The Moyai Point at Shibuya Crossing: Tokyo’s Furious Momentum and the Fishing Communities of Okinawa

Moyai at Shibuya Crossing — a stone symbol of connection amid Tokyo’s neon lights. From the fishing villages of Okinawa to a reflection on what truly connects people today.

The most famous crossing in the world

A Friday evening in Shibuya has its own absolutely unique rhythm — a rhythm, a thrum, a chaos, a pulse. When you pause for a moment and truly look at Shibuya, a strange feeling comes over you. It seems that this is not the pulse of the crossing, nor even of all Tokyo, but of the entire world. As if we were standing at the very pinnacle of everything dynamic, modern, and up-to-date. I stand by the station’s west exit, leaning against a wall. No one notices me, even though I am not hiding. The evening air smells like a mixture of rain, perfume, and yakitori smoke. Behind me moves a wave of people, an unbroken stream of bodies reflecting the neon lights. Countless crowds, unbelievable crowds of people. Advertisements flicker like a waterfall of light: the red Don Quijote signs, the blue Shibuya 109 screen, the giant Hachiko dog shining in reflections. In this place, mindfulness is impossible — the excess of sounds, images, and smells would drive anyone mad. You feel as if you are standing at the very summit of humanity’s untamed energy. Shibuya. The biggest crossing in the world. The apogee of human restlessness.

Everything is here at once — young people in school uniforms, jackets unbuttoned, huge blinking headphones on their heads; girls in pastel jackets, with Samantha Thavasa handbags, taking selfies from angles only they understand; office workers and corporate employees with loosened ties, holding a beer from the konbini before heading to an izakaya for their Friday nomikai. Silent Toyota Crown taxis glide along the street, their green “空車” lights blinking. The gigantic multi-story Shibuya 109 screen is currently announcing a JO1 premiere. The ads on this single screen are the most expensive in the world, and the screen itself is the most frequently filmed LED display on the planet — in news broadcasts, in movies… If you dig deep into your memory — even Heihachi Mishima, in more than one cutscene, gave speeches right here, on the 109.

The sounds overlap: the audio signal for the visually impaired, a woman’s voice from a loudspeaker announcing the next Yamanote Line trains, the clinking of coins in a vending machine, the smell of fried karaage. Two students walk past me, laughing about something I didn’t catch, and pass a pair of tourists with cameras, trying to photograph the crossing as if they wanted to trap its chaos in a single frame.

Everything here seems in motion, interchangeable, transient — and yet, right nearby, there stands something that does not move.

A few steps from the exit, where the waves of neon and concrete dip slightly toward the station, stands a sculpture many do not notice. Moyai-zō. A stone face, raw, silent, as if transferred from another world. On its surface — traces of rain, tiny scratches. Against a wall of ads and posters of idols, it looks like something that has mistaken its era.

People sit beside it, wait, send messages, scroll through their phones. It is one of the favorite meeting points — friends gather here before heading out into the city. Yet no one asks what this strange monument actually is. It is clearly not traditional Japanese aesthetics. For most, it is just a point in space: “let’s meet at the Moyai.” And again, as on every Friday, hundreds of thousands of meetings weave into an invisible network.

I look at this stone face and think that moyai is not just the name of the monument. I know, because I read about it — it is not a commonly discussed topic. It turns out to be a sort of wordplay — very clever, reaching simultaneously into old Japanese village traditions and the astonishing, non-Japanese monuments of Easter Island — the moai. And here — “moyai.” The word has its roots in the sea — it once meant “to moor boats together.” In old fishing villages, this was what you said when boats tied their ropes together to survive a storm. One boat was too light, too alone against the waves. So they were tied into pairs, into groups, until they formed a single body — a network capable of withstanding the wind.

And maybe that is precisely why this monument stands here in the middle of the crowd. Because even in the heart of Tokyo, in a place where everyone runs in their own direction, we need ropes that hold us. Do we gather by the moai with our friends, pause for a moment, and try to survive the next waves of crowds?

“Moyai” — the whisper of a word that once meant survival.

And today — perhaps it simply means: let’s meet and stay together for a moment, before we drift off again in our own directions.

Moyai at Shibuya Crossing — a stone symbol of connection amid Tokyo’s neon lights. From the fishing villages of Okinawa to a reflection on what truly connects people today.

Where Moyai Came From — a Journey from Niijima

To understand why this stone face with Polynesian features stands in the very heart of Shibuya, one must leave Tokyo for a moment and travel far south — to the Izu archipelago, where Japan ends and the ocean begins. One of the islands on that boundary is Niijima (新島) — a slender volcanic island about 160 kilometers from central Tokyo. From above it looks like a green leaf drifting on the Pacific. Formally, it belongs to the Tokyo metropolis, but mentally and culturally it lies in a completely different world: calm, oceanic, where the rhythm of the day is set by the wind, not the subway.

Niijima is famous for the extraordinary material from which the Moyai-zō (モヤイ像) was made — koga-seki (コーガ石) stone. It is a type of volcanic tuff, light, porous, with a delicate greenish color. Koga-seki has a special quality: it is soft when excavated but hardens only when it meets the air. Thus, one can carve it easily, and then allow it to “solidify into eternity.” Locals say it is a stone that “breathes.”

For generations, the people of Niijima carved moyai sculptures from this stone — figures with large, serene faces, expressions of contemplation, guardians gazing toward the sea. Their form indeed resembles the world-famous Moai statues of Easter Island.

In the center of the village of Habushiura there is today the Niijima Moyai Museum — a small open-air gallery where dozens of these sculptures stand, each one different, yet all seeming to share a single soul. Among their creators was Kazuo Asakura, a self-taught artist who, in the 1960s and 70s, began something like a “moyai movement” on the island: community stone carving. Every year, artists from Japan and the world travel to Niijima to participate in the International Koga-seki Sculpture Symposium, held continuously since 1988. The island becomes an open-air atelier where art and nature work together.

It was from this place that, in 1980, one of the moyai sculptures was given to Shibuya by the people of Niijima as a symbol of friendship, cooperation, and gratitude.

It was a gesture that connected two worlds: the oceanic and the urban, the island and the metropolis, the silence of volcanic stone and the noise of neon. And so the stone guardian of Niijima drifted to Shibuya, where, among glass skyscrapers and the rush of life, it reminds people of a bond that cannot be seen but is felt by anyone who stops there even once.

On Niijima they say: “moyai no kao wa, kaze o kiku” (もやいの顔は、風を聞く。) — “the face of Moyai listens to the wind.” In Tokyo, it listens to the people.

Which brings us to the point. Why specifically moyai — what meaning did it bring with it from that fishing village into modern Tokyo?

Moyai at Shibuya Crossing — a stone symbol of connection amid Tokyo’s neon lights. From the fishing villages of Okinawa to a reflection on what truly connects people today.

Moyai as a Word — the Rope that Holds Boats Together

The word moyai (舫い) has roots far older than the sculpture standing at Shibuya. It comes from the language of island villages, where life depended on the sea and survival depended on cooperation. In Japanese it is written with the kanji 舫, which means “to moor boats together.” It is composed of two elements: 舟 (fune — “boat”) and 方 (kata — “side,” “direction”). Together, they form the image of a vessel tied to another vessel or to the shore — a connection that keeps it from drifting into the unknown.

In earlier times on the islands, when a storm approached, fishermen moyai-shita (舫いした) — they tied their boats together with ropes so that the waves would not tear them apart. One boat was too light against the wind, but joined together they formed a larger whole that could survive the storm.

It is from this meaning that the deeper sense of moyai grows. In the southern dialects of Japan, especially in the Izu archipelago and in Okinawa, the word was used not only in fishing contexts but also as a metaphor for human bonds. Moyau meant “to join,” “to act together,” “to share the burden.” It was not a sentimental bond but a practical one — an act of collective effort. In communities that lived for centuries on the edge of the elements, a bond could not be abstract. It had to be physical and real: a rope, a knot, a shared action.

Over time the meaning of the word began to seep into everyday language, but in Japan it still carries that shade of weight and responsibility. Moyai suru is not only “to stick together” but also “to support each other in hardship.” In a culture that values harmony and interdependence, moyai reminds us that community is not a spontaneous feeling or a romantic idea, but a shared daily labor.

In this way, an old fishing term becomes a universal metaphor for social life. Every relationship, every community requires constant “mooring” — a conscious effort to maintain connection despite the waves of everyday life. For when the sea is unpredictable, solitude becomes a threat.

Moyai at Shibuya Crossing — a stone symbol of connection amid Tokyo’s neon lights. From the fishing villages of Okinawa to a reflection on what truly connects people today.

From Mooring Boats to Mooring People — the Birth of Moai (模合)

Over time, the old moyai — mooring boats in the face of a storm — transformed into something more human. In spoken language the “ya” sound disappeared, leaving the shorter moai (模合) — different in writing, yet carrying the same root meaning of joining, supporting, surviving. What changed was the object of the mooring: not boats, but people.

On the islands of Okinawa, the word moai took on a new, deeply social meaning. It refers to a group of people who support one another for decades — financially, emotionally, and socially. It is not a “social club” nor a “friend group” in the Western sense. Moai is more like a life fraternity born from a spirit of mutual responsibility. Its members meet regularly, in the same izakaya or someone’s home, to talk, drink sake, contribute to a shared pool, or simply be together.

From an economic standpoint, moai is often compared to a rotating loan fund. Each member deposits a fixed amount — for example, 10,000 yen per month — and each month a different member receives the entire collected sum. This way, everyone gains access to financial support at the right moment, but the true value lies elsewhere: in the durability of the bond. The monetary contribution is merely a pretext for meeting, for maintaining a relationship older than money and stronger than interest.

The writing of moai (模合) is telling. The kanji 模 means “to imitate,” “to create a pattern,” and 合 means “to join,” “to be together,” “to match.” Literally, moai may be read as “creating a shared pattern” — lives interwoven with other lives. This is no accident: each member of the group leaves a trace in the rhythm of the meetings, in shared decisions, in everyday gestures. Thus something greater than the sum of individuals emerges — a community as a form of the art of living.

In traditional moai there are no contracts or regulations. There is no agreement you can sign or break. Everything rests on trust and reputation, which in Japanese society carry more weight than words. Breaking a commitment to the moai is not merely a financial issue — it is a violation of one’s own identity. In a culture where relationships are the core of personhood, cutting oneself off from the group means losing part of oneself.

Psychologists studying Okinawan society often point out that moai is one of the secrets of the islands’ longevity. It offers not only material support but also a sense of purpose, belonging, and security. Each meeting is a ritual repeated over decades — a small anchor in the shifting sea of life.

Thus, the ancient mooring of boats during storms became the mooring of people against the unpredictable waves of existence. For regardless of era, weather, or technology, human beings still need the ropes that hold them. Not out of pity, not out of obligation — but from the simple, ancient conviction that together it is easier to survive the storm.

Moyai at Shibuya Crossing — a stone symbol of connection amid Tokyo’s neon lights. From the fishing villages of Okinawa to a reflection on what truly connects people today.

Why Okinawa Preserved Moai While Mainland Japan Did Not

Modern Japanese history is a history of modernization — often rapid, sometimes brutal. When, in the second half of the nineteenth century, the country opened to the world after eras of isolation, Japanese society began transforming its social structures toward formal institutions. What once rested on mutual trust and local ties (see also: Under the Watchful Eye of the Neighbor: Gonin gumi and Collective Responsibility in the Time of the Shogunate) was replaced by bureaucracy, banks, insurance systems, and codes. In this new Japan everything had its forms, signatures, and seals. Neighborly help and community lending lost their purpose when the age of invoices and regulations arrived.

Meanwhile Okinawa, lying far to the south, lived according to its own rhythm. Earlier, for centuries it was a separate kingdom — the Ryūkyū Kingdom (more here: Kingdom of Ryūkyū: Where Karate Was Born, Religion Belonged to Women, and Longevity Was the Norm), which traded with China, Korea, and Southeast Asia rather than with Edo. When Japan incorporated Okinawa into its territory, the island remained in a sense at the periphery of modernity — geographically, economically, and culturally. And then came the war.

In 1945, the Battle of Okinawa was one of the bloodiest episodes of World War II in Asia. Around 120,000 civilians were killed — nearly one-third of the archipelago’s population. Entire towns were leveled to the ground, and after the war Okinawa remained under American occupation until 1972. For decades it existed as a liminal place — between Japan and the United States, between the past and modernity.

Under such conditions, the formal institutions of the state meant little. It was local communities, not offices, that determined survival. Moai endured precisely because it was practical and human — it required no bureaucracy, only mutual trust. When the state was far away and fate uncertain, people could rely only on one another.

That is why moai in Okinawa is something more than a custom — it is an unofficial system of well-being that encompasses the body, the psyche, and the meaning of life. In scientific research on the “Blue Zones” — the regions of the world where people live the longest — Okinawa is one of the key examples. And although people speak about diet, moderation, or the climate (and also ikigai, though that is a topic for another time), the locals point to something else: relationships. For moai offers what no insurance system ever can — a sense of belonging, of being needed, of being seen (the last of which feels especially valuable when standing in Shibuya).

It is a paradox that in a country as developed as Japan, it is the poorest and most remote province that has preserved the healthiest model of community. “Formal” Japan chose banks, systems, and modernity. Okinawa chose the memory that a human being is like a boat: alone one drifts, but with others one can survive the storm.

Moyai at Shibuya Crossing — a stone symbol of connection amid Tokyo’s neon lights. From the fishing villages of Okinawa to a reflection on what truly connects people today.

Return to Shibuya

My thoughts return to the station’s west exit, where this story began. Evening once more descends over Shibuya, and the glow of advertisements reflects off glass and wet asphalt like waves. People still flow past — hundreds of thousands of footsteps, conversations, glances. Everyone is running somewhere, everyone is chasing something.

The Moyai statue. It still stands here, despite these relentless, unending waves of people. The stone face from Niijima, which arrived from an island to remind city dwellers of things that cannot be ordered through an app. Now it no longer seems anonymous or accidental to me. I see in it the echo of boats tied together during a storm, the shadow of moai gatherings in Okinawan izakaya, the hand of the sculptor who touched the koga-seki stone with his chisel, knowing that this stone would “breathe” for centuries.

In this face, rough and silent, it is as if a simple truth about life in community were sealed: that a human being does not exist alone, though one tries very hard. In Japanese there is a saying, hito wa tsunagari de ikiru — “a person lives thanks to connections.” Moyai is such a connection — an invisible rope linking island with city, past with present, loneliness with another human being.

Looking at the statue, I think that Shibuya is like the sea. Its waves are the people who arrive and depart each day, carrying with them haste, ambition, desires. In this ocean of neon and noise, Moyai stands like an anchor — something that keeps the world from drifting away completely.

This monument does not speak of the past but of the present, in which each of us — though surrounded by thousands of people — feels increasingly alone. In times when bonds seem unnecessary and relationships interchangeable, Moyai reminds us that community is not an app but an effort. It is not a “community” on some forum, but years of shared life and facing challenges together.

Perhaps that is precisely why it stands here — to whisper in the pulsing heart of Tokyo about something simple, yet so easy to forget amid all this chaos.

Moyai at Shibuya Crossing — a stone symbol of connection amid Tokyo’s neon lights. From the fishing villages of Okinawa to a reflection on what truly connects people today.

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