation
for
the
Japanese
civilizing
mission.
At
the
same
time,
surveys
to
quantify
the
needed
measures
in
the
scope
of
the
urban
sanitation
projects
were
introduced
by
the
government
officials,
a
task
not
yet
undertaken
in
Japan
itself.
And
so
the
power
of
numbers
was
added
to
the
ethnographic
discourse.
Ironically,
by
1914
the
images
being
painted
by
both
sides
of
the
discourse
diverged
greatly,
since
the
cultural
ethnographers
continued
their
line
of
argumentation,
when
the
SSA
claimed
the
colony
had
reached
an
adequate
knowledge
of
hygiene
(Henry
2005).
Inherently
connected
to
the
sanitation
projects
was
the
advancement
of
medicine
in
colonial
Korea.
Although
familiar
with
Western
medicine
through
missionaries
(treating
for
free)
and
Japanese
doctors
in
cities
with
big
Japanese
presence
(treating
almost
exclusively
Japanese),
most
of
the
doctors
in
Korea
prior
to
Japanese
colonisation
were
practitioners
of
traditional
medicine
(Son
1999:543).
With
the
year
1894
and
reform
implemented
by
the
new
Japanese
minister
to
Korea,
the
whole
profession
lost
their
status
as
an
effect
of
the
abolition
of
the
examination
for
herbal
doctors.
However,
six
years
later
a
decree
has
been
issued
dealing
with
qualification
and
registration
of
medical
doctors,
which
made
no
clear
distinction
between
Korean
and
Western
medicine,
resulting
in
Western
doctors
being
assigned
royal
medical
service
institutions,
and
traditional
practitioners
to
positions
in
the
Hygiene
Section
and
to
the
modern
state
hospital.
Also
the
practitioners
of
Korean
medicine
still
played
the
main
role
in
public
medical
services
during
this
period,
just
as
before
Japanese
colonisation
(Son
1999:544ff.)
Unhappy
with
this
distinction,
traditional
Korean
doctors
launched
a
movement
to
sustain
their
discipline
and
even
managed
to
open
their
own
medical
school
in
1905
teaching
40
students.
Due
to
lack
of
finances
and
the
interference
of
colonial
administration
it
was
closed
only
two
years
later.
However
serious
the
intention
of
the
colonisers
was
to
eliminate
herbal
medicine,
the
number
of
Western‐trained
doctors
was
simply
insufficient
to
meet
the
demand.
In
1908,
there
were
approximately
360
Western
doctors
of
whom
only
66
were
Korean,
but
there
were
2593
practitioners
of
traditional
medicine
(KMA,
1991,
p.
48
cited
in
Son
1999:540).
Therefore,
the
in
charge
of
each
pao‐chia.
In
effect,
the
police
force
penetrated
into
every
household.”
(Ching
and
Myers
1963:448)
46
governor‐general
promulgated
a
“temporary
arrangement”
implementing
a
regulation
for
traditional
doctors
to
obtain
licences
to
carry
on
private
medical
practices,
whereas
public
service
remained
a
domain
of
biomedical
doctors
(Son
1999:540).
In
sum,
these
two
examples
show
how
local
actors
reconfigured
the
intentions
of
the
Japanese
colonisers
often
involving
a
contested
mingling
of
science,
culture,
and
identity.
Imperial
sciences,
transmogrifying
expertise,
and
geopolitical
orders
of
knowledge
Colonial
expansion
and
the
development
of
modern
sciences
were
closely
related.
For
one,
the
Meiji
government
erected
“imperial
universities”
in
the
centres
of
science
in
colonial
Japan:
two
of
them
were
located
in
Taipei
and
Seoul
(Shillony
1986:770).
Those
were
originally
meant
for
the
sons
of
Japanese
residents
as
well
as
for
promising
local
youth.
However,
as
Zaiki
and
Tsukahara
observe,
some
of
those
local
students
later
became
activists
and
the
universities
became
places
of
anti‐colonial
resistance.
Some
of
the
former
science
and
engineering
students
also
had
a
significant
influence
on
their
countries
development
after
achieving
of
the
independence
(Zaiki
and
Tsukahara
2007:184).
For
another,
the
pursuit
of
professional
carriers
and
the
development
of
scientific
disciplines
were
deeply
influenced
by
colonial
contexts.
As
Wilson
remarks,
officials,
soldiers
and
police
are
actors
commonly
represented
in
the
scientific
discourse
of
colonisation.
But
it
is
only
in
recent
years
that
certain
professional
groups
have
found
their
way
into
scientific
analysis.
In
these
cases
it
is
of
importance
not
only
to
investigate
their
function
as
agents
of
colonialism,
but
“also
how
colonialism
in
turn
affected
them
professionally:
the
ways
in
which
they
operated
as
professionals
in
the
colonial
context,
how
professional
knowledge
was
acquired
and
deployed
under
colonial
rule,
and
how
ambiguous
was
the
position
that
professional
groups
found
themselves
in
under
Japanese
rule.”
(Wilson
2005:294)
Two
such
examples
are
of
great
empirical
value
‐
the
case
of
Japanese
meteorology
and
seismology.
Meteorology
as
a
colonial
science
developed
on
the
crossroads
of
different
disciplines,
novel
technologies,
and
geographic
locations.
It
wouldn’t
have
been
possible
without
modern
infrastructure
such
as
the
telegraph,
submarine
cables
and
railway
networking
(Zaiki
and
Tsukahara
2007:186).
It
was
closely
connected
to
agricultural
studies
and
military
strategy,
seismology
and
volcanology.
The
institutionalisation
of
meteorology
began
with
the
establishment
of
a
meteorological
observatory
on
Hokkaido
(then
Ezo)
in
1872,
a
central
agency,
and
observatories
in
further
colonies
followed.
The
first
Japanese
university
to
open
a
department
of
meteorology
was
the
Imperial
University
in
Taiwan
with
Ogasawara
Kazoas
appointed
Professor.
As
Zaiki
and
Tsukahara
observe
“In
his
early
career,
he
was
a
normal
practitioner
of
exact
science,
conservative,
stayed
away
from
the
liberal
student
culture,
and
retained
idealistic
views
of
science
for
the
sake
of
human
welfare.”
(Zaiki
and
Tsukahara
2007:193)
Due
to
unknown
reasons,
he
then
shifted
his
focus
from
theoretical
science
of
physics
to
applied
science
of
weather
forecasting
in
the
Philippines.
At
that
point
he
stopped
publishing
his
own
work
and
translated
a
10
volumes
of
works
of
an
American
authority
in
area
of
weather
and
47
climate,
Charles
Deppermann,
which
posed
a
significant
change
in
his
biography.
After
going
to
Manila,
he
worked
and
published
together
with
Deppermann.
His
works
soon
started
to
have
a
nationalistic
sentiment.
During
his
lectures
at
the
Okayama
Medical
College
in
1944,
he
noted:
“the
tropical
climate
would
degenerate
ethnic
quality.”
He
argued
further
“that
government
should
strictly
maintain
the
Japanese
lifestyle
abroad
in
the
face
of
the
harsh
tropical
climate,
which
could
erode
Japanese
ethnicity.”
(Zaiki
and
Tsukahara
2007:197)
Further
he
suggested,
“that
in
order
to
overcome
ethnic
degeneration,
a
Japanese
“Co‐Prosperity
Sphere”
should
include
Australia
in
New‐
Zealand,
which,
he
claimed,
were
most
suitable
for
a
Japanese
colony.
Advancement
into
the
southern
region
was
therefore
justified
as
a
process
of
acquiring
those
areas”
(Zaiki
and
Tsukahara
2007:198).
He
referred
to
Huntington’s
map
from
“Climate
and
Civilization”,
according
to
which
the
distance
from
the
equator
indicates
a
civilizations
development,
and
so
European
and
North
America
are
most
suitable
areas
for
civilization.
This
map
put
Japan
into
the
second‐tier
civilisations.
Ogasawara
produced
his
own
interpretation
of
this
map,
placing
Japan
in
the
first
tier,
but
Korea
in
the
second,
and
Hokkaido,
Taiwan
and
Manchuria
in
the
third,
clearly
using
modified
Western
categories
to
position
Japan
better
in
the
world
hierarchy.
In
sum,
while
Western
sciences
made
an
impact
on
the
nascent
Japanese
disciplines,
but
Japanese
scientist,
at
the
same
time,
modified
Western
concepts
to
the
advantage
of
Japan.
Furthermore,
it
is
evident
that
colonial
science
originated
at
the
nexus
of
Western
science,
newly
acquired
colonial
knowledge
and
Japanese
scientists,
and
therefore
renders
state
formation
in
a
sense
a
“borderless”
process.
The
development
of
the
Japanese
seismology
offers
a
window
in
yet
another
assembling
process
that
merged
modern
science,
traditional
knowledge,
and
different
built
environments.
Confucian
scholars
have
always
claimed
that
earthquakes
are
preceded
by
nature
sings
and
can
therefore
be
predicted.
This
belief
of
earthquakes
being
predictable
became
common
knowledge
in
Japan
and
could
have
in
fact
only
been
proved
wrong
after
the
coming
of
seismology
(Clancey
2006:152).
Certain
behaviour
of
animals,
as
well
as
changes
in
barometric
pressure
are
believed
be
linked
to
upcoming
earthquakes.
This
traditional
knowledge
wasn’t
automatically
dismissed
with
the
introduction
of
Western
seismicity
science.
Ōmori
Fusakichi
and
Seikiya
Seikei,
the
first
“professional”
seismologists,
devoted
themselves
to
reconsider
premodern
theories
on
the
basis
of
a
scientific
theory
in
order
to
prove
them
for
the
international
science
community.
Also
not
inspired
by
the
Western
science,
but
by
a
curious
incident
during
an
earthquake
a
large
area
of
studies
of
magnetism
in
connection
with
seismicity
was
born
(Clancey
2006:153f).
While
adopting
Western
approaches
to
seismology
Ōmori
learned
about
the
new
Rossi‐Forel
scale
of
1883,
which
was
then
used
to
depict
the
measured
magnitude
of
an
earthquakes
in
a
spatial
representation
(isoseismical
map).
However,
this
scale
draw
on
the
human
and
physical
geography
of
Europe;
with
indicators
such
as
cracked
walls,
fallen
chimneys,
falling
plaster,
ringing
church
bells
and
people
experiencing
“general
panic”.
Yet,
because
the
geography
of
Japan
varied
greatly
‐
wooden
buildings,
neither
church
bells
nor
chimneys,
Ōmori
had
to
come
up
with
a
different
scale,
using
different
proxy
variables
that
were
adapted
to
the
physical
48
conditions
at
the
Japanese
island.
This
came
to
the
effect
that
the
general
benchmark
for
the
magnitude
of
earthquakes
(acceleration)
shifted
for
the
end
point
of
“total
destruction”
of
the
wooden
houses
in
Japan
came
significantly
later
then
of
the
European
houses
(Clancey
2006:155f).
As
a
result,
the
qualities
of
the
Japanese
wooden
houses
became
intelligible
in
comparison
to
Western
architecture.
So,
while
buildings
made
of
steel
and
concrete
originally
entered
Meiji
Japan
as
modern
“improvements”
on
classical
construction
materials,
the
new
methods
and
instruments
of
seismology,
pioneered
by
Japanese
scientists,
revealed
the
glorious
substance
of
Japanese
culture
in
the
international
arena:
“to
Japanese
seismology,
‘Japanese
architecture’
was
located
not
between
two
disciplines,
but
between
Japan
and
the
West.”
(Clancey
2006:162)
The
Japanese
version
of
the
seismograph
was
highly
recommended
and
its
use
quickly
spread
beyond
the
Japanese
empire
(Clancey
2006:164).17
The
civilisatory
mission,
as
depicted
above,
deemed
the
occurrence
of
earthquakes
in
the
colonies,
in
fact,
political
problems.
For
example,
according
to
the
Treaty
of
Shimonoseki,
Taiwanese
had
the
right
to
choose
whether
to
emigrate
for
the
island
or
to
stay
within
two
years
of
its
signing.
An
inclusion
into
the
modernization
mission
is
self‐explanatory
on
the
image
of
Omori
representing
seismicity
along
with
infrastructure,
such
as
railroads,
harbours,
lighthouses,
submarine
cables
etc.
The
first
seismic
activities
in
Taiwan
were
surveyed
as
early
as
1896.
By
the
end
of
the
19th
century
seismographs
were
constructed
which
could
record
seismic
activity
across
long
distances.
And
so
it
became
possible
to
“read”
earthquakes
across
borders
(Kim
2007:155ff).
“By
the
first
decade
of
the
twentieth
century,
Tokyo
had
established
its
own
seismological
knowledge‐producing
system,
and
it
monitored
seismic
activity
throughout
the
archipelago
and
beyond”
(Kim
2007:160).
This
technological
advancement
enabled
Omori
to
speak
about
an
“anomaly
in
the
geopolitical
hierarchy
of
the
time.”
the
best
proof
of
which,
would
be
the
fact
that
he
travelled
to
Italy
after
the
great
Italian
earthquake
of
1908
to
give
his
expertise,
which
he
did
via
newspapers
and
was
even
granted
an
audience
with
the
Italian
king
(Kim
2007:161):
“In
a
lecture
in
Taiwan
in
1904,
Omori
emphasized
that
delicate
seismographs
could
detect
earthquakes
originating
all
over
the
globe.
While
in
Tokyo,
he
explained,
he
could
observe
Russian
and
American
earthquakes.
Furthermore,
according
to
him,
seismographs
set
up
in
Taiwan
could
similarly
record
earthquakes
around
the
world.
In
this
lecture,
Omori
was
boasting
in
a
nationalistic
way
of
Japanese
scientific
abilities,
in
the
context
of
a
geopolitical
regime
which
relegated
Asia
to
a
periphery.
Japanese
seismology
had
progressed
remarkably,
he
emphasized,
and
thus
Japanese
science
in
general
deserved
to
be
called
“admirable”
(Department
of
Civil
Administration
1907,
70–71).
Simultaneously,
his
rhetoric
in
this
lecture
17
For
example,
the
cooperation
with
a
German
laboratory
brought
about
the
Bosch‐Omori
seismograph,
used
in
the
Panama
Canal
Zone
and
the
MIT
observatory
on
Hawaii
(Clancey
2006:171).
49
mentioned
an
anomaly,
in
terms
of
relationships
between
the
detectors
and
the
detected,
to
transgress
the
geopolitical
hierarchy
of
the
time.
According
to
him,
even
Taiwan,
as
long
as
the
peripheral
island
had
the
sophisticated
scientific
instruments,
could
spy
upon
the
seismicity
in
the
Western
hemisphere.”
(Kim
2007:161)
5. Discussion
In
summarizing
the
main
outcomes
of
this
study
the
following
section
discusses
key
theoretical
and
methodological
issues
at
stake.
First
and
foremost,
we
suggest
to
rephrase
how
we
understand
“rising
power”
in
world
politics.
Informed
by
the
empirical
evidence
of
the
case
of
Japan’s
emergence
in
the
19 century,
“rising”
means
“assembling
processes
that
construct
a
new
reality”.
This
kind
of
puzzle
demands,
as
has
been
argued,
a
foundational
collector
to
symmetrical
inquiry
into
a
“rising
power”
what
could
be
alternatively
called
“empowering”.
The
formation
of
a
modern
nation
state
during
the
Meiji
era
entailed,
as
it
were,
the
creation
of
an
assemblage
radically
different
from
the
Tokugawa
shogunate
in
every
dimension:
time,
knowledge,
subjectivity,
and
build
environments.
The
exploration
of
the
Tokugawa
assemblage
nonetheless
has
implications
for
describing
“the
rise
of
Japan”.
Methodically,
this
requires
following
the
creative
work
of
various
actors,
who
entangle
human
and
non‐
human
elements
into
a
new
collective
without
a
priori
discriminating
between
inside/outside,
fact/value,
materials/symbols,
technology/society,
science/myth.
As
the
picture
of
an
isolated
bakufu
state
is
incorrect
it
is
even
less
appropriate
to
construe
the
emergence
of
a
modern
state
in
Japan
through
Cartesian
lenses.
In
addition,
through
describing
the
evolution
of
this
collective
we
arrive
at
a
better
apprehension
of
the
Japanese
“backwardness”
than
by
comparing
the
Tokugawa
regime
directly
to
modern
states
in
Europe.
Also,
a
description
of
the
process
of
creative
destruction
renders
categories
such
as
borders,
units,
demarcations,
or
levels
a
matter
of
empirical
research.
So,
while
these
notions
no
longer
present
a
priori
fixed
conceptual
grid,
the
agency
of
humans
and
non‐human
actors
takes
center
stage.
In
departing
from
disciplinary
rituals
in
IR,
this
points,
at
the
same
time,
to
the
limitations
of
this
study:
we
had
to
draw
on,
by
and
large,
sources
from
other
disciplines;
the
study
remains
a
fuzzy
and
open‐ended
undertaking;
it
invites
the
consternation
of
those,
who
wish
for
parsimony
and
theoretical
simplicity.
Notwithstanding
these
limitations,
our
approach
to
the
case
of
Meiji
Japan
provides
fascinating
materials
to
improve
the
conceptualization
of
what
it
means
to
speak
about
“rising
powers”.
This
redefinition
must
be,
first
of
all,
based
on
a
thick
description.
For
this
purpose,
we
have
employed
two
analytical
tools:
first,
the
foundational
collector
“assemblages”;
second,
the
theoretical
model
“creative
destruction”.
Exploring
the
ascent
of
Japan
in
that
manner
points
to
the
interlinked
and
mutually
reinforcing
processes
of
assembling
a
modern
state
and
a
colonial
empire.
Pushed
through
by
th
50
various
actors,
this
revolution
destroyed
the
assemblage
of
the
shogunate
while
creating
the
Meiji
state.
This
revolution
remade
Japan
within
roughly
thirty
years
into
Asia’s
first
regional
power
that
defeated
both
the
Chinese
Qing
Empire
and
Czarist
Russia
to
subsequently
expanding
its
control
over
vast
territories,
people,
and
resources
in
the
Asian
pacific
region
between
1895
and
1945.
The
ability
of
a
leaders,
the
influence
of
ideologies,
and
later
even
“social
pathologies”
(Conroy
1966:345)
rendered
this
development
a
collective
process,
highly
contingent
and
controversial
at
times.
Yet,
it
is
misleading
to
treat
these
“social”
aspects
isolated.
As
this
study
has
tried
to
show,
Japan’s
rise
evolved
through
massive
reconfigurations
and
displacements
of
existing
time
frames
and
material
artifacts
as
well.
Technological
infrastructures,
scientific
practices
and
engineering
were
central
this
co‐
evolution.
However,
neither
were
science
and
technology
merely
instrumental
to
state
control,
nor
have
they
determined
the
rise
of
Japan.
Against
technological
determinism,
the
history
of
colonial
expansion
and
state
formation,
rather,
shows
that
technologies
had,
similar
to
human
actors,
relational
effects
on
the
processes
of
assembling.
Analyzing
the
practices
and
scripts
of
“international
systems”
(see
Ringmar
2012)
is
thus
only
one
ingredient
that
is
necessary
to
capture
“empowering”.
To
explain
why
Japan
was
able,
as
the
only
semi‐colonized
country,
to
rise
to
great
power
status
requires
more
than
a
“social”
or
“ideational”
account.
Especially,
the
revolutionary
character
of
this
process
poses
serious
challenges
to
explanatory
models
of
modernization
and
international
power
shifts.
In
the
case
of
Meiji
Japan,
it
makes
no
sense
to
simply
assume
a
relative
change
in
resources
or
capacities
among
black
box‐states
as
realism
and
neo‐realism
does.
Constructivism,
or
at
least
Wendt’s
threefold
model
of
anarchy,
similarly
can’t
capture
the
hybrid
process
of
identity
formation.
Furthermore,
Japan’s
“success”
cannot
be
explained
through
an
emulation
model
of
institutional,
commercial,
and
technological
imports,
for
the
Meiji
revolution
constitutes
neither
a
top‐down
implementation,
nor
a
copy‐and‐past
phenomenon.
A
central
aspect
of
empowerment
is
the
connection
to
global
technological
networks.
The
innovators
of
the
Meji
assemblage
closely
linked
their
emerging
actor‐network
to
technological
networks
of
the
European
imperial
powers.
This
meant
not
only
Japan’s
access
to
the
modern
infrastructures
that
stabilized
time
and
enabled
transportation
and
communication.
It
also
included
the
replacement
of
practices
as
well
as
the
reconstruction
of
the
built
environments,
which
embodied
the
Tokugawa
period
(Westney
1987).
Innovators
from
all
strata
of
the
old
feudal
order
have
collectively
assembled
Meiji
Japan:
the
railway
lines,
the
synchronization
of
time,
the
road
systems
and
factories,
the
shintō
state
religion,
the
electrification,
the
standing
army,
the
concrete
buildings,
the
objective
sciences,
to
just
name
a
few.
Reassembling
“time”
was
a
particularly
arduous
and
creative
task.
While
the
Meiji
government
adopted
the
standardized
“world
time”,
the
national
time
was
synchronized
and
normalized
according
to
a
schema
of
24
hours
with
equal
duration.
With
the
rapid
spread
of
clocks
and
watches—Japanese
watch
manufacturers
became
first
class
innovators
after
World
War
II—and
with
the
acceleration
through
railways
and
industrial
production,
the
51
Japanese
altered
their
time
consciousness
radically.
This
time
revolution
also
comprised
the
introduction
of
the
basic
scheme
of
the
Gregorian
calendar,
though
the
Meiji
government
produced
the
mythical
foundation
of
Japan
as
the
overarching
frame
of
the
Meiji
history.
The
rise
of
Meiji
Japan
exemplifies
the
intimate
relationship
between
hybridization
and
empowerment.
Time
was
modernized
and
mythologized—if
this
constitutes
an
opposition
at
all—at
the
same
time.
Consider
that
this
assembling
resulted
in
the
intelligible
and
immediate
connection
of
an
allegedly
unbroken
line
of
the
Tennō
rule
over
the
country18—celebrated
with
pomp
and
circumstance
at
its
2,600
anniversary
in
1940
(Ruoff
2010)—with
the
conduct
of
physics,
biology,
or
engineering
that
led
to
the
one
of
the
most
formidable
high‐technology
weapon
arsenals
among
the
World
War
II
participants
(Grunden
2005).
In
sum,
if
we
just
describe
the
import
of
institutions,
laws,
and
organizational
“learning”
from
the
West,
we
would
purify
the
seemingly
incongruent
entanglements
of
sciences,
myths,
and
technological
artifacts
that
accompanied
Japan’s
ascent.
In
construction
new
knowledge
orders
and
time
regimes,
the
numerous
actors,
who
have
assembled
Japan’s
modern
state
and
its
colonial
empire,
did
not
care
for
our
conceptually
neat
delimitations
of
inside/outside
and
material/social.
For
example,
the
innovations
in
sciences,
administrations,
education,
or
medicine
were
stabilized
through
global
networks
of
knowledge
and
expertise.
Empowerment,
on
the
one
hand,
required
entering
the
club
of
“civilized”
nations—
namely
plugging
in
the
technological
infrastructures,
practices,
and
discourses
of
the
European
imperial
powers.
Part
of
this
kind
of
“western
learning”,
apparently,
was
mimicking
the
European
imperial
posture,
for
example,
in
form
of
extraterritorial
legal
zones.
This
would
have
been
impossible
without
major
innovations
on
the
Japanese
side.
As
the
practice
of
sakoku
had
connected
the
Tokugawa
assemblage
mainly
with
the
East
Asian
region
(between
1630
and
1850)
the
character
of
its
foreign
relations
were
different
from
both
European
imperialism
and
the
Westphalian
order
(Suzuki
2003).
Assembling
the
Meiji
state
and
the
colonial
empire
comes
was
not
just
done
by
means
of
imitation.
From
the
very
beginning,
they
were
highly
ingenious
in
remaking
the—
scientific,
political,
and
technological—practices,
which
they
had
adopted
from
abroad
(Kublin
1959).
For
instance,
while
the
first
generation
of
seismology
changed
basic
categories
and
methods
of
the
entire
field
(Clancey
2006),
Japanese
art
specialist
established
a
category
of
“oriental”
to
put
Korean
ceramics
and
Ainu
artifacts
on
par
with
European
art
works
(Brand
2000).
On
the
other
hand,
state
formation
and
colonial
expansion
were
highly
contingent
and
contested.
Inevitable,
this
construction
of
a
new
reality,
which
is
elsewhere
named
“the
formation
of
a
modern
state”,
involved
creative
destruction,
as
it
were,
leading
to
multiple
controversies
and
conflicts.
These
radical
18
Yet,
the
Japanese
government
restricted
archeological
research
at
the
island.
Several
archeologists
went
into
jail
or
saw
their
works
banned
because
their
data
contested
the
construction
of
this
official
“history”.
They
showed
that
it
was
nothing
than
a
bold
mythical
claim
(see
Ledyard
1975).
52
innovations
were
possible,
at
all,
because
the
interests,
identities,
and
goals
of
the
Japanese
have
radically
altered
in
the
course
of
the
Meiji
revolution.
Crucially,
this
revolution
destroyed
the
feudal
structure
of
the
Tokugawa
period
against
which
many
samurai
pursued
a
fierce
resistance
(Ikegami
1995,
Branham
1994,
Westney
1987).19
While
technologies
of
modern
governance,
that
forcibly
revolutionized
the
life
of
the
colonial
subjects,
were
often
tried
out
at
the
margins
prior
to
be
introduced
in
the
mainland,
the
assimilation
designs
towards
people
in
Formosa,
Korea
and
Manchukuo
made
the
Japanese
identity
controversial
itself
(Askew
2001).
But,
notwithstanding
hybridization,
the
evolution
of
the
“Meiji
assemblage”
led
temporarily
stable
categories
of
time,
space,
identity,
and
built
environments.
Figure
2.
An
abstract
model
of
assembling
in
five
dimensions
Source:
the
aurthors.
This
leads
to
a
difficult
question:
how
is
it
possible
to
bring
all
this
hybrid
connections,
controversies,
and
agencies
in
one
textual
account?
Figure
two
tries
to
depict
how
a
new
reality
emerges
when
a
collective
gets
stabilized.
In
order
to
enable
a
description,
this
figure
suggests
distinguishing
between
five
common
sense
dimensions
of
reality.
After
an
assemblage
has
evolved
through
a
phase
of
translation,
a
certain
mode
of
these
dimensions
is
stabilized
that
is
mutually
embedded,
coordinated,
and
reinforcing.
Yet,
it
is
important
to
stress
that
this
distinction
is
analytical
only.
So,
a
relativistic
approach
19
Various
disadvantaged
individuals
and
groups
responded
to
these
translations
violently
carrying
out
assassinations,
violent
attacks,
and
upheavals.
53
explores
the
evolution
of
assemblages
through
the
shifts/revolutions
it
the
regimes
of
time,
the
circulation
of
objects,
the
built
environments,
the
order
or
knowledge,
and
with
regard
to
identity.
Similarly,
what
is
usually
taken
as
fixed
or
predetermined
notions
such
as
borders,
units,
actorhood,
domains,
and
fields
become
research
questions.
As
such,
our
post‐Cartesian
approach
to
Japan’s
rise
offers
key
advantages.
It
uncovers
the
multiplicity
of
agencies
that
embody
and
enable
empowerment.
Yet,
it
also
makes
visible
what
otherwise
would
just
seem
as
“noise”
against
the
background
of
unshakable
conceptual
clarity.
Consider
the
example
of
the
Ryūkyū
islands
(Okinawa)
in
the
context
of
Japan’s
rise.
To
put
the
Ryūkyū
people
on
the
map
requires
interrogating
the
history
of
their
“autonomy”.
This,
though,
is
impossible
by
means
of
the
clear‐cut
presuppositions
of
“national
states”
or
an
“international
system”.
Already
in
the
Tokugawa
period
their
statues
was
in
a
border
zone
in
between
the
Ming/Ching
and
the
Tokugawa
Tribute
systems.
As
the
Meiji
government
has
nationalized
the
Okinawa
and
Hokkaido
islands,
enforcing
its
authority
and
trying
to
“japanize”
its
population,
this
regulation
of
border
zones
is
often
separated
from
the
historiography
of
Japanese
imperialism
(e.g.
Kublin
1959:73ff).
Furthermore,
as
the
people
of
Okinawa
today
contest
both
the
control
of
the
central
government
and
the
presence
of
US
troops
and
weapon
arsenals,
and,
given
the
diminished
authority
of
the
Japanese
government,
the
sovereign
status
of
the
island
still
is
an
empirical
question.20
Despite
this
example
appears
messy
and
elusive,
such
is
the
kind
of
empirical
stuff
that
might
lead
to
truly
promising
attempts
of
theorizing
in
IR.
Furthermore,
the
case
of
Japan’s
rise
ties
into
post‐Cartesian
research
about
different
varieties
of
legal,
spatial,
security,
and
technological
assemblages
(Sassen
2000,
Abrahamsen
and
Williams
2009,
Ong
and
Collier
2005,
Barry
2001).
Historians
increasingly
stress
the
complex
global
interaction
dynamics
and
interrelations
that
have
existed
for
centuries—long
before
we
came
to
speak
about
“globalization”.
Of
course,
this
would
have
been
no
news
to
scholars
such
as
Karl
Marx
(Dyer‐Witheford
1999).
But
recent
studies
tackle
global
history
to
the
effect
emphasizing
the
extent
to
which
the
“modern
world”
emerged
from
myriads
of
transnational,
transcultural,
and
transcontinental
relations
(Bayly
2003,
Galison
2006).
The
crucial
point
for
IR,
though,
is
that
our
empirical
knowledge
about
the
nexus
of
the
emergence
of
the
modern
states
and
the
expansion
of
colonial
empires
at
the
one
side,
and
the
advent
of
modern
sciences
and
technologies
at
the
other
side,
completely
discredits
a
bunch
of
common
IR
notions;
including
the
unitary‐actor
assumptions,
the
like‐unit
models,
the
agency‐
structure
schemes,
the
levels
of
analysis
premises,
and,
more
generally,
logo‐centric
conceptual
bias.
In
other
words,
without
dropping
this
kind
of
premises
that
are
usually
taken
for
granted
in
IR
we
could
not
make
sense
of
Japan’s
rise
in
the
first
place.
If
IR
would
take
serious
the
insights
of
other
disciplines
about
its
core
subject
matters,
it
would
redraw
its
map.
Particularly,
the
useless
delusion
of
an
anarchical
world
of
20
For
the
ambiguous
and
controversial
statues
of
authority,
identity
and
territory
in
Okinawa
see
Inoue,
Purves
and
Selden
1998,
Allen
2002,
Inoue
2007,
Yonetani
2004.
54
sovereign
states
would
have
to
give
way
for
an
account
of
various
assemblages,
collectives,
and
actor‐networks.
While
this
sheds
new
light
on
historical
forms
of
imperialism
(see
Duara
2006),
it
does,
more
seriously,
offer
a
method
to
examine
some
of
the
central
contemporary
puzzles:
for
example,
what
exactly
is
the
nature
of
the
power
discrepancy
that
put
Europe
into
the
driver
seat
of
global
politics
for
150
years?
As
the
modern
sciences
and
technologies
created
a
new
reality
what
does
follow
if
the
“great
divergence”
by
now
is
really
narrowing?
What
parameters
are
consequently
proper
to
assess
the
presumed
emergence
of
“state
assemblages”
such
as
China,
Brazil,
or
India?
6. Towards
a
relativistic
approach
to
world
politics
Precisely
because
we
seem
to
know
so
much
about
the
rise
of
Japan
in
the
late
19th
century
this
puzzle
presents
an
ideal
vantage
point
to
scrutinize
the
limitations
of
existing
IR
theories.
Against
the
static
notions
of
Cartesian
IR
theories,
a
relativistic
approach
inquires
the
agencies
of
constructing,
assembling,
reframing,
reconfiguring,
connecting,
objectifying,
and
qualifying
that
embody
and
enact
Meiji
Japan’s
emergence.
Closely
zooming
in
at
the
empirical
details
of
our
puzzle
illustrates
the
key
role
of
modern
sciences,
engineering,
and
technological
infrastructures.
Moreover,
as
we
have
tried
to
thoroughly
historicize
how
various
dimensions
of
reality
have
evolved,
the
significance
of
contingent
regimes
of
time,
spatial
formations,
rebuilt
material
environments,
and
shifting
subjectivities
for
describing
“rising
power”
becomes
clear.
Importantly,
we
have
not
“deconstructed”
these
dimensions.
This
paper,
rather,
shows
that
Japan’s
rise
involved
the
collective
construction
of
an
entire
new
reality.
Yet,
one
might
ask,
is
this
relevant
beyond
the
perhaps
unique
case
of
the
transformation
of
the
Tokugawa
shogunate
into
Meiji
Japan’s?
Or,
conversely,
which
research
agenda
follows
from
a
relativistic
approach?
Without
doubt,
these
historical
insights
are
highly
relevant
for
contemporary
research.
First
of
all,
the
pervasiveness
of
technological
infrastructures,
scientific
practices,
and
the
circulation
of
artificial
objects,
has
tremendously
increased
since
Japan’s
rise
began
more
than
150
years
ago.
So,
today,
every
state
assemblage
however
small
or
remote
is
linked
with
processes
of
assembling,
initiated
by
for
instance
technological
innovations.
The
evolving
network
of
modern
states
rests
on
a
material
“underbelly”
that
is
largely
unknown.
This
includes
for
instance
maps
and
cartography,
the
printing
press
and
news
papers;
navigational
instruments,
time‐pieces,
clocks,
undersea
cables,
communications
networks,
et
cetera;
furthermore,
the
circulation
of
new
scientific
methods
and
collected
“things”
(Branch
2011,
Barrera‐Osorio
2010,
Anderson
1996,
Alonso
1994).
If
the
state
constitutes
a
large
assemblage
(Passoth
and
Rowland
2010),
than
the
question
is
how
has
the
material
extension
of
complex
material
infrastructures
changes,
for
example,
its
territorial
organization,
the
citizens’
subjectivities,
and
the
forms
of
governance
(Swyngedouw
2008,
Carrol
2006)?
As
technological
innovation
relentlessly
evolve,
what
shifts
in
power
and
authority
within
state
assemblages
are
observable?
55
While
new
collectives
are
assembled
through
innovations
such
as
the
mobile
phone,
renewable
energy
technologies,
seabed
drilling,
nanotechnologies,
the
World
Wide
Web,
social
media,
and
digital
technologies,
how
does
this
reconfigure
the
evolution
of
“state
assemblages”?
To
the
extent
to
which
the
rise
of
Meiji
Japan
illuminates
what
it
takes
to
emerge
as
a
great
power,
it
also
points
to
the
existential
meaning
of
modern
development.
In
this
light,
we
might
reframe
the
puzzle
of
the
global
power
shift
that
led
to
the
“great
divergence”.
This
implies,
then,
exploring
the
construction
of
time,
subjectivities,
and
built
environments,
especially
during
the
19 and
early
20 century.
Arguably
the
creation
of
standard
time
explains
to
a
large
extent
how
the
power
differentials
between
European
empires
and
other
political
assemblages
could
so
rapidly
alter
between
1800
and
1850.
Although
historians
began
this
research
it
remains
largely
unclear
how
the
construction
of
synchronized
and
standardized
time
regimes
is
related
to
the
expansion
of
imperial
empires
(Galison
2006,
Kern
2003,
Winseck
and
Robert
M.
Pike
2007).
What
agencies
were
involved
in
these
innovational
processes?
Which
role
plaid
“objective
science”
in
stabilizing
imperial
outreach
(Macloed
1993,
Pyenson
1993)?
What
are
the
obligatory
passage
points
in
these
assemblages,
and
where
lie
their
silences
(Watts
1983)?
The
meaning
of
“great
divergence”,
consequently,
becomes
much
more
radical.
It
refers
to
more
than
just
a
number
of
“institutional”
and
“technical”
factors.
Highlighting
creative
destruction
instead
renders
tangible
the
fundamental
chasms
between
emerging,
often
incommensurable,
realities,
which
are
invisible
to
Cartesian
IR
theories,
but
experienced
by
many
people
around
the
world.21
th
th
To
be
sure,
empirically,
this
field
is
a
beast
and
IR
might
become
a
misnomer:
the
homely
distinctions,
categories,
and
domains
vaporize
because
“states”
inevitably
are
revealed
as
ensembles,
which
are
consisting
of
various
human
and
nonhuman
agencies
and
also
intractably
linked
to
other
actor‐networks.
Apparently,
this
renders
the
container
models
of
constructivist
and
realist
IR
theories
unsuitable.
But
tracing
actor‐
networks
also
call
into
question
the
fixation
with
the
inside/outside
frame,
which
is
either
implicitly
assumed
or
challenged
in
IR
(cf.
Walker
1993).
If
we
compare
the
Tokugawa
period
and
the
emergence
of
the
Meiji
state,
we
find
all
successive
“Japanese”
assemblages
were
evolving,
controversial,
mediated,
interconnected,
and
hybrid.
Thus,
when
me
make
our
case
speak
back
to
IR
it
amounts
to
a
double
irony.
The
earlier
history
of
Japan
gets
often
concealed
to
the
effect
that
the
allegedly
isolated
Tokugawa
state
could
figure
as
poster
person
for
modern
sovereignty.
Meanwhile,
the
European
nations,
which
are
in
a
sort
of
contra‐factual
claim
deemed
to
represent
the
“international
society”
of
sovereign
states,
crushed
the
alleged
Tokugawa
isolation
by
disavowing
all
norms
of
“modern
sovereignty”.
This
mythological
mind‐set
seriously
hampers
the
integration
of
insights
from
other
disciplines
about
global
interconnectedness
and
incommensurability.
We
believe
that
approaches
to
IR
must
21
These
conflicting
realities,
to
be
sure,
reemerge
in
Western
research:
for
instance,
at
the
nexus
of
underdevelopment
and
so‐called
“environmental
conflict”
(see
Dalby
2002,
Duffield
2006).
56
either
truly
follow
the
meandering
global
material‐human
connections
in
both
its
conceptualization
and
its
empirical
puzzles
or,
by
and
large,
remain
irrelevant.
Consequently,
this
interrogation
implies
certain
empirical
benchmarks
for
theories
of
world
politics.
If
frameworks
do
not
organically
incorporate
these
non‐human
agencies
within
their
conceptual
and
methodological
designs
they
are
unduly
reductionist;
and,
ultimately,
meaningless.
In
contrast,
the
“power
shifts”
at
the
nexus
of
science,
engineering,
technology,
and
modern
state
formation
constitute
a
central
research
concern
for
IR.
In
addition,
studying
the
formation
of
modern
states,
an
issue
that
today
hardly
has
lost
its
preeminence,
leads
to
a
somewhat
difficult
question:
how
should
a
post‐Cartesian
textual
account
deal
with
“translated”
vocabulary?
At
this
point,
Ravina’s
note
especially
applies
to
IR:
“The
polysemy
of
Tokugawa
discourse
makes
clarity
in
translation
a
problematic
virtue.
However
vexing
ambiguities
of
"country,"
to
translate
kuni
as
a
province,
domain,
or
a
country,
depending
on
context,
is
to
translate
Tokugawa
thought
into
modern,
post‐Restoration
thought.
Although
the
result
is
increased
clarity,
this
is
a
dubious
virtue,
since
this
lack
of
clarity
was
a
salient
aspect
of
Tokugawa
political
texts.
In
clarifying
Tokugawa
political
language
we
therefore
run
the
risk
of
effacing
the
complexities
of
the
early
modern
political
order.
More
seriously,
the
interjection
of
such
"clarity"
antedates
the
transformation
of
political
language
with
accompanied
the
Meiji
Restoration
and
treats
the
nation
state
as
an
ontologically
privileged
institution,
existing
even
in
a
world
which
had
no
words
to
describe
it.”
(Ravina
1995:1007)
The
conceptual
parsimony
and
the
terminological
clarity
that
underpins
Cartesian
IR
theories
conceal
the
multiplicity
of
reality.
Conversely,
using
multiple
terms
equals
a
grain
of
sand
in
the
gear
of
reductionism.
For,
if
we
employ
the
myriads
of
controversial
vocabularies,
than
the
sterile
model
word
of
the
“interactions
among
unitary
actors”
vanishes;
the
mythological
view,
in
which
great
powers
like
“China”,
“Japan”,
or
the
“US”
are
locked
into
a
perennial
rivalry,
becomes
absurd;
the
narrative
that
“sovereign
nations”
seemingly
interact
against
a
stable
and
uniform
background
of
“time”,
“space”,
“subjectivities”,
“material
artifacts”,
and
“build
environments”
crumbles.
Studying
Japan’s
emergence
through
the
lens
of
assemblages,
rather,
indicates
the
significance
of
shifts
in
these
dimensions
of
reality
for
how
people
and
things
act
in
concert
that
is
“power”.
The
challenge
then
lies
in
describing
the
incommensurabilities
of
a
contingent
world—a
world
that
has
never
been
modern.
Our
texts
therefore
should
avoid
the
terminological
purifying
that
underpins
both
Cartesian
IR
and
methodological
nationalism.
Analyzing
Japan’s
rise
highlights
crucial
advantages
of
a
relativistic
approach:
first,
it
entails
accessing
and
connecting
a
much
larger
and
richer
reservoir
of
data
and
57
empirical
materials.
IR
greatly
benefits
from
their
enormous
insights
and
knowledge
of
its
neighboring
disciplines
about
common
subject
matters.
Second,
foundational
collectors
lead
us
embracing
different
puzzles
and
new
theoretical
frameworks.
“Assemblage”
as
it
is
used
here
to
examine
Japan’s
rise
is
but
one
option.
Third,
it
implies
rephrasing
generic
vocabulary
and
our
conceptual
grasp
of
“power”,
“state”,
and
“agency”.
To
improve
the
theoretical
comprehension
and
the
methodological
access
to
world
politics,
we
must
empirically
redefine,
in
particular,
the
concept
of
power.
Japan’s
rise
illuminates
that
power
resembles,
as
it
were,
the
coordinated
collective
action
of
numerous
human
and
non‐human
actors.
Fourth,
a
relativistic
approach
suggests
a
clear
methodology
for
the
fusing
history
and
IR
as
many
demand
(Little
and
Buzan
2001):
to
explore,
for
example,
the
rise
of
great
powers,
we
must
treat
the
externalized
dimensions
of
Cartesian
theories
such
as
time,
space,
or
build
environments,
as
empirical
questions.
For
this
purpose,
science
studies
and
anthropology
offer
sound
conceptual
frameworks
for
IR
scholars,
who
wish
to
symmetrically
comprehend
the
mingle
of
materials,
practices,
and
discourses
that
characterizes
world
political
phenomena.
Moreover,
as
ANT,
in
particular,
opens
up
a
huge
uncharted
post‐Cartesian
landscape
of
questions
and
puzzles,
this
allows
for
a
serious
dialogue
with
disciplines
such
as
post‐Colonial
Studies,
STS,
Sociology,
Area
Studies,
and
Geography.
Finally,
a
relativistic
research
approach
is
underpinned
by
an
“explorative
realist”
meta‐
theory.
While
deliberately
avoiding
compartmentalization—theoretical,
analytical,
disciplinary,
it
involves
the
commitment
to
empirically
testing.
Post‐Cartesian
approaches
strive
for
making
visible
the
multitude
of
agencies
and
actors
at
all
costs
instead
of
imposing
orthodox
conceptual
grids
and
typological
orders.
The
respective
methodology
is
still
in
its
early
stages.
It
could
be
described
as
morphology
of
sorts,
comprising
the
combination
of
fieldwork,
genealogy,
and
cartography.
In
sum,
the
added
value
of
a
post‐Cartesian
IR
lies
in
extending
the
kinds
of
questions
and
puzzles,
which
we
should
explore.
In
this
vein,
detailed
field
research—foregrounding
ethnographic
methods—is
one
of
the
outstanding
and
enduring
strengths
that
the
ANT‐
agenda.
In
conclusion,
employing
a
relativistic
approach
to
large‐scale
historical
developments,
as
this
paper
has
set
out,
is
superior
to
realist
or
constructivist
approaches.
By
applying
an
uncompromisingly
relativist
framework
to
an
somewhat
traditional
puzzle
this
paper
calls
for
a
serious
conversation
about
how
we
can
transcend—as
a
discipline—the
Cartesian
paradigm.
58
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