This year has seen numerous events commemorating or marking or otherwise being held in connection with the 50th anniversary of Okinawa’s “reversion” to Japan in 1972, after 27 years of US/Allied Occupation. And rightfully so. It’s an event worth marking; the Occupation period is not only fascinating, but extremely impactful and significant for understanding Okinawan politics today. I’ve certainly learned a lot from these exhibits and other events, and feel very fortunate and grateful to have been able to be in Tokyo throughout this year (even if I wasn’t in Okinawa for any of the events held there); I am eagerly looking forward to seeing some exhibits in connection with this event, when I go back to Okinawa later this month.
But, what has gotten far less attention for some reason is the fact that 2022 also marks the 150th anniversary of the beginning of what’s come to be known as the Ryūkyū Shobun 琉球処分 – often mistranslated as the “disposal” or “disposition” of Ryukyu, but really meaning something more like “dealing with Ryukyu” – in short, the beginning of a seven-year process of abolishing the Okinawan kingdom of Lūchū (known as Ryūkyū in Japanese) and annexing it to Japan. This began 150 years ago today, on 16 Oct 1872 (the 14th day of the 9th month of the 5th year of the Meiji era on the Japanese calendar), when the Japanese imperial court presented Prince Ie Shō Ken Chōchoku 伊江王子尚健朝直, a royal prince of Lūchū, with an imperial edict declaring that the Ryūkyū Kingdom 琉球王国 was now to be “Ryūkyū domain” 琉球藩. The following year, the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs transferred jurisdiction over Ryūkyū to the Ministry of the Interior. After various other changes and developments over the course of the ensuing years, in 1879, Tokyo finally effected a fuller takeover of the governance and administration of the islands, abolishing the “domain” (i.e. the former kingdom) entirely as an entity and renaming the jurisdiction “Okinawa prefecture.”
The dismantling and annexation of the Kingdom of Lūchū was a long and complex process, taking place over seven years, from 1872 to 1879. But today is the 150th anniversary of the first key moment beginning that process, and so in this post I’d like to focus on the events of that day (and some of the immediately preceding days).
After a number of discussions and back-and-forths both within Tokyo and between the new imperial government and the royal government in Lūchū, on 15 Aug 1872 (7/12 on the Japanese calendar), the Meiji government officially requested that Ryūkyū send a formal embassy to pay respects to the Meiji Emperor and congratulate him on acceding to the throne (in 1867) and on the restoration of imperial power and the establishment of a new, imperial, government (in 1868). I have not yet found anything explicitly discussing what the Lūchūan government thought of this, whether they knew it was going to be markedly different from previous embassies merely acknowledging new Shoguns and reaffirming the status quo of Lūchū’s largely autonomous relationship under samurai authority, or not.
But, one way or another, they organized an embassy, led by Prince Ie (uncle to King Shō Tai), with top-ranking court official Giwan ueekata Chōhō 宜湾親方朝保 as his deputy envoy, and about 34 others. On 7/25 (Aug 28), they departed the Luchuan port city of Naha aboard the steamship Hōzui-maru 鳳瑞丸, sailing to Kagoshima in southern Kyushu and then from there to Tokyo aboard the steamship Sanpō-maru 三邦丸. Ie Tomoo 伊江朝雄 (15th head of the Ie house of which Prince Ie was the 11th head)1 writes that this was perhaps the first time that anyone from Lūchū (or any court officials?) had ever ridden on a steamship, but I have no idea if that’s accurate or not. An evocative point of trivia if true.
After arriving in Tokyo on 9/2 (Oct 4), the envoys stayed overnight at Shinagawa and then were taken by horse-drawn carriage and rickshaw (both very new things in Meiji Japan) to their lodgings in the Atago (Shiba) neighborhood of Tokyo. Not the mansions of the Shimazu family, former lords of Satsuma (Kagoshima) domain, who had exercised authority over Lūchū for more than 250 years from 1609 until the abolition of the domains the preceding year (1871), but for whatever reason, the former mansion of the Mōri family, lords of Saeki domain in Bungo province (today, О̄ita prefecture).
The Luchuans reportedly recorded that the Japanese food didn’t suit them あーらんやっさー（合わない）, and complained there weren’t enough oily or fried foods あんだむん (揚げ物). But they brought their own abura-miso あんだんすー, and their own salted pork すーちかー. They also brought, as souvenirs/gifts for Foreign Minister Soejima Taneomi, some rock candy 氷砂糖, sugared dried citrus fruits きっぱん、and winter melon しぶい・冬瓜（とうがん）, as well as salted pork.
Note the Japanese officials (and the emperor himself? I’m not sure) in traditional Japanese court costume to the left, and foreign dignitaries in Western-style formal outfits on the right. And between them, a bearded figure in a slightly floppy white hat, depicted in Luchuan-style robes.
A week after their arrival, on 9/9 (Oct 11), telegraph lines connecting Tokyo and Kyoto were completed. And then, on 9/12 (Oct 14), the Luchuans participated in grand opening ceremonies for the new Shinbashi train station, and for the train line connecting Shinbashi (Tokyo) with Yokohama (today, Sakuragichō Station). I don’t know why, but I feel like there’s just some kind of あこがれ, some kind of attraction or intriguing appeal, to the early history of Japanese railroads; if I had all the time in the world, I’d love to look more deeply into the precise details of this event. But, suffice it to say, interesting enough for me is that
(1) these Luchuan envoys happened to be there at all; I don’t know if we want to call it a “coincidence,” but it’s certainly some kind of chance co-incidence. This was, I can only presume, the first time for a Japanese emperor to ride a train, the first time for almost any of the top-level Japanese officials involved (excepting those, I suppose, who had previously traveled in the West), and surely the first time that any Luchuan royal or scholar-aristocrat had ever ridden a train. I wonder if there are any surviving diaries that describe their feelings and thoughts on the experience.
(2) These Luchuan ambassadors participated in these events alongside not only Japanese imperial government officials and diplomatic representatives from various Western countries, but also alongside Qing envoys. Lūchū at this time was still a loyal tributary to the Qing, and their king received investiture from the Qing in 1866, only a few years earlier. During the investiture ceremonies, all the Lūchū court officials, as well as the king himself, kowtowed to the Qing envoys as representatives of the Qing Emperor. A decidedly, powerfully, unequal hierarchical relationship. And, yet, now, here is a Luchuan royal prince and his entourage, participating in the opening for a train station & train line, and then riding that train, in close proximity to Qing envoys. What interactions did they have, if any? What words were exchanged?
(3) Whether in anticipation of the edict the Meiji government had already drafted (or was already drafting), or in light of Lūchū’s already less than fully autonomous status within the Japanese order, the Luchuan envoys were not treated like foreign diplomats, but as a sort of ambiguous or in-between status unto themselves. Records of the ceremony list all the foreign diplomats as 公使 (envoys, diplomats, ministers), and Prince Ie as 公子 (a noble), and list him as parading / processing to the station not amongst the diplomats, but at the end of a long line of Japanese officials and the like.
Collection of Imperial Household Agency Archives & Mausolea Dept. 宮内庁書陵部所蔵
In any case, the Luchuans rode in the same train car as a number of former daimyō, including Shimazu Tadayoshi (Mochihisa), who up until the previous year (1871; or maybe only up until 1868?) would have been their lord, claiming and exerting a position of authority above (over) the Luchuan king. After arriving in Yokohama, the train returned to Tokyo, where a grand banquet was held at the Hama Rikyū Gardens 浜離宮 – a former shogunal palace, now [in 1872] home to the Enryōkan 延遼館, the first Western-style guesthouse built in Japan for Western dignitaries. Some 100,000 regular Tokyo citizens were apparently in attendance to witness the fireworks and other festivities. One wonders how much of a glimpse of the Westerners, Chinese, or Luchuans they got, or if there was any actual direct interaction. Then again, by 1872, perhaps direct interaction with foreigners wasn’t the rarity it had been previously.
Two days later, Prince Ie, deputy envoy Giwan Chōhō, and mission secretary Kyan Chōfu 喜屋武朝扶 (and others?) went to the Imperial Palace for their formal audience (meeting) with the Meiji Emperor. Nearly every discussion of these events I’ve read – and, indeed, of most other imperial audiences and the like around this time – say simply “the imperial palace,” without making it clear just what sort of place we’re talking about. The Imperial Palace that was built for the Meiji Emperor, for the new modern / Western imperial country, was not completed until 1889. It took far more digging than it should have for me to determine that when the Luchuans visited “the imperial palace” in 1872, they were not received in a reception hall that was in any way Western-style, or newly-built, but rather in the О̄hiroma 大広間 of the Nishi-no-maru 西の丸 (Western Bailey) of what had been the Shogun’s castle until just four years earlier. This О̄hiroma audience hall was exactly the same one in which Luchuan envoys in previous generations (in 1850, 1842, 1832, 1806, the 1790s, and on back) had met with shogunal heirs and the like after their formal audiences with the Shoguns in the О̄hiroma of the Honmaru 本丸 (Main/Central Bailey) of the castle. The Honmaru burned down in 1863 and was never rebuilt. The Shogun, and then the Emperor, made the Nishinomaru Palace the new “central” or “main” portion of the palace, and even today, the Imperial Palace remains centered on that location. As much as I would love to see the Honmaru Palace rebuilt as a historical site, so that we as visitors can see firsthand what the space would have looked like, I am sadly not aware of any efforts or initiatives to even think about doing that – instead, the former site of the Honmaru Palace remains today just empty grassy area (the East Gardens 皇居東御苑).
「江戸上り使者並びに道具の図」 (detail).
Ink and colors on paper, handscroll.
Date unknown.
Lost in 2019 Shuri castle fire.
So, the Luchuans were received by the Meiji Emperor in a tatami-lined room with fusuma walls, presumably I imagine painted with images of birds and flowers or something like that on gold foil backgrounds, and perhaps with one or more sides of the room being plain white shōji paper screens. The emperor, I presume, would have sat in a section of the room where the floor was raised just a few inches higher than where the Luchuans sat – again, a nearly identical situation to how they were received by shogunal heirs and the like in generations past. All the Japanese officials wore traditional Japanese court costume, in tune with the traditional space; as far as I gather from the surprisingly scarce records I’ve read, none were wearing Western-style garments. The Luchuans typically would have appeared before the Shogun or others in replicas of Ming court costume bestowed upon them by the Ming or Qing Empires, as a symbol of Lūchū’s close ties to the source and center of High Confucian Civilization, and a symbol of their kingdom’s sovereignty, granted to them and recognized by the Ming & Qing Emperors. But on this day, they were told by Foreign Minister Soejima to appear, instead, in Luchuan court robes. As these were not Japanese robes, they still marked them as foreign (i.e. as culturally different), and as high-status (expensive, lavish, formal royal court robes), but they did not have those symbolic resonances of Luchuan sovereignty.
I have been frustrated to not find records detailing precisely how the audience ceremony went; I know it sounds extremely in-the-weeds, but shogunate + Shimazu records show in fine detail where the Luchuan envoys sat relative to the shoguns and to everyone else, how many times they bowed, and so forth – all details that could be really meaningful to try to compare how this imperial audience treated them as greater or lesser or same or different as when they were ritually reaffirming their status quo relationship to the Shoguns.
But, in any case, we know that Prince Ie presented the Emperor with a formal letter from his king, and with gifts of Luchuan products – including textiles, aamui 泡盛 liquor in jugs made in distinctive Luchuan styles of pottery, some lacquerware items, and a few sets of inkstones, calligraphy brushes, and hanging scroll works of calligraphy or painting. The Emperor reciprocated, presenting the envoys with Japanese brocade textiles, some hunting guns, one or more sets of saddle & stirrups, some sake cups, lacquerware boxes, and 30,000 yen to circulate in the islands, thus incorporating the Ryūkyū Islands monetarily into the same currency as was now being used in modern Japan.
And then there was the edict. Much ink has been spilled talking about the political implications and significance of this. The basic gist of it being, to my understanding, two fold:
(1) that the Empire of Japan was unilaterally declaring that Ryūkyū was to no longer be a kingdom, but now a domain, ruled by a “domain king.” This is weird, given that all the samurai domains were abolished a year earlier – all of Japan is now divided into prefectures, and all the daimyō have been replaced by Governors, very few if any of whom are the same person as had previously been daimyō (lord) over those lands. And yet, despite these radical changes to the political geography and regional administration of (mainland) Japan, the Ryūkyū Islands were now being incorporated not yet as a prefecture, but as a domain? And with Shō Tai being declared “domain king” 藩王, a title which has never existed before in Japanese history, and which is abolished seven years later in 1879, to never exist again? Weird. But then again, maybe not weird insofar as the very new, very young, Meiji government was still in the midst of trying to figure out what its norms and structures and standards would be. But then again, definitely weird.
(2) that this was the first time any Japanese authority (shogun, emperor, or otherwise) had ever formally “invested” 冊封 a Lūchūan ruler. In the past, kings of Lūchū got their legitimacy from the Ming / Qing emperors, and from domestic Luchuan sources of legitimacy. The Shimazu lords of Kagoshima (Satsuma) and the Tokugawa shoguns recognized or acknowledged each royal succession in Lūchū, but they did not claim that Luchuan kings’ legitimacy or authority was granted to them by the Japanese in any way. Now, the Meiji government is asserting exactly that: that they have created the title of “domain king,” and are in some sense, to some extent, in some way, claiming all of Ryūkyū as Japanese territory which they are then granting to Shō Tai to govern/administer as “king” of that domain. A big difference.
If you’d like to read more about this, Marco Tinello and others have written at length about these political changes.
For the purposes of this already rather lengthy and detailed blog post, which I should have taken the time to prepare ahead of time so that I could simply hit “Publish” on the correct day of the anniversary rather than sitting down to write it all out on the day of, I would like to instead move on.
I cannot imagine the emotion in that moment, as Prince Ie and his compatriots were presented with this edict, to bring home to Lūchū. Were they surprised by this? Did they expect that this ceremonial meeting with the emperor would go like so many meetings with shoguns had gone in the past, marking little or no political change? Or did they see it coming? Discussions within the Lūchū royal court, or between the court and the imperial government, in the months and years leading up to this, are well beyond my research focus, and I have never happened to read almost anything of that content, so I am not sure.
But I think this imagined representation of it by contemporary photography artist Ishikawa Mao 石川真生 (b. 1953) conveys one strong possibility. I am not even sure the words to use to describe the expressions on these men’s faces. Distress. Sadness. Anger and frustration at the Japanese government doing this, and at their powerlessness in the moment. The difference in height between the standing Japanese official and the seated Luchuans certainly gives an impression of the power differential, of the hopelessness or powerlessness of the Luchuans, to have to deal with this declaration that is going to overturn their world.
There is surely a lot more to be said here, but as I don’t have access to what anyone involved actually thought or felt at the time, I am just going to finish up by moving on and saying a little more about the events and activities of the embassy following this profound event.
Prior to leaving Tokyo, the embassy had formal photos taken at a photo studio in Asakusa, by photographers Shimooka Renjō 下岡蓮杖 and Uchida Kuichi 内田九一.2 I wonder whether this was the first time any members of the royal court were photographed. The first photo ever taken by a Japanese photographer was about 15 years earlier, in 1857, by a Kagoshima domain retainer (and of Shimazu Nariakira, lord of Kagoshima domain), so I feel like there’s a possibility that Luchuans visiting Kagoshima might have had their picture taken at some point, but I’m unaware of any concrete examples. Incidentally, Uchida was the only photographer to ever photograph the Meiji Emperor – so, this wasn’t just some random commercial studio.
The Luchuan envoys were also shown around the naval yards at Yokosuka and the foreign settlement in Yokohama. Another set of interactions I’d be curious to read more about, if there are any sources surviving. Lūchū had seen its share of British, French, American, and other foreign visitors beginning in the 1840s, and top-level officials like Prince Ie and Giwan ueekata may have had some interactions with those figures; but unless I’m overlooking something, I imagine that visiting the foreign settlement in Yokohama – by this point, well-established for nearly 20 years, with a sizable population and numerous Western-style buildings, etc. – would have been quite the experience.
The envoys were then provided a steamship to take them back to Okinawa. After departing Tokyo on 10/5 (Nov 5), they were caught in a typhoon and were castaway or shipwrecked on Kikaijima 喜界島, reportedly cutting their long hair and burning some of it as part of prayers to the sea deities for a safe return. They finally returned to Naha on 2/5 of the following year (March 3, 1873),3 and then, to Shuri, to report to the royal court.
I imagine that 2029, the 150th anniversary of the abolition of Ryukyu Domain and the establishment of Okinawa prefecture, will see more events marking or commemorating that anniversary. It will be interesting to see how celebratory vs. solemn/respectful they will be – celebrating the establishment of Okinawa prefecture? Or commemorating the loss of the kingdom? But, that process started here, in 1872, 150 years ago today.
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1. 伊江朝雄、「琉球慶賀使節：維新後間もない東京での足跡」、沖縄学 7 (2004).
2. Ie Tomoo writes Shimoda Renjō 下田蓮杖, but I’m presuming this is a typo.
3. The 3rd day of the 12th month of the 5th year of the Meiji era coincided with Jan 1, 1873 on the Gregorian calendar, and it was on this day that Japan formally adopted the Gregorian calendar for all official purposes, doing away with official use of the lunar calendar. So March 3, 1873 is also 3/3 on the Japanese calendar, but I am not sure when Lūchū formally made this switch.
上り口説 Nubui Kuduchi 
Once again, thank you so much for this wonderfully informative piece, which I am sharing with my group; I wonder if you might afford me the opportunity of discussing an issue with you on a related research project I’m currently working on! I could really use some help… Thank you.
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