Make Believe: Finding Fantasy in Reality in
Old Japan
Heather Highfield (Stony Brook University)
Often, when I was a child, I would finish reading some fantasy-fiction novel and lament that this
world was a terribly boring place. Everything was ruled by logic and science; phenomena which once were
considered supernatural were now known to have set formulae and reasonable explanations. It always
seemed as if everything that could be invented or discovered had already been. Nothing was left to the
imagination. Even mysterious creatures like those living on the bottom of the ocean had been found and
made into documentaries. Raised with this very practical mindset, I found that I could never really be
astounded by anything; even as I felt silly wishing for some fantasy world like the kind I had read about, I
wanted to be able to wonder at something, to honestly feel that perhaps magic was possible.

Even as I grew up and went to college, that small childish part of me never really changed. I had a
casual academic interest in fairy tales; It wasn’t that I found them believable, but I enjoyed the way logic
and reason took a back seat to novelty, and anything could happen. The world in those stories was wild and
uncharted; to live there must be frightening and exhilarating.

When I began taking Japanese language and history classes, I inevitably became curious about what
sort of monster and fairy stories such an ancient country had produced. What I found was an incredibly rich
lore full of fantastical creatures and dark forests, of warriors trained by mysterious mountain goblins, of
spirit gods and demons who became beautiful women by night. I also found many wonderful examples in
the animated movies of Hayao Miyazaki, which I quickly came to love. His movies, though mostly created
for children, depicted precisely the world I wished I could believe in. One features a shadowy, bustling
Japanese bath-house town full of mysterious Japanese deities like radish and river spirits. Another, “My
Neighbor Totoro,” features a giant, furry forest-god-type creature called Totoro who protects the woods and
whom only children can see. This one, by far my favorite, depicts a world which is not dangerous, but
which is dark and wild and exciting; the forest is deep, untouched and infinitely explorable; a sense of real
childlike wonder is possible. In such an environment, even those who cannot see Totoro can nonetheless
truly believe he exists. As I learned more about bright, fast-paced modern Japan, my imagination also grew,
and I wondered whether these tales still had any place in the national psyche or if that dark and mysterious
world still existed within the popular gleaming, technology-saturated vision of Japan.

I kept this in my mind when I applied to study as an exchange student in Japan. I chose a program in
Kyoto over one in Tokyo or Chiba, passing up the urban life for a more traditional experience. At first, I
took every opportunity to visit temples, go for long walks and explore countryside as well as city. But after
a few months, having seen a little of everything, I had regressed to my usual state of sitting in the computer
room all afternoon when I should be using my time more wisely. As time passed, I did of course travel to
many places and see a lot of Japan, but my experience was also becoming more and more like everyday
life: that small sense of wonder and newness that everything held when I first arrived was disappearing. I
had seen a great deal of Japan, but there was still one side of it I had not found. I desperately wanted to see
the side of Japan that inspired those fairy tales, but I began to doubt whether that world still existed at all.

One night in the middle of July, just a month before I was scheduled to come home, my boyfriend,
Hiroshi, suddenly announced over dinner that he knew the perfect place to go see fireflies, and that we
should go there at once. Ever practical, I pointed out that we should probably go another day, as it was
already almost 9 and the train up to the mountains would stop running soon. Also, I observed, it might be a
good idea to finish our meal first in any case. But he would not be deterred by logic nor reason. And so,
fifteen minutes later, still hungry, I found myself standing outside the tiny, remote Kibune train station,
staring out into the unbroken darkness of what I came to realize was the road we would be taking.

I turned to the solitary vending machine and bought some milk tea in a heavy steel can, not so much
for drinking as for defense against wayward bears. Or monkeys. Or radish spirits. I had taken this road
during the daytime, and it was not remotely threatening; but now, it seemed as though anything could
happen. Out of bravery or carelessness, we resolved not to turn back and set out down the deserted,
winding road toward the next street lamp, far in the distance.

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