Shinto and Natural Apocalypse

If any kawaii plushie can generate positive affect and induce escapism, to what extent do my Hachiware plushie’s Shinto-related elements transform its meaning? On the one hand, the plushie participates in the secularization and commercialization of Japanese religion that, as White notes, is also integral to the “Cool Japan” initiative, which uses popular culture to draw younger generations to traditional and religious sites (70–75). At the same time, my plushie’s design as a kitsune—and the kitsune’s role as a protector of the kami in Shinto—seem especially significant and cannot be read solely through this political-economic framework. Recognizing that Shinto underscores reverence for the natural world and strives for a state of harmony between humans and nature, the plushie opens a unique aperture into thinking about the potential intersections between Shinto, kawaii culture, and Japanese people’s understanding of their relation to their natural environment.

To make this argument, an overview of Shinto is required. As East Asian studies scholar Aike P. Rots observes, while Shinto is a convoluted concept with no concrete, single definition, ever since the 1980s, there has been an emergence of what he terms the “Shinto environmentalist paradigm” in Japan, where “a discursive construction of Shinto as a tradition of nature-worship, fundamentally oriented towards ‘harmony with nature’ and environmental awareness” (26) has taken place. Within this paradigm, kami are understood not only as benevolent spirits responsible for successful harvests and, more generally, a peaceful natural world, but also as potentially malevolent beings that can wreak havoc in the form of natural disasters if they are disrespected. Indeed, as Rots claims, “the essence of kami worship can be sought in the avoidance of the kami’s violent apparitions” (37). The Shinto environmentalist paradigm thus registers both devotion to the natural world and fear of potential disruptions to this harmony—that is, anxieties about forms of natural apocalypse.

The growing prominence of this discourse has led to more Shinto‑related responses to natural disasters. One notorious example is Tokyo Governor Shintaro Ishihara’s use of theological language following the magnitude 9.1 megaquake and subsequent tsunami that hit Tōhoku, a region in northern Japan, on March 11th, 2011. Ishihara framed the double calamity, especially the tsunami, as tenbatsu (divine punishment) meant to “wipe out egoism, which has long attached itself like rust to the mentality of the Japanese people over a long period of time” (qtd. by McCurry). Although Ishihara’s comment sparked widespread criticism for its insensitivity to victims and their families, many post‑3.11 environmental conservation initiatives likewise draw on religious idioms. Rots focuses on increased efforts to preserve chinju no mori—“old, natural mixed forests, surrounding Shinto shrines, to which a particular sacred quality may be ascribed—as well as, significantly, ecological value” (37)—and argues that these initiatives are not only acts of disaster prevention but also expressions of a nostalgic, Shinto‑inflected desire to restore imagined harmony in local communities and rebuild social confidence following calamities.

Concurrent with these Shinto responses to the 3.11 disaster were what might be termed kawaii responses. In April 2011, Japanese animation artist Tsuneo Goda started Teotsunago Daisakusen (translated as “Project: Holding Hands”), an art project that featured images of domestic and foreign kawaii characters holding hands. As seen on the website dedicated to the project, where the artworks themselves can be downloaded and shared for free, the aim of the initiative was to “deliver smiles to everyone in Japan, from small children to all the grown-ups fighting for survival in and also out of the disaster area.” Anthropologist Debra J. Occhi reads Teotsunago Daisakusen as part of a broader post‑3.11 mobilization of kyara—kawaii mascots or characters often seen at events or festivals—and argues that these characters offer psychological benefits such as “peace of mind, protection; escape from reality; regression, self-realization, hope for transformation, health and activity; and mood changes” (111). In other words, the cute, comforting characters enable individuals to affectively cope with the repercussions of natural disasters and, through initiatives like Project: Holding Hands, foster solidarity and build community.

Although Japan has long been prone to natural disasters, public anxieties regarding an impending natural apocalypse have intensified over the last fifteen years. The threat of a future megaquake along the Nankai Trough, a zone that runs along Japan’s Pacific coast, has loomed over the country since at least the 1980s. In September 2025, Japan’s Earthquake Research Committee estimated a 94.5% probability that such a megaquake will occur within the next thirty years. This announcement, combined with memories of the devastating impacts of 3.11 and of the magnitude 7.1 quake that struck the Hyūga Sea at the western end of the Nankai Trough in August 2024, has only worsened these fears. Under these threats, and employing Rots and Occhi’s frameworks, the Hachiware kitsune doll can be interpreted as both a Shinto and a kawaii response to natural disaster or, more specifically, as a coping mechanism for living under the constant threat of future calamities.

In its design as a kitsune, the plushie suggests that it is protecting an invisible kami and, in doing so, symbolically evokes the natural harmony associated with a benevolent kami. At the same time, in addition to their association with the kami, foxes in Japanese folklore are often depicted as trickster figures with shape‑shifting abilities. These two contrasting interpretations of kitsune are encapsulated in the fox mask on Hachiware’s head. Such masks are usually worn during religious ceremonies or festivals and are associated with good fortune, prosperity, and even adaptability and resilience (Vachon). It is also not a coincidence that the corners of the red bib form the only truly sharp lines on this plushie. In Shinto, the color red is believed to possess protective qualities; in particular, the vermilion paint on torii gates is thought to block evil spirits from entering a shrine (Young). The bright red of the bib and the vivid blue details of the kitsune mask thus slightly distance the plushie from the sense of comfort, innocence, and approachability effected by its soft pastel palette and instead encode it with a sense of strength and power.

Moreover, as briefly suggested earlier, the invisible bell inside the plushie can be compared with the suzu that hangs from the canopies of individual Shinto altars. As licensed Shinto priestess Olivia Bernkastel explains, suzu is rung at the beginning of a prayer or ritual to call out to the kami and invite their visitation. While the designer may well have tucked the bell inside the doll rather than letting it dangle for safety reasons, that concealment also allows it to operate as an invisible, ever‑present power that the consumer can summon in the face of danger. When shaken, the bell’s ringing may prompt the consumer to recall their own memories of climbing the steps of the Fushimi Inari mountain trail, which itself embodies the ideal of a chinju no mori, a place of spiritual refuge where danger cannot enter and reach its visitors. In these ways, the plushie functions as a kyara omamori—a lucky charm often sold at religious shrines and imprinted with a kawaii character design—that offers its Japanese consumer spiritual and affective support against uncontrollable natural events.

This clip from the Japanese anime film Your Name (2016) depicts the female protagonist performing a Shinto kagura dance at a temple, holding a type of suzu in her hand.

chiikawa sound.MOV

A short clip of the sound the Hachiware kitsune doll makes when shaken.

Kyara omamori, commonly sold at souvenir shops in shrines and temples.

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