In this post, I would like to introduce an example from my research that explores Japan’s traditional pilgrimage associations not only from a religious perspective but also through their social functions.

This year, I co-edited a book titled Doing Public History: Weaving Alternative and Polyphonic Histories, published by Keio University Press. Unfortunately, it is available only in Japanese. I wrote the introduction as the lead editor, but without focusing on a specific case. Therefore, in this post, I would like to introduce one example from my research.

To begin with, the word kō (講) is a rather old Japanese term referring to an association typically organized by a neighborhood for a particular purpose. Historically, there have been many types of kō, many of which originated in religious practices. One of my favorites is Kōshin-kō (庚申講), where members gathered every 60 days to stay awake together all night. This was believed to prevent a kind of spirit within the body from leaving and reporting one’s misdeeds to the gods. Across Japan, you can still find memorial monuments featuring the three wise monkeys, built by these Kōshin-kō groups to commemorate their continued gatherings. Kōshin-kō is not a proper noun but a type of kō, and organizing such groups was once widespread throughout Japan as a cultural repertoire.

There are also financial kō, which in my view follow a similar structure. These are often compared to Rotating Savings and Credit Associations (ROSCAs): organizations in which members make regular contributions to a shared fund, and a rotating representative selected annually, can use the cumulative savings. This scheme enables members to undertake projects or entrepreneurial ventures that require a certain amount of funding. Some readers may recognize a similar model in the microcredit systems popularized by the Grameen Bank in Bangladesh.

In this article, I would like to introduce Ise-kō, one of the most prominent types of kō. The name appears in Japanese history textbooks because it was already popular during the Edo period, especially among ordinary people living in mainland Japan. Ise-kō is an organization formed to carry out pilgrimages to the Ise Shrine, one of Japan’s most revered Shinto shrines. Members collectively save money to send annual representatives on the pilgrimage, a kind of ROSCA-style religious journey. Upon returning, these representatives share stories of their travels and distribute amulets from the shrine. (To keep this post concise, I will refrain from explaining the crucial role played by oshi, the pilgrimage facilitators, and how modernization transformed their work.)

Many fascinating studies on Ise-kō have drawn on travel diaries, illustrated route maps, and common travel obstacles, shedding light on various aspects of Edo-period culture and society.

Here, I’d like to highlight two points. First, Ise-kō is not merely a tradition of the past, but it still exists today. Though collective savings are no longer necessary thanks to modern transportation, and shared beliefs may have faded, the gatherings continue. Second, from my perspective, kō may have originated not solely for religious reasons but also for broader social functions. I will elaborate briefly in the following paragraphs.

My main field of research is the southern part of Shiga Prefecture, home to Lake Biwa, Japan’s largest lake. The area lies along an old route connecting Kyoto (the former capital) and Tokyo (the new capital), making it a historically significant corridor of mobility. While today one can travel to the Ise Shrine from this area as a day trip or overnight journey, in earlier times, the pilgrimage often took four to five days.

During fieldwork on a different folk event called Sagichō, widely celebrated on the first full moon of the year to send New Year decorations to the divine realm, I happened to encounter a present-day Ise-kō gathering. I later published a book on Sagichō, though I won’t delve into it here. What struck me was that several Ise-kō groups still preserved their account books. I eventually collected and digitized over 2,000 pages of these documents from five kō groups, with the oldest records spanning more than 200 years.

If you’re wondering how such seemingly ephemeral records survived for so long, the answer lies in a rotation system. Not only were pilgrimage representatives rotated annually, but so were treasurers responsible for the accounts. Each person would keep the documents for a year before passing them on to the next. Discarding them was unthinkable within such tightly knit communities, where it would have been seen as disrespectful. This system persisted for centuries, reflecting a strong sense of equality in the distribution of responsibilities.

So what was the gathering I witnessed, if the group’s only purpose was pilgrimage? Traditionally, it served to select that year’s representatives, by lottery, bidding, or turn-taking, and was held around the New Year. In earlier times, when most members were farmers, the pilgrimage was timed for the agricultural off-season, and returning representatives were welcomed back with a banquet. While postwar kō gatherings no longer include banquets, the New Year meetings continue. In fact, in areas beyond my field site, some people now refer to any New Year party as Ise-kō, even if the original organization has disappeared. This shows that Ise-kō served not just religious purposes but also as a legitimate excuse for socializing and drinking together. Similarly, Kōshin-kō, with its overnight vigil, could be seen as a socially sanctioned excuse for an all-night gathering.

My research further explores how such kō relate to the idea of community itself, recalling MacIver’s distinction between community and association, through examining communal farmland, wartime expenditures, taxation, and more, based on account books, historical maps, and interviews. In this post, however, I will briefly focus on family and interpersonal relationships.

A key point is that most kō are based on households rather than individuals. This structure remains common even in contemporary neighborhood associations. Anyone studying Japanese society will soon encounter the concept of ie (家), meaning “household” or “family line,” as a foundational unit. The rotation system mentioned earlier naturally applied to household representatives, not individuals.

You might assume these representatives were usually men, typically the father, but there were exceptions. In some cases, women also participated in the gatherings or even went on pilgrimages, even before World War II. There was even a case where, alongside the former type, women organised another Ise-kō specifically for themselves. That even five kō in the same area demonstrated such variation in practice, while maintaining the basic structure, shows the flexibility and resilience of Ise-kō as a cultural repertoire.

Human relationships in these systems were often tightly bound to the community, making it difficult to opt out. The idea of mura (村), or village, often prioritised collective interests over individual ones, fostering mutual safety and stability. While this can be critiqued as a form of feudalism, especially given the existence of community sanctions and apology letters found in the records, it also ensured shared burdens and prevented free-riding.

Some argue that all coercive relationships should be eliminated. I agree, especially when they infringe upon human rights or dignity. However, when it comes to building and sustaining communities, semi-obligatory frameworks like kō may still serve a purpose. We don’t always have to invent new systems from scratch, we can also adapt traditional practices. My current question is: what kinds of modifications are necessary to make such practices relevant today? These might include addressing gender equality, an aging society, and urban concentration.