Dogs and Demons_ Tales From the Dark Side of Japan - Kerr [127]
No country in the world could have been more fertile ground for totalitarianism. But control of the human mind is more difficult than it appears. The provinces boasted dialects and character of their own, to the extent that outlying fiefs were almost independent states. (The government did not succeed in bringing Shikoku's Iya Valley under control until 1920, when workers carved the first road through its canyons by hand.) In the cities, class divisions created the stuff of variety: pompous samurai, meditative monks, soft-mannered craftsmen, and unruly, sensuous townspeople. Nothing could be more colorful and chaotic than the «floating world» of old Edo.
With the opening of Japan in 1868, Wakon Yosai (Japanese spirit, Western technology) became the rallying cry of the Meiji Restoration, and in the case of education Wakon Yosai involved a marriage between the old feudal desire for total control (Wakon) and compulsory education, introduced from the West (Yosai). Standardized textbooks, uniforms, school rules, marching in lockstep around the school grounds, bowing in unison – these regimens were able to achieve what 350 years of isolation could not: a triumph over regionalism and individuality. It was probably Japan's single most serious modern maladaptation.
Yet the opening up of Japan initially sparked a great outpouring of creative energy, culminating in the so-called Taisho Renaissance. Taisho, strictly speaking, refers to Emperor Taisho's reign (1912-1926), but as a cultural term people use it to describe the years from about 1910 until 1930. This was the era when Okakura Kakuzo was writing The Book of Tea; when Kabuki, traditional dance, and martial arts were taking the shape we see now; and when rich industrialists built the art collections that today form the core of Japan's museums. Great writers such as Akutagawa Ryunosuke and Izumi Kyoka wrote some of the most fascinating and inventive literature in Japanese history. Kimono design, architecture, and music flourished, and a young democratic movement began to stir.
However, only a thin stratum of society breathed the liberating air of the Taisho Renaissance. The great mass of the people were studying in militarist fashion in the schools, with children lining up in rows in the schoolyard and shouting «Banzai!» By the 1930s, this generation came into power, sweeping away the fragile Taisho freedoms and instituting the kenpeitai (secret police), censorship, and the fanaticism that drove Japan to war.
With the loss of the war and removal of military control and censorship, it was commonly assumed that Japanese education had entered a glorious new era. And, indeed, much of the credit for Japan's remarkable rebirth after the war can be laid to its well-organized educational system. This system is second only to the nation's elite bureaucracy in its appeal to foreign experts, who have devoted many books and articles to the skills that Japanese children master-so many more, it seems, than Americans or Europeans. There is no doubt that Japan's educational system produces a dedicated workforce, and that these «corporate warriors» are the engine behind Japan's tremendous industrial strength. Obedience to authority, instilled in people from the time they are small children, makes Japanese society work very smoothly, with far less of the social turmoil and violent crime that have plagued other countries. All this is on the plus side of the balance. But there is a minus side, which, like so many other modern Japanese problems, has to do with once-good ideas carried too far.
Luckily for us, the psychiatrist Dr. Miyamoto Masao, formerly of the Ministry of Health and Welfare, has put Japan on the couch, and here he can function as our guide into modern Japanese education. According to Dr. Miyamoto, foreign experts have gone wrong when they accept the tatemae (officially stated position) fed to them by the authorities rather than the honne (real intent)