Hanization comes to Japan?

The scenes that once unfolded at this sacred Tibetan Buddhist site are said to exist no longer. The influx of Chinese tourists—specifically Han Chinese tourists—has transformed this hidden sanctuary into a commonplace modern city.

The photographer is the renowned Kazuyoshi Nomachi, recipient of the Medal with Purple Ribbon in 2009. The photograph above can also be viewed on his official website (https://www.nomachi.com/g-nds.php?orderID=280&ItemID=2167...).

The same photograph appears in the January 2025 issue of CAPA (pp. 66–67). There, the photographer describes the scene as follows:

The photo was taken during the Tibetan Buddhist New Year celebration in January 1989 at Labrang Monastery, one of the six major monasteries of Tibetan Buddhism, located in Xiahe County, Gansu Province. The red-robed monks on the hillside are unveiling a thangka, a massive depiction of a Buddha or mandala.

The text continues with this reflection:

“When I revisited the site 13 years later in 2002, the scene had changed. The place was overrun with not only more pilgrims but also a throng of Chinese tourists, amateur photographers, and tussling security monks, making it impossible to secure a spot to take photos.

Another 20 years have passed, and while foreign travel to Tibet has become nearly impossible, an overwhelming number of Chinese tourists now flock to the region. The hidden sanctuary has vanished, replaced everywhere by modern cities, as I recently saw on a television program.”

Tourism may bring economic benefits to local communities, but it is also a destructive force. It turns hidden gems into spectacles, inflates land prices, drives out indigenous residents, and bulldozes longstanding traditions and religions, irreversibly erasing their essence.

Tibet has undergone Hanization due to the influx of Han Chinese tourists, losing—or on the verge of losing—its former identity.

If that is the case, who can guarantee that Kyoto, Nara, Kanazawa, Kamakura, and other renowned or lesser-known historical sites in Japan will not suffer the same fate as they face an influx of Chinese tourists, spurred by the introduction of 10-year visas?

This year (2024), I visited the University of Tokyo’s Hongo campus to admire the beautifully coloured ginkgo trees. There, I encountered groups of Chinese men and women loudly enjoying themselves, taking photos as if the campus were a mere photo studio. I could not help but feel disheartened.

From next year onwards, it seems inevitable that instances of disrespect or vandalism by thoughtless Chinese tourists will increase, targeting shrines, temples, and the Buddha statues that locals have safeguarded for over a thousand years. Kyoto’s central district, increasingly marred with each visit, may eventually transform into a Chinatown. The Gion Festival might either cease to exist or continue only with the backing of Chinese money.

Tourism is a force that sells off something precious—something that communities have preserved for centuries—in just a matter of decades. Even if vast numbers of Chinese tourists visit Japan, this will not change the Chinese Communist Party’s policies toward Japan. In fact, the more Japan ingratiates itself with an overly welcoming attitude, the more Beijing’s leadership is likely to adopt an imperious stance.

Let me offer a prediction: if Japan proceeds with plans to invite Xi Jinping as a state guest, just before his visit, the People’s Liberation Army will engage in unprecedented provocations around the Senkaku Islands. Beijing frequently employs this tactic with India—delivering a figurative slap and then exposing the other party’s forced smile to the world. Could Tokyo then cancel a planned state banquet with the Emperor? It would be highly unlikely.

It is doubtful, however, that these concerns would reach the ears of Foreign Minister Iwaya, who once served under the long-respected Taro Aso but has since aligned himself with the Ishiba camp.