神武東征を内なる葛藤として再解釈するReading Jimmu's Eastward Expedition as an Inner Struggle
Throughout the long lineage of the Japanese Imperial house, Emperor Jimmu stands as the first to ascend the throne, the primordial force who laid the foundation of Japan itself. Traditionally, the figure of the first Emperor has been discussed through the various lenses of legend, fantasy, or historical fact; yet, the wisdom inherent in the myth remains largely untouched by these perspectives.
To me, Emperor Jimmu is a figure of profound personal significance. My own journey toward a multifaceted understanding of Japan—spanning history, mythology, culture, and ancient eras such as the Jomon, Yayoi, and Kofun, as well as the history of religion, faith, and folklore—found its first catalyst in the pursuit of Emperor Jimmu. In the summer of 2018, I entered Kyushu, the renowned stage of Japanese mythology, and from there began a vast, life-long journey.
When one speaks of mythology in Japan, Takachiho in Miyazaki Prefecture is perhaps the most celebrated site. However, while the mountain-rimmed Takachiho Gorge is widely recognized as a setting of myth, the coastal regions of Miyazaki, where the traces of Emperor Jimmu’s deeds are scattered in various forms, receive far less attention. These traces remain on the coast because the ancestral home of Emperor Jimmu was once known as the land of Himuka. Since the ancient name for Miyazaki was later pronounced Hyuga, it became common knowledge that his roots lay in this specific region.
While such a historical narrative is plausible, the true issue lies in the deciphering of the name itself. Both Himuka and Hyuga are written with the same two characters (日向). It is a common misconception to view this as a name for a specific country; rather, it signifies "the land facing the sun." In antiquity, it referred to the direction of one's living sphere relative to the sunrise. Therefore, when viewed from the direction of the rising sun, Himuka was almost always situated to the west, and it is more accurate to envision ancient Japan as a landscape of countless Himuka lands.
If we reconsider the ancient traditions placing the land of Himuka, tied to the history of the emperors, on the Miyazaki coast and assume his roots were there, the position of the sun rising from the east would, from that vantage point, be an unknown horizon beyond the Seto Inland Sea. It was around this solar movement, spanning vast cycles of time, that Jimmu's eastward expedition (神武東征) was born. Before ascending as Emperor, his name was Kamuyamato Iwarehiko (神倭伊波礼比古命). I believe this name originally belonged to the chieftain of a certain tribe residing in the land of Himuka.
In my view, the history of the Emperors did not begin with a single historical figure named Kamuyamato Iwarehiko conquering the utopia of Yamato (modern-day southern Nara) in a single generation. Instead, I see it as the movement of a tribe occurring over dozens or even hundreds of generations—a collective migration that accumulated as ancient lore. When the compilation of the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki began in the early 8th century, these fragments were synthesized into a single, cohesive narrative. It was at this moment that the lineage from Kamuyamato Iwarehiko to Emperor Jimmu was forged into a direct line. The legend was not the achievement of a single heroic individual, but the distilled essence of a people.
I believe the eastward expedition did not take a few years as described in the myths, but likely spanned centuries, perhaps over a millennium. If so, there must have been an absolute driving force—a reason for a people to abandon their homeland for a new world. While the exact cause remains uncertain, one possibility that emerged through my exploration of various regions is natural disaster.
As we see in our contemporary world, I find the key to the eastward expedition in the surge of natural catastrophes. Kyushu is a singular, volatile region densely packed with some of Japan’s most prominent volcanoes, such as Sakurajima, Mount Aso, Kirishima, and the offshore Kikai Caldera. Since ancient times, these eruptions have served as major turning points in history.
It is little known that the origins of the early Jomon culture, which formed the prototype of the Japanese people, were located in the southernmost part of Kyushu. Archaeological evidence supports this, yet a profound mystery haunts the field. For some reason, the people who built the headwaters of Jomon culture in southern Kyushu vanished abruptly. This simultaneous disappearance of tribes remained a mystery for years, but recently, the cause has come to light: the massive eruption of the Kikai Caldera, a submarine volcano south of Kyushu’s tip. Known as the Kikai-Akahoya eruption, it occurred around 5,300 BCE (approximately 7,300 years ago). In 2024, research groups from Kobe University and other institutions confirmed that this was the largest eruption on Earth in the past 10,000 years of the Holocene. This cataclysmic event dealt a devastating blow to the highly developed Jomon culture of southern Kyushu. In fact, parts of southern Kyushu and Shikoku are thought to have remained uninhabited for nearly a thousand years afterward—a "blank millennium" in our archaeology.
The volcanic ash from this eruption reached as far as Tohoku, causing immense damage. My personal investigations suggest that this disaster was the catalyst that shifted the cultural center of gravity from southern Kyushu to northern Tohoku. The few survivors in southern Kyushu fled north, but because northern Kyushu was already a primary crossroads for new tribes arriving from the continent and the peninsula, the density of contact between different groups—who had previously lived in peace—increased. A new era of friction emerged. In this intersection of recurring natural disasters and dense migration, certain tribes were forced to move in search of a new horizon.
When I contemplate the invisible circumstances of the ancient world—the realms never depicted in formal history—my interest gravitates toward a single point: the inner state of the tribal leader portrayed as Kamuyamato Iwarehiko. With what heart did he resolve to abandon his homeland and venture toward an unknown utopia in the east?
What countless lives were lived during that migration? Recently, while spending days examining the transition from the nobility to the rise of the samurai in medieval Japan, I focused on the father and son, Taira no Tadamori and Taira no Kiyomori. Beneath the surface of their rise, I see the birth of a new era of faith. History possesses an underlying rhythm; by referencing these later periods, we can infer that even in the origins of the eastward expedition, there must have been profound emotional turbulence and internal struggle. How do we, living in the distant future, reach out and grasp this unrecorded struggle of the soul?
In my latest video, I have treated the Kamuyamato Iwarehiko of the eastward expedition as the protagonist. However, rather than a traditional interpretation of historical fact, I have re-envisioned the expedition as the internal conflict of Kamuyamato Iwarehiko—a psychological struggle that was later mythologized.
For this, I drew upon the thought of Wang Yangming, the Ming dynasty Confucian scholar whom I deeply admire. I portrayed Kamuyamato Iwarehiko in his Himuka era as one who tended to separate knowledge from action. When faced with a true, unpredictable crisis—like a merciless volcanic eruption—he realizes his conventional knowledge is utterly meaningless. He is forced to confront his own impotence, unable even to save the lives of his people.
In mythology, he is a descendant of the gods, tracing his lineage to Amaterasu. Yet, I propose that even a descendant of the divine, when faced with such unprecedented a crisis, feels the agonizing uselessness of established knowledge. This is my personal interpretation of how we should view "the divine." In such moments, life demands a great decision: to cling to old knowledge or to step into the unknown. History is a continuous chain of such decisions. While human history is often narrated with brilliance, it is ultimately defined by whether one chose to act when the moment demanded it. Those who step forward create the next era and become the driving force for the millennia that follow.
Consider the "Out of Africa" migration, where Homo sapiens expanded across the globe. Because a few made the decision to cross the seas, humanity ensured its survival. Countless such moments occurred, unrecorded by history, and it is through this lens that we must re-evaluate our past. This weight of decision is condensed within the myth of the eastward expedition.
Crucially, this decision involves the necessity of leaving many behind. In every age, there are moments where one must move forward alone, even if it means sacrificing the majority. If one hides their self-interest—particularly the desire for recognition—behind the pretext of "saving the many," they cannot advance. Though it may be called cold-hearted, the ability to make a grand decision for the sake of the future is what determines history. This remains true today. Kamuyamato Iwarehiko left the majority of his tribe to seek a new utopia with only a few. The journey to Yamato was fraught with obstacles; the myth tells of the death of his three brothers—a testament to the visceral toll of the journey.
In the video, I focused on this separation of knowledge and action. As a counterpoint, I established Nagasunehiko as his nemesis—a being who represents the non-separated state. In the myth, when the expedition reached Mount Ikoma near Osaka, they faced Nagasunehiko and suffered a crushing defeat. It was there that his brother, Itsuse, fell to an arrow. This symbolizes how the mind, still clinging to old knowledge, leads to the death of what is most dear.
Facing death, Itsuse emphasizes their identity as "children of the sun" (as Amaterasu is the sun deity) and realizes that fighting toward the sun was the cause of their defeat. Consequently, Kamuyamato Iwarehiko abandons the direct path through Mount Ikoma and heads south through the Kii Peninsula of Wakayama. He sought to bypass the peninsula, moving toward the sunrise, so that he could eventually advance upon Yamato with the sun at his back.
Yet, this path was also fraught. The Kii coast was home to many indigenous tribes; battles were fought, and allies were found. In a storm at sea, he lost his remaining two brothers. Emerging from these trials, he finally reached the direction of the rising sun. But to reach Nagasunehiko’s stronghold in Yamato, he had to cross the Kii Mountains—a formidable natural fortress.
The famous Kumano Kodo trails cross these mountains today, but in antiquity, crossing them was impossible for anyone except the few tribes who knew the secret paths. In his despair, help arrived in the form of Yatagarasu, the three-legged crow. While the myth depicts a creature, I interpret Yatagarasu as a specific tribe. Exploring the Kii Mountains reveals numerous ancient traditions suggesting as much. Guided by the Yatagarasu tribe, he crossed the mountains from the direction of the sunrise and descended upon Nagasunehiko from the rear. At this moment, the separation between knowledge and action vanished, and he achieved chiko goitsu (知行合一), the unity of knowledge and action. This is symbolized by the golden bird that perched upon his bow.
In that instant, he realized that Nagasunehiko was not an external nemesis, but an illusion existing within himself. Only then was he able to overcome him.
The myth concludes with Kamuyamato Iwarehiko ascending the throne as Emperor Jimmu at the Kashihara Palace. While this work is a reinterpretation of a myth I dearly love, it also carries another, more ambitious intent: a critique of the modern world through the vessel of history.
Our contemporary world is a landscape of strain, where countless unresolvable problems occur daily, causing those who truly care for the world to suffer and fall ill. Vast amounts of criticism are directed at politics, society, and technology, yet because we live within the framework of the present, we cannot truly perceive it objectively. This is the limit of modern critique.
The question is whether those who criticize understand this limit. Unless one is deeply thoughtful, any attempt to critique modern issues is quickly swallowed by prevailing ideologies. This is why the world remains exhausted and stagnant. Furthermore, if critique is brandished as a direct attack, the conflict only deepens.
In this light, the most effective approach is to work with history. In Shitsurae, I deal with various historical narratives, but my intent is not merely to introduce unfamiliar Japanese material to a foreign audience. Rather, the deep, independent exploration of history and culture is, for me, a critique of the modern world. This is the fierce indignation that lies at my core.
For instance, my recent examination of the rise of the samurai in the late Heian period is not a simple historical commentary. It is a poignant critique of the present, applied through the lens of the past. This method is profoundly effective; even without explicitly stating a modern grievance, the intensity of the message resonates with those who can perceive it.
My latest attempt was to bring this perspective not only to text but into video. Having felt a strong sense of its potential, I intend to continue producing works in this vein.