Visits to small Japanese cities always evoke two feelings: tranquility and sorrow. The first few days in Japan are captivating for their quiet and calm. But as time passes, the regions facing extinction emerge as poignant landscapes. In "You Can Never Go Home Again," Lee Mun-yol looked back at a vanished hometown with melancholy eyes. "Gwanchon Essays" also deals with the loss of hometown and the memory of community. Japan's small cities feel like spaces that preserve the archetype of hometowns long gone.
In Japan's small cities, one often glimpses Korea's tomorrow. Vacant homes outnumber people, schools have closed for lack of children, unmanned stations see only a handful of passengers a day, and shopping streets sit abandoned for years with their shutters down — scenes no longer unfamiliar to us. Yubari in Hokkaido, Hirosaki in Aomori Prefecture, Shimanto in Kochi Prefecture, and Ibusuki in Kagoshima Prefecture are landscapes encountered across Japan. Even in the middle of the day, people's shadows are hard to find, and those in sight are mostly in their 70s and 80s. Once bustling and vibrant local communities are quietly aging.
According to Japan's Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications, vacant homes — "akiya" — numbered approximately 9 million as of 2025. That is double the 4.5 million recorded in 1993. Vacant homes are merely the outcome. Behind them, three currents flow simultaneously: declining birthrates, concentration in the capital region, and aging. Japan's population peaked at 128 million in 2008 and entered decline, with births last year falling below 760,000.
The tax system also magnified the vacant-home problem. For some time, Japan's structure meant demolishing a home increased the tax burden. Leaving a house vacant was more advantageous than tearing it down, even if no one lived there. The Japanese government enacted the Special Measures Act on Vacant Houses in 2015 to reduce tax benefits for vacant homes, and in 2023 expanded regulations to include poorly managed vacant properties. But enforcement has been slow, and millions of vacant homes remain abandoned.
In the end, the young flock to Tokyo and only the elderly remain in the regions. This is no different from Korea, where the Seoul-centric system continues to deepen. When the parents' generation passes away, the family home empties. Children who have settled in Tokyo have no reason to return. The vacant-home ratio is highest in Wakayama and Tokushima prefectures at 21.2 percent each, followed by Kagoshima (20.4 percent), Kochi (20.3 percent), and Ehime (20.1 percent). Tokyo is no exception either. There are 1 million vacant homes in Tokyo.
Japan has now become "a country where only Tokyo survives." The capital region alone has more than 37 million people. The streets of Omotesando, Roppongi, Ginza, Shinjuku, and Shibuya are more crowded than Seoul's Gangnam or Myeongdong. Tokyo home prices keep soaring, while regional homes find no takers even when offered for free. The Japanese government and local governments are supplying vacant homes at throwaway prices through "akiya banks." Even with extraordinary conditions such as 1-yen homes and relocation subsidies, the effect is negligible. The reason is the weak foundation of education, medical care, transportation, and jobs.
Vacant homes, shuttered schools, and discontinued rail lines vividly show the reality facing regional cities. Despite Japan's reputation as a railway kingdom, regional lines have stopped operating one after another, and school closures are surging as student numbers fall. A school disappearing is not a simple event. It means the region's future generation and community are vanishing together.
Such scenes are not unfamiliar in Korea either. Regional universities face a crisis of survival, and vacant homes and shuttered schools are increasing in rural areas and mid-sized cities. Young people head to Seoul in search of jobs, and the regions have lost their vitality. Japan's regional extinction may well be the future we face a few years from now.
The government has recently proposed expanding the "living population," additional relocation of public institutions, and expanding metropolitan transportation networks as alternatives. But the limits of mere financial support are clear. Young people must be able to dream of a future in the regions, and the levels of education, culture, and medical care must also be sustained. Ultimately, regional extinction goes beyond a simple population issue. It is a question of how to restore balanced national development and community.
The lesson Japan's vacant homes offer us is not about economic stagnation. It is about what we should prioritize when confronted with the bleak landscape of disappearing people and communities. The rise in vacant homes is not merely a real estate problem but the afterimage left by the collapse of community. Vacant homes and shuttered schools bring not just regional decline but also a sense of helplessness.
Regional extinction is not a disaster that strikes suddenly one day. It arrived after a long stretch of young people leaving, children's cries fading, and schools and railways coming to a halt. I recently read grim omens in Aichi Prefecture, Japan. Except for Nagoya, famed as the city of Toyota Motor, small cities such as Tokoname, Gamagori, and Shinshiro have declined. Walking through the alleys of the old downtown in the middle of the day left me troubled. Behind the glittering Nagoya Station and the auto industry, Aichi Prefecture too was quietly aging. The "akiya" vacant homes scattered across Japan are a future that has already arrived ahead of us.
