[TAKADA] Kia Ora. Joining us for this conversation are Linda LEE from Aotearoa New Zealand. She is a member of the Shared Lines Project. We also have ISHIKURA Toshiaki, an art anthropologist and mythologist at the Akita University of Art. Together, they will help us deepen our understanding of disasters and beliefs (myths) from the perspectives of both Māori and Japanese cultures, and offering deeper insights into their respective meanings. 

Linda is a mixed-race artist of Māori, Chinese and European descent. Through her Indigenous roots, knowledge, and self-expression of Māori culture, she brings a new cultural perspective to both project management and artwork creation. Through non-verbal expression, she aims to reconstruct and examine elements of shared Indigenous stories, cultural identity, and history. Linda discovered she was whāngai – adopted – at age 19, which led her to explore her identity and whakapapa (lineage) at the University of Canterbury’s School of Fine Arts, and over time has resulted in exhibitions, installations, photography, performance, and book productions. 

Currently living in Te Whanganui-a-Tara, Wellington, Linda manages Ōtari Raranga – a Māori Weaving learning space and collective – and co-runs Urban Dream Brokerage, an organization that provides space for new community-building ideas from artists, creatives and social practitioners. After completing an exchange program with artists in Miyagi from 2011 to 2013, she continued her studies in art management and recently began studying whakairo (Māori woodcarving) at Te Wānanga o Raukawa in her hometown of Ōtaki.

ISHIKURA Toshiaki has done field research in various places in South Asia such as Sikkim, Darjeeling, Kathmandu, as well as in Eastern Japan, He currently conducts artistic anthropological research on comparative mythology research and the images of non-human species in the Pacific Rim. He has also collaborated with artists and musicians. In 2019, he participated in the Japan Pavilion exhibition “Cosmo-Eggs” at the 58th Venice Biennale. In addition, he has co-authored works include “Wild Tours: 12 Journeys Through the Myths of the Japanese Archipelago” and “Lexicon: Contemporary Anthropology.”

The talk will be bilingual, in both English and Japanese. Some words will be used here in Te Reo Māori, the indigenous language of the Māori people of Aotearoa.

[TAKADA] Linda, what prompted you to undertake this research?

[LEE] Following the Shared Lines Art Exchange, I met Professor TSUKAMOTO Itoku (specializing in art theory, indigenous mythology, and Play Therapy) during his research travels around Aotearoa New Zealand in 2016. He stayed at my residence and introduced me to Japanese indigenous myths about natural disasters, including the Namazu, or catfish. He also told about the tsunami stone markers in the Tohoku region. They were inscribed with messages that are to the effect of “Do not build below here because of tsunami”. Over time, nature has grown over many of them. I think of this as intergenerational knowledge, voices from our tūpuna (ancestors) and like tohu, or signs.

Ever since our Shared Lines: Christchurch x Sendai Art Exchange, held from 2011 to 2013, I have been interested in learning about the different cultural approaches Japan and Aotearoa New Zealand have taken to natural disasters, and the similarities and connections between them. Much has happened with the Shared Lines project both before and after COVID-19, so I will not go into detail here — much of which fueled my desire to continue research on indigenous narratives and disaster management.

In 2024, I cohosted the first phase of “Shared Lines: Ramat Kor Kur” in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. This was the first Ainu art exhibition to be held in Aotearoa New Zealand, and featured works by four Ainu artists: Akemi SHIMADA, KOJI Yuki, OGASAWARA Sayo, MONBETSU Atsushi and IGUCHI Yasuhiro. SHIMADA’s work was donated to the National Museum of Aotearoa, Te Papa Tongarewa. The Ainu are an indigenous group from Northern Japan. “Ainu” means human. Ainu are distinct from from kamui/kamuy or divine beings, which reside in all natural objects. As I spent time with them, I became increasingly aware of the similarities between Māori and Ainu cultural and spiritual beliefs, as well as our shared struggles to maintain our indigenous identities.

Prior to my stay in Shiogama for this research, I attended the annual Ainu Chipsanke Festival in Nibutani, Hokkaido, in late August 2025 to reconnect with some Ramat Kor Kur artists. In this research project, we had opportunities to explore and rethink our approach to te taiao, or ‘the natural world’, through different cultural perspectives amid rapid changes in our modern environment and society.

[TAKADA]  Could you give us a little background about Māori mythology?

[LEE] In Māori mythology,  there are many Atua (supernatural beings or deities) that exist in the natural world and within us. For example, specifically relevant here: Tangaroa is the God of the ocean and its creatures; Tawhirimatea is the god of weather, including wind and storms. Ruaumoko is the god of earthquakes and volcanic activity, who lives inside the Earth. Similar to the Ainu language, “Māori” translates to “nature”, and “ordinary people”.

When it comes to our creation traditions, many iwi (tribes) have differing perspectives, so I can only speak for my own journey, but there are important commonalities In our shared origin, we are said to have passed from Te Kore, a world of darkness, to Te Ao, a world of light: Ranginui (the sky) and Papatūānuku (the earth). Originally, embraced tightly together, and their children were born between them in darkness. The children separated their parents to allow light to come into the world. This separation is commonly attributed to Tane-mā-Huta, god of forests, birds and insects. After this, the children became Atua (gods) who shaped the natural world.

Some iwi talk about a supreme being called Io, whilst historians have debated whether Io is a pre-European or post-European concept, and whether the latter is affiliated with Christianity. I believe that Io predates European contact with Māori nations. It was not commonly spoken of, appearing only in manuscripts in the late 1900s. However is was a secret known only to the tohunga (or priests in “Māori”). Significantly, Io has existed in Aotearoa and in other Pacific islands long before the Māori. I believe this was foundational to our early understanding of navigation.

To me, Io is like ART, the spark of creativity, inspiration to seek out, to search, to wander (in Aboriginal terms), to dream, and to serve as inspiration for daring journeys. For instances, on voyages between Aotearoa and South America, kumara was brought over in search of crops that would be suitable to the Aotearoa climate.

Creation stories influence many aspects of Te Ao Māori, the Māori worldview. The similarities and repetitions of narratives across various whakapapa (ancestry) in their ancient iwi genealogy stories (often going back to Hawaiki – the original land from which all Pacific nations voyaged) can be compared to pūrākau, or legends reflecting the creation stories of Te Āo Māori.

The Atua are seen as role models for human behavior. My research encourages us to understand how nature protects us as our kaitiaki (protector/guardian), and how the tohu (signs) indicate an imbalance in nature and the world, and how we can use our various senses to pay more attention to our surroundings.

[TAKADA] That means, contrary to popular belief, you are saying that we are not the guardians who protect nature from the effects of climate change?

[LEE] Āe (Yes). I believe that’s true. We are responsible for the demise of nature and its impact, but in Te Ao Māori and pūrākau (myths and ancient legends), nature is our kaitiaki (guardians). It is the kaitiaki who give us tohu (signs and signals) when something is wrong. We are interconnected here in this world with nature and humankind. 

[TAKADA] In our discussions, your research also focused on Taniwha as a starting point for this work. Could you share more with us about it? 

[LEE] Taniwha are supernatural beings. They are water-dwelling creatures that appear in Māori mythology. They are also kaitiaki (protector gods) were said to have guided voyaging waka (boats). But they have been known in pūrākau (myths) to devastate the land and its communities. In our whakapapa (ancestry), we kōrero to our waka, the commander is at the top of the genealogical chart. They were always navigated by a tūhunga (who could navigate the stars) and often guided by a taniwha. In some instances, the tohunga could change into a taniwha (with either good or bad intentions).

Some more modern examples include the legend of the dolphin “Pelorus Jack” who often guided ships through the French Pass, which separates Rangitoto (ki te Tonga – to the South) D’Urville Island from the South Island of Aotearoa New Zealand. This dolphin/kaitiaki (guardian/deity) acted as a guide from the late 1800s to the early 1900s. Many Māori believed he was a taniwha named Tuhirangi in the form of a dolphin. (Note: (“Taniwha Tuhirangi” accompanied the legendary explorer Kupe on his voyage of discovery to New Zealand. Kupe is said to have placed Tuhirangi as a guardian in Cook Strait.)

In addition, there was “Opo.” This friendly bottlenose dolphin lived in Hokianga Harbour in between 1955 and 1956. Opo became a national icon for playing with people, especially children, before her tragic death, which sparked national mourning and led to a law protecting dolphins in the harbour. She embodied the Māori concept of a taniwha through her unique connection with humans, much like the earlier Tuhiranga.

My specific interest in Taniwha came about when I moved to Te Whanganui-a-Tara after the Sendai x Christchurch Art Exchange of the Shared Lines Project. I learned of Ngake and Whātaitai, the two taniwha of Wellington Harbor. The pūrākau (myth) of Ngake and Whātaitai describes the massive Haowhenua (Earth Swallower) earthquake, which struck around 1460 AD. According to both Māori legend and geological evidence, Wellington Harbor (Te Whanganui-a-Tara) was once a freshwater lake, blocked from the sea until Ngake (one of the taniwha) broke through, creating the harbour entrance and connecting it to the ocean. This legend reflects geological changes: freshwater springs from the Waiwhetu Aquifer still feed into the harour, though it’s now a saltwater estuary flushed by tides.

In short, over time, the two taniwha grew too big for the lake. After hearing the birds’ calls about the abundance of fish (to eat) on the other side of the lake, Ngake decided to break through to the sea. He coiled his body like a spring at Pito-one (Petone). He launched himself with such force that he smashed through the rocks to the south, creating the channel to Te Moana o Raukawa (Cook Strait), uplifting land, turning the Miramar Peninsula into an island (Motukairangi), and shaping Wellington Harbour’s current form by joining parts of the seabed to the mainland. (Earthquake)

Whātaitai attempted to follow but was caught in shallow water as the tide went out. He became stranded and eventually died, with his body forming the Miramar Peninsula (historically called Motukairangi). (Aftershock). This ancient event was recorded only in Māori oral traditions, predates European settlement, and explains the region’s unique geography, a claim supported by subsequent geological evidence.

– – – –

More recently, following consultations between local iwi (tribes) and geological scientists such as Dan Hikaroa (PhD in Geology from Auckland University), tanihwa have influenced the nature of some infrastructure planning and civic works. More specifically, the relationship between Mātauranga and Scientific evidence.

“I now work mostly on community-driven and participatory projects with Māori, including using ocean resources sustainably; plans for managing environments and natural resources; reducing the risk of disaster from natural hazards; and restoring industrial waste sites, ” Hikaroa says.  His research asks: What can the weaving of Mātauranga and Science contribute to our understanding?

As an example: State Highway 1 – Meremere

“The Matatā floods, for instance, are recent, and the originally proposed route of State Highway 1 at Meremere in 2002 was underwater as a result of the flooding of the Waikato River 14 months after it was changed and completed following consultation regarding Karutahi. By contrast, the revised route, chosen to avoid Karutahi’s dwelling, was not.”

“One of Hikuroa’s examples involves the use of taniwha pūrākau in town planning. In 2005, there was massive flood damage in Matatā, on the east coast of Aotearoa’s North Island. Many buildings were completely destroyed, and the town has even now not fully recovered. There are four marae (the courtyard and complex of buildings at the centre of community life) in Matatā, and all four were unscathed. The taniwha in the local river had been taken into account in choosing the sites of the marae. This taniwha has the form of a lizard, its head in the headwaters of the river, its body long and sinuous with short limbs (tributaries), and its tail (on the low-lying Rangitāiki Plains) flicking backwards and forwards. The marae were situated where they would not be damaged or destroyed by the moving tail of the taniwha, and thus they were not damaged by the changing path of the river. At the very least, the moving tail of the taniwha represents the changing path of the river. Arguably, indeed, “the changing path of the river” and “the moving tail of the taniwha” are two ways of describing the very same thing”.

In 2002, the New Zealand Herald newspaper reported how the iwi (tribe) Ngāti Naho advised the government to reconsider construction plans on a major highway, to protect the vast space of a taniwha’s habitat. The taniwha was known to have the appearance of a large white eel, and the iwi argued – and I quote “that it must not be removed but rather move on of its own accord; to remove the Taniwha would be to invite trouble. “

[TAKADA]  Was there anything else you noticed?

[LEE] I am interested in how indigenous people sought knowledge from ancestors and in the belief that there is living energy in nature, plants, and animals, and that we are all in tune with it. The traditional narratives are both fictional tales, but are based on factual events. In part, these may be seen as “folk” story ways of explaining things by our Tūpuna, or ancestors. Maybe they did not understand the science and the faultlines of earthquakes, but they understood the nature of the world, so they told stories and painted pictures and carved those tsunami stones (that I saw in my research) so that future generations – their grandchildren would know and remember these “events” to keep them safe, providing a word of warning and caution.

[TAKADA]  Collaboration is a key word that often comes up in your work here. You have also collaborated with IGARASHI Yasuaki as a joint art work around weaving nets. Could you tell us why it was important to you to include this piece in the exhibition, and furthermore, how does it contribute to your research as a whole?

[LEE] I want to acknowledge the inspiration I gained from my experience with Yasu (IGARASHI), installing the nets in Whairepo (stingray) Lagoon with Shared Lines: Wellington and then his stay with us for Shared Lines: Kaikoura, where he made a new “Sora-Ami” for and with that community after the 2016 Kaikoura earthquake. 

Yasu previously sailed around the Urato Islands archipelago area. So, reflecting on his experience after the tsunami – he recalled visiting a volcanic island that erupts every six years or so, and meeting a fisherman weaving nets, he taught him how that volcanic island encapsulates what it means to be a truly resilient community – it’s that constant rebuilding yourself and reinventing your community to make it stronger and better and yet holding onto these very traditional methods of netmaking. I was really inspired by that. 

Something changed within me after the Christchurch earthquakes. I moved to Wellington in 2012 after our first exchange. To be honest, I didn’t go home. I changed my flight. But then I discovered the taniwha formation stories there. It was a spark of a whole new journey for me, creatively and in terms of my identity. When I received my “Sora-Ami (giant nets cast into the sky)” I was like, WOW, how can I do that? But it reminded me of how my dad always had Hinaki and fishing nets and the knowledge passed down. It was something ingrained in my family.

Again, it made me think of Io > Navigation > Curiosity. I wanted to share a more environmentally friendly option for net-making and art-making.

When Māori first arrived in Aotearoa, they had to improvise and create with fibers that were foreign to them. Harakeke and rākau. Experimenting with these fibers, they created shelter, kakahu, clothing, kete, whāriki, sleeping and floor mats, kete, baskets, and Taonga, that gain whakapapa over time through karakia and use. Raranga, weaving as a collective/collaboration, encapsulates netmaking and hinaki. And it’s working with nature. We’re often emulating what nature does, like how a Nikau palm looks; we extend a piece of weaving using whiri, a plaiting technique. In Polynesia, they weave with coconut palms and pandanas.

Natural resources will always be here, even when power plants might not.  I hope these simple gestures can impact on our relationship with natural disasters.

[TAKADA] Linda’s activities brought both curiosity and understanding, and also sparked a dialogue introducing the customs both seen in Māori and Miyagi’s cultures. It would be nice to hear both of your perspectives – shared commonalities and differences from you both. 

[ISHIKURA] Regarding commonalities, I believe the water surrounding humans is not just something that exists within a space like a sea or a river; instead, it is a constant flow that circulates through heaven, earth, and the underworld. In Japan, the dragon is naturally associated with rain, which becomes rivers and flows into ponds, lakes, and the ocean, eventually encompassing the water of the entire planet. I suspect that in the Māori world, while there are spirits acting as guardian deities of specific places, they are similarly connected to the entirety of the environment surrounding humans.

As for the differences, the distinction between Aotearoa New Zealand and Japan lies in their respective histories. In Japan, these concepts were neatly refined through religions like Shinto and Buddhism, eventually becoming “gods.” In a sense, they were transformed into human-like deities, as seen with Takemikazuchi.

Taniwha do not become human. They survive as part of nature, taking various forms such as logs, rocks, lizards, or eels. I believe this represents a much older way of thinking that has remained intact in Japan.

An important point is that Australia also has the “Rainbow Serpent,” an entity that connects heaven, earth, and sea, representing a grand circulation. When we consider this, the commonality between Japan and the Māori is part of a broader indigenous world across the Pan-Pacific region, including Australia. The difference lies in how humans have interacted with these forces, how they have perceived them, and the specific forms they have given to them.

[LEE] Small gestures like introducing sustainable materials, collecting “junk” from the shore and reciting pepeha can impact the way we see and care for our environment,

We bring up Dr. Dan Hikuroa’s question, “What can the weaving of Mātauranga (wisdom) and Science contribute to our understanding?”

He shares that “I work mostly on community-driven and participatory projects with Māori, including using ocean resources sustainably; plans for managing environments and natural resources; reducing the risk of disaster from natural hazards; and restoring industrial waste sites.” His research asks: What can the weaving of Mātauranga and Science contribute to our understanding?

“We see Papatūānuku me ona uri (and her descendants) as our teacher. I use pūrākau, maramataka and moteatea as primary sources; they provide historical evidence that’s otherwise unavailable. We test that information with local Māori to ensure that what we think it has recorded is what they think. Scientists have recognized that information in those sources has been developed from constant observation, and can be precise.”

“Any scientific testing we do that is inspired by pūrākau isn’t done to prove it. If we find the same answer, we have two sets of knowledge telling us the same thing. Mātauranga can tell us things that science can’t, and vice versa.” He gives the example of a pūrākau about a taniwha in the form of a ngārara (lizard) living in the Waitepuru stream, in the Bay of Plenty, whose tail in the Rangitaiki Plains is said to flick from side to side. The presence of a taniwha suggests a danger associated with the stream, which has changed its course over the plains many times over the centuries after large floods. The taniwha was taken into account when selecting sites above the flood plain for the three marae in Matatā, none of which were damaged when flood debris smashed into the town in 2005.

“Demonstrating that Mātauranga Māori can be accurate and precise.” An example is a study about the mauri (life force) of Te Awa o te Atua, the Tarawera River. Dan and the team developed a scale to measure the environmental, social, cultural, and economic indicators of mauri, as described in a wānanga organised by Te Mana o Ngāti Rangithi Trust. 

Another example is a model of water allocation, Ngā Puna Aroha, based on tikanga. Puna is the deepest source of freshwater, while aroha is the love and respect that is essential for a healthy relationship between us and our ancestral bodies of water. The first allocation, Ngā Tipuna, reflects our obligation to sustain the wellbeing and mauri of these ancestral waters. 

The second, Ngā Mokopuna, is for the basic needs of people and animals, wild and farmed. The third, once those have been satisfied, is Ngā Koha Puna, commercial use. 

“Proving that the anti-fouling paint on boats moored in Auckland’s Okahu Bay was poisoning the seafloor; this led to the removal of all boats from the in 2019.” The study was part of an relationship between Ngāti Whātua o Orakei and Dan and other University of Auckland scientists and students. “

The Whanganui River is now considered to have the same rights as a human in Aotearoa New Zealand.

[TAKADA] With all said and done – upon learning and understanding these cultural perspectives – from your own personal experience – has it influenced the way you see natural disasters? I’d like to know from both of you:

[ISHIKURA] I have been researching mythology for a long time, I have come to deeply understand how complex and intertwined the relationship between humans and non-human entities has been since ancient times. Nevertheless, I believe mythology teaches us that disasters can occur without warning and that unavoidable events can happen at any moment.

What I mean is that the ambiguity found in folklore – the fact that nature provides both good and bad things – reminds us of how much we already receive from the natural world every day. When an earthquake or tsunami occurs, we tend to think of it as a sudden “bad” event, but folklore teaches us that this is merely the other side of the many blessings we receive.

Speaking from my own experience, when I lived in Tokyo, I took things like electricity and water for granted. However, during the Great East Japan Earthquake in 2011, everything was suddenly shut down: there were power outages, water became unavailable, and infrastructure was destroyed. In a sense, I believe disasters reveal a perspective that challenges our human-centric way of thinking.

Ultimately, I think that mythology is something that humbles human beings. Instead of living in a world where we dominate and control nature to live in comfort and convenience, we need to move toward where we maintain a balanced relationship with nature. We need to think we can give back to nature and how we can care for what we receive. Have we forgotten the prayers, rituals, and ways of celebrating festivals that people of the past practiced, and are we now merely exploiting only the convenient aspects of nature? I believe the Great East Japan Earthquake taught us this.

For this reason, I believe that researching folklore and living through disasters are essentially the same thing. I am currently involved in the arts, and I see the acts of creating work, writing papers, and conducting research as efforts to make humans more humble. It is a process of rediscovering how to reconstruct our relationship with nature and how to encounter the Earth and the world of living things once again.

[LEE] When the earthquakes happened in Ōtautahi Christchurch (in 2011), the first communities that really knew how to support and awhi (comfort) those left homeless or without electricity were the Māori. The same thing happened in Kaikoura, where the marae (meeting houses) are built on high ground. Navigation systems allow people to know how to get there, and to avoid things like tsunamis. Beyond that, it was built on a high point and a spot less susceptible to earthquake and tsunami damage.

Visiting Japan, the community I met in Urato. They were very different – on a different life buzz from the city people. The same with the Ainu community – really hardworking, fighting for their culture to survive, because they were only recognized as indigenous in 2019. Hence, the relationship with Māori. I met two very different communities, which you don’t associate with big city Japan. City life is so different to these communities. One thing I noticed as a difference in Japan was that, after the tsunami, things were rebuilt within a year, whereas in Ōtautahi it took so long. And now, going to Ōtautahi, it doesn’t feel like home anymore. Some of the people feel like home, but I get lost in town. I don’t know the landmarkers anymore. Tall buildings, pou (carved pillars), beacons are missing.

[TAKADA] As we come up to the final part of this discussion – as we step away from the lenses of history and folklore and take it to the present – Linda, what do you think how Japanese people approach earthquakes and natural disasters in their daily lives? On the other hand Ishikura-san, what do you think about not only how Japanese people approach earthquakes, but also how non-Japanese people, international residents, living in Japan can deal with it? In a more contemporary context, can culture as a means of bringing identity, as a means or an anchor for people to feel emotionally and mentally grounded?


[LEE] Yes. I think we’ve become disconnected from many of our cultures. And culture has become the most powerful force in helping me become Māori. 

As an army brat (a child of someone in the military or defense forces), it took me a long time to connect to or reconnect with my whenua (land, homeland). I moved around the world when I was a child. I was 19 when I found out I was whangai (adopted), and I just dropped out of art school, hitchhiked north (of Aotearoa New Zealand), and managed to meet both my parents, and all my brothers and sisters knew about me. That was the crazy thing, they were just waiting for the day to meet me. Back then, I didn’t feel very Māori. It takes a long time to actively ‘become Māori’. I went back to art school and started looking at identity, including being Chinese.   

Studying raranga (weaving) was the biggest leap. I love being out in the bush and harvesting. Looking after the ‘pa harakeke’ (the flax) – and testing them and watching them crossbreed. My te reo (Māori) was bad, but once I’m in nature, I’m able to pick it up and use it much more than in “language” classes. In the bush, I’m always acknowledging Papatuanuku (the earth mother) and Ranginui (the sky father), the harakeke (flax), and the tūī (a bird). Sometimes it is totally in Te Reo`Māori, and sometimes it’s not. I have a pet tuna (an eel) who’s my best mate down at Ōtari, where I go. We sometimes pet it.

I’ve learnt much more about my culture and cultural identity through living with nature. Visiting taniwha spots, when we’ve done karakai (prayer) and oriori (chants), or taken woven food baskets, there have been tohu, or signs: a rainbow on a cloudy day under a bridge, or a massive flock of birds landing in front of us on the water. Even in the middle of Auckland, a tohu (someone representing a sign) was a boy who kept coming back to us, who took some of my weaving and put it in a crack as what could be an entrance to where the taniwha might be. 

[ISHIKURA] If you look at the Namazu-e (catfish prints) from the late Edo period, there are scenes where everyone is rejoicing and laughing as an earthquake occurs. This implies that an earthquake was not just a time for weeping: it was an opportunity for money to move around, and for commoners to make money and a living. By rebuilding houses, wealth would circulate to those who were economically poor. In this sense, an earthquake was not viewed as entirely negative; it was seen as a chance for rapid recovery, where carpenters would work hard to rebuild the town.

In Japan, even when towns were destroyed repeatedly by fires and earthquakes, they were always able to recover quickly. I feel that the difference from Aotearoa New Zealand may lie in this specific culture: the idea of living atop slippery creatures like catfish or whales, where society accepts that things will break easily, but also maintains the resilience to rebuild them immediately.

[TAKADA] Finally, could you share a few words to how or what can ordinary people can take home from understanding this experience, can apply this moving forward?

[ISHIKURA] I think the line defining what we call a “disaster” is very subtle. In Akita where I live, it is snowing heavily; however, if this same amount of snow fell in Tokyo, it would likely be a major disaster. Similarly, if a typhoon that occurs in Okinawa were to happen in Tokyo, that too would become a disaster. In other words, we can think of our relationship with nature as the very thing that creates a disaster. Looking at it this way, a disaster is not simply a “disaster” because a certain event occurred: it changes based on how humans perceive and receive it. In our daily lives, we design our cities to make them easy for humans to live in. However, we should be more humble and recognize that nature involves many other types of living beings. We should design our world by remembering our deceased ancestors and considering the children yet to be born. I believe the key to preparing for disasters lies in how we design a society based on this kind of long-term thinking.

Another point is that nature is always in motion; it is fluid and unstable. Our way of responding to this must also involve using our wisdom to remain constantly fluid and adaptable. In that sense, for example, there have been many bear sightings in Akita. Rather than simply culling and killing them; we must rethink how they can return to the forest. To put this into practice, I believe we can learn a great deal from ancient wisdom and the knowledge of decolonized indigenous peoples from other regions, such as the Māori.

One more thing I would like to add is that I believe Japanese people should learn from how the Māori in Aotearoa New Zealand are currently integrating biculturalism; specifically, how they have established and implemented formal legal frameworks to protect the natural environment.

The Treaty of Whanganui River for instance, recognizes various environmental entities such as the Whanganui River and certain mountains. They are recognized as legal entities, and this concept is deeply embedded in Māori indigenous culture. Aotearoa New Zealand is leading the world in granting legal agency to nature, whereas Japan is significantly lagging behind in this area. For instance, indigenous people in Japan are still not granted the inherent rights to fish in rivers. Regarding these issues, I believe there is a great deal that Japan ought to learn from the Māori.

[LEE] Yes. I may have already mentioned about this. The taniwha and creation stories that can be uncovered from carving or on stones are examples of this. We need to listen to those who hold the knowledge.  

Traditional narratives are a way of passing on important information from generation to generation in oral cultures. In many different traditions across the world, stories are passed on intergenerationally, preserving information about such things as ancestry, history, geography, which plants are edible, and which rivers are dangerous. The information is embedded in stories, the stories are entertaining, and there are specified times when the stories are told as well as expectations about the accuracy of re-telling. All of these things contribute to the successful transmission of information.

We all sit on the Pacific Ring of Fire. I believe it’s important to use our senses. If we consider our taniwha to be kaitiaki, we need to listen, see, hear, and use our senses—our intuition.

We need to look at ways to rebuild with a decolonised perspective. We need to make city spaces better for community building. And given the opportunity during a city rebuild… why not?

And most especially, we need to be in tune with nature.

[TAKADA] As we finish this discussion, I would like to take a moment for us to reflect. Disasters are a shared reality in modern society. Many natural disasters are taking shape, not only in Japan, nor Aotearoa New Zealand, but also around the Pacific Ring of Fire. Earthquakes have been more common in Myanmar, the Philippines, Thailand, and even the Middle East. As discussed today, people may turn to mythology and folklore to seek understanding and reassurance. Looking back through folklore and history can give insight into how people have understood natural disasters. 

Also, by understanding not only our own perspective, but also the diverse perspectives of various cultures, we can realize that natural disasters are not only exclusive to a particular place. Instead, it’s a shared experience that people can emphasize, support, and share having a common appreciation and understanding of resilience. 

Linda’s curiosity has led her to believe there is a shared connection between the folklores of Aotearoa New Zealand and Japan. Despite being geographically apart by thousands of kilometers, this intertwined connection among these two has moved her so profoundly, and she has been keen to acknowledge, highlight, and share these observations. Culture brings folklore, and it can serve to an end – with purpose comes comfort, with comfort comes with confidence, and with confidence comes with a direction, a direction that can guide and understand.

Can these considerations help people initiate a shared dialog, raise awareness, and initiate relief goals to help us prepare for future disasters?

How, as one global community helping support each other, overcome these challenges?

The fact that we share a common bond of resilience and working together to come together, bring together, that sense of solidarity is as more important than ever in a time of division. 

Because among all the conflicts that are going on in the world, while some people may see natural disasters as an A versus B situation, it is not a human vs human situation, nor a human vs nature situation. Natural disasters can serve as a wake-up call, pulling the brakes, giving context, and reminding us that while we are carried away in our own hectic world, nature has the power to pull us back.

And an honest reminder of how nature is the grand caretaker of our earth which we call our collective home.

We’d like to express our sincere gratitude to Linda LEE from Aotearoa NZ, and ISHIKURA Toshiaki from the Akita University of Art for taking the time to participate, exchange. and discuss these ideas together. Thank you very much for sharing your time with us.  

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