By Odbayar Dorj
As a student living and studying in Japan, I’ve come to realise that I’m more drawn to places where I can feel close to local people and truly understand everyday life, rather than famous tourist spots filled with crowds and tall buildings and places like Asakusa, Shibuya, Dotonbori, Universal Studios Japan, the geisha streets of Kyoto, or the Golden Pavilion.
Of course, in my first year in Japan, I visited many of these well-known places. But now, I find myself wanting the opposite to seek out hidden gems, places that are not widely known, where I can quietly admire the beauty of nature and experience something deeper.
In Shikoku especially in Tokushima, there is a place called Nagoro, also known as the Scarecrow Village, where dolls seem to live among people. I first visited this place on a rainy day in June. Crossing high mountains, passing through lush green forests that felt like they touched the clouds, I walked through mist after the rain. It felt like stepping into a dream. When I arrived, I visited the assembly hall and the “Kakashi no Shōgakkō,” the scarecrow elementary school. I remember how excited I was, thinking I would take photos with all the scarecrows.
But instead of joy, I felt something else. A quiet sadness. Thinking about how deeply someone must long for people, to create human like scarecrows and live among them, touched my heart deeply. In Mongolia, we also have scarecrows simple wooden sticks dressed in worn clothes, standing in the fields to protect sheep and goats from wolves. But this was the first time I had seen scarecrows that felt so lifelike, almost spiritual, as if they could be mistaken for real people.
So I ended my first visit with mixed and somewhat uneasy feelings.
Later, I often heard from my friend from Uzbekistan that visiting this village was at the top of her “things to do in Japan” list. After hearing this many times, we decided to visit again together, along with a friend from Taiwan.
On a warm spring day filled with sunshine, we returned to the village. While visiting the assembly hall, we met an elderly woman who gave us pamphlets about the village. What surprised me most was learning that she had created all of the scarecrows in the village herself.This was my second visit, but I realized I hadn’t really observed carefully the first time. Back then, I had been more afraid than excited. This time, however, meeting and speaking with her became the most meaningful part of the journey.
Her name is Ms.Ayano, and some people call her the “Mother of Scarecrows.” In 2002, she returned from Osaka to Nagoro. The following year, while remembering her father, she made her first scarecrow in his likeness and placed it in the fields to scare away crows. When villagers passing by greeted the scarecrow as if it were a real person saying “Hello” or “Good morning”, she was inspired to continue creating more.
Today, the village has an assembly hall, an elementary school, rice fields, and even a bus stop that all filled with scarecrows. You can see elderly couples fishing by the river, people working in vegetable fields, and villagers chatting near stacks of wood. If you look closely, inside the assembly hall you might find a traditional Japanese wedding scene. Outside, scarecrows sit on benches or sweep the ground, just like real people. Near the school, there’s a young man resting with his hat over his face, and a grandmother with glasses waiting with her grandchildren for school to end.
Inside the school, you might see a couple dressed in Western wedding attire, elderly people playing cards, or even villagers participating in a tug of war competition. Some of them are not even Japanese, but appear to be foreigners. Each scarecrow seems to hold a story. If you let your imagination wander, you could create dozens of stories behind each one.
As of October 2025, Nagoro Village has only 27 human residents but around 370 scarecrows living alongside them. It’s truly fascinating that a village where scarecrows outnumber people.
Each scarecrow is registered, with a name, age, gender, personality, and even a life story. Their records are updated every year, and their clothes and accessories are checked and repaired.
When I asked Ayano sensei[1] how long it takes to make one scarecrow, she said three days for an adult and one day for a child. Thinking about the time and dedication she has poured into this village fills me with admiration.
When I was a child, I lived in the countryside in Mongolia, in a village with very few people much like Nagoro. Especially during summer, it would become even emptier, as most families moved to pasturelands to herd their animals. I stayed behind with my grandparents, often longing for people. My only “toys” were stones. The few children who remained would spend whole days stacking stones and pretending they were houses, playing together.
Just like my childhood, perhaps the people of this village also created scarecrows out of loneliness.
During this visit, I found myself talking to the scarecrows, getting to know them, playing with them even going on a “date” with one. Sitting at the edge of the wood, talking to what seemed like a male scarecrow, felt strangely comforting. Even though these didn’t respond, it somehow filled a quiet, empty space inside me.
This time, I carefully observed each scarecrow. Their faces were all different some were listening to music, some even smoking. Ayano sensei not only works in Tokushima but also travels to other towns to teach people how to make scarecrows. She even offers workshops in her studio, where visitors can bring clothes and create their own scarecrow.
Hearing this made me realise how much I miss my grandmother. Next time I visit, I want to take her old clothes and create a scarecrow that looks like her. Maybe then, it would feel like meeting her again—like I could finally say all the things I’ve been holding inside, and sit with her once more.
In a place where people and scarecrows live side by side, I began to understand something simple but profound: sometimes, when human presence fades, we find our own ways to fill the silence with memories, imagination, and love.
[1] Teacher
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Odbayar Dorj is an international student from Mongolia currently studying in Japan. Her writing reflects on cultural identity, personal memory, and the power of connection across borders and generations.
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