Ichiko Aoba’s Luminescent Creatures: The Enchanted Traditions of Isolated Hateruma

Why Ichiko Aoba Keeps Returning to Hateruma Island at Japan’s Southern Edge

Ichiko, you’ve been visiting Hateruma Island regularly since 2020, haven’t you?

Aoba: Yes, that’s right. My first trip was in the middle of summer, so I think it was August 2020. At the time, I was traveling around various islands in Okinawa and Amami while working on Adan no Kaze, and Hateruma was one of those islands.

What made you keep going back to Hateruma instead of the other islands?

Aoba： From the very first visit, I felt that it was different from the other islands. On places like Kudaka, Taketomi, or the Amami islands, it felt like I was just “allowed to visit for a while.” But Hateruma gave me a sense of “coming home.” I could feel a kind of pull from the island itself, and right from the start I knew it wasn’t a place you just visit for tourism or research and then leave.

What kind of island is Hateruma?

Aoba: It’s a small island with a population of about 450, and you can circle it in 20 to 30 minutes by car. Since it’s a coral island, the soil drains well, and freshwater is supplied to each household by desalinating seawater. There are no buildings taller than two stories, so aside from the community center and the school, everything is low and flat, the island itself feels very flat. There are no large rivers, just small streams trickling through the forests.

Without rivers, farming must be challenging. It seems like a pretty harsh living environment. Do you think this has influenced the mindset or spirit of the islanders?

Aoba： I think it definitely has. People on Hateruma are very tough, and being so far from a larger island, you really need to be resilient to get by. Even if supply ships are delayed or there’s a power outage from a typhoon, many people find clever ways to manage and get through those situations.

So the harsh environment strengthens their survival instincts?

Aoba: Exactly. Watching the way they walk or speak, you can see that they have both strength and flexibility.

Diving into Island Rituals, Preserving Sacred Songs, and Capturing the Voices of Elders

On Hateruma Island, I hear that various folk rituals are held at sacred sites called uganju and utaki, and a wide variety of sacred songs have been passed down.

Aoba: If you include rituals that aren’t open to the public, there are an incredible number of them. There’s even a calendar distributed that lists only the local events. Each village has its own rituals, and each ritual has songs associated with it. But nowadays, fewer and fewer people can actually sing them, so often only the lyrics remain in written form. I’ve heard that sometimes people just read the lyrics aloud and that’s the end of it.

That must feel heartbreaking.

Aoba: It really is. I have a nee-nee, Okinawan and Yaeyama for “older sister,” who always plays the sanshin with me. She’s from Hateruma, so she remembers the songs her mother and grandmother used to sing. Right now, we’re recording and transcribing these songs together. I hope that when children who have left the island return, the sheet music and recordings will allow them to sing these sacred ritual songs once more.

So in the process of connecting with the locals, you’re learning these sacred songs yourself.

Aoba: Exactly, I’m still in the midst of learning them.

Sacred ritual songs are entirely different from the popular music most people listen to. They’re sung for the gods or spirits. When you first experienced these songs, what was it like?

Aoba: If you look at the historical records, the lyrics appear in various places. For example, some are included on the CD PATILOMA Hateruma Koyō-shū 1 (2009). But the way each person interprets the melody, the phrasing, is limitless. I feel it’s such a loss that this richness hasn’t been fully preserved. My nee-nee once said that during the sacred rituals, everyone sings in their own way, and that’s what gives you goosebumps.

That’s amazing. So there’s no single, fixed way the songs are sung.

Aoba: Exactly. When five or six grandmothers begin singing, each with their own phrasing, there’s a moment when it feels like “the place itself” starts to sing. Somehow the trees go quiet, and she said, “That feeling is gone now.”

Since 2023, you’ve also been taking part in Mushaama, the traditional ritual that prays for abundant harvests and honors ancestral spirits.

Aoba: Yes. The festival had been suspended during the pandemic, so 2023 was the first Mushaama in four years. A couple who had moved to the island and become teachers taught me the sanshin, which made it possible for me to participate. Since it had been so long, everyone had forgotten some of the steps. It made me realize how much people remember the details because it’s an annual event.

I hear that in the Michisanee, the costumed procession, you play the sanshin.

Aoba: yes, the Michisanee features women performing the Inasuri-bushi, horse dancers called Uma Musha, clowns known as Boobuza, and many other participants in a line. I play the sanshin and sing as a jikata for the Mirukun-ji, performing the song for the god Miruku-sama, who brings bountiful harvests and happiness.

*Jikata refers to a musician who primarily provides accompaniment on the sanshin.

I saw some photos from that event on your Instagram, and you looked like you were having a great time.

Aoba: Yes, it was so much fun. Mushaama is a festival where we welcome the ancestors and let them enjoy songs and dances. It’s essentially a festival for the entire island, so it’s a major event. During Mushaama, the whole island really comes alive with the celebration.

When you sing and play music at Mushaama, is it very different from your usual performances, or did it feel familiar once you started?

Aoba: The main differences are that I’m playing a different instrument than usual and performing songs that I didn’t compose myself. But in terms of making music, it doesn’t feel that different. It’s just a different role, but the energy is the same. Normally I perform solo, but at Mushaama I’m playing alongside hundreds of people, so it feels like being part of a massive ensemble.

Has taking part in Mushaama changed the way you see Hateruma?

Aoba: I think it has. Being part of Mushaama let me experience a more human side of Hateruma. Even the small conflicts and tensions are part of what makes it interesting. I probably shouldn’t say “interesting,” or people might get upset [laughs].

Still, some people can appreciate those quirks, while others find them unbearable and leave. On Hateruma, that line is very clear. They even say that if you can’t fit in, “the island will push you away.”

Do you ever feel like the island is pushing you away?

Aoba: Not at all, at least for now. I feel like I’m handling it pretty well. Because it’s such a small island, relationships aren’t overly intense. There are people living in the same village whom you might not see for a whole year. It’s a tiny place—you’d think it’d be impossible not to run into each other—but that kind of distance seems to help everyone maintain their connections.

“Mazamun”: Connecting the World of Hateruma’s Nee-nee and Ichiko Aoba

Your album Luminescent Creatures, released in February, seems to reflect your connection with Hateruma in many ways.

Aoba: Yes, absolutely. The most obvious example is the second track, “24° 3′ 27.0″ N, 123° 47′ 7.5″ E,” which carries the melody of Hateruma Kudoku. This is a song sung in the village where I take part during Mushaama, and it was actually the first song I was taught there.

Verses one through four are sung in standard Japanese, while the fifth verse is written in the Hateruma dialect. On my album, I perform that part in the dialect.

The third track on the album is called “mazamun.” In the Hateruma dialect, that means “demon” or “yōkai,” right?

Aoba： Yes. For many years, people on the island have told me, “There’s a mazamun here,” and ever since, I make a point of saying “hello” whenever I pass by that spot.

Has it always stayed in the same place?

Aoba: That’s right. Even after several people tried to drive it away during rituals, it never moved. At one point, the family said, “If it’s not causing trouble, it can stay,” so it seems to still be there [laughs]. Ever since I heard that story, I’ve been greeting it whenever I pass. When I told my nee-nee about it, she cried tears of joy, saying, “I’m so happy to have a friend I can talk about mazamun with like this.”

She was happy because you didn’t dismiss the existence of the mazamun.

Aoba: I wrote the lyrics for “mazamun” based on my own image, but when I showed them to my nee-nee, she said it matched exactly what she always saw there. We shared the same vision, like, “Yes, that’s where the boat of light comes.” Talking about mazamun made me feel closer to her—I wonder if the mazamun itself brought us together.

Some people in the village must be scared of mazamun, though.

Aoba: I’m sure there are people who think that way. It might be a demon, but it hasn’t actually done anything to me. Humans gave it the name “demon,” so it’s hard to say what’s really wrong with it.

In a sense, mazamun feels like nature itself, both something to be feared and revered, and something you can sometimes form a connection with.

Aoba: I think so too. I imagine it’s the same on other islands. Often, spots where natural forces are at play become sacred places, like where the tides collide or where rainwater collects mysteriously.