According to the preliminary figures from the latest five-year national census released late last month, Japan's population has shrunk by 3.09 million compared to the previous count. It's the largest drop on record. Here in my home prefecture of Ehime, we've lost about 75,000 people (a 5.6% decline).
Take a look at the graph below. It shows the long-term population projections for Japan released by the government back in 2011.
| Year | Population | Aging Rate |
|---|---|---|
| 2004 | 127.84 million | 19.6% |
| 2030 | 115.22 million | 31.8% |
| 2050 | 95.15 million | 39.6% |
| 2100 | 47.71 million | 40.6% |
Since government demographic forecasts practically make a sport out of being overly optimistic, the reality will likely be even sparser.
While it's generally best to separate the macro, the national economy, from the micro, individual living standards, considering the yen's relentless depreciation and the continuous drop in real wages, the financial reality for most Japanese people is going to be incredibly grim.
I could write endlessly about the myriad social issues destined to arise from a rapidly shrinking population in a domestic-demand-driven economy. But I’ve beaten that drum plenty of times before. So today, I'll step away from the soapbox and lean into my personal, perhaps overly sentimental, feelings about Japan.
I love the Japanese countryside. For me, nothing beats the rural scenery of my home here in Ehime.
In late April, the rice paddies are flooded. Planting happens in May, and as the temperatures rise, the stalks shoot up. By midsummer, the paddies that once mirrored the sky are transformed into a green carpet of rustling leaves. But my absolute favorite time is late September, right before the harvest, when the heavy, golden ears of rice bow down. The contrast is simply stunning: the vivid red of the spider lilies blooming along the footpaths, the brilliant gold of the rice, and the rich green of the surrounding foliage.
My husband's hometown of San Francisco is postcard-perfect from virtually any angle. Yet, as a country girl at heart, I have a deep affection for the unpolished, rustic landscapes of Japan. It’s not the curated, look-at-me beauty of a theme park, it’s an unapologetic, frugal lived-in-ness. You can feel the traces of human lives, a raw, breathing humidity of the place. I can even find genuine beauty in the rusted signboard of a roadside shop that probably went out of business twenty or thirty years ago.
Japan will undoubtedly continue to fade alongside its rapidly shrinking population. A few years ago, the local 24-hour convenience store started closing its doors at 9 PM. As someone who clearly remembers the glittering, neon-drenched streets of the 90s, it's undeniably lonely watching the nights grow steadily darker. But the decay of regional cities didn't just start yesterday. In hindsight, the rot had clearly set in thirty years ago, right in the middle of all that glitter.
For me, the charm of the Japanese countryside isn't tethered to economic indicators. While our modern conveniences will drastically plummet year by year, the unpolished, decaying beauty that I hold so dear will likely only multiply.
Now, having waxed poetic about my love for rural Japan, let me offer a massive caveat: I do not recommend moving to the middle of nowhere. When I sing the praises of the countryside, I’m talking about the suburbs of mid-sized regional cities. I am absolutely not talking about "marginal settlements" (限界集落) deep in the mountains.
In those dying hamlets with only a handful of households left, everyone is essentially "family." Because of that, they can be brutally exclusive to outsiders, even to fellow Japanese. Since everyone views each other as kin, the boundaries of personal space are wildly different from the norm. An acquaintance of mine who married into one of these extreme rural areas told me that a neighbor once waltzed into her house uninvited, rummaged through her drawers, and casually helped themselves to groceries from her fridge.
And honestly, she was one of the lucky ones because she was at least accepted as "family." I’ve lost count of the stories I've heard about families moving from the city to the deep country, only to be completely ostracized and driven out by the village.
At the end of the day, people leave places for a reason.
