Where Did Japan Begin? Awaji Island and the Origins of Yamato
Japanese Capitals
If one were to begin the journey from the end, from Japan’s capital “today,” from the shimmering lights of Tokyo, the country would appear as a modern, fast-paced, almost futuristic land, though full of “peculiarities.” Yet stepping back through time changes the landscape: first Edo, a city of wood and paper, the largest metropolis in the world during the 19th century, sprawling around the shogun’s castle; then Kyoto — the capital of a thousand temples and zen gardens, steeped in ceremony and poetry. Before that, the shoguns ruled first from Kamakura, later from Muromachi. Further back — in the same place, but a thousand years earlier — stood Heian-kyō, the city of elegance, where literature was born within palace chambers and the melancholy of exile echoed beneath the shadow of Mount Hiei. Further still, we reach Nara, with its Great Buddha and the first centralized imperial authority, and Asuka, the cradle of Buddhism, where Japan learned writing, religion, and law. But if that is still not enough, if we push past the next layers of civilization, beyond stone pagodas, beyond the first temples — we arrive at the beginning, where myth and history merge into one. There waits Awaji. The first step of the gods. The first line of the map. Awaji Island — the cosmological origin.
According to the Kojiki (712) and Nihon Shoki (720), everything began here. In the age when the earth was still a formless mist above an endless ocean, the deities Izanagi and Izanami, standing upon the Heavenly Floating Bridge, Ame-no-ukihashi, plunged the Spear of Heavenly Jewels into the chaos of the primal sea. Droplets of water slid from the tip and solidified, forming Onogoro-shima — today identified with Awaji. Myth becomes geography: every fragment of the landscape bears witness to the primal beginning, every rock could have been a droplet falling from the gods’ spear. And yet beneath this myth lie other, equally ancient stories. In northern Tsukuda, archaeologists have discovered traces of settlements dating back eight thousand years — fragments of Jōmon-period pottery, whose spiral patterns seem to echo the movements of the waves of the Seto Inland Sea. In southern Gossa Gotōnagaitō, they found Japan’s largest Yayoi-period iron production complex — twelve ancient forges, hundreds of spearheads and swords, almost like an echo of the gods forging the nation into being.
Then history begins to quicken. The Sengoku period brings burning castles and the siege of Shirasu by Hideyoshi’s army. In the peaceful Edo era, the Awaji Ningyō Jōruri puppet theatre flourishes — its dolls larger and more lifelike than anywhere else — and the fragrant smoke of incense produced here has for centuries filled temples across Japan. In the 20th century, the island suffers the catastrophe of a great earthquake, yet visions of the future are born: the monumental Akashi-Kaikyō Bridge, a masterpiece of engineering, and Tadao Andō’s Yumebutai — gardens and terraces rising from the ruins of an old quarry. Today, let us uncover the story of Awaji — an island that remembers the primal dawn and the gods, the wars of aristocracy and samurai, the blossoming of culture, art, and dreams of the future.
The View
Standing on the viewing terrace of Awaji Yumebutai, one looks northward, where the waters of the Akashi Strait glimmer in the sunlight. The Akashi-Kaikyō Bridge stretches across them with unbelievable lightness, as though defying the laws of gravity. Its steel spans, the longest in the world, bind the island to Kobe, yet despite this modern grandeur, the landscape still holds something ancient. One only needs to turn southward: the green, rippling hills, tiny villages hidden among terraced rice fields, and the glittering eyes of countless small ponds that for millennia have gathered precious water on this rain-thirsty land.
In the valleys, the air smells of onions — the Awaji variety is among the sweetest in Japan — and of seaweed drying on the coastal rocks. Beyond the line of forests, space opens southward to the swirling waters of Naruto. Here, the ocean, squeezing through the narrow strait, forms whirlpools up to several dozen meters wide. For centuries, they have been seen as a boundary between worlds: locals used to say that whoever lets themselves be carried away by the current will be swept straight into Onokoro, the first island created by the gods.
On the western side of the island, facing the Harima Sea, rises the solitary rock of Eshima. Washed by the waves, it resembles a stone pillar torn from some ancient myth, and local tradition names it as one of the places where Izanagi and Izanami (The Tragedy of Izanami and the Fury of Izanagi in the Land of Decay – In Japanese Creation Myths, Death Always Wins) first set foot upon the earth. Not far from there, hidden beneath the shade of cypress forests, lies Izanagi Jingū — a sanctuary said to stand on the very spot where the divine creator spent his final days. A silence reigns there unlike any other: the paths smell of resin, incense drifts lazily upward, and the air itself feels heavier, as though thick with the memory of things older than time.
Awaji is not a place that can be easily described in a single word. It is a gateway between Honshū and Shikoku, but also a point where myth meets the present. Steel bridges and geometric gardens stand side by side with sacred rocks, and every breath of sea wind seems to carry echoes of stories from millennia past. This is the island where Japan began. And we can still see it, still touch it.
Awaji — “the first island” of mythical Japan
Sources
The history of Japan, as recorded in its oldest texts, begins with the sea — and with words. Two works — Kojiki (古事記, “Record of Ancient Matters,” 712) and Nihon Shoki (日本書紀, “Chronicles of Japan,” 720) — stand at the foundation of Japan’s earliest national mythology. They were created at the initiative of the imperial court, under the command of Empress Genmei and Empress Genshō, at a time when the young Yamato state was shaping its own identity against the powerful influences of the continent — Chinese, Korean, or, more broadly, Buddhist. Written by aristocrats such as Ō no Yasumaro and Prince Toneri, these texts blend myth, genealogy, history, and political propaganda.
Kojiki is the more poetic of the two, full of archaic sung recitations (歌謡, kayō), where rhythm and imagery serve as tools of memory. Nihon Shoki, on the other hand, is more annalistic, at times even pedantic: it presents parallel versions of events without choosing a single “canonical” myth. And yet, despite their differences, the purpose of both texts is the same: to place imperial authority within a divine genealogy, to make Japan a land whose origins are not only geographical but also cosmic.
Working with these sources is not without risk. They are not “historical” records in the modern sense. Rather, they are sacred geographies interwoven with the political interests of their time: every toponym, every rock, every ocean whirlpool becomes a point where divinity descends to earth. In this narrative, Awaji is not just an island — it is a threshold, a place where the world emerges from chaos, and at the same time a symbolic gate between the realm of the gods and the Japan of men.
The Birth of the Japanese Archipelago
In the beginning, there was stillness. According to the Kojiki, before the earth appeared, there was only chaos, like a mist drifting above the sea. From this mist arose the first deities, kami, and among them the last and most important: Izanagi (“He Who Invites”) and Izanami (“She Who Invites”).
Standing upon the Heavenly Floating Bridge (Ame no ukihashi), they plunged into the shapeless ocean mass a spear called Ame-no-nuboko — the “Heavenly Spear of Jewels.” When they lifted it back up, the drops of saltwater dripping from its blade solidified and formed the first island. That island was Awaji, also known as Onogoroshima (自凝島, “The Island of Self-Condensation”).
Awaji thus becomes the birthplace of Japan — both literally and symbolically. Only later were the other islands born, together forming the so-called “Eight Great Islands” (Ōyashima): Honshū, Shikoku, Kyūshū, Tsushima, Iki, Oki, Sado, and Awaji. In this narrative, geography itself becomes genealogy: the land is the child of the gods, and the gods are the ancestors of emperors.
It is worth noting the meaning of the name Awaji itself. It most likely derives from the words awa (粟, “millet” or “foam”) and ji (路, “road”), which allows it to be read as “the road of foam” or “the passage between the waves” — describing the island as a gateway between seas, but also as a threshold between the world of chaos and the world of form.
Onogoroshima
The myth points to Awaji, but the birthplace of Japan has never been definitively established. There are three main local traditions, each claiming the right to be the “true” Onogoro.
The first is the Onokoro Island Shrine (自凝島神社) in Minamiawaji, a sanctuary perched on a hill overlooking the turquoise waters of the Seto Inland Sea. Its monumental torii gate, lacquered in deep cinnabar, rises 21.7 meters high and is counted among the “Three Great Torii of Japan.” According to legend, it was here that Izanagi and Izanami descended to earth and performed their marriage ritual, circling together around a sacred pillar standing at the center of the island.
The second candidate is Eshima, a tiny islet in northern Awaji, whose jagged rocks resemble stone pillars torn from the fabric of myth. Its shape and location have made it, for centuries, one of the oldest recognized sites of sacred worship in Japan. Waka poetry from the Heian period and later literary works often describe Eshima as a gateway between the human realm and the divine.
The third possibility is Nushima, in southern Awaji. Shaped like a magatama — an ancient comma-shaped bead symbol — the island is considered the most likely location of Onogoro. In its southeastern part lies a cluster of rocks called Kamitategami-iwa, whose natural formations resemble a heart. According to local tradition, this is where Izanagi is said to have knelt to propose to Izanami. Today, the site is visited by couples who believe that by touching the rock, they partake in Japan’s oldest love story.
The absence of a single “true” Onogoro speaks volumes about how the Japanese understand sacred space. Unlike in Western traditions, here sacredness is diffuse: the myth does not confine itself to a single place but lives across many locations at once, like an echo carried by the sea.
The Myth of Awaji
The myth of Awaji’s birth is not merely a story about the creation of land. It is also a tale about boundaries: between purity and defilement, life and death. In the Kojiki, the motif of taboo plays a central role. When Izanagi and Izanami first circle the sacred pillar on the island, the goddess speaks before the god — and, as the texts say, this brings a curse upon them. Their first child is born deformed and is rejected. Only when they repeat the ritual in silence, allowing the god to speak before the goddess, does the earth bear healthy islands (a reflection, perhaps, of the patriarchal values embedded in classical Japan).
When Izanami dies giving birth to the fire god Kagutsuchi, Izanagi descends into the land of the dead to retrieve her. He returns tainted by the impurity of death and performs the purification ritual, misogi, in the waters of the Tachibana River. It is then, according to the myth, that new deities are born from his body: from his left eye, Amaterasu, the sun goddess and ancestral mother of the imperial line; from his right eye, Tsukuyomi, the moon god; and from his nose, Susanoo, the storm god. Thus, Awaji becomes not only the place where the earth itself is born but also the starting point of Japan’s entire divine genealogy.
For scholars of religion, Awaji represents a classic example of a liminal space: a threshold between form and formlessness, life and death, heaven and earth. Here, water is both chaos and purification; rock is both origin and the pillar of the cosmos; and every geographic name is a code preserving the memory of beginnings.
Izanagi Jingū — the Founding Cult
In the northern part of the island, surrounded by ancient cypresses, lies Izanagi Jingū — a sanctuary said, according to tradition, to stand precisely on the site where the god Izanagi spent his final days. While it is difficult to confirm the historical antiquity of the shrine, the cult itself dates back to the early Heian period and once held the status of ichinomiya, the principal shrine of the former province of Awaji.
The present-day architecture of Izanagi Jingū is modest, yet the aura of the place is extraordinary. In its courtyard grow two intertwined trees — a cypress and a camphor — known as Meoto-ōkusu (夫婦大楠), the “Sacred Married Trees.” Locals believe that the spirits of the two gods dwell within them, and touching the bark is said to bring happiness in love and fertility. Inside the sanctuary lies a reliquary said to enshrine symbolic remains of Izanagi, though, as with many such sites, it is the memory of the myth rather than the literal fact that truly matters here.
Izanagi Jingū is also one of the few places in Japan where rituals related to the creation of the world are still performed. Every spring, the Onokorojinja Reitaisai festival takes place, during which the people of Awaji symbolically recreate the act of creation by circling a pillar driven into the earth. It is theatre, religion, and memory intertwined — living proof that, for the island’s inhabitants, the myth is still, in some sense, the present.
Archaeology: From the Jōmon to the Kofun Period
Awaji is often called the “first island,” the place where — according to the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki — the gods first set foot upon the earth. Yet long before the myths were born, long before words were written about Izanami and Izanagi, there was human presence here — real, tangible, preserved in the soil’s layers. The archaeology of Awaji is like a slow unveiling of the island’s quiet memory — the same memory that imagination once clothed in divine stories. It is here, between sea and forest, that archaeologists search for traces of Japan’s earliest inhabitants, reconstructing their daily lives, rituals, and trade networks.
Jōmon Period (14,000 – 300 BCE)
In the north of the island, near today’s Higashiura, traces of settlements several thousand years old have been found. The most important site is Tsukuda (佃遺跡), regarded by scholars — including archaeologist Yamaguchi Kōichirō of Osaka University — as one of the largest Late Jōmon complexes in western Japan. Excavations have revealed the remains of a long-term settlement: earth-dug hearths, stone tools, and pottery decorated with the characteristic spiral patterns imprinted with cord, from which the entire Jōmon culture (縄文 — literally “cord-marked culture”) takes its name.
Radiocarbon dating shows that the Tsukuda area was inhabited between roughly 3000 and 1000 BCE. Particularly fascinating are fragments of large storage jars containing fish bones — among the oldest material evidence of intensive fishing in the Seto Inland Sea. Beads made from shells originating on the Shikoku coast have also been discovered, suggesting that even in the Jōmon period, Awaji participated in interregional exchange.
Some of these findings can now be seen at the Hyōgo Prefectural Museum of Archaeology in Harima, where a dedicated exhibition explores Awaji’s role in the earliest settlement networks of the region. Archaeologists emphasize that the island was far more than a peripheral outpost: it served as a “maritime bridge” linking western Japan with eastern Shikoku, playing a vital role in the spread of technology and culture.
Yayoi (300 BCE – 300 CE)
With the dawn of the Yayoi period (弥生), the world around Awaji began to change dramatically. New technologies arrived in Japan — wet-rice cultivation, metal smelting, new forms of pottery — and with them came the emergence of the first complex political communities (more on this period can be found here: A Walk Through the Ancient Japanese Settlement of Yoshinogari – What Was Life Like in the Yayoi Period? and here: The First Documented Ruler of the Japanese Islands was a Woman – The Story of the Shaman-Queen Himiko) One of the most spectacular pieces of evidence for this transformation is the Gossa Gotanda site (五斗長垣内遺跡) in the central part of the island.
Discovered in 2009, excavations conducted by the Hyōgo Prefectural Board of Education revealed something extraordinary: the largest Yayoi-period iron production complex in the entire Japanese archipelago. Across several hundred square meters, archaeologists uncovered 23 semi-subterranean structures, 12 of which served as forges, equipped with stone hearths and primitive ventilation systems. Hundreds of fragments of furnaces, slag, iron tools, spearheads, sickles, and ornaments were recovered.
These findings have completely transformed our understanding of Awaji’s role during the Yayoi period. Previously, scholars believed that iron production was concentrated in northern Kyūshū and western Honshū, but Awaji has proven to have been a key hub in the network of smelting and metal distribution across the Seto Inland Sea basin. Archaeologist Sakai Toshihiko, who led the excavations, emphasizes that thanks to Gossa, “Awaji became one of the most important technological centers of protohistoric Japan.”
In 2012, the site was granted the status of a National Historic Site (国宝, kokuhō), and in 2025, plans are underway to expand its protected area. Importantly, isotopic analysis of the iron ore indicates that it originated from various parts of the archipelago, proving the existence of an extensive exchange network linking Kyūshū, Shikoku, and Kansai. It is likely that the local rulers of Awaji — even before the emergence of the first Yamato states — held a strategic position in controlling the flow of metal and technology.
Kofun (c. 300 – 600 CE)
The Kofun period (古墳) — named after the distinctive keyhole-shaped burial mounds — brought further political consolidation to Japan. Situated at the heart of the maritime routes between Nara, Osaka, and Shikoku, Awaji became an important link in the expanding sphere of Yamato power.
Near the Kifune Jinja sanctuary (貴船神社遺跡), archaeologists discovered traces of intensive salt production from this period: remnants of furnaces, fragments of ceramic vessels used for evaporating brine, and shards of large storage amphorae. Salt production was vital to the development of early state structures, enabling large-scale preservation and transport of food, and Awaji — surrounded by the sea — was perfectly positioned for such activity.
Numerous burial mounds from this era have also been preserved on the island. Though most are now modest in size, archaeologists believe that by the 5th century, parts of Awaji’s coastline served as a hinterland for Yamato elites. A powerful symbol of this connection is the mausoleum of Emperor Junnin (淳仁天皇陵), who reigned from 758 to 764 CE. After the rebellion of Fujiwara no Nakamaro, the emperor was exiled to Awaji, where he died in 765. Today, his tomb — officially recognized by the Imperial Household Agency (Kunai-chō) as an imperial mausoleum (misasagi, 御陵) — stands as a reminder that by the 8th century, Awaji was no longer merely a peripheral island but a place intimately connected to the very center of Japanese power.
Awaji During the Classical State Era (Nara / Heian)
During the period when Japan was undergoing a profound transformation toward a centralized state modeled after the Chinese ritsuryō (律令) system, Awaji ceased to be merely the place of mythical beginnings. It became part of the newly emerging political order, yet at the same time retained its aura of the sacred — a liminal space, separating the “center” from the “periphery.” It is within this duality — combining administration, religion, literature, and exile — that Awaji functioned for centuries, earning a reputation as an exceptional island.
The Ritsuryō Administration
The Ritsuryō Administration
In 701, with the enactment of the Taihō Code (大宝律令), Japan adopted a system of governance inspired by China’s Tang dynasty. The entire country was divided into provinces (kuni, 国), districts (gun, 郡), and villages (sato, 里). At this time, Awaji became 淡路国 (Awaji no kuni) — the “land of gentle waters” — and was incorporated into the larger administrative unit of Kinai (畿内), which encompassed the territories closest to the imperial court in Nara.
The provincial capital was located at the administrative headquarters known as 国府 (kokufu), situated in what is today Mihara (三原). Here stood the kokuga (国衙) — a complex of provincial government offices where the governor (kokushi, 国司) exercised authority, oversaw tax collection, and managed transportation networks and ferry routes. Beside the kokuga was the gunge (郡家), the district office combining administrative and logistical functions. Archaeologists from Kyoto University have uncovered the remains of large, rectangular buildings in Mihara whose layouts reflect continental architectural influences — central courtyards and symmetrical plans characteristic of the Nara period.
In line with Emperor Shōmu’s policy (724–749), the 8th century saw the construction of temple complexes known as 国分寺 (kokubun-ji) in every Japanese province. The temple built on Awaji served as the spiritual center of the province, intended to protect it from disasters and epidemics. It was also a manifestation of central authority, symbolically linking imperial order to an island still echoing with mythical origins.
Yet the most important sanctuary remained Izanagi Jingū, regarded as the ichinomiya — the highest-ranking shrine — of the province. According to legend, it was here that the god Izanagi spent the final years of his life after descending into Yomi, the land of the dead. Already in the Nara and Heian periods, Izanagi Jingū functioned as a pilgrimage center, and its cult was directly tied to imperial genealogy — for the court in Nara (we dedicated an article to the history of this city here: The City of Nara – a Geometrically and Spiritually Designed Metropolis of Ancient Japan Long Before the Samurai) and later in Heian, it served as confirmation of the divine lineage of the ruling dynasty.
Thus, although small in size, Awaji played a role within the ritsuryō state structure far greater than its geographic scale would suggest. It was simultaneously a peripheral province and a sacred site, a space where administration, religion, and myth intertwined in a way that remains almost tangible.
How Was Awaji Portrayed in the Heian Period?
During the Heian period (794–1185), Awaji, distant from the imperial capital in Kyoto, became one of literature’s favorite settings. It appears in court poetry, in anthologies such as Hyakunin Isshu (百人一首), and in monumental narratives, most notably Genji monogatari (源氏物語) by Murasaki Shikibu (more about her here: The Author of the World's First Novel: Meet the Strong and Stubborn Murasaki Shikibu (Heian, 973)).
In Hyakunin Isshu — the classical anthology of one hundred poems compiled by Fujiwara no Teika in the 13th century — poem number 78, by Minamoto no Kanemasa (源兼昌), evokes Awaji in a tone suffused with melancholy:
淡路島 / かよふ千鳥の / 鳴く声に / 幾夜寝覚めぬ / 須磨の関守
Awajishima kayo-fuchidori no naku koe ni / ikuyo nezamenu Suma no sekimori
"To Awaji Island
the plovers fly and return —
and I, the watchman of Suma,
wake restless through endless nights,
still hearing their cries in the dark."
This poem is exquisitely subtle, yet filled with longing. The watchman of Suma, separated from the imperial world, hears the voices of the birds flying over Awaji — the sounds of nature become echoes of his exile, symbols of isolation and solitude. Heian poetry abounds in such connections between topography and the state of the soul, and Awaji — lying on the threshold between the Seto Inland Sea and the open ocean — was particularly suited to projections of melancholy.
This motif is further developed by Murasaki Shikibu in her masterpiece Genji monogatari. In the chapter titled Suma, Prince Genji, exiled from Kyoto, finds himself on the coast opposite Awaji. He gazes at the island’s rocks, listens to the waves, and becomes the central figure in one of the most celebrated scenes of contemplative impermanence in Japanese literature. The view of Awaji becomes a landscape of emotion, a space where nature, distance, and exile merge into a single reflection on the transience of life.
An Island on the Frontier in Times of War (Kamakura – Sengoku)
In the medieval period, Awaji stood at the crossroads of worlds — the island lay only a step away from Japan’s central political routes, yet for centuries it remained a peripheral shadow of greater power centers. On the one hand, its proximity to the capital and to key ports of the Inland Sea made it strategically invaluable (about pirates on these seas we write here: The Last Leader of Japan’s Samurai-Era Pirates – Murakami Takeyoshi and here: Japanese Pirates of the Murakami Clan: Educated Samurai, Bandits, Entrepreneurs, Poets – Who Were They? and here: How Did Japan Become the Land of the Samurai? – The Pirate King Fujiwara no Sumitomo’s Rebellion at the End of the Heian Era); on the other hand, being a “border island” meant that its fate depended on the struggles of powerful clans who treated it as a pawn on the board of power.
After the establishment of the Kamakura shogunate in 1185, the island was integrated into the system of military administration (more about the first shoguns here: What Does “Shōgun” Really Mean? One word that forged the Japan of samurai in steel and blood). Documents from the period mention officials called jitō (地頭) — local stewards appointed by Kamakura who oversaw taxation and the recruitment of peasants for military service. Although Awaji was relatively peaceful at the time, material traces of this era can still be found: fragments of medieval pagodas, inscriptions on ancient temple bells, and remnants of fortifications. It was during the Kamakura period that the island began its long integration into the military and political sphere of Japan.
During the Muromachi period, Awaji became even more valuable. In the mid-15th century, control of the region passed to the powerful Hosokawa clan — one of the most influential shugo families, provincial governors appointed by the Ashikaga shogunate. The Hosokawa used Awaji as part of a broader strategy to dominate western Japan: the island was a natural gateway to the provinces of Awa and Sanuki and served as a guardian of the entrance to the Inland Sea. It was under their rule that the Yagiyakata (八木屋形), a fortified residence in the island’s center, was constructed — today considered the oldest “capital” of Awaji. The ruins of this complex survive, and excavations conducted by archaeologists from Kobe University have revealed fragments of stone foundations, pottery, and iron arrowheads, suggesting that the site served both administrative and defensive purposes.
In the latter half of the 15th century, eastern Japan plunged into chaos, while new powers rose in the west. One of these was the Miyoshi clan, who initially served as vassals of the Hosokawa. The Miyoshi grew increasingly ambitious as they amassed wealth from trade across the Inland Sea and gained control over the routes linking Awa, Sanuki, and Awaji. By the mid-16th century, during Japan’s period of fragmentation, the Miyoshi emerged as regional hegemons. For a brief moment, it seemed that Awaji would become an integral part of their miniature “maritime principality” — its islands, ports, and castles forming a new map of power.
Everything changed in 1581 when Toyotomi Hideyoshi entered the scene. As part of his grand campaign to subjugate western Japan, Hideyoshi dispatched an army of over 20,000 men to Awaji. Their target was Shirasu Castle, the Miyoshi’s defensive stronghold on the northern coast. Chronicles speak of a fierce siege — the castle’s wooden palisades engulfed in flames, surrounding villages laid to waste. After the Miyoshi’s defeat, the island came under Hideyoshi’s direct control, and he appointed his own governors while establishing new defensive centers. It was during this period that the island’s key castles were built or expanded: Iwaya-jō, guarding the northern straits; Yura-jō, controlling the eastern coast; and Sumoto-jō, which would, in the centuries to come, become the emblem of power on Awaji.
During the Kamakura and Sengoku periods, Awaji was like a corridor between the heart of central Japan and the maritime provinces of the west — a place where decisions made in Kyoto, Kamakura, and Osaka collided with the realities of local geography and clan ambitions. The traces of those turbulent times are still visible in the landscape: the ruins of fortifications, pagodas bearing fire scars, and even fragments of medieval bells preserved in local temples serve as reminders that the history of this “island on the frontier” was far from tranquil.
The Early Modern Period (Edo)
With the fall of the Toyotomi and the victory of the Tokugawa at the Battle of Sekigahara (1600), Awaji Island, like the rest of Japan, entered a period of long-lasting stability. These lands came under the rule of the Hachisuka clan, the daimyō of Tokushima, who in 1615 were granted jurisdiction over both the province of Awa on Shikoku and the entirety of Awaji Island. This was a deliberate gesture by the Tokugawa: entrusting a strategically important coastal territory to a family loyal to Edo.
Direct administration of Awaji was assigned to the Inada family — local governors who, on behalf of the Hachisuka, controlled the island for over two and a half centuries. It was under their rule that the impressive Sumoto Castle was expanded, becoming the military and administrative center of Hachisuka power on the island. Built on the slopes of Mount Mikuma, the fortress was surrounded by massive stone walls, offering sweeping views of the entire Seto Inland Sea — an ideal vantage point for monitoring trade routes.
However, just a few decades later, in 1615, the ikkoku ichijō rei (一国一城令, more about Tokugawa bakufu laws here: What to Do with a Society of Samurai Who Only Know War and Death in Times of Peace? - The Clever Ideas of the Tokugawa Shoguns) — the “one castle per domain edict” — was issued, forcing the Inada to dismantle most of their fortifications. Sumoto-jō was partially deconstructed, and its vast stone foundations have survived as an almost archaeological relic of the Tokugawa system of governance.
During the Edo period, the greatest treasure of Awaji was not its castles but its art. It was here that one of Japan’s most extraordinary forms of puppet theatre was born — Awaji Ningyō Jōruri. Unlike bunraku from Osaka, Awaji’s stage evolved according to its own principles. The puppets here were larger, often half a head taller than their “cousins” from Osaka, and their manipulation required greater strength and precision. This tradition dates back to the late 16th century, when itinerant troupes of puppeteers began visiting local shrines and festivals, performing scenes of gods, heroes, and great loves.
Over time, Awaji became a true center of puppet theatre, and its stage earned acclaim throughout Japan. Today, the modern Awaji Ningyōza — the living inheritor of this tradition — is recognized as an Important Intangible Cultural Asset, and in 2003, the Osaka-Awaji style of puppet theatre was inscribed on UNESCO’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Watching a performance at Awaji Ningyōza today is like stepping into the Edo period: the costumes, narratives, puppet movements, and rhythmic shamisen accompaniments retain the authentic spirit of a tradition stretching back over four centuries.
Although Awaji was never a major commercial hub, its economy during the Edo period developed steadily, supported by the sea, rice fields, and craftsmanship. The island became famous for its fishing — especially for tai (sea bream), hamo (pike conger), and tako (octopus), which remain local delicacies to this day. Agriculture focused primarily on rice, but because the island lacked large rivers, farmers constructed hundreds of small dams and retention ponds. These ponds shaped the island’s distinctive, mosaic-like landscape, where glimmering water surfaces merge harmoniously with rice paddies and forests.
From the 17th century, Awaji also developed an incense industry, which gradually became one of its cultural signatures. The tradition of burning aromatic resins in Japan dates back to the Asuka period when, according to the Nihon Shoki, in the year 595, the first piece of agarwood (jinkō, 沈香) was washed ashore on Awaji’s beaches and presented to the imperial court. However, it was only in the 19th century that Awaji transformed this heritage into a fully developed incense industry. Craft families, drawing on centuries of experience, created unique recipes, blending imported resins with local techniques. Today, Awaji produces roughly 70% of all incense in Japan — its scent drifting invisibly through the workshops of towns like Eiura and Gunge, becoming an unspoken signature of the island.
The Edo period was, therefore, a time of apparent stillness for Awaji. Under the rule of the Hachisuka and Inada families, the island was not a site of great battles or political upheaval, but rather a space of cultural refinement: puppet theatre reached unparalleled mastery, incense from Awaji perfumed palaces and temples across Japan, and local fish and rice made their way to the dining tables of Edo and Osaka. In the shadow of castles and rice paddies, Awaji’s culture was born — a culture of delicate aromas, full of stories and rituals that continue to live on this “first island” of Japan.
Modernity and Turbulent Centuries: Meiji, Taishō, and Shōwa
Awaji, an island that for centuries embodied myth, art, and commerce, entered the modern era abruptly and violently. The turn of the 19th and 20th centuries marked not only the end of the feudal order but also the beginning of an entirely new political, social, and economic landscape. The Meiji Restoration, industrial growth, the advent of railways, and finally the devastation of a massive earthquake — all left marks on the island that remain visible today.
Meiji — The Inada Incident (1870)
The year 1868 brought the fall of Tokugawa rule and the birth of the new Meiji state. Across Japan, power structures were rapidly transformed, and old clan loyalties collided with the centralizing policies of the new government. For Awaji, the peak of this upheaval came with the dramatic Inada Incident (Inada jiken, 稲田事件) of 1870.
The Inada clan, which had governed the island since the 17th century on behalf of the Hachisuka daimyō of Tokushima, refused to submit to the new order. Facing the planned integration of all domains into the imperial administrative system, they demanded that Awaji remain under their control — seeking to preserve partial autonomy and their traditional privileges. When tensions between the Inada and Hachisuka escalated, armed clashes erupted between their supporters on the island.
The new government in Tokyo could not tolerate a rebellion that threatened to set a precedent for other regions. Imperial troops were dispatched and swiftly suppressed the unrest. Several leaders of the rebellion were sentenced to perform compulsory seppuku — the last documented cases of state-ordered ritual suicide in Japanese history. This event marked the symbolic end of the feudal era on Awaji. From then on, the island became an integral part of the modern nation-state rather than the private fief of an old clan.
Industrialization and Disaster — The 20th Century
The transition between eras transformed Awaji in countless ways. As Japan evolved into a modern nation-state and later an imperial power, the island had to find its place in this dynamic new world. The early 20th century brought not only industrialization but also fresh challenges — from rapid infrastructural development to the devastation of a powerful earthquake.
In 1922, the Awaji Island Railway (Awaji Tetsudō, 淡路鉄道) opened, connecting the island’s north and south between Sumoto and Iwaya. This was a breakthrough moment: thanks to the railway, transporting rice, incense, textiles, and fish became faster and more profitable. Along the coast, trading ports flourished, facilitating commerce with Osaka, Kobe, Tokushima, and Takamatsu.
Small-scale industry also developed, particularly in the textile sector. Family-run workshops wove cotton fabrics and produced fishing nets, while some areas underwent land reclamation for new rice fields. Despite these developments, Awaji’s economy remained more artisanal and traditional than that of the great industrial centers of Kansai. The railway, which had so dramatically reshaped the island, was eventually shut down in 1966 due to the rise of automobile transport — but its former line still lives on in the memory of older residents as a symbol of “modernity that came too late.”
Then, at 5:46 AM on January 17, 1995, a massive earthquake of magnitude 7.3 struck the Kansai region. The epicenter lay directly beneath northern Awaji, along the Nojima Fault. The tremors lasted only 20 seconds, but their effects were catastrophic: in Kobe, Nishinomiya, and Sumoto, thousands of buildings collapsed, and over 6,400 lives were lost.
Surface ruptures along the fault line remain visible to this day. To preserve the memory of this tragedy, the Hokudan Earthquake Memorial Park (北淡震災記念公園) was established, where a section of the Nojima Fault has been secured and left in its original state. Visitors can see the land offset by more than 1.5 meters — a textbook example of tectonic forces at work. The park also functions as a seismic education center, teaching locals and tourists alike how to prepare for future disasters.
The events of 1995 became a turning point not only for Awaji but for all of Japan: they led to a sweeping revision of safety policies, reinforced building standards, and strengthened community bonds on the island. Today, the “Hanshin/Awaji Daishinsai” stands as a symbol of both tragedy and resilience, a reminder that life on the edge of tectonic plates will always be a fragile compromise between humanity and nature.
Awaji in the 21st Century
At the turn of the 21st century, Awaji ceased to be an “island” in the traditional sense. In 1998, the Akashi–Kaikyō Bridge opened — the largest and most spectacular construction project in the island’s history. Spanning the waters of the Akashi Strait, it connects Awaji to Kobe on Honshū. The bridge measures 3,911 meters in total length, with its central span stretching an unprecedented 1,991 meters — for many years, it held the world record in this category, surpassed today only by Turkey’s 1915 Çanakkale Bridge. Decades in the making, the project was both an engineering challenge and a symbolic gesture: uniting two lands separated by the sea for millennia.
The bridge carries with it an anecdote that still brings a smile. On January 17, 1995, the Hanshin–Awaji earthquake tore open the earth along the Nojima Fault, shifting the island by several dozen centimeters. When engineers began assembling the bridge’s main structural elements, they discovered that its planned length had “grown” by a full meter. Adjustments had to be made, and the event became a symbol of the paradoxical interplay between nature and technology: the land itself can change faster than humans can map it.
This new accessibility transformed the island’s identity. Once, reaching Awaji required a ferry journey — slow and weather-dependent. Today, it is less than a 30-minute drive from Kobe. Tourism has flourished: the island has become a popular weekend destination, especially for residents of the Kansai region. Modern resorts and conference centers have emerged, but one of the most symbolic undertakings was the vision of architect Tadao Andō. On the site of an abandoned quarry, he created Awaji Yumebutai (淡路夢舞台), a monumental complex combining a hotel, terraced gardens, conference halls, and public spaces. This is a place marked by history: massive stone blocks extracted from here were used to construct the iconic Akashi–Kaikyō Bridge, and today the space has been transformed into a manifesto of renewal, modern design, and dialogue between nature and architecture.
Modern Awaji is a place of paradoxes: an island that has lost its isolation yet retains a distinct identity. Here, ancient myths, monasteries, and shrines coexist with the futuristic symbols of the 21st century. It is a place where you can still stand on the shores of Nushima, believed by many to be the legendary Onogoroshima, and just hours later stroll through Andō’s terraced gardens while admiring the bridge that redefined the region’s geography. In this way, Awaji becomes not only a bridge between Honshū and Shikoku but also a bridge between Japan’s past and its future.
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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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