Wandering in Darkness and Frost

They wandered in silence. Blind, clad in layers of thick fabric, they moved slowly through the snowdrifts of the Echigo province, resting one hand on the shoulder of an older sister. The world had no color for them, but it had the touch of snow, the rhythm of footsteps, the sting of icy air, the creaking beneath their feet, and the music that rose from memory. They were goze (瞽女) – blind female artists, homeless pilgrims without temples, women living outside the world of the living. They sang in peasant huts, played the shamisen, recited tales of ancient wars and tragic loves. Their voices were hard and pure, as if they separated life from oblivion. For their performances, they received a bowl of rice, a handful of straw to warm themselves by the stove, sometimes a kind word – more often fear and distrust. As they left for their winter journey, behind them rang out children’s voices yelling “mekurakko!” and “tochi!”

The birth of the goze tradition was a dramatic response to the silent violence of society toward blind women. In feudal Japan, a blind girl was a burden – no one wanted to marry her, no one would hire her for work. Her future held a dependent, impoverished, often humiliating life. She might die abandoned in a forest, starve on the streets, or be forced into sexual slavery. The alternative was a contract – a family’s decision to place her under the care of a goze organization. There, she would become a disciple to elder sisters, undergoing years of discipline, obedience, and arduous travel. The system was strict, but it offered something nothing else could: dignity. Goze lived in a community resembling a fictive family, governed by a hierarchy: the master, elder sisters, younger apprentices – and where breaking the rules meant punishment: demotion or expulsion (death).

Goze were not just artists. In folk imagination, they were more – beings on the threshold. Their songs had the power to influence harvests, health, fate. They were blind, but they saw through sound; they were women, but forbidden to love or be loved; they were free, yet bound by an oath of strict rules. They lived on the margins of roads, in the cold of winter and the silence of rural nights. Their lives consisted of song, wandering, and the memorization of an incredible number of verses. And yet, within this loneliness and austerity lay a deep spirituality: humility before fate, discipline, community, and art – as a means of saving oneself in a world that left no room for the weak. Goze did not sing out of passion. They sang because only in song could they be something more than a body without sight – they could become a story itself.

A Day in the Life of a Goze

The snow crunches beneath straw sandals. The air still bears the chill and stillness of night – that particular hour before dawn, when silence breathes louder than a person. Aki’s hand rests lightly on the shoulder of her elder sister – the one who knows the way not with her eyes, but through the memory of the steps she took yesterday and those she will take today. There are three of them: Aki, Hanayo, and Ichika. Only Hanayo can see – just barely. She leads. Each successive hand in the chain of blind wanderers is a trace of trust, warmth, ritual.

They travel from village to village, as they do most of the year – except for the few deep winter months, when the snow is too merciless even for them. But today, in the early morning, they set off – to a performance that will take place in a farmer’s cottage, where they’ll spend the night. Their backs ache from the heavy furoshiki that contains their whole world: an extra kimono, a rice bowl, an instrument, a second shamisen wrapped in cloth. Each carries about thirty kin (approximately 18 kg). They are self-sufficient. That is part of their pride.

They don’t talk much. Instead of words, there is breath, steps, the crunching of snow, and the painful frost on cheeks and nose. And that particular sound of silence – so different from the kind known to the sighted. Aki is seventeen. She is an apprentice – it will take many years to earn the title of full goze (瞽女 – literally “blind woman”), at least seven flawless years, and then she might become a honkyoku (本曲 – “main melody”), receive a stage name, and after ten years, be allowed to teach. If she makes no mistakes. The worst possible one – falling in love. Love means the end. Goze cannot marry, cannot have children. Contact with a man means nen-otoshi (年落とし – literally “loss of seniority”) – the loss of title, name, and demotion to “younger sister.” You cease to exist. You become only a burden.

That is why Aki does not think about love. She thinks about song. Though most songs are about love… She tries to think of what her teacher used to say: “We do not sing for ourselves. We sing because it is our duty.” Goze are not artists in the Western sense – they do not say, “I love music.” They carry it. Like a monk his sutra, like a pilgrim his staff. Like a woman carrying water in a bucket across a rice field.

Tonight, they will sing danmono (段物 – multi-segmented song) – a long, multipart tale of love and betrayal. Then someone will request a kudoki (口説き – lamentation song) – a song of lovers’ suicide. And then the children will ask for a cheerful min’yō (民謡 – folk song). Goze must know everything. Remember everything. They do not have scores. Their sheet music is muscle memory – fingers, breath. Sounds are their map – and compass.

By afternoon they reach the village. The host is already waiting. He greets them respectfully – as he does every year. Goze are not ordinary beggars. They are like spirits: a little sacred, a little frightening. Or like Yamanba (more about them here: The Mountain Witch Yamanba – Feminine Wildness That Terrified the Patriarchal Men of Traditional Japan) – somewhat feared, somewhat scorned, somewhat respected. Refusing them lodging is considered a bad omen. Their singing holds power – it is said that silkworms grow faster when they perform. That children fed with rice given to goze will be strong and proud (people would buy back the rice originally given to goze as payment – at double the price). Yes, goze sing for rice – one bowl, sometimes two. In return, they tell stories no one else knows.

The cottage is warm. The fire crackles in the corner. The performance begins with yado-uta (宿歌 – literally “lodging song”) – a goze song offered in exchange for shelter. Then the guests request more – as if in a wish-granting theatre. Aki plays a duet with Hanayo – nichō-shamisen. Two souls, two rhythms, one body. The sound of their instruments is not beautiful in the conventional sense. It is raw. Piercing. Sometimes monotonous, sometimes like a moan. There is no hesitation in it. Only pure presence.

After the performance – a modest supper. A bowl of hot rice with salted plums. Sometimes a bit of fish. Sometimes not. Then silence. Aki lays down to sleep on a straw mat by the wall. Hanayo softly whispers a prayer to Myōonten – their patroness, goddess of music and voice.

They believe she was the daughter of an emperor, blind from birth, sent to earth to guide other blind women. They believe it is she who gives them the voice that does not tremble, even when the heart is afraid.

Aki does not know if it is true. But she believes in what she feels when she sings. That for a moment, the darkness disappears. That the hunger, the cold, the memory of insults – “mekurakko,” “tochi” – disappear. The sense of otherness vanishes. Only the song remains.

Closing her eyes – which see nothing anyway – Aki thinks of tomorrow. Of the next village. The next performance. The next bowl of rice. Of her teacher, who may one day give her the han-eri – the sign that Aki has become goze not only in body, but in spirit. It is purple in color, though Aki does not know what that truly means. She must sleep – tomorrow is another day of walking through frost and mountains to the next village.

What Does “Goze” Mean?

The word goze (瞽女) consists of two kanji characters: 瞽 – meaning a blind person (more precisely, someone who is blind, with a somewhat pejorative tone, and nowadays practically no longer in use), and 女 – woman. Literally, then: “blind woman.” But behind this brutal literalness lies much more – and the language reflects that.

The character 瞽 is rare, archaic, and historically marked. In the past, it also appeared in compounds referring to blind male players of the biwa (e.g., gishi – 瞽師), but it has survived the longest in the word goze. It carries the weight of fate, the stigma of physical deficiency, and at the same time a shadow of mystery – for in Japanese culture, a blind person was not only considered disabled but often endowed with special sensitivity or access to “another world.”

In various eras and regions, we find different ways of writing this term. In the Edo period and earlier, forms such as mōjo (盲女 – “blind woman”), jomō (女盲 – with the characters reversed), or the archaic and honorific expression mekura gozen (盲御前) were also used. The latter includes gozen, which suggests high status or at least dignity of the person addressed (remember – for example, Tomoe Gozen). This last term could be used with a note of respect – especially toward older or more gifted artists.

At the same time, however, the language was not neutral – the word goze teetered on the line between respect and stigma. Some villagers saw in them sacred musical pilgrims – women who, despite their fate, carried beauty and stories to the world. Others – merely “blind wanderers,” odd women singing for rice. Children would sometimes gather to listen to their singing, but also to mock them, calling out: mekurakko! – “blind girl!”

It is also important to distinguish between written and spoken language. In documents – names of organizations, chronicle records – the spelling 瞽女 was used. But in living speech, dozens of terms circulated, often emotionally, locally, and colloquially marked – many of which are now fading into oblivion. Language, as always, is not only a tool for description but a mirror of society’s gaze – full of ambiguity, emotion, fear, and admiration. The name goze is thus not merely a professional designation – it is a word that carries both the burden of fate and the light of dignity.

What Kind of Society Did Goze Live In?

In premodern Japanese society, a blind girl was born outside the system. There was no place for her within the family structure, nor a life path within the Confucian model of society. A woman in feudal Japan existed primarily as a daughter, wife, mother, or servant – her body and eyesight were both tools and prerequisites for fulfilling these roles. If sight failed – the social identity of a woman disintegrated.

Families, especially in the countryside, feared that a blind daughter would bring disgrace upon the household. Superstitious fears would arise – that it was a “punishment from the heavens” – but also practical concerns: that no one would marry her, that she wouldn’t be able to work in the fields, that she would become a burden. For poorer households, this meant the necessity of giving the child away – out of pity, desperation, but also calculation.

The alternatives were few, sometimes dark. Some blind women became healers, fortune tellers, ecstatic priestesses – like the itako of the Tōhoku region, who would enter trances and “speak with spirits.” But these were rare exceptions. Others were trained in massage – a profession traditionally available to the blind, yet one that was also subject to the demands of clientele and often associated with abuse. Nevertheless, it was primarily a male profession. Many fell into poverty, isolation, or sexual slavery.

Against this backdrop, goze appeared as a third path – not as an act of mercy, but as a strict structure of mutual aid, based on art, discipline, and dignity. Entering a goze organization was not so much a choice as a rescue – a way to avoid the worst fate. It was a model of emancipation through rigor, not leniency.

Families often signed contracts with a “goze house” – an organization that provided training, lodging, and care, but also demanded absolute obedience. Frequently, an initial fee was required for the child to become an apprentice. In exchange, after a few years, she was to become not only a singer but a full-fledged member of a women’s community that sustained itself – far from male oppression.

For a blind woman, this was often the one and only way to survive with dignity – not as a beggar, not as a “curiosity,” not as a medium or slave, but as an artist and a pilgrim. Goze did not ask for pity. Goze gave song.

The History of Goze

The roots of the goze tradition reach back to the 14th–15th centuries, perhaps even earlier – some accounts speak of blind women playing kagura drums or intoning ritual songs in local temples. They were not yet organized, and their performances often had a religious and folk character – tied to the agricultural calendar, local deities, and orally transmitted stories.

Everything began to change with the arrival of an instrument that forever altered Japan’s soundscape – the shamisen. This three-stringed instrument, brought from China via Okinawa and Kyoto, became widespread during the Edo period. The shamisen became the heart of goze music – a tool of storytelling, lyricism, and drama. From that moment on, goze from rural areas began to organize into formal groups – with hierarchy, rules, rituals, and repertoire.

The most important centers of the goze tradition developed in the northwestern part of Japan:
– Takada (modern-day Jōetsu, Niigata Prefecture),
– Nagaoka,
– Iida (Nagano Prefecture),
but also in other regions: Yamagata, Saitama, Gifu, Akita.

These communities, often called goze-kō (瞽女講), functioned like artistic monastic orders – with their own rules, elders, training structures, behavioral codes, celibacy laws, and strict punishments for violations. They were often morally ambiguous – some goze groups came into contact with pleasure quarters (yūkaku), offering entertainment in establishments of various character. But the most respected among them protected their reputation with iron discipline.

Connections to religion were also important – goze often performed in temples, during festivals, processions, and New Year’s celebrations. Sometimes their music had a supplicatory, purifying character, protecting the village from spirits or plague.

Over time, however, everything began to change. The Meiji era (1868–1912) brought modernization, the collapse of old social structures, new institutions, and a different conception of disability. Goze – as a way of life based on a medieval model of survival – began to vanish from the social landscape. After the war, only a few elderly women remained, continuing the tradition – often as living relics of another world.

The Last of Them Was Haru Kobayashi (1900–2005). She is recognized as the last true goze of Japan. Born blind, she began her training at the age of nine within the Takada-goze organization, and for over eighty years she performed, learning more than one hundred songs. In 1971, the Japanese government recognized her singing as an intangible cultural heritage, and in 2005, upon her death, the living history of goze came to an end.

But did it end completely?
Not necessarily.

The contemporary researcher and singer Rieko Hirosawa has for years studied, reconstructed, and performed goze songs, restoring not only the music but also a way of life, of thinking, of seeing the world without using one’s eyes. Thanks to figures like her, goze are returning – as a cultural phenomenon, a subject of reflection, a symbol of dignity that does not need sight to see deeply.

Everyday Life Within Strict Rules

In the world of goze, everything had its form – carefully defined, passed down from generation to generation, spoken aloud, preserved in sound. Goze were neither a religious order, nor an association, nor a school – and yet, they were all these things at once. Their communities resembled a guild – a closed professional structure based on a strict code and rigid social order. But at the heart of this guild lay a second family – the master was the “mother,” senior singers were “older sisters,” and the apprentices were “daughters” or “younger sisters.” In a world where a blind woman could only become a burden, this structure was an act of resistance and a way to give life meaning.

The hierarchy was clear: the shishō (師匠 – master) led the community, passed on the repertoire, and oversaw discipline. Senior goze were obligated to teach the younger ones, guide them during travels, and evaluate their progress. Apprentices – often very young girls – learned not only how to sing and play the shamisen, but also how to live: how to move without sight, memorize the layout of a room, use chopsticks, dress, bow, remain silent. Silence was a virtue.

At the foundation of their ethos was celibacy. No goze was allowed to marry, have children, or become involved with a man. This was not merely a taboo – it was a formal prohibition, and breaking it meant expulsion from the organization. Goze were to be independent of men, both emotionally and economically. Self-sufficiency was their pride – they lived from music, not from care. Some communities had their own rice fields, others ran workshops or received support from local temples, but their primary means of livelihood was performance.

The rules were written – in the form of codes – and were recalled annually during the Myōon-kō (妙音講 – literally “gathering of subtle sound”) ritual. This was an annual assembly of goze from a given region, during which they sang together, recited the foundational legend (about a blind woman who turned suffering into song), read aloud the rules, and swore to uphold them. It was a time of community, purification, renewal – but also of scrutiny and judgment.

The harshest form of punishment was a demotion by one (or more) year in the hierarchy – called nen-otoshi (年落し). Such a penalty meant a downgrade in status and privileges, reassignment to apprentice tasks, sometimes a symbolic “erasure” of one’s name from the record. For more serious transgressions – an affair, theft, breaking of discipline – expulsion was the consequence, after which the woman became someone without a home, without a community, without dignity. She had no chance of survival.

Everyday life followed the rhythm of study and travel. Goze spent as many as 300 days a year on the road – on foot, with staff and instrument, along mountain paths, snow-covered roads, across bridges, through rural temples and highways. They traveled in groups, one behind the other, with a hand on the shoulder of the older sister. They carried a shamisen in its case, a few modest garments, and the memories of routes they knew by heart.

They performed in peasant homes, sometimes in village inns, other times in midwives’ rooms, temples, at festivals, by bonfires. Lodging was provided by so-called goze-yado (瞽女宿) – rural homes with a tradition of hosting goze. Sometimes these were friendly households, sometimes families of former apprentices, sometimes rooms set aside especially for them. In exchange for music and blessings, hosts offered simple food, a place by the fire, a bit of rice for the journey. It was said that rice given to goze brought fertility, strength, and good fortune.

Often, they were accompanied by tebiki (手引き) – sighted women who acted as guides, assistants, and at times companions. They were not goze, did not know the songs, but they knew the roads, offered protection from danger, helped carry instruments, and spoke with hosts.

This life – austere, nomadic, full of rules and solitude – was also a form of autonomy and spiritual depth unlike any other female community of the era. Goze lacked sight – but they had song, sisterly bonds, and freedom.

Repertoire and Musical Style

Goze songs were not ordinary compositions – they were a living chronicle of emotions, stories, and beliefs, passed down without notation, solely through oral tradition. The repertoire included danmono (段物) – long, epic narrative ballads often based on classical literature and legends, as well as kudoki (口説き) – dramatic tales of love, betrayal, death, and redemption, deeply rooted in folk imagination. Wandering goze also sang kadozuke-uta (門付け歌) – songs performed at doorsteps, serving as greetings or forms of beggar’s appeal, and regional min’yō (民謡) – local folk melodies. Some goze also knew nagauta (長唄) – a style associated with kabuki theatre, and excerpts from jōruri (浄瑠璃) – lyrical narration known from bunraku theatre.

Training, for obvious reasons, was entirely oral – without writing or musical scores. The master would sing line by line, and the apprentice would repeat until perfection. Goze could memorize hundreds of songs, sometimes lasting for hours, with all the nuances of intonation, pauses, breath, and accent. This was not just memory – it was spiritual transmission.

The vocal style of the goze was distinctive – devoid of sentimentality, austere, calm, full of discipline and pride. Even in the most tragic kudoki, they did not allow themselves to weep or indulge in dramatic excess. The song was not meant to stir emotions directly – it was meant to transmit a story from mouth to mouth, like a ritual.

Their primary instrument was the shamisen (三味線) – a three-stringed, plucked instrument with a rectangular body covered in skin (often cat or dog), played with a large plectrum (sometimes made of tortoiseshell). The sound of the shamisen was dry, brittle, with a faint metallic echo – like the echo of footsteps on winter earth. Combined with a low, subdued voice, it created an ascetic yet hypnotic aura.

Appearance and Clothing

Goze could not see their own reflection in a mirror, yet each of them was a teacher of aesthetics. Their appearance did not serve beauty, but dignity – it was an expression of respect toward themselves, their master, and their audience. During performances, they wore clean kimono, often in subdued colors, with a simple sash and carefully arranged hair in the marumage or simple shimada style – hairstyles reserved for mature and respected women. On their backs, they carried furoshiki – cloth bundles tied in knots, containing their shamisen, spare clothing, and a rice bowl.

Their baggage – though seemingly modest – weighed several kilograms and symbolized self-sufficiency. Goze did not ask for help – they carried everything they owned on their own backs. Every knot in the furoshiki, every fold in the kimono had its place – once learned, they repeated it for years, in darkness, by memory and touch.

The aesthetics of their performance did not end with clothing. Song, movement, silence, the pauses between verses, the manner of sitting by the fire, the way hands were placed – all of it was part of a ritual, as if each song were a tea ceremony – only of sound. There was no room for improvisation – there was form, and within it lay an ethic of life.

Goze and Society – Magic, Respect, Exclusion

They were different. Always apart, not quite of this world – that is how villagers perceived goze as they arrived. Blind, women, wandering alone or in groups, unmarried, restrained, singing by fireside songs that carried more than sound – they carried memories, fates, shadows, and blessings. In the eyes of the people, they were artists, but also something akin to priestesses – they brought story, rhythm, presence. They were often admired, but even more often feared.

In many regions of Japan, there was a belief that goze possessed a power – not magical in the ritualistic sense, but spiritual, liminal. Because they had been stripped of one of the primary senses, they were thought to be closer to spirits, kami, ancestors. Their songs could encourage silkworms to spin cocoons, ensure bountiful harvests, bring health to children. That is why rice given to goze was not merely payment, but a magical gift – a form of exchange with someone who transcended everyday boundaries. There even existed a phrase: goze no hyakunin-mai (瞽女の百人米) – “rice of a hundred people for one goze” – as a metaphor for generosity, but also hope that through the goze’s song, the entire community would be blessed.

And yet – that respect did not preclude distance. Goze lived on the margins – physical, social, and emotional. They belonged neither to the world of mothers, nor to the world of priestesses, nor to the world of courtesans. They were a separate class, with their own code, aesthetic, and fate. Not infrequently they were insulted: mekurakko (blind girl), tochi (stray vagabond). They were respected and simultaneously stigmatized – as so often happens with those who do not fit into obvious social roles.

Philosophy, Spirituality, the Meaning of Life for Goze

The life of a goze was not a choice born of passion – it was a path of necessity. But also a path of spiritual discipline, where the renunciation of desires, humility before fate, and emotional silence were virtues. Goze guilds did not teach music alone – they taught how to live with dignity despite limitations, asceticism without religion, solitude without despair.

The singing of goze – so distinctive: restrained, pure, without expressive vibrato – reflected a philosophy in which emotions are deeply felt, but not displayed. Dignity is not an escape from suffering, but its transformation into something more subtle: story, sound, rhythm. Their lives were not founded on the pursuit of happiness in the Western sense, but on acceptance of pain and the transformation of lack into presence.

Haru Kobayashi, the last of the great goze, once said:

“Kami see the heart. Even if I am reborn after death as a worm, I want to have sight.”

This sentence – seemingly paradoxical – speaks of a longing for recognition, of the right to inner light even in a world of darkness. Kobayashi had been blind since birth, yet her musical memory, psychological strength, and spiritual discipline made her a bridge between eras.

Goze taught that pain could be a path, that solitude could be a source of sound, and that silence could carry more meaning than words. In a world founded on sight, they – without eyes – taught how to see more deeply. In a world full of noise and haste, their slow wandering and evening songs beneath a thatched roof carried a different kind of time – a time of focus, memory, and presence.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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