気候変動と日本酒文化の起源Climate Change and the Origins of Japan’s Sake Culture

This year was a period when the subtle movements of global climate change became visible even in daily life. Especially the abnormal heat that began in the tropicalized rainy season around May made me realize that Japan has already lost its traditionally beautiful four seasons and is shifting largely into two — summer and winter. Normally, in mid-October, this would be a calm and pleasant autumn season when people quietly devote themselves to reading and regulate their bodies with seasonal meals while gently transitioning toward winter. Yet even now, daytime temperatures in Pacific coastal cities still approach thirty degrees Celsius, and one sweats when walking outside. Consequently, this lack of gradual seasonal transition brings extreme instability to the mind and body, causing various disorders. The imbalance of an individual cut off from the rhythm of the seasons simultaneously spreads among urban dwellers, inevitably destabilizing society itself, and I sense that Japan is steadily moving toward severe division.

These effects appear not only in the human body but even in a single flower. Plants, sensitive and honest to the changing seasons, have long bloomed only at fixed times, serving as indicators of seasonal shifts for Japanese people. These indicators reflected not merely seasonal change but also emotional transitions, and before modernity separated city and nature, much of Japan’s culture and art arose from this sensibility. Typical examples are cherry blossoms and plums heralding spring, but for autumn the flower that signals its arrival is the red spider lily (Higan-bana).

The red spider lily, with its distinctive red color blooming along levees and paths, has long been known to blossom precisely on the autumnal equinox. Yet this year, as I traveled around the country, I found many regions where it did not bloom at that time. As its Japanese name indicates, Higan-bana derives from “Higan,” the Buddhist term for the Pure Land — a state of enlightenment free from worldly desires and suffering. In Japan, Higan refers to the seven days centered on the spring or autumn equinox — the three days before and after each — totaling fourteen days annually. A familiar old saying goes, “Heat and cold last only until Higan,” which has become more than a Buddhist observance: it is a crucial sign marking seasonal change. Welcoming Higan thus originally signified the end of winter or summer, and the spider lily blooming in that period was its symbolic expression.

Normally, after the Bon festival the temperature gradually drops, and by the equinox the spider lily’s buds extend upward. But this year, unable to adapt to abnormal climatic shifts, many regions saw none of the flowers during Higan — a strange sight. Other anomalies are occurring as well: even in the mountain areas I often visit for field research, mosquitoes that should no longer be around this season still swarm in great numbers. In other words, global climate change is transforming ecosystems at a pace far beyond our imagination. Personally, the most uncanny phenomenon I find is the behavior of typhoons. Usually several strike the Japanese archipelago between late August and October, causing damage across the country, yet this year their impact has been remarkably limited — a sign that some vast planetary shift is underway.

Since the Meiji era, when the politically driven modernization abandoned the old lunar calendar in favor of the Gregorian calendar suited to an industrial society, most modern Japanese — especially the urban dwellers along the Pacific industrial belt — pay little attention to such ecological changes. Yet the bulbs of the spider lily have already begun adapting, judging that “it is not yet autumn,” altering or delaying their flowering in response to climate change. Modern people, however, have failed entirely to adapt. They still live by an industrial calendar that ignores seasonal flow, struggling desperately to maintain a zombified industrial society. We moderns are now confronting one of the greatest climatic shifts in centuries or even millennia, but our opportunity to feel nature’s breath has been completely severed by urban life. Especially in Tokyo and Osaka, postwar one-party dominance under the Liberal Democratic Party forged a “concrete-first” society bound to political interests, depriving citizens of any chance to perceive ecological change. Anyone who visited those cities this summer would understand: the true cause of the coastal heat waves lies in the high-rise buildings and towers erected heedless of natural order. These massive, chaotic blocks of concrete block the sea breeze, creating abnormal heat, suffocating humidity, and sudden stationary rainbands. These are not natural disasters — they are human-made.

Nature has already begun to adjust globally, sending signs urging humans to respond, yet urban dwellers ignore these signs, clinging blindly to unchangeable systems and losing sight of themselves. This is not simply a call for Japan to revert to the old calendar; rather, it means we should once again consider living in a uniquely Japanese way that synchronously holds both calendars — moving swiftly back and forth between two temporal worlds. Nature’s ecosystems themselves are teaching us this. Continually moving between city and nature, between the present and the ancient past, I have come to notice things otherwise overlooked. Among them, what lately draws my deepest interest is the relationship between Japanese people and alcohol.

Across the country, the rice harvest season has ended, and communities are holding festivals to celebrate and offer gratitude to the kami (deities). These mark the transition into winter and were once the most spirited times for farmers after months of hard labor. In late November comes the Niinamesai ceremony, when the emperor’s spiritual power used throughout the year is renewed by the kami — a cyclical, non-linear rhythm of release and restoration that was a hallmark of Japan’s ancient culture. Thus, around this time one can often see rice offerings at shrines, and at shrines dedicated to brewing deities, offerings of sake as well. I saw such scenes at several shrines this week, yet I also find something curious. Since early this year I have been studying precision nutrition, and recent advances in genetic analysis and clinical data reveal that most Japanese actually lack alcohol tolerance.

This intolerance involves the ALDH enzyme family that metabolizes acetaldehyde produced in the histamine pathway, particularly ALDH2, crucial for alcohol metabolism. ALDH2 has three genotypes: the wild-type homozygote GG, the heterozygote AG, and the mutant homozygote AA. GG, with no mutation, confers strong alcohol tolerance; most white and black people fall here, as do roughly half of Japanese. The risk is that high metabolic capacity allows over-drinking, leading to alcoholic cirrhosis or pancreatitis, but acetaldehyde is efficiently broken down. GG, common among Westerners, appears in Japan mainly in regions with rich sake traditions such as Yamagata, Akita, and Kagoshima.

About 40–45% of Japanese are AG, with only 30–50% enzyme activity. Even moderate drinking raises the risk of esophageal cancer, and such individuals flush easily — a moderate intolerance. Finally, AA types cannot drink at all: even slight exposure turns the body red, as ALDH2 activity is almost entirely absent, leaving very low acetaldehyde-breaking ability. When they drink, facial flushing, headache, palpitations, and nausea occur even with a few sips. Around 5–10% of Japanese fall into this group, common among East Asians — Japanese, Chinese, and Koreans — but almost nonexistent among Westerners, who therefore cannot grasp why some “can’t drink.”

Considering all this suggests a hidden aspect of Japanese history. In my own case, I am AA — completely unable to drink. This is not the Sober curious trend among Western youth; I literally cannot take even a drop. Yet here lies the intrigue: my father always drank heavily, and my mother is also very strong with alcohol. Genetically that should make me, born of an AG father and a GG mother, at least moderately tolerant — but I am entirely AA. Among my two brothers, the middle one is GG and drinks strongly, while the youngest, like me, is AA. Why such extremes?

One key, I suspect, is that the Japanese relationship with alcohol — like the Western rise of Sober curious among even GG types — reflects not a problem with alcohol itself but resistance to the social systems and interpersonal patterns built around it. My father epitomizes this. He grew up during Japan’s rapid economic expansion and reached career peak through the bubble economy. Working in client-oriented advertising, he entertained clients nightly, rarely home, drinking until dawn for decades. Now, through the lens of precision nutrition, I see he was not naturally strong but an AG who adapted under social pressure, forcing his body into temporary tolerance that later led to illness. Indeed, about ten years ago he suffered stage-four cancer, battling for a year; though recovered, his health remains fragile and alcohol metabolism impaired.

My mother, likely GG, drinks heavily yet never gets drunk. This traces to my maternal grandfather, a wealthy farmer from Akita — a region with deep sake culture where long winters left little entertainment beyond drinking. People there became historically strong drinkers. As a child I remember breakfast tables lined with bottles, and my grandfather, now ninety, still drinks heartily. My paternal grandparents, however, were from coastal Shimane — my grandfather from a fishing village and grandmother from a hot-spring town, in the old province of Iwami. Though such areas are associated with strong drinkers, I suspect here lies the genetic crossing that produced my traits.

Iwami became famous for its silver mines, whose control sparked numerous wars from the Warring States through the Edo period. To rule Iwami Ginzan was to rule Japan. Ultimately, the Tokugawa shogunate nationalized it, drawing miners and laborers from across the archipelago and creating what was then a “melting pot” of peoples. Along its coasts remain traces of ancient trade with the Korean Peninsula, and shrine dedications reveal settlements of Korean or Korea-derived migrants. My paternal ancestors thus came from a region where diverse genes intermingled before the notion of a unified Japanese ethnicity emerged.

My paternal grandfather died before I was born, but my father says he could drink moderately, while my grandmother never drank at all. Another key figure is my maternal grandmother, born on a small island in the Seto Inland Sea. Those islands have long been vital maritime routes linking Kyushu with the political centers of Nara, Osaka, and Kyoto. Because of this geography, pirates inhabited them from ancient times; even by the Kofun period they wielded influence. In myth, when Emperor Jinmu (Kamuyamato Iwarehiko) traveled from Hyuga (present-day Miyazaki) to Yamato (Nara), he was repeatedly attacked by pirates along this sea route. By the fourteenth century these pirates rose as the powerful Murakami navy, at times threatening central authorities. This maritime heritage endures; before and after World War II, many of those islands became shipbuilding centers, and some still build vessels today. One might think such ancestry implies strength in drink, yet this grandmother too never touched alcohol. Naturally, Japan’s islands, rich with such intertwined histories, saw extensive genetic mingling.

Broadly viewed, my total lack of alcohol tolerance stems from mutations inherited from both grandmothers. Even considering history, mythology, folklore, and genetics together through fieldwork reveals fascinating links between personal lineage and Japan’s deep past. Yet the larger mystery remains: why does Japan, where nearly half the people lack strong tolerance, possess such a pervasive custom of offering sake to the kami? Not all Japanese genetically tolerate alcohol; still, drinking culture covers the entire archipelago.

From my overall research I now think the ancient concept of “sake” was not limited to the rice-based alcohol we imagine today. Modern Japanese drinks are mostly made from rice, sweet potato, or barley, with rice dominant, and offerings to the gods are almost always rice-based. But examining mythology, old legends, and folklore, I do not believe rice culture once spread uniformly across Japan. Rather, the custom of offering rice-based alcohol at shrines was standardized after the Meiji era under State Shinto. This misconception, I think, arose from the arbitrary bias of folklorist Yanagita Kunio. Although he conducted extensive fieldwork before the war, he must have repeatedly witnessed pre-modern Japan where rice was not central to life. Yet every record he left assumes “Japan = rice culture,” interpreting all findings through that fixed lens — an intentional distortion. Moreover, Yanagita regarded non-rice regions as inferior, outside the imperial historical line, thus rejecting the sophisticated Jomon-derived cultures based on millet, tubers, and slash-and-burn agriculture. His scholarship helped build a monolithic national image, and because he became the “founder of folklore,” his biased view multiplied through citations until it shaped the general perception of Japan.

As a result, even lands once unsuitable for paddy fields are now blanketed with rice — an abnormal sight in historical perspective — while the once-widespread slash-and-burn farming has nearly vanished, practiced by only a few farmers nationwide. The current issues surrounding Japan’s rice production show that this rice-centric worldview was fabricated under the wartime regime of World War II, with roots reaching back to Meiji: a political necessity to equate the emperor cult with rice cultivation and thus manufacture a unified national identity — “Emperor worship = Japan = rice.” If, during that process, Japan’s once-plural brewing traditions were compressed into a single form, then exploring that point may reopen the ancient strata of culture. I therefore believe that before the state-constructed uniformity of Meiji, the offerings to the gods involved diverse ingredients, not solely rice.

In today’s world, not only climate change but every aspect of modernity demands reevaluation. For Japan, that means a thorough reconsideration of everything since Meiji. If we cannot make bold decisions now, both the nation and individuals will face collapse. Since the system itself cannot be changed easily, each person must change ahead of the era’s tide — and that depends on how vividly each of us can envision our ideal future.